[Mandalorians Only] For Those Who Have Fallen

[Sisk_Renelo]

The wind was cold on Mando'yaim. The setting sun cast heat on the assemblage, warm and inviting like an old friend, one who made the world a little better with their presence. A great host was gathered here, on the plains of Aay'han, several kilometers outside Keldabe to the south. Mandalorians of every clan and creed were gathered, in this fitting place, to remember their fallen and their loved ones. Beskar'gam of all colors and designs were evident, but every Mandalorian went without a helmet, and the sheer variety of species was staggering. Humans, Twi'leks, Bothans, Chiss, Rodians, Mon Cal, Kel Dor, and many more were there, once divided, now Mandalorians all. This is what it meant to be Mando, this is what it was to be vode an.

At the head of the group was a forge, custom built for this occasion. It was a work of art, carved from the light stone that composed Mando'yaim's crust, intricate runes that were composed of every Mandalorian's name that had fallen during the campaign covering the smooth surface's every inch. It rose high, the fire inside ever-burning, a memorial to the spirit that burned within every verde, one that would never be extinguished. Several Mandalorian smiths stood around it, each of them with carefully labeled pallets of armor. Mandalorians were a simple people when it came to death. A body wasn't needed, only a piece of armor. Every warrior who had fallen had left a piece of armor so his brothers could remember him, and that armor would today be melted down and reforged, allowing the spirit of the fallen to live on, in weapons and armor that would serve the people.

Sisk stood, his buy'ce clipped to his belt, his armor freshly repaired by his own hand, and repainted a dark red, the color of family. The trim was grey, and Sisk's right arm remained black, a remembrance of where he had served. It would never be repainted, never tarnished, a memento to his vode that had followed him to hell and back. He stood at the head of the assemblage, on a small hill next to the forge, his kama and cape stirring in the wind, his face solemn, yet a hint of joy was in his eyes. Today was a day of mourning, but also of joy, as the fallen had moved on to join the Manda, forever watching, forever living on in the hearts and souls of those left behind.

 

[Silverface]

It had been some time since Coruscant. A month, maybe more. Long enough for the clans to leave the Sith to their own devices, to filter back through space they had conquered but hadn't claimed as their own. What need did they have of those worlds anyway? Populations shell shocked by invasion and war, infrastructures ravaged and destroyed. No point staying to rebuild there, they were not home. The cold, windy moors and hills of Manda'yaim were home to many, and it was there they went.

Echoylir's bones ached as the wind lanced through them. Despite his armour and insulated bodysuit, the wind always cut to the bone. The sun set, bathing the gathering in ambers and reds as he stood in front of the forge. It reminded him of the small, private ceremony he had decades ago when Tiral Bralor, his father, had passed on into the Manda. Bittersweet, really. Fond memories tinged with the pain of loss. Where the Mandalorians unique in this regard? No. Every sentient felt like this once in their lifespan. This was just the aftermath of war. It was the same as it always had been, even for this younger generation of vode. The aged Mandalorian clan leader was here for tradition's sake, and genuine loss. Many warriors he'd known had fallen in the war. Many friends. But tradition played a part. Words, while few, had to be said. He had to say them.

He cleared his throat.

"Vode. Aliit ori'shya tal'din. Bui'tsad ori'shya aliit. Those who died in battle over this campaign are all family. They are brothers, sisters, uncles, fathers, mothers, aunts, grandparents. They have sons, daughters, nephews and nieces. In this moment of aay'han, this single moment, we bear our thoughts for them upon our shoulders, upon our chests. The vode next to you will see how the loss you hold deep inside you affects you and will understand" he paused, turning to look at the metalsmiths behind him.

