Translation guide from Mando'a:

beskar'gam = "armor" (don't worry I won't use this every time)
braala = "hero"
Kom'rk = "Gauntlet"
Mand'alor = "sole ruler"
oriya = "city"
Ruug'verda = "Ancestors." Literally means "old warriors" but is more commonly used for the former

XXX

Gar Saxon

XXX

Escaping the clamor of the surviving journalists was a miracle. He was almost grateful that Tiber's snarky and domineering personality could be put on full display as he tried to stabilize the situation back at the wreck of the Vaunted Hall. His brother shouted down those from the holonews and the distressed crowd that had gathered. Kryze was escorted away to Sundari Hospital by four full squads; apparently her personal royal guards were nowhere to be seen. Likely defected.

Gar asked for nothing. He wrapped a cloak around himself and left, ignoring the superficial wounds he had seen.

The walk back to his ruddy apartment took hours, but that was fine as he had never considered himself an especially social person; that demeanor had always been Sarri's. Inside, he could feel that even the slightest bit of conversation would make him explode.

Mandalore is at war again. The warrior in him relished at the prospect: what use was a warrior without a fight, after all? It was youthful giddiness, the same when he had first obtained Pre Vizsla's sly offer to join Death Watch.

But the Gar Saxon of the past few years now dominated the idolization of conflict. This isn't what we wanted. We needed the planet to heal, to stabilize again. Kryze took the first steps and I was to complete them. That was what we needed, not a fool's pursuit of a new Mand'alor!

The crystalized perfection of his vision crumbled about him into many shards. All the quiet reinforcements he'd made to himself, to justify both the rights and wrongs he had committed so he could reach the zenith that was viceroy, it meant little now. Yes, he could still very much win the election as Tiber had said, but what would be there after? He would be just as Kryze was now: a hero for a time, but when all of the plagues afflicting Mandalore were not solved overnight, he would be blamed. His reputation would fall and, one day, the people would hate him. Clan Saxon would be smeared once again by the untrustworthy head of Horned Watch.

It's just not fair. It was the younger-self talking, but the current version agreed, too. He had wanted to turn Mandalore into a regional powerhouse, not start from scratch. Then there was the Empire...

He exhaled, somewhat surprised to see his breath. Fall was only just coming to the simulated atmospheric conditions of the oriya, and it was unusual it ever reached this cold even during the winter. But as he saw his breath dissipate, he also saw that, despite the lateness of the hour, people were still talking inanimately in the streets. Above him in the cubic skyscrapers, many more lights than normal were present. Bars and gathering hubs were filled, little screens within showing coverage of the Primir's revolt.

They're trying to quietly disperse them with the cold. He smiled mirthlessly and bundled the cloak around himself more tightly to fight the chill. Would he ever have to do that, if he became viceroy? Was this Tiber or Verideon's suggestion to do it now? To negatively hurt the Mandalorian people now just to stop background chatter filled him with a sense of wrong, and yet...

You were perfectly fine letting those bombs go off, weren't you?

He closed his eyes. His interview at Kellor Refinery, rudely interrupted by blaring klaxons no one understood but him because they were automatic restrictions he had designed. His warrior instincts had kicked in, leading him to ask to be excused from the interview despite having nearly finished. He had been allowed to do so and wandered. No one stopped him; survival instincts had overtaken rules and procedure among the workers. But if he could not leave to see what was going on outside, he would find the internal one.

And there, mingled in with other refinery products, were eight odd canisters that had been hastily printed with the Kellor logo, when canisters like that always came pre-stamped from another factory. Something the workers had ignored as a mild anomaly. But Gar had approached them more closely, unscrewed the tops—

He had gone there to find an honest job. He had originally wanted his campaign to show him a warrior-turned-worker to show he could find other ways to help Mandalore. He had not wanted to uncover a plot, just as he had not wanted to become a braala by rescuing those in the Home for the Graced. But he had, and for a while he had stood there transfixed at the sight of what was meant to kill hundreds of Mandalorian people.

He had not told any of them. He had rewired the central computer to end the refinery lockdown and fled. Why?

He opened his eyes. Who was asking that: younger Gar, older Gar? Both? They knew the answer.

