Chapter IV: A Song for the Fallen

So it was that Leia came to live with Talmar, for having once heard the music which he had so long forgotten, he was unwilling to be without it. And Leia was a gentle-hearted girl, and pitied the tyrant, though she saw all his cruelties, and her eyes were dark and sad.

Many times she would attempt to save his prisoners by her pleading, and once or twice she succeeded, though more often she gained only Talmar's anger. But she never spoke ill of him, and he was surprised to realize that she truly did not hate him. He knew that everyone else did, but he had never much cared for the opinions of others.

The little girl, though, did not hate him, and she never judged him. She simply played her gentle tunes to still his tortured sleep. And as time passed, he came to love that music, and the little girl who played it, but he did not understand what it meant. He had forgotten how to love.

And the little girl was very sad, because she knew that Talmar was suffering, even though he did not know it himself. Every night, before he called her to play her music, she would sit outside on the steps of his palace and look up at the stars. Sometimes she would talk to them, pretending they were her friends, for she had no one else. And sometimes she even dreamed that they answered.

She would ask them to give Talmar something that would make him happy, so that he would not hurt anyone any more.

And so time passed. The stars did not answer Leia, but she never gave up asking.

When a year and a day had gone by since Leia came to him, the Lady of the Desert appeared to Talmar, as was her custom. Long ago Talmar had sworn to do whatever she asked of him, and many times she had held him to that oath.

He had never refused her.

And so she demanded that he offer up to her the little girl with the flute, for the music was hateful to her.

Now Talmar was shaken—he realized that he did not want to lose the comfort of the little girl's music. But more startling was his realization that he did not want the girl to die.

She reminded him very much of his sister.

But he had sworn himself to the Lady of the Desert, and he would not renounce his oath. So he called Leia before him. And the Lady laughed.


The spirit fell silent, and this time his grandson made no attempt to rouse him from the past. He remembered his Uncle Luke's story, the terrible moments of uncertainty, the knowledge of coming death. And he knew that his grandfather was thinking of the same thing.

"He laughed, too," the spirit said, quite suddenly. His voice was loud in the all-consuming quiet of the room. "I just realized that. He laughed."

His grandson remained silent, uncertain how to respond.

"I could never be sure who he was really laughing at," said the spirit. His voice was strangely stilted, as though he spoke from somewhere far away. He seemed to have forgotten that there was anyone else in the room. "I think maybe he was laughing at me."

"If he was, Granddad, I think maybe he laughed too soon," the boy said at last.

His grandfather looked at him, and there was a strange twinkle behind the sorrow in his eyes. "Yes. Perhaps he did." The spirit gave him a rueful grin. "But I thought we weren't telling that story. I thought I was just telling an old Tatooine legend. Humph."

The boy smirked. "Something like that."

"Well," his grandfather muttered, "I suppose I'd better finish it, then."

And the boy nodded eagerly.

"But Leia was not afraid, though she did cry a little," the spirit continued, then added, with a smile of fond remembrance, "And that's the part where my mother always told me, 'You see, Ani, it's all right to cry when something bad happens. Even the bravest people cry.'"

His grandson smiled. "Yes. Uncle Luke told me you cried, at the end."

"Well…" the spirit said slowly, surprise evident on his face, "that isn't exactly what I meant. Your Uncle Luke was the brave one then, not me. But!" he added quickly, holding up a finger to forestall his grandson's protests, "it's true all the same. And so Leia cried a little, even though she was brave, but she didn't try to escape…"


And as Talmar drew the knife to strike, the little girl smiled gently at him and raised her flute to her lips. And she began to play.

The Lady shrieked, once, a high and horrible sound, and the flute shattered. But something in Talmar's heart broke with it, and the knife fell from his hand. And though he knew not why he did, he straightened and dared to look upon the Lady in her wrath, and he said, "All that I possess and all those I rule you have, and my very soul also, but this girl you shall not have."

Then the Lady laughed—she had a terrible laugh!—and she stretched forth her hand, and the girl began to die. She withered, as the tender shoots of new growth dry up and fall in the scorching of the desert sun, and she fell, though the Lady had never touched her.

But Talmar knew himself at last, and he struggled forward against the implacable will of the Lady, though the withering that broke the girl fell upon him also. But with the last of his strength he took the knife and drove it home in the Lady's breast.

And now she herself seemed to wither and crumble and to blow away, and with a sound like the roaring of sand in the wild desert storms, she was gone.

But Talmar lay where he had fallen. With great effort, Leia rose and went to him, and she cradled his head in her lap and wept for him. He looked at her, but he said only, "I am not worth your tears." Still she would not listen, and she continued to weep, gazing at him with the sad, adoring eyes of a child. And she sang for him, a song his sister used to sing when he was very small.

And Talmar died.

The Lady of the Desert was gone, and her blessing-curse clung no more to him. And in time, everything that had been done through her power passed away. But Leia remained. And she helped all those whom Talmar had hurt, and they built a new life, and for a long time afterward, Tatooine was happy and peaceful.


"The End!" the spirit finished with false cheerfulness. His grandson knew how much it had cost him to come to that end.

All was silent for a long moment, and then the boy squeezed his grandfather's hand and said gently, "You were right, Granddad. It was a good story."

"Do you think so?" the spirit asked, as though a good deal more than the quality of the story were in question. And the boy knew that it was.

"Yes, Granddad," he said, almost reverently. "I do think so."

"Well, I'm…glad that you enjoyed it," said the spirit, rather awkwardly. They both knew that he had been talking about something quite different.

"I did," his grandson said, giving the spirit a quick, energetic hug. "Thank you!"

The spirit laughed, and tousled the boy's hair, and after tickling him into submission, finally convinced him it was time to go to sleep.

But the boy had one last question.

"Granddad?"

His grandfather gave a longsuffering sigh, and muttered, "Yes?"

"You named my mom for her, didn't you? Leia. The girl in the story."

And the spirit said, simply, "Yes."