Story Challenge #11: 11th November 2003
Write something on the theme of those killed or injured by war. No time limit, no other restrictions: just the theme-- Remembrance Day.

Proprieties
A SW fic by Morgan D.

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Mon Mothma's speech stirred the hearts of the crowd gathered in the grand audience chamber of the Great Temple in Yavin 4. Reminding them all of the undeniable courage and nobleness of the starfighter pilots who had given their lives to save the helpless Rebel base from the approaching Death Star ten years before, she spoke of impetuous spirits, freedom-loving hearts and justice-craving souls, of how that inner strength had been the true weapon to defeat the Empire, guide the Alliance to victory and restore peace to the galaxy.

Meanwhile, all Han Solo could think of was that his feet were aching horribly inside his new boots.

He had been wearing perfectly comfortable boots that morning. That is, until Councillor Leia Organa had glanced at them, decreed them too old and battered for such a formal occasion, and ordered her personal aide to find him a new, glossy pair, convincing her twin brother to persuade Han into putting them on. And since Luke wouldn't refuse anything to Leia, and since Han wouldn't refuse anything to Luke... The Corellian sometimes felt Leia had much more control over his life now than back when they were a couple.

On the other hand, the sore squeezing of his ankles at least gave him something to distract him from the solemnity of the event taking place around him.

He had many reasons to wish he were someplace else. For starters, he hated anniversaries in general. Sentences like, "my wife and I have been married for thirty years", or "I've been in this job for twenty years", or "I haven't drunk or drugged myself in fifteen years", somehow always struck him the wrong way. For Han, they always sounded like, "Look, I have put up with this crap for so long, aren't you impressed?" Hardly any cause for celebration, in his way of thinking. He knew he had found the person he wanted to be with for life when he realised he didn't bother counting how long he had been with Luke. With all the others he had counted the weeks, the months, the years (for the few that had endured that long), and there had always been a moment when he had felt too much time had elapsed. Not with Luke. A lifetime wouldn't be enough anyway.

If anniversaries naturally spelled unpleasantness to Han, a death anniversary seemed entirely surreal. If the soldiers killed in battle should be honoured and remembered as heroes, if what they did was important and worth the gratitude of the living, then why would the living have to set special dates to honour and remember and be grateful? Revering the heroes and martyrs only on their death anniversary felt like loving someone only on their birthday — stupid, and hypocritical.

Knowing that little or no time had been spared to revere them when they made their brave sacrifice turned matters even sourer. That was one of the rules in a war: if the soldier beside you falls, fight harder, fight for two, don't waste time with shock or tears, or you'll be the next. There will be time for grieving later — if you survive. When the first Death Star was destroyed, the Rebels had thrown a party. A big, loud, memorable party, at least for those who remained sober enough to remember it. That very chamber had been used for a grand celebration to hang some shiny medals around the necks of the living heroes, while everyone clapped and cheered and did their best not to think of their lost companions.

Now, ten years later, grieving for them was the moral obligation of the day.

Profoundly uncomfortable, Han shifted his weight from one leg to the other, shuffling his feet on the floor. He was immediately rewarded with a murderous glare from Leia, who stood gravely beside Mon Mothma, looking stunningly beautiful even in mourning garments and with a ferocious grimace on her face.

Han stood still, defiantly holding her gaze. She would not make him feel like a misbehaving little boy!

Suddenly, Leia turned her face to the other side, as if someone had called her name. She looked down at a group of pilots standing just before the lowest step of the stairs, and Han knew exactly whom he would find as he followed her gaze.

Luke and Wedge had declined the invitation to stand on the top of the stairs with the authorities and VIP guests during the event, choosing instead to stand amidst the group of current and former members of the Rogue Squadron. The young Jedi was staring fixedly at his sister, his face unreadable. After a moment, Leia shrugged surreptitiously and turned her attention back to Mon Mothma.

