Kar'taylir

[Mandalore the Liberator]

He had lost count of the days.

Certainly, he could still calculate them. He knew the dates of his return, of his ascension, and of today. But he had lost count. His days as Mand'alor had grown so numerous that he could no longer keep easy track of them. Some said that was the definition of having grown accustomed: the point at which the significance of something new faded enough in your mind that you were no longer constantly aware of it. To most that would have been a welcome thing. To his court, to society's aliit, to the New Mandalorians who sat in Parliament in Keldabe, the knowledge that Mand'alor no longer perceived his new role as new would be a reassuring sign: the high lord of Mandalore having finally found his stride. But there was no stride; certainly not across the broken and uneven terrain of this political landscape. It was not his footfalls that had become routine, it had not become an easy step from stone to stone. Each shuffle, each leap, each hop, each stumble was still there and still just as likely as they had been on any day before now. What had faded was something else: it was the tired ache in his muscles and bones, the fatigue of endlessly walking, the pain of a journey that seemed to have no destination.

He had not grown accustomed to the walk: he had merely become resigned to the fact that there was no escape from it.

Te Na'mirci Mand'alor waited until he heard the distant thud of the impractically tall doors closing behind him, before letting his shoulders sag slightly, the pretence of the indomitable Mandalore that could carry every burden and responsibility without flinching allowed to slip for a moment. It wasn't that this place made him feel any more comfortable. On the contrary, here in the official chambers of the Duke of Mandalore here in Sundari's royal palace, he felt even more a pretender than he did anywhere else. At least as Mand'alor, clad in the armour and the traditions with which he was familiar, he understood the expectations of him, new the kind of person that he aspired to be, but this? Duchess Satine had just been a face on the screen to him, a figurehead for the New Mandalorian beliefs that he'd been raised to think of as abhorrent and broken. New Mandalorian ways were strange to him, alien; they were all supposed to be dar'manda, whose honourless ways had jeopardised their immortal souls. Now he was their leader, forced by necessity and by his own sense of honour to respect and protect their freedom to make that choice. Mandalore the Liberator: it was supposed to be a glorious title in recognition for the freedom he had brought from the Empire; but living up to that title, preserving the liberty of all Mandalorians and not just those whose beliefs he shared, was a burden that weighed so heavily that it threatened to grind him into the dirt.

Carefully, he lifted the helmet from his head and held it in his hands, staring at the adornments and paintwork as the cool air if the Duke's chambers - the home that the New Mandalorians insisted he occupy - tugged at the beads of sweat along his hairline. The helmet, and the armour that went with it was not his own: it was a reminder, insisted upon, of what he had done and been forced to do in order to become who he now was. Back during the Clone Wars, the Kyr'tsad had aligned themselves with Darth Maul and his Shadow Collective; and their coup against the Mandalorian throne had succeeded. One man had taken it upon themselves to honour their benefactor for his contributions: his armour had been painted to echo the tattoos that covered Maul's body, beskar spikes welded to the helmet in a crown of Zabrak horns. Sidonai Awaud had been his name. Beskade's Captain. His mentor. His friend.

That had been then, though. After the Shadow Collective was defeated, the remnants of the Death Watch fled to Shedu Maad, seeking refuge amongst the jungles. Sidonai had become their Ori'alor; their leader, their Overlord. He'd stolen the Darksaber, Pre Vizsla's badge of office; used it as leverage to back up his claim. He'd become ruthless, threats and executions his leadership currency, instead of logic and reason; instead of honour. Beskade had argued, tried to reason with him, tried to steer Sidonai back to an honourable path; it earned him exile, and loneliness. But he'd respected it; accepted his punishment dutifully, because that was the Mandaloran thing to do.

Then things had changed. The time had come - the need had come - for the Death Watch to end their exile, to return home and help free their Mandalorian brothers from the oppression of the Republic's bastardized Imperial heir. Beskade had returned, and been faced with a choice: his own death and the souls of every Kyr'tsad Mandalorian being led astray from the true path, weighed against the life of a man he respected almost as much as his own mother. It had been a hard choice, and yet no choice at all. It was a costly choice too, not just his conscience, not just his eye, but something far more precious to him.

His gaze turned to his silent companion for the briefest of moments; to Sidonai's only child and heir. His cyare. His Ka'ra. His kar'taylir darasuum.

The greatest of his losses. The cost that was too high.

