Here's my newest fic! I hope to update every Friday, and I should clarify: This is AU. This isn't a historical AU; it's an AU in a world I made up. It's not supposed to be historically accurate, but it does take inspiration from the general time period Pirates of the Caribbean is set in.
That being said, if you have anything to say about ships/that historical time, please let me know in the reviews! I'll do my best to make it as accurate as possible, but if there's some gaping hole in the story, just assume it's due to differences between that world and our own/plot convenience.
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars. I'm just doing this for fun.
The flagship of the Imperial navy was only docked in the small port town of Tatooine for eighteen hours, but it was enough to change the course of history for the entire Empire.
They'd been docked there for six hours when Luke Skywalker came to have a look at it.
It truly was a sight to see, with the great Imperial cog stamped across each sail in black and red, the entire main sail dyed a vibrant crimson, dozens upon dozens of sailors swarming the docks in their off-white uniforms; for a moment Luke just stood on the docks, and let the crowd swarm round him. It was a bright day, with the hot sun beating down on him, but the strong winds ruffled his hair and let him breathe in a way he never could in the forge.
"Luke? Luke!"
He grinned at Biggs as he barrelled through the crowd, earning his fair share of curses. His friend's hair was cropped shorter than when Luke had last seen him, his clothes the same off-white as the Imperial sailors, almost like—
"Father paid an Imperial captain to take me on as an apprentice," Biggs said breathlessly, his grin lighting up his features. "I get to sail with the Imperial Navy! And if I train right," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, as if it was a secret, not something that happened to every apprentice, "I might get to captain my own ship one day!"
There was a tightness in Luke's chest; for a moment he couldn't speak around it.
"That's great!" he exclaimed, trying to keep the wistfulness out of his voice. He wanted to sail the seas just as much as Biggs—if not more. But his uncle wouldn't allow it.
Not that he let that ruin his happiness for Biggs. He friend deserved better than that.
"I'm happy for you," he said, and he meant it, the smile tugging at the corners of his lips only a little bit faked. "You'll do great, I know it." Before Biggs had to time to formulate a response—or notice something wrong with his friend—he rushed on. "What ship will you be serving with?"
Biggs jerked his chin. "That one."
Luke glanced behind him. His mouth fell open. "That one. The Devastator?"
"Yup."
"But. . ." Luke shook his head. "That's Lord Vader's flagship."
"I know!" Biggs's voice was practically a squeak at the end of the word. "And look. He's right there!"
Luke frowned in the direction Biggs was pointing. Sure enough, the man standing arguing with the Mayor wore a red and black jacket fine enough for a lord, and all the officers around him—even the ones whose rank badges identified them as captains—seemed to defer to him. It probably was Vader.
"He looks a bit like you," Biggs said thoughtfully.
Luke just slanted him a look. That was ridiculous. The man's blond hair was a few shades darker than his, not to mention he was tall. The only resemblance he could see—at least, from this distance—was what looked like a cleft in his chin.
Biggs threw his hands up defensively. "I'm just saying! You can't deny what's true."
Luke just sighed. "Alright," he said. "I need to be getting back to the forge, so I'll see you—"
"Biggs Darklighter?"
They snapped to attention at that, the sharp shout startling both of them. Luke whirled round to see a stern-faced man with the rank badge of a captain striding towards them both, brows furrowed and face prematurely lined.
"Well?"
Luke realised he was looking at him. "Uh, he's Biggs Darklighter, sir," he said hurriedly, stepping aside. "I'm not joining the crew."
The captain's lips pinched together in faint disgust. "Would you like to, Mr. . .?"
"Oh—Skywalker," Luke supplied. "Luke Skywalker."
"Captain Piett."
"And. . . I'd love to." He threw a glance at the ship again, the sails billowing gently in the wind, and knew he wasn't doing a good job of keeping the longing off his face. "But my uncle would never let me."
"No parents?"
"No." He swallowed slightly at the lie, but it wasn't like he could tell the man the truth. "Not anymore."
"I see." Piett nodded sharply. "Well, come along, Darklighter—I'm to show you around the ship, get you acquainted with the crew. You'll see your friend just before we cast off tomorrow."
"Yes, sir," Biggs said, a wide grin splitting his face. "See you around, Luke—you'd better get back before Owen notices you're gone."
Luke nodded, trying to muster up some sort of smile, even as his friend turned away.
He didn't go back to the forge for a while after that.
