Note: This is the first in what will probably become a series of first-person introspective vignettes surrounding the relationship between Leia and her father. I know, in the films there really isn't much there, but I find the possibility of their relationship hauntingly beautiful.

This one is set the day after the battle of Endor.

Disclaimer: Nope, Star Wars isn't mine. I just use it to further my own agenda. ;)


Fragments of Elegy

It was raining when I woke this morning. It seems strange, after all the joyous celebrations last night, to wake up to the sound of slow-falling rain. There's something almost… mournful about it.

Through the gaps in the wicker-work door of our little hut, I can see only darkness. Dawn will be late in coming this morning. For a moment, I wonder why I am awake, but in an instant I know. Lately, it seems that I always know.

Luke is gone.

I rise soundlessly, careful to walk around my sleeping friends, and step out into the misty grey of the pre-dawn forest. The sharp cry of a bird echoes from somewhere behind me, and I start.

He is standing there by the railing, his back to me, almost as though he were waiting for me. Perhaps he is. In his right hand (the mechanical one, I remember with just a touch of bitterness) he holds a small earthenware jar. I wonder briefly where he got it.

"I thought I would gather his ashes," Luke says, his voice quiet in the mist. "It doesn't seem right, somehow, to leave him here."

I don't know what to say to that. I look at Luke, the slump of his shoulders, the way he stares into the mist without really seeing anything. I am almost glad that I can't see his eyes; I fear they would break my heart. How can I tell my brother that our father has never been anything but a monster to me? That his death is more cause for rejoicing than for sorrow? That I am glad, truly glad, to know that he is gone?

And yet, as Luke turns to face me, grief and wisdom shining in his blue eyes, I realize that it's not quite true. There is a part of me, that strange, ancient part of me that I've never really grasped, which understands Luke's grief, and maybe even shares it.

"I'll go with you," I say. That surprises him, I think. He looks at me with a mixture of wonder and gratitude—he thinks I am doing this for him. And I am. But maybe, even if I can't quite admit it, I'm doing it for myself as well.

I'm not sure why. Perhaps I'm hoping to see him. The idea repulses me, and yet I can't quite shake it from my mind. Luke says he saw him, last night, along with General Kenobi and Master Yoda. I wonder why I couldn't. Maybe it's simply because I'm not a Jedi. And yet, I can't help feeling that if only I could see him, just perhaps I would understand.

So I smile at Luke, and take his hand, almost as though we were little children again, in a long ago world that never existed. He squeezes my hand in return and mumbles a quiet, "Thank you, Leia," before taking the jar and starting towards the forest. I follow him soundlessly. Somehow, it doesn't seem right to speak.

The rain has stopped now, and the morning sun is beginning to burn away the mist. A glint of light flashes in my eyes from somewhere ahead and to the left, and Luke turns in that direction. I notice distantly that he seems to make no sound as he walks. Everything is hushed.

And then the trees on either side fall sharply away, and we are standing in a clearing, the rising sun striking the sodden grey mists and turning them to dancing rainbows and showers of gold. The vibrant green of the clearing ends at a place just shy of the center and gives way to charred, broken ground. I can see the remains of a pyre of some kind and, scattered here and there, little pieces of black metal and plastic. I look away, feeling suddenly ill.

Luke doesn't seem to notice. He pauses for a moment, his head bowed, and I hear him murmur a quiet benediction. I wonder what he could possibly have said, but I don't have the heart to ask him. I am noticing the way the warm falls of light seem to caress the barren, ashy ground, and the way Luke seems almost to shine with a soft, muted glow.

He looks up again, and there is an old pain in his eyes, far older than anything I have known in him. Silently, almost reverently, he takes the earthen jar and kneels amidst the ashes of the burned-out pyre, sifting them slowly through his fingers and into the jar. I give him a moment to be alone with the dead, and then without a word I go to join him.

It is harder than I expected to touch the ashes of this man-monster. He was the enemy, the demon who haunted my childhood dreams and, later, my waking reality. And he was my father. I wonder how Luke can reconcile that. I'm not sure I even want to try.