"When history looks back on us," he uttered, his voice quiet, cracked at the edges, the kind of voice you had to strain to listen to and yet couldn't ignore; couldn't help but heed. "What will they remember? Will we be the ones who saved Manda'yaim's future, or the ones who condemned her soul?"

[Ka'ra Awaud]

The Aran'alor only sighed at first reply. It wasn't one of irritation or annoyance, not even of resignation. An outward display of weariness, perhaps; or maybe it simply filled empty space, an exhale of breath to fill the void between them.

"I cannot say." Ka'ra replied, keeping her tone neutral. "We can only do what we believe is right and act with ijaat. History will be coloured and altered as it will regardless, as it always has."

Her voice was not entirely lacking in emotion, and although the edges had softened from the curt and more direct nature it typically carried throughout the day, it was still reserved; much as the woman herself remained. It was not priority that demanded as such, however, but their own ruyot.

The briefest of moments had their eyes meet and both quickly broke the contact in a way that was all too familiar. It pained her to be in the same room as him, perhaps not when surrounded by others, but at times like this it was all too real. It made her feel laandur, something she refused to show to him for both their sakes.

"And no man will say you have not acted as such. You are no hut'uun, Mand'alor, that is without question."

She doubted the words came as a comfort and the Aran'alor was torn on that; some part of her wishing she could ease the burden of her leader, the rest finding itself satisfied with the trials he found himself under. It was conflicting but so were most things when it came to Beskade; the man who held her loyalty even as the rest of her slipped away.

[Mandalore the Liberator]

No man.

It was a subtle choice of phrase, but Beskade caught it regardless. It shouldn't have meant anything. Mando'a did not even distinguish between genders; such was the way of their people. But Ka'ra was as smart and subtle as she was beautiful and wise. She knew how to wound with a word just as effectively as she did with a blade, and while he could not be sure if that had been her intention, Beskade allowed himself to feel the sting of pain as if she had. Had he known the price of his actions, had he known what he would loose, then he would have stayed in exile. He would have chosen her. It might have cost him his honour, and cost him his soul; a small price to pay. Manda'yaim was his home, but she was his jate'kara. He would gladly have sacrificed his afterlife, in exchange for his natural life spent with her.

Such things were impossible now, though. Such agony was the penance for his choice. Nothing but love for her would ever grace his eye; but in hers, all he would see forever more was the pain and loss that he had caused.

"Mando'ad draar digu," he whispered softly under his breath, too quiet for even her to hear. A Mandalorian never forgets.

With the reverence it deserved, Mandalore placed his helmet upon the dias that awaited it. It was Ka'ra that had suggested - insisted - that Mandalore should inherit her father's armour. It was a symbol; a reminder; the embodiment of that Mandalorian trait. It served to remind Beskade himself of the costs that he had paid, to ground him, temper him, force him to truly examine the consequences of his choices, lest he suffer the same catastrophic loss again. It served to remind the Death Watch of their exile, of the path that Sidonai had led them down, the cost in honour that blind loyalty had forced them all to pay. It served to remind all who remembered the Shadow Collective and the Clone Wars of the losses they had suffered by allowing the Mandalorian people to become fragmented; the costs paid when they looked without for their answers, instead of seeking them within.

It served to remind Ka'ra of what Beskade had taken from her, lest her heart's choices become too loud for her to listen to her mind, and to her Mandalorian soul.

His gaze silently explored the vast space of his royal chambers. They had been grander in Satine's day, he had no doubt, but the Imperial occupation had torn out much of the wealth, painted over artworks and murals with their infernal symbol; torn down tapestries and torn up carpets, turned what was once light and and warm into grey and oppressive. Elsewhere in the palace, his aides and advisors had insisted they return things to their former glory. A recreation of the throne sat upon by the Duchess. A lovingly restored mural of ancient mythology. Here though, Mandalore insisted things remain as they were. He did not want comfort and opulence. He did not want to grow fat and complacent surrounded by the luxuries of royalty. What he wanted was denied to him, and so he denied himself everything else. Forced himself to be alone, until she decided otherwise.

He could have asked her to stay; and she would have. That was the tragedy of it. His words to her had now become nothing more than orders that she was required to obey. He could never ask anything of her again: for he would never know whether her compliance was born of duty, or love.

