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There is no emotion, there is peace.
Aayla spins away from the circle of expressionless 501st troopers, slides in the dust of the Coliseum arena and raises her lightsaber to block the scythe of crimson light from her left. Lord Vader - Anakin’s - helmet is sliced through on one side, and a glittering golden eye stares out at her balefully.
Their feet skitter across the arena floor as Anakin thrusts forward. She parries and kicks out at his knee, augmenting the blow with the Force. It’s enough power to eviscerate a normal Human’s joint; Anakin’s simply crumples slightly and moves a bit more stiffly. It has to be a prosthetic of some kind, but Aayla had only known about his hand, before.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There had been rumors that he’d been - augmented. That before Vader killed Emperor Palpatine a mere two days into his reign, he’d been left for dead by Obi-Wan Kenobi and crafted into a monster.
Aayla wishes the other Jedi had finished the job, but she takes a savage pleasure in doing it herself.
The miscalculation has left her flank open, and Aayla takes a glancing burn to the thigh. Anakin presses forward, all brute strength and roiling Darkness. Aayla skitters back as best she can and blocks his overhand sweep, even if she has to go down on one knee to do it.
With a burst of power she shoves forward out of the dust; Anakin twists away as her lightsaber slices across his back, cutting through that ridiculous cape and black armor. She hopes it hits something vital.
He’s stumbling now, but so is she. The red lightsaber flicks forward, and red-hot pain explodes in her gut. Stomach wound, but she has time. She has to have time.
A scream tears from her throat; she launches herself forward at the Emperor. His lightsaber sweeps up to block hers; quicker than the eye can see, Aayla Force-pulls Bly’s steel dagger from her belt into her hand and stabs forward with all the strength she can muster.
Vader’s hand comes up to catch her wrist; the knife quivers inches from his neck as they struggle.
The Dark swirls deeper around Anakin. He twists his blade out and stabs at Aayla again. She parries, but not before the saber slices partway through her stomach.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing can hurt her now - she’s been dead ever since the Order.
Ever since Bly, fighting against the Sith enchantment, had slit his own throat rather than harm her.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
Aayla digs deep into the Light. She holds hope in her mind - not for her, not for Bly, not even for the meager remnants of the Jedi Order, but for every other sentient being threatened by the shadow of the Empire.
She shoves forward, face expressionless; the blade sinks deep into Anakin’s throat. His red-rimmed eye flares wide with shock and he tries to pull back.
Aayla holds Anakin by the neck and stares into mad gold eyes as he makes an awful choking sound. Steady respirations from within his mask shift to stuttering, wet-sounding gasps, until they stop completely and the heavy black armor topples backwards into the dust.
There is no chaos, there is harmony.
Murmurs erupt from the crowd; Vader’s Fist, the remains of the 501st, are dropping their swords and shields. Their circle breaks up as they step back in shock. The enchantment upon them must have broken with Vader’s death.
Aayla sways on her feet for a moment and reaches out with the Force to support her failing limbs. She - she has one last task. “Free these men,” she calls weakly. It’s hard to breathe through the pain in her gut, but she forces the words out along with the blood that spatters on her lips. “There was a dream that was the Republic. It shall be realized.”
Her knees hit the dust, then she’s on the ground, clutching at her stomach. Grey spots sink into her vision; the sound of the roaring arena fades out to meaningless buzzing.
A familiar blond head appears above her, frantically saying her name.
She tries to focus on Rex’s face, so similar and yet so different from Bly’s beloved features, but something pulls at her insistently. Aayla turns her head, blinks. There’s a door, a familiar door to the Jedi temple, and she reaches one hand toward it, but -
She can’t go home again. The Temple was razed, the crèche desecrated. Nothing left there but ghosts.
Still, Aayla can’t resist. Her bloody, blue hand flails in the air.
She pushes open the door, and steps into the Great Hall. It’s radiant in white marble, unstained by blood, just as in her memories. The long lines of colonnades stream with sunshine, twisted through with drifts of incense smoke.
The rays slice through the hall and shine down on a man in gleaming centurion armor. Bly turns and his tattoos flash gold in the light. He smiles, bright and crooked.
Aayla Secura steps forward, running towards him, and he opens his arms for her.
There is no death, there is the Force.