When You Come Home

-50-

It was sunny. And not just, a warm, comfortable kind of sunny. The sun shone full force, blasting her brightness and heat unhindered from a cloudless ocean of blue sky. The temperature was much too warm for late autumn, and the weather was much too cheerful for this terrible day. It had been pouring with rain for the last couple of days, a miserable welcome back to Coruscant. Anakin had been invited to stay at the Senate's guest quarters until all the preparations had been made for the funeral, an offer he had accepted conditional on the understanding that his men were treated well. He had received assurances that they would be. His time in the Senate had been quiet and isolated; he had only seen Palpatine and a few silent staff members. The eerie atmosphere had a similar feel to that of Mandalore's: nobody said anything, and nobody asked questions. The rose-coloured lens that Anakin entered with was starting to dim like the weather outside.

Except that it wasn't dim weather at all. It was golden, warm, and happy. The rose-coloured lens was rapidly changing to a sickly pink, the kind that you painted your walls with just to convince yourself you were happy. It was the type of weather you would hold a wedding under.

But this was a funeral. And it should have been raining.

Anakin stood at the front of the procession, along with the Premier, two of his security guards, and the casket. The Republic flag – a single dot with eight spokes protruding from it, encased by a circle – draped over the polished wood, pinned down by the hands of those who carried it.

Anakin held the front right corner, his lip stiff and his throat tight. He had heard rumors that Rex was supposed to be in his position, but he hadn't showed up. So Anakin had stepped up instead. Palpatine had insisted on it, though Anakin hadn't needed much persuasion. Some of his healthier troop followed along behind, with a selection of senators who had been encouraged to take some time to remember the fallen. Padmé trailed along meekly somewhere near the back, Rush close beside her. Bringing up the rear were a couple of Jedi, thankfully neither of whom were Mace Windu.

The convoy ended at the green hill of graves, with rows upon endless rows of tiny white gravestones in perfectly parallel lines, covering the grass like a half-complete grid. A somber representation of the lives of the soldiers buried here. A proud flag fluttered at the crest of the hill, surrounded by a mural of white marble, cleaned and maintained obsessively. A flimsy arch guarded the entrance with the inscription "Lest we forget" engraved into it. A pillar on which a thousand names were carved stood just outside.

They lowered the casket into the freshly dug ground, said a few words, then covered it over without a single tear shed. Anakin almost wished he wasn't so manly as not to cry, but no one else was, and he had somehow struggled through his speech without choking up once. He hadn't planned what to say, so he had stumbled through it spectacularly. He had been too wound up with the saying the right thing to worry about the meaning behind his words.

Because Cody had been a good soldier. One of the best.

He had been a brave fighter. No one was more selfless than him.

He had been a strategic commander. His plans always led to victory.

He had been a wise mentor. Anyone who listened to him would never falter.

He had been a great asset to the Republic. The war would have been lost long before if not for him.

And, most of all, he had been a good friend. The very best.

But Anakin hadn't added that last part. No one else added it to their speeches, either. Maybe they didn't know him well enough, or maybe they all knew Anakin would break and never mend if they said it out loud.

The whole party – although it was sacrilege to call it such – stood, hands clasped, under the beaming sun, in front of the newly laid epigraph. The Premier's words rang in their ears. For he had said a few, not too many because Cody was only a soldier and not a nobleman.