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Epilogue, Part 2
[2 years post Identity;
1 year + 1/2 post-marriage]
New Year Festival Week / Haven Consecration
8 ABY
It was truly remarkable, the way in which Leia's people had so elegantly woven their Haven into the fabric of Yavin IV - graceful, unassuming, and respectful; the former Rebel outpost looked much as he remembered it, and yet it was so vastly changed: a welcoming, thriving colony. He knew - from her stories, from the things Bail and Rouge and all the others had said during the planning of the sanctuary - that Alderaan had been a traditionally conservationist planet, never trampling or misusing their own resources, never mutilating or eroding their native flora and fauna - but to see that essence in action was fascinating, and humbling. Han had never been particularly interested in, or moved by, things such as art and architecture, but this place was brilliant - it was quiet, hidden salvation at a reverent peak, and though he was not one of them - though he was an outsider to this entire Diaspora of people who had lost everything, he still found himself in awe of the achievement that the Haven was and, on some microscopic level, capable of understanding - in the face of this renaissance - just how immensely devastating the loss had been.
It wasn't that he had previously thought it a minor event - from a logical, obvious standpoint he had fully understood the sheer malice involved in demolishing an entire world, and he had - academically, so to speak, known it was calamitous in terms that could not be quantified - and he had, naturally, seen first-hand Leia's grief, and Leia's emotional desolation, over the loss of her planet - but it had only ever been cerebral for him. For the first time - surrounded by the entirety of Alderaan's survivors, all brought together in weeks of mourning and celebration, catharsis and healing, he felt some deeply-rooted sense of horror at what had happened - and he felt it personally, in a way he hadn't before, and almost couldn't define, until, until -
Until the moment he was watching Leia christen the baby, his eyes fixed on her delicately braided hair, expensive gown, the regal stiffness of her shoulders - stared at her performing the ceremony, and was jolted with the sharp realization that - Leia's children, his and Leia's children, would never have the chance to really know Alderaan, for all it had been, and for all it had been to Leia. That bothered him, so suddenly and intensely - he took Corellia for granted; of course they'd know Corellia, but Alderaan hadn't just been Leia's home, it had been the place that adopted her, accepted her, and to be unable to anchor herself to that through sharing it with her own children seemed - devastating in its own right, in a way Han hadn't considered.
There was a lot, he figured, that he had not considered, or reflected on with any depth, until recently; until Leia got pregnant, until he and Leia lost the baby - his own mortality, everything in between. He was a prominent figure in all the Haven ceremonies - no speaking parts, but visible on the dais because of his rank as Leia's husband - and the massive amounts of people present was a stark reminder that though the crowds looked large, they did not even begin to cover the whole of Yavin - and this, this was all that was left of a planet that was once the galaxy's brightest jewel.
He was inexplicably angry that so much effort was now required to ensure that the culture of Alderaan, the memory of Alderaan, would remain alive - when Leia had mentioned, months ago, that her family members had proposed speaking only Alderaanian to the baby, to ensure the language survived, Han had shrugged, thinking that fine with him, but now it resonated - he noticed, more so when Winter sadly pointed it out, that many of the young children here spoke haltingly in their parents' language; they were more well-versed in Basic, or the language of whatever planet they'd taken refuge within.
He found himself interested in the ceremonies and traditions, asking questions, paying attention - thinking about the future. In the years and months that went into planning this sanctuary, he had nursed a vague worry about Leia, how it would be for her - hard, upsetting, emotional - and that worry had been amplified, in the past few months, after everything they had been through, knowing she was insisting on performing the Christening despite everything - My mother would have done it, Han, my mother did do it, every year, even if it broke her heart, and I am not going to let her down. The raw freshness off the loss was gone, but he knew that moment on the dais had opened the wound a little, pierced scar tissue - for him, it had thrown things into sharp relief - if everything had gone right, in a month or so, Leia and I, we'd have -
Moving through the columns of the temple where the grand reception for Winter's wedding was taking place, Han shook his head, his jaw stiff - blinked a few times, glancing around at the festivities - the drinking, the dancing, the laughter - Leia had wandered off, some time after Winter's first dance with Tycho, after Winter's bouquet had smacked Luke in the face - why he was standing so near the group of women, Han was unsure. She had seemed serene through the ceremony, standing up with Winter; all day, she had seemed serene - the tears that had come after the Christening ceremony a few days ago were gone, and she was less subdued, but that grief, he knew, was at the forefront again, and mixed with all the lingering ache over Alderaan - these ceremonies seemed to be gorgeous, and terrible, all at once - not only for Leia, but for everyone.
