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Inside the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon, the blue-white vortex of hyperspace swirled silently beyond the massive viewport, cold and dazzling streams of light reflecting off the cabin’s slightly worn but warm orange glow.
Han Solo slouched lazily in the battered pilot’s chair, one calloused hand draped casually over the control yoke, the other slowly rubbing his chin.
Those eyes of his—always carrying that signature roguish glint—now drifted almost involuntarily toward the co-pilot’s seat, toward Luke Skywalker. The farm boy who once lit up like a kid at the sight of a lightsaber had become, in the eyes of the galaxy, a full-fledged Jedi Master. Time and trials had stripped away the last traces of boyishness, leaving behind a face whose sharp angles were now settled with a quiet, almost translucent calm that somehow made people feel safe just looking at him.
Right now Luke was completely focused on the holographic projector floating in mid-air before him. Its pale blue light illuminated the faint furrow between his brows as he studied the unknown coordinates of Tarnoonga and the fragmentary intelligence attached to it, every detail passing beneath his piercing gaze again and again.
From the rear compartment came a low, disgruntled growl, followed by the rough clatter of metal parts being shoved aside. Chewbacca’s massive frame loomed over the nav console; his huge, fur-covered paws were roughly twisting a few knobs. The deep rumbling complaint in his voice needed no translation—it was the familiar sound of a Wookiee announcing that this mission was, once again, about to drag them all into a whole lot of trouble.
Han finally broke the silence that had been filled only by the low thrum of the engines.
“Okay, kid,” he drawled, still wearing that familiar half-mocking tone, though now laced with a thread of unmistakable resignation, “looks like we’re in a hurry to rush into the next disaster. Tarnoonga… that name already sounds like the galaxy’s biggest mud puddle. The second someone starts talking about ‘another surviving Jedi’ hiding there, you know it’s the kind of fairy tale they tell to trick gullible farm boys into jumping straight into a sarlacc pit.”
Luke turned his head at the sound of Han’s voice. Those clear blue eyes still held the same warmth Han had always known, only now it lay beneath a much deeper, far more settled stillness.
The young Jedi Master’s mouth curved into a small, gentle smile. He reached out and gave Han’s shoulder a brief but firm pat—such a simple gesture, yet it passed through the leather of Han’s jacket like a faint electric current, making Han’s heart unexpectedly skip.
For an instant, time folded backward and Han saw again the awkward, nervous boy from that cantina in Mos Eisley.
“This isn’t a game, Han,” Luke said quietly. “The relay station intercepted their final report. Before Andur and Glaennor were attacked, their last transmission mentioned a female Jedi cutting down an Oskan blood eater with a lightsaber. There were also references to ancient stone pillars inside the base—structures that might amplify the Force. If there really is a surviving Jedi stranded on that world… we have to find her.”
Han snorted without ceremony and shook his head hard, as if trying to physically shake the ridiculous parts of the story out of his ears.
“Oskan blood eater? Sounds more like one of Chewie’s particularly nasty cousins!”
A deafening roar erupted from the back, followed by the unmistakable thud of a giant furry paw slamming down onto the console, rattling every loose bolt within ten meters.
Han immediately burst into loud, genuine laughter and twisted around to call to his old partner.
“Hey, furball! Easy, pal! I said it sounds vicious—I didn’t say it was you!”
The laughter faded. Han’s gaze returned to Luke, the carefully cultivated flippancy melting away almost despite himself. His voice softened.
“Look, kid—I’ve always had a healthy dose of skepticism about intel that smells this much like rumor and wishful thinking. The Empire’s leftover scum have their fingers in every dark corner these days. My bet? Your two scouts got lost in the swamp or ended up as some sea monster’s lunch. But…” He paused, meeting Luke’s eyes squarely. “If you’re dead set on going to check it out… well, fine. Chewie and I will get you there. Can’t exactly let you go poking around a hellhole like that all by yourself, can I?”
Luke leaned slightly toward Han, closing the small distance between them. His voice was low, rich with quiet sincerity.
“Thank you, Han. You always say that. Every time.” His gaze moved from Han to the hulking shape of Chewbacca in the back. “You and Chewie both. You’re always there.”
Han immediately looked away, suddenly very interested in the flickering readouts on the console, as though they held the secrets of the universe.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t get all mushy on me,” he muttered, waving a hand and forcing the lightness back into his tone. “Mostly I just don’t want Leia finding an excuse to hang me from the barrel of a turbolaser for losing her favorite brother.”
He delivered the line with exaggerated drama, but underneath, something more complicated was stirring.
Ever since Luke had fully shouldered the title of Jedi Master, Han had felt the change. Luke had grown quieter, more contained. That deep, ocean-like stillness he carried during meditation sometimes felt like a transparent wall between him and the noisy, messy world the rest of them lived in.
Every time Han watched Luke sitting in silence, bathed in that soft, almost otherworldly glow, a quiet unease crept up his spine: would the vast, boundless Force slowly wear away the sharp edges and human warmth that made Luke… Luke? Would the boy who once ran headlong into danger for his friends eventually disappear behind cold, ancient Jedi dogma?
Once, Chewbacca had caught the shadow of worry on Han’s face and rumbled something low and comforting—Luke had walked through darkness and light; boys had to become men. He’d already traveled the hardest road.
Han had nodded. “Yeah, Chewie. You’re right.”
But the agreement sat like half-chewed jerky in his throat. He was proud—damn proud—of what Luke had become. He understood that growing up was inevitable. Yet every time those too-deep, too-calm blue eyes looked at him, something stubborn and contrary rose up inside Han. He wanted to reach out the way he used to, grab that kid who once needed his cover fire and his guidance, and yank him back down from the clouds of the Force to the solid, messy ground where the rest of them stood—where friends shouted, laughed, and got into trouble together.
Luke noticed the brief drift in Han’s attention. Those eyes that saw too much turned toward him with quiet question.
“What is it?”
Han flinched as if burned and snapped his thoughts back. He shrugged and then reached over to roughly ruffle Luke’s still-golden hair in that same familiar, decades-old gesture.
“Nothing, kid,” he said deliberately using the old nickname, keeping his tone light. “Just stay sharp, alright? The second we drop out over Tarnoonga’s mudhole, priority one is finding that missing scout ship. I’m not dragging you all this way just to end up regretting it. Don’t get cocky.”
Chewbacca gave a short, decisive growl from the back—like a signature on a battle plan.
Han didn’t turn around as he translated, “He says ‘damn right.’ And also…” He paused for effect, the corner of his mouth twitching up in mischief, “…if you keep staring at me like you’re trying to turn me into stone, he’s personally throwing you out the airlock to feed the space slugs.”
Luke’s lips curved again in that small, polite smile. But like a breeze over water, it was fleeting and shallow—never quite reaching the still depths of those blue eyes.
Han caught it immediately.
After the battle of Endor, something had shifted in Luke. The eager, passionate farm boy had been quietly replaced by someone who carried an invisible weight. He spoke less, listened more, always seemed to be hearing some far-off echo only he could perceive.
Han had tried—more than once—to tease him open with a joke, a story, an old adventure. Sometimes it worked. More often the laughter felt like it hit a pane of frosted glass, never quite reaching the other side.
Only in those rare, private moments when skin met skin did Luke seem to truly let go, if only for a little while. Even then, Han sometimes felt the brief stiffening beneath his fingers, the half-second of absence in a kiss—like a tired soul drifting away for a moment before forcing itself to come back, unwilling to disappoint him.
More than once Han had wanted to pin him to the bunk, pry open that Jedi Master’s head, and see what kind of weight was crushing him. But every time the words rose to his tongue, he saw the quiet exhaustion behind Luke’s calm and everything he’d meant to say just… stuck.
The sturdy hull of the Millennium Falcon shivered faintly as it rode the currents of hyperspace. Beyond the viewport, the endless blue-white storm streamed on in perfect, silent fury.
*
Deep in the ruins of Seidhkona, the roar of the Rebel ship's engines had long faded into the sky, leaving only dead silence.
S'ybll's broken body curled up in the narrow shadow cast by a stone pillar etched with ancient runes. Her skin, resembling the scales of a deep-sea fish, was covered in web-like cracks, and the breath of life was ebbing from her as quickly as a receding tide. Each faint breath pulled with tearing agony, the pain crashing over her shattered will like relentless waves.
The concept of extinction was merely the ignorant babble of lesser species in her vast river of life. She struggled to close her eyes, which glowed with eerie green phosphorescence, deeply drawing in the thin remnants of life essence lingering in these ruins and the faint psychic emanations radiating from the pillar. The remaining energy, like tiny silver serpents, began to slither beneath her cracked skin, repairing the fatal wounds with excruciating slowness but unyielding stubbornness.
Fragments of Luke Skywalker's image burst into her chaotic consciousness—his power, fierce as a star, brutally tearing apart her carefully woven labyrinth of illusions. But this failure did not ignite flames of hatred; instead, in the ashes of the ruins, it bred a cold and greedy admiration. What a delight it would be to ally with such a powerful soul?
Days rose and fell amid the barbaric ruins of Seidhkona.
S'ybll, like a hibernating venomous lizard, licked her wounds among the broken walls, reshaping her strength. She hunted the small creatures scurrying through the rubble, seizing their feeble life essences. The pearlescent sheen returned to flow over her skin, and her thick, seaweed-like hair regained its moist vitality. Her mental tendrils, like the tentacles of a deep-sea octopus, cautiously extended outward, piercing the silence of the ruins. Finally, she heard the hum of engines, the clang of metal boots on shattered stone—the Imperials. They had come searching for their missing shuttle. A squad of stormtroopers in white armor landed on the barren ground, reflecting the glaring sunlight, looking utterly out of place.
This time, S'ybll was not dominated by bloodthirsty impulses as she had been during her encounter with Luke. That bitter defeat had taught her patience—the highest virtue of a predator. Like a smear of paint blending into the rocky shadows, she lurked in the dark, her cold slit pupils precisely locking onto a stormtrooper who strayed from the group toward an isolated corner. The illusion activated silently; the air around her twisted and folded, her form instantly collapsing and reassembling into a perfect replica of the stormtrooper's posture, outline, even the slight friction sound of his armor as he walked.
When the prey sensed something amiss behind him and turned in terror, the face of his "comrade" wore an inhuman grin. The stormtrooper's scream didn't even escape his throat before an invisible psychic storm engulfed and shredded him, along with his consciousness and life force, sucked dry like a bathtub vortex with the plug pulled, injected into S'ybll's ravenous shell. The body was quickly dragged into a hidden crevice and buried. When the squad regrouped, puzzled by their comrade's mysterious disappearance, they searched fruitlessly and could only depart with doubts. No one noticed that at the end of the line, under the lowered helmet of that stormtrooper, a flash of eerie green light flickered and vanished.