"You didn't kill me today," he stated, addressing her again. It was a concern that many had expressed when he had chosen to make her Aran'alor. Her responsibilities were many, but in the eyes of the Parliament preserving the safety of their Duke was chief amongst them. They did not feel that a woman whose honour might one day drive her to exact vengeance was the appropriate choice to be responsible for his security. Mandalore disagreed. Of all the people in the galaxy, none had a more justified reason to want him dead than she: and by the same token, none had a stronger motivation to keep him alive. If Beskade was to die by anyone's hand, it would be hers: Ka'ra would not allow anyone else to deny her the satisfaction; and if the time came for her to seek her revenge, Beskade had no intention of letting anyone or anything stand in her way. That would be his final gift to her.

A small smile tugged at his features, tired and weary as he turned to face her. His hands clasped behind his back, chin tilted, formality returning to his words. "Perhaps tomorrow."

[Ka'ra Awaud]

They were the same words they finished each day with, spoken so many times it was routine and the day they stopped would be the day that Ka'ra knew something was truly amiss. The first time her Mand'alor had spoken them she had felt as if they were a slight, a chayaikir that she had almost answered with bloodshed. When they had followed the day after and the one after that, she had come to learn her initial impression could not have been farther from the truth. She knew what Beskade was saying without actually speaking it. That realization had been dangerous and so now, like every night since, she answered with a small smile that she wished with all her might that she could prevent from happening. A cant of her head followed, not quite a nod, though not a movement without purpose either.

"Good night, Mand'alor."

She watched him for a moment further, the same as always, to see if anything would follow. When nothing did, Ka'ra took her leave of the man she was sworn to guard and shut the ornate doors behind her.

And just as every night before she allowed herself a brief instant to rest the back of her head against the closed doors as she attempted to compose herself lest she run into anyone else before returning to her own chambers.



*******
20 years prior



Night had finally fallen upon the jungles of Shedu Maad. Ka'ra had anticipated the setting of the sun as if the entirety of her existence depended upon it; and as much as it sounded foolish, she truly believed it did. She knew the patrol routes by heart, knew how long each and every step would take and precisely when an individual would be nearest the camp before the route would make them part once more. She had walked those same footfalls herself many a time, after all. But with the setting of the planet's sun she knew exactly where to run, exactly how many steps it would take until hers would cross paths of those of her intended.

The jungles were treacherous at night, and while he would never openly say so, Ka'ra knew the Ori'alor - her father - did not wish for her to so expose herself to such things. He did not think his daughter weak, nor incapable, it was simply that she was his only. Perhaps if she had siblings things would have been different. Either way, she knew he would not appreciate her leaving, nor would be appreciate the swiftness with which her feet carried her over the terrain; breathless from anticipation and exertion. She had to be fast, had to act before they realized she had gone and were capable of discerning her direction. Most importantly, she had to be at her destination at just the right time.

A large tree wrapped in vines was stopped at, humid air breathed in and out as silently as possible as Ka'ra strained to hear the approaching patrol. A grin spread across her lips as her eyes caught the hint of movement that sound did not betray. She sucked in a final breath, preparing her lungs to cooperate with her deception.

"You're late," Ka'ra said out to the darkness beyond, to the form that approached. Her smile broadened despite knowing her voice betrayed the extent she had strained herself.

[Beskade Goza]

"And you're going to get me in trouble," Beskade countered, continuing on his designated route without the slightest variation; without a jump, or a start, or even a look in her direction. He didn't need to aim his eyes at the Ori'alor's daughter to know where she was hiding. Perhaps she would have caught him unawares if she did not always choose the same spot. Perhaps she would have had she not gulped in air immediately before hand, or darted through the jungle directly to him. Perhaps she would have had he not been dedicating half his attention to the tracking scanner held in his palm, invisible pulses of high-frequency energy sweeping out through the foliage in search of any large predators that might pose a threat to the encampment.

Beskade had lost count of how many occasions this had transpired; how many times Ka'ra had escaped the notice of her father, and of those on watch within the camp itself, and crept out - perhaps "crept" was not the right word - to intercept his patrol. It was always his patrol, he noted; always the nights that he was instructed to help sweep the perimeter for danger. Perhaps it was favouritism. Perhaps she had simply decided that Beskade was far less likely to land her in any sort of trouble than the other Mandalorians were.

She was probably right.

He sighed, turning his helmet to face her, wishing that instead of the greys and blue of his Death Watch armour, Ka'ra could see the stern glare that he was aiming in her direction.

