A/N: POTENTIAL SPOILERS AHEAD. I was just now in the bowels of YouTube and discovered that, as per the synopsis of a forthcoming "Forces of Destiny" short, Hera is involved in some way with Han and Leia on Endor. Just Hera; no mention of anyone else. I just about cried right then and there…and then had to write something so you can cry, too. I'm a little bit experimenting with my style and voice with this one. R&R. Critiques welcome!

Relation

The forest moon of Endor is teeming with life and joy; the Empire is dead. It's a surreal feeling. The Rebels walk around grinning. They know they've done something huge. Tomorrow, there will be more work to do, probably more battles to fight. But right now, tonight, they revel in victory. Rebel command assembles on the surface and the generals address their troops. General Solo is irreverent and gruff. General Calrissian is infectiously charismatic. General Madine gives an impassioned speech about the Rebellion's indomitable spirit. General Syndulla has her squadrons shouting with pride as she thanks them for their tireless persistence.

But her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. She's fighting a war with grief tonight and everyone can tell. She slips away quietly as the celebration resumes.

"Hey," Solo says to Calrissian, "what's with her?"

Calrissian's expression slips and he hesitates to answer. "How well do you know General Syndulla?"

"Not really." Solo shrugs. "I know she flies a hell of a ship. Why?"

Calrissian's lips press into a thin line. "Yeah, the Ghost is one of a kind." He pauses. "She used to fly with a hell of a crew, too."

Solo sighs; he hears everything Calrissian isn't saying. "Oh."

Alone in the treetops, Hera Syndulla kneels in front of a battered C1 astromech, a hologram transmission projected between them.

"We did it, Sabine. It's over now." Her voice is low and tired, but it holds a note of hope.

The hologram is fuzzy, but it's easy to see that Sabine is blinking rapidly, refusing to cry. "I always knew you would, Hera."

"I just wish—"

"I know." Sabine shifts the helmet she's got tucked under her arm and that makes Hera smile a real smile.

"I see you've redone, well, everything," she says with a small laugh. Sabine's armor, accented with her signature flourishes, has been painted dark green. On one shoulder rests the mask Kanan used to wear over his scarred eyes, refashioned to fit with her armor. The tips of her hair are orange and blue.

Sabine beams. "I was hoping you'd like that."

Hera's about to say something else, but someone she can't see starts talking to Sabine. "Karabast," the young woman swears under her breath. "Alright, I'm coming." She sighs ruefully. "Gotta go. Duty calls."

Hera's eyebrows furrow with concern; are those blasters firing in the background? "Everything okay?"

"Yes, mom," Sabine says fondly, running her fingers along her thigh holster. She grins before she puts her helmet on and Hera can see traces of the fiery teenager she met those long years ago. "If you ever want a nice, relaxing vacation, don't come visit me on Mandalore."

A laugh. "Copy that."

Sabine's blaster is drawn now, but she pauses long enough to make a promise. "I'll talk to you soon, Hera. Spectre Five out."

The transmission dies. Hera swallows around a lump in her throat. "Spectre Two out," she whispers to the darkness.

Hera walks up to the dying fire slowly, unsure of how she feels about seeing Vader's body burning ceremonially. Across the pyre, she makes eye contact with Luke Skywalker. The conflict must be written all over her face because he says softly about Vader, "He returned to the Light before he died. He…he saved me."

Hera considers the statement, measures it. "That doesn't absolve him of everything he did," she replies, voice tight.

Luke shakes his head in a gesture of understanding. "No," he agrees.

He steps around the pyre toward her and something metallic, swinging at his hip, catches her eye. She sighs, thinking that Ezra would be Luke's age now.

"What color is your lightsaber?" She asks. He stops beside her, and doesn't give any indication that he's surprised by the question.

"Green," he says. "I heard that there used to be a Jedi with Phoenix Squadron. Did you know him?" It's a gentle, polite question. One to which he already knows the answer, but he's giving her an out. She doesn't take it.

"Know him?" She repeats breathlessly. "Like I know my own name. I—" she closes her mouth and opens it again, hesitating. "I loved him."

