Private Erase the Past

[Elian Abrantes]

Mandalore
Sundari-Court Of Iron
Direct: Korda Veydran Aether Verd
Indirect: Isley the Younger
​

The descent into Sundari was nothing like Elian Abrantes remembered from old holos or secondhand stories. Mandalore rose beneath them in hard lines and cold geometry, a city of iron and resolve wrapped in the dull gleam of beskar and storm scarred stone. The Court of Iron loomed at the heart of it all, severe and unyielding, as if the city itself had decided that mercy was a luxury it no longer afforded.

Elian stood still as the ramp lowered, the air sharper here, heavier somehow. It pressed against his lungs and settled into his bones, carrying with it the weight of history, of wars survived and wars never truly finished. This was not a place that welcomed reinvention. It was a place that tested whether you deserved to stand at all.

He had agreed to come after long conversations with Korda and Isley the Younger, words exchanged on Geonosis, and on Naboo, They had spoken of Mandalore as a proving ground, as a place where broken things were reforged, where things broken were discarded and you were reborn in some ways. What Elian got from it, was a potential chance to heal.

In truth, he had come because he was tired.

Tired of carrying the past like a live wire under his skin. Tired of the guilt that flared whenever he allowed himself a moment of stillness. Tired of the anger that followed close behind, sharp and corrosive. Not anger at the galaxy, or at fate, or even at those who had wronged him. He knew better than that.

It was himself he could not escape.

If he could kill the past here, if he could end it cleanly and decisively, perhaps the noise inside him would finally quiet. Perhaps then he could begin again without feeling like a fraud wearing borrowed hope.

Elian turned his head toward Korda, the movement slow and deliberate, and offered a small, genuine smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Thanks, man, for speaking on my behalf," he said quietly, his voice steady despite the tension coiled beneath it. "Is there anything I should know before I meet him?"

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda didn't move immediately when the ramp finished lowering.
He stood with his weight settled evenly through his boots, shoulders squared, letting Sundari present itself in full before stepping forward. The city didn't care who you were or what you'd survived. It only cared whether you could hold your ground.


His armor still bore the faint scars of Yaga Minor, shallow scoring across one pauldron, heat-darkened seams along the edge of his chestplate. Some of the wounds beneath were still healing, pulling tight whenever he breathed too deeply. He ignored it. Pain was just another status report.

He had his helmet off for this.
The brace across his nose was still there, thin and unobtrusive, a reminder of a fight that had ended with him laughing through blood and broken cartilage. When he turned toward Elian, he offered a crooked smile, softer than most people ever got from him and the gap where his right canine used to be showed clearly.

"Don't thank me yet," Korda said quietly. "You haven't met him."
He stepped forward at last, boots striking beskarcrete with a muted finality, then angled slightly so he and Elian stood side by side rather than face to face.
His gaze swept the Court of Iron once, slow and assessing.
"Couple things," he continued, voice low enough that only Elian would hear.


"Don't mention the Diarchy. At all. Ever." A pause. "Don't insult Mandalorians... intentionally or otherwise. That includes jokes, comparisons, or assumptions. If you're not sure whether something counts, it does."

He glanced back at Elian briefly.
"And let me lead unless you're addressed directly."
Another small smile, dry this time.
"You're arriving under my personal banner. That makes this a test of you… and of me. So don't make me regret sticking my neck out."

There was no threat in it. Just fact.
Korda shifted his weight slightly, the movement subtle, protective without being obvious.
"I haven't really met Aether in person much myself," he admitted. "Transmissions during ops, a few passing glances between deployments. Never a proper sit-down."

His eyes narrowed faintly, thoughtful.
"So whatever impression he's got of me? It's been built off reports and outcomes. Same as you."
He exhaled slowly through his nose.

"Just be honest. Don't posture. Don't try to impress anyone. Mandalore can smell that from orbit."
Then he finally looked directly at Elian, steady and grounding.


"And for what it's worth, if you're here to kill your past, this is about as good a place as any."
A beat.
"Let's go."

Aether Verd Elian Abrantes

 

[Aether Verd]

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber​

COURT OF IRON, MANDALORE

The Court of Iron breathed with its usual gravity, a living chamber of judgment and legacy where voices rose and fell in disciplined cadence before the throne. Petitions came and went as they always did, Wardens speaking of border tensions, warriors offering after-action reports from distant fronts, each voice granted space beneath the vaulted ceiling so that Mandalore might remain strong through vigilance rather than complacency. Aether remained seated throughout, composed and immovable, a sovereign presence rather than a spectacle, listening with the patience of a king who understood that endurance was built on attention as much as steel.

The throne room itself stretched vast and deliberate, a cathedral of beskar and memory. A crimson carpet ran unbroken from the towering doors to the foot of the throne, its color deep and intentional, guiding every eye toward the seat of Mandalorian authority. On either side stood Supercommandos in golden beskar'gam, statues made flesh, ceremonial spears grounded beside shields etched with sigils older than most star systems. Along the walls, Mand'alors of ages past watched in silent permanence, their likenesses carved in stone and metal, each ruler preserved not as myth but as reminder of the standards this world demanded.

When the doors opened once more, Aether did not rise, nor did he shift his posture in anticipation. New faces crossed the threshold, unfamiliar at first glance, their presence registering without urgency. It was only as they advanced along the red path that recognition settled, not with surprise but with measured acknowledgment, the beskar'gam of Korda Veydran unmistakable even at a distance. Aether’s gaze lingered there, taking in the marks of experience and survival without commentary, filing the image away as kings often did, quietly and with intent.

