***
 Winter Passages on Corellia
 2001 Angelia Sparrow
 ***

 The waves lapped at the base of the boulder where the old man sat, a sollak

 wood staff across his knees.  The breeze, chill enough on the land, bit
 through the layers of clothing he wore with frigid dampness here by the
 sea.   He drew the greatcoat closer around him, letting his gloved hands fall
 deeper into the slightly too-long sleeves.

 "It's cold again, Han.  I miss you.  I can sense you as part of the Force,
 but that doesn't keep me warm, out here or at night," he whispered.  "Old
 bones."  A wry smile crossed his face.

 The sea still discomfited him.  Endless water as far as his failing eyes
 could see.  Even after all these decades, he still dreamed of sand and
 binary heat.  Han had loved the sea almost as much as he'd loved the stars,
 and it was here, where solid earth gave way to bottomless water, that Luke
 felt the closest to his memory.

 The gray clouds hung low, turning the water dark.  Luke shut his eyes and
 listened to the waves, remembering many nights he had slept on Han's chest,
 listening to his mate's heartbeat.  "The blood of our bodies, kin to the
 waters," he said softly, matching the rhythm of the waves.  He had said the
 traditional words ten years ago when he and his sons had returned the ashes
 of his bondmate to the sea, as was the family custom.

 He burrowed deeper into Han's old greatcoat, the leather cutting the wind,
 the nerf-fleece lining adding what warmth it could.  He wished that his
 mate  was in the coat, and had wrapped it around them both, as he had often done
 in years past.

 It seemed like he was never warm these days.  It had taken years for him to
 become acclimated to the cooler climates away from Tatooine.  But he
 remembered Han, always there, always ready to warm him, sometimes even at
 risk of his own life.  Even now, his ancient coat helped, but it could not
 stop the cold.

 He stared at the ocean, and let it soothe him.  Sitting here, with nothing
 but sky and sea, was a little like flying.  "Chewie and the boys brought me
 here.  I can't see well enough to fly anymore.  The med droids say I'm too
 old for surgery to repair my eyes, and even the Force doesn't help.  I'm
 glad you were able to fly until the end."

 He remembered the last flight.  They'd made a quick hop to Silan to pick up
 some things for Leia's granddaughter Dala's, wedding.  Han and Chewie had
 flown in their usual heedless way, with Luke as navigator.  They'd flown
 that way thousands of times over the sixty-five years Luke had known them.
 The Wookiee, at 300, was in the prime of his life, and handled most of the
 work.

 Han had, as usual, programmed all the coordinates, the big hands moving
 over  the control panel slower than they had in years past, but with a surety
 that  Luke would never match.  The Falcon was still Han's lady, and no one else
 would ever love her quite as well.  Luke tried for a time, but in the end,
 had passed her entirely to Chewbacca.

 He'd reached out and pulled the hyperdrive levers, only to fall back in the
 pilot seat with a gasp, clutching his chest, his aged body unable to
 tolerate the transition to hyperspace.

 Chewbacca had handled the jump, and Luke had carried Han back to their
 cabin.  The med couch could do nothing for him, and there had been time for
 one last kiss before he was gone.

 Their grown sons, Hreik and Hren, had met Luke on Silan.  The boys had
 taken charge of the errand for their cousin, and notified the whole
 family.  Luke had let Han's niece Astri, still matriarchal at 80, take over
 the arrangements for a Passing ceremony on Corellia.  Luke had made similar
 arrangements for himself with Astri's daughter Vica, who had become
 matriarch in her turn a few years ago.

 Now, Luke made the trip every winter, to stare over the grey water, and
 talk  of things he could say to no one else.

 "We're grandfathers again, Han.  How about that?  Hren and his second wife
 just had a baby.  His third is getting impatient for her girl to be born.
 This one's a fine boy, all blonde like his mom and dad.  They named him
 Anakin.  He has your sea-storm eyes."

 His younger son had taken to Corellian ways with a zeal, and lived in
 Elka's House (the title had formalized after the death of the formidable
 woman twenty years before) with his cousins, happily contributing to the
 ever-growing Solo clan.  He and his three wives had four children, and a
 fifth coming.  Hren had a flair for brewing that none had seen since Hend
 had Passed.  Hreik had taken the Jedi Academy, and turned it into a
 multi-planet complex with satellite links to every corner of the galaxy.
 Luke was proud of his boys and his grandchildren.

 He sat on the damp rock, feeling the cold gnaw at him, stiffening his
 joints, making every breath burn in his throat.  The boys would fuss over
 him if they knew what he was up to.  They thought he'd just gone into the
 woods.  As long as he carried his lightsaber, and the staff Han had given
 him on their last Renewal date, they wouldn't object, even if they did
 worry about his ability to wield the weapon.

 "If you're gonna be an old wizard, kid, you need to look the part," Han had
 told him, presenting him with the polished wood.  Luke had laughed then,
 and  kissed him breathless.   Forty-nine Renewals had come and gone then, and
 they were still together.  Had Han lived another month, it would have been
 fifty.  Luke turned the durasteel ring that still rode on his left index
 finger.

 "It's getting late, my love.  I need to be home before dark, or the boys
 will be levitating half the planet to find me.  You know how unstoppable
 they are together.  And watching out for his dear old senile father has
 become Hreik's favorite hobby.  I miss you.  It's still cold."

 He rose, leaning heavily on the staff, and stared out at the water.  In the
 Force, he could feel the last vestiges of the consciousness that had once
 been his mate.  Even dead, Han was stubborn, and was resisting being
 subsumed in the larger Force.  "Hold on to your identity, Han.  I won't be
 much longer."

 "O-oh-na!"   Luke summoned the Threefold Lament from the very bottom of his
 being, and it rang across the waves, faint echoes rippling away.   "Once,
 as  you taught me, to open the gates of the next world."  He took a breath.
 "O-oh-na!"  He listened to the keening echoes fade.  "Twice, to carry the
 dead through."  Drawing on the end of his failing energy, he sent the
 third.  "O-oh-na!"  He recovered, breathing hard.  "Three times, to close the
 gates."

 Han had taught him the Men's Lament at Elka's Passing, when he'd listened
 to  the eerie, steady drone of "O-oh-na, o-oh-na" from his nieces, punctuated
 by  the lower male voices rising in series of three cries.  Now, this too had
 become part of his ritual.

 He rose to go, and, bracing himself on the stout staff, turned back for a
 last look at the Sea.  "O-oh-na!"  The cry seemed to come from the Force
 itself, and it lingered over the water, dissipating into the foam.   "Open
 the gates, my love.  The med-droids say it won't be long until I come to
 you.  Then you'll wrap yourself around me, as you always did when I was
 cold  at night, and we'll dream together,  forever."

 He made his careful way back to the House where Chewbacca and his sons
 awaited him.

 *end*