#I have a headcanon that Aria Prime was originally settled by Alderaan

[onwardintolight]

Summary:

In the first year after The Disaster, Leia, Luke and Han travel to Aria Prime for The Ghost Festival, when a single candle is set in a boat and sent down a river to represent each person who has died since the last festival. It is not possible to send out 2 billion lights.

This story was written as a "treat" for the above (slightly modified) prompt for the @hanleiasecretsanta Halloween Promptation.

Luke grabbed Leia’s hand and pulled her through the ghostly sea of shrouded faces. After a moment’s hesitation, and a quickening in her pulse that she refused to acknowledge, Leia reached back and grabbed Han’s hand, too. They couldn’t afford to get separated; all the thousands of celebrants in their pale gray robes (robes the three of them had donned as well) would make finding one another again a nearly impossible task. Besides, they had to move quickly after the Ceremony of Light, slipping away for their rendezvous with the Alliance spies.

Thin wisps of mist swirled in the early night air, coming up off the river, and a damp chill snuck its way into Leia’s robe. She bit her lip and bore it; her hands being otherwise occupied kept her from pulling the garment tighter around her.

A faint, haunting melody wavered above the low murmur of the crowd from somewhere over by the tree line. It reminded her of home, of….

No, she wouldn’t think of it. Not tonight; not when they had a mission to do. Not when her barriers against the grief felt so thin, made thinner by this strange celebration.

At least it would be over soon.

They had flown into Aria Prime’s capital city two days ago for the Ghost Festival. It was the perfect cover for their clandestine meeting — people from all over the galaxy came for it; mostly expats, but a good number of others, too (with the Empire tightening its grip, it seemed mortality was on everyone’s mind). As long as they got in before air traffic was halted at the dawn of the festival’s first day, they wouldn’t attract attention. What’s more, the gray robes worn for the Ceremony of Light made the perfect disguise, and the raucous celebrations that would start soon after the ceremony and last all through the night and the next day would prevent their movements from seeming out of the ordinary. There was, of course, an Imperial presence here, but so far they’d seemed content to make sure the festivities were orderly and to announce, during a speech broadcast to every building on the planet, that mourning for the fallen troops was obligatory.

That had been yesterday, the Day of Mourning. The first day of the festival was traditionally a quiet one, spent grieving over lost loved ones either with family or in solitude. Leia had spent the entire day with Luke and Han holed up in their hotel room, playing sabacc, eating ration packs, and joking a little too forcedly. Nobody wanted to think too much. Only once had Luke, looking pensive, started to suggest something about reflecting on the meaning of the day, but he was quickly interrupted by Han. With a barely-caught glance in Leia’s direction, the smuggler had changed the subject to the much less weighty Corellian version of the holiday, telling stories of the tricks he’d played on people as a kid, and the treats people would give out freely, if only on that day. They’d all laughed at his antics — though Leia felt a pang at the hints of his childhood destitution — and by the time he was done, Luke seemed to have thought better than to bring up the subject again.

Leia hadn’t mentioned Alderaan’s own version of the festival.

This morning had been spent occupied by more of the same — jokes and card games and relaxation, though they’d spent some time going over the plan again as well.

Tomorrow, the Day of Celebration, would be for the festival adherents a day of rejoicing over life — of lives once lived, and of living life now, to the fullest. It was not unusual, however, for people to begin their journeys home, so the trio’s plan to leave in the afternoon was not likely to attract unwanted attention.

Today, however, was the in-between day, the Day of Remembrance. The Ceremony of Light tonight was the most important part of the festival. They’d go and participate, then disperse with the crowd towards the pubs and the parties, meeting their contacts in a prearranged location nearby.

Personally, Leia hoped that the ceremony would go quickly, so they could do what they came here to do and then leave. (And yet grief followed her through the crowd anyway, like a shadow, nipping at her heels. She imagined herself kicking it away.)

The throngs of people thinned slightly as they made it to the headwaters, where the great river bubbled up from below through a vast spring in the ground, and poured down from above through an opening in the rocks. The water in motion was like spun silver, reflecting the gray turmoil of the celebrants around it. Gray, except for the small figures in white, stationed periodically like guardians on the edge of the crowd. Luke was leading them towards one of them, now.

It was a young girl, no more than ten, blonde wisps of hair sticking out from under her hood, wide eyes solemn. Leia vaguely remembered reading about children playing an important part in the celebration — something about the juxtaposition between youth and eventual death, and all ages being made one in the Force.

“Welcome to the Ceremony of Light,” the child serenely intoned, gesturing to the cart behind her. “One candle to represent each of this year’s souls that have gone on. How many will you be sending off?”

The three of them hesitated, for a moment. Then Luke went forward. “I’ll take four,” he said quietly. The girl reached into her cart and pulled out four candles, each mounted on a small watercraft fitted with a repulsorlift. She gave them to Luke, then lifted her hand as if in benediction. “May the light of your candles guide your heart to peace,” she said.

Luke’s hood hid much of his face as he turned back to Han and Leia, but the set of his mouth was like a mixture of mourning and hope. Seeming to recognize his friends’ need to not be pressured, he gave them a slight nod before turning to examine his candles as if they held endless intrigue. Han looked as if he’d rather be anywhere but here. He fidgeted, reaching up to adjust his hated hood before sticking both hands in his pockets. “Eh, I haven’t lost anyone this year worth remembering anyway,” he muttered.

