| Location | Naboo, mid rim
Failure was a bitter acquaintance upon a storied road, a life worth living filled with hardship and triumphs in equal measure. Over time, the Morellian had learned the truth: that nothing worth remembering was without risk; that victory was meaningless without the threat of failure, minor as some consequences may seem. Sometimes, failure was just another step in the road; at other times, it was the destination. It was his duty to make sure that those steps meant something more than defeat, to look upon the failure and gather a sliver of knowledge, so that he might look upon the road ahead and better understand the steps that followed.
Even now, surrounded by those he did not know and armoured figures that flittered between the visage of treasured memories and the confounding present, those lessons provided a cold comfort, a pillar of logic to grasp in a place that made little sense to him.
To use the mantra of the Resol'nare had seemed a simple choice, the words as easy to recollect as it was to breathe. A lifetime built on those six actions had a way of ingraining itself. Yet, when the time came, and he looked upon those tenants, prepared to defend himself from the threats beyond, his mind faltered.
Itzhal knew, as instinctively as he did how to breathe, that the resol'nare would not work—uncovering the why took longer.
The Canons of Honour, ancient as they were and filled with the knowledge and wisdom of his people, provided no help to the matter, a list of tenets and commandments that few truly remembered. An impersonal collection, reduced to little more than guidelines, their rules and codes, cherry-picked by those who wished to be Mandalorian, regardless of how varied their people had become. There was no wisdom to be found in the past, no answer to be gleaned by a greater whole, for in truth, the only one who could know was himself.
Six Actions.
To wear the armour of his people.
To speak the language of his people.
To defend himself and his people, those he would call kin.
To share his knowledge with those he would call kin.
To contribute to his clan, those bound by both blood and bonds.
To answer the call of the Mand'alor.
Those were the ideals he'd intended to build the brick and mortar from, crucial pieces in the wall that would shield his mind from those who would dare to breach it. A foundation that until now he'd believed settled, only noticed when the structure crumbled beneath his poorly placed words.
The First Action. To wear the armour of his people was a command that left him vaguely amused to consider, unarmoured as he was in the moment, protected from the past by layers of flowing material and soft textures that pressed against his skin like a warm hug. He knew some of his people considered the tenant inviolable, their entire lives sealed beneath a shell of beskar, never to be removed in the presence of others, or even where the risk of another presence existed. Their understanding of the code was not one he would deride, for all that he acknowledged it was not his. When he needed it, his Beskar'gam would be the shield that stood against any threat.
The Second Action. To speak the language of his people was a simple tenet to interpret, created to ensure that his people would always possess at least one connection, a singular bond that could be discovered with only a few words. Despite that, Itzhal did not consider speaking the language entirely necessary; he'd known several races that could not accurately speak Mando'a, though he did acknowledge that many of them had understood it regardless. In that regard, it was supplementary, a way of passing on their culture, and perhaps in that regard, the best, considering how many other cultures had failed to translate to Basic.
The Third Action. To defend himself and his people, those he would call kin. Easy, understandable, and without a doubt, the one action that he'd failed utterly at. His people were gone, reduced to ashes and the remnants of turbolasters. Those who remained, the people he caught in the side of his eye, or like Veyla, who sat before him, were descendants, survivors and replacements, so deeply intertwined that he could not tell where his failure lingered, only that their survival had nothing to do with his 'defence'. Alone, unaltered, the commandment would only be another gap in his protection.
The Fourth Action. To share his knowledge with those he would call kin, he had failed, not because it was something he did not desire, but simply because he'd estranged himself, hidden away, unable to provide wisdom that others would likely benefit from. A mistake. One he would need to fix in the future.
The Fifth Action. To contribute to his clan, those bound by both blood and bonds. How did one contribute to the ashes? Did he stand in the fields of failure, a single pillar still standing and consider that contribution? Did he hunt down every remnant of their killers, scourge their existence from the stars until the restless souls of his people found peace? Was that even possible when the task seemed completed, done while he'd been gone, locked away, only to awaken to a Galaxy he did not recognise? So many questions. He wondered whether the ghosts had answers; perhaps they did, maybe he was deaf to their screams.
The Sixth Action. To answer the call of the Mand'alor. He had, and he would again, but he was not blind; he was not ignorant of the orders given to him. There may be honour and stability in following orders, but Itzhal would not follow that which he did not believe in. Those who would lead their people would be worthy, or they would not be followed, regardless of what title they claimed. Itzhal followed his Mand'alor. That would not necessarily always be who the Galaxy believed held claim to the title.
With a snort of bitter amusement that escaped him, Itzhal reflected that maybe he was a poor Mandalorian or maybe the contradictions were just what made him who he was.
Creating his shield, however, was no closer despite the thoughts now splayed across the floor of his mind. The wrinkles around the corners of his eyes tightened in concentration, his eyelids drooped in thought as the world around him grew quiet and dark.
An oath sworn months ago, tumbled its way from the depths.
There is evil in this Galaxy, and my purpose is to face it.
He thought then of those stumbling steps, the moment where he had found himself alone, abandoned to machinery covered in rust and a cavern that had once been a chamber, forgotten by a changing Galaxy and forced to brave the unknown across sweeping vistas and systems plagued with the suffering and hopelessness of crime and the relentless onslaught of war. Yes, there was evil in this Galaxy.
He had declared the Alliance hobbled at the time, injured but in the eyes of many, only a matter of time before it rose again. Its collapse inconceivable to those who had not seen worse. Now, another 'pillar' of hope had crumbled, its territories splayed across the Galaxy, a feast for the bloody scavengers that loomed.
One day, when people look upon my efforts, they will see the path paved with every soul saved and future provided for because I will not leave this Galaxy in ruins; I will not leave it burning in the shape of some forsaken claim to gods or blood feuds, or whatever excuse those who would desire death may claim. No. I will leave it behind better than when I arrived.
Alone with his thoughts, with memories of words that he had struggled to match, Itzhal considered what he'd accomplished and the people that had sheltered under his aegis. A single man, no matter how strong, however, could not shield the Galaxy from its many woes. It had been why, when the call for assistance had gone out, Itzhal had stepped forward, an oath upon his lips and a promise to help.
Even then, he knew failure would be inevitable. It always was, but that did not mean the end, not as long as he was willing to make something of the stumbling steps.
"My Oath is simple," Itzhal declared, his voice harsh against the wind that had gathered. "It is to be better. To be the armour to those who are innocent, to find evil in this Galaxy and face it, to lift those who would stand beside me and those who would need it."
"And I will fail," he whispered, the admission a secret shared between those who would make their own vows. Blue eyes, cold as ice, stared across the other visors and the armour that marked each of them. "Evil will strike, and I will not be there. Innocents will suffer, and I will not be there."
His buy'ce was turned towards himself, the darkened visor quiet in its judgement.
"But I will arrive, regardless. I cannot save everyone. This is the consequence of such a vow, to know I will never be perfect, to know that it is insurmountable, and yet I will leash myself to it regardless because I believe in trying. And if I cannot bring hope to those I have failed, then I will do my best to bring them Justice."
"You know my face; you know my armour. There is nowhere I can hide from that which I have promised. I am Itzhal of Clan Volkihar, and this is my vow."
It was not a mantra. Too long; too many justifications, explanations for those who had needed to hear and understand.
I stand strong against the darkness, a shield for the vulnerable.
My failures many, I rise to embrace them.
With every step upon this road, I strive.
"I may have something, a start at least," Itzhal admitted to Veyla, his voice hushed with deep thought.