Tarnoonga,The hover transport pierced the cloud layer, revealing an endless indigo expanse below. This planet was almost entirely covered by profound oceans. The outpost, like a metallic tumor embedded in a massive coral reef, was deeply rooted in the rock layers of underwater mountains. As S'ybll set foot there, a familiar energy pulse invigorated her—the ancient stone pillars integrated into the outpost's structure. Here, they formed a larger, more active network, like beacons in the darkness calling to her psychic powers. This was her sanctuary, her fortress.
She lurked like a ghost in the shadows of the Imperial machinery. Night was her feast. First, with mental whispers, she lured a duty officer into an empty pipeline intersection, stripping his life in his moment of confusion like blowing out a candle, then the patrolling guards.
These bodies and armors were cleverly stuffed into abandoned cargo containers, piled in the forgotten corners of the base's lowest levels. Panic spread among the lower ranks, but was brutally suppressed by officers, blamed on pressure accidents or deep-sea creature attacks.
In the deep isolation cage of the base, a creature that chilled all Imperial soldiers was imprisoned—the Oskan blood eater. This was a ferocious bipedal carnivore active on multiple planets, often used as living guards in exile locations due to its terrifying traits. It had two legs supporting its massive body, ending in huge hooves, and four arms, each ending in chillingly sharp, blade-like claws. Oskan blood eaters fed on any oxygen-blooded animals, especially favoring large mammals; humans and other humanoids were top delicacies in their eyes. Once locking onto a humanoid or other prey, they entered an uncontrollable frenzy of feeding. Their senses, though not supremely acute, were extremely persistent and efficient trackers; once marked, they could tirelessly pursue fleeing prey for weeks. Blood eaters were infamous for their extremely cruel killing and devouring methods: first using those four massive blade claws to tear and slice the prey into unrecognizable shreds, leaving a mess of bloody remains; then lowering their heads, using their hole-riddled, sieve-like mouths to greedily suck up the warm blood and flesh pulp flowing on the ground.
Now, it became the perfect extension of S'ybll's dark powers. Through the pillar network, she projected her cold and majestic consciousness into the blood eater's chaotic brain. The violent will was gradually suppressed, twisted, reshaped. The beast roared lowly at the projected eerie light outside the cage, but the ferocity in that roar gradually mixed with submission. It became her silent guardian in the darkness, a living barrier of terror.
Her power was restoring, even surpassing its former heights. S'ybll ensconced herself in the core of her nest, built from death and fear, her thoughts inevitably drifting to that golden-haired young man. Luke Skywalker... his strength when unleashing the Force, the tenacity of his will—all of it captivated her.
He was not an enemy... A dark vision unfolded in her mind: they side by side, as eternal predator twins, hunting powerful life energies in the galactic hunting grounds, sharing endless youth and supreme dominion. Yes, she wanted not to destroy him, but to convert him, to possess him.
The opportunity came so cleverly. A battered Corellian freighter carrying two Rebel scouts infiltrated Tarnoonga, attempting to probe this long-silent Imperial outpost. S'ybll's lips curved into a cold arc.
A trap needs bait.
"Come, Luke Skywalker," her whisper like a serpent's scales scraping over rock, "join me... we shall share the feast of eternity."
*
The Millennium Falcon touched down on the edge of a desolate island on Tarnoonga, where the rough sea wind whipped salty, icy mist into their faces, and the distant roar of massive waves crashing against the reefs pounded like muffled drums, relentlessly beating against the silence.
They disembarked cautiously and soon spotted their target: the scouts' G9 Rigger freighter, tilted awkwardly on a nearby rocky beach. The hull appeared intact, but the hatch hung wide open, the interior a tomb of silence, utterly empty.
Han furrowed his brow, his sharp gaze sweeping like a searchlight over the slick rocks and mist-shrouded land. His blaster was steady in his grip, muzzle warily lowered. "Ship's here, but the crew's vanished. Looks like something lured 'em into that hellhole."
He jerked his chin toward the distance.
A deep pit ruin came into view, like a scar on the earth—the collapsed entrance gaping like a monster's maw, plunging into unknown darkness. Fractured stone pillars jutted from the walls and floor like a beast's ribs, and a musty, dense fog rose from the abyss below, coiling around the pillars like living tendrils, slowly writhing among the broken debris.
Luke's loyal companion, R2-D2, emitted a series of rapid, worried beeps, its blue dome flashing warning lights as it stuck close to Luke's heels, its small treads grinding against the slippery ground.
Luke crouched down and patted R2's cool metal dome reassuringly. "R2, scan the area. Stay on high alert—report any anomalies immediately."
They ventured carefully into the deep pit. The walls were steep and slick, coated in a thick layer of slimy moss and loose gravel. The deeper they went, the more humid and viscous the air became, laced with a pungent mix of rotting vegetation and some mineral dust. After descending barely a hundred meters, the surrounding fog thickened abruptly into a sticky haze, like congealed milk, shattering visibility into fragments; even companions just steps away were reduced to blurry outlines.
Han cursed under his breath, flicking off the safety on his blaster with a sharp click. "Damn it! This fog's thick enough to drink like soup! Chewie, can that nose of yours pick up even a whiff of those two poor saps?"
Chewbacca let out a low, puzzled whine, his massive nostrils flaring as he sniffed hard, beads of moisture condensing on his thick fur. In the end, he shook his head in frustration.
Even weirder, the faint path underfoot seemed to warp and twist in the dense fog, and the surrounding pillar remnants appeared to shift subtly, turning the entire ruin into a living maze.
Luke halted abruptly, his blue eyes piercing the fog with the glow of Force awareness. "We can't keep wandering blindly. We'll split up—Han, Chewie, you take that crack on the right that looks like a passage. I'll press forward. R2, with me. If you find any clues, comm link immediately."
A flicker of clear hesitation crossed Han's face; his lips moved as if to argue, but he finally just nodded firmly. "Fine, your call... but remember, kid, no heroics!"
He clapped Luke hard on the shoulder, then turned away, his tall figure quickly swallowed by the fog, leaving only Chewbacca's low grumbles and reluctant footsteps trailing behind.
Luke continued deeper into the pit bottom with R2. The gravel crunched faintly under R2's treads, the only sound in the dead quiet. The fog surged like icy tides, nearly suffocating.
Suddenly, the dense mist ahead parted as if by an invisible force, revealing a slender figure emerging clearly from the shadows—a young woman in a mud-stained but recognizable Rebel scout uniform, her long hair drifting slightly in the damp, stagnant air.
She slowly lifted her head, revealing a pale yet incredibly gentle, incredibly familiar face: Frija Tolock. The one who had offered him brief solace in the howling winds of the Hoth , who had closed her eyes forever in his arms as a humanoid replica droid.
Her eyes shimmered like dust-covered gems, filled with teary light that wove extreme joy of reunion with bone-deep pain. "Luke... you've finally come. I knew you'd come for me."
Luke's breath caught, his steps staggering forward half a pace uncontrollably. "Frija ?" His voice was raw with disbelief. "This... how is this possible? Why are you here?"
The Force stirred around him, laced with confusion and a faint, cloying sweetness.
"I joined the Rebellion, became a scout, infiltrating here to investigate," Frija 's voice was soft and pleading. She reached out to Luke, palm up, in a vulnerable, helpless gesture. "But those terrifying blood eaters attacked us... I barely escaped... I've been waiting for you to save me... Come with me... It's safe over here for now..."
Her gaze was full of dependence and trust.
The instant her words fell, several massive, grotesque shadows burst from the impenetrable fog behind her, carrying a foul wind. Oskan blood eaters lunged with four arms flailing, their blade-like claws slashing through the mist with teeth-gritting whistles; their huge bipedal feet pounded the ground, sending gravel flying; viscous, stinking saliva dripped from their hole-riddled mouths, deep guttural growls of bloodlust and slaughter rolling from their throats like tolling bells from hell, charging straight at Luke and the more sidelined R2-D2.
In the shadows, a cold, triumphant smile crept across S'ybll's pale face. She had learned from her bitter defeat on Seidhkona a year ago; this time, she wove the illusion to fully draw Luke's attention to Frija while manipulating the phantoms—those savage illusory blood eaters targeted the little droid with terrifying force, enough to trigger Luke's instinct to protect the vulnerable.
"Look out!" Luke lunged forward almost reflexively, trying to shield Frija behind him while instinctively swinging his lightsaber toward the beasts pouncing on R2. The blade sliced through the fog but hit nothing but air.
Meanwhile, the real R2-D2 was blocked by a sudden illusionary energy wall rising before it, gleaming with cold metallic sheen. The little droid beeped shrilly in panic, its dome lights flashing wildly, treads spinning furiously as it rammed the invisible barrier with dull thuds, spinning helplessly in place, forced to watch its master charge deeper into danger and vanish into the fog.
Luke whirled back to Frija , shock and immense doubt nearly overwhelming him. That brief, warm presence in the Hoth—the faint thanks and final peaceful expression as she faded in his arms—was a secret scar of regret in his heart.
"Then," Luke's voice lowered, "what about the female Jedi mentioned in Andur and Glaennor's report—the one who fought the blood eater with a lightsaber? Where is she?"
A deep sorrow flashed perfectly in Frija 's eyes. "She... to protect us... those monsters... I saw it with my own eyes..."
As her trembling voice spoke, the fog beside Luke churned violently, the illusion shifting again: a blurry but heroic female Jedi figure materialized suddenly, her blue lightsaber whipping out sharp arcs of light, instantly repelling two charging blood eaters. But as she turned to counter a third, more massive shadows erupted from the fog, overwhelming her with crushing force and slamming her to the ground. The blue blade flickered desperately a few times before being engulfed. The muffled rips of claws through flesh, the sharp cracks of breaking bones, a piercing scream, and warm blood splattering at Luke's feet with a tangible heat... it all felt suffocatingly real, the air even thick with the heavy scent of blood.
Luke's brows knitted tightly, that cloying sweetness in the Force now so intense it was nauseating, like rotten honey coating his heart.
He forced a deep breath, suppressing the churning emotional torrent, and firmly ignited his right hand.The green lightsaber hummed clearly, illuminating his tense, stern face. "No..." he growled low, "this doesn't feel right!"
He snapped his eyes shut, sinking his full mind into the ocean of Force perception.
In that instant, those seemingly heart-wrenching reunions and unbearable sacrifices shuddered and peeled away like cheap backdrops in the pure Force vision, revealing the cold, greedy, hunger-filled psychic threads behind—sucking avidly at the power of fear and doubt.
Luke's eyes flew open, sharp as tempered blades, piercing through Frija 's pitiful facade. "You're not her. Who are you really?"
The illusion shook violently like glass struck by a hammer. Frija 's gentle, sorrowful face twisted and melted in an instant, a glimpse of S'ybll's bloodless true form flashing beneath the pale skin.
Though it vanished in a blink, Luke instantly recognized the psychic witch he'd clashed with a year ago. The cunning one hadn't shown herself this time, instead layering illusion upon illusion as traps and probes.
