Afterglow | The Clone Wars

Hood of Denial

Two Months Prior.

Satine Kryze moved through the outer hallways of the Jedi Temple with reserved steps, her spine straight, sharp chin lifted, every inch the Duchess she had been taught to be since childhood. The soft echo of her heels against stone rang too loudly in her own ears. Each sound felt like something that might fracture her composure if she let it.

So, she did not let it.

The memorial chamber opened before her and her two centuries, wide and luminous, banners of the Order hanging in pale drapes from the high walls adorned with columns. Cloaked Jedi stood in quiet clusters, some she recognized, most she didn't. Senators from the senate building stood in darker silks. Diplomats. Generals. People who had known Dakota in titles and in war, but never in truth.

At the center of the chamber lay the casket. Empty. The body obliterated into nothing. Surrounded by low-burning lights that glowed like held a breath being held. A breath that was not her sisters to take anymore. Satine slowed at the top of the stairs, but she did not stop when eyes turned up to see her. Not even for Obi-Wan who moved go greet her at the bottom of the staircase.

Padmé Amidala stood near the front, hands folded, brown eyes red but resolute, although a tear stain streaked down her rosy cheeks. Close to her side was Anakin Skywalker, the young Jedi General who served directly at Dakota's side. His dark hood was pulled over his face, shoulders sunken as his arm pressed just barely against Padmé's.

Masters of the Order formed a respectful semicircle. A few clones stood at the periphery, helmets held to their chests.

Everyone wore grief. None of them wore hers. Satine approached the casket and placed her pale hands lightly on its edge, as though she were merely paying respects to a fallen general. She closed her blue eyes. Their last interaction had been an argument, a heated one. Words she regretted, anger she resented.

Now you know how it feels.

That would be the last time they spoke for weeks—and now forever. Breaking apart from one another, furious and unfit to be in the same place. Harsh words, opposing views. Complete and utter opposites.

Sisters.

The lid was sealed, polished to a gentle sheen that reflected the chamber's light back at her. For a moment, all she could see was herself in the reflection. The duchess, the composed, older sister, untouched by the war that ripped Dakota away from her so violently.

She imagined instead the child Dakota had been, long before the Force and Jedi consumed her future.

A girl too serious for her age. Too sharp-tongued and weathered, molded and sculpted to be something fierce. A warrior. She imagined her sister's hair in the mornings, tangled and stubborn. The way she used to scowl when Satine brushed it too hard. The way she'd soften, always, when she thought no one was watching.