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He is more attuned to the Force than the others. Always has been, even when he was a baby first brought to the temple all those centuries ago. Perhaps it is a quirk of his species, that they carry the burden of this gift. Or maybe it is his age; his skills sharpened to a fine point by the never-ending march of time. As such, he feels it even before they start dying. There is an impossible moment where everything freezes, the Force itself pausing as if to take a breath, and then, all at once— the screaming begins.
The battle around him rages onward but he cannot see it, his sight focused inward and outward all at once. His people are dying, his family torn to pieces as the ones they have put their trust in turn on them. It seems unfathomable that the clones would do this. He thinks of commander Bly, and Lock, and Cody— and of the way their Jedi look at them. He thinks that it cannot be true, that for the first time in his entire life, the Force is lying to him. It shakes him to the core; this thought of doubt. For nearly nine hundred years he has lived with the certainty of the Force, never once doubting it, never once believing it was anything but unshakable. But now, as he feels the shattering of star points—the shattering of his children and his friends and his family, the very Jedi he has reared and trained and cared for—he wishes, for the first time in forever, that what the Force is telling him is not true.
Commander Gree approaches him and the Wookies turn on the clones, sensing in their own way that something is terribly, horribly wrong. Yoda barely makes it to his starfighter and off the planet, running even as the Force screams at him, his old friend tearing at him desperately as the brilliant points of light that are the Jedi are snuffed out one by one.
When he breaks the atmosphere and lifts into the stars, it is almost worse than being in the thick of the fight on Kashyyyk. Up in space there is nothing to distract him, no blaster fire or shouting to drown out the soul-breaking onslaught of the grief, sorrow, and pure horrible fear pouring into the Force as its people are slaughtered.
Yoda presses his hands against his head, shields in tatters against the barrage of psychic damage that the horror is inflicting. He reaches out, feels the others desperately scrambling for their lives, but none of them stay with him for long; ripped away by the brutality of a quick death. They are like sand dripping through his fingers, and he is helpless as he feels their life force extinguished. He does not know how long it lasts. Hours maybe, perhaps only minutes. It does not matter. All that matters is the silence. The screaming has stopped and is replaced by nothing— an eerie stillness that creeps closer and closer until it stifles him. Until the darkness smothers what feels like the entire galaxy.
He listens to the silence, the ringing in his ears making them twitch. The Jedi have always been a comfort to him, first as brothers and sisters, then, as he grew older and older, as his sons and daughters and nephews and nieces and everyone in between. A family spanning centuries, they were there before him and when he finally died they would be there after him. As peacekeepers. As diplomats. As warriors. Their compassion running through the galaxy like lifeblood, sustaining the light even in the deepest darkest corners of space.
And now, impossibly, they are gone.
The silence spans onward, Yoda reaching out and no one reaching back, not even a speck of Jedi life detectable through the murk of the darkside. There is panic within him now, raw terror at being the last left. He has faced darkness before, faced unspeakable atrocities, but always with the sparks of his friends at his back. Always with the hope and knowledge that no matter where he is, he is not alone. He knows he should be better, he should be able to deal with this, to stay calm and collected; the people of the Republic still need him.
There is no emotion, there is peace.
The grief wells up, cutting and sharp and oh so painful. Perhaps he will allow it, here and alone, in his one man shuttle between worlds. Perhaps he will allow himself to break, just this once.
There is no chaos, there is harmony.
He can feel it. The rifts and eddies of the Galactic Republic twisting and breaking, falling down down down into something new. Something big and horrible and so so dark that it is choking him it is choking him and he cannot breathe cannot breathe cannot—
There is no death, there is the Force.
Empty, empty, empty. That is all there is now. A great vast emptiness where there used to be the most luminous of life forces. An empty garden, the flowers turned to ash and the trees gnarled and barren.
He breathes deep, his quick heart beating slower as he forces himself to calm. No, grief will help no one here, he wants to let it hurt him, but he knows deep down that the pain it will bring will only weaken him for what is to come. Mourning will come later, it will have to, he has no choice, no matter if he wishes otherwise.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
He settles back down into meditation. Back into his fruitless search. The murk is thick and cloying, like trudging through a fog laden bog as it tries to pull you down under its frigid waters. But he must have hope. For if he does not, then who will?
It is like the stars have all gone out, snuffed away as easily as extinguishing the flame of a candle. He looks further, wider than ever before, straining his senses as he over-extends their already great reach. He must do this. He must.
There.
A blip of light, just on the horizon, riding the tidal wave of darkness but refusing to go under. He pushes toward it, putting all his energy into reaching out to it, gentle brushes of the force colliding as both Jedi connect.
Obi-Wan.
Against all odds Obi-Wan Kenobi has survived. They curl together, their force signatures stretched over insurmountable space, yet they still connect. Yoda basks in Obi-Wan’s resilient glow, his friend a single flame holding back the braying darkness of the night.
Of course Obi-wan would survive, Yoda thinks, of course this stalwart child of the Force would be the one to stand tall in the face of the greatest of dangers. He remembers a pale, red-haired child, conviction in his eyes as the force sang with certainty that he would become a knight. He remembers a young man filled with sadness, yet still fighting strong as he slayed the first Sith in a millennia.
They are too far for words, but the old master can feel Obi-Wan’s distraught anguish and he soothes it over as best he can, gentle where the last few hours have been nothing but cruel.
Obi-Wan returns the kindness, his warmth wrapping around Yoda like the loveliest of blankets woven from starlight. Yoda takes a deep breath. He knows what needs to be done, the darkness warps the space around them like a strangling web; with a Sith lord at its centre. He knows what needs to be done but he will not be alone to face it.
Something blooms in his chest, bright and shining, cutting through the darkness around him like a beaming beacon.
For the first time since the death of his people, Yoda dares to hope.