Promises and Memories

Chapter 1

Han sat on the veranda of his home on Corellia, his eyes searching. Then he blinked. Whatever it was he sought, it was obvious that he wasn't finding it. Out of habit, he turned his questing eyes to the chair at his right. It was empty. Han sucked in a sharp breath and shut his eyes to block out the pain. Running his hand through his shaggy grey hair, he turned his gaze back to the ocean, breathing in its sweet, salty scent.

His life would never be the same.

Four months ago, he'd been sitting in the same chair, basking in warm sun. They'd talked about Jarik's wedding the previous day, and the fact that all the kids were out of the house. Finally. They were delighted that now was the time they'd always yearned for. Grandkids were the best thing to happen, they agreed, because you could play with them, and spoil them, and fill them with sweets, and then send them home to their parents. It was all going to be perfect, except that now it wasn't. How could it be perfect without Leia.

"This was supposed to be out time." He spoke softly, almost reverently, as if addressing a god. Or a ghost.

Han shifted in his chair, every ache and infirmity of advancing years making itself known. He and Leia used to laugh about the sound of their creaking joints. He gazed wistfully at the empty chair. He had never considered the possibility that he would be the one who had to carry on alone.

A sudden gust of wind and a crash of waves turned his attention back to the sea. The gentle turquoise colored waves of summer had become a cold spray of angry grey water. There were rain clouds on the horizon. Han was strangely grateful for the gloomy weather; it matched his mood.

Han shifted his eyes from the empty beach to look at the house. It was their house—his and Leia's—their gift to themselves after years of living in a cramped flat lost among the transparasteel and permacrete towers of Coruscant. They'd lived on the city planet for Leia's work, but Han had never liked the crowds, nor the noise, nor the smells of that surrounded them on a daily basis. He hadn't much liked the constant hounding of his family by the media, either.

As it turned out, neither had Leia. When she was through with the frantic, thankless pace of public life, it had been her idea to move to the Southern continent of Corellia, where they could smell the ocean, feel the soft grasses beneath their feet, and enjoy the fragrance of flowering plants on the gentle breeze.

The flowers were gone now in the cooler temperatures, Han thought, but they would return in the spring. Leia would not. He wondered how he could ever get used to the idea.

Just then, the light autumnal mist decided to show some teeth, pelting Han with sharp needles of icy water. He jumped up and to the door.

"This place is way too big for one person," he observed as he palmed the door open and stepped inside, brushing the rain from his head. Water splattered onto the floor and a small table. Krif.

"Sorry about the mess," he called out. "I'll clean it up." Force of habit, he realized, even as he felt the sharp pain of loss yet again.

Han was hunting for a rag when he felt his comm vibrate; he was certain it was one of the kids. He looked down at the display—Jaina. Of the four, she called most frequently.

"Hey, sweetie," he answered, his voice friendly. "What can I do for you?"

"Just calling to see how you are," his daughter answered. Her sweet contralto sounded so much like Leia it was unnerving.

"I'm fine, honey," Han assured her.

"Sure you are," responded Jaina tartly, but Han could hear compassion in her voice. "Come to dinner tomorrow night." It wasn't a request so much as an order. Their only daughter certainly took after her mother, Han thought, one eyebrow raised.

"You don't have to keep doing this, Jaina," stated Han. She'd been inviting him to her home at least twice a week since Leia had passed. It was remarkably kind—and just like her—but she had her own family, her own life. He didn't want to impinge on their special time.

"Just come tomorrow. See you at 19:00." Jaina ended the comm.

Han shook his head and smiled in surrender. His daughter was a strong, remarkable woman. Jaina ran Less Than Twelve Parsecs shipping now, with Jarik's assistance, always keeping it true to Han's founding principles. He felt his fingers twitch a little. He missed flying sometimes, but now it just didn't feel right, like it had when he and Leia were traveling together.

Just as tomorrow would wouldn't be quite right either, without Leia. He loved his children, and his grandchildren; that was never in doubt. And he loved playing with Thora and Kyel, as well as visiting with Jaina and her husband. Han's somber face softened with a smile. His granddaughter was proving to be just as much a handful as had her mother and grandmother before her. Leia's stubbornness—er, tenacity—were being passed to future generations. But that comfort didn't take away the weirdness.

He didn't think anything could.

The quiet house was almost eerie, Han thought, as his boots echoed with each step. It wasn't the chaos of the children he missed—he didn't—but the subliminal hum of another occupant. Any other occupant. Earlier in the year, the handsome black pitten Leia had given him as a gift years before had passed on. In the chaos of preparation for Jarik's wedding they hadn't had a chance to search for a new one. Right now, Han wouldn't mind having one of the demanding little creatures to tend. Or he could invite Threepio back.

No.

A dry chuckle escaped his lips; Han wasn't that desperate.

"Lights, two-thirds," he ordered the household system. A warm, bright glow filled the house. "This weather would depress a gundark," he muttered as he peered out a window at the storm-darkened sky. Han found he needed more light now than he used to. It made sense; half his light was gone.

