No. 30 NOTE TO SELF: DON'T GET KIDNAPPED
Manhandled | Hair Grabbing | "Please don't touch me."

I was debating doing this one, but I do love Leia, and y'know what? Eldritch Skywalkers can apply to Skywalker hair as well.


The hand knotted in her hair and yanked her head up. Leia forced her face to stay schooled, put together, but it was hard when they were trying to tear her hair out at the skull.

"Petty thievery now, really? Is this what the Rebellion's resorting to?" The officer who had her arrested stalked around her, apparently enjoying the sight of a Rebel kneeling at his feet. She knew it was his own ego that made him want to do that; no decent person would enjoy this, but there weren't many decent people in the Empire. "And here I thought this post would be a boring one."

It was a literal space station. They were glorified traffic wardens. Leia wished she hadn't insisted on doing this run with the others—Mon had wanted her to stay safe, stay on base so she had a chance to grieve, but she wanted to get out there. She wanted to get in on the action. Even a simple supply run would've been good for her, but now she was separated from Han and Luke and this bastard had her at blasterpoint.

"Should we just shoot her, boss? Can't be worth much. Good to have a different report to write, though."

"It will be," the officer agreed. The fact he only had one stormtrooper with him said a lot about his arrogance. If she could just get to the blaster at his hip— "But we are required to take names first. Name?"

She answered: "Lia Celchu, affiliation Rebel Alliance." A fake name, but an Alderaanian name. She couldn't bear to use a different one.

"Yes, we figured that second part by your fatigues, my dear." He looked down at his datapad. "No Rebels under that name recorded here, so she can't be that important, we'll just—" He looked back up at her and cut himself off. "Wait. I know you."

She raised her eyebrows. "I don't know you."

But he'd recognised her alright. That it had taken that long for him to even look her in the eye was pathetic, but he'd recognised her.

"I'd be honoured if you did, Princess Leia," he said smoothly. "Don't shoot this one. We'll get a tidy bounty if we hand her into Vader."

At the mention of Vader, her heart started pounding, but she kept her composure. She could never afford not to. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've even got one of those classic Alderaanian buns!" He stepped past her and yanked at the bottom of it. It was already in pretty poor shape, but at his tug it unravelled. The two plaits she'd braided into the bun tumbled and thumped against her shoulders. She hadn't worn her hair in two plaits like this since she was a little girl; it made her feel almost juvenile. "We should've recognised you."

"I still don't know what you're talking about. This is an Alderaanian hairstyle, yeah; I'm Alderaanian, you—"

"Cut them off."

Her words petered out. "What?"

The officer drew his knife from his belt. "Hold her still," he ordered the stormtrooper. "Princess Leia is well known and easily recognisable for her hairstyles. Cutting it off as evidence will," his smile widened, "make it more likely that people will believe us."

"Don't you touch my hair," she snarled. "This isn't how prisoners are—"

"This is my station, Princess. I make the rules. And it's a quiet station at that: I want a souvenir of this exciting time we had together. Hold her still."

"Don't you dare!" She struggled, yanking her shoulders away from the grip, tried to stand up, but the stormtrooper seized her bound arms and dragged her down again. "Don't you—"

The officer reached out and, with one swipe of his apparently very sharp knife, severed the left plait from her head. It fell to the ground with a thump.

She blinked fiercely, trying to forestall her tears before they noticed. It was likely he had nothing better to do here than sharpen his knife, she thought bitterly, so she did not think of anything else.

"Now, the other."

She closed her eyes this time, shutting off the tears' escape. She felt the nick, and then that was gone too, and she bared her teeth. Her mother had taught her that style—her mother, who was now dead because of Leia. Her handmaidens used to help her practise it every day. Her hair was all she had left to remember them by.

If she did not carry Alderaan's fashion, visual identity, ideals, who would?

How dare they steal a part of her like this? How dare they chop her into pieces for their own consumption and amusement? The Empire took and took and took, and the parts of her were left scattered across the galaxy, lost and alone and ever bleeding—

She strained against her binders, wishing she could escape, wishing she could get out, get out, get out—her muscles drew taut, her shoulders bulging. Every limb was locked tight, but she could not move. The stormtrooper held her fast.

On the ground, the first plait thumped.

The officer knelt down to pick it up. "Excellent," he said. The plait was even longer than his forearm. She wanted to strangle him. She'd seen Vader strangle people with thin air before, and she glared like she could do that herself. "This will do nicely—"

It flopped in his hand like a fish.

He frowned. "What is this?" He turned the hair over, inspecting it. "That is most—"

It surged to life and wrapped around his throat.

He barely had time to scream. Leia blinked. She could feel it, like a phantom limb of her, the cold air on the back of her neck unnatural, the missing piece of her contorting with her rage and devastation. She could feel the strong muscles of his neck, his fragile vertebrae, contorting under the force of her attack, she could hear him spluttering, face reddening. She definitely heard it when he slumped to the ground.

She stared at his corpse and thought, good riddance. Whatever had animated her hair, whatever force inside her made her feel all these losses so keenly, still bled freshly in her gut. Satisfaction did not soothe the phantom ache at the back of her skull. She was like a Twi'lek who'd lost her lekku.

The stormtrooper holding her gasped and dropped her shoulders. She slumped forwards. He ran to check on his commander, feeling desperately for a pulse, barking orders into a comlink—and then he looked up to meet her eyes.

In her eyes, he saw death.

The second plait soared towards him, a snake on the wind. She was doing it more consciously this time, a smile peeling back her lips from her teeth. It wriggled under his helmet even as he tried to back away and tied around his neck like a noose. He clawed and clawed at it, but hair was made of keratin. It was very strong.

As he kicked, as he struggled, the plait hovered higher in the air. Higher again. In the blink of an eye, he was writhing in mid-air, shouting words that were muffled by lack of air into grunts, and then his neck snapped. He fell to the ground as well.

She breathed out through her teeth, harsh and whistling. Whatever this was unlocked her binders. They fell to the floor, and she was left kneeling in her own otherworldliness.

What had that been?

Her, obviously.

What had she done?

What could she do?

She reached out and summoned the lost parts of her back to her hands. They landed in her palms neatly, barely a thought needed for it. She thrust them against the short hair now rustling against her skull, begging, pleading, for—something. Anything.

She'd killed two men with her mind. With her hair. Surely she could fix this? Surely she could fix this?

But this power inside her, nourished by love, grief, anger, passion, discipline, determination, fire, was not omnipotent. The one thing it could not do was put all the broken pieces of her back together again.

What the hell was the point, then?

What was she supposed to do with this?

Luke and Han found her like that, bent over double, her hair cradled against her chest, choking on her owns tears. She would come to understand this, later. She would come to use it. She would make the Empire fear her.

But for now, she had lost and lost and lost, and all she could do was choke on her own tears.