When You Come Home

-37-

"Ani?" Her voice was soft, her touch more so, but her movements were quick, urgent almost. "I'm so sorry to wake you, but we have to go."

"Momma?" His voice was hoarse and confused. He felt her hands lifting him from the bed. His fingers lazily grabbed for his favourite toy. They closed around nothing. "Momma?"

"Shhh," she hushed him, glancing fearfully behind her, "it's okay. Stay quiet, my love. It'll be over soon."

"Threepio," he mumbled, again grasping for his plush robot. "Momma, Threepio."

"Shh," she murmured again, her fingers warm as they stroked the back of his head. Her steps were fast and juddering, jostling Anakin uncomfortably.

"Momma," he whispered, disoriented and puzzled, but safe in his mother's arms. But then the warmth disappeared and there was more fussing and jiggling. A seatbelt clattered and chattered before clicking in properly. A door slammed, then other, and his mom was in the car, too. Her face was pinched and worried as she braced her arm against the passenger seat to look out the back window. As the car jumped heavily over the gutter, a light flooded the car, showing her face in all its beauty and ... pain. A large, blue and purple bruise had formed on her perfect, freckled cheekbone.

Then the car suddenly jolted, smashing into the truck and crashing through the very walls of time. The bruise spread across her face, bleeding into cuts and scrapes and a desperate whisper.

"I love you."

"Stay with me, Mom, please ...."

"Every life."

"I know, Mom, I'll remember. I promise."

Every life.

His mom.

Every life.

Gregor.

Every life.

Cody.

Cody: lying bleeding and broken, his chest stained crimson, his voice pained. His face gentle. His touch light. His words calm.

"Find Rex. He'll help you.

"And whatever you do, don't. Blame. Yourself!"

"CODY!" Anakin yelled, sitting bolt upright. His heart jumped as his hands scrambled for something — anything — to ground himself on. They closed around cold metal poles on either side of him, tightening until his knuckles were white. His blurring vision and pounding head slowly cleared, but he didn't loosen his hold on the poles of his stretcher. He couldn't risk falling back into the world of dreams and memories.

He swung his legs over the side of his medical cot, absorbing his surroundings with dulled senses. The stifling heat cooled by a gentle wind. The trembling flutter of tent doors in said wind. The groans and cries of the other soldiers in said tent. The medic — Coric — scurrying to and fro between said soldiers.

Anakin's boots crunched and slipped on the sandy ground as he wobbled to get up, steadying himself on the creaking cot. It was even hotter standing up. He swayed for a second, supporting himself on one of the tent struts, eyeing Coric to see if he could escape without him noticing. He was just sneaking past the crate of supplies when he heard the fateful hiss.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going?" Coric was on him like a rash. "You haven't been cleared yet."

"I'm feeling better," he protested weakly, but Coric was already dragging him back to his cot. He sat him down and studied him fastidiously. "How are you? Be honest."