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sweetteaanddragons · 29 days ago

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Second Age De-Aging AU

(Title is a work in progress.)

The workshop looked as if it had recently contained a small to medium sized explosion.

That concerned Gil-Galad a great deal less than what had been left in the wake of that explosion.

Namely, a very small peredhel currently perching catlike on one of the few sets of shelves still standing and who was hurling every throwable object in reach at a wincingly placating Annatar.

The thrown objects were accompanied by what he first interpreted as a yowl, which was really only reinforcing the cat impression, right up until he belatedly realized it was actually a wail, at which point he had to remind himself that it was not at all appropriate for him to throw things at an emissary of a Valar.

Even if he was almost entirely certain that, despite the seeming impossibility of the thing, the very small peredhel in question was Elrond.

Still. He was king. Kings did not throw things. Kings very calmly and not at all frantically demanded, “What happened?”

Elrond’s wail at last became intelligible words. “He lied!”

Gil-Galad switched his gaze to Annatar.

The maia was holding his hands out in a conciliatory fashion. “Dear Celebrimbor and I have been working on some things to better help Men preserve their minds as they age. Perfectly safe for both elves and Men, I assure you. Lord Elrond expressed a natural interest. I had no idea that with his . . . unique nature . . . it would react this way to his touch.”

“It exploded,” Gil-Galad said flatly.

“Not at all!” Annatar assured him. “It merely . . . affected his fea in an unexpected way. And it seems his hroa followed. At which point, he was unsurprisingly distressed . . . “

Gil-Galad reconsidered the explosion in the context of a highly frightened descendant of Luthien.

“ . . . and I am afraid that the resulting . . . incident . . . led to it . . . ”

Gil-Galad redirected his attention to the scorch marks on the workbench as Annatar very visibly searched for a word that was not “exploding.”

“And at which point in this process did you lie to him?” he asked pleasantly.

Annatar winced even more deeply. “He asked where his brother was,” he said apologetically.

Gil-Galad went very, very still.

He remembered, very clearly, just how closely the twins had stuck to each other in the early days of their being sent to Balar.

He remembered, very clearly, the grief on Elrond’s face when Elros had sailed.

And he remembered, very clearly, the grief that even still had not vanished when the bond between them at last had fully snapped.

“I’m afraid in my distraction that I said that was an interesting theological question.”

And Elrond, even at this age, had put the pieces together between that statement and the aching void Gil-Galad was sure he still felt in his soul when he reached for his brother.

Maiar, he had to remind himself very firmly, did not view death as Men or elves did. Annatar had not intended his statement to lead to . . . this.

This was even now changing. Whatever expression was on Gil-Galad’s face must have convinced Elrond that it was not a lie after all because there were no more objects being thrown from the shelf.

Unless, of course, you counted Elrond himself, who was slowly but surely turning the color of bleached bone and sliding inexorably off the shelf.

Gil-Galad sprang for him, catching the far too light body just in time.

“Fix this,” he ordered Annatar, clutching Elrond to his chest. Elrond had gone deathly quiet, and he had to move his hand on Elrond’s back until he could feel the heartbeat through the ribs just to be sure it was still pumping.

It was not the correct way to talk to an emissary of the Valar.

Gil-Galad did not have enough left in him to care.

. . .

Several hours later, he still had not determined what precise age this version of Elrond was.

This failure was mainly because of what else he had discovered. Namely, that this version of Elrond did not want to talk.

Or eat. Or sleep. Or do anything, really, but curl up into the smallest ball he could manage and block out the rest of the world.

He did not object to Gil-Galad talking. Or singing. Or pacing.

He did object, after those first few moments, to being touched. Gil-Galad had set him down in the window seat of his borrowed office the moment he could. As far as he could tell, Elrond hadn’t moved since.

He also objected to Annatar’s entrance. At least, that’s what Gil-Galad assumed the infinitesimal tensing of his shoulders meant. It was tempting to drag Annatar into the hallway to just meet there, but that would mean leaving Elrond alone, and Gil-Galad felt . . . uneasy about that.

(The window was narrow. The window was covered with beautifully stained glass that some of the artisans here had apparently been experimenting with. The window was not that high off the ground, really, as elves usually considered things.)

(On the other hand: Elwing. Maedhros.)

(Even if Elrond currently remembered only one of those formative experiences, Gil-Galad was not in the mood to take any risks.)

“You have a solution?”

Annatar shook his head mournfully. “I have a better idea of what went wrong,” he corrected. “A solution will likely take weeks. Longer, perhaps. It is a good thing you accompanied Lord Elrond on this visit; I am not sure a messenger could have found Celebrimbor in time.”

Gil-Galad paused in his pacing. “In time,” he repeated.

“Since the dwarves have been so reluctant to share the location of their sacred places to others in the past . . . ?” Annatar’s voice hinted gently, embarrassed to repeat what Gil-Galad already knew.

He knew full well why a message might take a while to find Celebrimbor; the complications of Celebrimbor’s expedition with the dwarves of Khazad-dum falling, he was assured unavoidably, in tax year, coinciding with a few mix-ups in delegation and communication . . .

But “in time.”

Were the effects going to get worse or - ?

“He’s a child,” Annatar said, very slowly, in response to the confusion Gil-Galad feared was on his face. “His fea will need to be nurtured. Preferably by a relative.”

“That’s just superstition,” he protested.

Annatar looked at him very oddly.

“ . . . I’ve heard,” Gil-Galad tacked on, like an elf who had certainly had two very present and alive elvish parents to nurture him throughout his childhood, and not at all like a feral former fugitive who had been raised by human bandits in the woods.

“From whom?” Annatar asked incredulously.

“Elrond,” he said after a slightly too long pause. He flicked his eyes hopefully to the child on the window seat; Elrond hadn’t so much as twitched. “He survived the first time around, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Annatar agreed after an equally baffled pause. “Forgive me for any indelicacy here, but you do realize that no matter how forsworn the sons of Feanor may be, they do still count as relatives . . . ?”

Right.

And Gil-Galad . . . did not.

Which shouldn’t matter, he told himself firmly. He had survived, hadn’t he? And he was perfectly fine.

Perfectly alive, at any rate. And any of his various moral shortcomings were just down to his personal failings. And the more practical side of his upbringing.

Definitely.

His eyes flicked worriedly to the very pale, very still, very small figure in the corner.

“I don’t suppose you have any advice in that direction?”

(Annatar did, as it turned out.)

(It did not turn out to be enough.)

. . .

He had felt guilty before about lying about his place in the Finwean family tree.

None of it came close to what he felt watching Elrond slowly wasting away.

He had lied and cheated his way to this point, and if this point got Elrond killed -

No.

He could stay here and pray Annatar finished fixing the device before his own deficiencies got Elrond killed.

Or he could take his company and ride hard for Galadriel.

Probably that would be the end of his masquerade; probably all that sharp edged suspicion in her eyes would turn to certainty and that would be that. Definitely of his career and possibly of his life.

But Galadriel was Elrond’s cousin; Galadriel was a mother. Galadriel would know what to do. Elrond would be alright.

