"Rejoined with the Force, Master Ima-Gun Di has."
Yoda's voice carried across the memorial chamber—small but weighted with centuries of wisdom and grief. The ancient Jedi Master stood before the assembled mourners, his eyes closed, his presence in the Force a calm center in a room full of turbulent emotions.
"Remember him, we will. Honor him through our actions, we must. The body is but a vessel. The Force eternal." He opened his eyes, looked across the faces of Jedi, clones, and Avengers. "A moment of silence, let us observe."
They bowed their heads as one.
Ima-Gun Di's body—prepared according to Jedi tradition, wrapped in simple robes—descended into the chamber that would serve as his tomb until his remains could be returned to Mon Cala for final rites. The platform lowered with mechanical precision, quiet servos the only sound in absolute silence.
"Live through us, he will," Yoda said as the platform disappeared from view and the chamber sealed. "Forever part of the Force. Forever remembered."
The assembled clones of the 71st Legion stood at attention, their helmets tucked under their arms. Some showed no expression—trained stoicism holding against grief. Others couldn't hide the tightness in their jaws, the moisture in their eyes. They'd lost their general. Their leader. Their Jedi.
Slowly, the mourners began to disperse. Jedi Masters offering quiet condolences to the 71st. Clones gripping each other's shoulders in silent solidarity. The Avengers standing apart, uncertain of the protocols but respectful of the moment.
One person didn't move.
Pietro stood before the sealed tomb, Master Ima-Gun Di's lightsaber held loosely at his side. His silver hair was disheveled, his eyes fixed on the chamber entrance as if he could will it to open again. As if he could rewind time to before Grievous's blades had pierced Ima-Gun Di's back.
He'd been right there. Ten meters away. Fast enough to cross that distance in less than a second. And he'd been too slow.
The fastest Avenger, and he'd been too damn slow.
"Pietro?"
He turned. Cham Syndulla stood a respectful distance away—the Twi'lek's expression sympathetic without being pitying. That was good. Pietro couldn't handle pity right now.
"I don't know," Pietro said honestly, answering the question Cham hadn't quite asked. "I don't... I've never..." He trailed off, words failing him.
Cham stepped closer, placed a hand on Pietro's shoulder. "I know, my friend. We've all lost people. Warriors we fought beside. Bled with. Buried." His voice was gentle. "It never gets easier."
Pietro's grip on the lightsaber tightened until his knuckles went white. "I was right there," he said quietly. Rage and grief bleeding through every word. "Right there, Cham. I'm the fastest thing on two legs. I can move at five hundred miles per hour. And I couldn't—" His voice cracked. "I couldn't save him."
Cham's expression deepened with sorrow. Pietro's eyes held no tears—just pure, crystallized fury at his own inadequacy.
"I hate saying this," Cham said carefully, "but you can't save everyone. No matter how fast you are. No matter how hard you try." He squeezed Pietro's shoulder. "You can only save those you can reach. And if you save even one person, then maybe—maybe—it's worth it."
Pietro managed a weak smile. "Did you steal that from Captain America?"
Cham's lips quirked. "He may have mentioned something similar." He paused, then asked, "What will happen to the 71st? Without General Di?"
Pietro ran his fingers through his hair. "Kix, Gearshift, the others—they're good soldiers. Better than good. They'll get reassigned to another Jedi, probably. It's different without a general, though. Everything's different."
"Will you check on them?"
"Yeah." Pietro nodded. "They were his brothers. And..." He looked down at the lightsaber in his hand. "He'd want someone to make sure they're okay."
They stood in silence for a moment. Then a familiar presence approached—Riyo Chuchi, the Pantoran senator, her blue skin pale with concern.
"Pietro," she said softly.
He turned, and something in his expression broke. Riyo crossed the distance in three quick steps and wrapped her arms around him. Pietro held her tight, pressed his face into her shoulder, and finally—finally—let some of the tension drain from his body.
"I've got you," Riyo whispered. "I'm here."
They stood like that for a long moment. Cham tactfully withdrew, leaving them to their grief and comfort.
Steve Rogers watched from across the chamber, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed. He'd been keeping an eye on Pietro since the funeral began. Recognized that particular brand of rage-grief—had felt it himself when Bucky fell from the train. When he'd watched his best friend disappear into a ravine and known there was nothing, nothing he could've done to save him.
He'd wanted to drown that feeling in alcohol, but his metabolism wouldn't let him. Wanted to kill the Red Skull with his bare hands, and that at least he'd managed. Then he'd crashed the Valkyrie into the Arctic and slept for seventy years.
