[ What had he been ready to say? Her gaze cuts away from the trees to fix on him, studying the shadows reflecting over his strong features as if she hopes to siphon secrets from the very appearance. His mother? Father? The thought choked in his throat, never to make it past his lips, and she wondered how many more stumbles like that she would find before they were through.
Her short strides hurry to keep pace with him, lagging constantly just behind, often leaving her with the sensation that she must leap through snow drifts just to manage what he breezes gracefully past. The stuttered dance she performs in comparison is reminiscent of their first battle, shuffled steps only just keeping her off the ground, while he came at her with all the weight and ease of a freighter.
He must mean Leia’s mother; she decides it quickly as a sort of surrogate solution to her uncertainty of what followed “my.” Naboo, royalty, political leader, none of it seemed to be the kind of life that would lead Han Solo into smuggling. Maybe, though. Maybe she had a senator somewhere too. ]
There’s nothing worth fearing in the past, either. It cannot hurt you more than it has. [ Something she learned long ago in her dwelling on that day, wondering why it had happened. It didn’t hurt anymore, but it chafed. She no longer felt wracked with uncertainty, possessed by her grief, but accepting of the facts and curious about the truth. ] It—
[ His hand extends, and the snow melts into the trees ahead—not off, exactly, for there is no moisture. It’s the chaparral of Yavin IV, thick with greenery but still temperate and dry. She stutters and stops in front of him, looking at his hand like she wonders what snake will bite her from inside his sleeve, as startled as she is suspicious, but there are so many more ways to hurt her that she can’t imagine this being the true threat. Her hand clasps in his. ]
Why here?
[ She remembers finding him here. The Resistance base, the broken speeder; it is significant in her mind, but she suspects it is rather a construct of his all the same. ]
no subject
Her short strides hurry to keep pace with him, lagging constantly just behind, often leaving her with the sensation that she must leap through snow drifts just to manage what he breezes gracefully past. The stuttered dance she performs in comparison is reminiscent of their first battle, shuffled steps only just keeping her off the ground, while he came at her with all the weight and ease of a freighter.
He must mean Leia’s mother; she decides it quickly as a sort of surrogate solution to her uncertainty of what followed “my.” Naboo, royalty, political leader, none of it seemed to be the kind of life that would lead Han Solo into smuggling. Maybe, though. Maybe she had a senator somewhere too. ]
There’s nothing worth fearing in the past, either. It cannot hurt you more than it has. [ Something she learned long ago in her dwelling on that day, wondering why it had happened. It didn’t hurt anymore, but it chafed. She no longer felt wracked with uncertainty, possessed by her grief, but accepting of the facts and curious about the truth. ] It—
[ His hand extends, and the snow melts into the trees ahead—not off, exactly, for there is no moisture. It’s the chaparral of Yavin IV, thick with greenery but still temperate and dry. She stutters and stops in front of him, looking at his hand like she wonders what snake will bite her from inside his sleeve, as startled as she is suspicious, but there are so many more ways to hurt her that she can’t imagine this being the true threat. Her hand clasps in his. ]
Why here?
[ She remembers finding him here. The Resistance base, the broken speeder; it is significant in her mind, but she suspects it is rather a construct of his all the same. ]