(“I’m sure this isn’t necessary,” Annatar said as Gil-Galad’s guards prepared the horses. Elrond had let himself be hauled like a terrifyingly heartbroken statue onto one of them. “You must be a closer relative to him the sons of Feanor were; surely with a few more days of trying to bond with him - ”)

(He considered just blurting it out. ‘No, actually, he might be more closely related to you, considering that maiar blood.’ ‘No, actually, I wouldn’t know Finwe from a dead toad on the ground.’)

(‘No, actually, there’s something terribly wrong with me. Possible more wrong than there was with thrice kin slaying Feanorians.’)

(He smiled, instead, with a closed mouth. “I’m really not father material,” he said. “Lady Galadriel, I’m sure, will prove as ferociously competent as always in my stead.”)

(Annatar did not argue with this.)

. . .

(There weren’t any Feanorian guards with them. Gil-Galad had insisted after what had happened the last time he had let Elrond bring Farande to Eregion. He wasn’t sure if that was for the better or the worse now; if Elrond would be relieved to have a face he recognized or terrified due to how he recognized it.)

(At least that might be better than the terrifyingly hollow look that was currently in his eyes.)

(But it would be better soon, he assured Elrond. They would reach his cousin Galadriel soon, and wouldn’t that be nice?)

(Elrond remained curled in the tightest huddle he could manage by the campfire. He no longer bothered to wince when he was touched.)

. . .

Galadriel met them at the edge of the forest she had made her new home in, so at least the messengers he had sent had managed to find her. She gave her usual shallow courtesies to her nominal king, but her eyes were locked on Elrond.

Now, at last, was the moment to confess.

Gil-Galad slid from his horse. Carefully, oh, so carefully, he helped Elrond down.

His ribs had been less prominent when the Feanorians had sent him to Balar.

“I couldn’t help him,” he said, his quiet voice sounding like the crack of doom through the silence.

“Of course you could not,” Galadriel said.

Of course.

“His fea was orphaned once; it will not accept a replacement again. Not - ” And here, in the face of Elros, even she faltered. “Not under these conditions.”

A different, more dreadful doom wrapped around his heart.

If Celebrimbor had been deemed too difficult to find -

He noticed, dully, that Galadriel had come alone.

And that despite wearing a fine woven cloak against the snap of the late autumn chill she was carrying another one.

And a flute.

“Lady Galadriel,” he said slowly.

“Do you want to help him or not?” she snapped. She paused. “My king.”

“Oh, I want the help,” he said instantly, fervently. “I’ll welcome him into Lindon with open arms if he can do this.”

“Well,” she sniffed. “I don’t know that you need to promise that.”

“Especially since it seems you came well prepared with bribes yourself,” he said, nodding with considerable relief to the goods in her hands.

She looked down at them. “ . . . Yes,” she said. “Bribes.”

#second age #gil galad #gil galad scion of somebody probably #and currently very concerned by this fact #galadriel #elrond #implied incoming maglor #someone gets de aged and for once it is not even a little a maia of vana's fault #this one is all on annatar #annatar #meanwhile galadriel is here with a new cloak #a new flute and a whole bunch of lembas #naturally this is a one time bribe and not what she has been routinely been slipping Maglor for the past few decades #and she will fight anyone who says otherwise #galadirel is also genuinely suspicious of Gil-Galad for the record #but only because she can tell he's hiding something #it has genuinely never occurred to her to doubt that he's family #he's got that look of Finwe about him #she knows Finrod thought he was Turgon's kid #personally she thinks he might be Maeglin's older brother #she has not wanted to bring this up for obvious reasons #not b2mem for once since this story required characters I can't use for the contest #but i really wanted to write this

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jetii · 27 days ago

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Event Horizon

Chapter Thirty-Two: Convergence

Chapter WC: 10,048

Chapter Tags/Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, aftermath of war, blood and medical stuff, child injury, i am not an expert in the Force or in medicine, there are good things in this chapter i promise, very good things some would say

A/N: i have the unfortunate habit of making everything a three-part ordeal. what was originally just this chapter has ballooned into three, last week's chapter and then next week's. thanks for being patient with me, we'll get our man back soon enough. though this chapter isn't without a little bit of Rex 👀

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Nadiem, 20 BBY

A hand shoots up from the rubble, clawing at the air and reaching desperately for the sky.

“Over here!” you shout, and two of your men rush forward and dive into the mess, their hands working furiously to clear the rocks and debris. A cry of pain comes from somewhere within, and the clones move faster, their hands digging and pulling, tossing the rocks aside.

The air burns your throat as you lift your arms and call on the Force to aid their efforts, using it to clear a path. The rubble shifts and moves, and soon, a gap appears. Screwball dives forward and pulls a body free, dragging them out into the open.

“We've got a live civilian, sir," he yells. "It's the kid."

You release a breath, your knees going weak.

The battle was over, and you had just begun the process of evacuating the civilians, the area cleared and the wounded accounted for, or so you'd thought. A nagging feeling had settled in your chest, and it was only after the first transport was off the ground that the source of the disturbance became apparent.

It had been a little boy. Just a boy, buried beneath the ruins. You hadn't sensed him until it was almost too late.

You watch as the men lift the small body and begin carrying them towards the aid station where Wise is waiting. Screwball lingers, his gaze locked on the ruins.

"Are there others?" you ask.

Screwball shakes his head. His helmet is smeared with dust and grime, nearly obscuring the twin flames painted across the sides, and you frown when you notice a gash along the edge of the helmet's visor. You reach up and brush a finger along the split metal, a shiver running down your spine.

"I'm fine, sir," Screwball assures you, his voice low. He glances at the aid station and takes a deep breath. "We've got more important things to worry about."

You can't argue with that. There's a flurry of activity in the distance, and the distant shouts of medics and wounded carry through the air.

You let your hand drop and nod. "Take Dash and do another check. Then report to Wise so he can patch you up."

Screwball doesn't hesitate. He's off, calling for Dash, and you watch as the two clones make their way through the ruins, checking every corner and every shadow. A few others join in the search, and it's not long before the entire company is involved, digging through the wreckage.

Once they're a safe distance away, you allow yourself to collapse, your legs giving out and your body hitting the ground hard. You close your eyes and take a moment to steady yourself. The pain is excruciating, a constant ache radiating throughout your entire body. Your head feels like it's going to explode, and every breath burns. You're exhausted, physically and emotionally, and you can't stop shaking.

This is the worst you've felt in a long time.

It's the aftermath of the battle. The adrenaline is gone, the battle rage spent. It leaves you weak, your limbs heavy, and your mind foggy. The weight of what happened is pressing down on you, the enormity of the destruction bearing down on your soul. You can't shake the feeling of wrongness, the sense that something is missing.

You know it's the darkness. You can feel its absence, its loss. You don't know how, or why, but you know that this is the price you've paid for holding back the tide of the dark side.

But that's nothing new.

You've had that feeling for weeks.

The vision flickers through your mind, the images sharp and vivid. The screams echo in your ears, the smell of burning flesh filling your nostrils, and the taste of blood coats your tongue. You can't shake the image of Rex holding a blaster to your chest.

For a moment during the battle, you'd thought that would be the end of it. That the vision was about to come true. That this was the beginning of the end.

