This story in three parts was written in response to an announcement that a Star Wars extended universe author intends to write "the final word" by killing off Luke, a part of the already heated EU writers' race to see which of them can make the characters die off and/or suffer the most.

Part 1

The final moments; the end of her long life was at hand - she could feel its measured approach. She had the ability to stave it off for a few meager weeks, but in truth, there was no point. Death was something she'd looked forward to for too many years now, a release longed-for, and she faced its welcoming embrace like a child turning his face to the sun for warmth. But as she prepared to consign herself to the Force, a single, niggling doubt crept in. There was, she knew, one aspect of her existence she had never adequately come to terms with, and she could not, in good conscience, withdraw from her painful life without addressing that shortfall: She had never managed to forgive her father.

Oh, the hatred she had once felt for all he'd done was gone; with her brother's help, she'd managed to banish that. But forgiveness was more difficult, considering the history they'd shared before either had known of the paternal relationship. Yet forgiveness was what was required, she realized - knowing she'd be unable to will herself into oneness with the Force without it. The sheer tenacity of her resentment had always held her back from a full demonstration of her Force-ability (or perhaps she'd held herself back subconsciously as punishment for her lack). Death would eventually come, but it would be a painful, lingering, and unpleasant death. So, with the matter-of-fact bluntness and bald-faced courage that was her trademark (and which, had she known it, she'd inherited wholesale from her unforgiven father), she squarely faced her last trial, determined to smite her resentment asunder.

It was not as easy as it sounded. Her beloved brother, now dead these many years, had found forgiveness in his heart almost immediately. He'd had the special gift of being able to see the best in everyone, regardless of their present condition, and to translate this ability into not only forgiveness, but love. He'd managed not only to salvage the last dregs of humanity from their father, but to return the woman he'd later married from the darkness as well. But, as she'd often lamented, Leia was not her twin brother. Her faith was just not that strong; she required facts.

Unfortunately, she knew, the only facts about her father she'd ever had at her disposal were all negative, except for her brother's final report. And, for all she never doubted her brother's word, she herself had not been present to witness their father's heroic dying act, whereas she had been painfully present during several of his more heinous transgressions. And where, in another time and place, she might have been able to retrieve some bare information about her father's early good deeds from the holonet, that information was sorely lacking as well, erased in total when she was still a baby by the very man she now needed it to understand.

Leia stared down at the lightsaber she'd constructed under her brother's tutelage, at her initials engraved inside the lip of the cowling: L.O.S. She would have to call the visions; meditate until the Force showed her the past she'd always refused to face: her parents' - her real parents' - past, which she was, to put it bluntly (but truthfully, she admitted resolutely), afraid to see. The excuse she'd always given herself was that she needed to keep those visions at bay lest she be swept into hatred for the man whose name she refused to call her own all over again, which she was afraid might happen if she allowed herself to witness his descent into darkness. There was nothing she could imagine that should have tempted him to choose such evil and temporal power over love, yet he had obviously done so. She really didn't think that knowing the sordid details could possibly help her forgive him, but there was nothing else to be done. She had to at least try. At least, she reflected, she no longer had anything left to lose.

She closed her eyes in meditation, settling herself as for her usual session. When she was comfortable enough there, cautiously, she opened her mind just a sliver, hesitantly releasing herself to whatever the Force might need to show her. But she was not quite prepared for the onslaught.

The gritty childhood of a boy born into slavery passed into her view. She saw him grow, loved by his long-suffering mother, finally freeing himself with a selfless act, leaving to join the Jedi. Hope and death both surrounded him, and watching from her isolated vantage point, she saw him for what he was: a vortex where evil and good came together and vied for supremacy, the catalyst of a cosmic battle. She saw him grown, saw him fall in love; felt with him the terrible guilt of his mother's death. His dark reaction she now saw as preordained from a battle waged over his soul years before the event; a battle in which he himself had not been allowed to participate. She choked, sobbing, overcome with raw emotion, and broke the connection, lying down on the floor, exhausted. She understood him now, understood also why her brother had always been so concerned about her own ability to withstand the dark side. Their father was not the emperor's reflection, as she'd always assumed. Luke had been right about him. How sad that she had refused to see that for so many years, kept in blithe ignorance by her own fear. She felt ashamed. And in her shame, her penitence, her exhaustion, an old woman, she fell asleep.

