Ghent felt his anger melt away like butter, as well he felt his knees buckle under him, "Sarge," the whisper escaped, heavy with regret, pain, and anger. And your last words to him, the man that saved you, were full of hate. he realized. Knowing that he'd never make peace with that; he wasn't sure if he wanted to. He desreved no forgiveness.
His blurred his eyes fell on the arrowhead, and fists clentched, "My word is my honor," he told himself and the body, as he put in his pouch. But he didn't know how true those words would be; no one would fight by Sparra's side again. Ghent didn't know how he'd be able to face Sparra's family, especially his nephew. He turned to the stunned Mandalorians behind him, Sparra's team, "If I fall, take only this thing from my body, and make damn sure that it get's to Sarge's family."
He looked to the bloodied sky, "Get me the boy," he told them sternly. Sparra's t-visor had melted away, Ghent couldn't bring himself to look in the dead man's eyes, he closed them lightly, "God speed, Sparra. Give 'em your wrath up there," he said aloud, hoping that where ever his Sarge was now, that he'd heard Ghent.
The boy was brought out, stumbling, giving no resistance to his captors. Ghent tore his dark eyes away from Sparra and turned them onto the boy, "There are two ways to go about this, the easy way or the hard way. Either way, you're going to wish I had killed you," he rose to his feet, "Get us some air support, get us off this forsaken rock," he told no one in peticular. He took of his cape, and wrapped it around Sparra's body, he struggled to heft the massive shell to his own shoulders, but Ghent harshly refused any help.
They say that dreamers are an extinct breed. I say they're wrong.