WARNINGS: This chapter contains violence and bullying.
I have an drabble from this story on my tumblr and on AO3-I'll get it here asap, but you can check it out there if you'd like!
A special note about MANDALORIAN ONLY chapters:
The resol'nare, or Six Actions, defines what a Mandalorian does.
4. "I will always speak Mando'a to other Mandalorians." The Mandalorian language, Mando'a, is one of the most important things that sets the Mandalorians apart from other goups. While the Mandalorian language is not fully developed yet, it is important for all Mandalorians to learn as much as they can and help to develope Mando'a into a full language.
SO...while I absolutely REFUSE to make my readers struggle through and ENTIRE chapter with every single piece of dialogue translated into Mando'a-please know that these exclusively Mandalorian chapters-these people ARE speaking in Mando'a. Every word. Every action. Every thought. It is as basic to them as breathing. So, I add words for emphasis cause I love to do that, but the truth of this chapter and the next is ALL of the words are in Mando'a.
Notes:
This chapter...it broke my heart. I'm not even kidding. I have cried for two days over it. It hit me out of no where, not even on my radar and then BOOM! It was written. The feels are strong with this one. Be prepared, maybe some tissues, and some chocolate. A soft kitten to snuggle after you read it. I have no idea...but I feel like I should offer to pay for everyone's therapy after this chapter haha
Please still love me.
Chapter Playlist: playlist?list=PLCmzlzRgPUhGsuAeUzxB66V2ytVeFhT6H
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Torian had awakened that day like a boy on fire, seven years old—and finally, he was going to be taught how to use a double bladed vibrosword. He had barely slept the night before, his body wired with the anticipation, and when his feet hit the ground he ran as fast as he could to the tent where the man who was tasked with training him slept. He had waited, standing at the tent flap for a long time, as dawn was just breaking when he had arrived. He was vibrating with excitement, so anxious to get started.
It wasn't exactly normal for a boy his age to be trained, especially not with a live weapon—but very little about Torian's life to date could be considered in the realm of normal. He had nothing else to focus on once he was old enough to understand the bitter sting of being excluded and made fun of. He made a habit of sitting along the edges of the training field—watching the older kids learning, envious—keeping himself far away from the other children who would call him names and mistreat him. Eventually, the training master Jaal had started to give him small tasks to help with, like polishing armor and sharpening knives. Then one day when Torian was four Jaal began to teach him stances and forms. Finding something he was good at meant that Torian threw everything he had into the learning, and a quick study he was.
Torian liked Jaal, one of the few adults he felt as if he wasn't always in trouble with. It wasn't that the man was overly friendly or kind, or even that he paid any special attention to Torian, not above allowing him to spend an extraordinary amount of time on the training field. Torian's preferred form of avoidance. It was just that when he trained Torian, he didn't treat him like an outcast. Never made him feel like an aruetii like the rest of the clan did, whether directly or indirectly.
Thanks to Jaal, he just felt like a normal boy, a real Mando'ade when he was being trained.
Jaal walked out of the tent, his face showing his surprise at seeing Torian there so early.
A man of few words, he walked past Torian, across the training grounds to the weapons rack. He handed Torian the testing stick—a long weapon designed with weight on each end—to emulate handling a real vibrosword. He'd been using this stick for months now. Jaal gestured him to the middle of the space, his voice firm, "Show me what you know, and then maybe I'll let you try to real thing today."
Torian spent many long hours moving his body through the exercises, proving himself—showing his balance, his skill, his abilities, full motions that would make the weapon an extension of his own body. He was a model student, his eagerness to please something that made him pay attention to the lessons, to learn as much as he could as fast as he was able—and this weapon, it was his destiny, he knew it in the inner depths of who he was.
After an entire day of practice, testing, providing proof—Jaal finally put a real vibrosword into his hands.
"This is an exact replica of a full sized one. Difference is size only—understand—it is not a toy. A Mando'ade accepts the responsibility of having his own weapon and the power that lies in that weapon. You can do great harm to others—and even harm to yourself—if you do not use the tool properly. I am giving this weapon to you because I trust you understand the gravity of that responsibility."
Torian nodded his head, words failing him, his eyes scanning the metal on the weapon, the way his hand gripped around it. It seemed as if the electrical current running inside the casing was not just moving through the weapon but through his very soul. He tested the weight of it, the way it felt in his hands, bigger than he was expecting but not unwieldy—not impossible, made to his stature. His body shook with the energy the weapon gave him, his eyes wide, looking up to the Trainer, unsure of what to do.
Jaal nodded at him, "It's yours, what do you want to do?"
Torian stared at the trainer, realizing that he was actually giving this treasure to him. His eyes widened as he looked at the weapon in a different light, it looked like something otherworldly in his hands. He held the hilt out in front of him, his hand steady, as he hit the trigger and jerked the weapon down—blades lit up with golden light flying out of each end of the weapon, a static sound filling the air around them. He bent his body into a fighting stance, twirling the weapon once in his hand, smiling as the blade whoosed over his head.
Jaal had set up a series of trials—fitting for a young Mando'ade just handed the responsibility of his first weapon, and when Torian looked up at him, he gestured to the trials set up across the field. Torian saw the training bags, hung at different heights, different methods set up in a type of circle meant to emulate a crowd of enemies.
"Don't cut your own hand off." Jaal grunted after he spoke, as if he wasn't completely sure that wasn't what was going to happen.
Torian knew what he was meant to do. His cry carried through the valley as he turned and ran, "Oya Manda!"
He sailed across the ground, his body flying through the air as he neared the first training bag. The christening blow cutting the entire weighted back down from the frame. He came down on top of it, still moving forward, his blade slashing through the bag, then the moment his foot hit the ground just past it he spun himself across the space to the next bag. He turned his body in motion to slash across the belly of it, sand pouring out, then as quickly as he had slashed it, he kicked himself upward in an arc—the blade slashing through the top of the bag and then he pulled down with a grunt, the material slicing through, the entirety of the contents spilling out to the ground below.
He bolted to the other side of the area, another war cry spilling from his lungs, his body feeling truly alive for the first time. He reached the bag, jumping up on it, using his momentum to pitch himself to the top, his hand grabbing the rope as he pivoted swinging around to the backside of it—dropping down, feet hitting the ground behind it—kicking his legs up into the air as he cartwheeled to the bag next to it, lifting up as his arms moved in a circular motion as he pitched himself forward onto the top of the bag, slashing high, then low, laughing as the bag fell with him, tumbling him to the ground.
He was out of breath and positively exhilarated from his first 'hunt'. He cried out as he held the weapon up above himself, "OYA!" and then shook it while he pressed the control for the two blades to recess, letting the weapon lay across his chest. He looked at the blue sky with fluffy white clouds, he breathed the air in deeply, his hands grabbed the earth around him. He realized in that moment he had never known happiness. He had never really seen, felt, breathed, not until now.
He was exuberant with joy when Jaal came and stood over him, his arms crossed, "That was okay, but you missed one of them." He cut his eyes to the bag that was still hanging next to where he was standing.
Torian tried to catch his breath, tried to slow down, smiling despite his inability to breath, sitting up, head shaking, pointing to the bag. He kicked his foot out, hitting the bag, it started to slowly spin.
