In the old days, long ago, when the Mythosaur still walked Mandalore and the trees stretched high and the grasses flourished high on the plains, there lived a great warrior.
He held his people’s respect and admiration with ease, a warrior without peer.
He led his people with strength, a leader without loss.
There were few who doubted him, few who stood wary.
In time, the Mand’alor of that day passed on, they named no successor. The people looked to him, naturally.
He had a terrible secret.
He was afraid.
Not of becoming Mand’alor, not of leading his troops, not of speaking to his people.
No, he was afraid of the one thing a Mandalorian must face head on.
Death.
He could fight and kill and lead without fear but the inevitable… that he could not stand for.
The idea he would grow weak, would lose his strength and speed. It was unacceptable.
He forgot his lust for life. Dedicated his time not to the great act of living but instead to preventing the inevitable.
He spoke of his fear to no one, dared not tell even his closest companions of his true ambitions.
He did not consult the armorers of his time, afraid they would call his dreams the ambition of a fool, the babbling of a heretic.
No, he could not stand for the fruitlessness of his search.
Instead, he sought out any whisper of a path to immortality.
He met her on a stormy day on a moon outside the Mandalore system.
A witch of Dathomir.
She smiled at his arrival, a cruel thing.
The warrior didn’t care, not when this was his best chance at eternity.
“I am given to understand you wish to live forever Mandalorian.” She stood regal and tall. ”I am also given to understand this is an oddity among your people.” There was a mocking edge to her smile.
“Just tell me what to do.”
She pursed her lips at his interruption. “If that is your wish, do you agree to follow my instructions without question?”
“I do. Haat, Ijaat, Haa’it.” He huffed, impatient for all that he wished for all the time in the galaxy.
“That is a very serious oath, Mandalorian.” She grinned, a predator at the sight of weakness. The warrior, for all his skill, did not take this for the warning it was. “Very well, I will need some things from you. I have not found myself particularly welcome in your home system and I cannot fulfill your wish without preparation.”
He gestured for her to continue.
“A single lock of hair from one who would trust you with their life, the unblemished tip of a Mythosaur’s horn, the blood of your greatest enemy. That should do. Do not disappoint me, Mandalorian.”
“Of course not.” He scoffed.
He threw himself back into his duties, satisfied that the time was drawing near. He was stronger, more attentive than ever before.
His people rejoiced for their leader was ready to take Mandalore in earnest.
He watched, more attentively than before, to see who it was that followed him. He routed out traitors and elevated the worthy.
Finally, he found the one who would fulfill his first requirement.
She was loyal, a convert to his party from a distant covert of traditionalists. A strong warrior in her own right and unwavering in her faith.
There was only one problem.
She remained a traditionalist in many ways. She would not remove her helmet, not even among members of his House.
She would never agree.
He knew better than to ask.
So he didn’t.
He crept into her tent late one night, hours after she had retired, knife in hand.
She wouldn’t even notice.
He was her Mand’alor.
He scowled at the sight of her helmet, always so dedicated, even in sleep.
It made everything so complicated.
He was not to be deterred.
He was certain she did not wake and paused to gaze on her face. She could not object to what she did not know. Finally, afraid of the possibility of her waking, he crept out. A lock of hair secured safely in a pouch and confident that she would never know.
He scarcely noticed her the morning after, did not notice the tenseness in her frame or the uncharacteristic wariness of her stance.
She was a shadow of herself.
He did not see.
It was only when they stood across from each other that he took notice of her shaken appearance.
“Mand’alor.” She had always had the faith to call him of a title he had not yet fully claimed. “Tell me, do you know who has broken my vows?”
He assured her that he did not, swore his ignorance with confidence.
“Then I will return to my people, I cannot remain with those who would torment me so.”
The warrior was shaken, where would he get another so faithful? The skills she possessed were rare and invaluable.
He entreated her to stay.
He could imagine the coldness of her eyes, the crinkle of the skin around her mouth as she spoke and the way her hair spread out around her beneath her helmet.
“I have been a fool.”
She said nothing else.
That night, the warrior found the slightest tinge of rust at the edge of his helmet, a perfect match to the places his fingers had touched as he slowly edged her helmet off.
The faintest fear gripped his heart at the sight.
They would never understand the necessity, too caught up in their ideals to see.
He polished it away and heaved a great sigh of relief when it went easily. In no time at all it was as if the rust had never been there in the first place.
Rumors swirled throughout Mandalore. That his faction had broken another’s vows, that they were not to be trusted.
The warrior set about his next task, unconcerned by the distrust that seemed to slowly eat at his people.
They would get over it, they always had before.
What were the vows of a single traditionalist when faced with eternity?