With the truth revealed, Luke hesitated no longer and spun decisively, charging toward where R2 was blocked. The illusionary wall shattered silently like thin ice in sunlight as he approached. R2 immediately beeped excitedly, its treads whirring at full speed to catch up.
Luke patted R2's dome again. "R2, scan the surrounding area immediately—the enemy's lurking here!"
Before the words finished, he shot like an arrow toward the deeper pit bottom. Guided by the Force, he soon found his target: the two Rebel scouts, Andur and Glaennor, bound tightly to fractured stone pillars by faintly glowing illusionary energy bands, eyes shut, faces twisted in pain from deep coma.
Luke's left hand clenched in the air, snapping the energy bands apart. He quickly checked their vitals, confirming they were just unconscious, not gravely injured, and hit his comlink, his voice cutting through the static hiss: "Han! Chewie! You copy? I've found Andur and Glaennor—they're alive! Watch out for the illusions here! They'll..."
The channel crackled with chaotic static noise, laced with meaningless metallic scrapes, as if the signal was completely jammed or distorted.
Meanwhile, deep in the maze-like twists of the right-side fissure.
Han and Chewbacca trudged through the pitch-black fog, its thickness like solidified gel, stinging their lungs like icy shards. The path shifted eerily, the ground alternating between hard and spongy.
Suddenly, an extremely faint but crystal-clear cry for help pierced the fog, stabbing into Han's ears—
"Han...Han! Help me... quick..."
It was Luke's voice. Filled with unprecedented pain and urgency, broken and gasping, as if the speaker was tormented by immense agony, on the brink of death. The source seemed just ahead, not far.
Han's face blanched instantly.
"Luke?" His body reacted faster than his mind! He bolted like a fired cannon, heedless, toward the voice's direction, blaster raised high. "Kid, hang on! I'm coming! Chewie! Follow me,Now!"
Chewbacca unleashed a deafening roar, his massive paw shooting out to grab Han's arm, but Han's speed was too great—Chewie clutched only cold, damp air. Han's figure vanished in a blink into the even denser fog, gone without a trace.
The Wookiee stamped in place with furious anxiety, his low roars echoing in the narrow fissure, shaking loose gravel down. He sniffed wildly, trying to catch Han's scent or sound amid the chaotic psychic waves and chemical interference in the fog, but it was all futile.
He was completely trapped where he stood.
*
Han barreled through the dense fog, following the intermittent cries for help, his blaster's cold metal grip rattling in his clenched fist. His boots slipped and staggered on the slick, moss-covered rocks, gravel flying, but he charged heedlessly toward the source of the voice.
" Kid! You hear me? Hang on! I'm coming!" His hoarse roar bounced off the damp stone walls, only to be devoured by the greedy mist.
The calls seemed tantalizingly close, yet as elusive as a mirage. Han panted heavily, veering sharply around a bend, and suddenly the path opened into an abandoned circular stone chamber.
The walls were webbed with cracks, fractured ancient pillars jutting like the remnants of a colossal beast, casting twisted, grotesque shadows. What chilled him to the bone was that Luke's pleas cut off the instant he stepped inside, replaced by a graveyard silence.
Abruptly, an icy chill shot up his spine to the back of his skull, like spectral fingers brushing his skin. At the same time, a familiar stench flooded his nostrils—a mix of damp mold, cheap machine oil, and heavy metallic rust, like poisonous gas. Han's breath hitched, and everything before him began to warp and melt.
The illusion descended with thunderous force.
He saw himself as a gaunt child—young Han huddled in the cold, filthy corner of a dripping alley, his ragged clothes no match for the biting wind. His eyes, oversized from hunger, fixed on the dirty boot tips of hurrying passersby, his throat choked with silent pleas. A massive shadow loomed—Garris Shrike's face, etched with cruelty, leaning in with condescending mockery: "Nobody wants you, runt. You're trash to the core, always will be a worthless orphan!" The shrill voice carried the foul reek of stale tobacco, drilling into his ears.
The scene tore apart and shifted; warm light vanished, replaced by the cold metal deck of a ship cabin. Dewlanna—the Wookiee who had been like a mother to him—lay in a pool of crimson blood, her once-loving eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and scorched energy. In his mind echoed her final, frantic roar in Shyriiwook. And Thrackan Sal-Solo's face, eerily similar to his own yet twisted, emerged from the shadows, a cold sneer like a serpent's hiss: "You think you can escape? This shame will follow you to the grave!"
These buried fears stabbed into Han's most vulnerable nerves like countless icy needles. A bone-deep loneliness crashed over him like a tidal wave, his chest crushed under a boulder, each breath tasting of blood—as if he were once again that scrawny kid on Corellia's streets, surviving on wits and theft, his parents' images faded like old holos, leaving only an all-consuming void.
But Han was a man who'd clawed his way out of the abyss countless times. He shook his head fiercely, blinking hard as if to fling the grimy visions from his eyes. He muttered a curse, spittle flying, more to banish the chill in his heart. He forced a deep breath, the cold, damp air stinging his lungs but bringing a sliver of clarity—these images were too intense, laced with an unnatural, nauseating sweetness, like the aroma of rotting fruit.
He spat on the ground, whirling around to bellow into the churning fog behind him: "Chewie, where are you? Don't tell me you fell behind!"
The response was only silence and the gray, gel-like mist that seemed frozen in place. Chewbacca's familiar growls were gone without a trace. An icy grip seized Han's heart—Chewie really hadn't kept up; they were completely separated.
In this eerie maze, he was utterly alone.
From the depths of the shadows, S'ybll's pale fingers curled slightly, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. Her meticulously woven nightmare of childhood horrors hadn't broken this smuggler? She reassessed Han. His reaction to hearing Luke's cries replayed clearly—the roguish eyes igniting with reckless protectiveness, like a beast provoked. In an instant, she understood: this man's deepest fear was no longer his own suffering, but losing that golden-haired youth.
The mist before Han churned violently. The chamber's scene was instantly replaced: Luke backed into a cold stone corner, his golden hair matted with sweat and blood, his simple Jedi robes torn in several places, revealing seeping wounds beneath. His face was marred with scrapes and bruises, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.
Several snarling Oskan blood eaters encircled him. Their four arms flailed wildly, blade-like claws gleaming as they scraped sparks from the stone wall near Luke. Fetid saliva dripped, sizzling small pits into the ground. And Luke's lightsaber—that green blade symbolizing courage and strength—lay shattered into countless dim fragments, scattered helplessly on the filthy floor.
One blood eater's massive claw whistled through the air, slamming down on Luke's shoulder. The young Jedi Master let out an involuntary grunt of pain, his body pinned to the wall by the immense force. He reached out futilely, as if trying to summon the Force, but nothing happened. Those eyes, once like clear skies and gleaming with calm wisdom, were now filled with unprecedented helplessness and fear.
That gaze pierced past the savage beasts to Han, shattering with its plea: "Han... help..." The voice was faint as a dying candle in the wind.
Han's blood seemed to freeze, then ignite with rage. He'd never seen Luke like this—the young man who'd faced down the Death Star with composure, now fragile beyond bearing.
"Get off him, you animals!" Instinct drove Han's body; his blaster roared, unleashing deadly bolts.
Several red beams pierced the heads of the two blood eaters closest to Luke. The struck phantoms let out short howls, their bodies exploding into dissipating gray smoke—defeated too easily, so easily that a faint alarm bell rang in Han's remaining reason: "This doesn't feel right..."
But that doubt was crushed in the next second by Luke's dire state. He saw Luke momentarily freed by the attack, sliding down the wall to the ground, gasping weakly. Han surged forward like lightning, without hesitation, his strong arm reaching out to scoop the limp Luke tightly into his embrace.
Luke's body was cold and trembling faintly, like a leaf adrift in the chill wind. He weakly rested his head on Han's shoulder, hot tears silently soaking Han's collar.
"Han..." Luke's voice was shattered, laced with desperate sobs. "I don't know what happened... some dark power stripped away my Force... the lightsaber's destroyed... R2... I don't know where it is... I can't find Andur and Glaennor... I can't do anything... I'm just a burden to you all..."
Han's arms locked around the shaking form, leaving no gap. One hand cradled the back of Luke's head, pressing him to his solid chest; the other wrapped firmly around Luke's slender waist, holding him entirely within his protective aura.
The weight of Luke's body, that familiar warmth, and the faint but steady heartbeat pounding against his chest—it all felt utterly real. The stinging sensation of those hot tears seeping through his shirt ignited the fiercest protective fire in Han's soul—the Tatooine farm boy he'd always wanted to shield under his wing seemed finally back in his safekeeping.
"Listen, Luke, you're not a burden—never have been!" He pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "I swear, we'll find Chewie, find R2, find everyone! Then we'll get the hell out of this pit! Nobody's taking you from me, got it?"
Luke nodded faintly through his tears, his trembling easing. He obediently buried his head in the warm crook of Han's neck. Han's heart pounded like a drum.
Yet his last thread of doubt, fragile as a spider's web, melted completely under those scalding tears and the real touch in his arms, vanishing without a trace. All he knew was that he had to protect the one in his embrace—at any cost.
*
Luke held his unignited lightsaber, leading the way with R2-D2 close behind, its dome light struggling to carve a small patch of visibility through the dense fog. The two Rebel scouts he had just freed from their illusory bindings—Andur and Glaennor—stumbled along in the rear.
At first, they managed to stay alert, eyes fixed on the slippery path underfoot, but soon S'ybll's silent infiltration began.
Andur halted abruptly, his gaze losing focus, staring blankly into the churning gray-white mist ahead. His lips moved in a dreamy murmur: "I hear my family's voices..."
At the same time, Glaennor's face turned ashen, cold sweat beading on his skin. He clutched his head with both hands, his body shaking like a sieve. "No... impossible... they're here... the Empire... AT-STs everywhere... they're targeting us!"
His steps grew unsteady, and he nearly tumbled into a bottomless rock crevice nearby.
"Hold on!" Luke stopped short, his right hand gripping the lightsaber hilt steady, the blade still dark. He drew a deep breath of the damp, icy air, sinking his mind into the ocean of the Force.
That familiar cloying sweetness coiled like serpentine slime around Andur and Glaennor's mental fields, laced with a cold, twisted will—S'ybll cunningly bypassed Luke's solid Force barrier, extending her deadly illusory tendrils toward his more vulnerable companions, aiming to dismantle the team from within.
"Stay with me!" Luke opened his eyes, his blue pupils gathering light, his voice steady as a mountain. "It's her illusions! Breathe deep, focus—listen to my voice!"
He quickly approached the disoriented Andur, his left hand pressing firmly on the man's trembling shoulder. A gentle, pure stream of Force energy flowed like a thawing spring brook into Andur's chaotic, frozen mind, dispelling the entangling false cries. Andur shuddered violently, like a drowning man pulled to the surface, gasping heavily as his vacant eyes refocused, looking at Luke with lingering fear.
