AN: I still don't own Star Wars and I'm still angry and depressed as hell about what happened to Han in TFA. Well, the second time I saw the movie I noticed that at the very end Luke is looking at a strangely gravestone-like rock . . . and then this fic was born.
"My Brother's Grave"
By EsmeAmelia
A sudden, sharp pain in the chest.
A final reach out to his son.
A last touch on his cheek.
Then falling . . .
Falling . . .
Falling . . .
And nothing . . .
"HAN!"
It was the first word Luke had uttered out loud in days, perhaps weeks, as he jolted awake. "Han!" he repeated, this time as a gasp between pants as the dream flashed through his mind. "Han!"
His small house was dark except for the moonlight peeking through the cracks in the shutters; it was quiet except for the murmur of insects outside, but still the dream pressed itself into Luke's mind, shooting chills through his body.
"Han . . ." His voice was a whisper now. He sat up in bed, bringing his knees up to his chest. "Han . . ." The dream . . . no, it wasn't a dream. He had been a Jedi long enough to know the difference between an ordinary dream and a Force vision.
He also knew this wasn't a vision of a possible future. Future visions were sharp and vivid, but there was also a waviness about them, a certain flow that reflected how the future was always in motion. This vision had been solid, hard, with no waviness about it.
This was something that had already happened.
"Han . . ." It was as if that was the only word he could utter. "Han . . ."
Slowly he crossed his legs in front of him, slowly he put his hands on his knees, slowly he closed his eyes, but he shook as he did so. He couldn't reach out into the Force now . . . no . . . not now . . . he wasn't strong enough to confirm the horrible truth.
"Han . . ." This time uttering the word caused his eyes to well up.
A breath. A long breath, filling up his lungs, then slowly emptying them. Another breath. Another . . . another . . . another . . . but still he shuddered, still he feared that final confirmation that his dream wasn't just a dream.
"Han . . ."
Now the tears were falling. His breaths came one after the other, increasing their speed until they were nervous pants instead of calm meditation breaths. "H-Han . . ." No matter how many times he said the name, he couldn't bring himself to confirm the truth.
He swallowed over and over, but the tears kept flowing, drizzling down into his beard. His eyelids squeezed tighter until it brought him pain, welcome pain, far better pain than what he felt in his heart.
Finally something directed his soul into the Force, sending him out into the reaches of space, seeking the connection with his brother-in-law, that connection he could usually find no matter how far apart they were. Even if it didn't tell him where Han was, it would let him know that Han was somewhere, at least. Sometimes the connection was light, like a brush of the fingers, but it was always there.
Except now it wasn't . . .
Luke's breath increased, in out in out in out in out Han where are you? Han, please! He pressed memories into his head – memories of waking up in a tent on Hoth with Han's arms around him, standing next to him on his wedding day, helping him work on the Falcon, hugging him at the Endor party, memory after memory. Come on Han, show me you're all right!
But there was nothing.
No familiar brush against his soul.
No Han.
His eyes shot open, the dream – no, the vision – repeating itself in his head. "Han . . . Han . . . Han . . . "
There was still nothing.
It was true.
Han was dead.
Once the thought manifested itself in Luke's mind, he leapt out of bed and out of his house, hardly even noticing that he was doing so. The cold outside air whipped through his hair and against his robe, but again he hardly noticed. His friend's final moments were clouding his brain, sneaking into his eyes during blinks, making his body tremble so hard that he stumbled several times.
Up he climbed, up the steps, up the hill, up, up, up, not caring where he was going. His heart was racing – why did his heart still beat when Han's didn't? What gave him a right to keep on living when he had failed as a Jedi, failed as a teacher, failed as an uncle? Why wasn't he the one with a lightsaber through his heart?
Finally he reached the top of the hill, where he almost immediately sank to his knees, the sobs choking him. His friend's face was dancing around in his mind, that cheeky grin, those hazel eyes, that face which had always made Luke so comfortable, so protected, so at ease. He heard Han's laugh, that laugh that always made Luke laugh with him.
Han would never laugh again . . .
Luke didn't know how long he simply knelt there and cried, but when he finally looked up again the sky was beginning to lighten, the beginning colors of sunrise dancing in the ocean. It suddenly felt wrong for morning to come. What right did the sun have to rise and bring life and warmth when Han was dead?
Bit by bit the light returned, that gray, pre-dawn light that gave things a ghostly air. Luke could hear the ocean lapping against the shore in its endless dance and suddenly he noticed the chill in the air. He wrapped his arms around his chest, but the biting chill remained, penetrating through his robe and nipping at his skin.
Han was dead . . .
Why hadn't he tried harder? Why didn't he teach Ben to curb his anger better? Why didn't he realize Ben was falling to the dark side sooner?
Why didn't he save Han?
The growing light was beginning to illuminate the grass and rocks around him. Rocks . . . like gravestones . . . suddenly Luke wanted to throw every one of them in the ocean. Every little rock could be a grave, surrounding Luke with death.
And Han wouldn't even have a grave. His body fell down an endless shaft – a shaft, Luke now sensed, that had exploded. Han was nothing more than millions of microscopic specks floating endlessly through space.
With that thought, Luke's breath dissolved into pants again as his eyes shifted around the rocks. No . . . his friend deserved a grave. Even without a body to bury, Han deserved something to mark his passing. Something.
Luke crawled around the cold, wet grass, searching for the right rock. It took maybe several minutes, but finally a large rock with an arched edge caught his eyes. He grabbed it, wiped the dirt from it, turned it upright – yes, this would do.
As the sun rose further up, making the ocean sparkle and bringing color back to the planet, Luke piled dirt around the stone to hold it upright, not caring about the state of his hands or his robe. The pain seemed to dull a little when he had something to work on. Once he was sure the rock would stand up, he eyed some little blue flowers growing towards the hill's edge. Blue – Han wore a blue coat on Hoth, he'd probably like those flowers.
Luke picked as many flowers as he could hold and arranged them around the rock. Already he was starting to feel more like Han was at peace . . . even though he knew Han wasn't anywhere. Han wasn't Force-sensitive – he wouldn't reappear like Obi-Wan. Han was simply gone.
That realization sent a rush of coldness through Luke's body. No . . . no . . . maybe there was hope for Han's afterlife . . . maybe there was a way for those who weren't Force-sensitive to retain their consciousness after death . . . maybe . . .
He had to believe that for now.
By now the sun had risen far enough for Luke to see the makeshift grave clearly. With a deep breath, he took a small, sharp stone and scratched on the words to mark Han's memory.
HAN SOLO
My friend.
My brother.
THE END