Jaal frowned, walking to the bag, using his hand to spin it, his eyes widening when he saw three small daggers plummeted deep inside the back of the bag. Not even sure where Torian had gotten the daggers, let alone where he was holding them, and even more than that, how he had managed to use all three of them on the bag as fast as he had been moving. It seemed impossible.
"You are truly gifted in this art," Jaal spoke in a tone that spoke less of surprise and more of pride. The words seemed like they came out of his mouth without him meaning for them to.
Torian startled at the praise, something no one had really given him before—not sure how to take it or what his response should be. He nodded his head once, "Thank you, Master Jaal."
Jaal stared at him, and Torian was uncomfortable under the scrutiny, starting to fidget with the buckles on his gloves.
"Don't ever stop learning," Jaal squatted down so he could look into Torian's eyes, "Life is about learning and growing, you might as well be dead if you are not working every day at being a better man, a better Mando'ade."
Torian nodded, understanding.
"Go on to dinner, you need to eat verd, always keep kot oya'karir," he stood up, his hand reaching out to Torian. He took the man's hand, letting him help pull him up off the ground.
Jaal grunted, flustered by how much he was growing to like this kid, "Go see Saern tomorrow morning, before you report here."
Torian was confused, he raised his shoulders in question.
"I'll let her know to get your fittings," he gestured to Torian's form, "you're due for some armor that actually fits you—instead of someone else's cast offs."
Torian's heart stopped in his chest, his hands sweating and his mind racing—my own armor…armor made to fit me…but…
Torian's head dropped, his eyes looking at Jaal's feet, "I don't think I can do that, sir."
Jaal crossed his arms, clearing his throat, indicating for Torian to face him when he was speaking to him, to look into his eyes, "And why exactly is that?"
Torian started to shuffle his feet, but stopped when Jaal's eyes narrowed, "Sir, I do not have a sponsor."
The metal for their armor was exceptionally rare and incredibly expensive. For the younger Mando'ade they mixed the pure metals with other kinds, to keep the costs low—as the youngsters grew quickly—most of them were sent to the crates of 'training armor', meant to use the different pieces to put together a set of armor. Most were from other's which were outgrown. Only kids who had a sponsor, either a family member, parent or some other interested party who would front the money for their own custom armor would ever get that kind of luxury. A set of armor that fit them to the exacting standards molded to their own form.
Jaal stood there staring at Torian for a long time, making Torian sweat and feel weak in his knees.
"You do as you're told," Jaal spoke, conviction marking his words.
Torian jumped at the tone, then nodded, "Ye….yes sir."
Jaal held his hand out for the weapon. Torian wanted to hold it close to his chest and hug it. He knew he would not be allowed to keep the weapon for a while, but he also knew that Jaal would keep it in a safe place where no one else would ever touch it. A Mando'ade's weapon was his own.
He handed the weapon to the trainer, feeling the absence acutely the moment his fingers no longer felt the cold of the metal. His eyes lifted to look at Jaal who had a crooked grin on his face.
"Go on then!" the man gestured to the direction of the mess tent.
Not having to be told twice, Torian turned and start to make his way from the training grounds back to the camp. He had made it past the first curve in the path when he heard something in the woods beside him. His hands shot to the back of his armor to grab his daggers from the bottom edge of his chest piece, when he realized he had left them lodged in the training bag. His mind raced, as he was without a weapon, and these woods were known to have some vicious predators. His eyes drifted to his hands, realizing that was the best he had.
His body curled into a fighting stance, his eyes moving through the dusk, trying to see a form, when he jumped, hearing a noise from the other side of the path. He bolted backward, his eyes keeping track of the space in front of him, putting distance between him and the noise.
A loud laugh broke the silence, a boy several years older than him named Jogo stepping out into the path from the woods—two other boys following him from other parts of the woods.
Torian stood up, confused, not sure why they were in the woods, hiding from him. He heard a whistle from somewhere behind him. He turned his body, trying to see who was there but there were only trees and underbrush in his line of vision.
"That's the all clear," one of the boys told Jogo, his head tipping toward Torian. The boys walked over to him, each one standing at least two feet taller than him.
"So, I heard Master Jaal thought you were…" Jogo looked to the boy to the right of him, "what was it he said? Gifted in the art of blah, blah, blah…."
Torian tilted his head, struggling to understand what he meant. That was what Jaal had told him. Before he could speak one of the boys grabbed the back of his armor, lifting his feet off the ground. He started to thrash side to side, trying to make him put him back down.
"I also heard that he is sponsoring you."
The other boys laughed and grunted. Torian stilled, his hands clenching into fists, "So?"
Jogo moved forward his face inches from Torian's his breath hot and foul on his skin, "So…there's no way an arue'tal like you deserves to havebeskar'gam. Beskar'gam is for true Mando'ade, not a pretender like you."
Understanding washed over him as he began to realize what was happening, his eyes moving around the area trying to make a plan, to find weapons, anything he could use. His eyes snapping back to Jogo, "Don't call me that."
"What're you gonna do? Cry about it, arue'tal," Jogo leaned in closer still, laughing at Torian.
Suddenly, Torian's head shot forward, his forehead smashing into Jogo's nose, the woods filled with the sound of his scream as blood began to pour out of his nose. His hand reached forward grabbing Torian's hair and pulling it, jerking his head down, Jogo's knee coming up, crashing into his face.
"You…..skanah….I'm gonna teach you a lesson!"
One of the other boys took a hold of Torian's arm, while the one behind him moved to hold his other one. A terrible noise came from his body when Jogo's fist landed in his throat. He struggled to breath, the world spinning for a moment, his legs buckling under him, but the boys were still holding him upright.
Another blow landed, aimed to strike between the space between his front and back chest plate, the air rushing out of his body as he absorbed the punch. He was gasping for breath.
"Say it! Say you are unworthy, admit you are an arue'tal—and I will stop." Jogo reached up wiping the still dripping blood from his nose on his shirt sleeve. Punching him on the other side of his body.
Torian's head wobbled, then he closed his eyes, gathering himself, he opened his eyes, staring at Jogo, "Have a better idea, come back over here."
Pain radiated from his face, Jogo having moved so quickly he couldn't even see him before he had hit him square in the jaw, his mouth tasting blood—and as quickly as his brain was able to process that pain, another blow landed across his cheek. He felt tears welling up, and he cursed, his mind racing.
Don't you do it, don't you give them that!
He opened his eyes, fury setting in them, the two boys who were holding him talking to Jogo about whether someone would be coming down the path soon.
Jogo reached forward grabbing Torian's tender face by the jaw, hissing at him, "Say it, hut'uun!"
"Nu draar," Torian hissed, spitting blood at his face.
Taking advantage of their distracted stance, he used their legs to kick his feet up, leveraging himself on where they were still holding him tight around his arms. His feet flew up, and then shot straight out, kicking Jogo square in the chest sending him sprawling across the ground.
The boys holding him were shocked, Torian used it against them, as he twisted, one leg wrapping around the boy on his right, his hand shooting out to grab the belt of the one on the left—flinging his body out and sideways, using his legs to twist the boy, then kick him in the gut, sending him sailing backward, tumbling head over feet. The boy whose belt Torian was holding, started to fall, the momentum from Torian's actions causing him to wobble. Torian released the belt, the boy letting go of him trying to gain his balance.