Luke turned immediately to the near-collapsing Glaennor, lightly touching his forehead with his fingers. The Force projected like a lighthouse beam into his terrified thoughts: "Don't see what she wants you to see! She's dividing us! Hold your ground—don't let her win!"
However, as he poured his full effort into shielding his companions from the psychic assault, Luke felt a faint tug himself—countless barbed mental threads attempting to slip past his defenses, wrapping around the edges of his consciousness.
This time, S'ybll no longer hid behind the curtain; her will coalesced like a cold tide directly in Luke's mental plane, her voice surging like undercurrents in the deep sea: "Luke, your stubbornness is always so fascinating, yet so regrettable. A year ago on Seidhkona, you rejected my offer... and now, in the misty depths of Tarnoonga, you still close your heart."
Luke stood firm, his posture straight as a pine, his voice calm and unwavering: "What I reject has never been you, but the greedy claws you use to seize what isn't yours."
"What do I want?" S'ybll's voice sharpened abruptly. "I crave a companion like you—you command the light, I wield the dark. Everywhere we touch would be our hunting ground! We could savor the galaxy's most powerful life essences together, sharing an eternal, undying feast! Imagine it! Everything you've lost could return—your cherished family and friends... You wouldn't have to bear the Jedi's shackles alone anymore. Join me! We'll share immortality!"
Luke's gaze hardened to ice: "I don't need to devour others for eternity. I have my choices, my path!"
S'ybll's will erupted in a furious shriek, a violent psychic blast crashing like a tsunami laced with cold malice and soul-rending roars, slamming into Luke's mind. At the same time, deafening, primal roars of killing intent echoed from the pit's depths. Four massive Oskan blood eaters burst through the fog from shadowed corners. Their four arms flailed, blade-like claws gleaming with deadly chill, their hole-riddled maws dripping corrosive, fetid saliva—like four whirlwinds of death wrapped in foul wind, charging straight at the team.
Luke reacted like lightning, his green lightsaber igniting with a snap, slicing through the fog in a brilliant arc before him. He didn't retreat a step, decisively positioning himself in front of his rattled companions. The blade danced like leaping thunder. The foremost blood eater's leading claws severed cleanly, foul black blood spraying. Luke twisted his wrist, thrusting forward to pierce the second beast's maw precisely, skewering its brain. The corpse thudded to the ground.
S'ybll's mental assault struck simultaneously, flashing heart-shattering visions before Luke's eyes: Han and Chewbacca torn apart by dozens of claws, blood and viscera flying; R2-D2's metal shell twisting and melting in a violent explosion, its blue dome shattering into fragments... But these scenes, enough to break an ordinary person, dissipated harmlessly against Luke's already-forged Force mental shield.
His movements didn't falter, his form shifting like a phantom, the lightsaber whirling into a deadly corona. The third blood eater's head flew skyward; the fourth's chest was cleaved diagonally, its massive body splitting in two, spilling fetid organs and black blood across the ground.
The battle ended in a flash, the heavy blood stench nearly suffocating. S'ybll's will let out a pained hiss like flame-seared flesh, swiftly retreating from Luke's mental plane. Yet her failure brought no peace.
On one side of the pit, a rusted, heavy metal hatch burst inward. Icy, deep-sea brine carrying immense pressure roared like an unleashed beast, surging into the tunnel with deafening force. Turbid seawater instantly flooded their ankles, rising at an alarming rate, the impact threatening to knock them off balance.
"We'll be trapped and drown here!" Glaennor shouted in terror.
Luke didn't hesitate; his green blade ignited again with a piercing hum. He targeted a structurally weak spot on the bulkhead, the lightsaber cutting like a hot knife through butter, carving a large triangular gash. Ignoring the rushing water, he kicked the heavy metal panel free. The surging sea found a new outlet, roaring madly into deeper tunnels; though the water level still rose, its pace slowed noticeably.
"This way! Move!" Luke wiped seawater from his face, grabbing Andur and Glaennor's arms and shoving them toward the lightsaber-cut escape hatch. The cold currents battered their bodies.
Would S'ybll let them go so easily? Illusions rose again: on the churning, murky water surface, countless twisted, agonized, screaming faces emerged. Soldiers, civilians—even the loved ones from Andur and Glaennor's earlier hallucinations. They bobbed and wailed in the waves, reaching out to grasp the scouts' ankles. Andur and Glaennor's eyes turned vacant and dazed once more, their steps hesitating, as if water spirits dragged at their souls.
"See through them!" Luke growled low. He channeled his powerful Force will into a pure beam, piercing the fog and illusions like a lighthouse, forcefully illuminating their clouded minds. "They're just empty reflections! Follow me!"
Andur and Glaennor let out pained roars, drawing on the steadfast strength Luke infused, forcibly breaking free of the illusions. They gritted their teeth, clarity returning to their eyes, scrambling hand and foot over the slick rock edges of the breach, climbing upward to escape the area turning into a watery prison.
S'ybll's will finally receded like a tide, but a cold, venomous warning etched deeply into Luke's mind like a serpent's hiss: "You'll regret this, Luke. Everything you cherish will turn to ash before your eyes... You'll lose it all!"
They pressed on through the dripping, peril-filled passages. Finally, ahead in the mist, a familiar figure paced anxiously in circles—Chewbacca. The Wookiee's massive paws scratched the ground irritably, his throat rumbling with low, urgent growls laced with worry, echoing in the narrow tunnel.
"Chewie!" Luke called.
Chewbacca whirled around, spotting Luke and the others, his huge blue eyes exploding with joy. He let out a relieved roar, bounding over in a few strides, his furry arm clapping Luke's shoulder heavily, nearly staggering him.
Then, Chewbacca gestured emphatically toward the deeper, solidified-like fog behind him, waving his arms in a flurry of worried, angry, and self-reproachful roars and signs, ending in a low whine.
Luke's heart sank like a stone into ice. He read every motion and emotion from the Wookiee: "Han... he's alone?"
Chewbacca nodded his massive head vigorously, his throat emitting frustrated whimpers, as if blaming himself for not protecting Han.
Luke forced himself to stay calm, making a swift decision. He turned to R2-D2: "R2, you and Chewie—get these two back to the ship safely. They need medical attention; they can't stay here!"
"Beep—woo—!" R2-D2's dome lights flashed wildly, emitting a series of protesting, worried beeps, its small body even rocking side to side in agitation, clearly unwilling to leave its master at such a time.
Luke crouched down, the cold metal floor seeping chill through his clothes. He reached out, gently patting R2's dome: "I'll be fine. I can resist her illusions. But Han... he's out there alone. He needs me. I have to find him. Trust me—I'll bring him back. We'll catch up soon."
R2's indicator lights slowed their flashing, emitting a low, worried, and reluctant beep, its dome drooping slightly before finally ceasing protest. It rolled its treads, moving to Chewbacca's side, issuing a short, urgent chirp. Chewbacca gave Luke one last deep look, then rumbled low, carefully shielding the two ailing scouts with his massive paws before turning away, his tall figure vanishing quickly into the misty passage leading out of the pit, with R2 in tow.
*
Han carried the weakened Luke as they struggled through the fog.
The passage twisted like the guts of some monstrous creature, damp stone walls occasionally flickering with eerie blue phosphorescence that stretched and swallowed their blurred silhouettes. Each of Han's steps grew heavier, the loose gravel and slick moss making every movement treacherous. A frustrating, gnawing intuition tormented him—they seemed trapped in an endless loop.
"Hang in there, kid," Han's voice came out low and hoarse, his arm around Luke unconsciously tightening, pulling the younger man almost entirely against his side as if to lend him some strength and warmth. "We're almost out... almost there."
He repeated it, more to convince himself than anything.
The words had barely left his mouth when Luke's body suddenly went boneless, slumping heavily against him. Han's heart skipped a beat; instinct took over as he caught Luke fully, staggering two steps before bracing his back against a moss-covered slab of cold rock and sliding slowly to the ground. He carefully settled Luke between his legs, using his own body as a backrest.
Through the mud-caked fabric of Luke's tunic, Han could make out deep, bone-revealing gashes on his shoulder and arm. Dark red blood had soaked through, spreading in stark, painful patches that made Han's chest tighten as if the wounds were his own.
He quickly shrugged off his leather jacket, folded it, and wedged it behind Luke against the icy stone.
"Hey, sit tight—lean back on this," he said, his voice unusually soft, carrying an awkward tenderness that was rare for him. His large hand gently patted Luke's uninjured shoulder. "Breathe slow... easy. We'll find our way out, I promise."
Luke leaned weakly against Han's broad, solid chest, his breathing shallow and rapid, his voice thick with pain and disorientation. "Han... don't lie to me. Or to yourself. Aren't we just going in circles?"
Han's throat closed up. His lips moved, but no denial came out. The silence was the most honest answer.
Luke lifted his head with effort. Those eyes—once as clear and blue as Tatooine's twin suns—were now misted with water, shimmering fragilely in the dim phosphorescence. "Maybe... you should leave me here and find the exit. Once you're back with Chewie and the others... come back for me."
"No!" Han practically growled the words through clenched teeth, absolute and unyielding. He pulled Luke closer, as if trying to meld him into his own bones. "When have I ever left you behind? Listen, kid—no matter how big this hellhole is, no matter how many loops we walk, I'll crawl if I have to. I'm getting us both out. Got it?"
Luke didn't argue. He just shook his head faintly, more tears spilling silently down his pale cheeks.
In that moment, a tiny, nagging strangeness flickered through Han's mind. The stubborn farm boy who'd argued with him neck-to-neck in the Mos Eisley cantina, the fierce kid who'd charged into battle on Hoth, the Jedi who'd summoned impossible strength in the worst moments—when had he ever been this fragile?
Yet when his gaze fell again on Luke's tear-streaked, helpless, achingly familiar face—especially when those pain-filled, trusting blue eyes met his—all doubt was instantly swept away by a flood of fierce protectiveness and heartache.
Han's rough hand rose, gently cupping Luke's cold cheek. With clumsy but earnest care, he brushed away the hot tears. His voice dropped softer, almost embarrassed. "Don't cry, please... You start crying, and everything inside me goes all to hell. I don't know what to do with myself."
Luke sniffled, his voice nasal and deeply dejected. "But... even if I get out of here, I don't know how I'll face Leia or the Rebellion..." He squeezed his eyes shut in anguish. "I've lost the Force. I can't do anything. Will they still need someone as useless as me? They'll probably send me away..."
Han's expression turned deadly serious, edged with anger. He hooked a knuckle under Luke's chin, forcing those tear-filled eyes to meet his sharp gaze. "You listen to me—don't you ever think about that. Leia wouldn't see you that way. The Rebellion wouldn't." He paused, voice lowering. "And even if the whole damn galaxy went blind and turned its back on you...my ship will always have a place for you. You hear me?"
