A/N who wants another angsty Anakin and Leia fanfic?! Anyway, I know this kind of doesn't have an end, and who knows, maybe in the future I might continue it, but for now I'm hesitantly labeling it a one-shot (if you guys think there's something here, or want to read more, let me know!). It's just a scene I've imagined in my head for a long time, even if I'm not quite sure if I have anywhere to go next... I might expand a chapter or so in the next few days, or even edit this chapter, but for now, I wanted to go ahead and post this.
Leia stared up at the ceiling of her cell. It was made of the same hard, black material as the bench she was lying on. In fact, apart from a section of paneling on the wall behind her and the door itself, the entire cell continued uninterrupted in the same smooth sheet of metal. Seamless and unbearably cold.
That's how she felt.
She turned to her side and gazed at the door. She knew she should feel something. She should feel like her arm had been sawed off. Like her insides were being ripped out. Like the only home she'd ever known had been vaporized in front of her and taken everyone she loved with it. She wanted that pain, something to hold her to reality, to remind her that there was a still a life to live, a war to win, a galaxy to free.
But, she was just empty. Cold, hard and utterly empty.
It was a loss too large to comprehend, she supposed. The true weight had yet to hit her, like when you stub a toe and for a second you're suspended in limbo, waiting for the pain to strike. Knowing it will, but feeling nothing. Perhaps it was a survival response, like adrenaline, meant to keep her alive long enough to properly mourn later.
Not that it matters now, she thought idly, turning her gaze to the ceiling once more. Her execution order was signed, sealed, delivered. In all likelihood, she'd be dead by morning. The thought comforted her. She'd only be without Alderaan for a few more hours. A day at the most. There was no way out.
But that wasn't quite true was it?
There's always a move to make, Lelila. Her father's voice. She was seventeen again, sitting across from him, a Dejarik board between them. You just have to figure out what it is.
She ignored him and absently motioned for her holo Monnok to attack his Mantellian Savrip.
He sighed. If you are intent on joining the rebellion, I won't stop you.
Her head jerked up. For the past few months she'd been surreptitiously participating in missions—against her father's express orders.
But you must promise me one thing.
She nodded. It didn't matter what he asked of her, for the chance to fight, she'd do anything.
If there ever comes a time when you're captured, and there's no hope of reprieve, you must demand to see Lord Vader.
His name sent a chill down her spine.
When he comes, tell him one word. He paused. A name.
Leia sat up. Her father was gone, Alderaan was destroyed, and with the alliance scrambling to recover the Death Star plans, they could hardly send a rescue team for her. Not that one could reach her if they did, stuck as she was in the bowels of the deadly weapon itself. Surely, if there was ever a situation with no hope of a reprieve, this was it.
A sour sensation curled in the pit of her stomach then. She wasn't stupid—nor was her father. That name meant something to Darth Vader, though she had no idea what. Perhaps blackmail, something her father had on the enigmatic, cloaked Sith. That seemed seemed unlikely though, given the secrecy that obscured even the most basic details of the man's back ground (if indeed he was a man at all—rumors had been swirling for years that he was entirely mechanical, all humanity he once possessed erased by metal gears and cogs).
She could see her father's play clearly in her mind: he intended to buy her life with this name. And there was the catch—she didn't want to live.
Guilt crept up her back and tingled along her spine.
A senator does not give up. A rebel does not give up. A princess of Alderaan does not give up. Her father's voice again—though in life, he'd never be so crass as to directly reference her work with the alliance. Unconsciously, she smiled, and, for the first time, she felt her facade crack. He was gone.
You've got to be strong, Leia.
How could she forget the rumble of his baritone? The way you could hear the smile in his words?
She would not cry. Instead, she took a deep, steadying breath. She would not cry. She couldn't deny her father his final wish—she had to grant him this last request.
Besides, that dark part of her mind whispered. Obi-Wan Kenobi will get the plans to the rebel alliance, they'll find the weak spot and blast this abominable space station all the way back to Mustafar. A name couldn't save her from the inferno of a hundred billion tonnes of metal combusting in a thousand degree heat—her fate was sealed.
She stood up abruptly, and brushed any wrinkles from her dress. She strode across the cell and banged until the doors opened, revealing a stormtrooper with a blaster aimed at her chest. She stuck out her chin. "I demand to speak with Lord Vader."
Vader had to admit, he was intrigued by the request. The girl had proven much stronger than anyone—Tarkin, Vader, even the emperor himself—had anticipated. She certainly had her father's strong will—though perhaps not his aptitude for diplomacy, Vader thought with some amusement, recalling a number of her more choice words to Grand Moff Tarkin. In that matter at least, they were agreed.
