"—Mé?"
I blinked.
I blinked again.
One look into my uncle's eyes and I was bursting into tears. Thank the Force we were alone. If anyone else stood here to see I knew I could not bear the humiliation. The utter humiliation… It was better, with just Luke, but certainly not non extant.
How could I have failed so badly? Right when I needed most to stay with it? In it?
"Honey," he said quietly, kindly, laying his hand upon my arm, "it's alright."
"What's alright?" I felt so confused. But I also instinctively knew this must be reality, because Luke looked composed and compassionate rather than effusively sunny, and we sat in some kind of dark ship cabin that sang of memories but I couldn't place them right now, and Dad—"Oh, stars. Is Dad—? Is he—?"
"Han is fine. He… will be fine."
"Oh," I breathed, "stars." I felt like crying again, but managed to restrain myself. I uttered, "Thank you," since it had to be thanks to him that my father would be alright.
Luke had taken up healing arts after helping me recover my mental faculties. Turned out he was born to it. Not that such surprised me. He seemed born to anything involving the Force.
Could that have been me, had I accepted his training? No. That didn't matter now. Soon enough, I would turn twenty-three. Far too old for anything like that, surely. He had begun his training at sixteen and said that he had been considered too old even then!
"He'll need medical help once we get to the base, of course," Luke continued, still speaking gently, "but he will be alright."
Of course. Healing trances could only go so far. If only Luke could put his hands over someone and fully make them well through the Force. What a feat that would be for him! For anyone.
Probably, he'd have it figured out before lunchtime tomorrow.
I nodded, and as usual when I felt embarrassed or things got too emotional, turned gruff. "Good to hear."
I sat up on legs that felt leaden. But I had to prove my fine-ness.
Only Luke wasn't buying it. "Padmé…"
"Please. Don't make me talk about it."
"I think we have to. Who else will you talk to about it?"
A stupidly good point, that. I drew a deep breath, then turned to face him. "And?"
"Have things been worse, lately, or have you just been hiding it?"
Anger filled me up. Anger—and shame. Because I knew the true answer, and suspected he did, too. But I didn't want to admit to it. Admitting to it meant saying things like, "You helped me get part of the way there, but we both know I'll never be alright," and, "So I drink sometimes to sleep and to deal with it, and maybe I can drift under stress, but it hasn't been that bad. Mostly." So, I ended up staying silent. I had successfully tricked everyone into thinking me better for four years now. Why did he realize now?
Or—maybe he didn't just realize now. That would be the worst. That he'd known but had let me believe I was fooling him.
"Ah," said Luke simply. He looked so terribly sad for me that I felt myself begin to flush. "I should have been paying more attention," he murmured.
"Stop putting it all on yourself like always, Uncle. There's only one person responsible for this."
He flinched. He said, "Yes," and his tone had shaded even softer, but was also suddenly as hard as rock. I knew he was thinking of It, and probably thinking how much better he needed to do in many respects, like killing It already.
If only things were so easy. I managed to stow my shame, guilt, and frustration. Kneeling, I took his hands in mine, then smiled up at him. "I have been better. Truly. No, don't start. I am not lying. It has been better. You remember how it once was: I was so trapped in my World and in my head that I could hardly hold a ten-second conversation. But you helped me, Uncle."
"You helped yourself."
"That is true as well," I granted. Humble to the core, I thought. And it wasn't fake, like the humility of the Imperial elite, such as dear Alba Tarkin. "I admit… that I do things to cope." It was as close as I could come to acknowledging some of my methods at the moment. "But I am better. Extreme stress can still bring it on, but of course it can. I'm alright. Really."
And at this, he pretended to believe me. "Okay."
"Okay," I agreed, and got back to my feet.
Now, I realized we stood in the ship's cabin of the Millennium Falcon. How I had gotten here was a mystery, but I supposed I'd been carried after I had lost my faculties. It was remarkable we had all gotten away, and that my father was doing alright. I intended to go see for myself in a moment. Because whatever he had done… I could never wish his death.
But the remarkability of our escape… I shook my head. "Sometimes I wish I'd taken you up on your offer those years ago, Uncle."
"—what offer?"
"Of being a Jedi. Wish I could save the day like you." But I knew I was too old, and too mentally unstable, to ever be such a hero.
Oh, well. No second chances…
I must simply make the most of what I had within my power.
