A/N: Hello everyone! I'm sorry about Hand-to-Heart Combat; the last chapter just doesn't want to be written. Rest assured, I will finish it! I know that this story is a bit... different from my usual style, but it came to me in the shower and, well, here we are. Note that this is set sometime after the S2 finale but before S3. As always, comments, questions, reviews, and helpful criticism are highly appreciated.
(Possible trigger warnings for thoughts of death and/or suicide and depression.)
They told him it wasn't his fault. They assured him there was nothing he could have done. They promised him that everything would work out. Ezra knew they were wrong.
In the days (weeks, months?) after Malachor, Ezra lost himself. The hours and days blurred together and Ezra found that he didn't know how much time had passed since then. It felt like years, like decades, like seconds or maybe minutes, like it was all a dream or sometimes like it was happening again and Ezra couldn't wake up, couldn't even tell what was real and what wasn't, but he didn't care. Was that bad? Ezra couldn't quite remember. He didn't care. Nobody should care about him.
His family, his crew, tried to help him, to fix him and make him happy again but Ezra knew it was pointless. He didn't want to be fixed. How could he allow himself to heal when Ahsoka was dead and Kanan was blind and meanwhile he escaped without a scratch even though it was all his fault. Ezra wanted to scream until his throat burned and his voice broke, to hunt Maul down and tear him apart, to find Vader and kill him, to show them no mercy like how they showed none to Kanan and Ahsoka. He wanted the galaxy to know his pain and to feel it with him and to mourn and hurt with him and he didn't care that he was only one pitiful mistake of a kid because it didn't matter, it didn't, and damn it he'd make them pay, make them feel what he felt if it was the last thing he ever did. He swore it. He promised. He hoped it would be the last thing he ever did.
The crew tried to console him, tried to reassure him with empty words that held no meaning for him anymore. I'm not the one who got killed! He wanted to tell them, to snap and yell and rant until they had to listen. I'm not the one who's blind! He wished they would leave him alone. It would be better for them if they did. Didn't they know what he'd done? Didn't they know that his foolish trust had killed Ahsoka and blinded Kanan? They did, they said they did, but they didn't care. Ezra wished they would. He wished they hated him, yelled at him to leave, told him he wasn't wanted because it was all he deserved. Why couldn't they just let him die and rid the galaxy of a worthless being, someone who made mistakes and killed people and damn it he shouldn't be alive and well when everyone else was broken and scarred and why why why why why why.
Fire and ice battled inside him, clashing furiously in an endless circle of blistering, unbearable heat and bitter, numbing cold. There was rage roaring inside him like a fire, ruthless in its search for vengeance and punishment as it consumed Ezra's every thought and action and demanded to be released. It took everything Ezra had to control that fire on the worst days. Even though sometimes Ezra didn't want to control it.
Some days, however, the fire would die down until it was only a small ember, struggling valiantly to hold back the ice. The days when the ice would freeze the fires and numb Ezra's heart were, to him, the worst, because the ice prevented him from feeling. The fiery rage that demanded action was satisfyingly painful and easy to appease, but the ice… The ice was not. It asked nothing of Ezra; on the contrary, the ice shut him down. No matter what he did, Ezra was frozen. He couldn't think, couldn't move, and, worst of all, he didn't want to, either. The horrible ice robbed him of the ability to want anything and left Ezra tired and hopeless. Sometimes, though, the ice was a welcome change because the numbness was refreshing and besides Ezra didn't want to care anyway.
Ezra couldn't remember when he decided to shut them out, but it came naturally to him so he knew it must be right. Kanan ruffled Ezra's hair and smiled, telling him his hair was getting longer but that was okay, he liked it that way anyway. That night, Ezra cut it all off.
After Ezra had laughed at Zeb's dirty joke, Hera smiled and told him quietly that she was happy to see him smiling again, I'm so glad you're feeling better now. Ezra didn't laugh at Zeb's jokes anymore.
While painting with Sabine, she told him his picture was very good, and the use of color was excellent, good job, Ezra, it seems my lessons have finally paid off. Ezra destroyed the painting, coloring over it with violent strokes of red and black. He didn't paint with her again after that.
Zeb commented on his helmet collection, pointing out that Ezra hadn't added to it in some time, kid, and besides, they're gettin' a bit dusty, aren't they? Ezra gathered them all up the next day and shoved them in a hidden compartment in a dark corner of the cargo bay.
His crew tried to tell him that it wasn't his fault, that there was nothing he could have done and that it would all work out. Ezra knew they were lying. He didn't care.