Torian rolled into the fall, his hands hitting the ground as he kicked his feet up, they flew through the air as he sprung sideways, twisting in the air so that the side of his boot smashed into the boy's jaw—sending him to the ground screaming as blood poured out of his nose and mouth. Torian landed, pitching himself onto the boy, punching him in the face as hard as he could.
Arms came around him, as Jogo started to pull him backward, off of the boy he was perched on. Torian pushed himself into the movement, sending Jogo onto his back, Torian on top of him, he lifted his head and cracked it down onto the boy's face in quick succession, Jogo's curses filling the air. His arms tried to grab Torian as he lifted, rolling to the side, his leg swinging up as he rolled hitting Jogo square across the face as he tried to come after him.
He used the other leg to kick him backward as he rolled. Torian crouched on the ground, preparing to launch himself past the boys when the one who was behind him grabbed his foot, dragging him to the ground. Torian tried to kick him, his foot lashing out, but the boy was so strong. Too strong. He pulled him back, his hands crawling up his leg, dragging him closer.
Torian dug his hands into the dirt, scrambling, trying to find a hold, something to help him—but his hands found no purchase. He had just managed to get a swift kick to face of the boy who was dragging him back when Jogo was there. One of his hands grabbed Torian's hair, pulling it up while his other hand came down to grab the back of his armor, picking him up and throwing him down to the ground on his back. His entire body rattling in the armor, the wind knocked out of him.
Before he could move, both of the boys were on him, their knees putting all of their weight on his arms on his arms, holding them down, Jogo dropping down, sitting on his waist, punching him in the chest, then the side, Torian's legs going wild behind him, trying to boot him off but he weighed a good hundred pounds more than Torian.
His eyes widened as he saw a blade flash in the dim light, his efforts to get free renewed. He heard Jogo whistle, and another boy walked into the clearing.
"Hold his head still," Jogo spit on the ground next to Torian, his face marred with blood and dirt, "I don't want my work of art ruined."
The boy fell to his knees above Torian's head, his hands coming around his face, holding it completely still.
"Hurry up," one of the boys said, his voice shaking, "that was a lot of noise."
"Hold him still!" Jogo screamed at the boy, as Torian was still bucking and trying to get loose.
The boy at his head reached forward, his hand pressing hard into Torian's neck, the whole world started spinning and he stilled, his body going limp, all of the nerves below the spot on his neck shut down.
Jogo leaned over him, his face full of hatred, his hand reaching to grab Torian's chin, squeezing hard causing pain to shoot through his head.
His voice a hiss, "You are and will always be arue'tal, it doesn't matter what armor you put on or how gifted an old man says you are—you are worthless—and you will never be anything other than arue'tal."
Torian's eyes went wide as the blade came within his sight, trying to shake his head but the boy over him was strong, and held him fast. His eyes followed the blade as Jogo brought it down to his cheek. He tried to stop the noise from coming out, but it did against his will, pain radiating under his eye, he could feel blood dripping down the side of his face, into his eyes, blinking rapidly—better knowing what to expect he managed to stay silent, when Jogo moved the knife to make the same cut on the other cheek—Torian's vision blurring from the blood.
Jogo leaned back, smiling, "There, now you aren't a part of our clan—and the world will know it! Poor little skanah, you have no buir to teach you about our ways, you orphan, so you wouldn't know what this symbol means—but I am going to educate you, arue'tal."
"These lines," Jogo reached his hands down, his thumbs dragging across each of the open wounds on Torian's cheeks, his body cringing, a low groan elicited despite his best efforts to stay silent, eyes closing tightly to hold back the tears, fingernails biting into his palms, "they mean 'coward'. So it doesn't matter what armor you wear hut'uun or who thinks you are special—everyone who sees you for the rest of your life will know the truth—you are and will always be nothing but an arue'tal."
Torian had tried so hard, to be good, to be strong, to not cry but he felt the tears filling up his eyes and he couldn't stop it as a sob washed over him, "No...gedetir."
"Ik'aad, gonna cry now," Jogo snarled at him, "Good! Show everyone what you are!"
Jogo stood up then, noise coming from down the now dim path, turning back to Torian, kicking him in the side, before he turned to run into the woods. The other boys scrambled up and ran away through the woods.
Torian's body had curled inward when the kick had landed. He slowly shifted to his back, his chest heaving as the emotions threatened to overwhelm him. His hands trembling, drifting up to his cheeks, pressing into them, "No, no, gedet'ye, no." His body shook with his grief, as he rolled over to his stomach, pushing his hands under him, struggling to lift himself to his hands and knees, stopping as his body tried to understand the pain it felt.
He screamed when arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him up, his body thrashing wildly thinking that the boys had returned to do him more harm.
"Gev! Torian stop it!" It took a moment for Corridan's voice to break through the terror, finally, Torian stilled, and Corridan leaned down and set him on his feet.
"What in the world is wrong with you!" He walked around Torian, his breath catching when he realized he was hurt, "Tor, what…what happened to you?"
He dug in his pocket, pulling out a star light, cracking it, the bright white slowly growing to cast light on Torian's face.
"Who did this?" Corridan demanded, his voice filled with fury, he leaned down, closer, his eyes making out the symbol as he realized what he was seeing on his friend's face, a series of curse words that would make the saltiest Mando'ade blush being uttered as he shook with anger.
"Damn it, Torian! Tell me who did this!" When Torian didn't speak, Corridan reached out to shake him, his anger overriding his thought processes, but stopped, his hands frozen on Torian's arms when he realized that Torian was shrinking away from him, flinching.
He moved his hands away from him as if he had been burned, holding them up in front of him so Torian could see them, "Sorry, I'm sorry…Haar'chak!"
His hand drifted up to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. He reached down, ripping one of the sleeves off of his shirt, balling it up, pressing it onto Torian's cheeks, nodding for him to hold them there. Torian's hands shook as he raised them up, pressing down on the cloth like he'd been told.
"Come on, I'll take care of you," Corridan gestured for Torian to follow him.
The boys walked a different path than Torian had ever been on, and he wasn't sure where they were going. They finally came to a tent, nestled in a small cove—sheltered by the high rock walls around it, only one way in and one way out of the area.
"Wait here, okay?" Corridan watched Torian who was shaking so hard, he led him over to a boulder, sitting him down there, "Don't move, I'll be right back."
Torian just stared straight ahead, his eyes unfocused.
"Tor!" He jumped when Corridan raised his voice, "Stay right here."
Torian nodded, Corridan turned and walked to the tent, hitting the wooden frame in a series of knocks and then entering.
Torian had no idea how much time had passed. He was numb. His mind was tired. He would never be able to face the clan now. His face told a story he could not possibly overwrite or erase.
He didn't notice Corridan approach, jumping when he spoke, "Torian, this is my Uncle, he is going to clean you up, okay?"
Torian couldn't see much, but the man's voice was soft, soothing, and Torian was comforted by it. His ears were ringing so he couldn't make out what the man was saying but he nodded, feeling very tired all of a sudden. The man walked to him, reaching down and picking him, up, carrying him inside the tent. The night was already fallen so there was a fire in the middle of the tent, the chimney rising up out of the top. The room was dim but once his eyes adjusted, he could see Corridan sitting across from him. There were noises around him, but he couldn't see past a few feet—his eyes swollen, and the blood still marring his vision.
