The Purpose of the Brute Divine
I once kneeled in shaking thrill…
I chase the memory of it still, of every chill —
Chided by the silence of the hush sublime,
Blind to the purpose of the brute divine,
But you were mine.
- "Better Love" by Hozier.
There was a particular instant somewhere — and it was impossible to predict, yet constant — when she caught a glimpse of death at his hand.
There was a rhythm to it, which she didn't notice until it tapered away. Every joint pulsed, pushing her in and drawing her out; the room blushed and bruised under her long, lazy stare. She swallowed, and her lungs, clamping like animal traps, released another shallow breath. Her muscles buzzed, sore, yet washed.
There was a warmth and an ache about it, enveloping her like a thin sheet — something like sleeping in the desert, she thought. She was high and eased and suffocated all at once, drenched as though she'd stepped out of the ocean, and heavy as though she'd been drowning in it first. He weighed her down with a grounding peace, his shoulders against her shoulders, his knees against her knees. Through the dull ringing, he huffed in her ear, damp forehead falling into her hair.
He mumbled something there, but she couldn't make it out. She probably knew what it was anyway — always the same shit, and she always loved it, and she always ran from it.
Her skin was beginning to catch sensations again, so she was coming down. He didn't sound half as close, as his elbow still trembled into the mattress. Down below, his shaking hand glided over her arm affectionately; her eyes fell closed. She took his hand at an awkward angle, managing to tangle her fingers between his.
He mumbled again, the same few words — just a hasty, desperate lie as he fell from the high. She turned her head into his neck and kissed, kissed him wherever was nearest. He was eternally warm, and sweaty, and stubbly, and she could feel his pulse against her mouth. She sighed.
He was so beautiful like this.
The sunset had just beaten them, it seemed. The sky had taken a muted orange color, as the sun retreated under the blanket of clouds below. Since their arrival, they'd been advised not to look down — though upon weeks of space travel, she was hardly disoriented to have no ground beneath her feet. If anything, a city in the clouds was a gentle awakening.
And it felt so nauseatingly uneasy.
All at once, a rush of cold air teased at the sweat on her skin as Han slumped over to his back, head thudding to the pillow. His large frame was greedy with the sheets — unintentionally, though she still felt robbed — but his hand was generous, and did not leave her. She could taste his slight bitterness like salt in her mouth, but still, he did not leave.
He wanted more from her. She wasn't a fool.
The blood slowed its rushing in her ears. A shiver lingered behind her skin, almost like a spiritual pressure, telling her to lean in and chase his warmth. She blinked up at the white ceiling, tinted orange, and listened to the difference between their breathing. His breaths were so slow, so soon.
She tried to think of something to say — something unexpected, and clever, and kind. She tried to think of a means of thanking him, or showing some kind of real emotion without exposing the raw, chafing fear underneath.
That silent moment, as her hearing cleared and her mind raced with awkward pillow talk, brought her attention to a familiar sound.
It was hushed, so much that Leia couldn't detect it until her ears had stopped ringing; and it was distant, so much that she couldn't imagine she'd be able to see it; but it was certain. It was certain enough that she freed her hand from Han's and reached down to collect her robe.
Leaving bed didn't startle him at all — it wouldn't have, because she did this all the time. She would routinely unravel herself in front of him, then climb out of bed and wrap up her frayed edges again, like clockwork. Even now, she scanned the floor for her clothes, just in case.
When she reached the window, she wasn't sure where to look — down, presumably, but the noise was so distant and the buildings…
It was almost below them, but still in sight, as if it had been pursuing them all evening.
Rain.
It hadn't occurred to her.
Smooth gray clouds swarmed in one dense area, breaking up the blanket of white with an abrasive air. The faint white noise of falling rain proved itself not only present, but growing louder — torrential, as if being tossed from a bucket, but soft. It was so audible, so undeniably there, but completely out of sight.
It hadn't occurred to her that it would have to rain here, too. It made sense, of course, but this place — a city in the clouds — felt so surreal, so unearthly, that the idea of common things like weather and nighttime felt impure, unnecessary.
Of course, it rains. What's it supposed to do?
She pressed her hands to the glass, and once she did, she could hear a million internal reprimands. She'd been raised in a palace, for fuck's sake, and she was touching windows. But those inner voices didn't register as anything but white noise. Her pulse still throbbed in her fingertips as she stared down at the gray in a trance.
The logic of it didn't make it any less unnerving. She knew it was there, and she could sense it, but she couldn't see it. Here she stood, in the warm and dry — here she stood, in a distanced place, looking down on a thunderous reality and knowing…
Shivers rose again, like tides — spiritual pressures, telling her to move, to leave, to sprint. Her own fear felt like a premonition, a message from herself that it was time to leave — that he was going to leave — that this was all going to end, and swiftly.
Fingertips brushed over her arm. She blinked back to life, eying the fogged glass before her mouth. Han eased up behind her and drew breath, as if to speak.
Her stomach burned with dread. Don't. No more.
To her relief, he was silent, listening to the sound with her. She wanted to lean back against him, but she didn't. She settled to take his hand, drawing it around her.
She could hear his breathing loudly, clearly. She couldn't see him, but she knew he was there.
"Beautiful," he mumbled, as he looked down at the storm.
She was on a cloud, staring down at her own tragedy like a distant, untouchable thing.
"It's still rain," she muttered hollowly, and pulled his hand to her lips.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Star Wars and stuff. I also very nearly made the summary, "It rains on Leia's parade," but then I figured I might actually want someone to read it.
Anyone who knows me knows that I love fucking about with imagery and themes. So I got the image of rain in Bespin, and the theme of Leia's Force premonitions mixing with her dread of Han leaving, and this happened. Blink and you'll miss where he says, "I love you." Twice.
Anyway, thanks for reading. Leave a comment if it jived with you.