You're welcome to do anything with this so long as my name stay's OFF of
it.  by Anonymous, I suppose.  It's mostly just a gift to you and the
Organa-zation list for the web page.  I'd love to hear from you if
anyone likes it, but it's not an emergency. :-)

Disclaimers: None of the characters featured are property of the
author.  Their inclusion in this story is not meant for commercial
purposes and is a tribute to the genre of fanfiction involving Leia, a
suitor competing with Han, Leia’s feelings about her heritage, and her
status or lack thereof as a Jedi.

The Jedi Princess
    Sweat beads pool at my hairline, from the mugginess of the
drum-and-flute filled Endor air, from the bonfire, and from the heat of
my pirate standing beside me.  No, it’s General Solo now, but the
lopsided grin remains, and it’s directed my way.
    He leans closer, his breath warm and friendly.  "Leia, why don’t we
take this party somewhere more private?  It’s not that I don’t
appreciate the enthusiasm of my adoring crowd . . . ."  He whisper
kisses my ear.  "But we’re overdo for some privacy."
    Temptation tugs at my heart and body, but I’m not ready to tell Han
the whole truth yet.  He’s a smart man, but for someone who’s walked his
share of boundaries and pushed even more, Han still sees things as good
or bad.  His own lack of forthrightness about his infamous past doesn’t
mean he’ll deal well with my secrets.  "Just let me say goodnight to
Luke."
    Han squeezes my shoulder and lets me go.  "Hurry back."
    I nod, wandering beyond the celebration circle to my lost twin,
found and found again.  I owe the universe one for letting me off the
hook with my twin brother.  I’ve known Luke was infatuated with me since
Yavin.  It wasn’t love.  I mean, it was love, but not in love.  I didn’t
let him close enough to me for that.  I believe you have to know someone
to love them, and I’d held Luke at a distance of sorts.  Han, too, but
he’d just barged on through all of my invisible walls.
    Still, Luke is my brother, and so it’s okay now for me to love him
back.  It’s okay if I’m in love with Han because I don’t have to pick
between them.  Not that I want to really pull the subject into the open
or discuss it’s every nuance.  No, the universe has spared me that.
    Thank the Force.
    Tonight, the night of the Emperor’s death and the greatest victory
in the history of the Rebel Alliance, Luke stares into the darkness of
the forest.  My eyes track his gaze, and a rare light seems to shimmer
not far into the distance.  The ale, I tell myself.  Stress.  Fatigue.
    "You could’ve called to me through the Force," he says.  "It’s time
you began practicing.  Yoda would say you’re already too old to complete
the training."
    "I didn’t do so badly against Jabba, little brother," I answer,
keeping my tone light.  He might be a Jedi and of sorts my other half,
but even this new-and-improved Luke seems younger than me.  Then again,
maybe I don’t want to seem how much his training, his knighthood has
grown him.  "Or when I picked you up at Cloud City."  I wince, not
having intended to bring up our natural father, however vaguely.  "I
mean – "
    Luke must’ve reached out to comfort me through the Force because I
suddenly feel reassured and closer to him.  Still, I wish he’d said
something or reached out to take my hand, something more tangible,
something I could wrap my mind around.
    "I know, Leia," he says, as we turn and start arm-in-arm back toward
the party.  "I know."
    After he first landed on Endor, in hushed tones, Luke shared with me
both the blow-by-blows of his battle with the Emperor and how our
natural father, Darth Vader, returned to the light to save Luke.  Worse,
Luke told me that Vader, no Anakin Skywalker’s last words were for me.
"Tell your sister. . . you were right."
    So Luke gets to be right, and I get to be what exactly?  A Jedi, I
don’t think so.  As a teenager, I was fascinated with the lore and
legends of the Jedi.  No, excuse me, the religion of the Jedi.  Force
sensitivity can appear at any time in any family line, without regard to
species or social class.  Yet it does run in families, and as my twin
told me, the Force is strong in ours.  Any child of mine could become
another Luke Skywalker or another Darth Vader.  So could I.
    Luke asked me only last night about my memories of our natural
mother.  How hellish had her life been?  She’d died or disappeared or .
. . I don’t know.  Everything I’ve grown up believing, believing in
seems somehow shakier now.  How can I wish my mother’s fate on Han?