Primir, inadvertently, had been right. Gar did not want to be a hero, but Mandalore needed one. It needed someone it could look up to as the hand of the Empire descended to warp their culture and independence, someone the Mandalorian people could trust to protect them and yet play the unfavorable role of intermediary. It needed someone with a fresher and bolder stance than Kryze, who despite being still so young represented the old guard of distaste for Imperial rule. An incompatible future.

Gar let the bomb go off. The people of Kellor Refinery went up in smoke, adding to the humanitarian disaster and fueling Primir's insurgency. Gar was at the site rescuing people; his moral conscious at play, yes, to absolve himself of the tremendous guilt he faced, but also to take that first unwanted step to being the braala. Just as he now, unwittingly and with extreme disgust, knew that Tiber had been right back in the hall: it was just him and Kryze now. He had taken another step to being what Mandalore wanted.

It had just cost another handful of his people, their lives sinfully taken to chug the wheel of politics.

Some braala. And here I am again, playing along. Mountains of broken bodies beneath the wheel.

Solitude on the sullen walk was what he needed after today. But that did not mean he liked where that took him.

XXX

It was two hours until the sun would rise, but Arcadius was still awake and waiting for him. To his credit, he did not smother Gar with worry or affection; he already had a medkit on hand, swiftly stolen from the inn manager's quarters. He ushered Gar inside, closed the door, and went to work with him on the bed. They exchanged no words outside of asking where further injuries were. Gar had not taken the large man for a medic, but he had also not seen him as an advertiser, either. In fact, Arcadius seemed capable of pretty much anything at this point besides being a warrior.

But Gar found that he trusted him. The pain flared up at times, but overall it gradually dulled. Light peeked through the sealed window by the time the other was done, and at last Gar saw the room's new addition.

"When did it come in?" he asked hoarsely, acutely aware of how thirsty he was.

Arcadius got up from the bed to fetch him a glass of tap. He passed by the vertical crate with a curious glance. "Shortly after Primir and his Kom'rks fled. There was a knock but nobody was there. Suspicious enough for you?"

"I'm surprised you kept it." He rolled off his side to let his legs dangle over the other end. "Did you scan it with anything?"

The man snorted. "My eyes." He returned with the glass of water and Gar drank deeply. It was cold enough to shake him from the grogginess that had become to steal over his body. His own curiosity was going to get the better of him now, though the mystery of the crate and its possible danger still clamored for attention in the back of his head. He sat the empty glass on the floor and stood, wincing as a score along his lower midriff burned cautiously.

Placing his hands against two of his corners, he wobbled it slightly. It stood slightly taller than himself, and was quite heavy. A strong metal exterior encased whatever lied within, an electronic lock with a small red keypad affixed to one of its sides. He silently thanked Arcadius for having the muscle to lug it so efficiently inside, then began to tilt it onto its side. Something shifted slightly within it, but no electronic trigger of a bomb or something breaking. He gently laid it prone upon the floor of the apartment, the keypad facing up at him.

"Opening it up already?" Arcadius asked, leaning near the window.

"You think I shouldn't?"

He shook his head. "Absolutely not, I've been dying to see what's inside to—and that's with the earlier excitement captivating me more than enough."

Gar appreciated his borderline childlike excitement when he felt so heavy the weight of adult responsibility on his shoulders. He cracked a smirk to Arcadius and nodded. "Well, I'm getting to it, aren't I?" But even as he said it he frowned as his fingers neared the red touchpad; how was he meant to open this if he had no passcode? The crate itself was flat and plain, no indication of where it could've come from. For all he knew, he thought again warily, there could simply be a bomb inside from Primir to finish the job.

I'll just have to take a guess. He crouched down and pressed his finger down randomly on the panel. There was a high-pitched beep. Bomb—

The crate unpackaged itself gracefully, each side panel retracting back into the base with a rotary clank. A small gust of steam emitted from the bottom and it was finished.

Arcadius whistled. "I'll be damned."

It was an armor stand bearing a full set of Mandalorian beskar'gam. Gar stared at it, from the bottom of it all the way to the helmet, where he felt his heart freeze. No, not just any armor—his armor. The same set he had worn in the Siege of Mandalore, and lost when he'd surrendered.

