A/N: Last sadfic before the hiatus is over! Equal parts eager and anxious to find out what's going to happen to our crew, tbh. (And won't we all look like fools if nothing overly tragic happens to Kanan?) I listened to Tom Odell's "Heal" as I wrote this, because the only thing I love more than sad writing is sad music. It's like a sickness with me.
Heal
The silence aboard the Ghost was deafening, and it seemed to grow worse still as Sabine watched Hera stand in the doorway of Kanan's room. The Twi'lek didn't move or speak or cry . She just…stood there. Replaying a decade's worth of memories? Walking through could-have-beens? Sabine didn't know. But it was awful to watch.
"I can't," Hera said after what felt like days. "I can't go back to regular duty yet. I thought I could." She turned around, looking at Sabine. Her eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion. "Mon Mothma offered some time and I'm going to take it. I think you should, too."
Sabine shifted, listening to what Hera wasn't saying: she wanted to be alone. It made Sabine feel uneasy, though whether that was because she didn't want Hera to be alone or because she didn't want to be alone herself, she couldn't quite determine. Hera picked up on her hesitancy. "Just for a couple of weeks," she said. Her mouth lifted in a sad imitation of a wry smile. "I'm pretty sure that's all I'll be able to stand of my father anyway."
"You're going home?"
She nodded. "Zeb will be in bacta for another month at least, and I intend to be back well before then. Rex and Kallus promised to look after him."
Sabine blew a puff of air. "He's gonna be so pissed at Ezra about his bo-rifle."
Hera tensed. "Have you…heard from Ezra?" She asked like she was afraid of the answer.
"He got a transmission through last night. I could only understand about every other word. I think he's still spending a lot of time in the temple. Said he'd ben back in a few weeks." She saw the wariness in Hera's eyes. "He promised me," she added quickly. "There are some…things we need to talk about. He'll be back."
Neither of them could pretend to understand his need to stay on Lothal after everything that had happened, but Hera nodded, trying. "How did he sound?"
"As okay as we are," Sabine hedged. He'd seemed deeply sad, but overall at peace. She just couldn't bring herself to tell Hera that.
"Take the Phantom," Hera said, changing the subject. "She's ready to go."
Sabine nodded hesitantly. "In the morning." She glanced at Hera. "We both need to sleep."
Hera made a face. "It's too quiet to sleep."
Sabine interpreted that as: I'm not used to sleeping alone.
She sighed. "You know he'd throw a fit if he knew you were running on caf and stubbornness." He was Kanan; it was still too hard to say his name. "Tell you what. You sleep in my bunk and I'll drag Ezra's mattress in here. That way no one has to sleep in a room alone."
Hera held her gaze for a long time. "Thank you," she whispered finally.
"We're still family." Suddenly, Sabine's voice was thick. "That's not gonna change."
Blinking, Hera nodded, and she turned back to Kanan's empty room. Unable to leave her there, Sabine took a few steps forward and stood shoulder to shoulder with her. Maybe Hera relaxed infinitesimally at the contact, or maybe it was Sabine's imagination. Regardless, they stood there together for a long time, neither of them breaking free of the other.
Sabine got in the Phantom with the idea of heading to Lothal and Ezra, but she set course for Krownest before she even really realized that's what she intended to do. Her subconscious mind took over and she just wanted to go home. She snuck into the house in the dead of night—not even her subconscious mind had paid attention to what time she'd land—and slept in her old room.
It was a surprise to everyone, including herself, when she sat down for breakfast at the family table.
She didn't say anything to anyone and no one said anything to her, but Alrich and Ursa Wren exchanged worried glances when she wasn't looking. Sabine seemed to have aged ten years since they'd seen her last. Without asking, they knew she'd come home the same way she'd left all those years ago: burdened by something horrible. Her face was drawn and pale and her eyes completely void. She ate almost nothing and then rose from the table, absently kissing each parent on the on the cheek as she left. That alone was enough to set Ursa's heart racing with dread; Sabine had never been overly demonstrative when it came to affection, even as a child.
"Should…we be concerned?" Tristan asked hesitantly, eyes darting between his parents.
"Yes," Alrich answered, voice heavy. "I think so."
Hearing shouting in the streets of the city's lower levels wasn't at all unusual, so Cham didn't stir himself to look out his apartment's tiny window. It got louder, more heated as both parties started spitting vile insults and curses in Ryl. And then there was the distinct sound of flesh striking flesh and it was at that moment Cham realized one of the voices was Hera's.
He bypassed the repulsorlifts and barreled down the building's narrow stairway, exiting in the alley where Hera and Joran—a young and over-eager nephew of Gobi's—were fighting.
"Enough!"