The tears finally poured from Luke like a broken dam, but this time they carried something else—relief, perhaps even comfort. The corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest, weakest smile.
Han watched him, emotions churning. To lighten the crushing weight, even just a little, and to anchor himself, he spoke softly, reaching for a warm memory. "Those monsters chasing us earlier... they reminded me of that thing in the jungles near Yavin 4 base. Remember? That damn Night Beast—bulletproof monster nearly made us lunch. And you actually calmed that raging beast down..."
A weak smile touched Luke's face. "It wasn't a monster. It was just looking for its master. I could feel its grief... its desperation..." His eyes drifted half-closed, lost in the recollection. "I hope it's found peace now... that everything's all right..."
Hearing that familiar tone—full of compassion and quiet optimism—made Han's heart lurch. For a fleeting instant, time folded backward. The boy who used to ramble on in the Falcon's hold about Tatooine's Binary Sunset and his innocent dreams seemed to be right there again.
A rush of warmth and fierce longing surged through him. The words slipped out before he could stop them, barely above a whisper. "Sometimes... I really miss the way you used to be..."
Luke raised a faint brow, a glimmer of the old teasing light flickering in his eyes. "Oh? I don't think I've changed much...Don't tell me you're saying I'm getting old?"
That small, proud, perfectly familiar retort hit Han straight in the softest part of his chest. He let out a low chuckle, the vibration rumbling through to the man in his arms. Out of long habit, he reached up and ruffled Luke's still-golden hair, even matted and disheveled. "Getting old ain't your problem to worry about.I’m older than you, remember?"
They looked at each other and shared a small, wordless smile. A quiet warmth flowed between them in the freezing air, making even the choking fog seem to thin just a little.
Luke, apparently spent, nestled his head deeper into the warm hollow of Han's neck, cheek pressed to bare skin, his voice soft and drowsy with complete trust. "You won't leave me alone... right?"
Han felt the real weight and warmth against his throat. He gently rubbed his chin against the soft golden strands. His voice came out low, solemn, like the deepest vow. "Like I said. I won't."
He tightened his arms, folding Luke completely into his protection.
They stayed like that, quiet and close. Han's breathing gradually steadied, wrapped in a rare, almost luxurious sense of peace. The collapsing world, the lost paths, the deadly threats—all of it seemed to recede for the moment. As long as this person was in his arms, this solid weight and warmth, it was the only certain coordinate in Han's chaotic universe. As long as he was here, everything still felt possible.
But the fragile calm didn't last.
Tap... tap-tap... tap-tap-tap-tap...
A faint but unnervingly clear sound drifted from somewhere in the distant fog. Like loose gravel rolling under a careful foot, or footsteps deliberately light yet impossible to fully muffle. It echoed through the empty, dead passage, intermittent, like the drumming of a ghost.
Han's muscles locked instantly, coiled like a predator about to spring. He snapped his head up, sharp eyes piercing the mist toward the source.
In his arms, Luke lifted his head immediately, color draining from his face, voice trembling with genuine fear. "What is that sound?"
Alarm bells screamed in Han's head, icy dread flooding his veins. Reflexively, he shifted to shield Luke completely behind him while drawing his blaster. The safety clicked off with a sharp snap, muzzle steady and aimed into the fog. "Shh—quiet. Stay right here. Don't move an inch. I'm going to check it out."
"No!" Luke's reaction was startlingly fierce. His cold fingers clamped onto Han's arm with surprising strength, nails digging in hard enough to sting. Those blue eyes flared with raw terror and desperation. "You can't go! You can't leave me! If something happens to you... I won't survive alone!"
A wave of indescribable warmth crashed through Han, laced with sharp pain.
He turned fully, pressing their foreheads together, gripping those icy hands tightly. On the surface he kept his tone light, trying to soothe. "Come on, that's nonsense. I'm too stubborn to die—some little mud puddle isn't gonna take me out."
His thumb gently stroked the back of Luke's cold hand, offering what little warmth he could.
Yet even as he spoke, he didn't pull away. They stayed locked together, hands clasped, breath held, bodies frozen like statues in the cold damp and swirling fog, every sense straining toward the sound that drew steadily nearer...
*
Han gripped Luke's hand tightly, following the faint, eerie sound as they stepped deeper into the ruins.
The fog finally thinned ahead, revealing a breathtaking, chilling sight—a vast, ancient ruined plaza. Countless massive stone pillars stood silent like the bones of dead giants, their surfaces etched with long-faded, inscrutable runes that now emitted a sickly, pale blue glow, as though countless watching eyes shrouded the area in heart-stopping dread. The air was thick with the heavy tang of sea salt mixed with the tomb-like rot seeping from cracks in the stone, sharp and nauseating. From somewhere distant came the monotonous, icy drip of water striking the dead silence, adding another layer of oppression.
Han stopped abruptly, his grip on Luke's hand tightening unconsciously, cold sweat making his palm slick and sticky, setting off faint alarm bells in his mind.
He kept his voice low, forcing calm. "Easy, kid. This place looks like some unholy altar ruin. We go slow—one careful step at a time. Don't touch anything."
His eyes scanned the glowing runes and the shadows between the pillars warily, blaster held close against his thigh.
Luke's trembling seemed to grow worse; he pressed almost desperately against Han's side, his voice fractured with sobs. "Han… I'm so scared… I feel… more and more useless… like nothing but a heavy burden…"
Han turned instantly, cupping Luke's cold face in both hands without hesitation. Rough thumbs gently wiped away the hot tears that kept spilling from the corners of his eyes. His voice dropped low, soothing, almost as though speaking to a frightened child. "Hey, listen to me. Don't you say that—not one more word. You're not useless. You're just… exhausted, okay? After everything you've been through, anybody would break. The Force is gone? Fine. That thing was never the whole measure of your worth anyway. You're Luke Skywalker. Lightsaber or no lightsaber, in my book, you're still you."
Luke bowed his head deeply, tears falling like broken beads onto the back of Han's hand, scalding. "But… I was so selfish before. For all those damned responsibilities… I ignored you…" He lifted his tear-blurred face, blue eyes filled with bone-deep regret. "I know you've been worried—afraid I'd turn into someone you didn't recognize… But I just kept charging forward like a blind man, never stopping to really look at you… Han, I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"
A sour, aching warmth mixed with crushing pain crashed through every dam Han had built. His throat worked hard, eyes stinging. His voice came out rough and broken. "You idiot… what are you even talking about… You've never owed me anything. Never. You had your path to walk—that's your calling. And me? I've been right here, watching you. Yeah, I worried. Worried so much some nights I couldn't sleep. But seeing you stand there like a real Jedi Master? Kid, all I felt was proud. So stop with the 'sorry'—throw all that guilt in the trash. We're together now. That's all that matters."
Luke raised eyes brimming with tears, like a sky shattered after a storm. His voice was barely a breath. "You really don't blame me?"
Han looked at the fragile, dependent face before him, heart softening into something aching and tender. He cracked a crooked, roguish yet impossibly gentle smile, reaching up to ruffle the damp golden hair out of long habit. "Blame you? For what? For shining so bright I had to run my legs off just to keep up? Fine—guilty as charged."
They were so close, gazes locked, and in that pale, eerie blue light the surrounding menace and danger seemed momentarily distant. A quiet warmth of survival began to bloom between them. Han opened his mouth to say something more reassuring—
—but the touch in his palm changed.
The hand that had only been slightly cool now felt like a corpse dredged from the deep sea—bone-chilling, lifeless.
Han's smile froze. A serpent of ice slithered up his spine to the base of his neck.
In the next heartbeat, the Luke in his arms twisted and deformed before his eyes. The clear, sky-blue gaze filled with an utterly alien malice. The corners of his mouth stretched upward in an impossible, grotesque grin that defied human anatomy. The face Han knew down to his marrow began to rot like melting wax—the brilliant golden hair grew wildly, turning brittle and snow-white in seconds. Fine wrinkles spiderwebbed across smooth young cheeks at impossible speed. All color drained from the skin, leaving it corpse-wax pale, grayish and translucent in a nauseating way. Worst of all were the eyes: the warm life-blue was sucked dry in an instant, replaced by a dead, lightless gray-blue—the coldest void at the heart of the universe, swallowing every hope.
From Luke's throat came a low, rasping laugh. "Foolish, pathetic smuggler… You think that's love? It's just your own pitiful, homeless longing."
"You—!" Han's mind blanked. Instinct moved faster than thought—his right hand flashed to the blaster at his hip. The muzzle snapped up in the same motion, locked dead on that nightmare face.
But in the split second before his finger could squeeze the trigger, an ice-cold claw clamped around his throat.
The grip was inhumanly powerful, like a hydraulic press snapping shut. Han felt his windpipe creak under the strain, pain and suffocation crashing over him like a tidal wave. Black spots exploded across his vision, the world narrowing and darkening rapidly. He tried to struggle, but strength drained from his limbs in an instant. The claw was iron, its black, poisoned talons sinking deep into the flesh of his neck, tearing with searing agony.
From his crushed throat came only broken, wheezing gasps. The blaster slipped from nerveless fingers, clattering loudly onto the cold stone floor with a sharp, hopeless ring.
*
Luke pressed forward through the thick fog, his green lightsaber humming steadily in his grip—the only sound in the dead silence, an extension of his unyielding will. S'ybll's mind continued to claw relentlessly at the edges of his mental shields, probing for any crack. What unsettled him most was the persistent dread gnawing at his thoughts: had Han already been ensnared by her lethal illusions? The worry ate away at his reason, making each step feel heavier.
Suddenly, his foot caught as if tripped by an invisible force—the texture of loose gravel beneath him blurred, replaced in an instant by the slick, muddy surface of Seidhkona. Fragments of memory from a year ago surged forward, cold and bitter with failure, threatening to drown him.
That near-catastrophic encounter replayed like a specter in the mist. He halted abruptly, breathing hard, cold sweat beading on his brow.
It had been one of the Rebellion's darkest stretches. The Millennium Falcon's navicomputer had failed during a desperate jump, forcing an emergency landing on the remote world of Seidhkona. The screech of tortured metal echoed through the hull as Han and Chewbacca fought to repair the damage, sparks flying. R2-D2 scanned frantically while C-3PO babbled anxious commentary. As lookout, Luke had ventured alone onto the planet's eerie, primitive surface. Back then, though he had mastered the Force and lightsaber combat, his defenses against psychic traps were far less refined than now.
Deep in the silent forest, an unshakable sense of being watched seized him. Countless unseen eyes seemed to peer from the twisted tree shadows and dense ferns. He hadn't realized then that S'ybll—a mind-sensitive witch drawn by his power—had already spread her hunting net.
