The old man in stature, less so in physical age, rests at the site of former battle. Walking amongst hallowed dead and peaceful rest, he tends to each body he finds. Even those of his enemy. The offensive line had been pushed, that is for certain- but the fighting dulls deep for today. Someone must care for the dead.
Viator walks with a fresh limp from a stray piece of fragmentation, something that will heal soon. His scars were many atop one another, but he doesn’t seem to mind. The gradual atrophy his body receives does not mean he shirks from his duty. Still, some pause and care is given to it. He bound the wound in sterile salts and herbs, binding the tribal remedy with gauze, ensuring the wound is stitched to its needs. The muscle will tear and repair with its own time, he muses.
Lifting a Trooper, buried by soot and ash, who must have been accidentally left behind, he carries him off to the side by a tree. Little can be said for his legs, which were amputated swiftly to prevent it from carrying its rot to the rest of the body. A slow removal of his helmet, and a look into the dead man’s eyes. Bloodied. Awful matter oozing from the mouth. But someone needed to identify him. Someone. Somewhere.
He awoke from a blurry dream of home. Of hate and pain, of loss and so much love. He left the small cabin to see what was being worked on by his little pal. Standing strong across the dock from along the beachside cabin.
The teen was working on his submarine as always. Still looking for those components. Still looking for the buried vessel. It had been a long time since the nomadic woman of science had met Vi, but he knew what she meant. Some were truly gifted to run the world of something greater than man. To build and create, to establish the foundations of our next worlds.
His pal chirped up. “Hey, dickhead, mind giving me a hand?”
A droid’s voice speaks over comms. “Positive identification. Thank you for your assistance to the Armies of the Republic.” The helmeted man nods to the same voice, over and over. He looks to the bodies saturating the fields, covered in silver and chrome, a sharp difference to the man in red and orange. He leaves the man by the tree. Somewhere he can be found, and buried.
The silver agents will not experience a similar fate. Slaves to a cruel machine. Slaves to an evil fate. With the rest of the crimson gone, Viator performs his diligence in front of the dead man. He wonders what the dead man thinks of Viator going through all this trouble. “Murderers. Genocidal puppets. Specists in oh-so-shiny armor in a parade of gore for a ballistic shitheel.”
Viator chooses not to listen to the dead man.
The admittedly far too young to be considered old man rests weary legs by a still burning engine fire. Long since having detonated, the cool remnants of plasma still warm his bones. And he gets to digging a hole. If he’s quick, he’ll have enough time to return to the front for the next wave. He doesn’t like digging a hole. But it’s best these people die with some dignity. A hole and an etched stone is the most he can do for them.
As he stands to go and make the hole, he wonders again the words of the dead man. The words of an angry body separated from his beloved spirit. “Why do you cry for them?”
“So, the ballasts will allow it to rise from the floor, and- look, old dude, are you getting any of this, or are you just slipping out of consciousness again?” The little shit asks. Viator turns to him, to the indignant child. “I have always listened to you, over this past journey. You do not need to curse at me to berate me for not speaking. Sometimes, it is best to say little.” In truth, Viator understood little. But he was willing to listen.
The little man sighed and stood once the console lit up. With it, he could now test propulsion, something he’s been wanting to do on his little project for quite some time. His simulations were solid, but there’s something to be said for a test drive. He looked up at his strange company, the faceless man. “Hey, another step to getting off this rock. And without being shot up by a bunch of mercs.”
Viator looked to him, quietly judging beneath his mask. “I did not believe-”
“They’re gone, old man.” The ‘little pal’ said, looking out over the ocean. “The Repubic would have sent word. Mandos got them. Or something. Or they burnt up in orbit. They’re on a sheet somewhere, some number, and it’s just gone missing. It happens.”
The two stood silent. Viator seethed lightly as the hope fled his ward.
Each body, lifted gently with hands into the pit. The pit had been dug by measures of the spirit, but matters of the dead were done with hands. Spirits did not remain with the dead, even if they were connected to them. There was no reason for Viator to use his spirit upon them. It was a matter of respect for the body.
And so, he labored. He carried each of them individually to their grave. Stacked as little as he could, but he could not dig for each of them. He hoped to provide them some dignity. In formation with the ones they served with. Unwillingly or otherwise.
As he rests the last body in the hole, he slowly lifts himself up away from the digsite. He will do the filling by hand. Having taken a shovel to this, he slowly begins to fill the hole. Bit by bit. Ashen earth falls on their faces. He checked every single one. Tried to compare every single trooper, Sith or otherwise, to the faces he has saved.
And as he filled the hole, he recited a prayer.
“Spirits, guide my friends to warm shores. Guide them along the outlets of life, and let them feel free as their spirit carries on to a grand beyond. Let their loves and their connections wash away their corruption, and let them feel cleansed as they wash in the cold waters of the earth, and the hot coals of the underworld. Spirits, guide their bodies to a place of rebirth, where they may feed life beyond their own. Where they may stand as a statue for those to remember them, to state “they were here”. To guard their legacy and to live ever on in the hearts of others, and to live on in the cycle as they are given back to the rocks, sand, and life that lives off of them. Amen.”
When it was over, he placed his shovel into the dirt, and obtained his herbs. He gently sprayed holy water from a little spray bottle over the site, and tossed small herbs onto the site of the death, where the stone would be placed. And he blessed the connections, holding them close, and aiding their spirits in seeking purification. In seeking solace.
“We shouldn’t give up hope. Even when things look the darkest, we remain the flame. We are our hearts.” Viator explains. He tries to profess this to his ward. To try and make it as clear as possible. But the little man shakes his head, and smiles weakly.
“I have never given up hope. But I can let them go. I can move forward. That’s what this is about. That’s what lifting up the bird is about. I don’t have to burn this part of me away, or stubbornly refuse it. I won’t let it drag me down, and I won’t let it scar me. My parents are gone. But we had the Shey woman. I had you. I had the lovely old ladies from the Scrapyard. I had the little Cantina guys.”
Slowly, the little guy wandered over, and hugged the larger gentleman. “They always walk with me. But I can fly on my own.” He whispers.
Viator returns the hug, softly. “And you will make an excellent pilot, and a great adventurer, my friend.”
The hole is filled, gently. It won’t ever be right. It’s filled with bodies, not just sediment, not just parts of the world. But those people will walk with their friends, their family, their loves, still. And the masked man will remember their faces. So if nobody else will, he can carry them, for as long as he can. So they have someone to walk alongside.
As the sun rises, the masked warrior begins to walk towards the front, dirt and ash and blood covering his armor.
But he limps a little less.
—
Along the site of a mass grave, a large rock is etched with the following inscription:
MY EYES WERE DARK
BUT I WILL WAKE
BY YOUR SIDE EVERMORE
—