This is ridiculous, he told himself, pushing away his mawkish thoughts. He needed to do something.

Anything. Han opted for smashball.

Grabbing a glass on his way through the kitchen, Han paused at the spirits cabinet and poured himself two fingers of his favorite Corellian spiced whiskey. His children, all four of them, had warned him not to drink too much. He puffed out a laugh. If they only knew. He barely touched the stuff now, the drinking was mostly out of habit. He'd lost his taste for it since Leia was gone.

Lowering himself carefully onto the sofa, Han grimaced a little as his joints ground and crackled in complaint. Getting old was not as easy as it looked. He and Leia were always laughing that it was a good thing they weren't fighting the Rebellion now, their noisy bones would have given them away. He and Leia had always laughed, past tense. Han rubbed his eyes, shoving away the thought.

His uncooperative mind wandered back to the victory celebration after the battle of Endor. Talk about uncomfortable—roughing it in mud and twig huts, eating and drinking whatever it was their furry little Ewok allies were serving, getting horribly drunk on their berry wine. He could still smell the cooking fires and hear the constant drumming from the little guys' drums. A gentle smile played across Han's expressive lips. It had been the best night of his life, because he'd asked—finally—and Leia had said yes. They were going to spend the rest of their lives together. And they had. Until now.

Han turned on the holo tank with a decided click, and muted it almost immediately as his comm sounded again. This time it was Jarik.

"What's up, buddy?" Right now, Han was most comfortable with his youngest son. There wasn't all that Force stuff to deal with, like there was with the other three; Jarik was just a guy missing his mom, like Han was missing his wife. Those feelings were simple, practical, understandable.

"I need to get some supplies to Lysandra," Jarik announced without preamble. "Quick." Jarik's wife Lysandra was an emergency medic, currently working on Tatooine, which was dealing with a nasty bout of civil insurrection. There seemed to be a lot of that happening throughout the galaxy right now.

"And you want to take the Falcon," responded Han with a sigh.

"Well, she is the fastest hunk of junk in the galaxy," his son stated, with pride as strong as Han's.

Han groaned, mostly for show. Secretly, he delighted in Jarik's love for the Falcon, and he knew that the old girl was built for flying, not lying dormant in her hangar. "Not a scratch, you hear?" warned Han, like he had dozens of times before.

"Dad, how many times have I put a scratch on her?" Jarik demanded, sounding wounded. Han could picture his son at the other end of the comm, shaking his shaggy brown hair, one eyebrow raised.

"Kid, I've lost count," Han replied dryly. "Yeah, go ahead and take her. And don't forget to tell your wife you love her."

"Dad!" Jarik objected, sounding offended. Then his voice softened. "You doing okay?" he asked his father.

"I'm fine. Get going, kid. You're wasting precious time," Han told him firmly, ending the comm.

Of course I'm okay, Han thought defiantly. It was as good a description as any, he realized. He was living, functioning, what more could they ask for? As to the real answer to the question, as soon as he figured it out himself, he'd let them know.

He was just about to set his comm to silent when it buzzed again. This time it was Jacen. Han cringed, just a little. Jacen was the most sensitive of the kids, both through the Force, and by nature of his personality. Han needed to be the most careful with him, he knew his son felt his father's pain acutely.

"Hey, Jace, what's going on?" Han asked, sounding as cheerful as was reasonable.

"Not much. I was wondering if we could get together, do some music sometime. I've got some ideas for some songs, but I was hoping you could help me out with them." Jacen had inherited Han's musical skills, and had his own band, just as Han had, in his day. Two of his former bandmates had died, Han realized. This getting old business really stinks, he thought grumpily.

"Yeah, we could do that. You're the one with the full schedule," Han observed. "The weekend?"

"I'm on call one of the days, but I don't know which one yet," grumbled Jacen. "But, yeah, we'll do the day I'm free. Are you good with that?"

"Sure, I'm looking forward to it." Han hadn't picked up an instrument in years, except to play for himself and Leia; he was probably going to be awful. Not that he would say that to Jacen, of course.

"Great! Hang in there, dad. Mom will be mad if you don't." Jacen said.

"No doubt. See you this weekend." Han ended the comm, a little unnerved. Jacen had said will, not would. Was Jacen still in communication with his mother through the Force? Leia and Luke had both talked about speaking with the spirits of beings who had passed. And if Leia was talking to the kids, couldn't she stop by and see him, too? No. He shook his head; that was just nonsense.

Looking down at the comm in his hand, Han considered just turning the stupid thing off. He hadn't felt much like talking to anyone since Leia had died, but he couldn't very well ignore their children. That would piss Leia off, no matter where she was. He wished she were here, in the flesh, ready to give him a well-deserved (probably) telling off. He could see her: eyes blazing, one hand balled on her curvy hip, giving him what-for in no uncertain terms. He missed that; gods how he missed that.