"Again."

[Ka'ra Awaud]

"Like you mind," Ka'ra shot back as she fell into step alongside Beskade. A hint of worry crossed her features, not obscured by a helmet as the man she followed, but still shrouded in night. "Otherwise you would send me back to the camp."

There was questioning in the statement, just as there had been when she had made similar comments on her nightly escapades. She wasn't entirely certain that Beskade merely tolerated her because of her buir or if he truly did not mind her accompanying him. There was almost desperation in wishing it was the later. She had always enjoyed the company of her father's favored warrior, but ever since she had completed her verd'goten and had been named an adult, she found her attentions towards him far more compelling than they had been.

[Beskade Goza]

"I mind the trouble -"

Beskade tried to sound gruff, but he couldn't quite muster the full amount of conviction. His scowl shattered, a sigh and a shaking head taking it's place as he trudged on with the Overlord's daughter by his side.

"- but I suppose I can tolerate the company."

He probably shouldn't. Not only in the sense that he was knowingly going against the Overlord's overprotective wishes for his daughter, but also in the sense that he should probably have found Ka'ra infuriating - and he did, but didn't, in equal measure. He had only been young when the Mandalorians had arrived here on Shedu Maad: just thirteen years old when he'd answered his heart's calling and joined the Death Watch, barely a man when they'd retreated from their home and to this place of exile. The jungles of Shedu Maad were now more of a home to him - or at least, had been a home to him longer - than Mandalore itself had ever been; and for all that time, Ka'ra had been there, at his side more often than not, latching on to the closest person to her age that she had been able to find back then. The Death Watch had begun to breed since then, of course, but those were all her youngers, her lessers. Beskade was the only vestage of almost-equality she'd known: a man trapped between adults who saw him as young and inexperienced, and a girl who looked at him with wide and beautiful eyes far more than he deserved.

He sighed again.

"One of these days, your father is going to shoot me for allowing you to do this." He pondered for a moment. "Or stab me through the heart with the Darksaber. That seems more his style."

[Ka'ra Awaud]

"Oh please, as if he would do such a thing. You're the Ori'alor's favored and you know it. To be honest, I'm surprised he hasn't found some way to adopt you into our clan yet."

There was both awe and envy in her voice, as there often seemed to be when speaking with Beskade. She'd looked up to him since they had first arrived on Shedu Maad, but had always been aware that he probably never saw her as more than the child she was then. She heard that Beskade had a sister her age back home, left as so many other children were. Her father had refused to do the same to her, of course that may have had to do with lacking in other members of a clan to watch over her in his absence. She often wondered if her mother was still alive if she would have been left behind as well. Would her father have still cared for her the way he did now, then?

"Most days I think he'd rather you were his son than I his daughter," she muttered, not entirely proud that the thought had managed to escape her lips.

Ka'ra trusted Beskade though, no matter how he did or did not view her. Her opinion of him wouldn't change.

[Beskade Goza]

Beskade let out a soft laugh, more to disguise the fact that he'd noticed the way her demeanour had subtly shifted as her mind strayed to darker thoughts. It was why Beskade valued his helmet so much in conversations such as this. It was far easier to play the part of the mildly frustrated subject of her annoying attention if she was unable to see the affection with which his eyes looked upon her.

A reminder of the sister he'd left behind might have been how she had begun, but she was more than that now. She was a friend. Beskade had comrades a plenty, and much as he might protest it aloud, he did know that the Overlord held him in a certain esteem that the other Mandalorians here did not quite share. None of them spoke to Beskade the way that Ka'ra did, though. There was always the formality of status there, or the boisterous edge with which brothers-in-arms spoke to each other. For them, those who could had paired off over the years, men and women - or men and men for that matter - finding comfort and confidence in each other, starting families in some cases, but in others simply enjoying the private company of another; someone trusted to bear one's soul to. Beskade did not have that. He did not even have the kinship of those who considered him quite equal. He would always be the young warrior who had not lived enough years before arriving here to truly prove his worth: it did not matter that many of the other Death Watch here had only fought the exact same battles as he; his youth was a convenient segregation, a target tattooed upon him that could not be removed by any means.

The Overlord's affection had made it worse in some ways; and Beskade wondered how much of Sidonai's fondness was because of Beskade's isolation. Who better to shape into an heir and successor than someone already trained to feel isolated and separate from those he might one day command.