Luke nods. "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head, not wanting to dwell on it. She doesn't even know why she's telling him all of this, except that she knows in the core of her being that she can trust him. "Kanan survived the Jedi Purge as a teenager and drifted for a while before we met." Her eyes darken thoughtfully even as her lips turn in a sad smile. "He wasn't a conventional Jedi, but I think he would have made the Order proud. He and Ezra both."

"Ezra?"

"Kanan's apprentice," she says distantly. She's lost in thought, remembering all of the trials they faced together: the Inquisitors, Ahsoka's death, Kanan's blindness, Ezra's brush with darkness. Luke doesn't press her. After a few moments of silence, Hera reaches into the deep pockets of her flight suit and pulls out two lightsaber hilts. She holds one in each hand and ignites them both. Brilliant blue and green illuminate the space around them. "They died believing that the Jedi could still be a force for light in this galaxy." Her gaze pierces him.

"I believe it, too." His earnest conviction warms her heart, but it saddens her, too. She turns the lightsabers off and turns them over in her hands. She closes her eyes and replays the countless memories she has of Kanan and Ezra using those lightsabers, blades flashing, quips flying, blaster bolts scattering. She tightens her hands around the hilts which now feel as familiar in her grasp as her own weapon. Then she lets them go.

Luke looks down at the two lightsabers in his hands, stunned. "General Syndulla, I can't—"

She holds up a hand to stop him. "It's your legacy now," she says, eyes brimming. She looks at this young man and she knows in the depths of her soul that he faces unspeakable odds and that he may fail. Yet in his face, she sees Kanan and Ezra and everything they fought for and she knows they would have stood with him. "May the Force be with you, Master Skywalker."

Hera sleeps on the Ghost because it's her home and because she wants to lay on the hull and stare up at the stars. Pieces of the Death Star are still raining down in the planet's orbit, and she wants to watch every last bit of that horrible thing burn.

But before she does that, she turns on her long-range comm and places a call to Ryloth. Her father has already heard the news of Vader and Palpatine's defeat and rejoices, talking feverishly of his plans to make Ryloth a great power once the Republic is established again. She smiles and lets him ramble for a little while before she asks, "Where's Depa?"

Cham groans tiredly. "Just now asleep. Do you know how hard it is to get that one to bed?" Hera laughs. Cham is pleased; he can see the heaviness lifting from his daughter's shoulders. "I suppose you want me to go and get her?"

Hera rests her chin in her hands, eyes alight. "Please? It's been a long six weeks without her."

Cham pretends to grumble, walking out of view. Hera holds her breath in anticipation. A few moments pass and then her father returns, the arms and legs of a tiny child wrapped around him. He turns so that Hera can see her face.

The little one's skin matches her mother's. The pink flush of sleep stains her verdant cheeks; one of her human traits. She shifts her head on Cham's shoulder, and thick masses of dark, curly hair fall across her eyes. On instinct, Hera reaches out as Cham gently sweeps it away.

"Depa Jarrus," he whispers in the child's ear, "someone wants to talk to you."

Hera's heart is bursting. "Depa," she calls softly, musically. "Mommy's here."

Thick lashes flutter and little eyes open briefly. They're Kanan's eyes, teal and patient. "I knew you'd call," Depa murmurs, too sleepy to realize she's speaking Ryl. "Mission report?"

"The mission was a success," Hera responds in her native tongue, throwing a pained glance at sheepish-looking Cham. Switching to Basic, she says, "Nothing to worry about, Spectre Seven."

Depa smiles, sighing contentedly. "I knew you'd win." A delicate hand moves to rest over her heart. "I could feel it right here."

Hera's eyes well with love and pride. "I know you could."

"Is Chopper taking good care of the doll I gave him? I thought he needed a friend." Her sentence is a messy mixture of Ryl and Basic this time.

"Yes," Hera says seriously, knowing how much it means to her four-year-old. "They're getting along just fine. Chop says she was a big help with the mission."

"Good. He promised me." Depa's drifting off to sleep, but she asks a question as old as the stars: "Tell me a story?"

And Hera gives the age-old reply: "Alright, but a short one."

Depa's eyes are closed now, but Hera begins the tale anyway, settling into the kneeling pose she'd so often seen Kanan take. She takes a deep breath and says:

"It was a simple story about a boy who was lost, and a girl who was broken."