Disclaimer: It all belongs to the Great Flanneled One. ;) This is slightly AU if you consider the EU canon, in that Han and Leia are married five months after the battle of Endor.

A note on the title: The amaranth is, in the minds of poets, a mythical flower that never fades or dies. (The word comes from a Greek word meaning 'unfading'.) It is also a very real flower, the common name of which is the love-lies-bleeding. The paradox of this flower seemed the perfect image for the relationship between Leia and Anakin.


Amaranth

I'm beginning to understand why my mother wanted to be married in secret. Even aside from the rules and regulations of the Jedi Code—it's simply much more practical. At least she had some peace on her wedding day, instead of all these blasted holo-reporters.

They're calling it the story of the century. Han just laughed when he heard that. The galaxy has been burdened under the rule of the Sith for the past two decades, and that tyranny was only ended five months ago, in a series of spectacular events and sudden, heroic turns that historians will probably still be puzzling over millennia from now. The New Republic is still in the first stages of forming a government. And yet, the fact that a couple of people decided to get married is the news item of the century…

I snort quietly and turn my gaze back to the mirror, replacing that one bothersome strand of hair for the eighth time in as many minutes. The problem with all of these reporters is that you actually have to look good for the blasted holos. I can hear my attendants bustling about in the other room, humming to themselves as they make last minute adjustments to practically everything. I'm beginning to wonder if I'll even recognize anything about the ceremony by the time they're finished. I doubt my mother had this much trouble preparing for her wedding.

I hear a babble of voices in the hall outside, and I realize with a groan that they've tracked me even here. I allow myself a most undignified sigh as I catch snatches of their conversation: "Wedding of the century… so romantic… rescued her from the Death Star… the princess and the pirate…" Maybe I should call Luke and have him "convince"them that they're needed elsewhere. I smile at that thought—having a Jedi in the family definitely has its perks.

I wonder briefly if he ever did anything of the sort for my mother, on days when she simply couldn't handle the press. But I push the thoughts away; I am not thinking of him today. Today is for me, and for Han, and I will not let him ruin it.

Irritated now, I reach into the Force to call Luke. But something feels strange, different, and I know without having to look that the reporters are already scattering.

I open the door and look anyway. Sure enough, the last stragglers of the pack I sensed earlier are wandering off vaguely down the hall, looking as though they've forgotten their own names. I notice, with pleasant surprise, that my attendants also seem to have disappeared. Finally, some peace and quiet.

Or perhaps not. I turn back into the room and, strangely, I'm not really surprised to see him standing there against the far wall, just left of my prized crystal vase—all that I have left of Alderaan.

I know who he is instantly, even though he doesn't look anything like what I expected. Which is strange, really, because I'd seen holos of him, at least the way he looked…before. And Luke had described him, too. But somehow, I'd always thought there had to be something more sinister behind that mask.

This man merely looks sorrowful, broken…and beautiful. It is not so much a quality of face or form, but something in the combination of sorrow and love and regret that shines in his eyes. Something in his expression tells me that he would die for me, just as he did for Luke. Maybe he wishes that he could.

"I suppose it was you who made them go away," I say, more to break the silence than for any other reason. He comes forward a little, maybe so that I can see him better, and I realize with a start that I have his chin.

"Yes," he says, whether in answer to my question or my unspoken realization, I'm not sure. His voice is soft, and not nearly as deep as I was expecting. He doesn't seem surprised that I know who he is.

We study each other for a long moment, eyes locked across an unbridgeable chasm of time and shattered possibilities. But it is not my father who looks away first.

"Why are you here?" I ask at length. He steps forward again and seats himself in a nearby chair, to be more at my level. He's still ridiculously tall—that much, at least, hasn't changed. I don't feel inclined to sit.

"You needed me," he says, simply.

I want to be angry at him, to deny it, but I can't quite manage it. To tell the truth, he looks as though he needs me far more than I could possibly need him. If I needed him at all. But I was thinking of him just now…

"You know," I blurt out suddenly, "everything was so much simpler when you were just Darth Vader, the murderer, the monster. Everything was black or white back then, and I could be the noble princess fighting against evil and tyranny, and I didn't have to wonder about the things inside my own heart. But now there's just Anakin Skywalker, not a hero, not a monster—just a broken man. And nothing's so simple any more." I'm not sure why I'm telling him this, but I can't seem to stop. The words tumble out like scalding water, as though I fear they might burn me if I keep them inside. Perhaps they will.

"Is that why you hate me?" he asks, quietly. I know what he means. Not why I hate Vader, but why I hate Anakin.

There is something old and poignant in his eyes, and I find I can't lie anymore, not even to myself. So instead I face him, the proud Princess of Alderaan confronting the black-cloaked demon come to destroy her world. Only he's not a demon, not really, and I haven't been a princess in a very long time.

His eyes are so sad.

"Yes," I say. "I suppose it is."