He’d said he’d loved me, finally, for the first time when I’d pulled out
a blaster to save our skins at the bunker.  Not high on romance, the
love of my life.  Still, doesn’t he deserve better?  He’s already
suffered so much, mostly because he ran to the Command Center on Hoth to
save me.
    I try to shove the thoughts aside.  Fear is the Dark Side.  Luke has
already mentioned that.  So is anger, and my temper has a mind of its
own.  Still, my blood line isn’t the only secret I’m keeping from Han.
It certainly isn’t the one most likely to upset him.  We’ve had our
share of arguments, but nothing that could be construed as a real
fight.  This could do it.  This could break us.  But I can’t in good
faith proceed with our relationship until he knows the whole truth.
    "Hey," Han says, pulling me close to him again.  "Luke’s a Jedi
Knight now.  He can take care of himself."  He brushes a damp strand of
hair from my forehead.  "On the other hand, Princess, I could use some
royal attention."
    Persistent, but he’s already proven that.  I put Han off on Cloud
City, still torn between my personal desires and my political
obligations, only to regret it when I feared having lost him to the
carbonite forever.  After we’d rescued him from Jabba’s Palace, Han
suffered a relapse of hibernation sickness on the Falcon, shifting my
role on the trip from would-be lover to doctor, hand-holder, teller of
the stories of time he’d lost.
    After saying our goodnights, Han walks me to the Falcon and then his
cabin, not needing to explain.  Once inside, I keep a few simmering feet
between us, turning my back to him, making a calculated show of studying
the few trinkets he keeps on a shelf.  A dried manana rose.  An empty
bottle of Corellian brandy – an old bottle, despite the as-ever stocked
wet bar.  Souvenirs, I suppose. of long-ago adventures, perhaps lovers,
things I’d rather not know.
    "What is it, sweetheart?" Han asks, sitting on the corner of his
bed.  His voice is open, concerned, non-judgmental.  Loving, I suppose.
    I settle for throwing a glance over my right shoulder.  Another
moment passes, and I turn to face him.  I can feel the flush rising in
my cheeks, and I wonder if he’ll recognize it as passion.  I want to
knead his muscles, to taste his scar, to make him moan.  Hardly
princess-like thoughts.  But I am afraid, Dark side or no.
    "Nothing has to happen tonight."  His tone holds no grudges,
apparently mistaking my silence for virginal nerves.  "I ain’t going
anywhere, your Highnessness."  Teasing to reassure.
    Sweet.
    I shake my head.  "It’s not you."
    He opens his mouth to reply, and I shush him.  I close my eyes and
pray he’ll understand.  "All along, I didn’t want to hurt you.  I didn’t
want – "
    "Leia, there’s nothing we can’t – "
    "I’m married," I say, blowing my carefully rehearsed speech.  Some
diplomat.  "It doesn’t have anything to do with us –"
    "You’re what?" He’s immediately on his feet.  "Leia!?"
    "It was an arranged marriage," I answer, as he brushes past me to
his small wet bar.  "A Crown Prince."  It’s that the second part that
might undo him.  In the six months before Hoth, Han and I flew three
times to Allynon on supply runs, and he’d panicked each time I’d
disappeared overnight, returning the next morning with goods well beyond
the Rebellion’s budget, refusing to answer his questions.  "Prince
Kyllan."
    Han’s knuckles whitened as he balls his hands into fists, held fast
as his sides.  "You’re telling me . . . ."  He spins to look hard at me,
then his hands relax and his shoulders fall out of the firm square.
"I’m such an idiot."
    The jealousy I’d expected, but not the resignation.  It’s as if he’s
never had any faith in my love.  Like when he was taping up my arm,
asking me if it was Luke I’d wanted.  "Han, it’s over.  With him,
Kyllan, I mean.   It never was . . . ."  I shrug, frustrated.  I have to
make Han understand the nature of the union, the formality of it.  "I
just haven’t had a chance to tell him.  Since I admitted my feelings for
you . . . until now, it wasn’t safe for me to travel to his planet.  It
hasn’t been since Alderaan was destroyed.  Not really.  We were to
announce our marriage after I delivered the Death Star plans.  But none
of that matters.  There’s something else."
    Han isn’t listening to me.  He’s pouring himself a glass of
Corellian brandy.  "Something else?"  He laughs, loud and bitter.
