Another Way: A Mandalorian Story

Alorir

Alorir – [ah-LOR-eer] - lead

Summary: Din comes into his role as Mand'alor while you try to cope on Nevarro.

Shortly after takeoff, Din retreats to the hull of the ship, in search of some solitude before meeting the other Mandalorians. The door to the cockpit seals behind him, leaving him alone in the dimly lit void. He removes his helmet with a hiss, and a deathly silence fills his ears, broken only by his heavy breaths. He is no stranger to silence, but in this moment, he feels how incredibly lonely it is.

Looking around the room, the troop cabin, his eyes are immediately drawn to markings etched onto the ship's interior walls. Hundreds upon hundreds on markings - letters and numbers that he quickly identifies as operating numbers, likely scratched by bored troopers of days passed. He runs his hands across them while reading. TK-331, TK-421, LS-489... The higher the number, the lower the rank - countless nameless, faceless pawns in an excruciating game of geopolitical chess.

How many died under the illusion that they were fighting for peace and stability? Or worse – how many died for a cause, a leader, they truly didn't believe in?

The silence is suddenly filled with a noise inside his head, a voice that seems to taunt him, coming from his insecurities, his sadness, his loneliness, his aching heart.

How could you do this to them? They don't want to fight. How could you do this to her? To your child?

Din promised you peace, stability – the same things the Emperor promised all his followers – but would it ever be possible for you to know those things? Especially if he died? And a daughter, growing without a father – what would this do to her?

He wishes you were here, to calm his wandering mind. What would you even say?

"Tell me what's wrong," he images you'd prod, coming behind him and wrapping your arms around him, holding him close.

"I'm afraid," he'd admit, words he could only speak to you, his secret safe.

"There's nothing wrong with being afraid."

He'd chuckle, looking down as he remembers the words he heard as a young man. "My buir once said something very similar."

"Then it must be true."

"And yet it doesn't make me feel any better."

"Hm." You'd unwrap yourself. "Then I must not be doing my job right." You'd walk away, thinking of something to say, and he'd watch, waiting for your words. You always know what to say. Turning back to him, you'd ask, "Tell me, Din, which weapon in your arsenal do you think is the most powerful?"

A laugh would escape his lips, knowing it's a question without a true answer. It would depend on the situation, the target, a multitude of other factors. "It's impossible to say."

You'd slowly approach him, your lips pursed, a sly look on your face. "Perhaps it's the one you don't even know is there."

Unsurprisingly, he would be confused. He knows the weapons locker better than the back of his hand. What weapon are you talking about? "I...don't follow."

"Your fear, riduur. When you accept and embrace your fear, you can turn it into a weapon that no one else can use. Overcome it. Use it to blast through all your insecurities and be the Mand'alor I know you can be."

Fear...sometimes it can save your life.

The words of his buir echo loudly, so much so that he turns around, expecting to see him standing there. Instead, he is met with nothing. Not him, not you. Nothing but empty seats. Yet he feels your presence, and it stokes a fire in him.