Part II:

Warning: Canon character death detailed within.

Lying flat on his back, Han was unsure at first what had happened. The sounds, the scream, the fall –

And then it hit him.

"Leia?"

He didn't move. She was lying on his chest, head cocked to the side, hands sprawled out to either side of them. He reached his hands up, one cupped the back of her head, the other at the small of her back, and slowly, agonizingly, rolled them over, using his knee as a pivot and catching most of the weight on the other as he laid her down on her back.

"Leia?" His voice sounded weak, stringy, unused, hoarse. He could hear the trembling but was completely unaware of how quiet it actually was. It would break, he knew, if he tried to use it much louder –

The woman he held in his arms, laid on the floor, with one of his hands at the back of her head, the other on her back, was still. Unconsciously still. No, not still. She's moving, she's moving, she has to move, she needs to move, she can't –

The trembling in his voice carried into his hands, a violent shaking that he could feel reciprocated in every part of his body. A cold wash of tingling swept through his chest, a shaking there too, a frightening, sickly trembling mixed with cold and a fear so deep –

He slowly pulled a shaking hand out from under her back, felt it come away warmer than the rest. He knew, knew what it was, why it was warm, why he caught a glimpse of red shine and horror, why a burnt smell permeated the air, bit his nostrils, crawled down his throat, where the trembling seemed to originate.

Leia.

Not Leia, not her, not now, not ever, please –

Please.

The shaking became overpowering as he slid his bloodied hand – her blood, blood so red, so real, so warm – over her stomach, her chest, to her chin, where he brushed his thumb to her cheek and brow, where he watched the smooth, pure, snowy skin turn red and bright at his bloodied touch. Where he looked for the eyes, her eyes, the eyes he knew, knew would open – open! – the brown that was hid from him behind the expanses of eyelids, the ceased convulsing of her long eyelashes.

He tore his gaze away from her face and let his hand, the blood one, the one that shone, the one that was drying, was no longer so warm, brush down to her neck – clean, pure, innocent - draw the streak of semi-warmth down her chest to her stomach, where red had pooled – no, this isn't real, this isn't hers, it's mine, it's my, my, gods, my – staining the white of her gown in a ruinous mess of fabric and her blood –

Her blood was everywhere.

Leia – His eyes widened, he felt even his eyes shaking as he knelt, put his face onto her neck, his shaking uncontrollable, unfathomable, unknowing. The biting – reality? – cold swept through his stomach, hardened his sides, made it difficult to breathe.Leia, open your eyes, talk to me, sweetheart. Breathe, for me, please, Leia, please –

Leia.

He felt his tears erupt, felt the wetness creep down his check, as he stubbornly brought the red hand to his face, threw the tears away – my Leia, my princess, please – felt the cold, the seeping cold of his tears bellow out from the cold storm within to swarm his vision in wetness, in tears. He lifted his head from her neck, felt a tear – so cold, trembling, shaking, convulsing quickly, too quickly – drop down off the river on his face to the memorized face with the blood marks, the brushed care of his fingertips, roll down, meet her lips, parted slightly – please! – and sit there.

Rest.

Stop.

He chocked down a sob, tore his gaze away from the white – but tarnished red, blood, her blood, her warmth – lying down in front of him, looked, searched, frantically, found Rieekan, his eyes wide, his lips shaking, his hands trembling as they pressed to his chest, as he fell to his knees and closed his eyes.

Han took his hand, the red one, behind her head to meet the other one, brushed his thumbs across her eyes. Please, Leia, please. Open your eyes. Look at me. Don't leave me, don't go, I can't – I don't know – you're here, I'm here, please, please, don't –

Sweetheart, please –

And Han Solo pressed his forehead against the princess's – my princess – closed his eyes, fought for breath, fought for her life, concentrated so hard on her, and her eyes, and her neck, that he didn't feel the medic's hand on his shoulder. He whispered to her, trembling, low, shaking with a cold spreading through his body, as well as hers, told her he would never leave, that she had to stay, that he needed her, that she was his everything.

Everything.

That he'd go insane, he was gone without her, he couldn't wake up without her, couldn't breathe without her. That he loved her, over and over again, that he wouldn't let her leave, that he'd kill for her, that he'd take her place in a heartbeat, as long as it was hers, that she'd come for him.

