Hello, I became nostalgic for my time here a while ago and saw that I had left a few of my stories unfinished. I plan to restart and finish Subjugator this time, and after that maybe try and finish some other ones as well. In the case of Subjugator, I am reusing some of the existing content and some of the old notes I had, but there are heavy changes to the story and direction it takes now. So in case you're someone who remembers reading the old version, don't worry it's intentionally deja vu.

This story follows the Canon timeline 1 year and six months after the Siege of Mandalore, which was the final arc of the "Clone Wars" TV show. Any Legends information about Mandalore will only be included as necessary to fill in cultural holes and translation guide stems from the Mando'a Dictionary website, as well as some new words I created following its example.

If you'd like to be completely keyed in on peripheral events, I recommend watching the Siege of Mandalore arc, as well as reading the Son of Dathomir comic. When this is finished, certain episodes of "Rebels" will also have greater depth. As I said, this takes place within the Canon timeline and is my interpretation of the overarching history and story of Mandalore within existing events.

I don't own Star Wars.

Translation guide from Mando'a:

be'tal = "Kin" or "of blood." A synonym for clansmen or being part of a clan
beskar'gam = "armor" (don't worry I won't use this every time)
Cabur'alor = "Regent." Literally means "guardian leader."
Laamyc'buir = "Patriarch" or "High Father." The head of the clan, almost always male.
Mand'alor = "sole ruler"
oriya = "city." Specifically those that are domed on Mandalore
Ruug'verda = "Ancestors." Literally means "old warriors" but is more commonly used for the former

XXX

Bo-Katan Kryze

XXX

Sundari was a place of history. Thousands of years ago it had been founded by Mandalore the Dissenter as his new seat of royal power while the original capital, Keldabe, recovered from a recent civil war. After his death the court and the benefits that accompanied it returned to Keldabe, but Sundari did not sink onto decay. It became a cultural site as well as a strategic location to be held whenever jockeying for power occurred. The evidence for those wars dotted the oriya through monuments, closed off historical sites, or the continued residue of wreckage.

Nearly 50 years ago, Keldabe was again ruined by war. Sundari was an easy choice for the royals to move to. The old splendor returned to the brightly lit domed oriya, as did the promise of generations of peace.

How many years would it take for Sundari to heal this time? It was a question that Bo-Katan Kryze, appointed Regent of Mandalore to the Empire and heroic Cabur'alor to her people, had found herself asking more frequently since the start of the current year.

The Clone Wars had seen one of its final campaigns right here on Mandalore only a year-and-a-half ago. The Galactic Republic had come on Kryze's own urging to uproot the so-called ruler of Mandalore, Maul, a miscreant crime lord who had at one time been also placed among the mysterious Order of the Sith. Clones fought alongside Mandalorians against other Mandalorians loyal to Maul and, with the help of a particular Jedi, the battle had been won for Kryze's people. Maul was hauled off by the Republic, the Shadow Collective was dissolved, and his loyalists were either killed in battle or imprisoned.

And Kryze? The answer was in her name: House Kryze, the royal family for the last 150 years. It was her right to rule as Mand'alor, as her father Adonai Kryze had done, and then her older sister Satine—

What would you be doing now if you were still leader? She put the thought out into the void as she gazed out the window. She distantly wondered if Satine had stood at this very spot before, in the master bedroom of Sundari Palace, gazing down at the oriya as it bloomed beneath its protective dome. The view it offered back then must have been impressive, even inspiring. Certainly, Satine's thoughts would've been more positive. Now, Bo-Katan could hardly muster a smile.

Sundari, still blackened from orbital strikes and explosions to its once glorious cubic symmetry, did not return one.

At her desk, the comm channel began to make a two-burst beep: a call from one of her cabinet of aides. She left the window after a moment and glanced at the ID. To her relief, it was someone she did not mind the company of. Her finger brushed the acceptance key. "Yes?"

"I'm glad I caught you before you slept for the night," came the rich and familiar voice in Mando'a. "But I figured I'd avoid a holo call; give you the privacy of your bedroom attire."

