DIES NATALIS
(Leia)
We're about to rendezvous with the fleet. As much as I'm looking forward to seeing familiar faces, I'm feeling pretty hopeless right now. It's gone on for so long and so many have died.
But I continue to move forward, as my father would have admonished me to do.
I can't stop thinking about him today. It would have been his birthday.
My father celebrated his birthday very publicly; Alderaan and in particular Aldera demanded it. He would have preferred to spend it more quietly, but the people wanted to enjoy it, and Bail Organa was nothing if not sensitive to his constituents' desires. It was a festival day, and everyone enjoyed it.
It was after that, come evening, he would celebrate with my mother and me, and after she passed on, just me. We'd sit in the kitchen (we had servants, but they all got the night off on his birthday). It was a huge kitchen but had a very cosy eating area which had beautiful stained glass windows, and the light they cast is a memory which I can recall at will, although these days, I'm not willing to call on very many memories. What once brought a simple and lovely occasion to mind has been shattered by the memory of the loss of my homeworld. I try as much as possible not to think about my early life.
Most of the time, I'm successful. I'm usually far too busy to think of much else.
And I've found great safety, comfort and yes, love, in the arms of a scoundrel who, as it turns out, is the kindest person I have ever met. Don't get me wrong. Han has not gone soft and never will. His kindness is genuine and comes from strength, not weakness.
I'm trying to keep my mind on our work. The fleet has reassembled and once we can locate a weakness in the new and improved Death Star, we'll be off on another mission and we have to be ready.
Today, though, I'm just going through the motions.
It's not that noticeable; everyone is burned out on the war. We're making our way and we've picked up allies all over the galaxy, but the losses have been insurmountable. If we're to declare victory, we have to destroy Death Star 2.0.
I felt horribly guilty for a time about my home planet blasted to dust. Totally irrational. But time and a little convincing from Han have changed that. I realize now there was nothing I could have done.
But on my father's birthday, it stings. I try to block it out, but I wish he was with me, sipping a glass of Emera, eating a cake that was probably inedible by normal standards, but he never asked for anything else, and always ate a large slice. (My job was to sprinkle the sugar and decorations on the cake. I suspect that alone, never mind the cake and frosting, would cause one's pancreas to beg for mercy.)
It's morning, and I'd like to be there in the eating area, intimate and beautifully lit, my father drinking from his monster kaf cup (he loved kaf). My father felt that breakfast should be simple, and the only thing accompanying his kaf was a flaky pastry bun that I used to love to smear jam on, but he ate his plain.
The image won't leave my head.
Han's in the hangar, making the needed maintenance on the Falcon. The Falcon is a high maintenance vehicle, but Han loves that ship. I've spent a lot of time on it and I understand his peculiar affection for the homely, kludged freighter. Han and I have had a lot of experiences on that ship. We have cots in our quarters, which have become more spartan as the war drags on, and we stayed there for two nights, but Han wanted to go back to the ship. He's been having some carbonite nightmares, and being on the ship seems to soothe them. He claims it's me who's doing the soothing, but I think it's more of a combination.
Right now I can't even soothe myself.
I'm trying to listen to Mon Mothma and General Riekkan talk and can't recall a single word they've said. They're talking about our monetary situation which, after four and a half years of war, is getting very, very low. Several other lieutenants are seated with us.
"Leia, did you hear what I just asked you?" Mon Mothma's sharp voice interrupts my thoughts. My face becomes hot and red in no time.
"I'm sorry. I'm a little...preoccupied."
"With what? You spent six months chasing down that smuggler - "
"Not now," General Riekkan says to her, his voice even firmer than hers. "Princess, take a walk." His voice leaves no room for argument. "Report back at 1300."
One of the lieutenants is protesting Mon's attack, saying that Han Solo was a major help to all of them, but I don't hear anything else. Soon, without even realizing it, I'm headed for the hangar.
I find Han and Chewie with their welding goggles on, sparks flying all over, and the two are arguing. The now familiar scene would ordinarily make me laugh, as it's so common, but their capacity to amuse me - and believe me, it is considerable - is absent at the moment.
Han is getting more and more irritated and then suddenly pulls back his hand sharply, shouting in pain.
"Are you okay?" I call to him, as he's sucking on a burnt finger.
"It's just a flesh wound."
"That's what you always say." The last time he said it he needed nine sutures. He's got grease all over his face and shirt.
"Lunchtime already?"
I hadn't even thought about lunch.
"I guess so."
Han frowns at me. "You okay?" He goes to the ladder that's hooked ot the port side of the Falcon and scrambles down, pulling the finger out of his mouth for the trip.
"Let me see your finger," I order him.
"It's nothing."
"I think we need some synth skin and some bacta."
He studies my face. "You're not having a good day, are you?"
"Let's just say I've had better."
"What's going on?" Han's voice is quiet and gentle, like a soft breeze, and he wraps his arms around me. I try to speak but all that happens is that a rush of tears spills onto my cheeks. He holds me tight and makes circles on my back, not saying anything beyond occasionally murmuring, "You'll be okay."
I don't know how long we've been standing there, but he doesn't let go until I can speak again, albeit barely.
"Today...is...my father's birthday," I gulp out, my voice clogged from crying so hard.
"Aww, sweetheart, that sucks," he says. "I know you miss him."
"I've never said anything to you about it."
"You didn't have to." He clasps me close again, kissing the top of my forehead. "I don't care what the reason is. I just wanna be there for you when you're sad."
"I feel like such a crybaby."
"Now, now, none of that. It'd be weirder if you didn't feel bad. Sometimes it's not appropriate to feel good about stuff."
"I don't see my colleagues running around and crying."
"You'd know otherwise if you ever walked the halls at night. There's a lot of crying going on. And for good reasons."
"I guess I'm lucky, then." I realize in this moment that without Han Solo, my soul would have been bled dry a long time ago.
"In what way?"
"I don't have to be alone when I'm crying."
"And you never will."
"Now, let me look at your burns."
"I'm fine, I'm fine!"
"Sure you are." My turn to take care of him.
He flashes his lopsided grin at me. "Told you you were gonna be okay."