"Wait, don’t tell me, you want me and this prince to share?  Her
Royalness’s harem."
    I sink to the corner of the bed, the exact spot where he’d been
sitting.  It’s still slightly warm.  If I’d kept my mouth shut, I
might’ve been under the covers instead.  Note to self: honesty in
romantic relationships is highly overrated.  "It’s about my family."
    "Another surprise?"  He downs the shot in one gulp.  "I know, Chewie
is your brother now?  Or Lando, your long-lost second cousin."  Han
slams his empty glass onto the bar. "Wait, you’re . . . what?  Darth
Vader’s daughter, right?  I have to tell you, Your Worshipfulness,
you’ve always had one hell of a dark side."
    I don’t, can’t, don’t want to think as my feet cross the room, as my
palm cracks against the right side of his face, as I run from the cabin
and the Falcon into the forest alone.  I run faster, frightened by my
flash of anger, frightened even by my fear.
    I didn’t want to hurt Han.  I don’t want to be a Jedi and learn the
ways of the Force like my father.  I don’t want anything but to be
alone.
    In the small part of my mind that still was functioning, I can
almost hear Threepio saying, "The odds of a smuggler-turned-general
guessing the Sith parentage of an adopted princess are 8,298,923 to 1."
* * *
    The ground beneath my boots squishes with each step, reminding me of
the cave, or was it a space slug, that had almost captured Han, Chewie,
and I for dinner.  But the moisture here is thicker, heavier, and
darker.  I can hardly make out my surroundings between the murk, twisted
trees, and slithering vines.  I look over my shoulder, but nothing is
behind me but a light so bright it’s blinding.  Overwhelming in its
intensity.  Too much for me.  So I continue forward into the dusk,
parting the thick vines before me, until I reach the edge of a muddy
cliff.  I grab onto a vine, twisting it three times around my wrist to
keep from sliding down, to hold me in case the ground itself gives way.
    It’s then that I hear it.  I low hum, cold and electric.  It’s then
that I saw the blade of light, silvery and radiant.  And she
approaches.  My enemy.  A cyborg, a woman, but less than that.
Something alone.  Something without a soul.  She raises her saber to
strike, and I reach for mine – only to remember I don’t have one.  The
blade slices through me, from the crown of my skull down the length of
my spine, severing me, leaving nothing behind to heal.  Slicing even
through my scream.
* * *
    I awake at dawn in a giant tree, still shaken by the dream, and
immediately realize something furry has curled up beside me.  Relying on
half-forgotten childhood gymnastics skills, I leap from my perch onto
the next highest branch, drawing my blaster, and aiming at . . . yet
another, cute, furry, little Ewok.  This one is black and brown, wearing
a hat with curved horns on each side.  He barks and jabbers back,
suddenly equally wide awake, threatening me with his makeshift spear,
apparently insulted.
    Forgetting my manners, I say, "You’re the one who surprised me, and
I’m getting sick of you little guys anyway."  Call me a species-ist.
It’s been a long week.  From my new vantage point, I study the
surrounding area, spotting the Alliance fighters in the distance.  It’s
rumored that Luke’s is the only fighter capable of long-range travel,
though I don’t know if that’s the result of advanced tinkering or some
hocus pocus of the Force.
I point to the ship.  "You think you can get me there?"
     "Grrrrreup," the Ewok answered.  "Yub ya."
    By mid-day, I’m climbing into Luke’s cockpit, hoping he wouldn’t
mind.  Although the ships are technically Alliance property, it’s
understood that in times of relative peace pilots are allowed a certain
latitude to do with them whatever they feel necessary to the cause.
Still, "borrowing" even from my brother feels more than a little
dishonest.  I could always try to call out to him through the Force, but
no.  All the better if I simply disappear after clearing up things with
Kyllan.  It’s what my father should’ve done long ago.
* * *
     Running my fingertips over the controls, it dawns on me that the
Alliance seldom assigns women to fighter duty.  It’s understandable, of
course.  The Empire had a strict sex-discrimination policy, and we
picked up most of our pilots from the Academy drop-outs and defectors,
like Han.  Still, I could’ve probably done something to encourage female
recruitment and training.  Something between mapping out new bases,
drawing in more member planets, responding to the crisis of the moment,
and rescuing my once lost love.