The opening sacrament - the funeral for the Queen, which stood as a proxy ceremony for Alderaan itself - had been so solemn, so final, and Leia had surprised him, white-faced later that night, curled up in bed in their quarters, her head resting against his chest - I don't want the crown, I never wanted it, but laying her to rest without - a coronation for me - is so brutal - it's all over; it's all gone. Han related to the loss of a mother well enough, but to the loss of dynasty, ancient tradition - that was beyond his comprehension, and he knew Leia felt a part of their family, but not quite a part of that enduring monarchical tradition, and she felt - he thought she felt - like some resented her, for being the end.
These people, though - all around him - Han could tell they loved their Princess Leia, and that too, was remarkable, if a little unnerving. To know so many people looked to her to guide and lead, and idolized her - that was one thing, but to experience it, to see it first hand, that was entirely eye-opening.
In search of her, he slipped behind the scenes of the wedding reception, avoiding catching attention - Winter was center stage on the raised dais where, so long ago now, Leia had placed a medal around his neck. Her white blonde hair was loose, a little tangled, tumbling over her shoulders, and that in itself was a moment of clarity for Han - when he'd watched Tycho Celchu unbraid Winter's hair as tradition mandated, and realized he had never seen it unbraided before - never - and it looked intimate, and free, and retrospectively, he thought about the first time he'd seen Leia's hair unbraided, and how he hadn't had a damn clue, even though she'd told him it was significant.
Leia caught his eye during the vows, and gave him a dazzling smile.
He hoped that smile was still lingering, hoped she still felt dazzled - the wedding should have been one of the better moments for her, during all this, and he wondered what might have sent her slipping away, hiding -
He stepped out of the temple, and took a path down the primal stone steps, following natural pathways scattered with stones and leaves, framed by arches of trees - same path to seclusion he'd drawn Leia away to after the Christening; same path he'd seen her disappear down after the Battle of Yavin. This time - she wasn't there; he did not find her hiding among the trees, but on a bewildered trek back towards the temple, he spotted her - close to one of the side entrances, just outside of the candlelit revelry. She sat on one of the intricately carved stone steps of the temple, a bouquet of flowers sitting next to her, face turned up to the starry, moonstruck sky.
Smiling a little, Han approached her, ensuring his footfalls were obvious, but gentle, so it wouldn't startle her. He stood staring at her for a moment, and then sat down on the step next to her, his eyes falling slowly from her hairstyle, to her line of her jaw, to the high heels sitting near her feet - her toes curled as he looked at them, and she shifted a little, tilting her gaze towards him. Han said nothing for a moment, admiring her gown - she had changed for the reception, out of her demure white gown into something altogether more arresting. Iridescent and somehow translucent and glittery without being indecent, she now wore a ball gown that was seductive, but angelic, sheer, but coy, and Han had salivated over it all evening - though now, for the moment, his lust was tempered with affection, and interest, in what had drawn her out alone, to the wilderness outside.
Without a word, he leaned over and nudged her shoulder with his, a flirtatious, light touch that made her lips turn up in a smile. She lowered her gaze from the stars, and glanced over at him, her eyes bright, and Han swallowed hard.
"You look incredible," he said huskily. "You know?" he shook his head. "That dress is...you look...damn good."
Leia blushed softly, her eyes drifting down over his ensemble. She lifted an eyebrow.
"You don't look so bad yourself," she complimented, with a wry little smirk - he'd been in Alderaanian dress, robes and suits like her father's, for the past two weeks, and she was as taken with it as she'd imagined she would be.
Han tugged at the collar of his suit, and then ran his hand over the hemline of the cape, pushing it tensely back over his shoulder. He shrugged a little - he didn't mind the getup too much, he'd decided. It wasn't as uncomfortable as he'd thought - and any grumblings he'd had that he'd look silly in it were arguably a moot point, as everyone here was Alderaanian, and they thought it entirely normal. He smirked, and rested his arms loosely over his knees, tapping his boot on the step below him.
