A/N: First time writing for Rebels, yay! I'm going to start off by saying the finale both absolutely killed me and endlessly inspired me. This is a result of both occurrences, more the latter. It was killing me to write a post-finale with all of my hopes, dreams and theories. Alas, lots of plotting and planning became this thing. I'm going to see how I go. I might finish, I might not, but regardless I thank you for taking a look and supporting me!
Kanan's sure that without Hera's arms around him he would be a heap on the landing platform by now. He's grateful she doesn't let go, and nor does Ezra release his hand, until she says softly, "Kanan, there's a... medical droid here for you. Zeb's going to walk you, okay?" Her voice is detached, like it's a dream. He's not sure exactly who for.
"Okay," he croaks in return.
She lets him go, still stroking a thumb across his shoulder as Zeb snakes a hand around his back. He can't help himself; he shivers without her warmth pressed into his chest.
"Come on, big guy," Zeb murmurs, taking a step. Kanan's shaky legs barely oblige. The back of his mind supplies helpfully: shock, Kanan, you're in shock. "That's it, easy." If he couldn't feel Zeb radiating in the Force next to him, he wouldn't believe it was his hands steadying him across the platform.
Normally, he wouldn't have heard Hera say quietly to his apprentice, "Come with me, hon. Come on." And, he wouldn't have heard the silence from Ezra in reply, or his minuscule shuffle of movement, or felt the twinge of emotion in the Force as he suppresses tears again. Hera repeats, "Please, Ezra." and Kanan's legs give out from under him.
Zeb catches him, steadies him, and murmurs something reassuring, but Kanan doesn't hear it; he hears Ezra's footsteps on the platform as he walks away.
By the time they reach the medical wing, Zeb is practically carrying Kanan across the threshold to somewhere he can sit down.
"Kanan, c'mon, you know my superior build is better spent than lofting you humans about," the Lasat remarks, hauling him up onto what Kanan assumes is the edge of a bed. His bum catches on the lip, so he slides awkwardly, half-off, half-on. Zeb groans, "Give me a hand here."
"I will render you some assistance, Mr Orrelios," a mechanical voice chimes far more happily than Kanan is willing to entertain, and soon enough, he is swaying unsteadily, perched on the edge of a bed. "You can lie down if you wish, Mr Jarrus. We will examine you shortly."
He hears Zeb rub his hand over the back of his head; it's a scratching sound, unsettling against his overtime senses.
"You can go, Zeb," he answers the question he knows is on the tip of his friend's tongue. "I'll be fine. I... I want you to keep an eye on Ezra. Hera can't handle that kid all by herself."
"Yeah, yeah. Gotcha," he returns, a little unsteadily.
"Zeb?" Kanan stops him before he turns to leave, making sure he adds, "Thanks."
"No," is the reply, which makes Kanan wish he could see the look on his friend's face currently. "Thank you for coming back." The way he says it; it's so affirming and firm, like when he was leading Chava and Grom through the star cluster towards Lira San. "I think I'd go mad if Sabine only had me to use as painting practice," he finishes.
Kanan huffs a bit of a laugh, and so does Zeb.
An hour later, there's a fresh bandage across his face, and he's sitting on another bed wondering when he can catch a few hours sleep.
"There's nothing we can do to save your eyes," the non-droid medical officer tells him, still sounding like a robot, "but we are able to minimise your scarring." Kanan swallows, and off-handedly wonders if he can still cry. "Mr Jarrus?"
"Uh, yeah," he responds, his voice cracking. "Whatever you can do. Thanks."
With his heightened senses, he hears the woman exhale slowly out of her nose, and knows her lips are pressed together into a small, sad smile. "Will you require anything... other assistance?" she asks.
There, he allows himself to crack a bit of a grin. "That's what I've got the Force for, right? To be my seeing-eye droid?" His lips quiver. "Just patch me up, doc."
He heads straight back to the Ghost, finding Hera exactly where he expected her; head buried under the main console.
"Kanan!" she says immediately. "You should have called me!" She's out from under the controls in a dash, at his side, holding his arm. She sits him down. "What if you'd fallen over–"
"Jedi," he reminds her. "Where's Ezra?" he asks next, before she can continue fussing. Not because he doesn't appreciate her care, but because he doesn't want to talk about it, not yet.
"He went for a walk," Hera answers.
