.

The Attempt

The sudden noise was out of place.

Unexpected.

Triggering.

The second noise followed it so immediately that it was psychological whiplash, confusing her ability to process the scene.

She had taken a pause, allowing the last few sentences she'd spoken to resonate with the audience, and in that pause, there was a deadly whistling, a crack-snap, brutal fiery popping noise that was high-pitched and terrible all at once; immediately upon hearing the sound, her senses flared. She flinched, she inhaled, unsure if she was truly smelling burning carbon, or if the memory of it was just that strong, and one of her hands flew to her waist, where once-upon-a-time she had worn a blaster antithetical to the culture she'd been raised in.

Had she imagined it?

Time slowed around her. Her ears rang. Slowly, ever so slowly, or so she thought, she blinked, but she failed to visually process the scene around her. Perhaps because it was happening simultaneously lightening fast, and excruciatingly slow. She had the brief, fleeting thought - was that a blaster bolt? was it two? - and she had no time to answer her own confusion, to turn her head and use her senses to evaluate the moment, because one moment she was standing, her eyes gliding boldly over the crowd before her, and the next she was flat on the surface she'd been standing on, shoved so unceremoniously to the floor, nearly crushed beneath a responding body, that she lost her breath.

Finding herself suddenly trapped, she fought the immediate urge to begin screaming. Her unshakable, dreadful fear of being held down resurfaced like it hadn't in years, and she tried to jerk away on instinct, her heart pounding. Just as swiftly, she reached inside herself and grasped the Force with a practiced, intangible hand, drawing it around herself to cloak her mind in serenity and strength, forcing her senses into compliance.

That was a blaster bolt, she thought firmly. No; it was two.

The smell filled her nostrils. The sound rang in her ears. She tried to figure out if she was hurt, but all she could think about was the fact that she was being held down.

A blaster bolt - two; someone had fired twice. At her?

She coughed, and fought the rising panic in her, trying to order the person to get off of her, despite having some awareness now, that it was for her own protection. She was on the verge of regaining her voice when all at once, she became utterly aware of the familiar scent surrounding her, and the weight let up a little.

"Han?" she breathed, more in confusion than anything else.

Han, Han was on top of her?

Her hands scraped at him, pushing and holding all at once, as she clung to the Force, letting it soothe her, make her more and more aware of her surroundings. The cacophony around her was rising; screams, outraged shouts, gasps of shock - general melee, she realized, and she dug her nails desperately into her husband's shirt - he had been sitting in the front row for her speech, the front row on the end, slouching in his seat with a charming grin on his face. He always attended her big events, and he always reminded people he was no nobleman. He was a good husband and an even better father, but he wasn't an aristocrat, and he didn't want anyone to ever forget it.

Had he tackled her? Why? Was he hurt?

Leia drew in a deep breath and drew one of her knees up, trying to struggle free, trying to orient her vision. Shadows cast over her, and she knew she was surrounded. Was there still a threat? She heard him groan softly and suck in his breath, and she realized, appalled, that she'd shoved her knee directly into his groin. He was sprawled over her like a shield, his knees on either side of her, chest bearing down on her head.

"Let me up," she said, turning her head up sharply, her lips moving against his neck. "Han, let me up. Please. Get off of me."

He relaxed enough that she didn't feel so trapped, and he rose up a little, but he did not stop covering her. He reached out to touch her face and she blinked wildly, staring at him as his face came into focus. His eyes were so full of fear - his pupils so dilated that his eyes were nearly black. The muscles in his neck stood out, his jaw was tight, and the pallor of his skin was worse than she'd seen it since - since Tatooine, perhaps.

How had he gotten on the stage so quickly? Yes, he'd been sitting in the front row, but if she thought about it - there were mere seconds, seconds, between the shots she'd heard, and his body covering hers.

She shifted her legs, and Han immediately shifted his hips, an act of self-preservation he did on instinct. She felt an absurd urge to laugh - what did this look like, the Chief of State, flat on her back on stage, her husband straddling her? Fully clothed or not, it had to look comical, or salacious, or both, and it was probably a fair symptom of shock for her to feel unreasonably giddy for a moment.