    That’s it though, isn’t it?  Never enough of me, and soon none of me
at all.
    Han’ll be fine.  He’s the king of the survivors.  He can take care
of himself.  And when he can’t, there’s always Chewie.  As for Luke, no
doubt the first of the new Jedi will have plenty to occupy his time.
Prodigies to discover, young knights to train in the ways of the Force.
    Still, I feel guilty leaving him.  Something tells me Luke could use
my support in his future relationships with women.  Finding out he’s
been infatuated with his sister couldn’t have been great for his psyche.

* * *
     Hours later, clearance to land on Allynon comes quickly, with no
double checks.  Apparently news of the Emperor’s death had relaxed
protocols.  I frown in concentration, fighting to remember all that Luke
had taught me about landing.  It dawns on me then that given the proper
instructions, the automatic pilot could do the hard part.  Shaking my
head at my own foolishness, I flip a couple more switches and realize
I’m running away from home.  The home I’d made for myself after
Alderaan.  Of course, the blue-green planet Allynon is the home my
father had once intended for me, my adoptive father, Bail Organa, the
one who’d done the hard part of parenting.  Among the few remaining
royal houses, such unions are sealed shortly after the birth of the
younger party, and announced with much aplomb on his on her majority
birthday.  Mine had been three years earlier, almost four, but then it
was decided that the secret would have to stand.
     It was only nine months ago, I’d been here last, slipping away from
Han to meet Kyllan in his private chambers, disguising myself as a
maid.  "Select another bride," I’d told him, wine glass raised, eyes
met.  Even during my confession to Han, I hadn’t told him the whole
truth.  I’d known even then that it was him I wanted.  "Kyllan, we can
simply nullify our marriage."  I chose my next words carefully.
"Incompatibility, lack of consummation."
     Kyllan smiled then, the careless prince, threw his navy robe over
one shoulder and clinked his glass to mine.  "I can be patient," he
said.  "Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Leia, but exquisite, sane, smart
princesses are a rare commodity."  He lowered his voice, a glint of
amusement in his eyes.  "All that inbreeding."
     No, nothing is wrong with Kyllan, and I know most would consider it
a boon that he’d still take me in light of the fact that my planet
itself no longer even exists.  He’s well-educated, intelligent, even
charming when he makes the effort.  Better than average looking, with
the long hair I’d always preferred on a man.
     The ship touches down, and I blow out a long breath.
     It’s time to confront my husband.
* * *
     I’m not surprised to find him with two women, servant girls really,
and it amuses me how  he dispatches of them with a snap of the hand.
Bail Organa never indulged in such habits on Alderaan, at least not to
my knowledge.
     "My darling wife," Kyllan says, his arms opening wide.  "At last
you’ve come to claim your throne.  I had the material stain-proofed in
case you’re open to fulfilling some fantasies."
     I laugh, not able to help it.  "How thoughtful."
     "Impressive effort, toppling the Empire and somehow managing to
launch a . . . "  His fingertips glide down the arm of my rather rustic
dress from Endor.  "Profoundly environmental fashion statement."  Kyllan
might not inspire my passion, but he doesn’t provoke my anger either.
Is he a safer choice for a woman with Skywalker blood?  The truth is I
don’t want to be alone.  I spent enough childhood days with only Winter
to be revitalized by the company of the men of the Rebellion.  I don’t
want to give up on the idea of companionship quite so easily.  I step
into Kyllan’s arms and kiss his cheek.  It’s not the sort of kiss I’d
give Luke or Han.
     It’s something in between.
     "Excuse me, Princess," Kyllan says.  "I’ll ring for your bath and
some fresh fruit.  No, on second thought, I’ll fetch it for you myself."

     He laughs, apparently delighted with the idea of his actually
waiting on someone else, and slips out the heavy wooden door.  Kyllan
likes me.  I know that.  There’s no politic between us.  No difference
in background.  Well, in rearing anyway.  So old fashioned.  Kyllan
likes his castle this way.  All stone and tapestries.  Bells and living
servants instead of computers and droids.
     Princess.  The royalty is key to my husband, even adopted royalty.
Yes, I’m sure he knows about that, not the details of course.  But the
fact of the adoption.  I don’t remember how he knows.  Or how I know he
knows.  I’m getting tired.  My thoughts aren’t making sense to me.