He missed her.

Han took an unconscious sip of his drink, startled as he remembered it was whiskey, and stared at the muted smashball game on the tank. He glanced down at the bottom of the screen to see who was playing—no teams he cared about—but it was too much like work to search for something he wanted to see. His thoughts flew back to Leia, as they almost always did.

Of course he missed her; how could he not? She was his soul-mate. Oh, yeah, he'd put up a good front at first, but she'd stolen his heart and soul months before he was willing to admit it, even to himself. Even though she was an uppity, stuck-up Princess who knew everything about everything, giving orders like she was the Maker herself—that was his story and he was sticking to it—there had always been something about Leia… A spark? There certainly had been a spark when he kissed her, finally, in the circuitry bay of the Falcon on the slow trip to Bespin. It had been the spark that sealed the deal. He knew then there was no way he was letting her get away from him again.

But life had had other plans. It always did.

Leia's retirement from public service had revitalized her. When she had started teaching at the local university, it ignited a spark in her Han hadn't seen for years. And it allowed them to have a life together,

something they'd never really had a chance to try, in all their years.

However, though the galaxy was freed from the Emperors toxic rule, it was still a complicated place, held together by a fragile web of agreements and treaties. There were times when Leia had needed to find a substitute for her classes and apply a little glue to whatever diplomatic cracks were forming. Jaina, now a mother herself, had had to deal with the universal experience of sick kids, and there were times when Han would substitute for her on some freight runs. It had been one of those times when they were both gone that their perfect life had gone to all the nine hells.

Both Han and Leia had gotten back from their respective journeys safely, but tired, which was always the case—they weren't getting any younger. But Leia couldn't shake the tiredness this time; it kept getting worse and worse, until she took to sleeping most of the day as well as the night. Han, worried, had suggested a trip to the medcenter. Leia refused, saying she'd be fine in a few days, if Han would stop fussing and just leave her alone. By the time she was cold and shaking and could barely breathe and they rushed her to the medcenter, it was too late. No treatment: organ replacement, bacta, or any combination would save Leia from the freak virus bent on stealing her life. He was with her at the end, as the essence of Leia left her body, taking a large portion of himself along with it.

Han's eyes shut in pain. If only he'd seen how ill she was sooner. If only he'd insisted she go to the medcenter sooner. Hells, he should have called Lysandra. He swallowed against the tightness in his chest. He'd been assured by anyone and everyone who knew that there was nothing he could have done that would have changed anything. But the thought haunted him; he knew he would never be sure. He would carry that particular piece of guilt with him forever.

His comm went off again. Yup, definitely should have turned the kriffing thing off, he cursed. But that would upset the children, and they already had more than enough to deal with. They were adults with their own lives, he wouldn't add to their concerns by disappearing. So he left it on. Sure enough, when he looked at it, it was Anakin. Which made sense; he was the only left to check on him today.

"Is this the night to descend on dear old Dad?" he said to his second son, irritation mingled with affection.

Anakin, always an easygoing soul, laughed out loud. "That's every night, Dad. Hey, any chance Bekha and I could drop by at some point? We're planning to put a holobook together to, you know, remember Mom."

"Forgotten her already?" Han teased, ignoring the twinge of fear at that possibility.

"Never," Anakin declared with another laugh. "She'd never allow it." The younger man's voice softened, and seemed to grow a little tentative. "But we'd like to copy some of the holos from your house. We have a lot, but not like the collection you and Mom have." He paused for a breath. "If you wouldn't mind," he finished.

Han thought about the walls in this house that were covered in holos, one after another in varying patterns and arrays. They told the story of lives: his and Leia's, the kids, friends, even the parade of pittens that had tagged along for the ride. Han could hardly bear to look at them now, but someday… And Anakin and his wife would do a good job, putting them all together.

"Copying's fine. No 'borrowing,'" Han reminded him gently, his lips cresting into a slight smile.

"Do I look like Jarik to you?" Anakin laughed heartily. Han knew his son missed his mother horribly, but

Anakin faced life calmly, and somehow found joy in everything.

"Thank the gods, no," Han chuckled.

"And I haven't 'borrowed' any tools from you in years," Anakin added.

"No, that's your younger brother, even though he has his own," Han groaned. "Come over anytime."

"When's Chewie coming back?"

"I don't know. Hopefully not tonight, I'm not in the mood to clean up fur." declared Han, although he really was missing his friend.

"I can send Threepio over to help," Anakin taunted, knowing for long years just how his dad felt about the golden protocol droid.

"Oh, no!" Han objected. He paused a beat. "Hang in there, buddy," he told his son.

"That's my line to you," Anakin reminded him. "Night, Dad," he said, ending the comm.

Han set his own unit to mute and dropped it on the counter with a thud. His children had all checked in. He was done taking comms for the evening. Dusk had settled in; it would soon be dark. He could stop pretending he was fine now, and just be.