Broken Crimson
The battle was over.
They had won. From a certain perspective, at least.
Bodies of both sides lay strewn across the field, while blood and sweat permeated the air in a hot haze that could not be cooled. An uncertain silence had fallen upon the valley, both frightening and chilling in its power. Slight movement rustled on the hill, medical nurses and droids possibly, backup warriors for sure. It had been a ruthless, bloody battle.
From Luke's point of view, neither had won; it was a single, gaping loss. Each body that lay on the grass represented a failure. Failure to communicate, failure to save, and failure to value all that the Force stood for—life.
It had not been rage that overcame him in those last fatal minutes. Nor was it anger or fear, just a simple drive to survive. Had he not fought back, death would have been unavoidable. And in those seconds before time stopped for all present, not even his lightsaber was useful against the onslaught. Instinct, his mind whispered. Not anger, not merciless killing. Only instinct to stay alive.
He was supposed to be above this sort of action.
Luke wearily glanced around, knowing there were hundreds who needed aid, but he found he contained no energy to carry on. He slumped down on a nearby piece of machinery. Once a transportation vehicle, now just a crumbled heap of metal.
His hands rose to cover his face in weary resignation, and the unexpectedly slick sensation of his palms touching his cheek jolted him out of his drowsy state. He lowered to look at them, and nearly emptied his meager breakfast onto the trampled earth.
His hands were covered in blood.
The horizon suddenly blurred and dizziness overcame him. Unable to rest his head on his hands and too weary to stand, he slumped forward until his nose was nearly below his knees. Posture and shielding emotions were completely inconsequential at this moment.
A familiar presence lightly brushed at the edge of his Force awareness, and his thoughts flew to Mara. Are you all right?
Behind you, farmboy.
Glancing to the side while barely moving his head, he caught a glimpse of his wife trekking over the nearby hill. He had not worried for her life; he would have felt it had she been killed or fatally wounded. She looked just about as bad as he felt, though her expression betrayed none of it. Emerald eyes blazed with a determination that never ceased.
She stood before him, surveying the landscape as he had done minutes ago. No words passed between them, and none were needed.
"Look at all of them," he rasped, not quite sure where he was going with his words. "So many of them, just tossed aside like reeds in the breeze…" He gestured with a wave of his hand to emphasize his point, then recalled the scarlet blood and lowered it silently. In an effort to stop himself from trembling, whether it be from fatigue or despair, he rubbed his hands together. They slid against one another easily, and Luke chose to ignore it, despite the churning, sloshing feelings in his gut.
Mara still did not reply, only coming to sit next to him on the crumpled vehicle, pressing her body close to his. He relished in the feeling, yet still unable to enjoy her company completely. He stopped his fidgeting, and held his hands out instead.
"Whose blood is this?" He turned his hands so they were palm down, slowly, as if examining a delicate piece of jewelry in a shop. "Mine? My enemies? My friends and colleagues?"
Mara answered him with silence. Then she did something Luke never imagined her doing in these circumstances. She reached out and took his hand.
Her roughened hands held numerous scars, calluses, and newly marked cuts, and she not even flinched at contact with the slick, bloody surface. She gripped his hand tightly, looking at him for a brief moment. If Luke closed his eyes he could almost picture they were at home in their apartment, alone, instead of here, bleeding and sweaty.
She squeezed once, and slowly rested her head on his shoulder.
She did not question or scold. She did not try to make it better, or tell him his guilt was wrongly felt. She did not hand mindless platitudes or reassurances. She was Mara, and she was simply there. She held his blood-caked hand, and spoke nothing, yet said so much.
They could not fix everything, nor could they expect much joy in their life. They had each other, and that was all that mattered.
Luke freed one hand from her grasp, and put it around her shoulder. Together they watched the smoldering plumes of smoke rise up from the nearby enemy base, the Force speaking volumes more than actual words could ever have communicated.
She held his hand when all was in despair.
.