The man spoke, softly and slowly—he moved slowly too, and he would say what he was going to do before he did it, something Torian appreciated, so he could know what was happening. The man used warm clothes, pressed onto his skin, soothing it and cleaning it. He laid a cold rag across his neck that felt so good. A woman rushed into the tent, causing to Torian to jump, she apologized, moving more slowly toward him, settling herself down on her knees in front of him.
"Demagolka," she whispered, her hand coming up to touch the side of Torain's head softly. He wanted to lean into it, but he held himself still.
"I'll handle it, Riduur," the man said, standing and looking down at Torian, his countenance raw fury. Torian drew in smaller, cowering, afraid he had done something to anger the man. The man's brow furrowed, then he shook his head, his hands clenched as he strode out of the tent.
The woman, slowly took off Torian's armor, careful with him as he grimaced when she would touch a tender spot. She carefully pulled the cloth from around his neck off, gasping when she saw the black and blue marking the skin there. Once she'd removed all of the armor, her hands shook as she slowly lifted his shirt, to check for injuries, and her head fell when she saw that his entire torso was discolored from the beating he had endured.
He could hear Corridan muttering something, and the woman reached over laying her hand on his knee.
"Cor," the woman turned her head, looking at him, "I need you to go get water from the river, and gather me some of the feather plants along the shore, as many as you can find—grab that flask and take the pouch on the table to tuck the flowers in—I have a star light by the door—make sure you fill the bag up, okay?"
Corridan nodded, glad to be of some use, picking up the items and rushing out the door.
The woman lifted herself to her feet, sitting down beside Torian, who stiffened. Her hand slowly reached out to take his own, just holding it, just letting him know she was there. His body shook at the comfort it provided, the feeling foreign and nearly overwhelming after the day he'd had.
After a few moments, her other hand reached around him, gently brushing through his hair, and then resting softly on his far shoulder—resting but at the same time somehow moving, almost pulling but not quite, it was a question but Torian wasn't sure what it was. He turned his head to look at her face, unsure of what was happening and wanting to understand.
She smiled at him, one of the prettiest things he had ever seen in his life, and he wanted to smile back, but when he attempted it, the pain in his face and jaw was almost blinding. She leaned her head down, looking into his eyes, "I sent them away," she whispered, "You are safe here."
Torian understood what she was saying, his eyes moving around the room realizing that it was just him and this woman left. He stared at her, he stared for so long he felt his eyes drying out, and then, suddenly, a long, low noise bubbled up out of him—and then he was sobbing, his body pitching forward, as the woman caught him in her arms, pulling him onto her lap, holding him gently so as to not hurt him, his head resting on her chest as his body was wracked with the force of his emotions.
She didn't try to calm him down, she didn't shush him or even move really, her hands were resting on him, wrapped around him, holding him there against her, and there was no judgement, no condemnation in her—only encouragement to be honest about his feelings.
He wept.
Tears for the pain he had endured that day.
Hated.
For the cuts on his face that labeled him.
Branded.
For every day he walked behind all of the other kids.
Afraid.
For every time he was called arue'tal.
Ashamed.
For every time his heart hurt when he fell asleep at night.
Alone.
For the mother he had no memories of, no mementos, nothing to hold onto.
Orphaned.
For the fact that this was the first time anyone had ever hugged him—and he wanted to hate it—but he didn't so he wept for that, too.
Starved.
For a father who didn't just betray Mand'alor, but betrayed his son to this life.
Forsaken.
For everything he had denied bothered him…he let the tears fall.
Myself.
He had no idea how long he had cried, but eventually, he was just sniffling, his hands careful as they wiped his nose, trying to not touch his burning cheeks.
The woman leaned down to him, kissing his forehead softly, his eyes moving up to look at her.
She smiled at him, her voice low and soft, "Torian, can I tell you a story?"
He nodded.
"I knew this woman once who loved unlike anyone else. She was a precious soul—wise and beautiful and brilliant—and she fell in love—as most of our kind tend to do, don't they?"
His eyes were wide, her voice captivating, he nodded.
"Yes! And this woman, she was so generous—she gave of her heart all the time, she shared the goods from her garden and she always had flowers in her bright blonde hair."
"The man she fell in love with was a good man. They married—and soon after, they had a beautiful baby boy. He was strong, and his squalling made everyone in their clan agree that he was going to be a mighty warrior."
"A short time passed, and the man, though he tried to be good, and he thought he understood life and living, he didn't always listen to the right voices and sometimes he was led astray."
"But this man—he loved the woman with all of his heart, and when he left to go to war, realizing that he had put her in danger—he hid her, far away from the war and the people in it—his last attempt to say how much he loved her and his son."
She stared at Torian, waiting until he finally blinked and then continued, "Things did not go well for the man during the war—and the woman was afraid for herself and her child—now a babe of several moons."
"A stranger appeared to the woman one day, and she was confused because she was so well hidden. The stranger told the woman that there were many things that would come to pass in time, but that she could promise the woman that her child would be safe."
"The woman wasn't superstitious but she was desperate to believe so she devised a plan with the stranger, to try to keep her boy safe—she went to the leader of the people her husband was fighting—her and the stranger both. The leader took the boy, and he vowed to keep him safe as long as the woman agreed to his terms."
"Because she loved her son more than anything, she agreed to the leader's terms—and no one ever saw or heard from the woman again. The leader kept his promise and delivered the boy to people whom he trusted to take care of him. The leader gave them very specific orders on how he was to be raised, and not wanting to risk the wrath of the leader, the people held fast and true to his demands—even when they did not agree with them."
The woman shifted, her hand reaching into the pocket of her shirt, a thin line of gold coming out, a ring on the end of it, glittering and shimmering in the firelight, "This was the woman's, a trinket that the leader allowed the family who took the boy in to hold for him, agreeing the child could have it when the time was right."
She reached down, her hand pulling his forward, opening it flat, and then slowly let the ring rest on his palm, the gold chain puddling up around it. Torian's eyes were wide and fixed on the ring in his hand.
"Do you understand, Torian?"
His eyes flashed up to hers—his hand closing fast, hard, squeezed shut around the treasure in his hand, nodding to her.
"I don't know anyone who was ever more loved by his mother than that little boy."
Torian sniffled, a single tear slowly sliding down his cheek before he squeezed the ring harder, the pain in his hand from the gems digging in giving him focus, he sat up, his back straightening, his shoulders squaring even though it made his ribs hurt and something deep inside of him feel like it was being ripped apart.
"Don't ever forget the story," her hand came to rest on his hand, holding it fast, wrapping around his hand, closed, Torian reached up to catch the tear that was falling down her cheek, his eyes questioning, she whispered to him, a smile breaking through, "That woman was my best friend."
Torian jumped, scrambling back off of her lap when he heard a noise outside of the tent, the woman standing up, taking a deep breath, and then nodding to him, he returned the silent agreement.
The man had returned, his face stern and severe and Torian wanted to hide from him, but he sat still, not breaking eye contact as the man stared at him. He walked over, squatting down in front of him.