Instead, I simply bend down and begin to help Luke. He looks over and smiles at me, and I catch a glimpse of a strange, incomprehensible joy behind the sorrow in his eyes.

"I wish you could have known him," he says, his voice startling in the stillness of the clearing. "At the end, I mean. After…everything."

He hasn't told me exactly what happened on the Death Star. He isn't ready to speak of it yet, and I know I'm not ready to hear it. But I do know that when he says "everything," he means it. Whatever happened up there changed him. And yet, he is still Luke, maybe more so than he ever was, bright and gentle and somehow both innocent and wise at once. In the past, I would have said that such a thing wasn't possible. But Luke is many things that I once thought impossible.

I am certain that, whatever this change that has come over my brother may be, our father is at least partially responsible. And I find that I'm not really bothered by that. I am almost glad. It means that there is one thing, at least, for which I can be thankful to him. It makes it just a little easier to accept Luke's love for him.

I don't say anything in reply to Luke. There is nothing I can say. He gives me another smile, and I nod, and we both return to our task and our separate thoughts. A few stems of grass are mingled with the ashes in the jar, and I start to pick them out, but Luke shakes his head at me, and so I leave them where they lie, little bits of life among the ashes.

I can't help but wonder if the jar resembles the man.

I never knew my father. I wonder who he was. Not Vader, but Anakin. He is the man who sired me, and the man who saved my brother's life. That's all I know. Did he love my mother? Did he laugh and cry and fight and make up and dream of something greater than himself, like other mortals do? Or was he always so much greater, a god above us lesser beings, as bright and piercingly beautiful once as I knew him to be dark and writhen?

Luke says he had blue eyes and that, when he pulled away the mask, there were tears trickling over the scars on his face.

Gods don't cry. They're too strong for that, too sure in their greatness. I know. I've lived most of my life among gods and heroes. I know what it means to be great, to be strong. There is no room for weakness in that world. And there's no room for second-guessing your past.

But Luke says he sacrificed himself, in the end. And Luke says he cried.

I look over at my brother, wanting to ask him something, but unable to find the words. I'm not even sure what I want to ask, and for once, he doesn't seem to know my mind. He is not looking at me, but there is a softness in his eyes that speaks of acceptance, and maybe even peace.

I follow his gaze, and there, peaking out from beneath the charred remains of a half-burned log, is a single white flower. It is small, and really quite simple; in any other setting, it might not even be worthy of notice. But here, here it is beautiful, a little glimpse of purity amidst the ruins of a life. It is all the more beautiful for the ashes in which it grows.

I look at Luke, and back at the flower, and suddenly, I understand.

My father was a broken god. And as much as I want to hate him, there is something beautiful in that.

Is that beauty enough to overcome all the horror and ugliness of his life? I'm not sure. But I find myself hoping, strangely, that it is. Because somewhere deep inside, where I keep all that is most hidden, even from myself, I know that I too am broken.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" says Luke quietly, and I nod. I don't trust myself to speak. We both sit in silence for a long while, gazing at the flower, and then Luke takes my hand, and I allow him to draw me to my feet. Everything is hushed: even the birds seem to sing more quietly here, as though they know that it is a hallowed place.

Luke reaches for the jar, but I am ahead of him, and he looks at me in surprise as I pick it up. I give him a crooked smile but offer no explanation. I'm not sure there is one. But as always, Luke seems to understand, and he smiles back at me.

Without a word, we turn and leave the clearing, the jar cradled between us. Luke stops just before we reach the trees and turns around for one last glance, and I turn with him, my eyes following his. The subtle slump in his shoulders disappears, and I see his whole face light up, his eyes sparkling with a secret joy. I wonder what he sees that I cannot.

But I am content. I had expected to feel angry, maybe even to find vestiges of his anger permeating this place, but instead there is only peace and a strange, quiet beauty. Luke's smile is infectious, and without stopping to consider why, I allow myself to share it.

We turn again, and as we leave the clearing, for a moment I glimpse a pair of blue eyes and a soft, sad smile, and then the vision fades away into the golden mist, and the clearing is lost from view. I turn to Luke, and he laughs, the sunrise shining in his eyes.