Author's note: Trigger warning. Intense death wishes by Leia.
OOO
The quiet. The monotony. It consumes her. Is this it? Leia wonders. Their way of getting back at her? Making her suffer yet more? A technique of interrogation? A method of torture? She almost wishes for the fire of Vader's previous visit to return. If they want information from her, come get it! She doesn't know she cares anymore. If all is finished, then what does spilling secrets matter?
If only something—anything—would happen. Torture. Trial. Execution. Leia wants—needs—something to happen.
(She wants death to come.)
But no. No such mercy arrives.
In what was surely meant to be a cruel jibe, after Tarkin concluded with his victorious taunts, Vader delivered her right back to cell 2187, a cell she had left in such high hopes mere hours before.
What a colorless memory it is now, of archly asking, "Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?"
On stepping into the cell, ozone assaulted her nostrils, bitter, corrupt. Memories slammed into her full force, stealing all of her strength. She found herself momentarily unable to breathe, like her lungs had been ripped from her body.
The cell door shut with a clang of finality that rattled her bones and made her teeth chatter, chatter, chatter…
And no longer could Leia deny her fear, or her grief, or keep it bottled up. In her defeat, she sank down to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest. Let them see her on the cameras. Let them laugh. Let them jeer. Leia no longer cared.
(She only wants death to come.)
And still, now, she sits here in the same huddled position, waiting, waiting, waiting. Has it been minutes? Hours? Days? Years? Time has lost its meaning entirely. Perception, now a worthless thing, rattles around in a turned-off brain; life is taken in through blurred-out, burned-out eyes. She has become not a creature of flesh and blood, but a spirit of singular yearning. Let me die. Let them kill me. Let me die and go be with my family… Let something happen. I don't care how horrible it is. Let something happen!
(She only wants death to come.)
She regrets these frantic thought minutes, or hours, or days later. Because that is when the screams begin. The screams of her comrades. The screams of brave rebel leaders now taken. Torture screams. Death screams.
Leia claps her hands over her ears. Oh, let me die! Let me die! Let me die!
But amidst the pain and the torture and the death… no one comes for her.
OOO
When does Vader return? She doesn't know. Hours. Days. Years. Who cares? His return carries only one meaning for her, and her shelled, scorched heart rejoices.
Now! Now it will happen! I'm going to die!
Never did she imagine welcoming death. But now…
(She only wants death to come.)
So of course, she doesn't receive it. Her life is not blessed with such mercies. Vader rumbles, "Come with me."
Leia stares at him, blank. She pulls her knees in closer to her chest. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe if she closes her eyes and wishes hard enough, he'll go away. Maybe—
(She only wants death to come.)
"No! Noooo!" The broad, strong, mechanical arms are picking her up. She struggles against them, yet defiant of this dark specter even now. But it is futile. She can't overcome him.
A deep drowsiness thus overtakes her, and she knows nothing else for a long while.
OOO
Halfway between delusion and dream, Breha comes to her. She wears one of her usual elaborate gowns, but this is in stark black. And, oh, how she weeps, her beautiful, wise brown eyes red-rimmed. "Oh, my daughter."
"Mom."
"My brave, wonderful daughter." Breha hugs Leia tightly. "I'm so sorry."
For some reason, that isn't right. Leia can't remember why. But she knows, somehow, that Breha shouldn't be the sorry one. She is not the one at fault. Leia is. Though she can't remember why…
"Don't be sorry, Mom," Leia insists, burrowing deeper into her mother's embrace. "I'm sorry."
"Never. Never be sorry. You did all you could."
All I could. The words jangle around her mind, searching for recognition, for meaning, for context. Then, it all comes back with sickening precision, and Leia's stomach overturns; she gasps, fearing vomiting.
When, finally, she manages to find words, she looks up into her mother's stricken face and tells the truth:
"I could've done better."
"No. No one could have done better. This… was destined to happen."
Breha is wrong. She is oh-so-very wrong. And Leia must explain to her why, and how… but the tight knot in her throat locks up words and strangles the tortured truth inside her. And in the end, all she can do is start to cry.
Breha brings her back into her embrace. "My girl… my sweet, sweet girl…"
Leia finds she can only utter the truth again and again. "It's over. It's all over…"
(She only wants death to come.)
OOO
Author's Note: So… sorry about that. But this is Leia's state of mind. Hope you still liked reading anyways…
Please review if you did! Thanks.