     Eyeing the four-post bed, draped in gossamer netting, I curl up in
a plush, rounded chair instead.  It feels so good.  The cool of the
room.  The faint smell of cinnamon and oranges.
    Princess.  Han had called me that sometimes, before he’d first
called me Leia on the way to Bespin.  It wasn't a title to him, but a
term of endearment.  I could be a blaster-weilding, sharp-shooting,
murderously committed Rebel, but I have to be a princess too.
    He'd certainly never called me "senator."
    Princess.  It’s a whisper of a lover.  Or something a father would
call his little girl.
* * *

     After my bath and politely declining Kyllan’s offer to share his
bedsuite, I walk in the fountain-studded interior garden of the castle
grounds.  It’s a courtyard really.  Complete with blooming trees and
stone benches.  I’m too tired to fully appreciate it.  I’m even too
tired to sleep right now.
     Ahead of me on the path, I see a shimmer.  Something like the one I
spotted in front of Luke in the Endor forest, but more clear somehow.
It’s the figure of a man, though I don’t know him.  He looks like Luke
might, decades from now, if he’s blessed by the comforts associated with
the good life in his aging years.  A holosculpture, perhaps?  He’s
old-worldy enough to appeal to Kyllan’s tastes in decor.
     "Leia," it says, coming more clearly into view.
 I realize I haven’t moved, but somehow it is closer.  Somehow casual
and yet concerned.  I feel a chill.  At this point, the best I can hope
for is that it’s an illusion.  A delusion.  What was it I’d thought
yesterday?  Oh yes, stress. Fatigue.  That’s all.
     "You should be with Luke," it says.  "With Han.  This is not your
destiny."
     I know now who it is.  It’s that destiny part that tips me off and
makes me angry.  "I can create my own destiny.  I don’t need advice from
you, especially after what you did with yours."
     In the simple robes, he seems unruffled.  His gentle smile
remains.  "You must make your own lightsaber, my daughter.  The Force
will test you whether you are ready or not."
 The figure vanishes, and I realize I’m shaking.
* * *
     It’s my first morning on Allynon, and I’m surrounded by silk
coverings, by pillows decorated with tassels, with buttons, with
ribbons, and with bows..
    After my visitation, I slept mercifully the rest of last night,
curled around Kyllan in his royal bed.  Granted, I wore a silk nightgown
that remains undisturbed.  For his part, the Crown Prince’s eyes
fluttered open briefly and he awoke long enough to respond to my simply
request.
     "Just hold me," I’d said, echoing my recent words on the wooden
bridge to Han.
     And like Han, that’s what Kyllan did.  He’d just held me.
     But I wonder what will happen tonight.
* * *
     I shouldn’t have worried too much.  Like every other planet,
Allynon is scrambling to redistribute its interests in light of the
Emperor’s demise.  It’s fall-out time.  Time for minutia, realignment,
politics.  Kyllan himself is off-world for the rest of the week, leaving
me here with my thoughts.  Dangerous company.
    This morning, he kissed me goodbye, really kissed me, and I let
myself fall into it.  "Sweet," he whispered pulling back.  "But you’re
not all with me.  Decide, Princess, and let me know what you want when I
get back."  Kyllan’s fingers threaded through the hair framing my face.
"We can grow into each other.  We could even love."
    A radical concept for royals, especially in light of the tradition
of arranged marriages among some of the older and more traditional
families.  Our families.  If I’m to be considered an Organa, that is.
If I’m not a Skywalker after all.
    What am I doing?
    Kyllan needs an heir.  From me, he would get one with a potential
for Force sensitivity.  Sometimes a boon.  Sometimes a curse.  Despite
the romance of the Jedi, it’s not something most people really want to
deal with.
     I’m still here in Kyllan’s bed.  I don’t want to explore the castle
anymore, not after last night.  But it offends my sensibilities to think
I have no where to go but here.  Is this what it’s coming to?  I have no
alternatives but to hide myself in the bed of a man I’m not sure I
want?  An all-time low if I've ever heard of one.
    I take a breath, relaxing my mind, extending my senses.  If this is
the Force, right now it feels good.  I can feel the warm lights of every
soul working in the castle, the trees in the garden, the fish in the
fountain pond.  I can feel my center, and I bite back the urge to reach
across the stars, to reach for Han.
