of bitterness sing, oh goddess

Summary: The night before the battle, Leia dreams of Han for the first time in a long, long time. OneShot, introspection- Leia Organa, during and after The Force Awakens.

Warning: Contains spoilers for the movie. Also, the dialogue is not exactly the one from the movie – partly because I don't remember every detail, and partly because I wanted to make a point. Feel free to give me the right words, I might or might not exchange them. Oh, and - not much dialogue, mostly introspection.

Set: During and after Star Wars – The Force Awakens

Disclaimer: Standards apply. Title from the first lines of Homer's Illiad, translated from the German version.

The night before the battle and their meeting at Maz Kanata's oasis, she dreams of him for the first time in a long, long time.

Though that's not exactly true.

Since the day they met – since the day he kissed her, since the day they married, since the day Ben was born – Leia has dreamed of Han every night. She just is too tired to remember, sometimes, or too weary to acknowledge it. Too sad. Too angry. Too bitter. Han Solo is capable of waking many emotions in her, half of them which she wishes she'd never experienced, and all of them are a part of the person that is Leia Organa Solo. Are a part of her as much as Han is, and Ben and Luke and even Anakin Skywalker.

And yet, all of them left her: first Ben, then Luke and then even Han, and Leia is a mosaic of broken shards of people she loves that are gone.

In her dream, Han holds her.

His arms around her are real, as real as his eyes and his crooked smile and his warmth. Leia, born into a family of strong people and raised by strong people, has learned to be strong, as well. But as always, his nearness negates her strength. There is nothing she can do: it is like a part of her gets lost, or crumbles away when he holds her, and she despises her own weakness but she knows she can be weak when it is Han. With Han, letting go of her pride is relief and possibly something very much like surrender, but if it does not feel like surrender there is no shame in surrendering, is it?

It is just.

It is just that she hasn't had anyone close to her since he left, that the hole that is Ben's betrayal still burns within her every hour, every minute and every heart-beat that passes by. The loss of her son is made even worse by the accompanying loss of her twin brother. (Luke, Luke, if we only hadn't had the time to get to know each other so well your disappearance wouldn't have hurt so much.) And Han left next, scouring the universe with Chewie at his side instead of her, and she cannot hate him for it but she can very much hate herself for driving him away. The rational part of her knows that it has not only been her; that human beings are responsible for their decisions and the consequences they carry and that Han, grown man as he is and despite his occasional childishness, had his part in their alienation, as well. But she feels so alone, so utterly, completely alone, that she cannot keep remembering them without falling apart. Seeing him again – even if it only is a dream – brings back all the memories. All the things she burned and buried and still cannot free herself from. She feels so alone it makes her go stiff and still and cold, makes her block out all the people she might once have called her friends, makes her retreat into herself and lock everything inside her, and the shell that remains is the general the resistance needs and the New Republic relies on, the former princess and leader of the rebellion. Leia, though, was more once: she was a woman, and a sister, and a mother. But all the people who made her more than just General Organa are gone, so she is just that.

And then she dreams of Han – he must have stashed away a dozen or so of those jackets because it is the same old one she knows so well, even if he says it is new – and a part of her she has denied for such a long time awakens again. It is a dreary battlefield she dreams of, the pain and fear and bitterness of a fight still clinging to the Force that surrounds her. Ashes, ashes. Charred remains and the scent of burned flesh are everywhere; and yet the worst part is the bitter echo of her beloved son's twisted presence and the underlying memory of Luke like a distant, distant whisper she can't decide is either in the Force or in her mind only. Leia dreams of their conversation, the insubstantial words that are said and the deep meaning they convey, of the way Han looks at her. He always had a special look in his eyes when they were directed at her and even today it causes shivers to roll down her spine. She always was terrified of the meaning in it, the unsaid words behind his façade. Han made her weak; she could have loathed him for it. Instead, her own weakness reflected in his eyes had made her stronger.

Leia surrendered herself, as she always did when it came to him.

"I always hated to see you leave."

"I know. That's why I left. So you would miss me more."

She can't help but roll her eyes; it's so like him.

"I still love you, you know."

"I'm just that type of lovable person."

It was always her who said the words. Always Han who quipped back, making their relationship – and later their marriage, and their separation – sound like it was something more. Or, sometimes, less. Like it was just part of a play, an act, nothing more. It made it seem like she was the one to constantly chase after Han's elusive shadow, while, in reality, it was the other way round. Or, rather: they kept chasing each other, round and round and round, through Star Destroyers and waste pits and deserts and cities. Always just a few millimeters behind each other, and still - never catching up. There was a galaxy of impossibilities between them, and somehow they still had managed to find happiness, even if it had only been for the equivalent of a star's birth and death in the wide expanse of the galaxy. I love you. I know.

