Chapter Text
At first, she doesn’t want to use the Force to bury the bodies.
It’s the sort of task she thinks Obi-Wan would have encouraged her to do by hand; she can practically hear him now, insisting that the Force is not a shortcut and that there are times that the labor can be an act of respect for the task. And she can hear Anakin’s response – playful, cheeky, just that little bit smug – asking Obi-Wan where that attitude was when he was frustrated with the lock he couldn’t pick fast enough last week; don’t listen to this hypocrite, Ahsoka; why have the Force if we can’t use it? It’s the same shade of argument that has played out more times than she can remember – and –
And she isn’t so sure she wants to take either of their advice right now. Doesn’t want to think about either of them: Obi-Wan parting on leftover resentment and unspoken words, flying off on his own mission surrounded by his own clone soldiers – Cody, who is a good soldier and would never disobey orders – or Anakin, desperate for forgiveness and teetering on the edge of something; Anakin, who was being set up to take the place of a Sith apprentice; Anakin, who may have just done something unthinkable –
But it’s all unthinkable, and it has all happened, and since when has something being unthinkable ever stopped it from playing out in the worst possible way?
And now she is here, surrounded by the broken bodies and charred helmets of men she loved – men she considered dear friends – men whose last act alive was trying to end her life. She kneels to touch a helmet, flung free of someone’s head, blood and ash smeared over the paint that is meant to represent their love for her, that love and duty that was so easily twisted into murderous intent – and it doesn’t matter what Obi-Wan or Anakin would say: they deserve respect. They deserve reflection. Burying them could be an act of meditation, of remembering, of respect for the people they had been, the chances that had been stolen from them –
“Commander?”
She looks up. Rex is making his way through the bodies on unsteady feet, his motion slow and swaying. Whatever drugs the droids gave him after his hasty surgery must be wearing off – or the crash took its own toll on him – but he doesn’t stop, determinedly upright, and she stands, reaching out for him.
Rex. Rex, who has always come through for her – Rex, who teared up as he aimed a blaster directly at her – Rex, who gave her the knowledge she needed to save herself and him. Rex, who would have thrown himself between all his brothers and her, who would die for her – who would kill for her –
He has always been so solid, so steady, but he sways into her when she reaches out to grasp his arm, his balance unreliable. Closer now, she can see that his jaw is tight with pain and red is beginning to seep through the bandage on his head. “Rex,” she says. “You should sit down.”
“In a moment, sir,” he says. “Are we burying them? I think there’s some metal sheets we can use as shovels” –
His voice cracks and he turns away from her, as if to hide the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.
But she doesn’t want him to hide from her. Not anymore.
“Rex,” she says again, cupping a hand gently at the back of his neck and guiding his head back down to her level. His forehead comes to rest against hers, smooth skin and the slight prickle of stubbled hair, and this close, she can feel everything about him – the warmth of his skin, the quiver in his breathing, the pulse of blood through his body. Still alive, still solid, still here. Still here, when so much else is not and never will be again.
She closes her eyes against the prickle of her own tears. If she just holds him here, if they both just stand still for another moment, she can pretend that this is all that exists. That Rex is her steady anchor holding her to the life that was so recently turned on its head, to everything she’s ever known and loved that was ripped so suddenly away. That none of this has happened, and they’re back in Coruscant preparing for another mission – not knowing the horrors that will come, no, but knowing that their loyalty to one another and to the Republic will carry them through – knowing that they are fighting for something good, something just, something that won’t turn out to have been rotting beneath their feet all along –
One more long, deep breath. Rex echoes it and she can feel the shift of his body, the gentle rush of his breath over her cheeks and lips, before she opens her eyes again, wet with tears but clear with resolve. Denial is not the Jedi way, and – cast out or not – she may be one of the few left alive to uphold it.
“Yes,” she says. “We’ll bury them. But you should rest. I can take care of it.”
“With respect, sir, I should help,” Rex says. His own eyes are bright with tears, his voice gruff with them, but his resolve is as strong as hers. “They’re my men – my brothers. I can’t just relinquish that responsibility.”
“I know,” she says softly. “But I promise, I can manage it.”
She draws away, but lets him lean against her as she turns to face the field of bodies. Too many of them – too many to bury in such a short time, anyway. The dead deserve respect, but it is the living who need care now.
The ground is ice beneath their feet; below that ice, far, far below, is the soil where the bodies should be laid to rest. Ahsoka extends her consciousness out, connects with the ice, with the dirt, with the bodies of all these men she has known and loved. Feels, beside her, the still-living pulse of Rex’s consciousness, solid and deep-rooted as an ancient tree.
She takes a deep breath and raises her arms.