Charcoal beskar caught the light as Aether lifted one gauntleted hand, the crimson cloak draped across his shoulders falling into still lines behind him. The motion alone carried authority enough to still the chamber, the petitions yielding to silence as his attention fixed fully upon the pair before him. His voice followed, rich and steady, carrying easily through the Court without force or embellishment.

“Be at peace.” Aether said, his tone warm but unyielding, a welcome shaped by expectation rather than indulgence. “You stand on Mandalore, among your own, and you are heard here.”

His eyes moved between them, assessing without judgment, the faintest edge of curiosity cutting through the calm. "So tell me, what can Mandalore do for you?"

Korda Veydran , Elian Abrantes

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda came to a stop at the edge of the crimson path, the thick carpet muffling the sharp click of his boots. The Court of Iron stretched above him, a cathedral of beskar and shadow, each carved likeness of a Mand'alor seeming to watch silently, weighing his presence with quiet scrutiny. Even the air felt dense, heavy with the legacy of centuries, a subtle pressure against his lungs that reminded him this was no ordinary audience.


He didn't rush forward. Instead, he brought his right fist to the center of his chestplate in a clean, deliberate motion, knuckles striking beskar once, solid and resonant in the hush. The sound echoed faintly, swallowed by the vaulted ceiling but carrying the weight of intent.

A warrior's acknowledgment. No flourish. No excess.
"Mandalore the Iron," Korda said, his voice steady, though the faintest tension threaded it, subtle enough that only someone paying close attention would notice. "Thank you for granting us your time."

He inclined his head just slightly, a gesture respectful without submission, and let his gaze travel briefly across the throne room. The golden-beskar Supercommandos flanking the throne were statuesque, motionless, yet every detail of their posture spoke of lethal precision. Shadows shifted subtly across the crimson carpet and walls, and Korda could feel the weight of the carvings of rulers past pressing against him in silence.


He shifted his weight once, the armor plates emitting a muted creak as they settled. A small, almost imperceptible exhale escaped through his nose, a grounding breath. before he stepped half a pace forward, presenting himself as he should, while keeping Elian at his side. The gesture was instinctive, but the tightness in his shoulders betrayed the quiet awareness of the man he was standing before.

"I'll be direct."
His eyes lifted to meet Aether's steadily, taking in the stillness, the warmth underlaid with unyielding authority. The hall seemed to hush further, as though the Court itself had leaned in to listen.

"Elian Abrantes came here seeking something I cannot give him," Korda said, carefully measured. "He says he wants to erase parts of his past. To set certain things to rest." A brief pause. He shifted his weight again, just enough that the plates at his waist whispered under friction. "I wasn't filled in on all the reasons. That's his story to tell, not mine."


His gaze flicked subtly over Aether's silhouette, the crimson cloak folding in still lines, the gauntleted hand raised, the quiet authority that filled the space like gravity.

"How are you healing after Yaga Minor?" Korda asked, the words deliberate, a soldier checking on another, despite the centuries of history wrapped in the hall around them. His fingers flexed lightly at the seams of his gauntlets as he waited, the smallest sign of nerves tucked beneath layers of training.

He returned to the matter at hand, his jaw tightening just slightly.
"I'm here to formally vouch for him."
Elian shifted closer, silent, trusting, as Korda let his own presence fill the space between throne and path.
"Elian arrives under my personal clan banner. I put my name, my standing, and my record behind him."

Another pause. Korda let it hang, letting the weight of responsibility settle in the air around them like dust in a shaft of light.
"If he dishonors Mandalore, if this turns sideways, if anything bad comes from granting him space here... that falls on me."
He held Aether's gaze, steady but not without effort, the faint twitch of a jaw and the settling of shoulders betraying the tension beneath his composed exterior.


"That's why I brought him myself."

Aether Verd Elian Abrantes

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Korda Veydran Aether Verd
​

Elian drew in a slow breath before speaking, letting the weight of the Court settle rather than resisting it. This was not a place for hurried words or half shaped truths. He stepped forward just enough to be seen clearly, then bowed lightly, a gesture of respect and lifted his gaze again.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mandalore the Iron," Elian said, his voice steady, sincere.

He turned his head then, just slightly, toward Korda. The look he gave him was quiet but solid, gratitude grounded and unembellished. A thank you without spectacle, the kind that acknowledged how much had been risked on his behalf. Elian knew he would not be standing here at all without him, or without Isley the Younger opening doors that could not be forced. He did not linger on it. Some debts were meant to be carried, not spoken.

Facing forward again, Elian straightened, shoulders settling as if he were bracing himself against a truth he had avoided for too long.

"I came because I need assistance," he said plainly. "This is not something I can do at home."

A pause followed, brief but heavy.

"That is where the problems started," Elian continued. "On Naboo." His jaw tightened, then eased as he exhaled through it. "I suffered a great tragedy in my life, and it was my fault. There are those who say it was not. They mean well. But they are wrong."

The admission cost him something. It showed in the way his fingers curled once at his side before relaxing again.

"I cannot face the people who remain," he said quietly. "Not yet. Every place, every familiar face, reminds me of that day.... I carry that with me constantly." His eyes stayed forward, but something dark and restless moved behind them. "I am angry. All the time, at myself."

Elian lifted his chin a fraction, resolve threading through the rawness.

"I do not know what else to do," he admitted. "That is why I came here. I feel like I don't need comfort, but truth. I am hoping that here, I can confront what I have become, instead of letting it hollow me out."

He fell silent then, standing before the Iron Mandalore, having laid down the one thing he could not hide.