Fallen Hero
On a bier
at the end of the room lay Luke Skywalker--like a body stretched out for
a funeral.
Leia's
heart thumped with dread. She wanted to turn around and leave so
she wouldn't have to look at him--but Leia found her feet carrying her
forward. She walked with a rapid step that became a run before she
reached the end of the promenade. Han came carrying the twins, one
in each arm. His eyes were read as he fought to keep tears from flowing.
Leia already felt a wetness on her cheeks.
Luke
lay in repose, swathed in his Jedi robe. His hair had been combed;
his hands were folded across his chest. His skin looked gray and
plasticlike.
"Oh,
Luke," Leia whispered.
She reached
out to touch him. Using her abilities with the Force, she tried to
reach deeper, to brush against his life force--but she could only feel
a cold hole, an emptiness, as if Luke himself had been taken away.
Not dead.
He
could not be dead. . . .