Save him. Save his life.

Save his everything.

And that unfelt hand at his shoulder pushed harder at Solo, forced him away. Out of reach, out of the princess's mind. Away from her waning life, her nonexistent breath, her blood, seeped in a pool on the floor, her wrapped body of white broken and dead, cold, motionless, unfeeling.

Please, Leia, please. For me, please, plea –

Han Solo stood at his window as Coruscant's sun began its slow ascent in the sky. He stood at a casual parade-rest, unconsciously, of course, hands loose at his sides and head straight ahead, staring into the shifting sunrise. He seemed mesmerized or comatose, whichever adjective his Wookiee audience chose to give, by the city in its morning stages, at the barely-concealed energy of the people as they arose and readied for the day.

Solo had not slept and he therefore did not need to arise and get ready. He was dressed in his formal uniform, dress jacket lost, forgotten, trousers rumpled and worn, white shirt splattered with the dried, encrusted blood of the last Princess of Alderaan.

It was inevitable that his copilot would find him here. Chewie knew, before he had entered the apartment, what his captain would be doing, where he would be standing, perhaps what he would be thinking. It was of no consolation to the Wookiee as he crossed the room silently and stared at the panorama with his best friend, intent on comforting Solo but utterly unable to make the first move. It wasn't his to give. He thought he knew how Solo would react to his presence, but was not entirely sure. After all their years together as crew and compatriots, nothing had ever occurred that rivaled the events of the previous night.

So Chewbacca stood at the right shoulder of his captain and waited.

"I just stood there."

The comment was softly spoken, nearly a whisper, but completely tortured. The exhalation of breath, the stillness, alerted Chewie immediately to what Solo was referring.

"I did nothing." Solo's frame still did not move. "I saw him, Chewie. I saw him and did nothing."

Han's was, Chewbacca was certain, a guilt that Solo had heaped onto himself; the captain was protective of nearly anyone to whom he attached his loyalty. It was a short list, Chewie knew, those that Solo let in, let see who he really was. Before the Rebellion, it had primarily been himself that had known the true Solo, but as the years spread so did the list to include two more. One name equaled his own status on Han's protection list, Chewie knew. Luke was a close friend, almost a brother in certain ways.

But the other –

Han's feelings for her had always been obvious to Chewie. Possibly before Han knew himself. It had been clear on Yavin, Ord Mantell, Hoth. His over-protectiveness towards her had manifested itself in every aspect of his dealings with her. Whether it was a routine shipping route or a dangerous and reckless intel mission, Han had watched her back more than his own in each situation. It had been imperative that he protect her, guard her, against those terrors Chewie knew she could handle.

Chewbacca's mind sobered at the thought of the princess. He adored her with the same intensity that he cared for Han; it was difficult not to, they were alike in so many ways. Both were free-spirited, courageous, independent. Capable beyond belief.

Protective.

His mind switched back to his friend who had held his tongue for the past few moments. Solo's eyes were wide open, no hint of moisture there at all, and his lips had formed a thin line. Occasionally, he'd blink, quick rests for his haunted visage, but the green would always reappear, still notably absent from tears.

Chewie wuffed softly, a soft murmur that reverberated in the empty room swathed in white and ivory. It had been her greatest achievement, he knew. He'd helped her with the curtains himself, helped her with shelves and mantles that were too tall for her very short stature. She'd been ecstatic, given the opportunity to begin a permanent residence, a home for the lost princess that had sacrificed everything for her ideals.

With one hand resting on the curtains she'd been so proud of, Han lowered his forehead to the transparsteel. "I'm gonna bury her, Chewie."

Chewie's eyes misted in sympathy for his captain and in recollection for the woman he'd very early on considered a vital member of his honor family. He extended a paw to pat Solo's shoulder and stayed as he continued staring out of the window at the life and vitality of the never-ending city landscape, the tears finally appearing on the sides of his face and forging a wet trail down his cheeks.

It wasn't enough that it had happened: they had to record the aftermath.