The venue was pandemonium. Above her, beyond Han's head, Leia could see the sky, glittering with afternoon sunlight. An open air venue. An outdoor speech.

There seemed to be a good bit of swearing going on about her, but the screaming appeared to have died down.

"Is she alright?"

That was Carlist, his tone haggard, anxious, and angry.

"General Solo, the threat is neutralized."

That was the cool, professional tone of Lausta, head of Leia's security. She had done the job for years, from a time when Leia was merely a high-level ambassador, throughout her tenure as Vice Chief, and of course, now, when Leia served as Chief of State.

Han didn't move. Leia raised her eyes to his. She shook her head just slightly. She wasn't hurt. That, she was sure of. Was he?

Swallowing hard, Han turned his head slightly. She blinked, squinting her eyes as sun streamed over her face.

"Where's the body?" Han growled dangerously.

How many seconds, minutes, had passed? Leia sat up boldly, shoving against Han. He sat back, but caught her. His hands shook, and she wondered if he held onto her for her own protection, or to reassure himself that she was there, that she was unharmed. The security officers who surrounded them, posted in a tight circle on stage, all had weapons drawn.

"The assassin is dead, Han. I saw the body."

That was Tavska.

Assassin.

An unsuccessful one, at that. Leia's thoughts were grim, and shocked. There were always credible threats against her, but had one really almost come to fruition? Sharply, she realized that if the threat was no more, then the second shot she'd heard, in such quick succession, was Lausta - or one of the others - responding to the attack. Damn efficient; damn good of them.

A sharp, panicked feeling rolled down her spine and she winched, touching her fingertips to her head. Yes, quite a bit of stress and turmoil was emanating off of Han, and her as well; it was unsurprising that the children picked up on it. At home, Max was sobbing, overwhelmed by emotions he didn't understand. Noura whimpered and sucked her thumb, like she did when she was nervous, and Jaina was upset, too, probably spitting teeth at Yorev and Gareth. Swiftly, Leia locked away her emotions, instead radiating calm towards them to ease their distress.

Don't let them have been watching, she thought desperately, please.

Jaina so liked to see Mommy on the Holo.

She let Han help her up, her teeth grinding together hard. Anger, and determination, filled her, crystallizing in her blood like ice, like steel. How long had it been since she had heard the crack of a blaster bolt, since she had faced the prospect of death? She wasn't used to it. She hadn't...she hadn't looked potential death in the eyes since she had much, much less to lose.

Lausta took one of her arms, and Han had the other. Their grips, and their faces, suggested she would immediately be escorted out, and her eyes flickered to the Holofilm that held her neatly outlined speech notes. She set her jaw. When she rose, and the crowd saw her, disheveled, wrinkled, but evidently unharmed, she heard a collective sigh, and one shout of relief. Carlist stepped up to block her from the crowd's view. He met her eyes, and the wrinkles etched into his kind face seemed so old and tired, so deeply offended.

She wondered how close the bolt had come.

"This way, Madam Chief," Lausta said firmly.

Leia took two steps, and then stopped, removing her arm from the officer's grip. Lausta stared at the place where it had been in surprise. Clearly, she expected no resistance; in most circumstances, if Lausta and her colleagues had wanted to spirit Leia away, she'd have had no chance of eluding them.

She turned her head. The crowd before her, once calm and sedate, settled in their chairs to listen, was now filled with beings on their feet. Necks craned, eyes wide, hands clasped at their faces or their chests, watching. Waiting. A wide berth marked a spot near the back where Leia deduced the body of the assassin must lay; it was a testament to Lausta's skill that only one returning shot had been fired, and no bystander had been wounded. Leia fixed her eyes on the spot for a moment, and held her hands out, gesturing the small gathering away from her.

"I am not going in," she said curtly.

Lausta, for once, seemed baffled. She stared at Leia, her jaw open. Carlist folded his arms, skeptical. Han, of course, seized her elbow. His lips drew back in a snarl and he leaned down, expressing aggression that he rarely - if ever - directed at her. His touch was not rough, but his eyes were hard, his words iron.

"The hell you aren't," he growled.