"Words" he resumes, looking at the gathering "Mean little to our people. Actions speak the loudest, deafening those that witness them. But in this one case I think, you'll allow an old man his few words" adding a wry grin to his weathered features for a moment "The loss you feel within will never leave. It is a chink within you that can never be truly erased. But that is not a weakness. It is there to remind us all that we are all still alive. That we continue to live and to remember those that fell"

"And that small divot in our souls, that memory you cherish of the one you remember, will be what pushes you to live on. Never allow yourself to drown in misery. The fallen would kick your shebs so hard you'd be feeling it all the way to the Manda if you did!" His tone picked up, leaning away from moroseness, to jovial. "They are with every other Mandalorian who has fallen, drinking and cheering us to carry on. Watching us from where-ever the Manda is, with our ancestors all. In death, vode an. In life, vode an"

"Brothers all" he says with finality. Echoylir looked over the gathering, eyes narrowed as he looked into as many faces as he could. Then, looking over his shoulder to the metalsmiths once again, the elderly warrior stood to one side. He was done, there was nothing more to say. It was the same with every ceremony like this. One would speak and impart focus to the gathering, to direct their mourning to the best place, the bittersweet memories of the fallen. In truth, the ceremony was a long way from being done. Warriors were free to step forth and share memories of the fallen with the gathering, good memories of fraternity and bravery.

But who, Echoylir wondered, would step forth first to share?​

 

[ARC2197]

"Vode an," Rohak said, watching the procession. He reminded himself that he could not have been there, in the battle, to maybe prevent the death-even one death of his fellow Mandalorians. "Ner aliit...my family. There are others like me now. Those who are alone in their bloodline. Those who have suffered the loss of a loved one from combat. Today, we stand united, as vode an, no longer fragments wondering where we might fit in the galaxy."

Walking around, his helmet tucked tightly under his arm, Rohak began walking around, talking with several of those who had lost the remainder of their pod-families, introducing himself. Most of them seemed somewhat standoff-ish, though he figured it was because he hadn't proven himself yet to the rest of his people. Perhaps it was his loner past, working on his own for so long, that screamed to his fellow Mandalorians, Don't Trust Me. Rohak, stubborn as he was, continued conversing with those present, from the parents who had lost children, to the youngest ad'ike who had lost their siblings. He was determined, like many others he was sure, that something positive would come out of this.

 

[Arisalin]

Elias listened to the men who spoke. They all took great care in how they put their feelings to words in a powerful manner that portrayed the honor, duty, and bravery that the Mandalorians who had fallen had held aloft to the very end. He watched the emotions of his brothers and sisters spill out in aay'han. Bittersweet. His armor was still the black of the Protectors, the great honor he felt from serving in such a cause engrained into this. He had seen many men who he had known repaint their armor, but he still saw it as what it was when he had completed his blooding, and entered the room for the ceremony. The Protectors were his family. He honored them with his armor just as he honored the dead with his presence at this time.

Elias did not speak much, but went from one family who had lost someone to the next, clasping arms with some, saluting others, and whispering kind words to the young children, some barely understanding what had happened. He couldn't bring himself to say anything great, so he said what he felt was true. They had died for the greatest cause imaginable.

 

[Ijaa]

Ijaa stood with all the other mando'ade, jaw clenched, as he remembered the death of his father, and most of his fathers clan. He recited each of their names every morning, a Mandalorian tradition that had lasted thousands of years.

Aay'haan was a word used many times that night. It was such a complex word, from a simple people. It was a rare occurance when any aruettii fully understood it. It meant that any time you had a laugh at a good joke, or a great time at the bar with old friends, there would be that pain in your mind and in your heart. But it also meant, that any time you were down you needed to remember that, had they been there, the dead would have made you carry on.

He stared at the flames, unblinking and breathing slowly, lost in thought. Fire was a good way to describe the mando culture, but not perfect. A fire always burnt out. Mandalore never would.

 

[Ender]

It was done, Clan Marren had come full circle. With the death of Ruusan Marren at his hands, he had purged the last of the treachery from Clan Marren's halls. He could still feel the pommel of his sword in his hand, the slight hum of the vibrations. The sickening sound of sword piercing flesh and bone. The defeated look in Ruusan's eyes. It disgusted him, having to kill his sister, and filled him with pride, having killed the traitor. He both rejoiced in her death and mourned her passing. As it should be.