Not the healthiest coping mechanism, in retrospect.
"How is he?" Aayla Secura appeared at his shoulder, her voice quiet. Her eyes were on Pietro and Riyo, but the question was directed at Steve.
"Angry," Steve said simply.
Aayla hummed acknowledgment. "Anger isn't something we Jedi handle well. We're taught to release it, let it flow through us and away. But sometimes..." She trailed off.
"You're not Jedi," Steve said. "Not exactly. You're people who happen to use the Force."
Aayla moved fractionally closer—close enough that Steve could smell whatever oil she used in her lekku, something floral and unfamiliar. "It's complicated," she admitted. "We grieve for those we lose, but we're warned against attachment. Against emotions that might lead us toward darkness. It's a fine line to walk."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is." She smiled slightly. "Maybe that's why Master Vos and Master Tholme choose to... bend the rules when it comes to certain attachments."
Steve raised an eyebrow. "I thought you'd have an issue with that."
Aayla snorted—an undignified sound that made her sound suddenly younger. "I accepted long ago that my Master is not the most orthodox Jedi. Never will be." She shrugged. "Maybe that's better for them. And I've learned a lot from perspectives outside the Jedi way."
They fell into comfortable silence, watching as Riyo kissed Pietro's forehead and held him close. The speedster's shoulders were shaking—not with sobs, but with released tension. Finally letting himself feel it instead of running from it.
"At least he has her," Steve said quietly.
"His anchor," Aayla agreed. She turned to look at Steve, something thoughtful in her expression. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Do you have an anchor? Someone to hold onto when everything else falls apart?"
Steve thought about Peggy. About her voice in his ear as the Valkyrie went down. You won't be alone. Seventy years ago, and he could still hear every syllable.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "Someone told me once that I wouldn't be alone. That was a long time ago." He met Aayla's eyes. "I have my friends. My team. That counts for something."
But there was an unfinished quality to the answer, and they both heard it.
Across the chamber, Pietro said goodbye to Cham, who squeezed his shoulder one last time before leaving. Riyo stayed close, her hand in Pietro's.
"I don't know if I can do this again," Steve said, surprising himself. "Watch someone I care about die while I'm too far away to help."
Aayla frowned. "You sound like you're planning to fail."
"I—" Steve stopped. Turned to face her fully. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"What about you?" Aayla asked again, softer this time. "Do you have someone? Not your team. Not your duty. Someone for you."
They looked at each other. The question hung between them, weighted with possibility and uncertainty.
"I've never questioned my path like this before," Aayla said.
Steve laughed—short and surprised. "If Tony were here, he'd be all over this. He'd try to corrupt every Jedi he met just for the entertainment value."
"Corrupt?" Aayla's tone turned playful-sharp. "You think you're a corrupting influence, Captain?"
"I—" Steve caught the teasing in her eyes and smiled despite himself. "I didn't mean it like that."
"What a smooth talker you are," Aayla said, and reached up to tap his cheek lightly—the gesture somewhere between affectionate and chiding.
"Hey," Steve protested with mock offense. "I'm not a kid." His "retaliation" was to gently poke her forehead.
Aayla's eyes widened in exaggerated shock. "Steve Rogers," she said, with the exact tone of a mother scolding a misbehaving child.
Steve just laughed. After a moment, Aayla joined him, the sound bright and genuine in the somber chamber.
They settled into silence again. More comfortable this time. Just looking at each other, both aware they were standing closer than strictly necessary.
"Aayla," Steve said.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you. I didn't realize I needed to talk about this."
She nodded. "We should do it more often. Talk, I mean."
"Maybe we could..." Steve paused, suddenly feeling like a teenager asking someone to a dance. "Make time. To see each other. Outside of missions."
"I'm afraid there won't be many opportunities," Aayla said. "The war doesn't give us much downtime."
"Then we make the time," Steve said. "If you want to, I mean. No pressure."
Aayla's smile was soft and a little shy. "I don't think I could refuse an invitation from Captain America."
"Peter has a whole collection of Old Earth movies," Steve said. "Fair warning—some of them are terrible. But we could watch them together. If you want."
Aayla's expression turned mischievous. "I never took you for a movie enthusiast, Steve."
"I'm full of surprises."
"Then I'm looking forward to discovering them," Aayla said. Her hand found his—just her fingers brushing against his palm. A question without words.
Steve's fingers closed gently around hers. An answer.
They stood like that, hands loosely intertwined, in a memorial chamber on a planet of water and storms, while around them the galaxy turned and wars raged and futures remained uncertain.