I. Beginning
She looks beautiful in white.
Bright.
Fresh.
Clean.
Gone is the soldier with blood on her face. No trace remains of the sweat and the dirt and the stains of rebellion.
She is just a woman now. Not a Princess, or a Senator, or a battle-hardened leader. Just the woman he loves.
She blushes, and her face is as innocent as her gown.
"You're beautiful."
"You don't look so bad yourself, for a scoundrel."
For once he has not retort. So he kisses her.
Kisses her for every moment of their past, and for every waiting sunrise in their future.
II. Middle
He's always hated the middle.
Maybe it's just his enthusiasm, but the interlude between the heroic rescue and the triumphant return is proving exceedingly boring. He sighs and slumps in his seat.
Suddenly, the Falcon shudders. Something hard rolls down the hallway into his foot. He turns his attention from the ceiling and picks it up. It's a significant-looking metal ball. He studies it for a moment, then shrugs, and begins to toss it casually.
Han storms in, catches the ball in mid-air, and jogs back down the corridor.
"Found it, Chewie!"
Luke groans. Maybe he'll just take a nap…
III. End
Gone.
A flash of light and a life is ended.
She kneels in the dirt and can't help but imagine every smile he'll never give, every tear he'll never shed. And she weep for what can't ever happen.
He watches her from a distance, still sweating with the adrenaline of the shootout. For a moment, he wonders if she's in the wrong line of work. Holstering his blaster, he realizes she's better for the job than any of them.
"Let's go," he says gently. She wipes her eyes and gets to her feet.
It isn't death she fears. It's finality.
IV. First
He's never felt a stronger sense of destiny.
The weapon vibrates in his palms, alien but somehow right. It was his father's once. His father's. The distant legend of a man who ruled his childhood imaginings. Holding a piece of him here and now feels like shaking hands with a god.
He tries a few swings, surprised by the weight of it. Nevertheless, his muscles seem to know where to go, and he cuts a smooth arc through the air. The Force is ingrained in him, as it was in his father.
He is a Skywalker. This is his path.
V. Last
"Goodbye."
The words are charged. Their understanding is unspoken: Goodbye, maybe for the last time. It's always maybe for the last time.
She hates war. Hates the uncertainty. The chance that any step could spell the end, any chapter be the conclusion.
Her father once told her if you spend all your life looking up to the sky, worried a meteor's going to land on your head, you're likely to walk off a bridge. She tries to believe him as she prepares to return the goodbye.
But he sees through her logic and hugs her like it's the last time.