"Bring back our son. Bring him home."

"I will."

It is a promise; and Han has never once broken a promise he made. Not even the "in sickness and in health, in good and in bad times", even if he did leave. Han left for himself, yes, but he also left for her, and that means something to her. To them. (Luke, she is not so sure. Luke left because he felt guilty, but perhaps there was more and the fact that she cannot completely read her twin even after they have gotten to know each other so well, even after they had forged something like a tentative twin bond, pains her as much as Ben's loss still hurts, day after day.) It is a promise, Han's warmth and his nearness and the pained but real smile in his eyes, but it also is a dream. Leia can feel her sleeping self, alone in the large room that is empty despite the furniture, the picture frames and the holo cubes. The air is bitter and void of the sound of Ben's laughter, the affection in Luke's Force presence and the loving touch of Han's hands. She can feel the darkness surrounding her, the sound-filled silence that is the air circulation and the wind outside, the soft hum of the holo screen. She can feel the Force around her. It is a dream, yes. But it is also Han and Force she hasn't seen him for so long, hasn't felt him close to her. It is real – he is real, his greying temples, the lines around his eyes, deeper than the last time she saw him but still oh so familiar. And maybe she cries, but there are no tears.

(She lost all her tears years ago.)

Because she dreamed of him, she knows what will happen when they meet on the battlefield the next day.

She knows about his shock and grief at their son's sight. She knows about his crooked smile and knows the strength of his arms when he finally holds her. She knows about his journey, and what plans he has for the next attack. Leia already knows everything. It is but a dream, and she is not a trained Jedi. But the Force always ran strong in her family; her father had it, her twin has it and her son has it, as well, and Leia, too, is a child of the Force. A dream is a dream is a dream, but the Force is the Force. Leia knows, with a security that roots in her trust in herself and her brother who taught her that sometimes, choices are just choices, and sometimes they are what form lives and fates and futures. Leia knows that she is dreaming, but she also knows that her dream is a reflection of the future.

That is why she also knows Han will die.

Leia always was strong.

When the Empire tortured her, she did not give away the Rebel basis. She did not cry when the only home she had ever known was obliterated. Her hands did not tremble when she pulled out the thermal detonator in Jabba's palace, and when everybody left her to fight and she had to remain in the head quarters she did not protest. Leia learned how to be strong from the best.

(She was terrified when Han was frozen in Carbonite. She was shaking when they pulled Luke into the Falcon on Bespin, his right hand gone. Being strong does not imply the absence of fear, she knows, and she knows Luke would tell her so. She can feel his small smile, the chuckle in his words and the warmth in his presence. Han would hold her, tell her it would be alright. But neither her brother nor her husband are there to hold her when she breaks down now, so she can't.)

Before the Falcon takes off to find a girl and a weakness in the New Order's lethal weapon, Leia knows what she has to do.

She has to be strong. So many people depend on her, so much, so much. So much to lose. The New Republic is in no state to retaliate now, after the dreadful attack on the Hosnian system. Her resistance is the only thing standing between the New Order and the New Republic, and Leia knows this. The Star Killer has to be stopped. There will be no Vader here, this time, nobody to topple the supreme leader. Nobody who is young and idealistic and strong, no Luke to redeem the fallen Jedi. There is only a man long past his best years, with a ship that consists of spare parts, many times fixed circuits, engine grease, stubborness and love, a loyal co-pilot and a former enemy pilot who is more interested in finding a friend than in fighting the New Order. There are no second chances here, she knows. Or maybe there are, but she is too old and too tired and too bitter to believe in them. Luke always was the believer of the two of them, she thinks, and at the same time, she knows it is not true. Leia cannot stop believing, and that is painful in itself.

So she looks Han in the eye and ask him to bring Ben home.

It is what he wants. It is what they both know has to happen. It is an echo of a story Luke told her, a long time ago: Will you honor for what they fight. Maybe the fact that she manages to look the man she loves into his eyes and send him off to his death is proof that she is stronger than Luke was. Maybe she only is bitterer. Maybe they just are older, both of them: old enough to have seen everything. Maybe she knows she already lost him once; but in their separation, she always knew he would come back. This time it is different. He won't show up on her doorstep anymore, a crooked smile, a world on his skin and a depth in his eyes that is only ever for her and always ever will be hers. He and Chewie won't tinker around with the Falcon and bicker back and forth, they won't leave grease stains and dusty footsteps on the carpet, they won't finish the last of the stew she explicitly kept for the next day. They won't banter around in conversations that sound like one-sided dialogues and that make her smile, again and again. All those things add to the long gallery of never-agains she has collected in her heart: Ben won't ever smile at her again and call her Mummy, he won't ever fall asleep on the sofa in the living quarters, he won't ever shout at her not to be mean and bossy. Leia believes in forgiveness. She has forgiven others many, many times, she even forgave her father, in a way, even if it took a long time. But she does not believe in time turning back. No matter how often she tells herself that there still is light in her son she knows there won't be a way back to how it was in the past for the three of them, not ever. Maybe Han can manage to bring back Ben Solo, but he cannot bring back their baby son. Luke is another matter; he is not dead and not lost. But Ben's betrayal has crippled him, in a similar way it has broken Leia and Han and all the more because the responsibility of being the last of the Jedi and the only teacher of the Ways of the Force in the known universe already weighted down on him. Oh yes, they are broken, a pitiful, shattered lot, and Leia might as well be the only one left for the things that have to be done. Han will be dead, Ben will be lost if Han doesn't manage to bring him back, and Luke could, for all it is worth, be dead as well.