He raised a hand, which contained a glass of tiihaar, and spoke. "The Protectors were the first to welcome me back to the Clans, you know, after making sure I wasn't here to attack Mandalore," he chuckled, joined by a few others. "Our family is the greatest in the Galaxy. Even after living in self proclaimed exile for so long, fighting like an honorless di'kut for so long. They took me back with cin vhetin. A clean slate, a fresh start. And just look at me now." he drew his new sword with his off hand. "This here is a war trophy, taken from the last honorless hutuun from Clan Marren. My own sister, who refused to seek redemption, died by my own sword!" he brandished it high above his head. Tahl bal Beskar. "A fine sword, crafted by a fine craftsman! It was made for a woman who would lose her honor and pay for it in her blood!" he began walking, his voice full of pride. "I have rejoined the my family, my people!" he turned to Sisk and bowed. "And I thank the Protectors and," he turned to Echoylir "A'lor be'Bralor. For guiding me back to the clans." he gracefully re-sheathed his sword and downed the last of his tiihaar. "Kandosii!"​

 

[T.J]

The wind was cold. It bit and snapped at the flesh with every opportunity. The twinge Delmon felt on his exposed face only amplified what he felt in his chest. The forge before him was literally covered in names. So many fallen brothers and sisters, and for what? Worlds they could not claim? A war that had not been of their own choosing? It left a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought because it had been necessary. The Sith had held them all by the throat, whether anyone wanted to admit it or not.

Now that the war had ended he knew it only be a matter of time before they turned their sights elsewhere. It was the natural order of things, once prey had been caught a predators natural action would be to seek out another target. The Sith and their imperium would find and crush anything that opposed them, including their once allies. But, today was not the day for such thoughts.

Physically shaking his head and rubbing his eyes with his free hand Delmon listened intently to the speeches each fellow Mandalorian had to say. The scene before him was quite reminiscent of the ceremony held for his late father. He had only been just a boy, no more than seven years old; but the memory would be forever burned in his mind like the funeral pyre that had lit up the jungle sky that night so long ago. The scar that adorned his chest beneath his armor ached at the thought, it was a memento to that terrible night and a reminder to never let his guard falter.

He would continue to listen, being content on merely participating. The stories of his clan would fall on deaf ears anyway. Being that he was the first to have left in quite some time, he doubted anyone had even heard of clan Skyblade.

 

[Silver Cutlass]

Lyon looked around him, at his fellow Mando'ade gathered around for the ceremony. The wind was cold, the sun was setting, and there was an aura around the whole thing, an aura that could be described with one word: bittersweet. The war was won. Coruscant had been taken from the Alliance by the Sith and the Mandalorians, and the Jedi were running away. For most Mandalorians, this celebration was jubilant, one of victory. Lyon knew that few others felt as the way he did. Millions of his people died, and for what? To give away the throne of the galaxy to psychopathic mad-men, who with no one to fight now, would undoubtedly find someone else to pick one with.

This day, at least for Lyon, marked remembrance of all those Mandalorians who died in vane, at the petty whims of the Sith Lords to take their throne on Coruscant. Millions, Billions, possibly even Trillions of Mandalorians died to take the galaxy for the Sith, and what happened? The Sith got an Empire, and the Mandalorians were down countless men and women. They were weakened, and if the Sith got even more power hungry, there was no doubt who they would go after next.

Regardless, these men all died in combat, and had earned their remembrance. Lyon stepped forward once a silence came over the crowd, and hugging his buy'ce tightly under his arm, he spoke. "Ner tat. Today is a bittersweet day. Today we remember the countless of our own who died in combat against the Alliance, but yet, today we celebrate their induction to the Manda, and are now watching us from above, to see what we make of ourselves." Lyon swallowed, and looked about his brothers. "These are dark times in the galaxy. The war has been won, but do remember this: the fighting is far from over. We must not allow our fallen brothers to have their sacrifice be taken in vane, we must honor them. Vode An! With those few words, Lyon took another step back and thought over what would come of the Mandalorians, as the ceremony went on.

 

[batumshakalaka]

Graves watched watched the ceremony with a heavy heart. He stood a ways off from the crowd ever watchful, ever protecting, always alone. It wasn't that he felt distanced from his vode. Quite the opposite, he knew he was accepted and knew he could stand alone. It was a warm feeling on a sad cold day.