But no. It's still a long way off. You still have time.

Maybe it’ll never come.

A hand on your shoulder brings you back to the present, and you suck in a sharp breath. Your eyes open, your hand falling to the hilts of your lightsabers, but the sight of a familiar gold-and-white helmet eases the panic.

"It's okay," Snap murmurs. "They're safe."

You sigh and let your shoulders slump, the exhaustion washing over you. You wipe your eyes and take a deep breath.

"Thank the Force," you whisper as you turn and find him kneeling beside you. You're not sure how long he's been there, but worry is emanating from him. You touch his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. "I'm alright."

"Sure you are," he says, his tone flat. "Come on, let's get you up."

He lets out a breath, his gaze shifting to the battlefield, and his grip on your shoulder tightens. Snap pulls you to your feet, and the two of you stand, surveying the carnage. The fighting has stopped, the smoke has cleared, and the wounded are being treated. But the damage remains.

"We'll need to send a team down here," you say, more to yourself than to him. "Clear out the rubble and get the rest of the supplies unloaded. Make sure the survivors have food and water."

"Booker's taking care of it," he assures you. He lets his hand fall from your shoulder and looks back at the battlefield. "Once the wounded have been cleared, we can start the repairs."

"Good," you murmur as you sigh and run a hand over your face. Your skin is slick with sweat, and the dirt and ash cling to your fingers. You grimace and wipe your hand on your robe. "C'mon."

The two of you step back into the street and join the rest of the attack battalion. The fighting is over, but the work is far from done. Nadiem is a mess. Buildings have collapsed, the roads are filled with debris, and the streets are littered with the bodies of droids and clones alike. The dead will need to be collected, their armor removed and their bodies given a proper burial.

It was a victory, but it didn’t feel much like one. Nadiem is a remote world, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. The only reason the Separatists were here at all was because the Republic had chosen to defend it. Now, it was nothing more than a scar. A reminder of a war that had gone on too long.

Master Unduli, Barriss, and their men had come and gone, leaving you behind to handle cleanup, and in some ways you're glad for it. Being left to do what is necessary has always suited you, and with Luminara gone, there was no longer any need to maintain the facade. No more pretending that everything was fine. No more pretending that you could ever be the kind of Jedi Master she is.

You and the troopers have a routine now. Every time a battle is over, you go through the same process. Check for survivors. Treat the wounded. Collect the dead. Dispose of the fallen droids. And, finally, begin the rebuilding. You've done this a dozen times in the past few months, and the process has become rote.

The only difference now is the size of the battle. It's bigger. Worse. And the carnage is even more gruesome.

Still, the men don't complain. The full brigade is spread out around the city and the countryside, and Booker and Wise have been working tirelessly to get the injured into transports and the supplies delivered. You've made it a point to thank them both, and each of the men under your command, but you know the words are never going to be adequate.

These men have risked their lives for you, over and over. They've fought by your side, protected you, and supported you. You're grateful for them, and you're determined to repay their loyalty in whatever ways you can.

For now, the best you can do is keep the fighting going. To protect them, and to ensure that they are ready, no matter what comes. No matter how dark things become.

Your feet stop, your gaze lifting to scan the ruins. The buildings are a mixture of stone and metal, the facades crumbling and the windows blown out. There's no power. No lights. Just a thick darkness and an eerie quiet that's only broken by the sounds of your men trudging through the streets.

“What a mess," you murmur. You take a deep breath, your hand coming to rest on your chest. It hurts to breathe, a sharp stabbing pain in your ribs. "This is going to take days to clean up."

Snap nods, his helmet tilting toward the horizon. The sky is streaked with orange and red, the clouds heavy and dark. Night is coming. The air is still, and the faint smell of smoke lingers. There's no wind, no breeze, no sign of life. The city feels like a tomb.

”Yeah," he agrees, his voice quiet.

He reaches up and removes his helmet, tucking it under his arm. His free hand runs over his face and his buzzed head, his fingers lingering on the tattoo at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"I hate this," Snap mutters, and you study him, his words making your chest ache. He gives a slight shake of his head, his hand tightening around his helmet. "I hate it so much."

"I know," you murmur.

You look away, trying not to let the emotion show.

In the early days of the war, the clones had been enthusiastic and eager to fight. They had a purpose. Something to believe in. And their dedication and passion was infectious.

Now, after so many months, that passion has shifted into a grim determination. One borne of necessity and the need to survive. To protect their brothers. It's still there, and it's still strong, but there's an exhaustion and a resignation. An acceptance.

It's a reality you don't like to think about.

The truth is, this is all just a stepping stone. It's a path you know you have to walk, but a path you hope will eventually lead to a place where your men no longer have to fight. No longer have to sacrifice their lives. No longer have to die for a cause they didn't choose.

It's a goal, a distant hope. But it's a hope that you'll do anything to see realized.

You glance over at Snap and see him watching you, and there's something in his gaze that you can't quite place.

"Is everything alright?" you ask. "You seem...off."

He sighs and drops his gaze, his hand tightening around his helmet.

"No," he says, and his shoulders slump. "But I think it will be. Eventually."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, and he blinks. Snap's hand tightens on the back of his neck as he looks away, his gaze returning to the crumbling streets, and you can see his expression softening.

"There's a group of kids playing a game a little ways down the street," he says quietly, his voice barely audible over the chaos. "I…I'm afraid they'll get lost, or hurt."

You smile and rest a hand on his upper back, giving him a gentle pat. "Go. Keep them safe. We can handle the rest."

His gaze lingers on yours, and he smiles, his eyes lighting up.

"Thank you," Snap murmurs.

"You don't have to thank me," you reply. You return the smile and push him lightly toward the group of children, who are gathered around a small crater. "Just get out of here before I change my mind, Captain.”

He doesn't need to be told twice. He's off, jogging down the street, his armor flashing in the dim light. You watch him go, your smile fading with every step he takes until he's nothing more than a blur of white.

Then you close your eyes and let out a slow breath, your shoulders sagging. Your hand reaches into the folds of your robes and grabs hold of the smooth stone hidden there. It's warm to the touch, and a familiar peace settles over you, faint, but enough to aid you in pushing the fear and grief away.

Ever since your vision, you've found yourself reaching for Yaddle's necklace more often. Holding it in your hand. Clutching it tight. Trying to find the same calm, the same peace that she seemed to exude. The same certainty.

But it's difficult. So difficult. And you've begun to wonder if there will ever be an end to this war. If you'll ever have the chance to make things right and give the clones the lives they deserve. To find peace, and justice.

The thought is troubling, and you shake it away, focusing on the here and now. You take another deep breath and exhale slowly, letting the darkness settle back into the corners of your mind, and the necklace falls back into your tunic. You turn and continue on your way, heading for the center of the city.

Your footsteps echo off the buildings, the silence broken by the occasional shouts and whistles from the troops. You can hear the rumble of speeders in the distance, and the distant cries of the wounded. The air is thick, heavy with dust and ash, and you find yourself coughing, your eyes burning.

"General!"

You look up and see Booker approaching. He's carrying a crate full of ration packs, and he looks exhausted, his hair disheveled and his mustache unkempt. But there's a hint of satisfaction on his face, and he's moving with an ease and grace that's been absent in recent months.