"So, you look good, I look good," he drawled smoothly. "S'gonna be a good night. Not a lot of sleepin', 'M thinkin'," he suggested.
"Mmmhmm," she murmured agreeably.
"I want you to keep the dress on."
"Hmm," Leia murmured. She tilted her head towards him, and brushed her hands at the tulle. "You think you can find what you're looking for in all this?"
Han nodded seriously.
"Ev'n if I was blind, Sweetheart."
She compressed her lips in a smile, and leaned back, her palms supporting her weight behind her. Han looked over her - again at the heels next to her, her bare feet, the flowers she'd been carrying for the wedding, and he thoughtfully tried to gauge her mood: was she sad, resentful, happy? Was there something about the wedding, the reception? She appeared to be calm, just thinking - he wondered, at the core, what all of this was like for her - he, for one, saw a lot of positivity, despite the sadness of what had happened to these people. He pressed his knuckles together, and cleared his throat, squinting up at the sky - the weather was balmy: cool breeze, warm air.
"You doin' okay, Leia?" he asked quietly.
He looked over at her cautiously, and she nodded. She was quiet for a little longer, and then she turned, glancing over her shoulder, staring between columns into the halls of the temple. She licked her lips, and then turned back to him, pulling one hand into her lap.
"I'm so happy for her," she said sincerely. "Winter's so happy and I'm," she clicked her tongue softly. "It's wonderful."
Han nodded, nudging her shoulder with his again. Leia blushed, and sat forward, her elbows on her knees. She looked down at her hands, brushing her fingers together, and then reached up to brush her fingers gently under one of her eyes, pressing her lips together hard. Han reached over to cup his hand around her bare shoulder, studying her intently, silently asking if anything else was wrong. Leia's lips trembled, and she smiled with a small shrug.
"This is all so," she began, gesturing slowly at her heart, her palms upwards, "emotional, all of it."
Han nodded again - sure it was; if he'd been feeling so introspective and pensive about the whole thing, he knew it was magnified for her - Alderaan, her mother, the baby - all of it. He pressed his hand against her more firmly, and Leia touched her cheek gingerly with her palm, blotting at small tears.
"The, ah, father-daughter dance," she whispered. "I left so - Father could dance with Winter, it's less awkward if I'm not conspicuous," she rambled quietly, taking a deep breath. She bit her lip. "Whyler was dancing with Maiah," she murmured. She looked at Han, her head tilted, eyes glittering at him through her lashes. "Thought of you, and," she trailed off, shrugged.
Han rubbed his thumb in circles on her skin, swallowing hard.
"Yeah," he said huskily.
Leia nodded, sure that he understand, and placed her head lightly on his shoulder, staring out over the wooded paths surrounding the ancient temple. She felt such an uplifting sense of optimism here, and in spite of tears, and sadness, that lingered around, or struck hard with all the memories, it was pain she now valued, because she was remembering the glory of the past - and she was seeing how her people had persevered, how strong they were, how good. Her mother - Breha Organa had so utterly embodied the spirit of Alderaan as a whole, and she was an inspiring figure.
Han looked thoughtfully at the crown of her head as she rested it against him, thinking of the past few months - the slow return to a sort of normal, after Leia's miscarriage, after the fervor started to die down, and their routine was re-established. It had been a process of the sharp pain lessening for her, day by day, fading into stale, but present sadness, slowly becoming fear, or anticipation for the future - the days during which Han had undergone his bacta treatment for his bone marrow resonated starkly; they were difficult, but hopeful. It had been such a time of - limbo, of re-orientation; during which they talked about moving, in which Han wondered about his next steps - and he still wondered, as his commission decision approached, and Leia lingered in her career, unsure if now was the time to challenge Mon Mothma, or if she wanted her old mentor to have another term.
In many respects, Han was unsure where they were on some things - but Leia was unsure, too. There was no timeline, just a sense of recovering, of thinking of the future - Leia had never recommitted to permanent contraceptive, and that was something, but neither had she made any definitive overtures in any other way, and Han, healing faster, and less weighed down, did not feel right asking. He turned his head now, and kissed the crown of her head, closing his eyes - only for Leia to shift restlessly.