     "Princess," a voice hisses.  "Princess."
    I open my eyes to see the cyborg, the one from my dream.  She’s,
it’s gripping a lightsaber with a silver blade.
    An early education in diplomacy has taught me when to negotiate,
when to run, and when to hold my ground, fighting.  Whatever it, she is,
talking isn’t going to happen.  She stands in front of the only door.  I
have nothing but my wits with which to fight, and my mind isn’t what it
should be.  I can hardly focus.  All I know, and I know this for sure,
is that it, she is a monster sent from the Dark Side.
     "Princess," it, she whispers, only steps away now, within striking
distance.  "Princess."
     I scramble to the curled iron headboard of Kyllan’s bed.  My knees
tucked to my chin.  I’m a fool, a nothing.  It, she will kill me, and
perhaps that’s for the best.  I close my eyes.  If it’s just an
illusion, nothing will happen.  If not, I welcome the end.
     "Princess," it, she whispers.
     Somehow, I know that warning is my last.  I feel the blade rising
above my head.  I hear the cold, electric hum, louder as the blade arcs
down.  The thought "Goodbye Han" flickers through my mind, and then my
survival reflex kicks in, despite my darker wishes, and I’m rolling out
of harm’s way.  But the blade catches my shin, midway, and the pain is
so searing and fast that it takes me a moment to realize I’m screaming.
    When I open my eyes again, servants are rushing into the room.  I
call out something to warn them.  But the cyborg woman is gone, and so
is the bottom half of my right leg.
* * *
    Fine.
    I’m not unreasonable.
    I can take a hint.
    I’ll build a lightsaber, and if that thing ever reappears to me,
I’ll chop it into stir fry and sell off the electronic parts.  No more
cowering.  No more lying to myself.
    I wiggle my new toes, the finest in reconstructive engineering, or
so I’m told.  If it weren’t such a family tradition, if it weren’t for
the phantom pain, I might even find the sensation intriguing.  Kyllan is
on his way back right now.  I tried to tell him I would survive, but
he’s completely inconsolable.  He feels responsible for what happened to
me.  And that’s all the push I need.
    Once I comfort Kyllan and tell him it’s over now for sure, I’m
flying out of here.  I have no desire to complicate his life, and my
almost final thoughts have made it clear that I can’t get Han out of my
mind.  Kyllan deserves a woman who is his and his alone.
    Besides, the truth is that I have to leave for even more practical
reasons.  I don’t have the slightest clue about how to go about building
a lightsaber.
I send a message to Endor.
* * *
     That night, Kyllan simply pulls our marriage scroll from his desk,
tears it up, and tosses it into the fireplace.  Sparks fall, lit, and
our union is nothing but ashes.
     "They all know who I am," I say, taking his hand, nodding toward
the door, meaning the various servants who’ve waited on me time and time
again.  "There will be talk."
     He laughs, squeezing my hand.  "So they’ll say it was an affair.
It’ll be grand for my reputation.  Imagine me, Kyllan, having a
passionate few days with the beautiful Alderaanian Princess, or is it
the Rebel Princess now?"
     "The Jedi Princess," I say, mostly as an experiment, and fall into
his hug.
     Kyllan pulls back slightly looking down at me.  "Now, that’s an
interesting development."  He tightens his arms around me.  "Be careful,
Leia.  Whatever demons these powers carry, be careful not to lose your
true self."
     I rise to my toes to press my lips against his, once lightly, and
wish I could live more than one lifetime.  This would’ve been
comfortable, uncomplicated, sweet.
* * *
     When I climb out of the ship on Dagobah, I’m less than impressed
and more than a little curious about why exactly I left Kyllan’s lovely
palace for this swamp.  Luke is standing to one side, arms folded across
his chest, next to Artoo Detoo.
     Artoo chirps and beeps his greetings, apparently more pleased to
see me than my brother.
     I half jump, half slide into the squishy mud surface of the
planet.  "Hi."
     It’s not my most articulate greeting, but I’m feeling shy about
this Jedi business.  Luke has always been, well, like a brother to me.
But even when we’d rescued Han from Jabba on Tatooine, Luke seemed no
more than my equal.  Here, he is clearly in charge.
    "My wayward sister," he finally says.  "More or less."