"You look like shit," you quip, and he snorts.

"Speak for yourself," he retorts. He comes to a halt and sets the crate down, wiping the sweat from his brow. "The medics have got everything under control, and I think the last transport should be leaving soon."

"Any issues?"

"None worth mentioning," he replies. He glances over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he scans the surrounding area. "Dash has already started working on the comm tower. The rest of the supplies should be here soon. Hopefully, we can get the power running and the civilians can start settling back in."

"And the wounded?"

"We're bringing the ones who can make the trek to the aid station in the next town over," he says. His eyes return to you, and there's a flicker of concern. "Are you sure you don't want to join them? You look like you could use a breather."

You shake your head.

"I'm fine," you assure him.

His lips thin, and he doesn't look convinced. He glances at the crate and picks it back up, balancing it on his hip.

"Well, if you won't rest, at least take a ration pack," he says as he throws one of the packs at you. "You've barely eaten anything since we landed."

You catch the pack and turn it over, the plastic crinkling. Your stomach rumbles, and the realization that you've gone most of the day without eating suddenly hits. You hadn't noticed.

Booker chuckles and shakes his head, giving you a small salute.

"I'm gonna make another round, check in with the guys," he says. "Let me know if you need anything."

He's off, disappearing around the corner, and you watch him go, the ration pack still in your hand. You look down at it, the hunger pangs intensifying, and you sigh. You’ve all been eating nothing but ration packs and instant caf for weeks now, interspersed with the mess hall meals served on your ships. The Oracle, Utterance, and Pathfinder are all more than adequate, and the crews have done their best to make sure you have food that's edible, but it's not the same. Nothing tastes right. And as the days go on, you find yourself looking forward to that dinner with Rex more and more.

The thought sends a wave of warmth through you, and you smile, tearing open the pack and taking a bite.

You'll need to talk to him soon, you know. Tell him the truth. About the vision, about the darkness, about the fact that you love him. But as always, the timing is off.

You haven’t seen Rex in person since you were on Coruscant, and the only communications have been brief exchanges via holo. It's not a conversation you want to have through a screen, and the distance has been a blessing. It's made it easier to hide the truth, and you're grateful for the opportunity to have time to think, and plan, and prepare.

Rex has his own struggles, and the stress of the war is wearing on him. His missions have become more dangerous, and his responsibilities have increased. It's no longer uncommon for him to disappear for days with no communication. None of those stints were as long as the two months you’d spend in the jungle on Drongar, comm silent and cut off from the galaxy, but it had still felt like an eternity.

But, he'd come back. Every time, he'd come back.

The last message you received from Rex was encouraging, promising a dinner and a drink and a hug the next time you were both on Coruscant, and despite everything, the thought had put a smile on your face.

The fact that he's still interested, that he still wants to be with you, means more than you can say. And even if he can't admit his feelings, or doesn't want to, you're grateful for the chance to be close to him, and the fact that he's willing to try.

You take another bite and let your gaze wander. The street is mostly empty, and you can see the beginnings of repairs beginning to take shape. Apparently, Screwball is capable of more than blowing things up. His expertise with demolitions and architecture has proved useful, and he's already barking out directions to a group of clones and civilians as they work to repair the damaged facade of a nearby building.

It’s a relief to see something be created instead of destroyed for the first time in days, and you find yourself breathing a sigh. You tuck the wrapper into the folds of your robe and turn on your heel, heading towards the aid station. The sun is setting, and you want to check in with Wise and make sure everything is going well before the darkness settles.

You speak into your comm as you walk, fielding reports from the other battalions about their progress and their efforts. It's been a long day, but things are starting to come together. It won't be long before the civilians can start returning home, and you'll be able to return to the ships, and maybe even return to Coruscant, if you’re lucky.

The door to the makeshift aid station creaks slightly as you shoulder it open, and the smell of blood and bacta washes over you.

What used to be a small schoolhouse is now a large triage unit, with rows of cots filled with injured civilians and clones. Medics are scurrying around, attending to the wounded, though there isn’t a droid in sight, as per Wise’s instructions. He claims it’s easier on the wounded civilians, but you both know it has more to do with his personal distaste for droids.

It seems the worst of the injuries have been treated, and the remaining patients are being tended to. You make your way around the room, taking deep, steady breaths and trying to spread a sense of calm, the way Master Yaddle taught you. You stop to offer a reassuring word or two, but most of the injured seem content to just sit quietly, the exhaustion and the pain apparent on their faces.

"Sir."

A voice calls to you from across the room, and you turn to see Wise approaching, wiping his hands on a towel. He looks haggard, his shoulders slumped and his eyes dull, and he stops a safe distance away. The usual grumpy scowl has been replaced with an expression of weariness and worry, and your chest tightens.

"What's the status?" you ask, and his eyes dart over your shoulder, toward the far wall.

You follow his gaze, and your stomach clenches at the sight of a boy asleep on the cot. His head is wrapped in bandages, his arm is in a sling, and there are several bruises and cuts on his exposed skin. You recognize him as the boy Screwball and his men had pulled out of the rubble. You can't help but wonder if he has any family left, and your throat constricts.

"He's stable," Wise mutters. He rubs his neck, his expression grim. "We lost a few more on the transports, but I've got the worst of them under control."

Your eyes snap back to him, alarmed by his tone. His words are flat, his voice monotone, and his usual sarcasm is absent. You've seen this before. Many times. It's a look of resignation, of acceptance, and it never means anything good.

"How many?"

"Six," he replies. He sighs and rubs his forehead, his hand trembling slightly. "And that was just today. It's only a matter of time before the number rises."

You reach out and place a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. He's staring straight ahead, his eyes unfocused, and his fingers drum nervously on his leg.

"I'm sorry," you tell him. His eyes dart to yours, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.

"It's not your fault," Wise mutters, but the words are hollow. "It's not anyone's fault. It's just the way it is."

"I know," you answer quietly. "But, still...I'm sorry. You're doing all you can, and—"

"Hey," he interrupts, his tone softening. "It's not your fault, either."

You don't reply. You know he's right. You can't blame yourself for every tragedy that happens. But it's difficult, especially in the wake of the vision. Especially after days like this.

"It's fine. Really,” Wise continues. He takes a deep breath and takes your wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting it drop to your side. “It's just part of the job. You know that."

"Yeah," you murmur, and a heavy silence stretches between the two of you. Wise shifts awkwardly, his gaze returning to the boy on the cot, and you know the conversation is over. There's nothing left to say. No more platitudes or reassurances. Just the grim reality of the situation.

You watch him, taking in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the exhaustion in his gaze, and after a while, you let out a heavy sigh and straighten.

"You should rest," you tell him. "The others, too."

"Yeah," he agrees, running a hand over his face. "I think we could all use a few hours."

"Get some sleep," you order, and he nods and turns, making his way through the rows of beds. He murmurs something to the other medics, and they nod, moving away from the cots and heading for the door.

