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Drawing a Soul

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„She’s done it again?”

“I don’t know what to do with her. She needs some help.”

“Maybe it’ll pass with time.”

“Should we, maybe, tell His Highness this?”

“He has enough trouble going on with the Emperor as it is. No need to add to it.”

“Yes, but this... This is disconcerting. “

“All children have nightmares. And in times such as this, it’s only natural... It’ll pass with time, Chero.”




Leia Organa never had nightmares. She had never seen a need for them, their haziness and vagueness. Fear, when it came to her, had a form, sound and reality to it that no nightmares could ever possess.

It had its own breath.

Fear was a breath coming to an abrupt stop when you’re blown into nothingness by the single shot of the Death Star’s laser.

Fear was for those who stayed alive after the massacre of Aldreaan.

Still, she never had nightmares of Darth Vader.




“Look!” A pile of elaborate and delicate paper is thrust in front of you, on your desk.

Drawings. A line of drawings. Again.

“When did she do it?”

“Just right now, in the morning,” the reply comes in a hushed whisper. There has been a lot of reasons for whispering during the last four years.

“All of them?”


They are perfect - too perfect for a four-year-old. Details are screaming out at you from the pages, every line capable of drawing your attention. The folds of the dark cloak, obscured by shadow face...

And all the careful details in the universe couldn’t hide its unnaturalness.




Leia Organa was three years old when, for the first time, she took the colourful pencils and started drawing.

She didn’t want to draw houses and the sun. They were real, and everyone could go see them. Why make things that already existed?

She wanted something else. Something that should be real and for some bizarre and unacceptable for Leia reason, wasn’t.

She didn’t ask anyone about it. Words were forming hard into sentences, and when she had tried once and had jumped into her father’s bed and said, “Who’s he?”, she hadn’t been given an answer.

More like a mumble.

So here he was, on a paper just like in her dream, huge and omnipresent, with yellow eyes staring at her silently, commandingly.

She accepted that he just was.




“Hey, love,” Han’s embrace had always been spontaneous and endearing, just like it should be. “What are you doing, drawing?”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his incredulous expression. “No, I definitely can’t draw a thing, and never could. I’m working, if you must know.”

“Mhm, sure you are,” he answered with a smirk, kissing her lightly on the lips. “You can’t draw, Miss Perfect?”

She smacked her husband lightly on the arm, “Mrs. Perfect, for one thing.”

“Ah, who’s the lucky bastard?”

Leia smiled at him, snuggling into his arms, “I’ve never seen any reason for this,” her voice was distant and quiet, comfortable. “There’s no point. Drawings are not real, and never could be. It’s better to focus on the world, on its problems...”

“Thank you, Senator. When I ever have a need for lecture on poverty in the universe that I’ve seen with my own eyes, anyway, I’ll know where I should go,” Han said playfully, hugging his wife more closely to him.

“I just think that wishing for something that is impossible has no purpose in life. We should focus our energy on making the difference in the universe, on things that we can do and are possible. Achievable.”

“Yes, because focusing your energy on overthrowing the powerful Empire seemed very possible at the time. And what about Luke? He kept dreaming for a father his whole life. He kept believing that Vader, of all people, could turn and do the good thing. That wasn’t probable. I’d thought it was impossible. But it’d happened, Princess,” he kissed Leia on the cheek, smiling at her with everything he had and was.

“Dreams are worth living,” he whispered into her ear, thinking about her and him, how improbable that was that they were together, and not giving a damn.


The End