    I shake my head slightly at his vague reference to my amputation and
my running away from home.  Perhaps the first time I didn’t do the most
responsible thing in the most diplomatic way, and look where it got me.
Still, there’s a gentle humor in Luke’s voice.  An understanding.  I
wonder if it was hard for him, becoming a Jedi, reconciling himself to
our legacy.  Of course Luke wasn’t whispered the truth by a loving
sibling on a forest moon.  It was shouted at him by our – by Vader
himself – in battle on Cloud City the day Luke lost his hand.
     Here, just me and him in the middle of the muck, the mist, and more
snakes than I care to imagine, he seems patient, at peace.  Maybe I’ve
been going at this all wrong.  If the Light Side of the Force can do all
that, sign me up.  "How’s Han?"
     I hadn’t planned on asking that.
     Luke takes a step closer, not even offering our standard hug of
greeting.  A formality underscores his friendliness.  "Did you ask me
here to talk about Han?"
    My voice is steady.  "I’m here to learn the ways of the Force and
become a Jedi . . . like my brother."
     So there.
     Luke’s smile is somehow simultaneously enthusiastic and distant,
amused perhaps at the challenge of me as his pupil.
    But I don’t feel all that victorious.  I really did want to know
about Han.
* * *
     I hereby vow to make sure it is recorded in the history books that
Luke Skywalker is not only a hero and a Jedi but also blue-eyed tyrant
when in charge.  Okay, that’s not exactly true.  But I have been running
for almost nineteen miles now, I have been stuck here for four months,
and I’m currently on a first name basis with all the creepy crawly
things that call Dagobah home.  It’s not as bad as it was when we first
started, when I could feel the muscles in my toes – my biological toes,
that is – when I first started levitating things.  Rocks, Luke’s ship,
Artoo.
    Little things, big things.  "Size matters not."
     Spoken like a man with an insecurity complex.
    No, I did not think that about my own brother.
    The up side is that it’s so damp and humid, I can no longer tell
what’s my own sweat.
    Luke’s ahead in the clearing, holding the lightsaber I finished just
last night.  He can’t be serious.  I’ve spent enough time practicing
with his.  I don’t have the energy to do anything more than eat whatever
is passing for dinner and then get some sleep.  On second thought,
scratch dinner.  Sleep will do.  I stagger through my last few steps,
then straighten.  After all this, I will face whatever is required
next.  With dignity and strength, like a Jedi.
    "You’re endurance has improved," Luke tells me.  "Your legs, your
lung capacity."
    I reach with the Force and take my saber from him.  It’s simple,
decorated with a traditional pattern of Alderaan.  The blade is silver,
which surprised me.  I’d thought it would be blue.  I’d built it to be
blue.
    Luke nods.  "Good, it’s time."
    Time for what?  Are we leaving now, returning to the Alliance?  I
wonder if General Solo is still on duty.  I wonder what he’ll say when I
see him next.
    "Focus, Leia," Luke says.  "There, that cave.  Your last test
awaits."
    My grip tightens on my saber.  I’m good with it.  Sharp, fast, able
to angle just right.  I’ve sparred against Luke himself and pushed his
skills.  But I hesitate at the mouth of the cave.  I don’t like tight
spaces, not since our near flattening on the first Death Star.  I
remember Han’s hands suddenly, at my waist, lifting me.
    I enter the cave.
    Within footsteps, I hear the saber and ignite mine.  It’s her, me,
whatever.  I know it.  The mist thickens a moment, and then the cyborg
me steps into view.  Her blade matches the color of mine.  I remember
the first dream, that night on Endor, being sliced through my scream.  I
feel the phantom pain of the half leg now missing.  I know it, she can
hurt me.  Or at least I know I have hurt myself through her before.  As
her blade first approaches, I parry by reflex.  Energy collides,
sizzling, and breaks apart.  She turns then, swinging, and I remember
watching General Kenobi on the Death Star.
    I know what to do.
    I extinguish my saber, no time even to pray my choice is right.
    The cyborg’s blade strikes my waist from the right side, continuing
through my middle, exiting the other side.  In that second, the Light
almost overwhelms me, and it feels cool when my instincts have readied
themselves for the burn.  Then it’s over.  Done.
    I blow out my breath, clicking my lightsaber to the belt still
circling my intact waist.  I’m as whole as I was when I entered.  The
other me is gone.