Wise lingers behind, and your eyes follow him as he goes around the room, checking the IVs and adjusting the blankets, a tenderness and care in his movements. He stops by the boy's bed and places a hand on the child's forehead, his thumb brushing a strand of hair away. His shoulders slump as he pulls away, pinching the bridge of his nose, and a wave of sadness washes over you.

Wise is the last of his batch, and he's seen more death and destruction than most. He's spent most of his life in Kamino’s sterile medical facility, watching his brothers die from defects that never should have existed and training regimens that were meant to break them. The sight of a child, so young and so full of promise, is no doubt bringing back a host of painful memories, and it's all you can do to hold yourself together.

“Wise," you call, and he starts, his head whipping towards you. He blinks rapidly and straightens, his expression hardening.

"Sir."

"I'm serious," you say. "Get some sleep."

"Yeah," he says, his voice low. He gives a slight shake of his head, his eyes flitting back to the bed. "Right."

“You should go now while you can. I'll watch him,” you offer.

"No," Wise protests, his eyes moving back to yours. His jaw tightens, and a spark of defiance appears in his eyes. "Sir, you need sleep, too. You can't—"

"I'm fine," you assure him, holding a hand up. "Besides, I can't sleep right now. My mind is...well, it's not quiet."

“And you think mine is?”

The sharpness of his tone catches you off-guard, and your mouth snaps shut. Wise pauses, a flash of regret crossing his face, and he clears his throat and gives a slight shake of his head.

"Just...just let me stay. Please. I...I don't want him to be alone."

"Wise—"

"Please," he says, his voice cracking. His eyes are wide, pleading, and you know there's no point in arguing. Not now.

"Fine," you relent. He lets out a breath, and his shoulders relax. “I guess we’re both staying, then.”

Wise doesn’t argue. Instead, he just nods and moves around the bed, pulling up a chair and sitting beside the sleeping boy. He settles into the seat, his hands reaching out and gripping the sides, and you make your way across the room, settling down in the chair opposite him.

The boy doesn’t stir, and the silence is deafening. You lean forward and rest your elbows on your knees, the weight of the day pressing down on you. Your head drops, your eyes closing, and for a few minutes, you sit like that, listening to the steady beeping of the monitors and the faint rumble of the engines and voices outside.

It's peaceful, in a strange sort of way, and you can feel yourself drifting off, the exhaustion and the adrenaline crash finally taking their toll. It's tempting, the thought of giving in, but you fight it, knowing that the nightmares are waiting just below the surface. Ready to swallow you whole.

The darkness has been a constant companion, a weight hanging over your shoulders and a threat always lurking just out of reach. Ever since the vision, the fear has been almost overwhelming, and it's all you can do to keep the paranoia and the anxiety at bay.

The only time the darkness abates is when you’re around your men, and you’ve spent more time than you probably should surrounded by them. Playing Sabacc. Training. Talking. Doing anything, really, that would take your mind off the darkness and the visions and the ever-present threat.

The truth is, they have become your lifeline. Your source of light and hope and strength. Their presence is a reminder of the goodness and the beauty of the galaxy. Of the things worth fighting for. Of the reasons to continue, even in the face of the darkness.

There's a reason you were given this brigade, and not another. It's not a coincidence, not a fluke. You know that. The Force has led you here, to these men. And for whatever reason, they need you, too. They have a purpose, and so do you.

You're not sure how long it is before Wise breaks the silence, his voice low and rough.

"I couldn't save them," he mutters, and you open your eyes, glancing over at him. His face is drawn, his gaze fixed on the child, and his shoulders sag, his eyes moving to the floor. "I...there were so many. And, I just..."

His words trail off, and he takes a shuddering breath, his head dropping into his hands. They slide up, his fingers digging into his scalp, and he exhales a ragged gasp.

"It's not your fault," you murmur, and his fingers tighten, his head shaking. You reach out and rest a hand on his arm, your thumb finding the spot between the plates at his elbow, and you can feel him tense.

"I could have done more," he mumbles. "I should have done more."

"You did all you could," you assure him, and he shakes his head again. "Wise, there was nothing you could have done. You can't save everyone. And that's not your responsibility. That's not on you. You have to understand that."

"I should have done more," he insists. He pulls back and meets your eyes, his own red and watery. "They deserved more. Better. I..."

He sighs, his hands rubbing his face, and you lean forward, your grip on his arm tightening. You're not sure what to say. There's nothing you can say. Nothing you can do. So instead, you reach out with the Force and wrap it around him, hoping that your presence, your support, will be of some comfort.

"The men...they don’t understand,” he mutters, his hands falling into his lap. "They're different. They didn't...they never saw the others. The ones that didn't make it."

His voice is barely above a whisper, and his gaze falls to the floor. You can see the tears glistening in his eyes, the emotions threatening to burst free. But he doesn’t cry. Instead, his hands ball into fists, and he looks back at the boy, a grim determination crossing his face.

"I'll save this kid," he mutters. "I have to."

"I know," you say quietly, and his eyes flick to yours, the pain and the anguish reflected in their depths. "And you will."

"He didn't ask for any of this," Wise murmurs. He shakes his head, a tear slipping down his cheek. "He's just a kid. Just a fucking kid, and now, he's..."

His voice cracks, and he lets out a choked noise, his eyes closing as he struggles to breathe.

Your hand tightens on his arm, and you pull him towards you, wrapping him in a hug. He stiffens, his breath catching, and for a moment, neither of you move. Then, slowly, his arms lifts, his hands coming up and gripping the fabric of your robe. His face presses into your shoulder, and his shoulders shake, the tears soaking through the thin fabric.

You close your eyes, wrapping him in the warmth and the safety of the Force, and hold him, your hand moving up and cradling the back of his head. You can feel the weight of his grief, the pain and the loss, and it's almost too much. But somehow, you manage to stay strong. To hold it back. To stay in control.

It’s easier, you think, to help someone else deal with their pain. There’s something in it that calms the darkness, something that pushes it aside, and you find yourself breathing a sigh of relief. You may be haunted, you may be a wreck, but this...this you can handle. This is something you can do.

After a while, his silent sobs subside, and his breathing slows, his body relaxing in your embrace. You keep him close, holding him tight, and it's not until his grip loosens and his head shifts that you finally release him. Your hands come up to cup his face, wiping away the tears, and you give him a small smile. Wise isn't the only brother who has ever cried in your arms, and you know better than to think this is the last time.

You reach into your robes and retrieve a cloth, handing it to him, and he accepts it with a quiet thanks, his voice hoarse.

"Sorry," he whispers.

"Don't be," you reply easily. You lean back and fold your hands, resting them in your lap. "We all need a good cry now and again. Nothing to be ashamed of."

Wise huffs a laugh, wiping his face and blowing his nose.

"It's been a while," he admits, his cheeks flushed, and you hum in response.

"Guess you were due."

"Guess so," he grunts. He takes a deep breath, the air rattling in his lungs, and he lets out a heavy sigh. "Thanks."

"You don’t have to thank me. I'm just glad you trust me," you say, and his head jerks up. He opens his mouth, a protest forming on his lips, but you hold up a hand, silencing him. "No, it's true. I am. And I'm not going to tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about. But I want you to know that I'm here. I may be your general, but I’m also your friend. Whether you want me to be or not."