"Don't you know I sleep with my beskar'gam on, Primir?"

A booming laugh came from the other end, genuine and pure. "No wonder you always look so stiff when speaking on the assembly floor," he joked back, his voice warmer than wood curling in a fireplace. She couldn't help but smile at his humor; the Laamyc'buir of Clan Wren always had a way of dragging her out of her sullen moods. Without him, she often wondered how she would have had the mental fortitude to continue her regency this long.

His chuckles subsided after some time, and in accordance so did her smile. "What is it?"

"Where to start?" he countered. "Cleitus of Clan Kast announced he was entering the running this morning; that makes seven candidates, not including yourself. We also still have had no luck in getting the repulsorlifts from Celanon, they're apparently being held by the moff there for a project in the system. Then we have…"

His list went on, but Kryze hardly listened. From his first few words, she knew why he was calling. She spent the time formulating a response, seating herself in the comfortable lounge chair.

"… in the next few rotations," he finished, almost sounding bored himself. He exhaled, the static picking it up potently thanks to the distance between Mandalore and Krownest, the moon belonging to Clan Wren. "Thoughts on any of this?"

"Why did Cleitus say he's running?"

She could practically see him waving his hand in dismissal. "It was almost the same as Dromeer and Jaden. 'Mandalore still lies in shambles, the regency should be abolished for its ambivalence, the planet should be closed off to all foreign connection.'"

"But they didn't explicitly say closed off to the Empire."

A pause. "No. Nobody has, and you know nobody will."

"I know. But the first to say it would at least have my respect for not being spineless." She smiled wolfishly for a moment, then sulked again. "Seven other candidates. You mean the Commodore already accepted Cleitus' running?"

"Within the hour," Primir said. "You could say he's almost eager to field as many rivals to you as possible. Or he just doesn't care."

Kryze's hand clenched on the desk. "Or eager to split up votes from me. Split up the people of Mandalore. Why in the hell did the Empire demand an election?"

"Don't waste energy questioning why the Emperor of an Empire would request democracy of us. Instead question what you're going to do to save your campaign."

Bo-Katan looked out the window again. Lights from the oriya were beginning to go out in the residential zones as it got late, few of them in this district as there were. The Peace Park had been one of the landing zones in the siege; consequentially, few other places had sustained as much damage. The escape of nature and architectural marvel had been blasted to dust, leaving Sundari's citizens to ferment their frustrations.

She didn't need Primir to bring up a popularity poll. Her position had been appointed by the Republic and kept as a token of appreciation by the Empire for continued cooperation. Her status as head of both the Nite Owls and resistance to Maul had ensured that the Mandalorian people would accept no one else at the time.

But the Empire had made the amendment of limiting her stay as regent to two years—when it was up, the people would choose a new leader, a viceroy.

Viceroy, not a regent. Even then she could sense the Imperials were seeking to remove her, though she was the only surviving member of House Kryze's royal line. They could see she was strong-headed when they wanted someone malleable. Her rule was meant to rebuild Mandalore, yes, but a long and expensive chore it was. It was not something that could occur with the snap of a finger. Credits for building materials had to come from raised taxes, trade deals had to be offered to enterprising guilds and neighboring systems, curfews had to be enforced to prevent new extremists from meeting.

Mandalore was being rebuilt, as the Empire clearly wanted. But her career was being torn down, as they also desired. She was certain they would not even let her keep her ceremonial title of cabur, even with its suffix removed post-election.

And she was running out of time and options to stop that.

"Have you considered my proposal from five rotations ago?"

He sounded so innocent and naïve despite his age. She knew better. Primir Wren was Laamyc'buir for his clan, twice her age with enough experience and history to make even the most hotblooded of would-be warriors dip their head in respect. His tone betrayed his intent.

"I have. I still dislike it. Strongly."

She imagined his dark brows furrowing. "Your popularity—"

"Is falling, I know," she interjected. "I know. But to do this is… is…"

"Too soon?"

She latched onto the provided excuse. "Yes. I would not let them out without at least five years of rehabilitation. Minimum."

