Rex breaks down after the pithy funeral he holds for the legion of brothers he couldn't avoid murdering.
"It's not murder. You didn't kill them, Rex." (Rex does not believe her)
He's inconsolable. Agony had never had a taste before. He'd never worn grief like he wore his armor, familiar to the point where he was scared to take it off because he knew then he would be left with nothing.
"You need to get up, Rex. We have to go."
Get up for what? The Republic is scattered under the shallow graves before him, blood swallowed by impassive grey dust on the moon it was lucky to crash on.
"Rex. We need to go."
Ahsoka tries her best to heft him, grunting in pain and frustration and sympathy when he doesn't move. Maybe she could throw him over her shoulders the way she'd had to carry some of the bodies off the destroyer. He can smell the blood and char on her montrals.
Rex is on his feet. Ahsoka's hand is in his, as cold as the moon around them. Ahsoka asks him a question he doesn't answer because he no longer has a voice. Rex is as thin and sparse as the dust that blows across the mounds laid out before them. Rex is grief that's sickly familiar the way his brothers' now-dead language is.
He's on the starship, leaving Rex discarded and empty, laid before Jesse's grave like a final apology.
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