Wise scoffs and rolls his eyes, though the corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-smile.

"I don’t think that’s how friendship works, sir," he points out, his eyes returning to the boy. His brow furrows, and he reaches out, brushing the hair away from the child's forehead. "Not that I'd know."

“Yeah, it’s…a pretty new concept for me, too," you admit. "But I think I'm getting the hang of it. You should give it a try."

He laughs. It's a short, harsh bark, and his hand falls away. His gaze turns inward, his expression pensive. After a while, he lets out a heavy sigh and rubs his forehead.

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

"Nope."

He huffs a breath, shaking his head.

"I guess you're not the worst," he concedes. "For a Jedi."

"Wow, thanks," you reply dryly.

"I mean, at least you're not Skywalker," he continues. Wise lets out a low whistle and shakes his head. "That guy is a fucking mess."

You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle the sudden laughter, and his mouth curves into a grin, the first genuine smile you've seen in days. You’re a little delirious, maybe, but you can't help the laughter that spills from your lips.

You haven't seen much of Anakin lately, or any of the other Jedi for that matter, but you've heard plenty of rumors. You have no doubt that Rex has seen more than his fair share of reckless behavior and dramatic stunts recently. It's no secret that Anakin and Ahsoka have gotten themselves into more trouble than most, and the image of Wise being assigned to the 501st instead of the 419th has you struggling to breathe.

“You should’ve seen him when he was a Padawan," you say after your laughter subsides. "He made me look sane and rational."

"You're shitting me," he deadpans.

"Not in the slightest," you reply. "Trust me, it's better that you ended up with us. He'd probably drive you insane within a week."

Wise snorts, the grin fading.

"I didn't ��end up’ anywhere," he says quietly as he reaches out, fixing the corner of the child's blanket. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye before his gaze darts away. "I chose to serve with you. It wasn't an assignment."

"I...well, that's..." you stammer, his words catching you off guard. He clears his throat, a faint blush creeping up his neck, and you blink a couple of times. "Oh."

You had assumed he was assigned, the same way Booker was. And the rest of the men, for that matter. That the Republic had decided to pluck him from the clutches of the Kaminoans, and the recommendation from Booker and Rex had only helped seal the deal. You had never considered that he had actually chosen to be here, and the realization is almost more than you can take.

"I wanted a change," he mumbles, and his fingers drum nervously on the side of the cot. "Booker and I talked about it, and...I knew it was a risk, but, well, we're clones. Risks are part of the job. And you're the best we've got."

"Oh."

You don't know what else to say. The words are stuck in your throat, and it's all you can do not to start crying, too. He chose this. He chose you. He came to the 419th because he thought you were the best, and he was willing to risk his life and his future to fight alongside you. Not because he had to, not because someone ordered him to, but because he wanted to.

And, if that isn't the biggest sign of respect you could ever receive, you don't know what is.

You take a deep breath, swallowing hard, and Wise shifts, his gaze fixed on the blanket.

"Don't let it go to your head," he adds, his voice gruff.

"I'll try not to," you murmur, and his gaze flicks to yours, the corners of his mouth curving upward. He looks tired. Exhausted, really. And a little sad. But there's a hint of fondness, too. A sense of affection.

You smile back at him, a warmth spreading through your chest, and the two of you settle back in your seats. Neither of you speaks, and the silence stretches on. It's not long before a yawn escapes your lips as the exhaustion finally catches up with you, the weariness settling into your bones. Your eyes are starting to droop, and you lean your head back, resting it against the wall.

You can feel Wise watching you, and after a while, his chair creaks, and you hear his footsteps receding. You don't open your eyes. You're too tired. Too comfortable.

It feels like no time passes before you're suddenly being jolted awake by a noise, a soft whimper. You start, your eyes snapping open, and for a moment, you're not sure where you are. There's a blanket draped over you, and the room is dark, the only light coming from the monitors above the bed. You blink a couple of times, taking in your surroundings, and your gaze lands on Wise, slumped over a nearby desk, his face pressed against his folded arms.

The boy is still asleep, but his forehead is creased, his eyes moving behind his lids. There's a sheen of sweat on his brow, his breathing rapid and uneven. The monitor above his head beeps in warning, and a low groan escapes his lips as his hands scrabble at the sheets, his legs kicking.

You leap from the chair and cross the space between the beds in a flash, your hand reaching out and grabbing his wrist. You can feel his pulse racing, and the bandages are wet with sweat. The beeping intensifies, and the boy starts thrashing, his head shaking from side to side, and his eyes snap open, his gaze unfocused.

"Kid?" you whisper, your fingers brushing the damp hair off his forehead. He whimpers again, his body going limp, and his eyes close, his head lolling to the side. "Shit. Wise!"

Wise jerks awake and straightens, his chair falling over as he leaps to his feet. His eyes land on the boy, and he crosses the distance between the beds, his hands reaching for the bandages around the child's head.

"It's okay, kiddo. It's gonna be okay," he murmurs, his eyes darting to the monitors. "Help me sit him up. I'm going to have to change the bandages and check the wound."

You nod, reaching for the kid's shoulder, and the two of you carefully roll him onto his side. Wise reaches for the bandage on the back of his head and gingerly peels it away, exposing a nasty gash, the edges blackened and bloody.

Wise sucks in a breath, his eyes widening, and his hand moves, gently parting the hair and touching the area. He pulls a medscanner out of his belt and runs it over the wound, his brow furrowed in concentration. He mutters under his breath, his fingers prodding the area, and a curse escapes his lips.

"What? What is it?" you hiss, and his gaze snaps to yours. He holds the scanner out, and the display blinks rapidly, a long list of words flashing across the screen. You squint at the numbers, trying to make sense of the information, but the medical terminology is unfamiliar.

“Subdermal hematoma,” he mutters. His hand moves away, and his eyes dart to the child's arm, his lip curling. "And an infection. He's going to need a bacta tank and a brain surgeon. A real medical facility. Now."

You hesitate, knowing that it's impossible. There are no facilities nearby, and the only ships are transport vessels. They have no medical capabilities, and the journey would be too risky for a child this young. Even the Venators' medical bays are no substitute for a proper infirmary, one capable of performing a procedure this complex.

"There has to be something," you insist, your hands moving to the boy's shoulders. He's still, his breathing shallow, and you can feel the panic rising. "Something we can do."

"There's not," he replies, and his voice is flat. "It's not like the Republic is going to send in a team of neurosurgeons to save a kid from a planet that they've abandoned."

"Wise..." you begin, but the words die in your throat.

You know he's right, and it hurts, a dull ache spreading through your chest. This child, this innocent kid, will die because the Republic has forsaken him, and there's nothing you can do about it.

You look down at the boy, at the blood and the bruises, and the anger wells up inside you. It's not fair. None of this is. He doesn't deserve this.

"We can't," Wise mutters. He leans over the child, his hand moving to the IV port in his arm, and he begins to remove it. "It's too risky."

"No," you gasp, and your hands shoot out, wrapping around his wrists and pulling him away. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"It's over," he says simply. "He's not going to make it, and you know it. It's better if we just—"

"Stop it," you snap, and the words echo in the room, reverberating off the walls. Wise stares at you, his eyes wide, and you tighten your grip. "Stop it. Now."

