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.

 

[Aether Verd]

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber​

COURT OF IRON, MANDALORE

The strike of Korda’s fist against beskar rang clean through the chamber, a sound that did not disrupt the Court so much as join it. Aether received it without hesitation, lifting his dominant hand and bringing his gauntlet to his own breastplate in answer, iron meeting iron in a gesture older than the throne itself. No smile crossed his lips, yet there was approval in the motion, a shared language spoken between warriors who understood what it meant to stake their name on another.

He listened without interruption, gaze steady beneath the helm as Korda spoke of banners, of risk, of responsibility accepted without flinching. When the surname Abrantes was spoken, Aether’s brows rose subtly within the shadows of his visor. The name was not unknown to him. Sibylla Abrantes , ambassador and voice of another realm, had stood in halls of diplomacy with iron in her spine and clarity in her speech. The connection did not escape him, though he let it pass without comment, filed away for later consideration rather than immediate display.

At the question of Yaga Minor, Aether inclined his head slightly, the crimson cloak shifting in quiet folds behind him. “I have recovered well.” he replied, his voice calm and resonant, carrying through the Court without strain. “Your concern does you credit, Korda Veydran. The fires of Yaga Minor did not claim what they sought.”

His gaze sharpened faintly, the warmth never fully leaving it. “And you? Your comrades? I have read the reports, but parchment does not breathe.” He held the warrior’s eyes. “If any of you stand in need, speak it. Mandalore will provide.”

There was no flourish in the offer, only certainty.

When Korda declared that Elian Abrantes would stand beneath the banner of Clan Veydran, that his own name and record were placed upon the line, Aether’s attention shifted fully to the younger man. He did not interrupt, nor did he rush the confession that followed. He watched instead, measuring not the tremor in a voice or the tightening of a jaw, but the willingness to speak truth in a hall that devoured pretense.

At the end of it, a breath left Aether’s lungs, low and unforced. It was not dismissal. It was recognition.

Slowly, deliberately, Mand’alor the Iron rose from his throne.

The movement altered the room. The Supercommandos remained statues of gold, the carved Mand’alors silent in their eternal vigil, yet the center of gravity had shifted. Aether descended the steps of the dais with unhurried purpose until he stood before Elian Abrantes, close enough that the young man could feel the presence of iron and heat and history without barrier.

He placed one gauntleted hand upon each of Elian’s shoulders, firm and steady, not crushing, not indulgent.

“Mandalore does not offer comfort.” Aether said, his voice lower now, meant for the man before him though it carried to the furthest corners of the Court. “It offers the Resol’nare. And that alone is sufficient.”

His grip remained even, grounding rather than restraining. “If you stand beneath the banner of Clan Veydran and accept the Resol’nare, you will be forged. You will be taught to fight, yes. You will be taught to live with the certainty of iron, to strengthen yourself until you can look your past in the eye without flinching.”

The crimson cloak stirred faintly as he continued. “But understand this. The Six Actions do not end when your ghosts fall silent. They do not dissolve when anger fades. If you choose the Way of Mandalore, you bind yourself to it in life and beyond it. It is a vow that endures. A vow that will carry your soul to the Manda when your body fails, to stand among the ancestors who built this world in fire and blood.”

His hands tightened slightly, a measured squeeze that spoke of both challenge and protection. “This is not an escape. It is not a hiding place. It is a becoming.”

He held Elian’s gaze through the helm, unblinking, unwavering.

“What say you?”

Elian Abrantes , Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda did not move when Mand'alor the Iron rose.
He simply shifted half a step back, granting space without being told, placing himself just behind and to the side of Elian, close enough to be present, far enough not to intrude. His armor settled with a muted sound as he adjusted, shoulders squaring on instinct, spine straightening beneath plates that still pulled faintly at healing wounds.


The Court seemed to contract around Aether's movement.
Even the air felt different.


Korda kept his hands relaxed at his sides, fingers loosely curled near the seams of his gauntlets as Aether descended the dais. He watched without staring, tracking every deliberate step, every measured breath. The Supercommandos did not shift, but Korda felt their attention sharpen all the same.


When Aether placed his hands on Elian's shoulders, Korda's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Not in defiance.
In recognition.