"I would prefer that he did not," Beskade replied quietly, once again grateful that his helmet allowed him to focus his efforts only on subduing the unwanted emotions in his voice. "Were you to become a sister to me, it would be at the expense of my only friend."

[Ka'ra Awaud]

She couldn't help but smile at that, once more a bit ashamed at how she was glad at how the darkness probably concealed the fullness of her expression. It wasn't that she hid her emotions from Beskade, but as she had become older she found herself not wanting him to see as much. Not that Ka'ra believed he didn't notice, but how she felt regarding their burcyan was not something she wished fully divulged just yet; her own little ranov'la that he could find out about when the time was right.

A quickened step was taken towards him, just enough that her shoulder nudged him. Not enough to throw either of them off balance but enough of a motion that she knew he'd feel it through his armor.

"We'll have to find some way to convince him it's a bad idea, then. I don't want to lose my only friend, either."

[Mandalore the Liberator]

* * *

Mandalore strode through the halls of the Sundari Palace. Shadows clung to the ground, the dawn light barely managing to creep through the stained glass that hugged the edges of the vaulted ceilings. Gone was his usual regalia, his armour stripped back to the bare essentials that the Resol'nare required of him. For these brief times, these windows of opportunity at the day's extremes, he grasped the opportunity to be Beskade again with both hands. While others slept, they had no expectations of him: they could not demand that he be Mandalore, that he adhere to the image and reputation that he was forced to maintain.

It was quiet in the Palace at this time of morning, especially compared to the jungles with which Beskade had become so accustomed over the last thirty years. It didn't ever really become loud per se: as part of the myriad compromises between the various factions, Mandalore had relocated the Parliament from Sundari to the traditional True Mandalorian capital of Keldabe, while the High Council of the clans convened here in the New Mandalorian palace. The idea was to help the Mando'a feel that, even though aspects of their rivals were engaged in governance of their world, they did so under the scrutiny of those who would judge them most harshly. Accountability, enforced by the threat of being surrounded on all sides by the enemy. The High Council spent much of their time at their clan homes however, and so the Palace stood mostly empty. It was as if Beskade was living in a museum or a monument, just some pretender to the Duke's throne who did belong in surroundings such as these. He supposed it was to remind him of his accountability as well: an uncomfortable reminder that though he was Mand'alor, he was also charged with leading and protecting the interests of the New Mandalorians as well.

And the Death Watch, he reminded himself, exchanging a brief nod with the patrolling guards as they passed, adorned by his order in Death Watch colours. Traditionally, the Mandalorian Guards assigned to the palace detail had been ceremonial and ostentatious: a sword brought to a gunfight, as it were. When it had come time to restructure the government in the wake of the liberation, there had been tensions between the New and True Mandalorians over who would get the honour of protecting the palace - and by extension, Mandalore. Beskade had chosen neither. The Death Watch had been enemies of both sects of Mando'a, and so both factions were equally displeased: but there were more reminders to be exploited; more symbols to be displayed. No one would dare question the loyalty of the Death Watch to their Overlord, and so Beskade's faith in his personal guard was absolute. Everyone felt universally threatened by their presence: not the ineffective ceremonial guards of old, but instead a reminder that Mand'alor was powerful and absolute, and that to challenge him was unwise.

There was a more important message though, one that spoke to Beskade himself more than to anyone else. The feud between the True Mandalorians and the Death Watch had predated him by decades, but when Beskade himself had joined the Kyr'tsad there had been one goal: liberation. At the time, it had been liberation from New Mandalorian pacifism and their slavish devotion to the Republic. When they had returned from Shedu Maad, they had been liberators again, this time against the Empire. All other symbols aside, they were a reminder to Mandalore of who he was: not just Beskade Goza, but Mandalore the Liberator. No matter how comfortable or complacent he grew, that liberty and freedom was how he chose to define himself. No political opinion or religious viewpoint on Mandalore, no matter how controversial or disliked, would ever be ostracised again - not under his rule, at least.

As he rounded a corner into the eastern wing of the palace, his ears caught the distant sound of combat. No, not combat. Training. There was no clash of weapons, no swift pace, just the deliberate and repetitive sounds of exertion, of fists against leather, of footwork against the stone floor. Like a moth to a flame, Beskade determined the direction, and began his cautious approach.