He doesn't answer, and you can feel him trembling beneath your hands. Your grip tightens as your mind races, trying to come up with an answer, a solution, a way out. But the truth is, there isn't. Not for this. Not without a miracle.

The realization hits you like a blaster bolt, and you glance at the child, your chest tightening.

There's only one option, and it's not a pleasant thought. You know the risks, the consequences. But if there's a chance, even a small chance, that you can save this child, you have to take it. You owe him that much.

You take a deep breath and let go of Wise's wrists, your hands falling to your sides.

"I can heal him," you murmur.

"What?" Wise hisses, his eyes narrowing. He leans back, his gaze searching yours. "You can't be serious."

"I can heal him," you repeat. "I've done it before."

"General, no. I—"

"It's fine," you insist. Your hand moves to the folds of your robe, reaching for the necklace hidden there. "I can do it. Just trust me."

He stares at you, his eyes flitting between the wound and your face, and you can see the conflict on his features. He's torn, his medical training and experience telling him that it's not a viable option, that it's not a risk worth taking. But there's something else there, too. A glimmer of hope, a spark of desperation, and after a moment, he nods, his eyes hardening.

"Will it hurt him?"

"No," you assure him, and his shoulders slump. "Not if I do it right."

"Okay," he says. He reaches into his belt and pulls out a pair of gloves, tugging them on and moving around the bed. "Let's do this."

"Lay him down," you instruct, and Wise gently lowers the child onto his back. You kneel beside the bed and take a deep breath. Your eyes close, and you reach out, feeling for the child's pain. His agony is palpable, the wound a source of searing heat, and you can't help but wince.

“Just so you’re prepared,” you murmur, your hands hovering over the child's head. "I might pass out. If I do, just make sure I'm not bleeding anywhere."

"Wait, what?"

"You heard me," you mumble, and you place your hands on the boy's head. The Force flows through you, a wave of warmth and light washing over the room, and the child gasps, his eyes opening wide. His body tenses, his hands clenching the sheets, and a soft groan escapes his lips. "Just keep an eye on me, and if I start bleeding from the ears or nose, try not to panic."

"Oh, that's comforting," he mutters, his voice tight.

"I'm serious," you say, and his fingers flex.

"So am I."

You shake your head and ignore him, turning your focus inward. Your breathing slows, and the world around you fades with each breath.

The sounds of the room disappear, replaced by the steady musical hum of the Force, a chorus of voices and energy, and you let the music wash over you. It's beautiful, intoxicating, and you lose yourself in the song, letting it guide you.

Your hands begin to move, finding the places where the wound connects to the child's mind, and you reach out, sending tendrils of your fading energy into the damaged area.

As soon as you make contact, you’re pulled under.

It feels like drowning, a current pulling you down, and it's all you can do to keep from being swept away. You fight against it, struggling to stay afloat, disoriented and terrified. Pain lances through your skull, and the world seems to shift and spin, the colors and the shapes morphing into a kaleidoscope of light and shadow.

There's a ringing in your ears, a high-pitched whine that grows louder and louder, and the pain intensifies. It's a blinding agony, and you cry out, your mind trying desperately to process the flood of information, to fight against the torrent and take control.

It's a losing battle. You're no match for the power of the Force, the connection between the child's mind and yours. The strength of it is overwhelming, and it's all you can do to hang on, your thoughts and memories becoming muddled and distorted. Flashes of your vision, your childhood, the Temple, the men, the darkness, Rex. They mix and meld, twisting together, and you let out a strangled scream.

You’re grasping at the threads, chasing, trying to hold onto them, but they slip through your fingers, dissolving into smoke. It's impossible. There's too much, and you can't find the answers, can't make sense of it all.

And then it hits you.

The memory of Yaddle, her calming voice as she instructs you to be the current, to give yourself over and allow the Force to flow through you. To be the leaf, to let go of your expectations and allow yourself to be carried along, to trust that the Force will show you the way.

You take a deep breath, focusing on the song of the universe. The rhythm and the melody, the steady beat, and the hum of the energy surrounding you.

And you surrender.

The darkness rushes in, and for a moment, you’re consumed. The world disappears, and you find yourself adrift, alone and afraid. But the fear is fleeting. You're not scared anymore. You know what to do.

You can feel the Force now, the song and the current, and you let yourself drift. There's no resistance. No fighting. No struggle.

The child's presence is a bright light, a beacon in the void, and you focus on it, letting it pull you closer. As the distance between the two of you lessens, the world around you starts to materialize, the images and the feelings solidifying. You can see a golden field, a meadow filled with strange plants and flowers, and the sun is shining, the air warm and fragrant. There's a distant sound of children playing and laughing, and a gentle breeze blows, rustling the leaves of the trees.

It's peaceful, and you can't help but smile, the sight of the meadow a welcome respite.

For a moment, you simply stand, taking it all in. It's not the first time you've seen this place, but the past glimpses of the vision have always felt like just that—glimpses. Fleeting and brief, the memories coming in flashes, hazy fragments of a larger picture.

But this time, it's different. This time, it feels real, the details sharp and the colors vivid. And perhaps more importantly, there is no sense of urgency, no need to flee, no fear.

This is a place of safety. A sanctuary.

You take a deep breath, the smells of the meadow filling your lungs, and the warmth of the sun settles over you, easing the aches and the pains that had plagued you since the battle. You let your eyes close, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and a wave of contentment washes over you. You can't help but marvel at the simplicity of it all. The calmness.

The feeling is so familiar, and yet, so foreign.

It's been a long time since you've experienced such peace. So long, in fact, that you almost forgot how wonderful it is. How amazing it is, to not be afraid, to not have the weight of the galaxy resting on your shoulders. To simply be.

A soft voice calls your name as a hand settles on your shoulder, and your breath hitches. The last time you had this vision, you turned too quickly and saw nothing. But now, there's no fear, no panic, no anxiety. Only calm and acceptance.

And finally, there is no surprise.

You already know who’s standing behind you.

"Rex," you breathe, and he gives your shoulder a squeeze.

You open your eyes, and he's there, the sunlight bathing his features, his skin glowing and his eyes filled with warmth. He looks so real, so tangible, and the urge to reach out and touch him is almost irresistible.

Rex smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he gives a soft chuckle.

"What are you doing out here?" he asks. His tone is gentle, but there's a hint of teasing, a spark of mischief, and your mouth curves into a grin.

"I don't know," you admit. "What are you doing out here?"

"Trying to find you," he replies. His brow furrows, and the sparkle fades from his eyes. "I was worried about you."

"You don't have to worry about me," you assure him, and he snorts, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

“I know.”

He doesn't say anything else, but he doesn't have to. You’ve had this conversation many times, and you’re certain you’ll have it many more. Round and round in circles, the two of you going back and forth, neither able to let the other go.

"I'm glad you found me," you whisper, and his fingers dig into your shoulder, his hand moving down your arm and his fingers entwining with yours. He steps closer, his free hand brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"I'm always going to find you," he murmurs, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand. "No matter what."

