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Empire Day.
Cal hadn’t expected it, but he should have. Prauf mentioned it weeks ago, mentioned some announcement, but–
He’d forgotten, then, how close to the anniversary it was.
Somehow, he thought it had taken longer for the Empire to be named, with how long it took for him to learn the change had happened at all.
(Did they even wait so much as a breath?)
The Jedi were murdered a year ago on this day, and there are people outside celebrating it.
There are soldiers on this planet now. A military parade they’re calling it, but Cal knows that from the moment they set foot here there were never any plans to leave.
This is their post now, a warning and threat. The Empire has just chosen to make it a subtle one, made just for whatever separatists still remain here.
Maybe this is just how they rule. People see the troopers and all they think is thank the stars that the war is over. And of course the Jedi are relegated to the ones that drew it out for so long, rather than the Senate.
Cal can hear the marching. He glimpsed the armor earlier, barely even altered from what was used during the war except in that it is even less now.
No color. No individuality.
They walk like troopers, but somehow, all he can hear are battledroids.
It is… difficult. He has too many remembrances now to be able to say them daily or weekly. Hundreds of names. He had planned to spend the anniversary speaking them instead, but–
No. It’s not that different from doing them during the war. Not that different from whispering names in the lull or aftermath of battle.
The issue, he thinks, is that even though there are troopers marching through the city, even though they’re the reason that Cal has nobody except a handful of engineering students–
Cal cannot bring himself to Remember the Jedi alone. He cannot forget his battalion.
Not Crux, who died to prove that Cal could lead. Not Rosa, who had been the first to truly believe. Not even Trikk, who scarred him permanently in those last moments.
Not those who died during the war, and not those who died for their mutiny.
All of them are gone now. If he doesn’t remember them, who will?
“Master Surra, Master Tosei, Master Tapal—”
(The people who raised him are gone.)
“Ly-Rel, Yooli, I’ra, Orvonna—”
(His crèchemates are gone.)
“Master Drallig, Master Kiirie, Padawan Luun, Master—”
(His teachers are gone.)
More Jedi have died in the last four years than he has ever learned the names of. Most predate the purge. So many more died during it.
Some, he knows are dead only because he felt the bonds snap. Some, because they made it into the news.
As if his people are nothing but a spectacle. A hunting sport. A trophy.
Somewhere outside, there’s a bang and a staticky sound.
He chokes on the names as he thinks of droid-poppers and incendiaries.
Cal pauses.
Breathes.
Take a break, you don’t need to do this.
Starts again.
“Crux, Lieutenant Bit, Hasa, Medic Hypo, Captain Au, Table—”
(His siblings are gone.)
“Commander Runi, Medic Tibia—”
(His parents are gone.)
Cal hesitates.
Commander, let us go.
He has to remember them.
If he doesn’t, then who will?
“Ville, Bones—”
In the hall.
“—Jol—”
In the lift.
“—Era, Sobs, Trikk—”
In the escape bay.
(His traitors are gone.)
His family is gone.
Everyone is gone.
Cal would rather have stayed on the Albedo Brave, would rather have been surrounded by those who betrayed them, than to live alone.
Whether it self-destructed or not, it would have been better than this, he thinks.
(Whether he died or not, it would have been better than this.)
Better than the marching. Better than the cheering.
Better than sitting in a dark, cramped apartment alone while his General’s life contraband rots in a box in the closet.
His lightsaber fell in that turbolift shaft. He lost his kyber, his heart, then.
(Is that not fitting?)
(Commander Cal Kestis died with the rest of the Iron Battalion.)
“…As water flows and wind blows, may the Force guide you by its side.”
Force guide them, because Cal does not know if he will ever have that right.
Not when he can barely even touch it without drifting.
Just hold the line, kid.
We’ve got your back.
(His family is dead.)
(That’s fine, though. It has to be.)