"Han?" she murmured, sitting up straight, her eyes fixed first on her feet, and then on her hands - and then, inexplicably, up at the stars, lips parted thoughtfully.
He grunted softly, expectantly, listening, and she hesitated, moistening her lips. She took a deep breath, and looked at him sideways, a look of quiet determination on her composed face, purpose glittering in her eyes - strength, shining, in the way she looked at him, and he lifted his brows a little, intimidated by what might be coming.
"I think I'm ready to try again."
He only stared at her as her words settled - softly spoken, but confidently decided, and she searched his expression with patience, and curiosity, waiting for him to respond.
He didn't, right away; he was thinking about the last time he'd been on Yavin with her, when she was just some stuck-up, tortured young princess, and he was an irreverent smuggler with a death mark on him - nothing, really, to each other, compared to the everything they were now. He was thinking - how unbelievable it was that since then, she had loved him, married him, become the brightest spot in his universe, and here she was again, resilient in the face of tragedy, refusing to be cowed by it.
His question was hoarse, almost rough -
"You sure, Leia?"
She was quick with a resolved, proud nod, and was bursting into a shaky smile when he leaned over, in a rush to kiss her, touch her cheek, stroke his hand back over her hair.
"Leia," he murmured, relief, and anticipation, and awe - all kinds of things, hammering through him, tightening in his chest in a wholesome feeling, a good feeling. He kissed her harder, then slower, soft, short - a thousand evolutions of a kiss, and then he pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes searching, earnest, asking again, silently - if she was sure.
She nodded.
"I hate that it happened," she said huskily. "I hate that we lost," she didn't use a pronoun, just trailed off; enough was said. She lifted her shoulders. "It happened," she finished. "Maybe it had to," she whispered - because in all that, she had learned how to grieve again, and grieve well, healthy, and cathartic; and in all that, she had learned of Han's health threat, and ensured that she wouldn't lose him now, not until he was older than she could imagine - "I have a feeling, I have," she said quickly, her breath catching. "I have a feeling...it won't happen again."
Han's shoulder's tensed with anticipation - it was so rare for Leia to have an unequivocally good feeling, and he trusted it, as he trusted her other feelings, and he felt soothed, and anxious, all at once, on the verge of asking - what if it does? - but in her eyes, he already found the answer: if it did, she - they - would survive, and they'd find their way forward, somehow, because they always did - and Leia bit her lip, looking back at him with calm certainty - she had reflected on this, meditated on this, and though there were no certainties in life, something told her that the worst of what she would ever face was over - that in this endeavor, her path forward was clear - safe; the Force whispered to her - he's safe, your Han; you're both safe.
Leia closed her eyes, tears pricking at them, but she smiled. She felt invigorated, and renewed, by all this resilience and faith around her, the mixture of nostalgia, sadness, respect, and perseverance - her mother's spirit, and the miracle of her father - the complexity of the world was so utterly bewildering, but so peaceful in an uncontrollable, unorthodox way - and she was sure of what she wanted; right now, she was sure she was ready.
It all hit her like a lightening bolt, the self-assured confidence, the sudden awareness – almost reminiscent as the steady, warm touch of her mother's hand on her shoulder – that she was strong enough not to give up; that she was ready to ask for another chance to have some new life in her arms, with her own sensitivity and Han's eyes, and Han's smile.
He drew her closer, his body twisting into her gown, wrapping his arms around her intimately, and Leia pressed into him, sighing contently, sighing in quiet relief. She broke into a shimmering smile at his shoulder, her face buried in his neck, and she started to laugh softly – tentatively, and then helpless with it.
Han kissed her temple, and then looked over at the trees, and up to the stars, his teeth scraping over his lip – he had never believed in higher powers; the only higher power he believed in was her, but for the briefest moment, he wanted to think his mother could see him now, and be proud – no, he knew: she would be proud –
And he and Leia, they weren't yoked by the war, or by the traumas of the past; they weren't casualties of it all: they were veterans.
Epilogue, Part 2
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