    When I stumble out, Luke offers me the first normal smile I’ve seen
from him since my training first started.  He reaches out and takes both
of my hands.
     "Well . . . ?" I ask.
    He laughs, and without knowing why I can’t help joining him.
    "Far better than I did, Leia.  Far and away."
    And here we stand in the mud, clasping hands, and laughing.  Brother
and sister, found and found again.  Artoo wheels up then, beeping and
whistling with what I’ve come to recognize as indignation.  Luke left
him behind somewhere, probably so he couldn’t stop me from entering the
cave, from trying to do what I’d just done.  Luke and I both release one
hand from each other’s and place it on Artoo.
* * *
     "Hey, I thought you two were supposed to be doing Jedi stuff, not
standing around on some backwater mud hole laughing like fools."
     Han.  He’s walking toward us, dressed in the full regalia of a
general.  Chewie stands behind him, peering suspiciously into the swamp
on either side.
     "Han, Chewie," Luke answers.  "How’ve you been?"
     "Oh, I don’t know," Han is only steps away from us now, and he
clasps Luke’s hand in greeting.  "I’ve been wiping out straggling
Imperial outposts, fidgeting through boring strategy meetings, visiting
an old friend of Leia’s on Allynon."
     Uh oh.
     Let Kyllan have said the right thing.
     Please.
     "Chewie," Luke laughs as Chewbacca pulls him into a Wookie hug.
"How ’bout you and me grab anything recognizable to eat in the Falcon
while these two . . . catch up."
     Han waits until they’re out of hearing range, keeping a few feet
between us, and says, "A Jedi Knight?  Does that mean you can do those
aerial flips Luke was practicing on Endor before he took off to meet you
in this scenic spot?"
     "Backwards," I reply, the first words we’ve exchanged since The
Fight.  "And without messing up my hair."
     He smiles at that, but there’s an edge to his expression.  I’m not
sure what kind of tension it is, but I’m hoping for the romantic kind.
I can hold my own against the Dark Side.  Even my Dark Side.  Han
deserves me, but he’s lucky to have me at that.  After all, exquisite,
sane, smart princesses are a rare commodity.  So what if I’m grimy,
frayed, and sweating right now.
     "I don’t know about that, Sweetheart," Han answers.  "You gotta
admit you’re looking a tad . . . I don’t know . . . what’s the word?  Oh
yeah, . . . scruffy-looking."
     Han, on the other hand, is spiffed and polished.  I don’t know how
he managed it walking here from the Falcon, but even his boots still
gleam.
     "I talked to Kyllan," he says.  "Helluva guy.  Prince of a guy, as
a matter of fact."  Han’s grin falls a bit, but curls to one side, his
voice more serious.  "He told me the marriage was history, that you were
never lovers, that he regarded you as a dear friend."
     I could reach out my hand and touch Han’s face, but I hold myself
still.  "Anything else?"
     Han slides the back of a few fingers down one side of my face,
tucking stray hair behind my ear into the mess of braids curled at the
back of my head.  "Kyllan said it wasn’t for a lack of his trying and
that I’d have to be the biggest fool in the galaxy to let you go."  Han
lowers his face closer to mine, so I can feel his breath.  "Chewie
decided he was right."
     "Chewie decided?" I breathe.
     Han smoothes more of my moist hair behind my other ear.  "Chewie’s
fond of you."
    "Very fond?" I ask.
    "Yeah, very -- "
     I rise on my toes to kiss him then, silencing the rest of his
banter, and it isn’t like any of the kisses we’ve shared before.  Not an
introduction.  Not a congratulation.  Not a confirmation.  Not a maybe
goodbye.  This kiss promises a lifetime more.  It says no more hiding.
It says let’s become lovers tonight.
     When we finally separate a bit, arms still intertwined, we continue
holding each other as we finally walk to Falcon and our new lives.  I
see a glimmer, a light in the trees.  And somehow I know, somehow I’ve
always seen glimmers that couldn’t really be written off to stress or
fatigue.  Three figures, one I recognize as my father, Anakin Skywalker,
one as General Kenobi, and the third as an oddly wisened-looking little
gnome.
    I still have to tell Han about mine and Luke’s parentage.  And about
my new lower limb.  But all that can wait until tomorrow.  Or perhaps
next year.