Like a viper lurking in the dark, S'ybll's mental tendrils slipped silently into the surface layers of Luke's mind. She zeroed in immediately on the brightest anchor in his psyche: a reckless smuggler named Han Solo. The unspoken bond between them, forged through countless life-and-death moments—this fatal vulnerability was laid bare to her in an instant.
The cunning assault followed. The forest around Luke warped violently. Han's terrified shout shattered the quiet—he was ensnared by a massive, grotesque monster, blaster knocked from his hand into the mud, razor-sharp spines driven deep into his arm and chest, blood soaking his clothes.
Blood rushed to Luke's head; overwhelming fear and rage drowned out all rational thought. His lightsaber ignited with a roar, green blade flashing like vengeful lightning as he charged the illusion, slashing without hesitation. The creature disintegrated into burning fragments beneath the blade.
In the vision, the wounded Han collapsed weakly, clutching his bleeding wounds, looking up at Luke with gratitude. "Kid… thank the stars… you saved my life…"
Back then, Luke hadn't questioned it. Rage and worry blinded his insight. All he saw was Han in need. Desperate, he followed the stumbling figure—S'ybll's perfectly disguised bait—deeper into the forest. Guided by the false Han, he stumbled into an icy, rushing underground river. The freezing current swallowed him instantly, slamming him against rocks. Amid the chaos and suffocation, only one thought burned: protect Han. He had no idea his selfless drive to save was the very trap the enemy had woven.
The chill of that water still lingered on his skin. Luke snapped back to the present in the ruins' fog, shaking violently as he tore free from the memory's vortex. His ragged breaths clouded the inside of his faceplate. That bitter lesson was now seared into his soul like a brand: love could give a person strength beyond themselves, but it could also become the enemy's sharpest blade aimed straight at the heart. The fear of losing Han had nearly destroyed him once. Now that knowledge served as his beacon in the storm—he had to master this emotion, turn it into unshakeable resolve.
Later in the forest depths, S'ybll had pressed harder, unleashing visions of night beasts and the terrifying specter of Darth Vader in waves, trying to shatter his will completely and drain his life force. Only through sheer remaining clarity and iron will had Luke finally seen through the deception and defeated her. He'd believed the threat ended then, unaware it was merely S'ybll's feigned death and escape. He hadn't even been able to discern the truth of her dying illusion, only managing to drag his battered body and wounded spirit back to his companions, fleeing that cursed place.
Shaking off the shadow that had nearly claimed him, Luke quickened his pace, his form streaking through the maze-like passages. He spoke low and firm into his comlink, voice cutting through the fog: "Han, hold on. I'm coming!"
Only static hissed back, adding to the weight on his chest.
When he finally burst through the last veil of mist into the ancient ruined plaza bathed in ghostly blue phosphorescence, the sight before him struck like an icy dagger straight through his heart.
In the center of the square stood a smooth, rune-carved dark stone slab like an altar. On that cold surface lay Han, utterly still. His face was bleached as pale as moon rock, bloodless. His lips parted slightly, releasing only the faintest, barely audible wheeze of pain. The eyes that always sparkled with cunning or irritation were now half-open and unfocused, pupils dilated and vacant. His chest rose and fell in weak, erratic breaths, the flame of life flickering on the edge of extinction.
"Han!" Panic and anguish choked Luke. His body lunged forward instinctively, ready to rush to him regardless of danger.
"Stop!"
A cold female voice rang out like a command from the abyss, freezing Luke in place. The shadow beside one of the massive pillars rippled like water, and S'ybll's corpse-pale true form emerged. Her tattered robes billowed without wind; blood-red hair floated like toxic deep-sea kelp in the eerie blue glow. Her skin shimmered with an unnatural, sickly sheen under the light. Her pale eyes burned with fanatical fire, but beneath lay oceans of bitter resentment and rage after repeated rejection. One gaunt, bloodless hand hovered above Han's chest, fingers curled slightly. Thin threads of glowing life essence were being forcibly drawn from Han's convulsing body, streaming steadily into her palm.
"Take one more step," S'ybll said, her voice like icy water laced with shards, "and I drain this crude, precious heart of yours completely dry."
Luke rooted himself in place, frozen, though the blade in his hand remained unignited. He forced down the boiling rage and boundless fear, his voice low and dangerous, like lava about to erupt. "Let him go. What filthy game are you playing this time?"
"Game?" The bloodless corners of S'ybll's mouth twisted into a mocking, grotesque smile. "No. This is mercy. Your final chance! Join me, Luke. Let us share eternal, immortal dominion! Your pure, powerful Force combined with my ambition—the entire galaxy will kneel at our feet! Think of it: no more bearing the cursed Jedi code alone, no more enduring the agony of loss!" Her gaze raked greedily over the dying Han on the slab. "Or I end him now, reduce him to a worthless, cold husk, and let you spend the rest of your life drowning in regret. Choose!"
Luke's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles cracking, nails digging into his palms.
He stared at Han's face—stripped of all vitality, twisted in agony—and felt his chest being carved open again and again. The ripping pain nearly shattered his reason.
But he drew a deep breath, forcing the fury down. His eyes sharpened to blades, voice cutting clearly through the chill air: "I refuse."
"Fool!" The fanaticism in S'ybll's eyes exploded into thunderous rage. A shrill, piercing screech erupted from her throat. Her hovering hand slammed downward.
Han's body convulsed violently, arching as if struck by lightning. Gray death spread across his skin like plague. The rate of life essence extraction surged, the glow blindingly bright.
"Stop!" Luke's roar thundered like a Force shockwave. His green lightsaber ignited with a furious hum. A solid, shimmering Force barrier snapped into place above Han like an unbreakable shield. At the same instant, Luke surged forward in a blur of motion. His blade slashed through the air with absolute resolve, aimed straight at the pale arm still draining Han's life.
S'ybll screamed in pain and fury, yanking her hand back and leaping away. Smoke curled from the blackened gash where the lightsaber had grazed her. She retaliated instantly, raising her skeletal hands as though conducting a symphony of destruction. A powerful telekinetic storm erupted from the ground. Countless scattered rubble, shattered pillar fragments, and heavy stone slabs rose like a swarm of enraged hornets, shrieking through the air as they hurtled toward Luke in a devastating barrage.
Luke became a green phantom amid the storm of stone. His lightsaber whirled into a blazing corona, forming an impenetrable curtain of light. Rocks collided with the blade in showers of sparks; massive slabs were cleaved precisely in two, crumbling into smaller debris. But the onslaught was relentless, wave after crushing wave. The sheer force numbed his arms; the stone beneath his feet cracked and spiderwebbed. He was a lone vessel fighting towering waves.
In the split-second gaps between dodges and parries, Luke's sharp gaze swept the rune-covered plaza—the familiar pillars identical to those on Seidhkona a year ago. The ancient symbols pulsed and breathed in the blue glow, channeling dark energy in a continuous stream into S'ybll, steadily amplifying her power.
"These pillars…" Realization flashed through him. He understood the source of her strength. "They're feeding you. That's why you won't leave these ruins!"
For the first time, true panic crossed S'ybll's face—the terror of her core secret exposed. "Silence! Don't you dare touch them!"
Luke hesitated no longer. Cold determination flashed in his eyes. He slipped past a falling boulder like a ghost. The green blade sang a clear, resonant note, carrying the weight of severed enmity, and struck like a bolt of verdant lightning into the nearest pillar.
The lightsaber bit into ancient stone with a grating screech. Sparks erupted like molten lava. The flowing runes flickered wildly like dying lights, then went dark, extinguished.
"No!" S'ybll's scream twisted into something inhuman.
Luke moved like an unstoppable force of destruction. He leaped from one target to the next. The green blade carved lethal arcs through the gloom. Second pillar. Third. Fourth. Weathered stone fell like rotten timber before the Jedi weapon. Dying runes scattered like falling fireflies. The entire plaza shuddered violently. Ceiling debris rained down. The ancient energy circuit that fueled S'ybll collapsed completely. Her body staggered as though the strings had been cut; her power ebbed like a receding tide. The pale face contorted into ultimate fear and rage.
"You'll die with me!" Cornered and desperate, S'ybll unleashed the madness of a dying beast. With a final, despairing roar, she abandoned all defense and grace, lunging at Luke like a rabid animal—straight toward the Jedi who had just severed another pillar and was momentarily off-balance.
They crashed to the ground. The cold stone slab slammed into Luke's back. S'ybll's icy hands clamped his shoulders like vises; razor-sharp nails tore through fabric and sank deep into flesh. A ravenous, freezing suction exploded from her palms. In her last moments, she meant to steal Luke's life essence by force.
"Join me… consume me… or… together… fall into the eternal dark abyss!" Her face, warped by insanity and agony, resembled a demon crawled from hell; her rasping voice exhaled the stench of death.
In that split second, the ceiling overhead exploded open in a massive breach. Searing blaster bolts streaked down like furious meteors, tearing through thick rock with deafening booms, slamming precisely into the stone around S'ybll. Shards and dust erupted like a volcanic plume. The powerful shockwave hurled her backward, momentarily breaking the deadly drain.
Luke instinctively raised an arm to shield against flying debris, squinting upward through the haze. A familiar sleek silhouette hovered beyond the shattered dome—an X-wing. The cockpit was empty, but the blue dome light flashed wildly, accompanied by triumphant, boastful beeps that cut clearly through the explosion's echo—R2-D2. Somehow, the loyal little astromech had climbed into the cockpit and activated the automated weapons.
"R2!" Luke's heart surged with shock and gratitude.
But S'ybll's obsession with Luke's life force and power had sunk too deep. Rolling to her feet amid the smoke and rubble, ignoring the gashes from flying stone, her eyes held only madness.
"You're mine!" she screamed in an inhuman howl, ignoring the X-wing overhead, throwing herself at Luke once more like a moth into flame—ferocious, determined to devour him alive.
Just as she reached him, her pale fingers inches from his body, the lightsaber hilt—previously knocked away in the chaos and lying amid rubble—shot back as though pulled by an invisible thread, snapping perfectly into Luke's open palm.
Without a moment's hesitation or wasted motion, Luke's thumb hit the activator. His wrist snapped forward in a single, decisive thrust.
The verdant blade ignited with the roar of pure Force judgment, spearing straight through S'ybll's charging chest and erupting from her back.
Her forward momentum froze as though time had stopped. Her gray-blue eyes widened to impossible extremes in disbelief, the manic fire within them instantly frozen. Black blood like writhing worms spilled uncontrollably from the corners of her stretched mouth, dripping onto the cold stone. Very slowly, she lowered her head to stare at the blade protruding from her chest.
"I…" Her voice was a mosquito-whisper, laced with bone-deep hatred. "Never… did… like you…"
Luke's expression was an ice-locked lake, utterly still. He simply deactivated the lightsaber.
The hum died instantly. The green blade vanished.
Without the blade's support, S'ybll's body crumpled forward like a marionette with cut strings, crashing heavily at Luke's feet amid the rubble. The unnatural sheen drained from her skin like receding tide, leaving it like old parchment. The breath of life ceased completely, leaving only a rapidly cooling, withered husk.