OOO
My father did seem better. In the very least he was able to colorfully swear at the vast array of the doctors and nurses on the Yavin IV base as they helped him to get on the mend. I didn't physically go and visit him—in that I didn't announce my presence—but I did check once or twice while he lay asleep. "He was lucky," one of the doctors informed me once. "It didn't hit anything vital."
Lucky indeed, I mused darkly. We were all lucky, thanks to Luke. But who were those thugs?
Oh, Dad. What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into…?
Regardless of whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into, he was now into more. Because the Empire was now looking for any Corellian YT-model freighters galaxy wide. They'd put out a red alert, which went to the highest levels of priority. We all knew such alerts existed, had seen a few in the past six years. But that was just it: a few. One had been related to the Death Star and its destruction. One had been related to a downed star destroyer we managed to get out of commission thanks to Biggs's knowledge base. (That had been the thing to confirm his involvement in the Alliance, and to get him a very large wanted poster with an even larger reward for 'captured alive'.) And now, this alert. Because a YT-model freighter had been known to harbor Luke Whitesun, the most wanted man in the Empire, as he escaped from Ord Mantell.
When my father woke, he would find that he couldn't leave. At least—not in the Falcon. I could imagine how well that conversation might go over…
And I didn't have to wait long.
"She's my ship! I want her back!"
"Yes, Han, I realize that. We all do. But the Empire is stopping any YT-model freighters right now." Meaning until they get this one. "So you can't leave in the Falcon. If you do want to leave… then we can provide you with another ship."
"Because we're friends, Luke, I'm gonna pretend you didn't just offer that."
To his credit, Luke sounded abashed. "I'm sorry," he reiterated. "But there's nothing we can do. He's after me, and he's going to do whatever he can to get to me."
He. It. A chill raced up my spine, though no fear sounded in Luke's voice: only calm acceptance of the now. Yes, It was doing whatever It could to get to my uncle. No doubt in order to kill him as slowly and torturously as he had almost succeeded in killing me. But I wouldn't let this happen. I would never let this happen. Even if I had to go and knock some sense into my father personally.
Turned out he didn't argue too terribly after this, though. Seemed the storm had passed. Instead, he began more quietly, quietly enough that I had to press my ear harder to the door, "How is she?"
"Which she?"
"—both of 'em. Speakin' of—why'm I here?"
"I'm sure Leia will want to tell you herself."
"Leia…" There was a world of feeling, even reverence, in the word. But pain, too. "She's comin' here?"
"A rare occurrence. Feel honored." There was something… deadpan about Luke's tone. "As for how they are… she's well." Then, "She is planning to get married to Garr."
"…huh."
"I'm only telling you so you aren't surprised when she gets here."
"I ain't surprised. Sounds like a good idea."
Luke, the one who never pushed, continued, "And Padmé is…"
"Yeah," agreed my father gruffly. "Noticed."
What? What did that mean? I stood there, no longer trying to listen in to their conversation, a torrent of feeling and hurt within me. So Luke didn't think I was doing well, eh? He hadn't been convinced? Fine. I'd show him. Soon enough, with the Tarkin mission, I'd show both of them.
Because I. Was. Fine.
Really.
OOO
Han looked at Leia.
Leia looked at Han.
And then, 3PO, shining and stupid, popped between them. Effusively, he cried, "My goodness! Han Solo! Bless my circuits, but what a shock. It is I, C-3PO. No doubt you failed to recognize me because of the bronze leg. How have you been, sir? Queen Leia! Look who it is! I…" He faltered on seeing his mistress's raised eyebrows, apparently some algorithm or other at long last recognizing his social failings or his mistress's umbrage.
I decided my time had come. Stepping forward, I intervened, "3PO. Why don't you and I go help R2 coordinate the rest of the repairs for Rogue Squadron's backup pilots? You know, he really has been wanting to see you…"
"Really?" 3PO straightened a little, an air of pleasant surprise in his tone. I wondered what he would do once R2 inevitably sassed him. "Well, how nice of the little rust bucket!" (At least the sass was mutual.) "We must go, then, Princess Padmé! How good to see you, Viceroy Solo. How very good…"
I gave Mother a wink before heading off with the droid, leaving my two parents to talk. Then, safe within the concealment of my jacket, I crossed my fingers, hard.
OOO
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