The ferocity in Cham's raised voice was enough to startle them both; arms, legs, and lekku suddenly fell still. Hera, chin raised in defiance, looked away.
"This woman claims to know you, general," Joran said, panting with exertion. He glared at Hera. "She demanded—"
Cham rolled his eyes and held up a hand. "This woman is my daughter." He put a finger to the side of Hera's face, turning it to see her bloody lip. She jerked away. "Her temper is worse than mine," he continued dryly. "You got lucky this time, Joran. Now away with you."
With a final dirty look at Hera, the pale-skinned youth turned and disappeared into the night, leaving the Syndullas alone. Cham knew he needed to choose his words very carefully, so for several long moments, he didn't speak. For Hera to show up on Ryloth, unannounced, and in such an agitated state spoke of nothing good.
"Where is the Ghost?" He asked finally. He knew there was no way she'd have piloted the ship anywhere near the system after her run-in with the Empire in the Tann Province last year. And he kept speaking to her in Ryl, gauging her; her use of their native tongue and accent was a sure barometer for her distress.
"Offworld. Friend owed me a favor. Smuggled me here." She answered him in Ryl, in very short sentences, and her voice was tight. Cham didn't like any of it.
He nodded once and stepped back, looking her up and down. Only then did he notice that she wasn't wearing her usual pilot's cap. Cham reached for one black-wrapped lek and pulled it over her shoulder, evaluating it and the simple cloth headdress she wore.
It was a symbol of mourning, customary in their province.
"Who?" He asked quietly.
She looked at him, eyes turbulent, but said nothing.
"Kanan?"
She flinched and he knew he had his answer. Her fists clenched and unclenched at her sides. "I took some time away," she said. "If you need an extra pair of hands to help Free Ryloth, I'm here."
Cham regarded her thoughtfully. So…she needed a distraction. He was all too happy to give that to her—for now. He nodded. "Let's get to work."
Sabine loved lines and structure and bright light and concrete. She always had. Maybe it was the influence of her no-nonsense-no-frills Mandalorian heritage; the people of Mandalore were angular, none of them exactly soft around the edges. But her father was a little softer than the rest, and by extension, so was she.
His study was one of her favorite places in the galaxy. It was a warm space, dimly lit, always smelling of the spiced tobacco he loved so much. Art adorned every inch of wall space, representing a myriad of species, cultures, places, times. A holo-projector sat at the back of the room, from which Sabine had spent many childhood hours summoning image after image as her father told her about each one. She felt safe there, free to be herself. And she loved his shelves and shelves of books—most of them holos, but a few of them ancient and leather-bound, written in languages long dead, printed on paper that felt rough and pleasant under her fingertips.
She didn't remember consciously picking one of them up, but she found herself curled in her father's great chair, one of those old books in her hands, and she couldn't take her eyes off of it. The cover, embossed with a gold script she couldn't read, was a dark and somber green.
The color of Kanan's mask.
"The moisture will ruin it, cyar'ika," her father said softly. She jerked her head up to find him in the doorway. Then she looked back down at the book in her lap, its cover smattered with teardrops. With her sleeve pulled over her hand, she carefully wiped it dry.
"I'm sorry." She brushed her fingers across the leather over and over, looking at the dark green, trying to make it feel like the fabric of one of Kanan's shirts. How many times had it been her turn to do the crew's laundry—how many times had she folded Kanan's shirts and trousers and never stopped to think that he might not always be around to wear them?
She glanced down; inexplicably, the cover of the book was wet again.
"Cyar'ika." Her father repeated the endearment, reached over to stroke her cheek with his thumb. "Sabine. Tell me."
She pressed her lips firmly together as more tears fell; she'd cried more in the last three or four days than she had in her entire life. "Kanan died," she finally managed. "He died."
Alrich didn't say anything. He pulled Sabine forward and she buried her face in his shoulder, arms around his neck. She let herself cry and her father held her tightly. She felt like she was four years old again, like his arms could hold together all her broken pieces and take away every hurt. She clung to him until her tears were spent and her eyes swollen and dry. She was sitting in the floor next to him by then. Her body was tingling and numb with exhaustion.
"It doesn't feel real," she said hoarsely. "I keep thinking…"
"That you'll wake up and the nightmare will be over?"
"Yeah." She hugged her knees. "I never—I never told him—I never said what I wanted to say."
Alrich squeezed her hand. "I'm sure he knew, cyar'ika." There was a weighted pause. "I owe him a great debt, this man. He…was a father to you when I was not."
"Buir," she murmured. She hated the note of regret in his voice. "I guess…I guess I should feel…blessed or whatever. To be surrounded by family as much as I have." She glanced at her father. "But right now I just feel…raw."
"You're grieving," Alrich murmured gently. "Don't diminish that."