A Mythosaur was a deadly creature, exceedingly difficult for a single hunter, not to mention the challenge of finding an unblemished horn.
He settled on a cunning plan.
He sent some of his followers out to hunt a Mythosaur they had seen. As they tracked and fought it, the warrior followed its footprints to his prize.
It was the season of birth, of new beginnings.
His warriors were strong and able. He had no worries for the mother.
A baby Mythosaur was a challenge in its own, but nothing a warrior as strong as he couldn’t handle.
It was such a simple thing, almost easy to ignore its struggle for survival.
The greatest difficulty was finding its hiding place.
He triumphed without worry and retrieved his prize from amongst the blood and gore.
It was perfect, too young and new to life to contain a single blemish.
He stood a moment, drenched in horrible red, admiring his trophy.
There was a cry, a sound so filled with grief and horror the land seemed to shake with it.
His followers had failed.
The warrior knew he could not face her, not enraged by grief and strong with bloodlust.
He fled, running through the forest and as he did he thought he heard the mournful wailing turn to words.
“You, Mandalorian, so long as the sun stands tall and the moons hang in the sky over my home, you will never know my joy. You will never know my grief. You are cursed, as one such as you should be.”
He told himself it was only the echoes playing tricks on him.
He did not spend much time with the foundlings as a rule, he was not yet ready for children of his own.
They loved him, would exclaim with excitement when he walked past and beg him for stories of his exploits.
He had forgotten the Mythosaur’s words. They were not important to him.
He had done what was necessary to secure his future.
He greeted one of his subordinate’s children and they shrunk away as if shy.
He paid it no mind.
The children whispered as he walked by, no longer buzzing with excitement but staring with something unreadable in their eyes.
Perhaps they were planning some mischief they did not want him to know about.
He waved to a new child, recently adopted and ignorant of Mando’a. They ran from him.
It was not unusual to be afraid in a new place.
He offered stories and the young ones shook their heads, eyes wide with something that might almost be called fear.
His followers began to whisper.
It was not right for the children to fear their Mand’alor.
The children could not explain it.
They could not speak of what he had done. They did not know and yet...
Their words seemed to chase him without even a moment to pause to breathe.
Still, he had only one thing left to claim.
The blood of his greatest enemy.
His cousin had taken over as head of their Clan.
Ostensibly to relieve him from the work so he could focus on his ascension efforts.
There was no way that was true.
It must have been something else.
Every moment of kindness he remembered was overlaid with distrust and resentment.
The warrior was bleeding followers by the moment, concerned parents drawn away by their children’s fear and disturbed traditionalists taken by rumors of disrespect.
His cousin remained loved and appreciated.
It must have been his doing.
There was no other explanation.
He was welcomed with open arms, his cousin inquiring about his health and news from the other clans.
As if he didn’t know everything.
As if he hadn’t been ruining everything.
As if his blood wasn’t exactly what the warrior needed.
He did not wait for a more private moment, simply lashed out with a blade.
It was easy, his foolish cousin hadn’t even been wearing armor, safe and content among family.
He paused to collect some of the dripping liquid, ignoring the gasps of horror and cries of grief.
All he needed was a few decades. They would forget, die, as he never would.
He had all he needed.
He met the witch in the same place he had left her, a distant part of him wondered if she had even left. Ultimately, he found he didn’t care.
He tossed the requested items to her and her eyes flashed with something that could be called satisfaction.
“Well done, Mandalorian, or, well, Naasade now, I suppose.” She chuckled.
“What.” He growled, furious.
If she had not been his only hope of immortality he would have struck her down in an instant.
She hummed, uncowed and continued as if he had said nothing. “Yes, these will suit my purposes nicely.”
She tucked them away and faced him with a horrible grin.
“Drink this, Naasade, and you will never see death.” She held out a concoction, evil and terrible.
He did not hesitate.
The warrior felt no different.
“Witch, if this-”
“Do not doubt me.” Her eyes flashed with death but he no longer feared even that. “Enjoy forever Naasade.”
“Why do you call me that? My name is-” His breath was stolen as he attempted to form the syllables.
“It does not matter for Naasade is the only name that will live on.”
The witch did not lie.
Naasade would continue.
He found he cared nothing for fighting or victory, nothing for good food or company.
The fire in his heart spluttered the moment the first drops passed his lips. The last embers extinguished at the final swallow.
Some say he continues even now, listless and knowing nothing of love or happiness.
He wanders, eternal and alone.
He has not aged a moment since the first drop of potion passed his lips.
Take heed, young ones, if you meet this Naasade, do not approach, lest he erodes your soul just as he once did his own.
For eternal life is a life without marching on, it is a life without change.
It is a life without a soul.