Disclaimer: Star Wars doesn't belong to me, and I will receive no monetary profit from this story or any of my other fanfics.

O0o

He had felt it with Yoda. He had felt it with fellow Rebel pilots. He had felt it when the Death Star exploded. He had felt it with his Padawans as they were cut down one by one by Kylo Ren. He had seen hundreds of tiny lights, faded or glowing bright depending on the individual's presence in the Force, abruptly disappear. Sometimes they had slowly flickered out. Either way, each one had left an empty hole. A hole, replaced by prickles and bolts of pain, as if a bacta patch had been carelessly ripped off a raw wound.

None of them had hurt as much as when Han's light had blinked out. It had been a surprise- when Luke's numbness had faded enough to allow him to feel sad, guilty, surprised- a surprise that he could feel Han's death at all, at this distance. But then, Han's light had always been bright in the Force- Something which Luke have never mentioned, knowing how Han would resent "a mystical energy force" interfering with his destiny and trying to take credit for his accomplishments. And, he and Han had been close- "close" being an umbrella that sufficiently covered brothers, friends, fellow leaders in a Rebellion, and who knew what else. He had thought nothing could hurt more than feeling his best friend's life ripped out of the network of the Force that connected them.

But he had been wrong. Leia's had hurt more.

She was gone. His twin sister. The one who had run all over the galaxy with him destroying Death Stars, evading Darth Vader, being adopted by local Ewoks, and coping with the knowledge of who truly was their father. The one whom he had first met in a detention cell waiting for execution, yet had shown no hint of fear. Luke could see her in his mind, wearing her long-abandoned buns, a white dress, and an air of confidence. "Aren't you a bit short for a Stormtrooper?"

"Isn't sixty years a bit short for a life?" he snarled out loud, clenching his mechanical fist. A rock, almost large enough to be a boulder, was sitting near him. He grabbed it with the Force and hurtled over the rocky edge of the island. The resounding crash echoed in his head, and he grabbed it in pain.

No wonder attachments had been forbidden by the Jedi order. The wave of anger, sorrow, and pain following loss would be enough to drive anyone mad.

Not to mention the guilt.

He hadn't been there for Leia or Han. He wasn't sure how they had died, but maybe, just maybe, he could have saved them. Luke had faced Darth Vader as a very young, inexperienced Jedi- Why then had he, now a full grown, experienced Jedi, run from a nephew who was little more than a child with barely a shadow of Vader's power and spirit? He should have been there- maybe he could not have prevented their deaths, but he could have said goodbye to Han. He could have thanked him for saving his life and Leia's so many times over. He could have shared memories of comradeship, and victory, and comfort. He could have comforted Leia. He could have shared the heavy burden of the guilt she had doubtless felt after Ben's turning. At the least he could have sat by her as he had by Yoda's bedside so many years ago, providing an ear that would cherish whatever last words she wished to impart and letting her know she was loved.

He had failed both of them. Had they died alone, in pain? In misery? With that great turmoil he had felt in the Force, the worst scenarios his mind could contrive seemed probable.

He should have gone home a long time ago. What reason did he have to go now? If he saw Kylo Ren and tried to fight against him and the First Order, with his mind clogged with sorrow and anger over his losses, he would turn to the Dark Side. And, Luke was afraid he might not even put up a fight: That he might embrace it. On the Death Star, he had resisted the Dark Side because of loyalty to his friends and his father, and the hope that they might yet succeed. And now they were gone. What reason would he have to resist?

His thoughts were interrupted by the roar of an approaching ship. Luke slowly pushed himself to his feet and watched it land. A small figure was getting out, and it was a slender girl with brown hair- Leia? Luke's heart rose, then sank. Of course, Leia had not looked like that for years. And, as the tiny figure resolved itself, it didn't look like Leia at all. Something in the Force, though, reminded him of Leia- Whoever this girl was, she had the same kind of strength. The Force was swirling around her in a surprisingly protective way, and she seemed to be attracting it to her like a magnet.

Luke was interested, but at the moment his energies were focused on trying to compose himself before his visitor finished climbing up to him. He turned his face toward the sea, feeling the wind whisper against the outside of his eyelids as salty tears prickled against the insides…

She had reached the top of the stairs. Luke turned and reluctantly peeled back the damp but welcome protection of his hood: Not protection for himself from the cold, but protection from the misery of having another see his pain.

She was watching him with wide eyes and gaping mouth, barely breathing. Mutely, she thrust out her hand. In it was a relic that brought back memories of Cloud City of Darth Vader, of his hand, and of- oh, Sith lords- of Han and Leia.

Luke stared at the girl, and she stared back, lightsaber still held in her outstretched palm. She knew who he was, then. He silently studied her, something in her eyes drawing his attention and holding it. This girl exuded strength in the Force and self-sufficiency, yet her eyes were desperate, pleading. Lost. In them, Luke could see something of the farm boy who had just lost a beloved mentor, one who had introduced him to a world far more wide than his own. He hadn't known Obi-Wan long, but their bond had been deep. And, in the hazel eyes, he saw reflected something of the heart of the farm boy who had pleaded with Yoda to teach him.

She desperately wanted- and needed- his help. And Luke desperately needed- and wanted- a reason to resist.

He smiled and reached out, his fingers curling around the familiar curves of his lightsaber handle. It was time to come home.