"Do you know how we make beskar, son?" Torian wanted to answer the question right, but he knew he couldn't, slowly shaking his head—the title 'son' stinging as it hit his tender ears—knowing that the man was saying it the way he would any other boy in the world.
"Right," he laughed softly, "it's good that you don't know—it's a secret—only those who have been to the forge understand the process…and even then each part of the process has its own secrets."
He took a deep breath, "but I want to tell you something about beskar and how it is made—there are many steps, from the mining of the ore on our home planet of Manadalore all the way to the fiery forges where the metallurgists craft it into the fine armor we wear to protect ourselves from our enemies."
The man hit his fist on his chest plate, "beskar doesn't give—it doesn't yield to sword, or blaster, or even lightsabers—it is strong, it is solid, it is unbreakable."
Torian nodded, fascinated.
"Can you guess how many times the iron has to be smelted before it reaches the purity required to be made into a single piece of beskar'gam?"
Torian thought for a moment that maybe it took more than once to make such a strong iron, "Three times, sir?"
"No, more than three," the man paused giving Torian a chance to guess again.
Torian thought carefully, then suggested, "Five times?"
"Almost there—the ore has to be smelted seven times. Every time it is smelted the metallurgists have to work it—sometimes for days and weeks, and then smelt it again, and the process takes months to produce a single piece of beskar that has to be fitted and hammered into the right shape and form."
His hand reached out, to rest on Torian's knee, so small under his hand, "Once it's finished it is stronger than any other metal in the world."
Torian nodded, unsure if he was supposed to respond, nervous he wasn't making the right answers.
"Pain that we endure, what we go through, the trials we face—the are our fiery forge. Today, you were put through another round of smelting."
He stared at Torian, and Torian nodded, finally understanding.
"You have faced a lot of smelting in your short years, like the work of the beskar—seven years to be refined," the man continued, smiling at him, "but, you should know each one of your years is drawing you toward the end result—a man bound with strength, with bravery, with vision, and with honor—a man as durable as beskar'gam."
Torian smiled then, taking the man's words to his heart, nodding, wanting to say something but not having the words to express it.
"You have a choice to make now Torian, and tomorrow you will make more choices—hard choices, maybe life changing choices—but tonight you must decide what you believe about who you are—and more importantly about who you are going to be."
"Sir?" Torian was confused.
"Those marks on your face—they say you are something, something disgraceful and dishonorable—and if you leave them there—those marks will always tell the world that you believe that's who you really are."
The man stood up, walking across the room, picking something up and walking back to Torian, sitting on the bench beside him, his legs straddling it. He sat something down on the table next to them, reaching over to grab one of his swords, using it to draw the arc on Torian's cheek in the sand beside their feet.
"That symbol is detestable—it speaks of a lack of honor," the man waited for Torian to look at him, then nodded, his arm moving to draw two lines down the center of the arc, "Do you know what that symbol means?"
Torian shook his head, not having parents to teach him the way the other children were—he'd never learned much about their roots and their ancient languages, spoken or written, his cheeks flamed with shame.
The man made a noise, drawing his eyes up to him, "You haven't had time to learn yet, but you will, there is no shame in continuing to learn your entire life."
The man tapped the ground by their feet, drawing him back to the symbol there, "This symbol represents everything the other one doesn't—it's odd that the two symbols are so close to one another, made of the same lines, so easily could be one way or the other, but just a few extra strokes turns something that was meant to push a man under the foot of others, to destroy him, to make him a slave to the name—instead, raises him up, sets him apart—as this symbol means mandokar. That is a word that encompasses the qualities that make one Mando'ade—the virtues of righteous aggression, tenacity, loyalty, and a desire to live every day to the fullest. It stands for words you have yet to learn, more ideals life will reveal as you grow, and for everything a Mando'ade can and should be."
"The choice is up to you, whether you want to wear the symbol that says you are this man," he gestured to Torian's face, and then pointed to the ground at the other symbol, "or that man."
The man stood then, picking up the item he had placed on the table and set it next to Torian. He walked to the woman and pulled her out of the tent, Torian's eyes fixated on the objects beside him, not seeing the way she tried to come back to him before her husband quickly ushered her outside.
He reached his hand out, touching the hilt of the small dagger that was laying on the mirror. It spun a little bit, the blade shimmering in the firelight. He picked it up, setting it to the side, then lifted the mirror, his hands shaking as he drew it up to his face. He focused and then gasped when he saw the weeping red marks that adorned each of his cheeks—wide, and deep, certain to leave an equally wide and deep scar. He glanced down to the floor at the symbol there, and then back at himself.
He reached out to pick up the knife, his hand shaking as he drew it up to see it more clearly. His eyes glanced to the blade sure that it was very sharp, would cut very easily. He crawled into the floor, grunting as the pain radiated through his body as he moved, his feet shuffling through the symbol there, grabbing a box from the table to prop the mirror up so he could see himself.
He stared into his own eyes, trying to see who he was, who he might one day be. Trying to decide if he was really the arue'tal everyone believed he was, or if he was meant to be more than that. He closed his eyes, desperate to know, to have an answer, and more afraid additional pain than he cared to admit.
He wouldn't remember it, not in any kind of detail, he would never be able to explain it to anyone, but something moved inside of him, warm and soft. The air around him was so light and felt delicate on his skin, and there was such love surrounding him, something he didn't understand because he'd never known what others spoke of, he had no name for it, but he'd guess that was the right feeling. Though he'd yearned for affection from a mother, none had ever shown such to him, and the small taste he had been given tonight showed him how beautiful it was.
He knew he would grow up and he would be more than this broken little boy. Something deep inside of himself knew it. He was sure, the light around him giving him strength. He gripped the knife in his hand, his eyes steady as he drew it down his cheek making a deep slash through the arc there, a low groan coming out as the stinging began. Without pause, he drew the second one, unaffected by the blood that began dripping down his face, onto his shirt. He immediately moved to do the other cheek, quickly drawing the knife through his skin, the pain echoing through him, and he relished it, he drew it deep inside, he anchored it to his soul, deciding that the man's words rang true and this pain was part of the smelting.
His hand shook as he lowered the knife to the bench. Blinking at the stinging pain as the blood made a trail to his jaw. He raised his hand, opening it and looking down at the ring he had held tightly since the woman had given it to him.
I will be worthy of a woman like my Mother. Brave. Strong. Fierce. Selfless. I will make myself approved for her. Then, I will remake Clan Cadera. I will grow warriors.
He didn't turn when he heard someone enter the tent, his eyes shifted up and he was able to see Corridan through the mirror. His eyes catching his own, widening, "Torian! You…what did you do?" The flask of water splashed as it hit the ground.
He rushed over to him in a flurry, grabbing a piece of fabric from the table as he crossed the room, pushing himself between Torian and the bench—knocking the mirror to the side. He grabbed Torian's face, pressing the cloth onto it, "What did you do?"
Torian had closed his eyes to the pain that the pressure was creating from Corridan pressing so hard on his face—but at the sound of alarm in his friend's voice—his eyes opened.
Corridan looked at him, trying to understand, and then saw in Torian's eyes something new. They were amused, as if they knew a secret no one else knew…Corridan struggled to understand—starting to think that he had lost his mind completely. Torian shifted his eyes, his eyebrows lifting, his shoulders raised in a shrug.