*
Han's consciousness rose slowly from a deep, cold chaos, like a diver surfacing from the abyss. The first sensation was the dull, heavy ache in his chest—like it had been repeatedly crushed under a sandbag. It was the hollow echo left after his life force had been forcibly drained, but compared to the earlier soul-tearing emptiness and utter depletion, this pain felt worlds apart. Far stronger was the enveloping, reassuring warmth—soft, milky-white medical lights falling over him like a gentle veil.
He turned his head slightly; the movement tugged at the muscles in his neck, sending a faint twinge of soreness through him. Then he saw Luke.
The young Jedi sat on a folding chair beside the medbed, leaning slightly forward, head bowed as though the weight of exhaustion had finally pulled him under into a brief, unguarded sleep. The soft light traced the contours of his face, casting delicate fan-shaped shadows beneath his long, golden lashes. His breathing was even and deep, carrying a childlike peace.
Han had seen Luke asleep countless times—bathed in the blue glow of hyperspace in the Falcon's cockpit, by the flickering campfires of Hoth's ice caves, on makeshift cots during the brief respites between battles—but this time felt profoundly different. The gentle illumination acted like a soft filter, wrapping around him. Stripped of the battlefield's sharpness, the Jedi Master's quiet authority set aside, the sleeping Luke looked simply like a boy who had laid down every burden, vulnerable and pure. A near-unreal, breathtaking beauty hung suspended in the air.
Han's heart skipped a beat, brushed by the lightest feather. An almost instinctive urge surged through him—he lifted his hand, wanting to brush his fingertips across that impossibly soft cheek glowing in the light, to feel the real warmth…
"Beep—beep-beep! Waa-waa-waa—!"
A shrill, piercing alarm exploded from the corner like a thunderclap. R2-D2, the ever-loyal, ever-mood-ruining blue barrel, had rolled silently to the bedside. Its dome lights flashed red in frantic warning, blaring a high-decibel alert.
"Damn nosy tin can!" Han cursed inwardly. The hand that had been inches from Luke's face jerked back as though burned by a plasma torch. He cleared his throat awkwardly twice, trying—and failing—to cover the guilty flush and faint irritation of being caught.
The alarm acted like a switch. Luke's lashes fluttered like startled wings, then slowly lifted. His clear blue eyes were first clouded with the haze of sleep, still lingering in some distant dream. Then his gaze focused, locking onto Han's face. The fog vanished like morning mist under sunlight, replaced by a fierce, blazing light. Almost reflexively, he reached out and seized the hand Han hadn't quite managed to pull away, gripping it tightly.
"Han…" Luke's voice was low and hoarse, half murmur, half long-held sigh finally released, thick with the terror that had nearly drowned him. "You're finally awake… I…"
His voice caught. In his blue eyes, Han's reflection swam clearly amid a storm of near-fracturing fear and raw unease—like thin ice over a bottomless well of worry, ready to shatter at the slightest touch. "I almost… just barely… I thought I was really going to lose you…"
The raw fear in that gaze stabbed Han like a blade. Sharp pain radiated through his chest. He suddenly remembered the ruins, the fog, the illusion—how he'd held that false Luke so tightly, pouring out tenderness and protectiveness. All those soft words, those intimate touches… nothing but the enemy's perfectly crafted trap. He'd nearly gotten himself killed. Worse, the guilt crashed over him like an icy tidal wave, heavy with silt, threatening to bury him. His throat tightened; his voice came out dry and hesitant, laced with shame he could barely name. "Kid… what exactly happened while I was out?"
Luke drew a deep, steadying breath, as though forcing the crushing fear back down. His voice regained its usual calm, though exhaustion lingered beneath. "It was S'ybll. Remember the mind witch from Seidhkona a year ago? She survived—learned from her defeat and became even more cunning. She layered illusions into a trap…"
Luke glanced toward the now-quiet R2-D2 in the corner. "But you're safe. To be certain, I had R2 run a full life-scan sweep of the entire ruin complex—no life signs. She's gone this time. She chose you as the perfect bait. Her target, from beginning to end, was me. She wanted to use your feelings for me to draw me in, force me to join her, become like her."
Han frowned, fragments of broken legends surfacing. "Mind witch… I've heard the crazy stories, always figured they were just ghost tales to scare kids…"
Luke's mouth curved in a small, bitter smile. "Maybe… she was the last of her twisted kind."
Han's face flushed with sudden, acute embarrassment. He jerked his gaze away, unable to meet Luke's eyes, staring instead at the cold metal bulkhead of the medbay.
His voice dropped, squeezed out through clenched teeth, thick with self-loathing. "I never thought I'd be played for such a damn fool… caught up in that kind of trick like a complete idiot… I saw…"
Luke leaned forward instantly, brows knitting with urgent concern. "What did she show you, Han? Tell me. Those illusions can leave scars on your mind—if it was something bad…"
Han snapped his gaze back, colliding with Luke's clear, earnest blue eyes—pure, unclouded, filled only with genuine worry and care.
That look was like warm sunlight breaking through the gloom. The shame and darkness stirred by the memory of the illusion instantly dissolved. Looking at this real, living face, the sting of those false images suddenly felt trivial.
Han's throat worked; he shook his head firmly, forcing a crooked, determined half-smile. "…Nothing. Really. Nothing important… Not anymore. Not as long as you're here. That's all that matters."
He couldn't speak of the weak, desperate, clinging illusion of Luke. Saying it aloud would feel like betraying the real one standing before him. How bitterly ironic that part of him had craved that false image—and that weakness had nearly cost him the true Luke.
Luke's brows remained furrowed; he clearly wasn't convinced. "Don't lie to me. If she showed you something that left you shaken or in pain… I can help you through it…"
Han didn't answer directly. Instead he tightened his grip on Luke's hand. Then, under Luke's startled gaze, he leaned down and pressed his dry, warm lips gently to the back of Luke's hand. It was the lightest, briefest touch—yet it carried an electric current that raced through both of them.
"…All better now," Han said, lifting his eyes to meet Luke's. His voice was low and rough. That kiss was his answer, his declaration, his cure.
A vivid flush bloomed across Luke's cheeks, spreading to his ears, even tinting the delicate tips pink. His blue eyes flickered with unmistakable panic, but the Jedi Master's iron composure quickly steadied him. He didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers tightened in return, holding Han's hand more securely.
"Beep…woo…" From the corner came R2-D2's low, distinctly aggrieved warble, dome lights flashing in mild protest, as though complaining about being completely forgotten in the background.
The tiny complaint shattered the heavy atmosphere in the medbay. Han let out a sudden, choked chuckle. The vibration tugged at his injury, bringing a flash of pain, but he didn't care. Out of long habit, he lifted his free hand and ruffled Luke's soft golden hair, the gesture full of relief and unguarded affection. "All right, kid, that's enough. Stop looking at me like I'm about to keel over any second. I don't want to owe you any more big debts than I already do."
Luke finally smiled—bright and clear, like sunlight breaking through clouds. It lit up his entire face, chasing away the last shadows. He squeezed Han's hand gently. "You never owed me anything, Han. We're square. Always have been."
*
The Millennium Falcon cruised smoothly through the vast starfield, more than halfway along the return route. Beyond the viewport stretched the familiar blue-white tunnel of hyperspace. In the cockpit, only the low hum of the navicomputer and the steady thrum of the engines remained. Chewbacca had tactfully retreated to the rear to check wiring, and R2-D2 had slipped into low-power standby, its dome light dimmed to a faint blue glow.
A rare quiet settled over the forward compartment. Han slouched back in the co-pilot's seat, but his gaze was locked on Luke. The young Jedi sat focused on the flight readouts, soft light tracing the sharp line of his profile, a few stray golden strands falling across his forehead. The fierce, burning emotion that had been churning in Han's chest since Luke pulled him from the illusion had only grown stronger.
In that moment, the pressing missions, the lurking remnants of the Empire, even the fate of the galaxy all felt distant and unimportant.
Han rose and moved toward Luke. Luke sensed the shift behind him—the heat of that stare—and started to turn, ready to ask if Han was feeling all right. Before he could, Han's arms came around him from behind, strong biceps locking tight around Luke's waist and pulling him back fully into his chest. Warm breath ghosted over the sensitive shell of Luke's ear.
"Han?" Luke's voice held surprise, but his body instinctively leaned back, settling into the familiar, grounding embrace.
"Don't move, kid…" Han's voice was low and rough, thick with long-suppressed hunger. He tilted his head, warm lips brushing the smooth skin of Luke's neck in slow, searing kisses that trailed upward along the elegant line of his throat. "Just let me hold you for a minute."
Luke shivered, his breathing quickening. He could feel the solid thud of Han's heartbeat against his back, the startling heat radiating through thin fabric. Without thinking, he lifted a hand to cover the one Han had wrapped around his waist, murmuring softly, "But… your injury…"
"Shh…" Han's mouth had already reached the line of Luke's jaw, sealing the rest of his words with a tender kiss. It began tentative and cherishing—gentle sucks and brushes against Luke's lips. But when Luke parted his mouth on a soft sigh, Han's restraint shattered.
He deepened the kiss, tongue sliding in to claim Luke's taste with greedy hunger.
When they finally parted, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in unsteady pants, Han's thumb traced the slightly swollen curve of Luke's lower lip. His voice came out rough with complaint. "Leia's got us running like droids… How long has it been? Feels like a whole damn century since I could just hold you properly…"
Luke's cheeks flushed, blue eyes shimmering with moisture, his own breathing ragged as he tried to cling to a shred of composure. "You can't blame her… She's leading the Rebellion—"
"I know, I know," Han cut in, his tone softening, laced with fond amusement. "Your sister always has the right of it."
He stared at the parted, kiss-reddened lips so close to his own, eyes darkening again. "But kid… nav says we're about to drop out of hyperspace and hit the final approach. Time's short…"
Before Luke could answer, Han claimed his mouth once more—this kiss hotter, more demanding. Luke managed only a muffled whimper before melting completely into it, responding with equal fervor. His hands climbed Han's shoulders, fingers digging into solid muscle.
The kiss spiraled into something wild and unrestrained. Han's hands were no longer content to simply hold; they roamed with urgent need. Broad palms slid over Luke's lean chest and taut abdomen through fabric, friction creating soft, suggestive sounds.
Luke gave as good as he got, one hand threading into Han's thick brown hair to pull him closer, the other roaming blindly across the wide expanse of Han's back, tracing the tension of muscle beneath cloth.
Desire burned like wildfire. Han growled low in his throat, hands suddenly seizing the hem of Luke's tunic and yanking it upward in one impatient motion. Luke's smooth, toned chest was bared to the cool air; his nipples pebbled instantly in arousal.