That made the breath in Kanan's throat catch a little, but he finds himself nodding in understanding anyway.
He needs to rest before he goes off thinking, otherwise he'll dream, and didn't work well for him after Order 66, especially while on the run.
"And you?"
Hera seems surprised. "Me?"
"Yeah. You had to deal with him. I'm sorry, I tried, the flight back but we had to..." He gestures to himself up-and-down. "Yeah."
"I'm fine," she replies, and then leans a little closer; he hears her shift in her chair. "Are you? You weren't gone long."
He shrugs, and then blurts out, "Hera, I... I want to touch your face. Please." Later, he'll blame it on the pain drugs he doesn't remember taking.
"Sorry?" She doesn't even falter.
"I don't... don't know what it feels like like this."
She doesn't answer for a moment as something sad radiates through the force, but then she says quietly, "Yes, yes, Kanan. Of course you can."
He reaches up to touch her face, gently, and it's exactly the same texture as the last time he touched it. But, this time, he makes sure to check where all of the curves go, where all of the dimples and lumps and bumps are, to see if he can match it to the picture currently in his mind.
It's a perfect copy, of course. The only thing that's changed is that her face usually isn't wet.
"Hera... are you... crying?" He brushes his thumb over her cheek, wiping away some of the moisture, and she also wipes at her face, pulling it from beneath his fingers.
"Sorry," she apologies. "It's just..." Her voice breaks. "You're..."
"Hera..."
"I'm sorry, Kanan. I'm so sorry." She reaches up to touch his face this time, and he meets her hand with his. Then, he draws her in for a hug, and makes sure he holds onto her tight.
The wind tugs at Ezra's hair as he walks back across the landing platform, towards the Ghost. It hasn't moved since from before they left, with the exception of the Phantom, which has been rightfully parked again.
Chopper greets him as he walks up the ramp, kindly, and Ezra acknowledges him with a ghost of a smile, but not much else.
Sabine is in the hallway as he passes the common room, fixing a panel. She lifts up her headgear to say hello, but he quiets her with an acknowledging wave, and then ducks into his room and locks the door behind him.
He takes out the holocron from his pocket.
Before, he took it up to the hill a few clicks from the main base, spiders be damned, and wondered what would happen if he threw it into the clouds and off into oblivion, never to be seen again. It wouldn't undo what had happened, but it might make him feel better, like throwing a weight off his shoulders into the deepest reaches of space.
Except, this one, he kept close to him.
Up there, he came to conclusion that his friends fought and died for the little box, and it'd be like throwing away their sacrifices; ignoring them, which is something Ezra can't do. Especially a sacrifice as big as Kanan's, that still makes his heart heavy when he thinks about it.
He needs to know why.
Why did Maul betray him?
Why was Kanan blind?
Why was Ahsoka dead?
The box quivers between his fingers, so he sets it down on the floor, kneeling in front of it. He reaches out in the Force, feeling all of his friends across the base, all of them grieving in their own private ways, and also the little box, which reeks of the dark side. He is drawn to it again, like he was in the Temple; like Maul said he would be.
Ezra barely suppresses a shiver as he nudges it with his mind, and nearly falls over when it nudges him back. It's cold. Like ice coursing through his veins, freezing up his thoughts and his breath, like there's nothing there to begin with.
Maybe, he thinks to himself, as the ice spreads across him, it's empty, and all of this was for nothing.
Something clicks.
He pries open an eye, and the box is hovering in front of his face, spinning in the air. He swallows, takes a deep breath, closes his eye again, and concentrates.
People had sacrificed so much for what was in this box. He wasn't letting fear stop him from sleeping at night, plagued by nightmares of darkness and fire; of Kanan and Ahsoka.
When he opens his eyes again, the holocron is open, and Ezra's never felt warmer in his life.
Maul parks the TIE fighter on a ridge overlooking the steaming bog, and clambers into the little shack that's been abandoned for decades, since before Malachor, or before even Dathomir.
He can't remember anymore.
All he remembers is what he's become, and that's nothing.
Humming an ancient Dathomirian lullably, he closes the door, which crumbles slightly at the edges, but his breath is stolen from him when he turns around. The jar is still sitting there, exactly where he left it.
He stares for a while, then simply starts laughing.
"Oh, brother," he laments. "we're finally going to have what we've always wanted."