Corridan slowly pulled the cloth away from Torian's face, looking down at his cheeks, a smile bursting across his face, "Mandokar."
The man and woman walked into the tent, the woman crossing to sit on the bench beside where Corridan had sat down, her hand reaching out, cupping Torian's face, smiling, proudly. She reached out taking what the man offered her, gently pressing the warm cloth to his cheek as she cleaned it.
Torian beamed under her attention, the feeling of pride thrumming through his veins, he relished it, he decided he would not settle for feelings less than this in his life. If he didn't not live each day to the purpose of being proud of himself, then he wasn't even living.
The woman set the cloth down, then reached over to draw the pouch from Corridan's belt, opening it to pull the herbs out. Her husband handed her a small bowl and pestle—and she started grinding the petals into dust. Her husband brought other vials over to her, and she added them to the bowl. The two boys were fixated on her actions, not clear on what she was doing, but there was a very aromatic scent coming from the bowl. Sweet, and tangy at the same time.
After a few minutes, the woman stood, handing the bowl to her husband who took her place on the bench.
"Do you know why I did not tell you, or order you to change the symbol, Torian?"
He shook his head, unsure.
"No man should tell you who you are. No man has the right to label you, no man has the right to force you to be someone you are not…who you are—is, and should always be determined by you."
Torian understood, his eyes bright and focused.
The man held up the bowl, "This is a treatment for your scars—old magic—passed down through the ages. In our galaxy, some cultures try to hide scars, people and their vanity have them removed, or hide them with cosmetics—but we are Mando'ade…"
Torian nodded, whispering softly, "Yes."
"We do not hide our scars—we wear them as a badge of honor—as a testament to our courage, our will, our strength and the places we have been—also serving as a map to where we are going."
The man laughed then, a deep belly laugh, "I hate to tell you that it hurts, but it does, and I think you and I are past pretending with one another—but once you put it on, it will make your scars bright, it will make them beautiful, a symbol to be proud of."
Torian didn't hesitate, leaning up on his knees, dipping two fingers into the mixture—raising his hand to his cheek and rubbing it across it. His jaw clenched as the pain hit him, his hand shaking as he drew another portion out to apply to the other cheek. It felt like a million stings on his skin, burning and twisting. He raised his hand to the other cheek, willing his hand to still, and amazingly it did. He stroked the mixture across the cheek, taking the wet towel the man offered, wiping his fingers clean.
"Leave it there til morning, then, wash it off," the man stood up, Torian scrambled to his feet, wincing at the movement as pain shot through him.
Corridan took Torian's elbow, thanking the man, and started walking him to the door. The woman walked over to him, bending down, lifting his hand. She placed a gentle kiss there on the hand that was still clenched around the ring.
"Remember," she whispered.
He nodded firmly, fire burning in his eyes. She smiled then, and he lifted his head up to look behind him as the man walked by ruffling his hair, "You did good, Torian. Ret'urcye mhi."
Torian smiled as they walked back through the woods towards the barracks and other sleeping tents, thinking about the story the woman had told him, and about the way the man seemed to be proud of him. Those were good feelings. Something to aim for.
"You're staying with me tonight," Corridan broke the silence, "I'm in charge of you."
Torian looked over at him, eyebrows drawn down into a scowl, "Don't need a baby sitter."
Corridan stopped walking, looked at him pointedly, gesturing up and down his person, "Really?"
"Fine," he commented, stomping off toward Corridan's tent, "but, you're not the boss of me. Only four years older."
"Psshhh," Corridan laughed, "I already went through my verd'goten, two years early. I think we can both agree I am the boss here."
"Not for long," Torian commented, walking through the open flap, a decent sized tent, with several cots, but as far as he could tell, only Corridan lived there. He carefully eased himself down onto the extra cot in the corner, his eyes looking around the tent, a place he had spent a lot of time in, falling asleep almost instantly.
Someone touched his arm. He bolted upright, startled, his fist reaching forward and slamming into Corridan's stomach, "Haar'chak! Torian! What the hell!"
"Sorry," Torian mumbled, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, trying to see clearly, "What's wrong?"
"The clan leaders have called an emergency meeting, everyone in the clan is required to attend, and we're gonna be late if you don't get your ass out of bed right now."
Corridan threw a wet cloth at him, "Wash your face and let's go!" He turned and walked out of the tent.
Torian stood up wobbling, the stiffness in his muscles from the hard sleep he'd had causing flares of pain across his body. He groaned, each step shooting pain up through him straight to his head. He stood at the mirror, looking at the strange blue paste, now dried on his face. He took the washcloth and rubbed it across one of his cheeks. The dried mixture seemed to melt under the water, and as he drew the washcloth down and away his eyes widened. Where there had been jagged, red, weeping cuts now shown with a bright, white, almost iridescent scar, lifted off of his skin, the paleness of the scar causing it to stand out on his sun darkened skin. He quickly washed the other cheek, smiling broadly when it too had a new beautiful scar, declaring who he was. He looked down at his hand, the ring still clenched there, stayed with him through the night.
Who I am. Who I will be.
"Torian!" Corridan yelled through the flap of the tent, his voice threatening.
"Coming!" he jumped up, stopping, sorry he'd moved so fast—if only they had a tincture for all of the other issues he was having—but he was glad he had fallen asleep fully dressed, looking down at his blood stained shirt, quickly throwing it off and grabbing one of Corridan's as he rushed out of the tent, putting the new shirt on as he ran. The shirt was a little big, so he tried to tuck it into his pants, having to slow down from the pain radiating through his body from running.
Corridan slowed down, seeming to understand, and less impatient now that they could see the meeting circle ahead. He walked as quickly as he could through the pain, his eyes widening when he saw all of the people already gathered, the loud noises growing silent as he walked through them to sit where Corridan had pointed—up front. He glanced around, feeling like everyone was looking at him, and then realized he wasn't wrong, they were definitely looking at him.
He sat down quickly, leaning over to Corridan, whispering, "What did I do?"
"Don't be stupid—you didn't do anything," he laughed, looking at Torian, gesturing to his cheeks, "they look great." Torian nodded, and then looked at the platform a few feet away when Corridan gestured there.
The man and woman who had been there with him last night, who helped him, were standing on the platform. The man was wearing ornate armor, bands of gold across his chest, he looked much larger than Torian remembered, and formidable, and a little savage—a small grin playing at his lips when his eyes landed on Torian. The woman was there, and she was wearing complimentary armor in the same colors and design of her husband. She looked like the fiercest, most breathtaking warrior he'd ever seen. She winked at him when she noticed him.
"Why didn't you tell me who they were?" Torian hissed at Corridan, squeezing the ring in his hand.
Corridan looked at him, his eyes lit with amusement, "You didn't need to know."
Torian cursed softly, making Corridan laugh, then whispered, "Don't ever do that again, if I am in the home of the leader of our clan and his wife, I need to know it. I didn't even take my shoes off!"
Corridan reached his arm around Torian, slapping his hand around his shoulder, pulling him closer as he leaned his head down to him, "Okay, if you ever get the osik beat out of you again, and I need to take you to my Aunt and Uncle's home who happen to be the Clan leaders, then I promiseI will make sure you know so you can take your damn shoes off, Torian."
