Somewhere in his awareness, he knew that Wedge had grabbed his arm, that Tycho had tried to block his doorway, and that Chewie was howling over his comm. But General Han Solo was so far beyond the realm of consciousness that he only remembered this room. He wasn't sure how he had left the bridge, how he had traveled the corridors, how he had wound up in the correct quarters. But he was here, alone, and free to -

What?

Free to do what? Take a blaster to his head? Break down and start crying uncontrollably? Scream and throw things until he felt human enough to confront somebody?

No.

Han didn't feel he had enough energy to even think of doing any of those things. All he could do was sit on his bed and feel himself shake violently. Somewhere along the line, his breathing had gone haywire and he felt he could drown in his own sweat. His mind refused to let him take any logical action: comm Coruscant, see what was happening or try to get a hold of Luke.

Han was stuck in a nightmare he had never thought he'd ever have to face.

He continually saw Leia, lying face up, half-on, half-off the dais from where she had been speaking. Alone.

His mind would switch images for memory: he saw her as he had last, standing on the ramp of the Falcon, holding her arms over her chest and giving him a grin that slightly mirrored the one he knew he had had on his face. His mental slideshow would then alternate between old memories and newer ones; at one moment, she stood staring at him with double-buns on her head, barking out orders and calling him 'Flyboy', the next, he could see her looking out of the window late at night, hair down, shimmersilk shift floating around her. Then he was hugging her, pulling her close and burying his face in her hair, while she teased him about his mercenary image gone to dust.

But the slideshow always had the same ending: Leia, face-up on the dais.

Not breathing.

Han closed his eyes and, for the first time, let that thought occur to him.

Leia might be dying.

Leia might be dead.

The shaking got worse. He threw his hands over his face, trying to block out the pain that had suddenly stabbed through his shock. He got up and started pacing, anything to ignore that last thought.

She's gone.

He shook his head, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to control his shaking. His pacing continued, picking up speed, then dropping off, and he continued to ignore the pounds on the door and the noise of the comm. It started to build up: the images, the pacing, the shaking, the pounding. He could feel it rise, feel it gain strength, strength he had thought had deserted him on the bridge. It was a whirlwind of memories and torture, of blame and bliss, and he was caught in the eye of the storm. Was she alone? The softness of her skin, the smell of her hair . . . Was she in pain? Oh, gods, what if she had felt it coming? Could she have stopped it? Would she have stopped it? Her laugh, the way she looked when she was angry . . . Why wasn't he there? Did she blame him? Could he have stopped it from happening?

He screamed.

He didn't know he was doing it until it had left his mouth and had reciprocated around his quarters, bouncing from edge to edge until he thought he'd go crazy just listening to it. When the sound had dissipated into the overwhelming silence of the room, he collapsed onto the floor and put his head in his hands.

I got nowhere to go.

He grabbed his hair and shook his head. It didn't hurt her, she's fine. His reassuring thoughts to himself didn't serve their purpose at all, and he found himself thinking of how she would have felt. She didn't scream. She just watched it happen, let it happen. She was a passive observer to her own death – no! Not death. She isn't dead! – and didn't see it happening. Or did she? Does she know who shot her? Did she know who killed her? - She's not dead!

I'll never see her again, Han thought. I'll never hear her voice, see her smile again. How's that possible? This isn't real! It can't be real. This doesn't happen to us . . .

But it did. It happened. Leia's dead – but what if she's not? – and I'm alone. All alone.

. . . Never feel her put her arms around me, never wake up with her lying so close I could touch her face . . . Never fight with her again, hear her accuse me of being overprotective, see her roll her eyes . . . Never hold her, kiss her, tell her that I love her – she knew, right? This isn't right! This is wrong. It doesn't end this way, it can't . . .

Han felt himself being pulled onto his bed, stumbling over to a softer spot than the floor – Chewie musta hotwired the panel. He felt hairy arms come out of nowhere, settle on his shoulders, and heard a soft growl of sorrow.

Chewie was the last straw. He couldn't take it anymore. As he lay back onto the pillows, he curled his feet up and watched the room spin, then blur, then fade until the lights had completely gone out.