"Yet there remains five months until the election is held. You already know what will happen: the primaries will be split between the seven candidates on house lines, numbing your majority. Some of the other clans will see this and decide to lump behind one candidate, who will offer all the sweet words the people and Imperials want to hear, regardless if they can provide them or not." Another pause, another burst of long-range static, or maybe it was him exhaling heavy into the comm. "You will lose, Bo-Katan Kryze."

Her forehead went down to the desk, her bobbed red hair tickling her face. "Would that be such a bad thing?" she murmured, almost half to herself. "If the polls are saying I'm unpopular, then shouldn't we respect that?"

"I would never!" The anger in his tone surprised her. "As you should not! You are of Clan Kryze, noblest of the Mandalorian clans and the only ones who truly deserve to rule our planet and people as ordained by the Treaty of Clemex 163 years ago! To let that history and prestige be lost to something as novel as a democratic election would be absurd!"

Her lips creased into a frown. "You would reject the results of the election?"

"I respect that with Mandalore so softened up by the siege, we are in no condition to reject what the Empire 'asks' of us," he growled. "And if the idea of democracy was homegrown instead of enforced by them, I would be more accepting. But as it is, we must wage this war. This war of… politics." He snorted. "Our Ruug'verda might weep that we cannot employ our honed weapons and armor on this battlefield, but they will save their tears when they understand this is the only way to protect our heritage."

Kryze raised her head off the table with great effort; all his words had managed to do was make her feel even heavier. "I understand your feelings, Primir. I do. But I can't—"

"Without you, Sundari would still be looking like Keldabe," Primir said sternly. "Without you, the Empire would have taken many more freedoms from Mandalore. Your position has been an unfair one, but you have time and time again proven to be the best for this job. Adonai and Satine would have agreed."

Her throat tightened but she said nothing. Primir went on. "The people don't recognize it because your actions are often twisted and the results slow. They don't all have the benefits of seeing the good that comes from what you've done. With another term, they will see that. Two years has been too short."

"I have little goodwill left with the people," she uttered throatily, then blinked. Had the mention of her father and sister made her that emotional? Or was it just that she felt so defeated already? "A year and a half later and they already forget who led the liberation from Maul. Some even think Mandalore was better under him."

"And that is why you must adhere to my proposal."

She leaned back into the lounge and sat quietly for some time. Primir was likewise quiet save for the occasional tufts of static; he had made his argument, and it was now up to her to accept it as right.

Because she knew he was right. She wanted him so badly to be wrong, but he wasn't. It was the only thing that could salvage her regency with minimal effort.

Kryze looked back out the window. She could imagine Satine standing right there, looking out there. And—

She blinked a tear out her eye. No, she was seeing correctly. Adonai stood a little ways right of her, also peering out to the oriya and people he had always fondly spoken of to his daughters.

There was enough space between them for one more person.

Kryze keyed the comm. "Give the order," she said with only a little hoarseness. "Let them out."

XXX

The Prisoner

XXX

He looked at the carved wall. The shard of glass he had been using to make inscriptions since his imprisonment had finally shattered a week ago. It had been his only sense of artistic pleasure or even activity outside of pacing or working out inside the cell.

He remembered he'd had a vision for it in his first couple days, to give the cell some flavor besides its cubic bed and the blue reinforced glass. A mural? An escape plan? A crude replica of his family crest? Yes, the third; he suspected he would never see home again, and the homesickness had quickly viewed the desire to produce a token to remember them.

He'd appropriately given up finishing it long ago. It was an act of self-inflicted penance, when he had shamed his clan so heavily. He knew his father would approve, at least. Clan Saxon was no doubt grateful he was no longer among their ranks, just as he was grateful he had not finished making the crest so it could not stare down at him to fuel his guilt and hatred.

There was enough of that inside already. It was why the Prisoner had given up on his name as well.

