A/N: Hey, all! Sorry about the wait on these ones. I'm running out of that initial momentum. Now the work begins… Anyways, I thought I'd keep these ones light, for the most part, because this week's topics could get really dark in a hurry. So with the exception of Scars and Agony, who absolutely refused to fit in with the rest of them, look for a little more comedy in this section.

May the Force be with you,

TSW


XLI. Rebirth.

All across the galaxy, the cry echoes: "The Empire has fallen!" The celebration brings together everyone, of every race and religion, and they shout as one with the joy of newfound freedom.

But there is one who seems untouched by the festivities. He's a young-looking individual, a man who was once a boy, not so long ago . He stares calmly into the dark beyond the fire. There is something there that the others can't see. Whatever it is, it makes him smile peacefully.

Nodding silently, he returns to the party, thankful that even after death we can be reborn.


XLII. Scars.

They're not the kind of war wounds to brag about. They aren't impressive or grotesque, and the story behind them isn't one she's eager to tell. But he finds them one night, and, as always, he has to ask.

"They're nothing," she says firmly, rearranging her hair to hide them. But he doesn't believe her, and continues prodding until she can't take it anymore. "Just leave it, okay?"

She's in the nightmare again, with needles and machines and questions, questions she can't answer, but it hurts so much…

When she wakes up crying, his hands know just where to go.


XLIII. Disease.

He hates this stupid holiday. Whoever decided to celebrate the sunny, naïve ideas of romantics was an idiot. All he'd created was a day when making out was acceptable in any situation. If he has to push through one more tangle of appendages, someone's going to end up on the wrong end of a blaster.

He hopes the kid hasn't been hit, a hope that's demolished on first sight. Luke is stumbling around like a drunken nerf, with what looks suspiciously like lipstick on his collar.

Leia doesn't wear lipstick… His own relief disgusts him. Damn thing must be contagious.


XLIV. Agony.

He's suffered his share of injuries, some of them so painful it hurts to remember. None compare to this.

The fire racing through him burns his veins with a pain so intense all he can do is curl up in a ball and scream. But worse than the physical agony is the voice in his head, digging persistently at his greatest weakness. He struggles not to listen.

There's truth in them that he can't deny, and that's the cruelest torture of them all. Because while he writhes on the ground, sobbing and helpless, his father stands by and does nothing.


XLV. Healing.

"You all right, hon?"

"I am now."

The medic laughs. "Those are the drugs talking, sweetie. You'll be thinking clearly again in a few hours." Luke looks up at her face, so strikingly beautiful.

"I'm not sure I want that to happen."

"You're lucky, you know," she says cheerfully. It took a long Bacta bath to patch you up."

"Have dinner with me."

She chuckles again. "Aren't you the charmer? I'm afraid that's impossible. We're on a military base."

"So?"

"I'm leaving, before you embarrass yourself any more."

"I'll call you!" He calls, and watches her go, enjoying the view.