The Exile doesn’t look up from where she rubs the cloth over her hands, removing the last of laigrek from them. The sun of Dantooine is setting, illuminate the grassy fields in orange and brown. Visas does not seem to take offense at the lack of acknowledgement–she rarely does. For not the first time, the Exile admires her ability to just accept.
And feels sympathy for it, too.
She senses Visas’s presence draw closer, until her companion is sitting to her back. The edge of the salvagers’ camp allows them a view of the Enclave. The ruins. The evening light bathes the grey stones in gold, and Exile tries to close her eyes and see her home as it used to be. Younglings chasing pylat birds and insects, herself a frustrated padawan trying to get stronger in the Force and painfully remaining average in it. Kavar smiling and encouraging her with gentle chastisement.
“In some ways,” the Exile settles on diplomatically. She leans until they sit back to back. She feels Visas’ breath as it rises and falls. Steady. Present.
“Since we have landed, I have thought often of Katarr. Of whether or not I would set foot on it again, should the possibility present itself.” Visas’s fingers splay out on the grass, until she finds the Exile’s hand. She traces over it, every knuckle, every nail. All the spots where blood has been shed on her account. “There is much loss in this galaxy.”
The Exile swallows and nods, turning her hand around so her fingers interlace with Visas’s. “I am sorry for Katarr.”
“And I am sorry for Dantooine.” Her words are easy. “But where there has been loss, there is still something gained.”
The Exile closes her eyes. Feels their new bond through the Force, new and weak as it might be.
“My life, for yours,” she whispers, and the voice seems to carry along the grass. “And something new, for what is gone.”
“Something new,” Exile agrees. She squeezes the Miraluka’s hand tighter, and keeps it as her anchor as the golden light retreats from the Enclave, leaving behind only ruined stone.
han/leia wedding. han wants a debacle. leia mostly wants him to leave her alone
They’re well into celebrations when it happens. The Resistance has just earned a major victory against the one of
the Empire’s leftover pocket cells—the one calling them the First Order or some
other nonsense—and Leia is actually allowing herself some time off. Her face is
delightfully warm as she sips her wine (Corellian, but it’ll do) and listens to
a story Wedge is telling her about one of his training days.
Han slides onto the bench next to her with just the smallest
of stumbles. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, but doesn’t give him
the benefit of full acknowledgement. He sits, squaring back his shoulders and
And he keeps preening. Obviously expecting her to turn around.
Wedge glances at him over Leia’s shoulder, and she smiles at him.
Wedge gives the tinniest of grins back. Han is too easy,
“Hey, General Princess.”
Leia shoots Wedge a look that she hope conveys He’ll do this all night before moving to
face him. She tilts her head.
Han is grinning. He puts one elbow on the table and leans on
it. “Go ahead and ask me.”
“Ask you what.”
“C’mon, sweetheart. I know you’ve been dying to do it for a
Her eyebrows raise. She’s pretty sure he’s either too drunk
to function or has received a jolt electricity from one of the Falcon’s faulty
Han is looking less preening
now and more annoyed. His words come out very slowly—patient. “Leia, don’t
worry, I’ll say yes.”
She rolls her eyes, turning again to face Wedge. “I have no
idea what you’re talking about, moon jockey.”
She feels, rather than sees, Han raise a finger. Puff up
like an agitated pylat bird. And storm away.