Han waited for Luke to look at him too, but wasn't really surprised when it didn't happen. And that was another reason why Han wanted so badly to be somewhere else. Something was bothering the kid, drawing him into gloomy silence, and instead of getting him to open up, Han had to play serious in those bone-crushing boots in front of that crowd...

Mon Mothma finished her speech, and Arhul Hextrophon stepped forward, holding a carmine metal horn-shaped bell with utmost reverence. The historian, who had been at the Yavin base when the Death Star blew up, had been chosen to play the Osnaksed Onnys, the ceremonial bell for funeral rites — an Alderaanian tradition that the New Republic had decided to adopt for military memorial services. The wide black screen that had been spread over the chamber like a tent displayed now the list with the names of the forty-two pilots that had died defending Yavin 4 ten years before. Everyone present raised their heads and, when Hextrophon made the bell sing its melancholy tune, they all read the first name aloud. "Jon 'Dutch' Vander."

The name flashed brighter on the dark screen and vanished, in theory symbolising the perpetual rest of the deceased Gold Leader's soul.

Hextrophon sounded the doleful bell once again.

"Garven 'Dave' Dreis."

As the Red Leader's name shimmered and faded, Han wondered if the symbolism wasn't much truer than it had been intended. A brief moment of remembrance on a day specially scheduled for remembrances, then forgetfulness as people returned to their busy lives.

"Davish 'Pops' Krail," Han recited, his voice lost in the crowd's heavy murmur, when the Osnaksed Onnys chimed again. What was the story behind those nicknames? He suddenly pictured the bizarre image of a mob uttering his name as Han 'Scruffy-Looking' Solo, without a clue about where that had come from...

"Eloi Lepira."

"It's not LE-pira," hissed the Anoat Ambassador under his breath. "It's le-PI-ra."

Han, standing right in front of the Anoatian, doubted anyone else had heard the irritated correction. But after that, the ex-smuggler kept his lips tightly shut as the event proceeded. What kind of homage was that if they didn't even know how to pronounce those people's names right?

He hadn't really known any of those pilots. At the time, he had been eager to get his promised reward and get the hell out of that sector as quickly as possible; he hadn't wanted to meet those crazy folks who would probably turn into space dust in the next hours. The only names connected to the Battle of Yavin that meant something to Han were precisely those of the survivors: Luke and the ones he had been introduced to afterwards.

He only got to talk to one of those forty-two pilots listed on the black screen. In one of the subterranean lifts, a human in those orange flightsuits had approached him and asked if he was the owner of the YT-1300 stock light freighter parked in hangar F. Han had denied it, not wanting to be bothered, and the pilot hadn't insisted. After a decade, Han didn't even remember the pilot's face; he was only sure it had been none of the survivors. If the guy had been about to praise his ship, call it a piece of junk, or simply mention that his fighter was in the same hangar, Han would never know.

Lowering his head — and feeling his neck already stiff —, Han risked a glance at Leia, half-expecting to find himself the target of another upset glare, but the Princess seemed entirely focused on the ceremony. So he shifted his attention to Luke.

The Jedi tunic and cloak had remained in the wardrobe this time, as Luke opted for an ornament-free uniform that blended easily with the other pilots' garments. Han was sure the kid would not mispronounce any of those names, even if he had known their owners for such a short period of time.

Luke had been one of them. For someone like Luke, that really meant a lot.

Han had no idea of what his lover thought about that whole memorial thing though. Since they had received the message summoning their presence, Luke had kept most of his thoughts to himself, devoting long hours to his exercises and meditation, making himself busy in one way or another and coming to bed only after Han had fallen asleep, getting but a few hours of rest. It was exasperating, even if Han knew that, given time and space, Luke would eventually come to him and talk about whatever was bothering him.

As the service proceeded, the Corellian forgot about his aching feet to watch that tranquil face staring above, and those soft lips he knew so intimately moving to utter each name with respect and sorrow, while the eerie music of the Osnaksed Onnys reverberated through walls and hearts...

Until he saw that mouth falter. Blue eyes closed tight to the world, the Jedi's voice muted as the crowd whispered the next name in the list.

