It was a crisp, pitch-black night on Endor's Forest Moon, and the torch Aphra held to scare off predators did nothing to alleviate the nagging uneasiness that had seized her when she had set foot in the clearing. But it wasn't the local wildlife that caused her worry.
It had been but two years since the battle of Endor, and Imperial artifacts were already selling like hot cakes. Not in the public square, of course, but she had done a little digging. She could easily get a good hundred credits for an old flag, and stormtrooper helmets were all the rage in certain circles of the Core Worlds, but this – this – was about to make her rich. Not only that, but, if she was to be entirely honest, she felt a little bad for letting it rot here. I'm here for the credits, she mentally repeated, just for the credits, remember? But was she? She felt her chest constrict a little harder with every step she took, regret wrapping itself like a hand around her throat.
She walked a few more meters…and stopped dead in her tracks. There, right at her feet, was Darth Vader's helmet - or rather, what was left of it. She stuck her torch in the dirt and kneeled wordlessly on the ash-covered ground. She knew she'd find it there, and yet, she couldn't quite believe what her eyes were telling her. Somehow, it didn't feel real. She could still hear the rasp of his heavy breathing, feel its cold, rhythmic flow brushing against her skin; she could still hear herself exhaling the words out: "You're what I've been looking for all my life". How she had meant it then.
Her eyes trailed down the length of the funeral pyre. There wasn't much to be salvaged. Most of the armor had been burnt or melted down. The glint of metal caught her eye, and she let out a gasp upon realizing it was a hand – his hand. A hand that had held hers, a hand that had saved her, a hand that had thrown her into the void of space… and that now lay blackened and still, half-melted in the dust of that deserted clearing. What a twist of irony. She picked the helmet up, cautiously, almost solemnly, and proceeded to brush some of the dust off. Her trembling fingers stopped on the distorted jawline, and, in spite of herself – in spite of everything – she felt hot, bitter tears welling up in her eyes.
It was a while before she realized Sana had caught up with her.
"Um… I knew you had… diverse taste, but this is Dar…"
"I know, Sana."
The tears she'd been holding began seeping through the dam, and she quietly turned away to hide them. She felt the smuggler's hand lightly squeezing her shoulder in a comforting gesture. Silence settled for a moment, and Aphra did not look up until Sana finally spoke.
"Is this why you…"
"No," she said, her own voice coming off as foreign to her. Maybe. I don't know. "It's… complicated."
She should be glad that he was dead, really. Grateful that she was – finally, definitively – free of him. That she would no longer fear – or long for – that looming presence behind her, that deep, sonorous voice making her bones shiver each time it spoke her name. She should be. She wasn't. And for the first time since the war, Aphra allowed herself to weep for what had never been.