Fleeting
Grand Masters of the Jedi Order did not hesitate. Especially not before a battle; not before a battle that had been over 800 years in the making. And so Yoda was not hesitating, he was just…pausing. Standing, leaning on his gnarled wooden stick, his eyes closed and ears pricked, asking the Force what he must do. The fight that lay before him, through those emblazoned doors into the Supreme Chancellor's meeting room, was the ultimate test, the grand finale possibly, the culmination of everything Yoda had been taught and had himself taught to generation after generation of padawans. He could not lose.
And so the Grand Master paused, and asked the Force what he must do to prepare himself any further for what lay ahead. But on the contrary, the gently-tugging hand of the Force pointed behind him, in the opposite direction to the meeting room where the shadow oozed and Yoda faced. Yoda felt no confusion. He merely obeyed, treading with quiet footsteps so as not to be heard by the Sith lord in the building, and approached the sleek silver door that lead to the office. Then the door slid open noiselessly, and Yoda stopped.
"Why…" He whispered, out loud but to the Force. Why bring him here, why show him this now, why now of all times?! Taking a step forward, Yoda stared down at the fallen Jedi.
Kit Fisto was lying on his side, slightly curled in on himself, his lidless eyes staring without seeing. One arm was draped uselessly over the bloodless gash through his chest. He looked vulnerable, almost child-like in death. Yoda crouched down and took the Nautolan's cold hand in his own, carefully observing his face upon which the well-known smile still rested. Then he moved on.
Agen Kolar's eyes were closed, and his lightsaber had tumbled far out of reach. His braided hair cascaded around his shoulders, and there was no tension in his muscles, no sign of the tenacity which had carried him through many a battle or the stress which the war had wrought on all of them. In fact, if it weren't for the hole burnt through his chest, the Zabrak might have been asleep. Yoda knelt, and brushed a strand of hair away from his eyes, remembering how that had always irritated him. Then he forgot, and stood up.
Saesee Tiin was slumped by a wall pillar, his coarse hands clenched desperately as though he had clutched at life as it was ripped away from him. And yet his face showed no pain; instead there were no creased lines of frowning in his forehead, no furrowed brow and no deliberately downturned mouth. If anything he had only ever looked this content while behind the controls of his starfighter. Yoda reached over and gently closed the Iktochi's eyelids, completing the transcendency of a Jedi who craved peace. Then he turned back.
Now Yoda knew why the Force had pulled him there. Tears he had restrained in the face of young Kenobi's open grief back at the Temple now trickled down his aged face and he allowed it. But with every step out of that room the tears dried, with every step the Force siphoned off a little grief, with every step the Grand Master straightened up until he was back where he started, paused in front of the emblazoned door. He took a breath, and mentally nodded to the Force. Ready I am.
The Force did not reply. It only opened the door.