And Leia is too cold and too alone to even care anymore.

Except that maybe she is not, not completely.

She cannot.

She finds him exactly where she knew he would be. He stands when she approaches, having known she would come. His smile is small and crooked and her breath hitches. No words. The Falcon is quiet, the gentle humm of the systems offline a lullaby that is as familiar to her as her own hands. The bunk still is too narrow for two people at once but the sheets smell like Han, and like engine grease and laughter and love. Han's warmth and his touch and his kisses bring her back to life. Maybe just for a night, one more night and the last one with the man she loves more than life itself. The man who does not know what the future has in store for him and that his promise to her will end his life, but who would promise it to her again and again, regardless of what he has to sacrifice for it, regardless of what it will cost him. The love and trust in his eyes when he says he will bring Ben back make the small, crippled plant that is her dying hope gather strength again. One last time. One last night – one last moment. Feeling him, hearing him, seeing him, kissing him until she cannot breathe anymore. One last time: wishing she could be a part of him so she never has to be without him anymore. One last time, Leia falls asleep in his arms. His hands touch her like he worships her – rough and calloused from years of pulling blasters, hauling ware and working on the Falcon. The same hands have held her, again and again, gently, as if she was made from precious, fragile Alderaanian porcelain. Just hold me. It's all she can do not to say the words but he reads them from her eyes and from the unspoken things in the air around them, and he does as she asks.

And Leia loves him.

That night, she almost, almost forgets her dream and her vision. Han always gave her strength, in the same way Luke gave her trust and Ben gave her love, and all those three people in her life gave her hope.

Han's death is not the flash in the Force her father's death was, or even the slow, ripping sensation she perceived as a just-born child which heralded, even if she did not know at that time, her mother's death.

Everything goes according to the plan, meaning: without a plan. But still it works, somehow. The Falcon makes it to the surface without being detected. The fighter squads attack as planned, right while falling from hyperspace. The New Order launches its forces.

(No battle plan survives the first encounter with the enemy, anyway, she can hear Luke's amused whisper but it is her imagination, as always.)

General Organa is coordinating her troops, but Leia Organa Solo just waits for it to happen.

Mummy, Mummy, look! It is floating!

And then:

The pain is sharp and jagged, almost makes her crumble to the floor. Like her heart is being torn out by invisible claws. Only rigorous will-power and self-control keep her from crying out in pain, from screaming her loss towards the sky.

Han is dead.

Ben is lost.

Leia Organa Solo holds back the tears that threaten to spill from her eyes with everything she has got. She knows; if she cries now, she won't ever stop. She will just break down and cry, cry like she never has cried before. She will never again get up if she gives in now, and that, she cannot do. People depend on her. Worlds depend on her. Han never really believed in the concept of the New Republic, but he believed in freedom. Luke always trusted in the Force, did so even when his trust was turned against him. And Ben... Ben. Leia Organa Solo might die just now in a dimly lit, bustling rebel basis during an attack on the Star Killer. But General Organa cannot die.

She cannot.

So Leia does not break down, just stumbles to sit and listens to her own heart beat for a second. It is still there unsteady but present, and how is that possible when she just lost her heart? Suddenly, she has aged ten years; her body is heavy and everything aches. Maybe it is only her heart – but it feels like her entire body and soul are crying out. For Han, for Ben, even for Luke. And despite everything, before anyone can notice she forces herself to stand up again. The General takes over as she always does, leads her people through the battle, focuses on reports and damage and strategy, and they survive the day like they always do: battered and bruised and a little bit more broken, but alive. Every day they emerge and continue fighting is a good day. The Star Killer is destroyed. That has to count for something, does it not? The General talks and praises and even smiles, and Leia just watches.

I will always come back.

Liar, she thinks. Liars, all of you.

And then:

You are no better, Leia Organa Solo.