The Wolf
Shogun.
The trek upwards, to the peak- was arduous. But it gave him time to think, to reflect. He had lots of time to think over his choice. It was final, and there was no going back now. He was a failure, on so many levels. He had failed his people, so many times. He had lost the fight to bind them together. They were lead now, by a weakling. By a person who could never unite them. A madness had gripped his people, a plague had set upon them. A plague in which he fell victim to it's fever, to it's rage. And his buir lay dead by his own hand. Slain for nothing more than the fight. Preliat had a slew of victims such as Jasper, victims of his rage, people burned in the fire that consumed his soul. Fields of the dead stood evidence as his passing. Jedi, Sith, Mandalorians, criminals- he could not begin to count those he had stolen the life from. What bothered him was not the carnage he caused, but the indifference he held for so many years about it. He thought it simply as the way things were, a bizarre apathy that did not affect him until his tenure with the Silver Jedi.
They opened his eyes, to the chaos he had caused. To the rage, to the heartache he inflicted from one end of the galaxy to the next. A planet lay desolate and destroyed because of a war he participated in. And he had nothing to show for his time across the galaxy. Nothing. His wife was killed by a similar madness- a victim of circumstance, of simple proximity to him. She died under a pile of ash, alone, scared. He wished her nothing but peace. Her death, was not the end of her suffering- as she suffered in hell, day in, and day out. And his daughter- his daughter fared worse than his wife. He continued to climb, further upwards, the ancient steps gave way to areas that he had to guide himself through. The ancient Mandalorians had not tread here in many years, and he may have been the first in a millennia, at the least.
He wished his daughter had died the same way his wife did. He wished that she had not grown into the monster, the failure that she was now. He felt no pride towards Yasha. He felt no joy, no solace in her succession, her rise to power. He cursed her very existence. He cursed the ground she walked. He considered her nothing now- as far as he was concerned, the demon masquerading as his daughter was nothing more to him than the birds in the sky. She would be like so many other Mandalores- weak, and an ultimate failure. The Veman was evident of her failures as a leader- she could not bind together the Mandalorians, so there were those who sought her throne, her sought to remove her head from her body. If they succeeded, so be it- but there very existence, was evident enough of her failure. All the decent Mandalorians were in Veman. The ones that stayed with the Empire, as weak and pathetic as it was now- he considered cowardly and a spat in the face of the Mando'ade.
But who was he to call a coward, with his intentions here?
Preliat pulled himself to the plateau, wind-swept rock. The wind bit at his face at this altitude, but- it bothered him no more than sands in a desert. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the transponder. It was coded to the Veman's comms. If they came, so be it. If they did not, so be it as well. It mattered little to him. He took a moment, to gaze over the crystal-covered landscape. He thought of all the battles, of all the wars- the crusades, the conquests. The horrors that he endured. That he suffered through. That he lived with. And then, he thought of all the things he had done. Was he any better? The Dark Harvest- was simply an entity. But there were people like him, who consciously made the decision to be vile, to be cruel, to be unflinchingly violent. Everywhere he went, a blood moon rose, and the ground beneath him was cursed.
He took some solace, mentally going over what he left behind before this. The armor went to Silas- he would need it more than him. He did not wish to be buried in that.
If there was to be a funeral at all.
The Silver Jedi, for all the wisdom and epiphanies they gave him- would receive a package at the foot of Silver Rest. Ornately wrapped and delicately packaged was his tomahawk and his knife- the things that plagued the galaxy. That stole the lives of all too many souls. Perhaps they'd wield them for a good cause, no longer the machinations of the Wolf. Or maybe they'd toss them into the Shadowlands, where they would be forgotten by time, consumed by the oily, black shadows of the floor of the forest world. It was up to them to decide. His funds were transferred to the Silver Jedi, the few million credits he had left. He knew they did charitable work. They'd feed a child, or build a home. Something more useful than he ever did.
He took off his cloak, folding it neatly. He laid the transponder atop it, pausing. He needed to confirm with himself that he was going to do it. He looked downward, at a purple-black crystal near him. The reflection of a broken man confirmed his desire, confirmed his belief. It was not that he wanted to stop living. He just wanted the pain to end. And he saw no other ending to it. He saw no light at the end of the tunnel. He saw no way out. There was no escaping it. He was broken. Broken, and pieces were missing. Gone, washed away. He couldn't be put back together, there was nothing to do anymore. There was only one escape. One outcome that was sensible to Preliat, one solution to his never-ending, cascading waterfall of demons and problems.
Every man knew his plague; Preliat's was his past.
Preliat stood tall, feeling the cold breeze on his arms. Through his one biological leg. He stepped close to the edge, and took a deep breath. Through it all, and at the end- he wished he done it all differently. Made a different choice at some point- to not end up where he was. To not become who he had. To not cause all the pain that he did. But he made all the choices, he pulled the trigger and plunged the knife too many times for him not to blame himself. There were no strings on him. There were no hexes in his mind, no witches poison. He was the victim of his own actions. And he could not live with that guilt, live with that shame anymore. His feet veered closer to the edge. He felt sorry, he felt guilty for what he was to do- and he only asked forgiveness from one person, his brother. He did not know if his brother would understand. If he would feel angry, or sad. He did not know how anyone he ever knew would react.
He left a note at his meager home on Mandalore. A shack, really. That no one should blame themselves. That it was nobody's fault but his own. And that it was his choice, and his choice alone. So, he leaned forward, and fell. He began to fall, the winds picking up. He hit terminal velocity at this altitude rather quickly. He closed his eyes. He felt at peace. His body relaxed. He spread his arms out- free falling. His mind, for the last few moments of his life, was at ease. Was finally at rest. No wolves at his door. No demons circling around him. He let go of it all. He let go of his pain, of his suffering, of his guilt, of his turmoil. Of all the heartache and all the memories.
He fell for a matter of moments- gently, as one could. He never felt his body impact. He never felt anything at the end. Preliat, a violent man, a bitter, angry man- found peace at the end of his life.
The winds died down, as if the planet began to mourn the loss of the man on it's surface. There was little blood, Preliat had died from the concussive force. He seemed at peace on the ground, not a broken, mangled mess like the usual suicides. Perhaps it was the universe giving him some respite, perhaps it was the force calming him, granting him his one and only wish for true, internal peace.
Preliat was wrong in his choice. It would devastate those around him, closest to him. It would draw lines, and many would curse his name for his selfishness. There would be only a select few that would understand, would sympathize. A majority would curse him for cowardice, for aversion to life's problems, for not facing facts and dealing with his choices that he made, as any man should. There was no skirting around it- Preliat had ultimately, caused too much pain, in life, and even in death. His memory would not be a great builder. Would not be a leader. It would be a marauder, a savage warrior. A brutal, violent man. And at the end, a violent man, met his end by his own volition. He did not die honorably- what honor was there in suicide, in taking your own life? Preliat saw no hope, no future. That was why he took his own life. Because he saw no other way out. Because life, had been cruel to him- and his response, in turn, was cruelty.
And at the end of it all, he did what he always would do.
He caused suffering, and suffered.
That was his legacy.