Leia saw all this, heard all this, as though the mist that hung thinly in the air had gathered thick around her and spirited her far away. She stared at the candle cart. Somehow, in the midst of all the planning, she had forgotten to prepare for this.

There was no way to atone for her loss, no way to surrender to peace.

She could not send off two billion candles. It was impossible.

And yet… she couldn’t not do anything, either.

Her people, her parents, all those she had held dear… they all deserved to be honored here.

And honored by her. She’d brought enough horror upon them. The guilt of their deaths had weighed so heavy in her bones these past months that sometimes she could barely move. While no amount of penance would be enough, remembering them in this way seemed like the least that she could do.

But she still couldn’t send off two billion candles.

Han tapped her shoulder. “Hey Princess, you okay?”

She opened her mouth, only to find that no words could be formed. She felt trapped, stuck in the gap between the two sides of the quandary. She couldn’t do nothing. But she couldn’t do what needed to be done, either. The silver candle cart, with its piles of candles — not enough, never enough — seemed to taunt her.

She blinked. Han had stepped forward to the girl at the cart. “Two,” he said, then turned and deposited them into Leia’s hands. “For your parents,” he mumbled, then looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “I figure as the rulers, they represent the people on the planet, too, right? One for each billion.”

Leia looked at the candles, then at him, astonished. For someone who seemed so callous at times, Han continued to prove time and again he wasn’t just the self-serving mercenary she once thought he was. And this… this was a solution that could actually work. “Thank you,” she said quietly, meeting his gaze for just a moment, before something made her heart seize up, the look in his eyes too much to acknowledge. Luke looked up and smiled at them.

“May the light of your candles guide your heart to peace,” the girl called after them again as they turned to look for an open spot on the riverbank.

Those words repeated themselves in Leia’s mind as they sat there quiet, waiting for the ceremony to start. A part of her scoffed at them. Peace? She would never have peace, no matter if the war was won. It was as impossible as sending two billion candles down this river. She would live the rest of the years she had left fighting for peace for others, but she knew very well that what the Empire had taken from her — what she herself had had a part in — had destroyed her, too. She felt like a monster, sometimes. She had no right to peace.

And yet, as she gazed at the two candles in her hands, something felt different. Something felt almost right.

A hush fell on the crowd, all gathered now around the edges of the water. It was dark; the night had deepened, and the candledroids had faded back into the trees. The music played one last aching, reaching note, then all was silent.

Slowly, from far down the river, Leia could see small lights take shape, pinpoints like stars against the darkness. They seemed to be moving away from her and towards her all at once. The sides of the river became rivers themselves, avenues of light, and Leia watched, mesmerized, as they inched ever nearer.

Luke stood close beside her, his four candles ready at his feet, and Han’s hand (how long had it been there?) was steady on her shoulder. There it was again: that feeling of rightness. She was glad, if she had to be here, and do this, that she was here with them. Her friends.

The lights had almost reached them now. Little candles in front of them lit up, burning merrily. Shapes in gray knelt by the river and pushed the lights out into the darkness. The hooded being beside Luke turned to him, their candle lit, and Luke met them with one of his own candles, its flame flickering to life as the fire was passed on.

Leia’s hands shook as she held out her candles. Luke turned to her, his face inscrutable (was that serenity she saw flickering on his face? The hint of a smile?). He laid one hand reassuringly on her arm, then, taking his candle, he lit both of hers.

The flames danced before her eyes. She stood there, staring at them, losing herself in their fiery beauty. For a brief moment she considered cradling them close and setting herself alight, too, becoming one with them in their vitality — for only a moment, though; she knew, as quickly as the thought came, that it was terrible and misguided. It would never work like that. But still, she wanted to stare at those flames forever. How could she let them go?

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Luke kneel beside her, all four of his candles lit now. Gently, purposefully, he placed each one into the water and pushed it off. Several meters downstream their repulsorlifts kicked in, and slowly they floated up into the air, joining thousands of other lights that lit up the night in front of them. Luke sat there, still, hands open to the sky.

Leia wasn’t sure why she finally did it. Certainly, she hadn’t wanted to. But suddenly, she found herself kneeling down beside Luke and, after one last caress, placing her candles carefully in the water. She watched as they bobbed on the river, then rose up to fly, free. There were other lights all around them, now, sailing on the water and in the air, but Leia held her gaze steadily on her own, following them as they danced among the others. She thought of her parents, of her people. She wondered if whatever reality they’d gone on to in the Force was as beautiful as this. A surprising comfort trickled over her heart; hope, even. Somehow, it was impossible to look at this and not imagine them being at peace. She wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

She wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, watching their candles grow smaller and smaller as they sailed up towards the stars. But when the last flickers had winked out into the night, the music began to play again, the crowd began to murmur, and Leia woke as if out of a dream.

She stood up; so did Luke, peace shining brightly on his face. Han was where he had been, standing stalwart behind them, lost in thought. They looked at one another, for a moment almost unfettered. Leia blinked, trying to commit it to memory, even as she felt it slipping away. Then she took a deep breath.

“Let’s go,” she said.