"Biggs Darklighter."

Han Solo wanted to kick himself for being so stupid.

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The ceremony lasted half an hour more, and making his way out of there through a throng of politicians, celebrities and military that wanted to shake hands with one of the Heroes of Yavin took Han twice as long. By then, he could barely feel his toes, and he was sure an Osnaksed Onnys had been implanted into his brains to resonate at the mere sound of a breeze. When he finally got back to the Falcon, all he could think of was slumping onto his bunk and burying his head in a cool pillow.

But Luke had beaten him to it.

"How did you get here so fast?" Han frowned, leaning against the cabin's doorframe. "I thought I'd have to pull a blaster on my adoring fans, and your fan club has always been bigger than mine."

"You might be underestimating your charms, old pirate," said Luke with a tired smile. "And also my ability to skip company when I'm not in the mood."

"Oh no," the Corellian snorted bitterly. "I'm painfully aware of your skills in that department, trust me on that."

"You've been very patient." Luke reached out with both arms in a clear invitation. "And don't think I don't know how lucky I am to have you."

The kid's sincerity could be so disconcerting at times. Han walked into his lover's embrace, wishing he knew what to say.

They held each other close, breathing the warm feeling of familiarity in that sorely missed touch. It actually seemed as if they hadn't seen each other for weeks.

Slowly, Luke shifted their positions until Han was sitting with his back against the headboard, and kissed him. "Let me take care of you now, okay?" Another kiss, longer and deeper. "What should I deal with first? Sore feet or headache?"

"How did you...?" Han started, trailing off as the obvious answer dawned on him. "Were you and your sister keeping tabs on my mind to see if my thoughts were proper to the occasion?"

"Leia was keeping tabs on your outward behaviour," Luke corrected him. "And I told her to knock it off."

"Oh," Han murmured, remembering the sharp look he had witnessed between the twins.

"And your discomfort called out to me. I'm sorry if this bothers you, Han, but you are a Jedi Knight's lover. If something distresses you that much, I will sense it."

Luke's tone was partly annoyed, partly apologetic, and Han felt bad about bringing that old issue up again. "Sorry. I know you wouldn't deliberately invade my mind like that. I know Leia wouldn't either. I'm just really, really..."

"...tired. I know, Han. Let me help?"

The Corellian smiled. "Feet first, then."

Obedient, Luke gently removed those fiendish boots and threw them into a corner. Han moaned in relief, but winced when he tried to wriggle his toes. "Your sister hates me," he muttered.

"If she hated you, she wouldn't worry about people thinking you're too arrogant to be bothered to look decent for a formal occasion."

"Excuse me, I looked perfectly decent out there. And why didn't she bug you about your clothes?"

"She did."

Han shook his head, aggravated. "Do you two ever talk to each other these days? I mean, a real talk? With your mouths?"

Luke rolled his eyes, tugging Han's socks off. "Yes, Han, we still talk with our mouths. As a matter of fact, that particular conversation took place four days ago, when she called me through the holonet to ask me what you and I would be wearing to the memorial."

"You didn't tell me that."

"It'd have upset you. And you were already upset with me for not talking to you. Didn't want to make it worse."

"Still you made me put on those damned boots."

"Because she was upset with me for not talking to her and for not dressing up to her satisfaction," the blond shrugged. "You could say I was trying to make things even."

So Leia had been worried about her brother's introspection too. Han didn't know why that surprised him; of course she would have noticed it, and of course she cared for Luke a great deal. "You miss him a lot, don't you?"

Luke kept his eyes down, studying the feet he was now massaging with tender, meticulous attention. "Were you keeping tabs on my heart to see if my feelings were proper?"

"Your feelings are proper. Whatever they are."

"That's funny, because I'm not so sure about that."

"You have the right to be sad, Luke. You have the right to miss him. He was your lover..."

"There was a time when he was the centre of my universe," Luke blurted out.

Han bit his lip, trying hard to convince himself that he was not jealous.