"K'uur, di'kut!" Torian grumbled, breathing through the pain from his sharp movement to pitch Corridan's arm off of him.
"That explains why you have your own private tent," Torian mumbled.
Corridan laughed, muttering, "Why did you think I had my own tent?"
Torian shrugged, not really having thought much about it before. His eyes were drawn to look to the back of the crowd, the sounds bubbling up, as the people parted, allowing someone to pass through.
His eyes went wide when he saw Jogo and the three other boys being led down to the front by their fathers.
"Pare! What's going on Cor?"
"Shh!" Corridan's eyes were nearly popping out of his head, looking at the boys as they walked across the area to stand in front of the clan leader, "Osi'kyr! Torian, you beat the living hell out of them!"
He grabbed Torian's head, smacking his into it, "Oya!"
Torian nodded, rubbing his forehead, completely confused about what was happening here. The crowd was loud, and restless and when he glanced around all of the people were looking at him—all of them seeming to smile, or nod at him.
Everyone went silent when the clan leader spoke, "We have gathered here to handle a clan matter." He walked across the platform to stand in front of the four boys.
"We Mando'ade have a long standing history of brutality, of violence, of victories—we have brought war to every planet we have conquered, we have righted injustices, we have stopped evil, and we raise our hands to the power of our way of life."
"OYA!"
The crowd shouted back as one, "OYA!"
"We carry ourselves with honor—we have built our way of life around the Resol'nare—what it means to be a Mandalorian. The sacred law gives us our purpose, our reason for doing what we do."
The woman spoke then, shouting out, her fist flying up in the air, "Education!"
The crowd shouted back a hearty response, fists raised, "Education!"
She continued to shout out the attributes, punctuating each word with her fist, "Armor! Self-Defense! Our Tribe! Our Language! Our leader!"
Each word was met by equal response from the crowd.
"There is a reason our clans are united, not just here in Clan Ordo, but in the collective, all of the tribes united under Mand'alor's colors—because it is our way of life."
The leader paced across the stage, "We protect our Tribe, we take care of our own. Our knowledge of combat, our abilities that we hone beginning at birth, are never to be turned on our own unless Mand'alor orders such."
He stood again in front of the boys and their fathers, "Apart from an order from Mand'alor—to bring harm to another member of our clan isduraanir, raising their hand against a vod, raises their hand against the clan as a whole. Striking another clan member goes against everything we strive to uphold as Mando'ade."
"These four boys stand accused of breaking our code, of harming one of our own," his eyes lifted to meet Torian's wide ones, gesturing to him, "Torian, gedet'ye."
He wasn't sure how he did it, how he walked to the platform, how he managed to make the step up to it, and then how he was standing there, completely still, his eyes fixated on his shoes—when everything in him felt like it was going to rattle loose from the nervousness that was threatening to explode.
He heard some muttering, some gasps, people talking about his scars—and he glanced up, looking at Jogo who was staring down at the ground. He couldn't see him very clearly, but from what he could tell he really had done quite a number on him. He tried to temper the smile that threatened to spill out.
"Torian," he jumped when the leader said his name, the crowd laughing lightly, his cheeks flaming red, making the symbols there stand out even brighter, "These four boys stand accused of attacking you, of harming you with the intent of marring your person as well as your character. They stand accused of willfully bringing harm to you." The leader came behind him, turning is body to point Torian to the boys, who were staring at him now—not with the looks he expected, as he thought there would be anger or maybe hatred in their eyes, but that's not what he saw. He couldn't be sure what he was reading in their eyes, but it looked almost like remorse.
"What is your plea?"
The boy's fathers all stepped forward, standing in front of their sons. Torian felt his mouth go dry, knowing that a father could take the place of their child for punishment, and wondered if that was what these fathers were going to do. Jogo's father moved forward of the others, seeming to speak for all of them, "We present our sons as adults to you, they each have passed their verd'goten and now are accepted into our Clan as Mando'ade."
The fathers all stepped back to stand behind their son's again, the boys, all moving nervously.
The man nodded, "So it shall be," then looked down at the boys, "Your plea?"
Jogo stepped forward, as the eldest of the boys, bowing slightly, "Guilty." Jogo looked up at Torian, his eyes seemingly sincere, "As according to our tradition, we present ourselves before the offended Clan for their punishment."
The crowd rustled, a few shouts of rather rude words filling the air, before the leader stopped them with a look.
The leader nodded, turning to Torian, going down on his knee so he was eye to eye with Torian, "Do you know what the penalty is for what these boys have done?"
Torian swallowed the lump in his throat, his hands clasped together behind him, twisting the ring in his hands, "I do."
Torian hadn't been taught a whole lot about the traditions and such of the Clans, but other children had whispered things, and he knew that there were only a few punishments for something that breached so far out of the lines like what these boys did. Death. Banishment. Darmanda. Those were the worse he'd heard, and his stomach dropped thinking about them.
"Do you also know that because these actions were directed at your person, that you have the final say in their punishment?"
Torian studied the leader's eyes, then glanced to look at the four boys, then back to him, nodding.
The leader gestured his arm toward the boys, indicating for Torian to step forward. Torian moved forward a few steps, staring at the boys—they didn't look so much different than him, not like the monsters they were in the forest—here they were small, even weak looking, broken, and afraid. He understood those feelings.
He turned back to the leader, moving to him, the stones in the ring digging into his palm, whispering as quietly as he could, "They are just children."
"No, Torian—they are not just children. All four of those boys completed their verd'goten. They are adults now. They acted as adults when they attacked you. It is indefensible for an adult to hurt an adiik."
Torian nodded, his eyes drifting back to Jogo, then back to meet the leader's, "They are dishonored now."
The leader nodded, "Yes."
"Nothing is worse than that…" Torian shuddered knowing the truth of what he was saying too well, too familiarly, his eyes clenching as the felt the truth wash through him, "death can be a mercy."
The leader closed his eyes for a moment, then reached out, his hand folding around Torian's clenched one, "A wise man sees every angle of a situation, he tries to see all of the potential outcomes to his decisions—you are wise to consider every action you could take."
Torian's eyes moved slowly over the crowd around them and then back to the leader's eyes, "A clan is the people." His eyes cast down, the words bubbling up inside of him, "Cadera is still a Clan with only one." He let his eyes raise to see if the leader disliked that, but he seemed to approve, nodding, "—but I have the chance to grow. Losing members—not just today—ends all of their future lines, too."
The leader smiled, "Then you choose what as their punishment?"
Torian's eyes glanced to the four boys again, visibly shaking, one of them was crying audibly, "Can't do anything worse than they have done to themselves." He shrugged.
"Then you leave the punishment to the hands of their own?"
Torian contemplated it, knowing that he was being offered great power, and his hand lifted to touch his scar, then took a deep breath, "I trust you."
The leader nodded, standing up and then putting his hand on Torian's back to draw him forward to the edge of the platform with him. Standing closer to the four boys, he realized they were all shaking and crying now, one of them was actually sobbing, his entire body shaking violently. His father stood behind him, his face hardened, his arms crossed.
"Clan Cadera has spoken," the leader's voice boomed across the crowd and Torian was overwhelmed at the crowd's cheer when it was said, his clan name, "We know that the traditions of our clans sometimes causes each of us to carry a burden that was not our own to carry—and as such, we each need to be mindful to teach each generation of our Clan members to remember one of our guiding tenets- Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la."