He had no doubt that the information she'd given up, the location of the rebel base, was a lie. Tarkin however, remained less convinced. It wounded his pride, Vader supposed, that he'd been unable to break a girl hardly out of adolescence (not that Vader had, but at least he would not delude himself with the laurels of victory). It was of no matter however, soon enough imperial scouts would confirm his suspicions.
He had been strategizing a new approach when the courier had rapped uncertainly on the door. Through profuse apologies and much bowing, eyes locked firmly on the floor, Vader had gathered that the little princess requested an audience with him, though he had his suspicions that "request" was not the term she had used.
Despite himself, he smiled, at least, as much as possible around the respirator. It really was too bad the girl seemed to have no aptitude for the Force. She'd make quite a formidable apprentice, if only her father hadn't been such a naive man incapable of the vision necessary for a leader.
And yet, even with her unfortunate upbringing, here she was, no chips left with which to bargain (unless she intended to give up the base in exchange for her own life, but again, Vader preferred not to delude himself), demanding his presence. Intriguing, indeed.
Without a word to the courier who was still cowering in the doorway, Vader swept out of the room and headed down to the detention block. When he reached her cell, he flung the doors open with a wave of his gloved hand, dismissing the stormtroopers standing guard in the same motion.
The princess was ready for him, standing on one side of the cell, arms crossed and face defiant. There was a change though, almost imperceptible, something in the slant of her shoulders, or maybe the stiffness of her stance. A defeat that had not been there before.
Again he waved his hand, and the doors slid shut. The girl flinched, ever so slightly.
Ah. So she was still afraid of him, despite her best efforts to hide it. "Princess Leia," he said. He inclined his head, leaving it up to her to decide whether the gesture was mocking or respectful.
"I have not called you here in order to further betray the rebellion." Her voice revealed none of her fear. It was strong and steady—almost fierce in its delivery.
Further. She was maintaining her facade, it seemed. "Then please Enlighten me, your highness. What do you wish to discuss?"
For a moment, she actually looked her nineteen years, biting her bottom lip in indecision. "I wish to discuss nothing!" She finally ground out, and indeed, it seemed as though something was dragging the words from her against her will. She paused a moment, jaw clenched and eyes cast towards the wall beside her. "My father did."
Vader's mood darkened. It all came back to that man—Bail Organa. Even in death Vader couldn't be rid of him. "The final confession of a dead man? This should be interesting."
Her glare was deadly. Even with such a petite frame, she had an uncanny ability to look down on him. Almost like—but no, he would not allow his mind to finish that thought.
"He wanted me to tell you something if—" For the first time, her voice broke, words skidding to a ragged stop. "A name," she finally managed to swallow out, eyes cast down in shame.
Vader barely noticed the girl's falter however, or the flush that rushed to her cheeks. What blood he had left ran cold. He had a dark suspicion of what exactly the late Viceroy wanted him to hear.
Vader had always suspected Organa knew the truth of his past, the man he had once been. It was impossible to know who Kenobi might have told before the confrontation on Mustafar, and his old master and the Alderaanian senator had been close allies, after all.
Organa had kept the secret well, never revealing his knowledge, but there were moments when Vader would catch the man staring at him from across the senate chambers, as if searching in the lines of his helmet for someone.
For years, Vader had known it was a possibility.
But, part of him had always hoped that—no. It was ridiculous to think, that some lingering…affection would silence the old Jedi. Kenobi had made his allegiance clear. Deep in his suit, the stumps of limbs ached as if in agreement. And yet, it still hurt, adding this betrayal to the list.
Vader's fingers tightened into a fist. It seemed that from beyond the grave, Bail Organa had orchestrated one final taunt, to be delivered by his teenage daughter, no less. Vader would kill her before he would let her speak that name. He reached out an arm, ready to choke the breath from the princess, but before he could, she spoke.
"Padmé."
It was the shock that stayed his hand. It had been years since he'd heard his wife's name in anything but the raspy voice of his master. Coming from Leia's mouth however, he was staggered by its beauty. How could he have forgotten how lovely it sounded? Padmé.
Of course, some still rational part of his brain reasoned, if Organa knew the truth of his identity, he would also know to start with that name. It didn't matter though, the Sith Master, the right hand of the emperor, the Dark Lord himself stood breathless, frozen in place by two little syllables.
The girl didn't seem to notice his distress, or how close she'd come to disaster. Her eyes were still cast down. "He wanted you to know my mother's name. Padmé." To punctuate the sentence, she lifted her head up, and met his eyes with her own.
It was like looking at a ghost. The realization hit him slowly, as her features mixed and rearranged into a familiar form. Long, dark hair, rounded face, short stature, youngest Imperial Senator ever elected. It was a miracle he hadn't realized before.
A ploy, he thought desperately. It had to be. The wild attempts of dead man to preserve his daughter's life. It wasn't until her saw her eyes, the same warm chocolate as his wife's, but burning with the wrath of Anakin Skywalker, that he truly understood. She was his daughter.