Sabine nodded, leaning on her father. His presence was healing, soothing, and she started to feel something like normal for the first time in days. "Have I told you about how Kanan and Hera first found me?" She ventured after a while. "It's…an interesting story."
"No," he answered. "But I'd like to hear it, if you want to tell me."
She nodded. "I do." She bit her lip as new tears started to well. "But maybe not today?"
"Whenever you're ready."
Ready was a few days from coming, but Sabine knew he understood. She cast a glance around his office, at the art, colors, textures, lines. An idea took root. "In the meantime, maybe you could help me with something."
Hera squinted in the oppressive midday sun. If she'd bothered to remember that it was summer on this side of Ryloth, maybe she would have returned to active duty after all. She could feel her skin burning after so many hours outside and she knew it would blister and peel later. She wished she'd wrapped her lekku all the way down.
"It's been hours since we saw a blurrg come through this pass," she said, hating how irritable she sounded. "We're getting nowhere with this."
"Maybe so, maybe so." Cham peered through his binoculars, scanning the horizon. "Just a few minutes more."
Hera swallowed her irritation and set her jaw. She knew good and well he'd dragged her out on this fruitless hunt for the sole purpose of seeing whether forced time alone with him would get her to crack her shell. It was a pretty decent tactic on his part, too. She was almost ready to talk to him just to get in out of the sun.
Almost.
"I've been arrested and tortured by the Empire," she said, glaring at him. "You really think that trapping me out here will wear me down enough to—"
"Do you remember what it was like after your mother died?" He interrupted calmly, as if he hadn't heard the spitting rancor in her tone.
Hera blinked, derailed by the sudden change of subject. "What?"
"It's part of what drove you to leave, I think," he continued. "I was…difficult to deal with."
Her eyes narrowed and her brows pulled together. What was he getting at? "I remember," she said slowly.
Of course she remembered; Cham had become almost a completely different person after his wife died. (Or his grief had brought out all the worst parts of him; Hera had never been able to decide which.) He'd refused to talk about her, he'd thrown himself into his work with a dangerous, single-minded focus, he'd often gone days without eating or sleeping, he'd been impatient and dismissive, angry at everything, unable and unwilling to acknowledge his pain and what had happened—
Oh.
"I remember," she said again, softer this time.
Cham gave a slight nod, tacitly acknowledging their unspoken conversation. "I think you still would have gone even if she'd lived. Maybe not as soon—but you and I…" He trailed off, chuckling ruefully. "We have always been too much alike."
He wasn't wrong, but Hera didn't like hearing it so bluntly. "Is this what you do in your spare time? Wax nostalgic?" She felt satisfied when he gave her an annoyed, reproving glare.
"Of course not," he said. "But I do think of you often, daughter." She looked at him sideways and made a noncommittal sound. Cham sighed. "Every parent wants to see themselves in their child. But I never wanted for us to have this in common."
"What?"
"Being widowed," he said quietly.
Widowed.
For a second, Hera couldn't breathe; he may as well have slapped her in the face. "I am not," she ground out, "a widow."
He tilted his head to the side, regarding her. "Aren't you?"
Widowed. She mouthed the word and it tasted bitter, but it made her think.
She'd been with Kanan for ten, almost eleven years. She'd forgotten what life had been like before him, and she'd never imagined life without him—not since he turned to her on Gorse with a wink and a smirk and said Let's go somewhere.
Marriage wasn't a word they ever used, but forever certainly lingered on the edges of her mind.
Until it didn't.
She stared at Cham, face completely blank, before she turned her gaze back to the empty horizon. A breeze picked up and cooled her burning cheeks. Thinking about Kanan's death in such concrete terms was almost more than she could handle, and she'd made it her business the last few weeks to handle it as stoically as possible. She didn't have the energy to fall apart. But the roughness of her voice betrayed her emotion. "I don't want to discuss it."
Hera's shoulders rose and fell with short, shallow breaths as she brought her binoculars back up. She clenched her teeth in frustration as the display started shaking; recalibrating the internal display system would be a long and tedious task.
"Hera."
"What."
"Hera," he said again. He eased the binoculars from her grip and set them aside. "Enough."
It was her hands, she realized—her hands were shaking.
She looked at them and then she looked at Cham helplessly as the dam of grief inside her finally broke. For the first time since that horrible day, Hera cried.
"How is young Ezra Bridger?"
The way her father said Ezra's name made her cheeks tinge pink and almost teased a smile out of her. "I talked to him day before yesterday. He's dealing, I think. He stayed on Lothal for a while. He's so…" She trailed off, searching for the words. "A year or two ago, this would have just…destroyed him. But he's so steady now—he learned a lot from Kanan." She rubbed a hand over her face. "So did I."