Mandalore does not offer comfort.
The words landed with familiar weight.
Korda's pupils narrowed slightly as memory rose unbidden, not of this throne room, but of a forge-lit hall decades ago. He was ten again, armor too large for his frame, an elder of his clan resting a scarred hand against his shoulder and speaking nearly the same words.


This is not an escape. It is a becoming.

His breath slowed.
Then Yaga Minor intruded.


Four Mandalorians beside him in the drop. Brothers and sisters whose voices still echoed in his helmet when the nights were too quiet. He remembered the heat, the smoke, the way one of them had gone down without a sound, then seeing one get unloaded into while he was held back by the other two. the one who gave his life so he could make a run for it. He remembered dragging himself out of the kill zone afterward, lungs burning, vision tunneling, realizing too late that he was the only one still breathing.

Barely.

His right hand flexed once at his side, plates whispering softly.
He forced the tension out of his shoulders and steadied himself, gaze fixed forward as Aether spoke of vows, of iron, of the Manda. He felt Elian standing there, felt the weight of responsibility he had willingly taken on settle deeper into his chest.


This was what it meant to vouch for someone.
To stand quiet while they were tested.
Under his breath, too soft to carry across the Court, Korda murmured a prayer, not for victory, not for mercy.
Just for strength.

"Vheh'laad ori'shyaar. Mirdir ori'buz. Ni kaysh ven'riduur bal ori'shyaar. Ni kaysh ven'kaan bal ori'cuyir. Letu'yc cuun getal. Letu'yc gar kyr'adyc. Letu'yc olar skraan te shuk'la. Ni olar jorhaa'yc te shaap'la. Ni jorhaa'yc te shaap'la'kyr. Jeti'yc bal kaysh. Haal'yc bal ha'tayl. Sharir te shaap'la. Shuk'la te olar. Haar'yc cuun meg ni'shyaar shebs beskar'gam ni solus. Bal ven'gar ori'jagyc, ori'shyaar."

His lips barely moved as the words left him.

He lifted his chin slightly afterward, eyes returning to Elian and Aether, posture composed once more, every line of him signaling the same silent truth:
Whatever Elian chose next, Korda would stand with it.

Aether Verd Elian Abrantes

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Aether Verd Korda Veydran Sibylla Abrantes
​

The words lingered in the air between them, heavy with promise and permanence.

Elian felt the gravity of it settle into his chest. The vow was not poetic. It was not symbolic. It was iron. It would shape every step forward and bind every step after that. He had come here seeking strength, not another chain he did not yet understand.

He held Aether's gaze a moment longer, then drew in a measured breath.

"I understand what you are offering," Elian said quietly. There was no defiance in his tone, only clarity. "And I do not take it lightly."

He did not step back from the gauntleted hands on his shoulders, but something in his posture shifted. Not retreat. Reflection.

"I am not ready to bind myself yet." he admitted. The truth came cleanly, without hesitation. "Not because I doubt its strength. But because I still have ties I cannot sever so cleanly."

Naboo flickered in his mind. His family. The weight of a name that carried expectation and history of its own. He was not alone in the galaxy, no matter how much his anger tried to convince him otherwise.

"I still have family," he continued. "Responsibilities that are not yet finished. I came here because I need to restore myself. I cannot abandon who I have been entirely"

His jaw tightened briefly, then eased.

"I would dishonor the Way if I swore it while uncertain," Elian said. "And I will not insult Mandalore by offering half of myself."

He inclined his head slightly, respect intact and unwavering.

"What I am asking is simpler," he went on. "Allow me to remain. To observe. To train. To learn how discipline is forged here. I will make myself useful while I am under your roof. I will work, I will endure and I will listen."

There was no pleading in his voice, only resolve.

"If, in time, I find that I am ready to take the vow fully, then I will stand before you again without hesitation. Until then, I ask for the chance to rebuild without pretending I am something I am not."

He stood steady beneath Aether's presence, neither shrinking nor posturing.

Honesty, at least, he could offer in full.

 

[Aether Verd]

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber​

COURT OF IRON, MANDALORE

Aether did not interrupt.

He listened in stillness as Elian Abrantes spoke, as the young man chose honesty over spectacle, restraint over impulse. The Court remained hushed, gold-armored sentinels unmoving, the carved Mand’alors silent witnesses to another soul standing at the edge of decision. When Elian finished, the Mand’alor inclined his helm in acknowledgment, then gave the man’s shoulders a firm, measured squeeze.

