He can feel the heat coming up behind them, and knows that with it comes the end.
Her hand slips into his, and he knows she's realized it too. Her weakness is those eyes, and through them, he can see just how young, and how scared she is. War doesn't leave room for transitions, especially from criminal to rebel to leader.
He's just as scared, but hides it well. Death was a risk coming into the job, and a possibility every waking moment. Now, he's got a reason to live, and a reason to keep going. The Empire just scoffs, and sends out orders to kill.
So they pull each other closer, the captain and the criminal. In that moment, they're reduced to simple humans, filthy and bleeding and lost. They have so much to say, and no time, nor energy.
He won't die happy, but he won't die alone. And neither will she.
Their names won't be the ones remembered through the ages, like those of the long-gone Jedi warriors of the past. Their names will be ones mentioned when reflecting upon the terrors that lead to peace in the galaxy.
They won't be painted as the shiny-eyed heroes, rallying hope and public awareness. They'll be a reminder of the young lives cut short through the tyranny of the Empire.
The light draws nearer, and he turns them toward it. Reds and golds, the uncanny beauty of cruelty should be the last thing those innocent eyes see, not the death that lies scatter across the beach, the sand stained crimson.
In the end, they'll be remembered as martyrs who stood for the cause, and laid down on the line for it. They'll be the pair of bodies found on the beach, blackened and bruised, clinging to each other, even after life has drifted off, and their limbs rendered stiff.
Death takes a look at the unlikely pair, united in sand and grime and grief, and begins its fiery decent.