The crackle of the fire caused Luke to jump, startling him out of his reverie. The flames from his father's funeral pyre grasped at the stars, reaching for release. His father. A term for which he had before only attached dreams to, but now lay before him, in ashes.
Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Luke sighed solemnly. It was fitting for Vader, or what was left of him, to end in flame, such had been the end of the empire. But now that he thought about it, what had given him the idea in the first place? He was unaccustomed to the etiquette of funerals, ones that he had had time to prepare for, that is.
The sound of the distant drums of celebration had momentarily ceased, leaving Luke with only the feint sounds of the forest for company. He had seen too much death in his time, his godparents, his friends, pieces of himself, all torn away by war. A war that was over now, the remaining pieces crackling before him or streaming beautifully from the sky.
But still, the very nature of this cremation struck a cord in him. At the time it seemed the natural thing to do. However, the only Jedi he had known had simply slipped away, into the oblivion of the force. Perhaps this was the way it had been done in the old times, when they had time for rituals and remembrance. Perhaps, Luke thought as the Ewok drums resumed their jubilant rhythm, this marked the renewal of that time.