"Han…" Luke gasped, but he didn't stop him—only arched his neck, offering his mouth again. Their lips crashed together once more, tongues tangling in wet, hungry rhythm, as if trying to fuse into one.
Han's palm covered bare skin, kneading and stroking with greedy appreciation, savoring the warmth, the living pulse beneath. When his fingertips grazed a peaked nipple, Luke's whole body jerked, a stifled moan escaping into Han's mouth.
That sound was like rocket fuel. Han couldn't wait any longer. He dragged Luke backward toward the narrow crew bunk at the rear of the cockpit. They stumbled onto the soft padding in a tangle of limbs, bodies pressed flush.
Han fumbled at his belt buckle with shaking fingers—damn things wouldn't cooperate under the haze of lust. The stubborn clasp refused to give.
Luke lay beneath him, tunic rucked up, chest still heaving, watching Han's frustrated struggle. A flicker of mischievous amusement danced in his blue eyes before being swallowed by deeper desire. He drew a steadying breath, focus sharpening. A faint shimmer passed through his gaze—almost imperceptible.
Click.The belt buckle sprang open, leather sliding free.
Han froze. He glanced down at his loosened pants, then up at Luke—whose flush had deepened to scarlet. A low, delighted laugh rumbled out of him, chest shaking. "Never thought I'd see the Force used like that."
Luke looked ready to bury his burning face in the pillow, but Han gave him no chance. He captured that tempting mouth again while one hand reached for the small concealed compartment above the bunk—a smuggler's habit, always keeping essentials within arm's reach. His fingers closed around a slim tube of clear lubricant.
Between fierce kisses, Han bit the cap open, cool gel coating his fingertips. "Relax for me, sweetheart…" he murmured against Luke's lips, jaw, throat, soothing and coaxing as slick fingers carefully sought the tight entrance behind.
"Mm—" The sudden cool intrusion and slow stretch drew a muffled groan from Luke. His body tensed instinctively, then gradually melted under Han's patient, teasing kisses.
Han's fingers moved with steady, deliberate care—rotating, pressing, sinking deeper—feeling the tight heat shift from resistance to acceptance to greedy clenching. Each careful thrust drew broken, beautiful sounds from Luke, met with deeper kisses. When a second and then third finger joined, skillfully stretching and curling against sensitive spots inside, Luke arched his neck, a long, helpless moan spilling free. His body bowed like a drawn arc, legs restlessly rubbing against the sheets.
Han's ragged breathing mingled with Luke's sweet, rising whimpers; the small cabin filled with the thick scent of arousal. Neither could wait any longer. Han withdrew his fingers, slick strands connecting them for a heartbeat. He pushed up just enough to shove his pants and underwear down to his thighs. His aching, leaking length sprang free, hot and heavy, nudging insistently at Luke's slick, ready entrance.
Luke's arms wrapped tight around Han's broad back, nails biting skin. His blue eyes were glassy with need. He lifted his hips, legs locking powerfully around Han's waist, opening himself completely.
Han let out a low, guttural sound of pure satisfaction. One hand clamped Luke's hip, the other braced against the bunk frame. With a single, deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside the tight, searing heat.
Both gasped at once, a shared sound of mingled pain and overwhelming pleasure.
Han lowered himself, sealing their bodies together, claiming Luke's mouth in a deep, anchoring kiss that conveyed the completeness of the moment. Then he began to move—slow at first, each withdrawal dragging slick sounds, each deep thrust hitting the farthest point, met with Luke's clenching, greedy pull.
Luke answered every kiss, fingers digging into Han's shoulders, broken moans growing sweeter and more desperate with each rhythm. The sound drove Han wild.
"Luke…oh, Luke…" Han breathed the name like a prayer, kisses raining across cheeks, throat, collarbone as his pace surged—faster, harder.
The bunk creaked in protest under the increasing force. Sweat slicked their skin, dripping onto the sheets. The cabin echoed with harsh breaths, the wet slap of bodies, and Luke's increasingly incoherent, blood-heating cries. Passion climbed to a fever pitch; their mouths fused again, swallowing each other's air as though trying to devour souls—
—at the very edge of release—
A furious, impatient roar exploded at the hatch.
The heavy door panel was wrenched open by one massive, furry paw.
Chewbacca's scowling face filled the doorway.
Time froze. The frantic rhythm halted. Every sound and motion died.
Han jerked his head up, lust still clouding his features, instantly replaced by extreme irritation. He twisted around and snarled at the Wookiee, "Chewie… can't you see we're busy?!"
Chewbacca's huge yellow eyes blazed. He jabbed a claw toward the flashing proximity alert on the console, then back at the half-naked, tangled pair on the bunk, unleashing a rapid-fire barrage of furious Shyriiwook—perfectly clear in meaning: You two shameless idiots, pick a better time and place to rut. The ship's about to hit atmosphere and the alarms are screaming. Finish this in your quarters on base like civilized beings, or I'll space the both of you right now!
Han let out a long, agonized groan. Reluctantly, he withdrew from the maddeningly perfect heat of Luke's body. The sudden emptiness drew matching sharp inhales of frustration and loss from both.
They lay frozen on the bunk, desire still raging, bodies flushed and oversensitive. Worst of all, thanks to the abrupt interruption, both were still achingly hard, slick and straining.
Han muttered a curse, snatching the long brown jacket draped over the nearby chair and throwing it over himself to cover the worst of the mess. He grabbed Luke's rumpled tunic and flight jacket, carefully draping them over him—shielding the still-heaving chest and equally embarrassing situation. Luke's face was scarlet; he ducked his head, fingers clutching the jacket edges.
The moment of passion shattered, leaving only awkward heat and the blaring proximity alarm.
*
The base’s shower room was thick with steam. Han had brushed off the medics’ insistence that he stay under observation, demanding instead to wash away the mud and blood of Tarnoonga first.
He leaned against the warm tiles, letting the powerful spray pound into tired muscles. The deep bruising across his chest throbbed dully under the heat, but mostly he felt relief, the tension bleeding out of him. Eyes closed, the image that refused to fade was Luke charging through the ruins toward him—those blue eyes blazing with pure worry and fierce determination.
The door to the stall slid open just a crack, letting more white vapor curl inside. Luke slipped through, shutting it quickly behind him. He wore only a towel knotted low around his hips, golden hair dripping wet and plastered to his forehead, revealing the clean line of his brow and those blue eyes that looked especially soft in the humid haze.
Han opened his eyes, saw who it was, and the guarded tension in his face melted instantly. A lazy, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Sneaking into a shower, Jedi Master? That’s gonna ruin your saintly reputation.”
Luke ignored the tease. He stepped under the spray, hot water instantly enveloping him. Reaching out, fingertips still warm and damp, he traced the edge of the ugly bruise blooming across Han’s chest with careful tenderness. “Does it still hurt?”
Han caught the wandering hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a slow, wet kiss into the palm. “Doesn’t hurt at all when I’m looking at you.”
He tugged Luke closer until their bodies were nearly flush in the narrow stall, hot water streaming over bare skin. “What about you?” Han’s gaze drifted to the faint red mark he’d left on the side of Luke’s neck. “This okay?”
His fingertip brushed lightly over the sensitive spot.
A flush rose on Luke’s cheeks, visible even through the steam. He tilted his head away slightly, voice soft. “It’s fine… just… maybe don’t bite quite so hard next time.”
There was no real reproach in the words—only shy warmth.
Han chuckled low, the sound rumbling through his chest. He dipped his head and covered Luke’s mouth in a long, gentle kiss. Water slid down their pressed-together cheeks. This was no frantic claim; it was slow and deep, rich with love rather than lust, affection flowing freely between them in the warm mist.
“Okay,” Han murmured after a long while, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against Luke’s. His voice was rough. “Any longer and we’ll both look like prunes. And if Chewie finds out we’ve been hogging this stall this long, he’ll probably rip the door off its tracks.”
Luke laughed softly, giving Han a light push. “Finish washing. Leia’s still waiting for our report.”
They rinsed quickly. When they stepped out in fresh clothes, they still carried the clean scent of soap and lingering dampness. Han slung an arm around Luke’s shoulders, steering him toward the Falcon’s docking berth. “Report can wait. First you’re helping me fix that damn hydraulic line that keeps sticking. The thing threw a fit the whole time we were on Tarnoonga—gotta strike while it’s hot.”
The excuse was shamelessly transparent. Luke smiled knowingly but didn’t call him on it. The base corridors were cold, but the warmth of Han’s arm around him felt better than any heater.
Back inside the familiar belly of the Millennium Falcon, Chewbacca had his massive back to them, crouched at the engine access port and clanging away at something. R2-D2 rolled nearby, beeping what were presumably helpful suggestions. The cabin smelled reassuringly of machine oil and old metal.
Han guided Luke to the long bench in the cockpit and sat them both down. Instead of heading for any hydraulic line, he reached into a hidden nook and produced two slim silver flasks, handing one to Luke. “Little celebration?”
Luke took the flask, unscrewed the cap, and the sharp, familiar burn of Corellian whiskey hit his nose. He looked at the warmth in Han’s eyes and smiled. “Celebrating what?”
“Celebrating that we’re still breathing,” Han said, raising his own flask. His gaze held Luke’s, deep and steady. “Celebrating… that we both came back.”
Luke met his eyes. In the dim cabin light, his blue gaze was especially clear. He took a small sip of the fiery liquor, feeling the burn slide down his throat before he spoke, voice barely above the engine’s low hum. “And celebrating… that I didn’t lose myself out there in the fog.”
Han understood immediately. So he hadn’t been the only one adrift in that mist. Luke had been fighting too—struggling against the distance his duty as Jedi Master sometimes forced between them. A pang of tenderness hit Han hard. He didn’t press for details, just squeezed Luke’s hand. “Kid, you’re not going anywhere. You’re right here.”
The flasks clinked softly in the quiet cabin. The sharp whiskey burned going down, then spread comforting warmth through limbs and chest.
Luke took another sip, wrinkling his nose slightly at the bite, then let out a small, relieved smile that lit his whole face.
Watching that smile, Han felt something inside him soften completely. Almost without thinking, he reached out and rubbed the pad of his thumb gently over the lobe of Luke’s ear—an old, meaningless, intimate gesture from years of shared rations and long waits.
Luke froze for a second, blue eyes flashing with startled surprise, then rolled them dramatically, though the corner of his mouth curled upward.
“Childish.” he muttered, but there was no heat in it—only fond exasperation.
In that instant, certainty settled deep in Han’s bones. This was his Luke—whole, real, never truly lost. He was the Jedi Master who carried the galaxy’s hopes on his shoulders, and he was still the farm boy who would roll his eyes at Han’s teasing.
They sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing the rare quiet, the hard-won closeness. Han’s hand slid over the back of Luke’s where it rested on his thigh. Their fingers laced together without a word.
In the background, Chewbacca’s low grumbles and R2’s soft beeps formed the familiar soundtrack to the moment.