And dreamed ...

We can keep it a secret ... a secret ... a secret ... This is the happiest day of my life ... happiest day ... You die in childbirth ... I won't let it happen.

Become my apprentice ... Just help me save Padme's life ...

Her eyes snapped open, hot with tears as she gasped for air. "No!" she thought, realizing only belatedly that she'd also spoken aloud. "No, that can't ..." but she knew without a doubt that it was, in fact, the horrible truth. Her father had turned to the dark side out of love for her mother. In an act of final desperation, with nothing left to live for, he'd sold his soul to save her life - for all that it had been in vain.

Was she, then, any different? If given the smallest glimmer of hope that she could have saved the lives of her children, or her husband, or her brother (or, she thought somberly, the people of Alderaan) - would she have chosen differently? She was honest enough to know she would have done as her father had. She would.

Except that there were, of course, the matter of his evil deeds. Her own experiences with her father twenty years after his choice aside, the cries of the children who'd trusted him - children he'd ruthlessly sacrificed less than an hour after his decision was made - still rang in her heart. And, while acknowledging that she'd make the same desperate choice, she knew also that she would never be able to carry through with it once she knew what was required. Yet, oddly, even this she now understood, now that she'd seen the whole man and knew the whole story. He'd been born a slave, and had remained one all his life - not just to the Hutts and later to the emperor as Vader, but for all the time in between as well. He was, more than anyone before or since, a slave to destiny. His soul had been at the center of a maelstrom - an imbalance in the Force, which had required his sacrifice to set right. But despite his destined role, her father was no god - he was a man like any other. So in the end, he'd gotten it wrong - and assumed the cosmic aberration as his own. He'd come to believe that he himself must be evil. Once he had accepted that, he could do evil deeds - because that was what an evil person did; it required no thought or consideration - once he had turned, he had, in effect, given up fighting against the current. The battle had tipped towards evil thirteen years before; the selfless boy had descended into hell. It had not escaped Leia's notice that her father's screams had been mixed in with those of the children he'd killed. He had been lost; the screams the death throes of a good man's soul. No, it was no real wonder that her father had been lost in just that way. What astounded her was that her brother had somehow been able to reach him all those years later, and convince him of his lost goodness. That was the true surprise. He had been reached. Peace had been restored to the galaxy; balance returned to the Force. She had been wrong to doubt her father. Forgiveness was not simply possible, it was automatic; this obstacle to her own full potential no longer existed. Unfortunately, however, the very ease with which it was removed set a larger block in her path: She could not now forgive the Force itself for treating her father - or anyone - in such a callous manner.

He had been no more than a pawn for the Force to use. Yes, one could argue that he still had free will, but in truth the boy had been lost since the end of the battle of fate. He was unprepared, not properly trained for the unique role he had to play. Nor were there any left capable of training him. The battle itself had ensured that the only person remaining who knew the true state of the cosmos was firmly on the side of evil. Obi-Wan had done the best he could with what he'd had, but it wasn't enough; with time he might - would - have become the teacher her father had needed, but he was only a fresh graduate himself, and though a talented Jedi and excellent role model, he lacked the experience to train someone whose needs were unprecedented. She did not blame him. Nor did she blame the old Jedi Order, who admitted their reservations about his training from the beginning. Yes, they had gone through with it, but what choice, really, had they had? If they had refused, the Sith Lord would simply have been waiting at the door to the temple to collect what they had cast off - by then, old Palpatine was already aware of her father's existence and what he represented.

But the callousness of the Force towards her family had not ended there. Alderaan had to fall before it was satisfied. Alderaan, a peaceful, good, weaponless planet. Billions of people, sacrificed. The Empire had been responsible, yes, but behind that was the Force. Her brother could not have reached their father in time to prevent that - neither had known of the other's existence. And while she had, in some sense, known her father as an acquaintance, there had been nothing up until that time that suggested - even after the fact - that she could have done the same; no lost opportunity presented itself to her, even now after years of reflection.