She looked back at him with calm understanding. She knew his fear. She could feel it pulsing through him, seeping out through is palm into her skin and radiating through her. But fear was the last thing on her mind. It had struck her, and just as coolly, she'd locked it away; she was good at that. Her tenure in Mon Mothma's position was still relatively fresh and she would not, she would not have it characterized by this moment, not if this moment ended in her fleeing in terror to hide.

Instead of answering Han, she looked at Lausta coolly.

"You are certain the threat is neutralized?" she asked.

Lausta shut her mouth, and then put a hand to her heart.

"I killed the known assassin," she said shortly. "The lack of ensuing incident implies it was a lone actor."

She carefully did not vouch for Leia's total safety, and Han's grip tightened.

"Let's go, Leia."

"No," she said simply.

Carlist looked as if he had half a mind to help Han haul her off. He certainly was looking at Han thoughtfully enough, and Leia slipped her elbow away from Han gently before the two of them could get any ideas. She still felt cocooned in the surrealism of it. She was used to this sort of thing, wasn't she? It had been a long time, but she hadn't forgotten.

She moved to step past Carlist to her podium, but Han cut her off, his eyes flashing.

"No," he snapped, his voice low in the back of his throat. "No, Leia."

"I am finishing this speech, Han," she said quietly.

She rested a hand on his. He flexed his fingers. He glared at her, and his jaw tightened, and whatever he saw in her eyes, he didn't seem to think he could argue with it, but a soft, pleading light flashed in his eyes - please, don't do this, he seemed to beg.

She did it anyway, but with something tugging at her heart, nagging at the back of her mind - was she showing strength, or stupidity? She plucked Han's hand off of her, and shoved past Carlist, staking her place at the podium. She stood, silent, for a long time, and she was sure she looked as cold as they'd ever seen her. When finally she spoke, her voice was in command, bold, but light.

"If you would all retake your seats," she began graciously. "I do promise you, I am not that easy to silence."

She paused, and let her lips turn up wryly.

"Thank you, Lausta," she said, inclining her head at the woman, "for that talented display. It certainly makes a point for the next one, does it not? Try harder."

There was nervous laughter. Behind her, some of Lausta's women fanned out; others hopped down, their boots sounding off with hollow thuds as they took up posts along the front of the stage. Curiously, Leia noticed that some of them had produced rifles, which they held across their chests expertly. Where in the stars had they been hiding those?

Some took their seats, others remained standing. Local peacekeepers were quietly attending to the body in the back. Han's seat in the front remained empty. Lausta placed herself at Leia's left shoulder, and Han, too, refused to budge. Out of the corner of her eye, Leia saw him unlatch the holster at his hip, and remove his blaster in one threatening, fluid motion. From a political standpoint, the standpoint of a leader and a peacemaker, she wasn't sure she liked the display of visual violence, but she knew better than to try to make Han disarm himself.

Leia let silence reign for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. She had not released her hold on the Force. Was Luke watching this somewhere, was Rouge, was her father? When she watched it back later, what would the broadcast show - how would she see herself, and the chaos around her? He wasn't touching her, but still, Han's fear was palpable; she could almost taste his heartbeat and the anxious horror pinching his nerves.

With so many eyes upon her, she resumed her speech, her voice rising and rising, fierce and regal and unbowed. Periodically, her eyes flicked towards her husband as he stood there, just slightly forward of her, his blaster held just so, not pointing at this crowd, but menacing it all the same - a sworn shield if there ever was one. She couldn't hear herself speak, but she finished every word of what she'd meant to say, and the applause that roared in her ears at the end of it drowned out anything else. She had never been one to bask in attention and applause, and she did not now, either, but she was proud not to have been shaken by this act, proud that whatever damage this attempt had sought to cause had been so seamlessly prevented.

An ache started in her ribs and shoulders, muscles protesting the rough way she'd been tossed to the floor, though she bore no resentment towards Han. Those aches confirmed she was alive, and so did the rush of blood in her ears, and the three bundles of emotion in her heart that tied her to her children, and the warm, desperate way Han held her arm when she finally let him whisk her away, the smoldering echo of the blaster bolts still ringing in her ears.