The holojournalists had apparently found a way to circumnavigate the private property laws. He'd first seen them later the morning after, swooping in, diving for the meat of torture and angst in a way that seemed unnatural or exceptionally cruel. They covered the outside of her windows, the entry to the consulate, the Falcon. It was ridiculously ironic that he'd receive this much attention at a time when he could seriously care less.

For a brief spell, he'd considered hiding out in the Falcon, avoiding the press altogether, but the moment he thought of it, he'd balked. He couldn't leave. This apartment was all he had of hers. It was a plethora of Leia-ism, of her presence and personality as naturally ingrained into her residence as her mind. She surrounded him here, alternatively punishing and consoling him as he lingered.

This morning he'd gone into her closet, looking for a spare holster he was sure she'd stashed away. As he entered it, he was overwhelmed by her, her clothes, her shoes, the things of his that she'd kept. And he'd started at one end of the closet, touching, remembering, holding. The dress she'd worn at the Bakuran dinner, the white caftan shift she'd worn the night of the Endor victory, his shirt that she'd taken to wearing around the apartment the few times they could lounge around and do nothing.

It was her

He'd spent two hours in the closet, looking at her things, remembering, knowing, understanding. That was what had surprised him: he knew everything. He'd seen it all, the dresses and the lingerie, the expensive scarves and the plain white robe he knew was her favorite. He could picture her in each one, as easily as if she were standing there in front of him, glibly reprimanding him for detaining her as she rushed to ready herself.

It was moments like this that scared him the most, when he was possessed to do things that seemed absurd. And he found himself doing them more often, as he hid in her apartment that was not really her apartment anymore. He followed his mind as it relived the memories, both good and bad, timeless and forgettable. He allowed himself to become stupidly obsessed with a past that had nothing to do with him now, a future he'd historically imagined that he couldn't have anymore.

This was why he fantasy images assaulted him at night, leaving him without mental reprieve. It was a strangled, tangled web of "what-if" holograms – Leia in green, red, gold, silver dresses. Bridal white. A proposed proposal, one he'd secretly pondered before but never felt the courage to actually speak out loud. The children he'd never really wanted but knew he would with Leia, tangible evidence of their existence, their relationship. Their lives. A Leia no longer wearing white on her dresses, but rather in her aging hair, the strands as endearing as the wrinkles on her face. The laugh ones, worry ones, ones he was sure were a direct result of a lifetime spent with him.

He just didn't think that lifetime would end so quickly.

As it was, he would be taking an unmarried, childless, stupidly young Leia, a Leia of so many possibilities now as dead as she herself, to the grave. He would sit through a service that highlighted her life accomplishments, never touching the warm, gentle skin or gazing into the pools of brown liquidity that electrified him, or smelling the long multitude of brown cinnamon strands that moved as if it weren't attached to her head. The service would end, they would cry, they would congregate, but they would leave with a dented sense of justice and nothing more. No overarching heartache, no burning emptiness trailing down their spines and dropping suddenly into their stomachs.

No true regret.

No hollow ring that echoed constantly in their ears, her last words, his last to her, so innocuous, so idiotic, so ordinary and unexceptional. So wrong.

Wrong. A phenomenal manner of summing this emotion up. It was uncomfortable, unenlightened, uninspiring to think that she died that way. Speaking mundane history with him – his! Not hers! – it was sickening to think of the last moments of her life. It was pointless. Didn't sit well.

Wrong.

It was just wrong. Everything about this situation was uncomfortable and lame without him having a clear idea of what would have been right. Right was the way he felt before they left the apartment – ithis/iapartment, how different it feels now! – to go to the dinner. Right was an ordinary conversation with Rieekan, joking about her height. Right was the pitiful last moments of her life, as she laughed and held him close, breathing her perfume, feeling her hair and her skin as they brushed against him.

Right was merely to have her with him.

That was why this whole experience was uncertain, vague, shifting. Uncomfortable. Unsavory. Murky.

Wrong.

Without her, everything seemed wrong.

Some of you who've read "Peace with the Dead" may think I have a sadistic desirefor killing Leia off in my fics, but, truly, she's only been dead in one of my viggies, and Leia lived through until the end of PwtD. This is the first time I've actually killed her. (It was incredibly difficult for me to do, lol.)

KR