With a wrench, she stopped the thought, grimacing, and swallowed. The block had not originated with the revelation about her father, she realized. It had been there a long time - years, since her homeworld was first destroyed. She'd buried it; the Force had provided a long-lost twin brother for her as compensation. But the resentment had never gone away. Luke might have been some compensation for her alone, but he could not substitute for the countless who'd died or lost loved ones in the attack. And, try as she would to push the thoughts away - even Alderaan wasn't the end of the matter.

Her own life had been singularly painful. She had not only lost the only parents she'd ever really known in a tragic disaster, she'd lost everyone else close to her as well - her husband, her three children, and her brother. It was as if she was meant to pay for the transgressions her father had committed before his redemption. She felt guilty for thinking so - it seemed trivial in comparison to the destruction of Alderaan - but the resentment over it filled her nonetheless. None of it made sense, she thought. Why should her children be taken so early? What had they done? And why her brother - her wonderful, patient brother, who had brought their father back to the light? None of it was fair. (Life isn't fair, someone else's voice said in her mind. She'd repeated it to herself enough in the past, and even acknowledged it to be true. But she'd always believed it in a random sense, unlike what she was uncovering about her family. Some sort of intelligence had been required at the onset to know that balance needed restoring - taken in that light, her family's treatment seemed singularly cruel.)

It was no use, she thought bitterly. She supposed she was doomed to die a slow, lingering death, full of pain as her life had been. Understanding her father had not been the root of her problem after all. She sighed and closed her eyes.

And then opened them as she felt a familiar presence nearby.

"Leia, you can't just give up," said her brother. He knelt in front of her, the blue glow of his incorporeal form casting a shadowless light in a small circle around them. His features remained comparatively young, though they were twins, frozen at the age he'd been when he'd died those many years ago.

"Go away," she said coldly.

"Leia ..."

"You're not here," she told him bluntly. "It's been too long. That's what Obi-Wan told you, isn't it? You get ten, fifteen years, at the most and then you have to move on. You're past your expiration date, Luke. You're not really here; you're just my imagination - my wishful thinking." Her eyes began to tear up. "Go away."

He sighed and regarded her, crossing his arms, but he didn't disappear. She glared at him.

"If you believe it's not me," he finally said, "Then you really can't just give up."

She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away, determined to ignore him if he wouldn't do as she wished.

"Because if I'm just your imagination," he continued, "Then it's you telling yourself to not give up."

Exasperated, she turned on him.

"Why?" she demanded hotly. "So I can go on suffering like this? Isn't the Force done with me yet? Is that it?"

He said nothing, simply regarded her with a pitying look, and waited.

"That's my role, isn't it?" she spat at him viciously. "To suffer. To pay for Vader's sins? I don't know why it took me so long to see that, but that has to be what it is. It's not like I had any other destiny."

"You know we both of us were destined ..."

"No we weren't," she interrupted. "YOU were. Not me. Never me. I've always just been the spare - and since a spare wasn't needed, I did just fine and dandy as the whipping boy."

"No, Leia ..."

"YES!" she insisted. "Look at the facts, Luke. What did I do, really, that someone else in the Alliance couldn't have done just as well? Nothing! You were the only one of us necessary. The only role left - the only one that makes any sense, considering what my whole life has been like, is that I was created to take the punishment for Vader's actions."

He was silent for a moment, regarding her, and she knew he was just waiting to see if she was finished speaking. Finally he said quietly, "Maybe you have some other role you haven't considered yet."

She rolled her eyes.

"Maybe?" she repeated sarcastically.

He had the grace to look away, but he said, "I didn't say it as a platitude, Leia." He looked back at her. "The Force is strong in our family. Stronger than in any other. Think beyond the obvious. If you've seen something out of balance, what would be necessary to fix it?"

She stared at him, unable to believe he was so naive.

"Are you kidding?" she said at last. "I'd have to change the past!"

He regarded her steadily.

"Well, then?" he prompted.

She blinked.

"What?"

"Change the past."

"You mean I can?"

"You don't know unless you try."

"Oh," she said dully, the small spark of hope that had kindled within her extinguished. "And here I thought you were telling me you knew."

