"It was the man in black who was the deadly one, the kind of man you knew at a glance you couldn't touch and live." –Fritz Leiber
To still cling to a relic, a vestige of the past, was perhaps dangerous, foolish. Still, she treasured what she had left, all that remained. When she spoke of a larger shadow endowed with wrath, a dark stain against a bright sky, she couldn't help but wonder—what had happened?
There was only silence to greet her, another drink being poured late at night and she bit down sharply on her lip, drawing blood.
There were no answers to be found and no one to give them.
It hovered between the precipice, a bitter tongue cut into the marrow, and the broken pieces shattered once more. Kind blue eyes that had crinkled when he praised her were replaced with yellow irises, an inferno of rage. Love welled up all at once, and all the dust and gore and trenches and the closeness was still there.
In another time, he removed the Padawan braid himself when she was Knighted, tucking away the braid of silka beads, rolling them between his mechanical fingers, a reminder. In another time they still fought side by side. Together.
He really was like no other and neither was she, together—kind, brave and determined.
The steady rasp of the respirator continued.
You wish to destroy me? You think I will give up Obi-Wan to you?
Where were you when I needed you?
I made a choice. (without you)
She has dreamed of her own death and died so many deaths that weren't hers. In her dreams, she has killed and been killed. She has wept, but tears do no good for the dead, they do not wash the blood from your hands or remove the stench of cooked skin.
Ahsoka stood in a vast desert, waiting. Unable to move, she glanced down and at once choked on flames overtaking her body and fell and realized she was dying there.
She had once thought it'd be alright to fall and break her neck, instantly dying, but this—this lasts forever, lasts millions of years, an agony she has never experienced, every star burns out and planets perish and she is left, writhing. There is no relief, only white heat disemboweling and charring, she can't shut it out only scream, her whole body twisting in pain.
Reaching out, please help please, it is Master Kenobi, but he remains unmoved, staring down, pity or disgust or anger or sadness or love in his eyes. There are tears, no there is only hate. He refuses to grant her release from suffering.
It is Master—Skyguy—Anakin, towering over her, tall and imposing, but she knew he had cared, she knew…Please Master, Skyguy, Anakin…please…
You failed me, Ahsoka. He snarls. It rings over and over.
I know I know I'm sorry let me help please help me
A Jedi has no attachments. He turns, as shifting ash clogs her nose, fills her throat. She watches his back as he walks away from her, leaving her to burn, she cries for him to return to her, yet guttural moans are the only noise she can make now, taking the place of sobbing—Ahsoka's tear ducts have been firmly melted, vocal chords seared.
Laughter rises, heat turning to cold, light fading.
There—her hands close tight over his own once more, lingering, the beads feel far heavier than they are. All that remains and a shadow.