"That was what I should have been thinking of, wasn't it?" asked the Jedi in a small voice, his thumbs rubbing circles on the soles of Han's feet. "That's what this day is for. To remember him, to be grateful for the time I had with him, to be grateful for his sacrifice and sorry he's not here anymore... sorry for all the things... that... Damn."

"Luke?"

"A Jedi should be able to control his mind."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Dack."

"Who?"

"Dack Ralter, Rogue Squadron gunner, who was as brave and noble as any of those names written on that screen today, who died when I failed to dodge the enemy fire and got my snowspeeder hit, and who will never get that kind of tribute because he happened to die in a battle that didn't bring a glorious victory for the Alliance."

Han sighed, leaning back against the headboard, feeling drained. So Luke's opinion about the circumstances hadn't been that dissimilar to his own after all. Posterity was rather arbitrary in its choice of heroes. The withdrawal from Hoth was usually referred to as an 'unfortunate setback'; a preposterous euphemism, considering the loss of life the Rebels had faced there. Many troops and pilots had died just to give others time to escape... and there was no memorial day for the Battle of Hoth.

"I was also thinking about the number 1,161,293," Luke continued. "Trying to figure out how long a screen we'd need to list that many names, and how many days — make that years — we'd take to say that many names, and how Arhul's arm would fall off if he had to swing that bell for 1,161,293 times. I was thinking about how none of the inspiring speeches today have bothered to mention the 1,161,293 people I killed when I shot that torpedo into the Death Star's thermal exhaust port, this very day, ten years ago."

"You did what you had to do, kid."

"I was thinking about how the Council has just approved a new piece of legislation saying that the Rebels incapacitated during the war must present official documents confirming their affiliation to the Alliance in order to be eligible to pension payment, while everybody knows the Alliance made a point of not creating such documents so the Empire wouldn't be able to identify the Rebels and use their families as hostages. I was thinking about how the survivors seem to deserve less attention from the New Republic then our dead heroes."

Probably the reason why Leia had been in such an insufferable mood lately, Han mused. She had put up a frenzied fight in the Council to block that ludicrous proposal, only stopping short of punching some of the opposition members on their smelling appendages, to no avail.

"I was also thinking about Biggs' father," Luke went on, his voice suddenly sharper. "He refused to come to Yavin for the ceremony. He's still so angry! Hero or not hero, for him it will always be a stupid, unnecessary death."

"You've been in touch with Biggs' father?" Han asked, curious. He hadn't known about that either.

"Not really. I contacted him about the memorial. He wasn't very happy to hear from me, I think."

The massage had turned into a distracted caress. Han barely noticed it, too focused on Luke's venting to remember his own discomfort.

"And I was thinking about how I knew Biggs since we wore diapers, but still I don't know what he would have thought of that entire ritual, except that he would have been furious if it had been his name that got mispronounced."

"Good thing Chewie decided not to come," Han commented with a half grin. Correct pronunciation of foreign names wasn't something you could expect from a Wookiee.

"And on top of that all, I was thinking about you," Luke huffed. "About how I stayed away from everyone these last days because I thought that... that if I let myself talk about any of this stuff, I wouldn't have been able to drag myself to that Temple today and stand through all the ceremony. About how I knew you were upset about that but, instead of making things any better, I made you wear those boots. About how I could sense your feet hurting so, so much."

"It wasn't that bad..." Han tried to soothe him.

"No, it was worse."

Well, so much for that. Deceiving a Jedi was positively futile anyway. "They feel much better now," Han assured him honestly.

At last Luke raised his eyes, meeting his lover's concerned gaze. "'Don't ever give up on old Biggs.' That was one of the last things he said."

"Luke..."

"But I did. I gave up on him. Didn't I?"

At the first escaping tear, Han pulled the young man to his lap, wrapping him in a tight, vertiginously loving hug. He felt terrible. But for the first time in that depressing day, Han was sure he was where he should be, doing exactly what he was supposed to do.

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