Graves rolled himself a smoke, fighting to light it in the strong wind. His eyes stung and watered from the smoke blowing from his cigarette. Was it really the smoke though? He felt that he could have done more to help the war effort. But he had done everything he could, captaining a ship didn't have to immediate acknowledgement as a true firefight. But he supposed, in the end he had done what was asked of him. What more could he do?

Graves watched as vode greeted, and passed on condolences. There was no mando he wanted to search out, no one he felt needed condolences. But for once, he felt he had something to say. He walked through the crowd with such purpose that the mourning vode stepped aside for him. When he reached the forge he didn't bother to climb it, he stood on the same level as all of the other mandolorains.

"My name is Wallace Graves." He said, raising his voice to a near booming tone. "I have not been a mandolorain as long as many of you and could never hope to be so lucky. This was my first war, my first chance to prove myself. I will let you all be the judge of me, but I will be the judge of all of you on this day, for this brief time. And I judge you all to be true mandolorians! We stand here today missing our vode. But they will not be forgotten! We will celebrate their lives with the eternal strength of the mandolorian clans."

With that Graves, walked back off by himself. He felt foolish for speaking the words that had come over him. He should have held his tongue, should have stayed to the outskirts. But these were his vode and he had wanted to share his thoughts with them.

 

[Sisk_Renelo]

Sisk stood quietly as he listened to the others speak. As each of them finished, he nodded quietly to them in appreciation. It expressed what they all felt, sorrow, mixed with joy. Although their brothers and sisters were gone, they would see them again. The multitude in front of him spoke to the shared perseverance of his people, and the resolve that they had to carry on.

After several minutes of silence, Sisk finally spoke. His voice was deep and powerful, carrying to the ears of all present. "We are warriors." This simple statement encompassed all Mandalorians, from the youngest ge'verde to the most hardened Alor. "Warriors fall. Warriors die on distant battlefields. This is a truth we have all come to accept. But that doesn't make it any easier to see your vode expire in your arms." He was speaking from the heart, allowing his emotion and passion to bleed into his words. "But weep not, for they died as they lived. As warriors and brothers. Grieve for them for a time, but honor them in your memory. Use their sacrifices to fuel your own drive, the memories of their voices and their skill to push you to greater strength." Sisk's mind was racing, remembering al of his own that he had lost. He recited their names every day, and the list drew ever longer.

"Every brother who has fallen has left behind a memory, every one if them has touched our lives. But it is not for them that we gather today, it is for us. It is so that we can come together as a people, mourn our losses, and look to the future." His hand delved into his belt, an withdrew a small piece of armor, a broken piece of a fallen Protector's chest piece. It had been all that was recoverable, but it was enough. "The heart of Mando'yaim lives on, the the fire that forges us burns ever brighter." He raised the fragment high, and it caught the dim light, an inner flow seeming to emanate from the piece.

Sisk walked to the forge, and one of the smith's pulled the heavy door open, exposing the fire inside. With a deep breath, Sisk spoke once again, raising his voice so that all could hear. "Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la." (Not gone, merely marching far away.) With this, Sisk cast the armor into the fire.

 

[Grimlock]

Standing to the rear of the gathering with his armor newly repainted purple with red trim and a black slash across the top of his buy'ce, Dex watched the ceremony. Though they had no bodies to put in the fire, it still stuck out as odd to him that they were eve having it. It was the first he had seen in his 27 years of life. The Strill, Jorbe glanced up at his master giving a small whine as though he knew what was happening. Saying nothing as he listened to the others give their speeches including his own Aliit'alor, Dex nodded as each finished. As Sisk, the Sol'yc Cabur made his points about losing vode in your arms, a distant memory of too many of his companions falling in the different wars. Watching still as the shattered Protector chest plate was produced, Dex inhaled sharply, which drew a look from a nearby Chiss who only nodded his understanding as he saw the black slash across the cradled buy'ce.

The shattered plate was placed in the forge and it was done. Though Dex shed no visible tears, the young warrior wept within himself. Jorbe lifted his maw and let loose a long heartbroken howl, drawing more looks from the surrounding warriors. Some had tears dripping down their faces while others held a gauntleted hand over their mouths. There was no shame in tears on this day and Dex knew it to his core. Finally the long howl from Jorbe finally waned and he rested his head against Dex's thigh plate.