The words hit home, and you can't help but smile. It's a sweet, gentle reassurance, and it's exactly what you need. What you've always needed. The simple reminder that someone cares, that someone loves you, even if the rest of the galaxy seems against you.

And it's not just anyone. It's him. Rex. The man who's been by your side since the beginning, the man who's been fighting alongside you, the man who's loved and cared for you despite all the obstacles and challenges. Despite all the risks and the dangers. The man who's always had your back, no matter what.

Your gaze flickers to the field, the sun and the grass, and the thought hits you. This isn't just a dream or some hallucination. This is the reality you've been craving. The peace and the serenity. The freedom. The quiet, simple life you've been longing for.

You want this. You need this.

And if the Force is showing it to you, maybe...maybe there's a chance.

Your gaze flicks back to his face, and the hope blossoms in your chest, the possibilities unfolding before you.

You could have this.

It could be possible.

But before the idea has time to take root, a voice calls your name, the faint echo shattering the moment. Rex's brow furrows, his fingers tightening around yours.

"That's not good," he mutters, and you frown, his words snapping you back to the present. The memory of the child, the injury, and the wound flash through your mind, and a shiver runs down your spine.

"I have to go," you murmur, and he nods. "I don't want to, but..."

His hand comes up, cupping your face, and his thumb rubs your cheek.

"I know," he murmurs. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, a warmth blooming beneath his lips. "Just be careful."

"Always," you whisper, and he chuckles. He leans back, his gaze meeting yours, and his eyes sparkle with affection and pride.

You smile, the warmth spreading through your chest. There's a lightness to him, a calmness and a happiness that you haven't seen in a long time, and it's almost too much. There’s still a tiredness in the way he holds himself, a heaviness to his shoulders, but there's no darkness. No pain or sorrow or fear. Just him.

And it's beautiful.

A small, contented sigh escapes your lips, and he grins, the dimples appearing.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises, his words filled with the conviction that only a true believer could muster. You nod, knowing that he will, and you give his hand a final squeeze before stepping away. His hand slips from yours, his fingers trailing across your palm, and when you turn, he's gone.

There's a gentle tugging at your hand, and you look down, surprised to see the child next to you, his eyes wide and his face flushed. The rest of the vision falls away around you, and for a moment, it's just the two of you, surrounded by a swirling, hazy mist.

He's so young, and the realization sends a pang through your heart. He looks up at you, his lips turning down, and he wraps his arms around your leg, pressing his face into the fabric. He's trembling, and you place a hand on his head, your fingers gently brushing his hair.

"It's okay," you murmur. "You're safe."

His eyes dart to yours, a question in their depths, and you nod, offering a small smile. His shoulders relax, and he releases his hold, looking up at you expectantly.

"Are you ready?" you ask, and he nods. You smile again, reaching down and taking his hand, and the two of you walk into the fog.

There's a light shining ahead, a small pinprick, and the boy moves a little faster, his steps sure and determined. You reach out with the Force, parting the mist, and together, the two of you step through.

The world rushes in, a sharp intake of breath filling your lungs, and your eyes fly open.

There's a pair of hands on your shoulders, and they're shaking you, the grip almost painfully tight. You blink, the bright lights and the noise of the schoolhouse coming into focus, and you find yourself staring up at Wise. His eyes are wide, his face pale, and he's saying something, his words garbled and indistinct.

You try to reply, but your tongue is heavy, the words stuck in your throat, and you settle for a simple shake of the head. It's all you can manage, and it's clearly not the response Wise was hoping for.

"Shit," you hear him mutter. "Shit."

He releases you, and your head lolls to the side, the motion sending a wave of nausea through you. You gag, bile rising in your throat, and Wise curses again, moving to grab a wastebasket and thrusting it in front of your face. You retch into it, and you can't help but feel a sense of relief as the contents of your stomach are expelled. The taste is disgusting, and the smell is awful, but the nausea and the dizziness begin to abate.

You cough and sputter, and Wise takes the basket, placing it aside.

"Wise," you mumble, blinking a few times and trying to clear your vision. "Did it work?"

He looks back at the boy, his expression grim. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes meeting yours, and the ghost of a smile crosses his lips.

"It did."

The relief that fills you is overwhelming, and you can't help but laugh, a giddy, slightly hysterical giggle escaping your lips. You reach up and wipe your mouth, wincing as the pain in your head spikes, and you slump, closing your eyes and trying to catch your breath.

"You're bleeding," he grumbles as he kneels next to you.

"It's okay," you tell him.

"Like hell it is," he snaps. His thumb swipes under your nose, and the familiar copper tang fills your mouth. He presses a handkerchief to your face, holding it against the stream of blood, and you reach up, covering his hand with yours. "You could have killed yourself."

"Worth it, though," you manage, and his eyes narrow.

"You fucking—dikut’la, dini’la jetii," he curses, his free hand gesturing wildly. He lets out a string of profanities and insults, the words mixing together until you can't even distinguish individual phrases, but you’re too busy laughing to care, the joy and the relief overpowering any concerns.

You've never done that before, not like this. Your attempts at healing had always felt forced, like you were trying to hold back a flood with your bare hands. But this time was different.

This time, you had given yourself over, and the results had been incredible. Not just the success of the procedure, but the feeling, the way the Force had flowed through you, filling you with peace and light. It had been...indescribable. Wonderful. A feeling you hadn’t felt in so long.

But the moment is short-lived, the euphoria giving way to the pain, and you groan, your head throbbing. Wise is still ranting, his voice rising in volume and intensity, and you can't help but wince.

"Okay, okay, I get it," you mutter. You push his hand away, the cloth soaked with blood, and lean back, propping yourself against the wall. "I'm sorry."

He snorts, his mouth twisting into a scowl.

"No, you're not," he grumbles. "You're never sorry. You just...you..."

His words trail off, and his gaze drops to the cloth. Wise shakes his head, his eyes returning to yours, and he lets out a heavy sigh.

"You scare the shit out of me, you know that?"

You offer him a weak, bloody smile.

"Aw, we are friends, aren't we?" you tease, and he huffs a laugh, his eyes rolling.

"If anyone asks, I'll deny it."

Wise clears his throat and hooks his hands underneath your arms, lifting you up and depositing you in a nearby empty cot. You wince, the sudden change in position causing a fresh wave of pain, and Wise frowns and reaches for a cloth and a bowl of water.

"You should get some rest," he tells you, wringing the cloth and dabbing at your nose. The water is cool, and you let out a sigh of relief. "I'll watch him."

"Mmhmm," you murmur, your eyes already drooping. You lean back, the pillow supporting your head, and your eyelids slide shut. "Wake me if anything changes."

"Sir, yes sir," he mumbles, and you can hear the smile in his voice. You're about to reply, but the darkness is already pulling you under, the exhaustion taking hold, and before long, the world fades away.

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#the clone wars #captain rex #clone captain rex #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #roy writes #event horizon #when you show up to a who's grumpiest contest and Wise is your competition 🧍‍♀️#also random but i need a playlist for this fic so bad 😭#my music taste is not at all conducive to writing #it's only conducive to disassociating in your car driving at 90mph #for legal purposes that is a joke

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