As he flew towards the moon, Luke felt a sudden burst of relief. Not his: something brighter, clearer, uncomplicated by his grief and exhaustion and lingering anguish, but rushing through him as readily as if it were his own.
Luke smiled, even with their father's empty armour just behind him. He had no idea what he'd say to her, how to explain what had happened. He couldn't not tell her, of course, even without Anakin's dying request, but he wasn't sure how he could put it into words, either. Still, she was alive. She was all right. She was—she was happy.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd sensed any real joy in her. Or just seen it. Yavin, maybe. And if Leia was happy, Han had to be fine, and somehow Luke had survived, too.
His fingers tightened on the wheel. No, not somehow.
He landed the shuttle, and after he'd disposed of his father's remains in proper Jedi fashion, hurried towards the camp. He knew Leia and Han were here, he just -- he needed to see them.
Luke had only stepped into the camp when Leia flung herself towards him, and they wrapped their arms tightly around each other. Leia's hair was loose again and in his face, and he could see Han a little behind her and, oh right, something else to explain, but his head was full of my father and my sister, my sister and there'd be time for that later.
She seemed to catch something of his thoughts: enough, anyway, that her grip on him became mildly painful.
“Were you right?” she said into his shoulder, her voice low and urgent.
“Yes,” he whispered back, and for now, it was enough.