Note: This is a one-shot based on Grievous' EU story, which is unfortunately no longer considered canon by 2014. As it is not common knowledge in Star Wars, if you desire further context, let me know.

Twisted tremors of humiliation and anguish rang through the heart of the Supreme Commander of the Droid Army as he gripped his chest, agony filling what remained of his mutilated body. The Jedi shot again, but he was unable to speak. The blaster fired twice more, and fire ripped into his face, his mind, and his eyes. He cried out in a last explosion of rage as his mind was darkened and the part of him that remained tumbled to the floor.

Filmy gray filled his audio receptors, but it felt strange, almost alien to hear without the metal crushed into his head. White filled his eyes, but it was so strange to see white instead of the burning red haze of rage that usually clouded his vision.

What were these darkened, four-clawed fingers he held in front of his face? What was this gentle rise and fall of his chest, as if he needed to breathe - he'd long since overcome these primitive functions? What was this peaceful calm that washed over his spirit, as if for his whole life he'd been fighting against a riptide that had now subsided? What was this sensation in his heart, the longing, the anticipation for something besides bloodshed?

Cheers sounded from behind him. A crowd of the masked, the deceased, stood behind him. Some carried the scars of their youth, but others' masks were as pure as he'd once been. Their white robes and skin of all colors blinded his new eyes. He found that he could not speak still. It was like tears had suddenly clogged his throat, rendering him unable.

A sudden gasp escaped his lips, the first one he'd uttered in four years. He did not deserve this. He did not deserve to come home a hero after all he'd done. He touched a hand to his face, and finding it maskless, he covered his head from view, ashamed.

Yes, he missed her. He still did. But now he could let go of his hatred for her death-bringers. Now he was free.

In the distance, away from the clamor, he spotted her. She did not see him, and his heart twisted. A sob threatened to spill from his mouth, but he swallowed. This had to be a cruel hallucination. It always was before. The blue flowers, the karabbac mask. The dark locks of silk tumbling down her back.

Home. That was what she was to him. She was everything soft and bright and beautiful, and when she'd died, everything like her had died too. He stood and, ignoring the crowd and the noise, ran toward the gazebo.

She leveled her gold eyes at him. They flashed like new coins in the morning sun. An endless ray of silence stood between them, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to fade, to disappear into nothingness under her calm, resolute gaze. Shame burned in his spirit as he knelt before her.

Ronderu.

It had been years since her name had appeared in his mind. The thought of her was too painful. The only thing he had to remember her by was the report. The report of a woman too young and yet too old, dead. The report of a child cold in the ocean before her time, and yet the oldest goddess in the universe fading to dust.

You must hate me.

With another bone-crunching moment, her feet padded from the gazebo. Every step rang in his ears like fearsome war drums pounding, showing him the foe he had to face. But how can you prepare for a battle against yourself? Do you carry your burdens like scars or use them as weapons against your foes?

Her cool hand touched his trembling body. Which is more painful - her silence or what she would say?

She knelt to meet his eyes, removing her mask. Her eyes held the same glint of mischief he'd loved when they were young, and her smile warmed him to his core. Ronderu, my love, how long has it been?

Her silence is deafening. Without answering, she leans down, pressing her forehead to his. Her skin is softer than the petals in her hair.

I miss you. I still do.

"Qymaen, I'm here," she says, her hands wiping away the ever-racing tears, tears that had long since stayed bottled inside. "I won't leave you again. Not this time."

He pressed her white-clothed form against his, burying his face in her dark gale of blue-flowered hair as he began to weep. Her arms wrapped around his convulsing frame as he lifted her up, her breathing heavy. Before either of them are aware, they are in tears, dissolving into each other, reuniting after being torn away for so long, feeding into each other's warmth.

She's just as young as the day she died.

Maybe this way is better.

Maybe we can still start again.

"How things have changed," he whispers.

"Some things never change." She rests her head against his chest. "You were released at last."

And strangely, he took comfort in the death that had claimed him too soon. The Jedi gave me a merciful end.

Now I shall stay with my Ronderu. Now I shall finally join those I died to save.

But what of the war? What of the endless struggle against the tyrants of the Republic?

It doesn't matter anymore for me.

The future of Kalee holds no bearing for me anymore. I am free.

She presses her small hands into his, turning to the others who await them. Her voice is joyous, ringing over the spiritual plains. "Welcome home at last, son of Kalee."