Approval, not indulgence.

“The Six Actions,” Aether began, his voice steady and resonant, “demand that every warrior contributes to the welfare of their family. The home is not abandoned when one takes up the Way of Mandalore. It is fortified.”

His gaze held Elian’s through the visor, unflinching but not unkind. “The responsibilities you carry are not stains upon your readiness. They are proof that you understand consequence. That matters.”

He released one shoulder, though his presence did not diminish. “I understand what you seek. Not escape nor absolution...but rather, structure."

Aether stepped back just enough to regard both men fully, then turned his helm toward Korda Veydran.

“From this moment forward.” he declared, his voice carrying with sovereign clarity through the Court of Iron, “Elian Abrantes is authorized to work, train, and deploy alongside Death Watch as an independent contractor. He stands beneath your banner, Korda Veydran. You will ensure his transition is smooth, his conduct is disciplined, and his integration without friction.”

The decree settled into the chamber like iron set into stone.

Aether returned his attention to Elian. “This is a revolving door.” he said plainly. “Under Korda’s banner, you may remain. Under the contract of Death Watch, you will train, you will learn, you will work, and you will rebuild. You will be compensated for your service. You will earn coin and experience as any mercenary of Mandalore does.”

There was a faint edge of approval in his tone. “You will not be bound to Mandalore beyond your will. You will give your labor, and in return you will receive opportunity.”

He stepped forward once more, closing the remaining space between them, and without ceremony he drew Elian into a brief, firm embrace. It was strong, controlled, the clasp of a ruler who understood that iron did not preclude humanity.

“I hope you find what you are looking for.” Aether said quietly, meant for the man before him rather than the hall beyond. “And if you or Korda have need, ask and it will be done.”

He released him, then folded his arms across his chestplate, crimson cloak settling behind him in disciplined lines.

“One condition.” Aether added, his tone shifting back to command. He looked to Korda first. “You will have him fitted for armor.”

His gaze returned to Elian. “Durasteel of course. In the style of your Clan.”

A faint, knowing intensity entered his voice. “If one day you choose to become Mandalorian, you will earn beskar. Until then, you will rebuild with the heaviness of armor as your second skin. Let it remind you that discipline is not abstract. It is carried. It is worn. It is endured.”

He held the man’s eyes one final time.

“Let that be your first lesson among us.”

Elian Abrantes , Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda did not speak until Aether finished.
When he did, he stepped forward just enough to reclaim his place at Elian's side, not shielding him, but standing with him beneath the weight of the decree.

He brought his fist once more to his chestplate, the strike firm and deliberate.
"It will be done, Mandalore the Iron."
The words were simple. Certain.


He inclined his head, accepting the responsibility without hesitation. The faint tension that had lingered in his shoulders earlier eased, not entirely, but enough. This was structure. This was something solid to stand on.

"I'll have him fitted for durasteel immediately," Korda continued. "In the style of Clan Veydran."
A brief glance toward Elian, then back to Aether.
"He'll carry the weight properly."


There was the faintest hint of something in his eyes, pride, perhaps. not because Elian had chosen the Way, but because he had not rushed into it. That mattered.

Korda straightened slightly.
"With your permission, Mandalore… I would also train him personally."
The Court remained silent, but the request carried cleanly.

"In addition to Death Watch deployment and drills, I wish to instruct him in the doctrine of my clan. Tactical thinking. Battlefield pacing. Resource discipline. Controlled escalation." His jaw shifted subtly. "Lessons that aren't always taught in formation lines."

He paused, careful.
"No disrespect to Death Watch. They forge warriors efficiently. I intend to forge longevity."
A faint tightening at the corners of his eyes betrayed how seriously he meant it.
"If he one day chooses to bind himself to Mandalore, he should understand not only how to fight, but why."

The words settled, measured and intentional.
Korda dipped his head once more.
"You have my gratitude for allowing him to stand beneath my banner."


He hesitated, just slightly, then lifted his gaze again.
"If it pleases you, Mandalore… I would request a moment of your time after this. Briefly."
There was no urgency in it. No tension. Just the quiet weight of something better spoken directly.

Korda stood steady beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Court of Iron, armor scarred, posture unyielding.
Responsibility had been given.
And he had accepted it.

Aether Verd Elian Abrantes