"And Hera? You haven't talked to her since you got here?"
Sabine shook her head. "She needed space." She shuddered. "I can't imagine what she's feeling. I can't believe I actually agreed to leave her alone."
"I'm not sorry you did," Alrich said. "I'm a selfish man and glad to have you home." He stepped back from the Phantom's hull and evaluated his work. He smiled at Sabine. "Glad to have someone to paint with again, cyar'ika."
Sabine wiped her wrist across her forehead, smearing sweat and paint together. "If you're going to get sentimental on me," she warned, "I'll leave tonight instead of tomorrow."
The two and a half weeks she'd spent on Krownest with her family had given her time and space to process everything that had happened and start learning how to live with it. Her grief ebbed and flowed and she knew there'd be a new surge to deal with when she returned to the Ghost and the Rebellion, but the most violent waves had receded. She knew she'd be okay. She shook the can of paint in her hand and added one final flourish to the mural she and her father had painted on the Phantom's side. Her heart welled with an enormous amount of pride to see it finished.
"From what you've told me about your captain," her father said, "she's quite meticulous about her ship. What's she going to say about this?"
Sabine grinned. "Oh, Hera's gonna freak. It'll all be bluster, though." She thumbed the streak of dark green she'd just painted, already dry. "This will mean a lot…after the initial shock wears off."
Cham carefully wound the bandage around Hera's burned hand. "I should have told you I'd already added the brandy to the sauce," he said sheepishly.
"You think?" She flexed her fingers, wincing. "It'll be hard to fly the Ghost like this."
"You're really ready to go back?"
"Yes," she answered with a sigh. "Same as the last three times you asked." She meant it. Slowly over the last few weeks, she'd opened up to her father, talked to him, listened to him. She was able to breathe now, whereas she'd been drowning in grief before. She didn't feel better by any means, but the burning anger and intensity had drained away and she felt more like herself at least. "I know it won't be easy, but I'm going back with my eyes open. And I still have my crew. We need each other if we're going to finish getting through this."
"You'll never 'get through' it, Hera," he said seriously. "But this kind of pain…it dampens over time. It becomes something you know you can move beyond."
Her eyes suddenly pricked with tears. "How will I know when that happens?"
He fell silent for a moment, considering. "When you wake up and realize you no longer resent the sun for rising."
"That long, hmm?" She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "You'll be the first to know."
Sabine was right and Hera had been outright horrified in the first moments after she saw the Phantom. But then she'd pulled the young Mandalorian into a wordless hug and never said a cross word about it. Sabine caught Hera looking at the painting often.
It was a stylized portrait of the crew, their bodies framed in silhouette against the brilliant colors of a Lothal sunset. There was a bittersweet balance of light and darkness, sadness and fond remembrance.
It was fitting and representative of how they were all feeling.
Zeb finally came out of bacta and continued his recovery well under Hera's watchful eye. Ezra returned from Lothal and Sabine from Krownest, gravitating toward each other, helping each other continue to grapple with the pain of their shared loss. They were never far from Hera, but they managed not to hover. She leaned on them when she needed to, recognizing that they needed her just as much. Life found a new rhythm.
Months passed.
Hera jerked awake one night—not from a nightmare, but from the sounds of raucous laughter drifting in from the common room. Still half-asleep, she stumbled down the hallway ready to demand why there was all this noise at zero-three-hundred—and then she stopped in the doorway and looked at Ezra and Sabine, really looked at them. They seemed young, exactly their age, and that was exactly as it should be. They were talking animatedly, laughing about who-knows-what, hands nearly touching, maybe flirting. Sabacc cards lay nearby, forgotten. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen them looking so carefree. Something in her chest relaxed, maybe a figurative breath she'd been holding for months, afraid there'd never be any more laughter on the Ghost. Afraid she'd hate it if there was.
For the first time since Kanan died, a genuine smile lifted her mouth. "If you two wouldn't mind," she said wryly, "some of us would actually like to sleep?"
They froze for a second, guilt flickering across their faces before Ezra grinned. "Sorry, Hera. We'll keep it down…ish."
She rolled her eyes as she turned away. "Carry on." She heard them giggling and talking in whispers, each blaming the other for being too loud. It reminded her of how things were between her and Kanan, in early days.
Her breath hitched in her throat; thinking about him still caught her by surprise, made her ache viciously. But it was getting easier all the time.
Before she went back to sleep, she activated her long-range com and keyed in her father's code. He didn't answer; she figured he must be asleep or in the middle of an op. She left a message.
"It's Hera," she said, perhaps unnecessarily. She cleared her throat. "Listen, I told you you'd be the first to know…" She trailed off. "I saw the sunrise…so to speak. I…" Sadness and hopefulness played over her face. "I didn't resent it."