Author's note: Written in response to Angst Challenge #8 on the Jedi Council forums: write a story in the format of an apology letter from one character to another character.

Title from Epiphany by Staind; thank you to Viari for the suggestion.

Dear Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru,

Do you remember how you used to comfort me when I had nightmares, even though you'd worked so hard for so long the day before and would be up before the suns rose to do it all over again the next day? How you would rock me when I was little, and bring me a glass of water and stroke my forehead when I was older? And how it worked every time?

I remember. I'd give anything right now to go back to those times.

The nightmares are different now. I don't think even you could banish them—but you'd do better than me, I'm sure of that.

I'm not the only one who has nightmares here. I don't have private quarters on this ship; space is limited and a bunch of us bunk together. It's easy to hear when someone else wakes up with one. I've learned that we mostly pretend we don't. It's not that we don't care, it's just that there's no fixing any of it, and we have to keep going anyway.

That part reminds me of home, and how everyone always persevered no matter how hard life got. Sometimes I think you would see yourselves in these people and this cause, for all that you always insisted our business was at home, Uncle Owen.

(I'm so sorry that I still don't think that was true.)

Anyway, it was my turn to wake up in the middle of the night this time. I don't think I woke anyone else. Maybe I could sleep again if I closed my eyes, but when I tried all I saw was death: Biggs, there one second and only a fading ball of fire the next, and thousands—hundreds of thousands—condemned to exactly the same fate by my hand.

I know there wasn't any other choice. I wouldn't do it differently even if I could. Who—and how many—would be next if the Death Star wasn't stopped? But every time I think about it I feel hollow down to my bones. I want to believe that you'd forgive me. You'd understand, wouldn't you, that it had to be done? You were always so practical; surely you'd understand.

(I'm so afraid you wouldn't.)

Those aren't the worst dreams, though. Not even that blood on my hands compares to—

I should have been there. I wasn't because I was careless. If I'd secured Artoo better—

Can you tell the dreams bled into each other tonight? It started over Yavin and ended at home. I called and called for you, and then there you were, the way I saw you last.

(It never stops hurting, Uncle Owen, Aunt Beru.)

I don't want to see it again, so instead of trying to sleep I'm sitting alone in my bunk in the dark trying to think of anything else.

It's not working.

I pulled out the datapad to see what time it was in Anchorhead right now.

That was a mistake.

It's about half an hour before the first sunrise, and all I can think of now is home and you, how the house would be busy and alive before the heat of the day, how you would be making flatcakes and sausage and stewed greens, Aunt Beru, and how you would already be rattling off the never-ending list of what had to be checked and maintained and repaired that day, Uncle Owen, and how I would obey, of course—but I remember how impatient and frustrated I often was, and I'm sorry. The work had to be done, I knew that, I'd always known it—

I was so afraid sometimes that I'd turn into you, with eyes that stopped at the boundaries of the farm and the day's necessities, with no greater dreams than another day's stolid survival.

I'm so sorry that I ever felt that way, or thought that of you. You sacrificed so much to keep us fed and sheltered and safe. I'm so grateful, Uncle Owen. Really I am. I'm sorry I didn't tell you that more often.

(I'm so sorry that I feel a wisp of relief even now to have escaped that fate for myself.)

I hope the stormtroopers didn't burn the house before—I hope you didn't see it. I hope at least you were spared that much.

(Did you wonder where I was when it happened? Did you worry that I would come home before it was over? Were you angry that I wasn't there to help defend the farm and you?)

I left it behind: the house, the farm. I still feel guilty about that sometimes. I think, Aunt Beru, that you would tell me not to; that you would agree there was nothing left worth staying for. I think you would tell me to go fly among the stars like I always wanted to and to not look back. I'm trying. Some days it's easy. Some days it's not.

I want to believe you would say the same, Uncle Owen, but deep down I'm afraid you'd be disappointed. You gave the farm everything you had and always wanted me to do the same. But even if I'd wanted to stay (I'm so sorry that I didn't), I couldn't have run it alone, you know I couldn't have. You do know that, right?

(Please know that; please know that even though I wanted to leave, I never wanted to discard the home you poured your soul into.)

I could never have stayed afterward. It wasn't home anymore, not without you.

I buried you next to Grandmother and Grandfather. I'm sure you would have wanted that. It'll still always be your home, even though I'm not there anymore. You'll always be there, in the place you gave your lives to. The land remembers, Uncle Owen, Aunt Beru. It will always know the Lars family belongs there, and part of it will always belong to you in return, no matter what happens now.

(I should be there; I should carry on with your work and your legacy.

I'm glad that I'm not; my heart lifts every time I look out a viewport and see the stars, so much closer than they were at home. I'm glad to be fighting for this cause. I'm glad to follow in my father's footsteps.

I'm so sorry that what I wanted wasn't what you wanted for me, Uncle Owen.)

Thank you for being my parents. Thank you for loving me and teaching me and shaping me to be who I am now.

Someday I'll make you both proud despite everything, I swear it.

I miss you so much.

I'm so sorry for everything.

I love you.

—delete file—