"It's not me, remember?" he needled her. "It's just your own imagination. Your own hope, incidentally. You thought of it, not me. I'm past my expiration date."

She looked away in disgust.

"Thanks a lot, Luke," she said, sarcasm back in her voice. "That was so helpful."

Her voice fell on silence. When she looked back, her brother's ghost was gone. Tears welled up at the separation; she'd long ago passed the period of dull listlessness. The pain of her loss was real and hurt whether she confronted it or not.

"He wasn't really here anyway," she said, trying to console herself, and failing miserably. He should have been, she couldn't help thinking. And not as a ghost. He should have been here himself - all of us should. After a moment, she conscientiously added, including our real father. And the injustice of it all threatened to overwhelm her once again.

Only this time a small doubt crept in.

She tried to shove it away, that suggestion her brother (or had it been herself?) had made. No one could change the past (could they?). She didn't want the hope, especially for something so ridiculous it was doomed to failure (wasn't it?). She was not going to hope it would work - she was in enough pain already without adding to it needlessly herself. She would not hope. She wouldn't.

But she could prove to herself that it wouldn't work. (Did she think that?)

She huffed and bit her lip.

Okay, she thought. Yes, I can do that. I can prove it won't work (but it's going to hurt anyway when it doesn't). That's okay, if I don't try I'll never stop hoping it would have worked anyway. It's going to be unpleasant enough as it is, without adding that to it.

It wasn't terribly difficult to decide what it was that she must change. The moment had seemed so obvious to her, looking back with the foreknowledge she had. And it had to be a single moment - choices, happenstance - they were all dependent on each other - she could only change one; it had to count. Thwarting her father's fateful decision would require more than simply stopping him at that instant; Palpatine already had him - had had him for a long time - he'd simply try again and the outcome would be the same. She had to stop him before Palpatine entered her father's picture. With that in mind, there was only one thing she could change that had a chance of altering the outcome.

She closed her eyes, trying to center herself once more in the Force (the hated Force). Did it really mean for her to do this (why not?). Why put her through all that just so that she would? (Because if you had anything left to live for, you wouldn't want it changed, idiot!)

Her eyes snapped open. If it worked, she might not exist, she realized. If Palpatine had not poisoned her father's mind against the Jedi Code, he might have remained celibate no matter what he felt for her mother. And while right now nonexistence sounded sublime to her, did she really have the right to do that to her brother? Yes, his life had ended too quickly, but he'd been reasonably happy up until then. She didn't really think what she was considering would work, but suppose it did? Could she do that? Did she have the right to do it?

Do you really have to even ask? she heard the echo of Luke's voice in her head. If it could save him? Not to mention countless others - you know, like the entire population of Alderaan ...

She took a deep breath and let it out. If there was any chance at all it could work, she'd have to go very deep within the Force; deeper than she'd ever allowed herself to go. And she was not happy with the hand that had been dealt her (she stoically directed herself not to think of her long-dead husband when she used that metaphor). It was possible she could end up lost in the darkness if it did not work - her anger at the futility, the unfairness of their family's lot, the callousness of the Force (and not even to her family, but to all of Alderaan, and all Palpatine's victims). There would then be nothing for her; she would be dead, lost (although there might be the same nothingness even if she won).

It was only then that she knew what had really held her back all these years - the fear that she would somehow turn out like her father had. And now the moment was upon her. She would have to let go; there was absolutely no chance the gambit would work if she did not. She was either dark or she was not, there would be no denying it.

In her mind's eye she saw her husband's crooked smile and laughing eyes, as he had looked before he'd lost Chewie. She remembered how he'd looked when she'd first seen him, all indignant and gorgeous. He'd told her she'd had him hooked the moment she'd grabbed Luke's blaster and blown a hole in the wall. She remembered his smart-assed reply when she'd finally told him she loved him, just before she was certain he was about to be killed. She remembered his astonished and impressed reaction when he'd found out exactly what she had done to get him back.

So what are you waiting for, Sweetheart? she heard his voice ask. Sounds like just another day in the life of royalty to me.

She smiled as she closed her eyes, centered herself, and finally let go.