The crowd cheered again, the leader speaking louder, "Let us be mindful—ever watchful that we measure each Mando'ade for their own actions—to attempt to leave our prejudice behind."
"It is a challenge to be sure, but these changes start with one small step—Clan Cadera chooses mercy for their brother Clan."
The crowd roared, clapping and whooping, and cheering. Torian's eyes were wide at the response.
Jogo's father stepped forward, walking to stand in front of Torian—kneeling before him, his head bowed, "By my own honor and that of my name, my family and I will serve as cabur to Clan Cadera, may we ever be tomad."
The other fathers stepped forward, kneeling as well, saying the same words—Torian shuffled backwards, not sure what he was supposed to do, and overwhelmed by everything all at once, his knees shaking—when the leader's wife stepped to his side, her hand stopping him from backing up any further, leaning into him, her armor cold on his face as it touched him, she whispered, so softly he could barely hear her over the crowd's noises, "Haat, ijaa, haa'it." She handed him a small slip of paper.
He unfolded the paper, reading it quickly and then nodded, understanding on his face, when she pulled him back again, "feel it, deep inside." Then she pushed him forward gently, the crowd seeming to grow quiet in hopes of hearing whatever he had to say.
He didn't know where it came from, where the courage, or the voice came from-but he would later attribute it to the light that burned in him, like the one the night before but stronger, filling him up and prodding him forward-when he spoke it didn't sound afraid or unsure, it sounded like someone who knew where they were going, what they were going to be, but the words were his own, "As the sole representative of Clan Cadera, I affirm it shall so be," and each of the following words sounded like thunder in the air, "HAAT!", the crowd shouted it back to him, "IJAA!", the crowd responded, "HAA'IT!" and with that the crowd seemed for all intents and purposes to lose their minds completely—slapping their fists against their armor, and shouting words Torian didn't understand. He shook his head, unsure about how all of these formalities were going to lead to anything other than a cause to have a huge feast with lots of drinking.
Jogo's father stood, his hand grabbing Torian's, shaking it firmly, "Thank you, Cadera."
Torian nodded, his eyes looking past the father to Jogo who was still sniffing, his eyes red with tears, his expression seeming to be one of confusion. Torian nodded at him, understanding. None of this made any sense. He nodded back.
Torian winced when the hand slapped his back, turning to see Corridan who leaned over bumping his head into his. Telling him without words how proud he was of him.
"Let's go eat before all the others get there and take all the good stuff!"
Torian nodded, starting to walk away, when he heard the leader call his name—he gestured for Corridan to wait a moment, stepping to the leader who sat in a nearby chair, his eyes level with Torian's.
He pointed to Torian's cheeks, "I like them."
Torian nodded, sincerity lacing his tone, "Thank you."
"You represented your Clan well today, Torian. I don't know where our travels will take us, or when we may talk again—but I want to make sure you know something about today, and every day that you live beyond this…"
Torian stared at the man's eyes, somehow knowing in his heart that this was vital, this was important. No one helped him, there was no one to give him a boost up, and this man, a great and capable leader was willing to give him advice—he was going to remember it.
"The rest of your life, every day should be spent with a distinct goal, Torian. That goal is to live up to the person these symbols say you are. They will be as a banner before an army—speaking boldly to others—you made the decision to make this your identity—now you have to believe it—you have to live it—be it."
"I will," he meant it, he would.
"Good," the leader put his hand on each of his cheeks, pulling him forward and kissing the top of his head, "Make Clan Cadera great again."
The leader stood then, walking off the platform into the crowd around him, Torian's eyes followed him, until he disappeared among all of the people.
"Torian!' he turned looking for Corridan, spotting him off to the side, gesturing him to follow. He made his way to him, slowly, the injuries taking a toll on him.
"You okay?" his friend stopped, letting him catch his breath.
Torian nodded, smiling, starting to walk slowly to the feast, "Cor—I'm gonna make Clan Cadera something to be proud of. Don't know how, don't know when—but I am. Gonna make Clan Cadera great again."
Corridan nodded, "I believe you will, vod."
Notes:
I AM SO SORRY for this chapter, although while I hate it I also ABSOLUTELY LOVE IT!
Though my emotions about this chapter are muddled, what is absolute fact is how much I adore each and every one of YOU! 3
Translations:
aruetii [ah-roo-AY-tee] traitor, foreigner, outsider
Oya manda! [OY-ah-MAN-dah] Expression of Mandalorian solidarity and perpetuity: emotional and assertive.
verd [VAIRD] warrior
kot oya'karir [koht OY-ya-KAR-eer] strength for the hunt
arue'tal [ah-roo-TAHL] traitor's blood
beskar'gam [BES-kar-GAM] armor made of Mandalorian iron
skanah [SKAH-nah] much-hated thing or person
hut'uun [hoo-TOON] coward (worst possible insult)
Nu draar [Noo DRAR] No way. Absolutely not. Never in a million years. Not on your life. (Emphatic disagreement and doubt. Lit: Not never. Mandos use double negatives for emphasis.)
buir [boo-EER] father, mother
gedetir [geh-DET-eer] plead, beg
ik'aad [EE-kad] baby, child under 3
Gev! [gehv] Stop it! Pack it in!
Haar'chak! [HAR-chak] Damn it!
demagolka [deh-mah-GOHL-kah] someone who commits atrocties, a real-life monster, a war criminal - from the notorious Mandalorian scientist of the Old Republic, Demagol, known for his experiments on children, and a figure of hate and dread in the Mando psyche
riduur [REE-door] partner, spouse, husband, wife
mandokar [MAN-doh-KAR] the *right stuff*, the epitome of Mando virtue - a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life
Ret'urcye mhi [ray-TOOR-shay-MEE] Goodbye - lit. *Maybe we'll meet again*
verd'goten [vaird-GOH-ten] name of the traditional rite of passage in Mandalorian culture in which a Mandalorian youth was accepted as an adult-literally warrior birth
osik [OH-sik] dung (impolite)
K'uur, di'kut! [Koor DEE-koot] Shut up, idiot!
Pare! [PAH-ray] Hang on! Wait!
Osi'kyr! [OH-see-KEER] Strong exclamation of surprise
Resol'nare [RAY-sol NAH-ray] Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life
duraanir [doo-RAHN-eer] scorned, held in contempt
dar'manda [dar-MAHN-da] a state of not being Mandalorian - not an outsider, but one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity and his soul - regarded with absolute dread by most traditionall-minded Mando'ade
adiik [AH-deek] child aged 3 to 13
Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la. [Gar Tal-DEEN nee jah-OHn-eesh, gar sa BOO-eer OH-ree-wah-DAHS-la.] *Nobody cares who your father was, only the father you'll be.* (Lit: Bloodline is not important, but you as a father are the most valuable thing.) Mando saying emphasising the importance of a father's role, and that a man is judged more by that than his lineage.
cabur [KAH-boor] guardian, protector
tomad [toh_MAHD] ally
Haat, ijaa, haa'it [Haht-i-JAH-hah-EET] Truth, honor, vision - words used to seal a pact.
Haat [haht] truth
ijaa [i-JAH] honor
haa'it [hah-EET] vision
