Disclaimer: Star Wars and all related characters, places, and events do not at all belong to me. I make no claim to them, they make no claim to me. I'm just taking them down to the park for a few minutes.

Rating/Warnings: K+; a few oblique references to torture

Time frame: Shortly (very shortly) after the destruction of Alderaan.

Notes: As tends to happen when I'm in a dark place, my writing took a turn for the dark (though not to say that most of my stuff is cheerful, per se). Honestly though, I do not think that this time period can be anything but dark. Watching your world - your home, your father, your people (who you feel responsible for, both as their Senator and as their Princess) - be utterly destroyed, with the belief that it was your own failings and fault that brought on their destruction? I'm not sure how Leia's state of mind could be anything but dark. And yet, when Luke walks into her cell, Leia has a quip on her tongue and fire in her eyes, and she's so so angry and ready to fight - which is a far cry from crushing despair, or even shock. All that to say: I wanted to write something that explored Leia's mind during this point in time, and see potentially how (and why) she was acting as she did in the movie, as well as explore some more of her and Luke's twin bond.

*Edited 1/7/2015* I noticed there were flow issues with the middle section. Those are now (hopefully) fixed.

Enjoy!

-Home-

She should be screaming. Weeping. Cursing.

She should be tearing at the guards, calling curses down upon their heads and upon their houses, fingers clawing bloodily at their blank face plates and feet kicking uselessly at their sheer, white armor. She should be running, legs that have forgotten that they can barely bear her weight carrying her down the glittering, shadowed corridors, the shock thundering into her knees, her hips, her mind with a roar terrible enough to match that in her heart.

She should be dead, a blaster bolt in her brain. Her flesh melted and burned. Her bones ash and dust.

She should be…something.

Not silence.

Not stillness.

Not such utter emptiness that it feels as if it will consume her very spirit any instant. Any second. Drag her down into the darkness that swirls, tantalizing and alluring, at the bottom of a whispering well made of shadow and promising peace.

She lays on the hard ledge where the Stormtroopers dumped her, eyes open but sightless, the ceiling of her hated prison little more than a grey and white blur above her. She cannot—does not—move, but for the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes in. Out.

She realizes, somewhere in the very darkest recesses of her mind—the guarded places, the corners and crevices left unscarred, unscathed by green fire and brimstone and a blossom of crimson, a hand clad in black, a gleaming needle and the echo of her screams—that it is ironic that, only now, have they managed to break her. That only now—after their toys were laid to rest, the pain and terror and sick taste of blood burning in the back of her throat stolen away from her and locked out of reach—does she want to die.

And she does. She wants to die.

And yet she cannot even seem to have the satisfaction of such a victory, for the instincts of her body to survive are greater than the crushing hollowness that yawns within her. Her own body betrays her, denies her this one final thing for which she prays.

But can her prayers even now be heard? Can her gods exist, when her world does not? Or did they burn with the stone of the mountains and the water of the oceans and the flesh of her people? Can ash and dust hear prayer?

A foolish question, really.

Please, she prays, one final time. Deliver me. It is desperate, and it is pathetic. Weak. Foolish. She knows naught will heed her plea.

Then darkness takes her—and for an instant, in the limbo between consciousness and sleep, she thinks that her prayer has been answered.

The water sighs softly against the shore, the waves lapping against the smooth pebbles and laughing as they spray white foam across the sand. The sky is a brilliant, peerless blue, with only a handful of thick white clouds burbling across the heavens, slow and cumbersome and full of pregnant peace. Birdsong and the chitter of insects hum counterpoint to the soughing of the breeze and the shushing of the water, lilting a glorious symphony to the sweet air.

She knows this place.

Turning, she looks up, to behold an old stone house standing upon a bluff overlooking the water. Arches gleam in the sunlight, cut glass and colored stones shimmering and shining with a thousand hues from amid the sandy rock that forms walls and bridges and walkways. The green of carefully manicured gardens is just visible above one wall top, the leafy fronds dancing fondly at the caress of the breeze.

She smiles, slow and happy.

"It's been a long time."

She looks down quickly, not quite able to keep from jumping at the sudden proximity of another human, instinctively flinching away from touch. But she needn't have feared—a little boy of nine or ten stands a few feet to her right, his sandy-blond hair flopping gracelessly into sky blue eyes and almost hiding the gleeful gleam hidden in that startling gaze.

"Do I know you?" she asks, hesitantly, taking a half step backwards, away from the strange child who regards her with such familiar intensity.

"Of course you do," the little boy grins. And then he blinks, and his eyes are darker now, the deeper blue of a summer sea tinted within the desert sky. His hair, as it rustles in the breeze, seems shorter too, and less tangled. "We used to play here together. Don't you remember?"

She kneels. Glances up at the house for a second time. "No, I don't," she shakes her head. And then, "Well…" She shrugs. "I don't know," she confesses quietly, with an soft sigh. Hesitates."It's like I know this place—as if I've been here before, though only in a dream. Or a dream of a dream."

"What else do you think this is?" the boy asks.

She frowns, her eyes remained fixed upon a balcony just visible around the curve of the house. Irritation at the nebulous, drifting recognition that lurks just on the edge of her perception. "A make believe palace, where the white knight marries the princess?" she grumbles, after a pause of thought. "Where they can live happily ever after," she adds with a vehemence—and a longing—that she does not understand. Then she huffs, and shakes her head again. "I don't know what this place is."

The little boy sits, crossing his legs beneath him before grinning up at her once more. "We used to play here," he repeats.

"I don't remember that either." She sits as well, plopping down on the pebbles and sand and crossing her legs beneath her, mirroring the little boy's pose.

"Well, do you remember me?" he asks. And she suddenly finds herself drowning in his azure gaze, his eyes meeting hers and swallowing her whole.

She hesitates again. Casts her mind back. "Yes," she whispers softly. "I remember you from my dreams, at least." And she does, somewhere. His eyes, his voice, running through the gardens like a desert shadow.

"Good," he says, and he smiles, brilliant and warm and full of joy. "That's something, at least," he grins brightly.

"But now," the boy announces, and abruptly he stands once more, all levity draining from his face as he regains his feet, "now it is time for you to go."

"Go?" she echoes, not quite understanding. "But…"

'But I do not want to go,' she wants to say. 'I want to stay here with you. Where I feel safe, and whole.'

And the little boy holds out his hand to her, his small fingers tightening around hers with the surety and strength only of youthful vigor. "Come," he commands. He smiles once more then, looking at her, warm and hopeful and content. "It's not over," he promises. "But it is time for you to find your own way home."

And then he pulls her to her feet.

The hiss of the cell door opening drags her out of the blessed darkness and for an instant—and instant—she almost wants to scream. Can they give her no peace?

Come…

She turns, opening her eyes, lifting her head. The first sparks of a fire ripple through her, burning beneath her skin and sinking talons into her heart.

It's not over.

She sees a Stormtrooper standing in the doorway, stock still, as if shocked or dazed. Contempt wells up in her breast, bitter and black and sludgy, and the first quip that comes to her mind falls from her lips, "Aren't you a little short for a Stormtrooper?"

"What? Oh. The uniform." And she frowns, because her disdain did not consider confusion, or speech at all—only return contempt from the faceless cruelty hiding behind the mask.

And then the Trooper reaches up and yanks off his helmet, sending sandy blond hair flopping gracelessly into sky-and-ocean eyes.

"I'm Luke Skywalker. I'm here to rescue you."

It is time for you to find your own way home.

Fin

End notes: Remember, reviews are love (and I would dearly like to hear your thoughts)!