"I've earned your disgust," he says, still in that quiet voice that sounds so much like Luke. He is stubborn, like me—he refuses to look away. "But I hope that you will not give your hate a hold in you. You are wiser than that." He looks at me, very solemnly, and for a moment I can almost forget who he is and imagine that he is someone else, a wise Jedi Master, perhaps, or maybe even a true father. But he speaks again, and the illusion is shattered. "I don't want my past darkness to lead you down that same twisted path."

In spite of everything, I understand what he is saying, and it strikes me with the force of revelation. "I am my father's daughter," I say.

He flinches as though I had slapped him. To soften the blow, I add, "And I am learning to find the good in that, as well as the bad. You taught me that."

My own words come as a surprise to me, and perhaps even more so to him. He looks back at me, almost hopefully, and suddenly I want to laugh and cry at the same time. He looks so much like a child in that moment, innocent and longing for a parent's love. But the sadness never leaves his eyes. It is ancient, ageless even, and it lends him an air of wise innocence that surprises me. I feel the sudden, ridiculous urge to throw my arms around him and tell him everything will be all right.

"Did you love my mother?" I ask, apropos of nothing. He looks at me strangely, not because the question surprises him, but because he thinks I should already know the answer. And I do, really. But I need to hear it from his lips.

"Yes," he says, and his whole body seems to glow brighter, as though light is spilling through him. I can see the sun gleaming through his shoulder, and it seems twice as bright as usual. "Though I fear I didn't show it very well," he adds ruefully, with a little, self-deprecatory smile. "But I did love her, and I do," he finishes, and I know simply by the light in his eyes that Mother is there, on the other side of death, and that she forgives him and loves him still. Somehow, I'm not surprised. After all, Luke must have gotten it from somewhere.

My father is watching me. It still surprises me how much I look like him. Luke's eyes stare back at me out of my face, and I find myself wondering just how alike we really are.

"I forgive you," I say, swallowing thickly and looking away from those piercingly bright, sad eyes. His eyes are beautiful. I hadn't expected that.

I said that I forgive him, and I find, almost to my surprise, that I really mean it. And yet… Visions of Alderaan dance before my eyes, greens and blues and mountains and lakes and warm smiles and laughing eyes I will never see again. And I can't help wishing…

I start when I feel a hand on my arm. It is warm, and strangely gentle, but it sends a shiver all through me, as though this were something I'd wanted for so long I hadn't even realized it. I look up, and meet my father's eyes, and his tears are mirrored by my own.

"Thank you," he whispers. The sadness is still there in his eyes, as perhaps it always will be, but now it is different somehow. I am reminded of the mingled wisdom and sorrow that shines in Luke's eyes, even in his happiest moments. Luke has his father's eyes. Or perhaps, I realize in a moment of sudden clarity, our father has Luke's eyes.

I want to say something more, but I don't know quite what. And now there is a knock at the door, and as I rise to answer it, the moment passes, irretrievable, like so many others that might have been and never were.

The little girl who will carry the offerings in the ceremony peeks her head in the door. I can't remember her name. "They sent me to tell you it's time," she says in an excited whisper, then dashes off down the hallway without another word. I turn back into the room, wondering if the spirit will still be there.

He is. His face is impossible to read—not because it's blank, but because it's filled with so many emotions that there can be no name for them all. It's a startling change from the expressionless mask I knew him as in life.

"Come on, then," I say, surprising myself. He looks at me curiously, and I realize that I don't quite understand myself what I meant by that. Maybe I don't really want to.

So I don't let myself think about what I say next, because if I do I'll never be able to say it. Even so, I feel almost like a traitor as I mumble, "On Alderaan, it was tradition for the father to present the bride."

He stares at me for a moment, then looks away, guilt and anguish written on his face. I am strangely glad that I can't see those heart-breaking eyes.

"I thought you hated me," he says, finally.

I snort. Didn't I just say that I forgive him? And I meant it. I do forgive him. But I still hate him, too. I feel so confused.

I hate him. But there's a small, ancient part of me, the part of me that's still a little girl with skinned knees and soiled clothes and bright, innocent laughter, that secretly wants to love him.

It's that little girl who speaks now. "There'll be time enough to hate you later," I say. "Today I need a father."

He seems to understand everything I can't say, and he simply nods. "Very well, Milady," he says, and he smiles at me, almost mischievously.

I can't help it—I laugh. Suddenly, I feel so wonderfully free. His smile widens, and he makes me an elaborate bow, not at all the sort of bow that Vader would give, but something from an older time, elegant and just a little self-mocking.

"Well then, Father," I say, and for the first time I smile at him. "Let's go."

He takes my hand and leads me out, down the long aisle, towards Han. The past giving way to the future. It is a fitting image.

I catch a hint of Luke's surprise through our bond, and I know that he is the only other person here who can see the man who walks beside me. His smile becomes absolutely radiant and, glancing to the side, I see it mirrored on our father's face. And I know it is mirrored on my own.

And then I catch sight of Han, and everything else becomes irrelevant.