It was almost exactly as he had parted with the gear. The first main distinction was on the helmet. The two horns in the back had been erased entirely, a fresh seal of beskar over where they had been. The other two that were positioned above the ears had not been destroyed, but they had lost most of their sharpened texture that identified them as horns. The communication antenna and additional sensors within them were now much more exposed, though they had been given a thin beskar wrap that ended in sharp points.

The exterior had also been repainted to Clan Saxon colors instead of the savage bloody crimson, black, and gold of Maul. A muted red and white were dominant now and carefully painted on, as if by the gentle caress of a lover. Hints of gold on the chest and shoulder pads accented the final product beautifully.

His heart thumped in his chest; tears risked welling up in his eyes. He had thought he'd ever seen this armor again, which had been worn by his grandfather, his great-uncle, his great-great grandfather, and so on. It was the symbol of all his Ruug'verda had done to establish their place as one of Mandalore's most important clans, and its separation from him had been one of the greatest shames of his life.

But it was here, not locked up in Kryze's vault. How had this happened?

"There's a paper note," Arcadius said suddenly. "There, in the neck cavity."

Gar approached the beskar'gam, feeling a bead of sweat come down the side of his head. He was thrilled, but a warrior never stopped being nervous around the unexpected. That lesson Father had etched into him young.

His fingers pulled free the note. On it were two brief sentences:

Because you'll need it.

Because you mean more to me than anything.

Well, that isn't informative. But whatever frustration at the concealed identity of the sender was replaced by a mixture of emotions. The first line sounded like a threat or warning—were they mocking him, or trying to tell him something else?

Then there was the second one. Its message was pure and heartfelt, and then there was a drawn heart at the end. There was no evidence of malign feeling or intent here, instead feeling personal and sincere. It made him feel in a way he had not for a while, not since he'd held—

Ah. Rook. He smiled down at the note. I'm not your type, hmm? Seems like you're having a change of heart.

But then who wrote the first line?

"What did it say?"

He'd almost forgotten about Arcadius, who had thankfully not gotten up to peer over his shoulder. Gar regretfully crumpled the note in his hand as he turned around. "It had the armor's serial ID on it, I guess to confirm to me that this was the one I once wore," he lied. "Although just by looking at it I could tell."

The other whistled again. "The real deal, then. Someone must've gone through a lot of trouble to retrieve that for you. Though why they'd be scared to give it personally is a bit concerning to me. Suppose it's mined to explode when you wear it?"

"I don't think so," Gar said, careful to sound thoughtful when he instead fully believed what he was saying. No, of course Rook and the other benefactor wouldn't want to deliver it when Arcadius would recognize them and the entire planet would now be scouring for the insurgents. Even more, they had not given him this to kill him.

It was to make sure he had a chance. A chance he had denied the workers in the Kellor Refinery, a chance he had risked taking with Verideon's life. Now, undeservedly, he was being given another.

I won't waste it. But I'll do it right this time, I promise.

He sighed. "We need sleep. Today will wait for us a few hours."

"You sure?" Arcadius said hesitantly. "I can almost imagine reporters finding the room number and barging in any second."

"Yes. Because as of today, Primir just ensured all of Mandalore is going to revolve around Kryze and I." He jabbed a thumb at his chest and he sidled into the bed once more. "If I wait, Mandalore waits. If I move, Mandalore moves."

"And if I die, then Mandalore dies. So, let's take it carefully, yes?"

He closed his eyes. He did not pull up the blanket for its weight; he had enough of that already. He embraced sleep the moment it came, the note clutched safely within his hand. It would be the last bit of peace for the indefinite future.

XXX

This marks what can be considered "Part One" to the story. I'll be taking a short break to draft up the next couple sections of the story. Goal is to begin reposting around mid-September.

And finally, allow me to pay my respects to Ray Stevenson, the voice of Gar Saxon. He brought life and color to what could have very much been a flat, one-off character. Instead, he made me find surprising depth and enjoyment in Gar, as I'm sure most of us here did. Cheers, Ray.