Sorry for all the chapter problems—hopefully they're all fixed now.
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As Han docked the Falcon in Home One's main hangar bay, he noted the despondent quiet that seemed to permeate the whole of the ship. Even Threepio's chattiness was muted, a fact that Solo defined as a minor miracle.
He knew that Leia was waiting for him in the bay. When he had returned from the crash site, Lando had relayed the earnest message she had sent, questioning whether or not they'd gained any clues to Luke's whereabouts. His heart ached with dread for what he was about to tell her.
"Finish shutting down," he told Chewie, getting up from the pilot's seat.
As the ramp lowered, Han was not surprised to find Leia there, waiting. Her face was red and splotchy, probably from crying. She was so beautiful and looked so fragile. The last thing in the worlds he ever wanted to do was hurt her further.
He stopped at the bottom of the ramp, rooted to his place. Their eyes met, and silently she took in his dejected, haggard expression.
She knew Luke hadn't come back; knew he was gone. But a part of her needed the absolute certainty of the truth. "Is…he…" She choked, unable to say it.
"He's dead, Leia," Han answered her. He was startled at how blunt his words sounded: They seemed to strike her like a physical blow. He hated himself for saying it, hated himself for hurting her.
Slowly, he brought out the cylindrical metal object, charred and damaged, its once glossy metal casing now dulled and blackened with soot, but it was no less recognizable for that. Solo held Luke's lightsaber out at arm's length to her.
She eyed it like a serpent, but Han could see the awful realization set in, the way her shoulders seemed to slump and her eyes deaden. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, feeling stinging moisture spring unbidden into his eyes. "There was nothing that could have been done." His arm dropped limply to his side.
Leia's face glistened with silent tears. Han scarcely noticed the tears flowing down his own face as he crossed the three strides to the princess and wrapped his arms around her thin shoulders.
She collapsed in his embrace, her broken sobs muffled against his shoulder.
"He's gone," she cried, her grief consuming her like scorching, numbing flames until she felt turned inside out; exhausted and beaten and no longer able to feel anything. The Empire and this hateful war had taken everyone she had ever loved or cared about away from her. She'd tried to be strong and go on like she should. She'd learned to wear a cold mask of indifference, and had forced herself to keep her distance from everyone to avoid caring about them, to avoid being hurt when they were ripped away from her. Somehow, though, she had failed in her attempt to stay aloof, even though a part of her heart told her what she already knew was true: she needed her friends—her family—as much as they needed her. Now she had lost her best friend—her brother she'd only just found—and the pain of that loss brought on a fresh wave of grief that was only too familiar. "I can't believe he's gone."
As they cried, Chewie strode slowly, mournfully, from the ship and up to them, his long, hairy arms encircling them both in a sorrowful embrace.
The three of them huddled and cried for a long time, grieving the loss of a dear friend.
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*******
As Han docked the Falcon in Home One's main hangar bay, he noted the despondent quiet that seemed to permeate the whole of the ship. Even Threepio's chattiness was muted, a fact that Solo defined as a minor miracle.
He knew that Leia was waiting for him in the bay. When he had returned from the crash site, Lando had relayed the earnest message she had sent, questioning whether or not they'd gained any clues to Luke's whereabouts. His heart ached with dread for what he was about to tell her.
"Finish shutting down," he told Chewie, getting up from the pilot's seat.
As the ramp lowered, Han was not surprised to find Leia there, waiting. Her face was red and splotchy, probably from crying. She was so beautiful and looked so fragile. The last thing in the worlds he ever wanted to do was hurt her further.
He stopped at the bottom of the ramp, rooted to his place. Their eyes met, and silently she took in his dejected, haggard expression.
She knew Luke hadn't come back; knew he was gone. But a part of her needed the absolute certainty of the truth. "Is…he…" She choked, unable to say it.
"He's dead, Leia," Han answered her. He was startled at how blunt his words sounded: They seemed to strike her like a physical blow. He hated himself for saying it, hated himself for hurting her.
Slowly, he brought out the cylindrical metal object, charred and damaged, its once glossy metal casing now dulled and blackened with soot, but it was no less recognizable for that. Solo held Luke's lightsaber out at arm's length to her.
She eyed it like a serpent, but Han could see the awful realization set in, the way her shoulders seemed to slump and her eyes deaden. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, feeling stinging moisture spring unbidden into his eyes. "There was nothing that could have been done." His arm dropped limply to his side.
Leia's face glistened with silent tears. Han scarcely noticed the tears flowing down his own face as he crossed the three strides to the princess and wrapped his arms around her thin shoulders.
She collapsed in his embrace, her broken sobs muffled against his shoulder.
"He's gone," she cried, her grief consuming her like scorching, numbing flames until she felt turned inside out; exhausted and beaten and no longer able to feel anything. The Empire and this hateful war had taken everyone she had ever loved or cared about away from her. She'd tried to be strong and go on like she should. She'd learned to wear a cold mask of indifference, and had forced herself to keep her distance from everyone to avoid caring about them, to avoid being hurt when they were ripped away from her. Somehow, though, she had failed in her attempt to stay aloof, even though a part of her heart told her what she already knew was true: she needed her friends—her family—as much as they needed her. Now she had lost her best friend—her brother she'd only just found—and the pain of that loss brought on a fresh wave of grief that was only too familiar. "I can't believe he's gone."
As they cried, Chewie strode slowly, mournfully, from the ship and up to them, his long, hairy arms encircling them both in a sorrowful embrace.
The three of them huddled and cried for a long time, grieving the loss of a dear friend.
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