Footsteps echoed down the catwalk. The Prisoner did not look over; it would be either be food and water or Karro Kast, come to mock him. The taunts no longer bothered him with how stale they had become, but Karro enjoyed delivering them anyway from the other side of the transparisteel glass. It probably made him feel powerful, to look down on the former head of the Horned Watch that way.

Or maybe Karro was just as bored out there, looking for some form of entertainment. The Prisoner could almost understand it that way. But he would still etch other little drawings into the wall to vent his fury and frustration; it was not worth flinging himself at the reinforced glass just to get shocked and probably laughed at. There was little dignity in it, either.

But now the glass shard was gone. He could only stare at the wall, trying to avoid seeing the early designs for the Saxon crest, as he suffered the guard's taunting.

The footsteps stopped beside the cell. A name was called out, the one he did not go by anymore.

He started at it all the same. The voice wasn't Karro's, but he still recognized it. He turned sharply "Yes?" the Prisoner asked carefully.

"Your sentence is up. I'll give you a minute to collect your belongings, and then I'll escort you out."

The Prisoner stood up. He had no such belongings, and he could see a small smile on the other's face through the blue glass; they knew that, too. It was their idea of a cruel joke.

Perhaps this whole thing was one. "I have another eight-and-a-half standard years to go before I'm to be allowed on probation," he replied stiffly. "Why am I being let out so early?"

The other shrugged. "Don't know, don't care," they said, dropping the forced etiquette. "You want out or not?"

If it was a joke, it would be the most forbidding of them all. Still, there was no harm in playing along. "L-let me out."

"Good." His rescuer withdrew a card from their left gauntlet and slid it through the cell's control switch; there was a beep followed by the sliding of the cell door.

The Prisoner could see the other without the glow separating them, could fully recognize the man as he had the voice: it belonged to that of his brother. "Why?" the Prisoner asked again, feeling stupid but unable to process anything but this inescapable question.

"Because the Cabur'alor said so," Tiber Saxon said with a shrug. "What more authority do you want? Now let's get out of this grim place, I already have enough nightmares I ended up here instead of you."

He began walking off and the Prisoner tentatively followed, still unsure, still disbelieving. They walked by rows and rows of cells, stacked into columns that went beyond what his eyes could make out. Many were empty, but he could see the beds were unmade or otherwise dirty to reveal recent occupants.

They're going to execute us, and my own brother is going to do it. He hung his head. Not only was the resentment of the clan palpable beyond what he would have ever suspected, but their grudge had lasted just as long.

"You're quiet, Gar. Still not believing what's happening?"

"I understand perfectly," the Prisoner bit out. "And don't call me that, you don't have to insult me."

"Insult you? If I wanted to do that I'd just tell you how awful you look. Less than two years and your hair is graying, you look like you lost forty pounds, and you have this nearly visible cloud of anxiety raining on you." Tiber snorted. "You look twenty years older; you look older than me, and I'm the elder brother here."

"I see your attitude hasn't changed," the Prisoner retorted, some edge coming back. Why'd they have to send Tiber of all clansmen? Of all siblings? Sarri would have been much more preferred.

"First bit of emotion from you in ages I bet," Tiber commented drily. "No matter, though. You'll want to save your energy for Father."

"F-Father?"

"Yes." Tiber stopped before a wideset door; the rows of cells had ended, as was the catwalk. Another Mandalorian behind more blue-reinforced glass gazed at them, but he was helmeted and armored. In the interior he could see a host of controls, screens, and a rack of rifles and batons. He waved a hand of acknowledgment to Tiber. He nodded before half-turning to look over his shoulder at the Prisoner. "You ready to see him?"

He had no response. He looked at the sealed durasteel door, remembered it fervently. He had walked through it twice in his life: once to assassinate an elderly man who he had once called an ally, the other time when he had been led into his cell.

This was real.

Tiber shrugged again. "You're more theatrical than Sarri, and that's saying something." The card slid through the panel. The door opened. The air rushed in. The smell of the oriya filled his nostrils.

He was not in jail, he was outdoors. He was not to be executed, he was to be free. He was not a captive, he was a Mandalorian.

He was not The Prisoner, he was Gar Saxon.