There are few stories that are told among the Jedi Order long enough to become myth. Legend. It takes importance to stand the test of time that way. A lesson has to be learned.
Anakin and Circe's story is told for generations long after they are go...
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Five children are dead.
They're picked up from the field and wrapped in cloaks as they're carried back to the ship. Circe's throat is tight as she lifts them. They sag in her arms, like rag dolls left in the wet mud. She fights waves of sickness as they lay them beside each other, small bundles of nothing. That is what haunts her so, the lack of energy in them. They just sit, limp and empty, and their void in the Force swallows and swallows, gaping in the grass.
It's all she can do not to crack into pieces as they lift into the air. Everyone is silent. An empty seat nearest to where she stands catches her attention, and she has to lower herself. To sit down. The boy's brother, She thinks, He'll have to be told that his little brother did not make it home.
A sudden responsibility bears down on her. These were people's children. They trusted the Jedi. They were proud to send them to learn. But they have failed these families. In one off-planet field trip—not even their first mission—they have failed every single mother, father, and sibling who trusted them to keep their loved ones safe.
Someone moves towards her, sitting quietly a few feet away so as not to disturb her. She doesn't look up, but she would recognize the feel of them anywhere.
Anakin.
Circe hates him.
No, she doesn't really. There's not a bone in her body that could hate Anakin Skywalker, no matter how hard she might try, or how desperately she wants to. She hates what he's done. How the stink of death lingers on his skin.
She hates him for losing focus and putting himself in danger.
But there is a part of her that needs him, so desperately it's all she can do not to crawl to where he sits and bury herself in his chest. The weight of failure sits so heavily on her she fears her ribs may collapse under its weight. She wants to be cleansed of it, for Anakin to make it go away. For him to touch her and make it better, like magic, like with her wrists after Dagobah. She wants to hate him and love him at the same time, to pull him in and push him away until she can no longer feel this pain.
The trip is silent and agonizing. She cannot stand the presence of the bounty hunter, who is being held below the deck under guard by Nej and his Troopers. The thought of that woman sitting in their ship makes Circe blind with rage, and this scares her more than anything.
On Coruscant, the kids are escorted back to the Youngling's hall in the West Wing, and Obi-Wan is sent off to report to the Council, who will have to tell the families of the dead children what's happened. She can't bear to imagine how they will react.
Anakin trails behind her as she makes her way back to her quarters, unsure of what to do, or how to comfort her. He doesn't know what he could say. There is a space between them now, and he does not know how to begin to cross it.
They stop in front of her room, Circe's hand flat against her door.
"Anakin," She says quietly, shakily. She told him not to see her as a piece of glass, but her voice is even more fragile than that now. It is as though the smallest word might break it all together.
"Circe," He answers, taking a step closer to her.
She turns, looking at him with tears brimming her eyes. A desperate, guttural sound escapes her lips as she covers her face with a hand. He lets her fall against his chest as she cries out. Her emotion is tangible, and he can see it wrap itself around her body, force her in on herself until she is small. Nothing like the warrior he saw fly through the battlefield today.
She's too soft, too kind, he thinks. No one deserves her, she's too good.
Her heart has always been bigger than his. She's always given more, and lost more, and felt pain more deeply. The loss on Ahch-To is crushing her, like a fist closed around a small bird. She flutters helplessly, unable to do anything but cry out.
"Circe," Anakin says, pressing his cheek against the top of her head, "It's okay. It wasn't your fault."
"T—Those children," She cries, unable to get the words out. Her throat has closed, it's painful to speak.
He hugs her tighter. "There was nothing you could have done. They're in no pain, Circe. They're resting now. The Force has taken them back and now they're part of all of us."
Grief controls her body. Needless death. Murder. Children. So many casualties in this endless war that she never signed up to fight in. She's watched so many of her friends die, so many of her teachers, and she'll never understand it. How the world can move on after millions die, how people can turn a blind eye and keep fighting the war that killed their brothers, sisters, daughters, and sons.
"Circe, be calm," Anakin says quietly, "Breathe."
He takes his slow breaths and Circe tries to follow, a few straggling whimpers forcing their way out of her body.
Five children are dead.
She stands, pushing away from him in shame or disgust, she cannot say. She wants desperately to be alone; Anakin only makes the pain worse. She crosses the threshold into her room, and he catches only a glimpse of her tear-stained face as her door slides closed.
He is not yet forgiven. It is written plainly across her face. And five children are dead.