He could feel the heat from the forge before he'd even stepped over the threshold. The donkey was moving in its circles, the rhythmic clang, clang, clang of his uncle hammering the metal only interspersed with his uncle's shouts:
"And stay out!"
There was a clatter, as if something was thrown. Luke blinked in shock. Uncle Owen was never angry enough to resort to violence.
Never, except in the case of—
"Ah, Luke." Ben Kenobi emerged from the backroom, to the front of the shop. "It's good to see you."
"Er, you too," Luke replied, slipping across the room and to behind the shop counter. It was his shift, anyway.
The door slammed shut, and Ben didn't make a move to get to it. Instead, he just kept standing there. Luke swallowed.
Ben was. . . odd.
He'd always been there, just that crazy old hermit who lived in the attic of a disused office a few streets away, for as long as Luke could remember. But all he really knew about the man was that Uncle Owen hated him.
Luke tried to busy himself with the things behind the counter, but he was hyperaware of Ben still standing, watching him. He cleared his throat.
"Can I help you with anything?" he asked, voice light enough to be polite, but pointed enough to be slightly rude as well. He half expected Ben to start lecturing him on manners—he had the accent of Coruscanti nobility, who tended to do that sort of thing—but he didn't. He just chuckled, looking thoughtful.
"Actually, I think there is," he said slowly. Luke pressed his lips together. Uncle Owen wouldn't be thrilled to learn he had tried to entertain the man, even if it did run with what Aunt Beru had taught him about politeness.
Ben reached into the satchel he was carried, and drew something out. "I tried to ask your uncle for help with this, but he seems reluctant to provide it. Perhaps you could help?"
Luke swallowed, but said aloud, "Sure." Damn you, Aunt Beru, for being so thorough. "Bring it here."
Ben stepped forward, and laid a parcel on the counter. No, not a parcel—a sword, wrapped in cloth. Luke pulled the wrappings back carefully until it lay exposed.
It was an old sword, that much was obvious. Rust had eaten away at the blade, turning it black and red in some spots. The copper decoration on the pommel had long since gone green, but Luke's fingers brushed the patterns it formed anyway, each swirl and peak somehow intrinsically familiar. But, most of all, the symbol he could still see embellished on the blade itself. . .
"This was a Jedi's sword," he breathed, unable to keep the awe out of his voice. The stories that were told of the Jedi, even under the Empire, were fantastical: just the thought of that sort of person, highly trained warriors who sailed the seas upholding peace and justice, made Luke's inner child crow with joy.
It was one of their swords; it had to be. The symbol, a sword pointed up with the wings of a starbird spread at its base, was too iconic.
"Yes," Ben confirmed, and with that confirmation it suddenly became too heavy a burden, too much, to touch the sword any longer. He drew back hastily. That— that blade, that sacred, honourable blade. . .
"Can you repair it?"
Luke jerked his head up, eyes wide. "What?"
Ben waved his hand. "The sword. Can you repair it? Renovate? Restore it to its former glory."
"Ben. . ." Luke's gaze surveyed the blade again. "It's practically all rust. It looks like it hasn't been cleaned in twenty years. It'll never work in battle again."
"Oh." Luke had never seen anyone look as dejected as Ben did now. "Well. I can't say I didn't expect that, but I had hoped. . ."
"For what?" Luke was genuinely curious. "It would take a miracle to save it."
Ben shrugged. "Miracles seem to happen an awful lot when you're around, Luke."
His face warmed. "That's—"
"Ships always sail into this harbour undamaged when you're in the port. Swords you make last far, far longer than they should." Ben's blue eyes were bright as they looked at him. "There's something about you that causes miracles."
Luke did his best to meet the gaze. "That may be so," he said, "but I can't save that sword."
Ben nodded. "Okay," he said, then turned to leave.
"Wait!" He paused. "Aren't you going to take this back?"
Ben glanced at the blade again, and shook his head. "No. I have no use for it; it only brings back bad memories. Besides," he added, almost as an afterthought. "By right of inheritance, it's yours."
"What? Why?"
"Because," Ben said as he slipped out the door, leaving Luke staring at the talisman with new eyes, "it was your father's."
"Luke!" Uncle Owen shouted up the stairs. "Stop prancing around and get down here. I've got a customer you need to serve."
Luke grimaced, glancing around the small room. It wasn't the best place to practice his swordsmanship, but it wasn't like there was anywhere else to go, and at least there was a little space.
He lowered the training foil he always used, and sheathed it at his belt. It may be overly dramatic to carry around a sword sheathed at his side, but it made him feel that slightest bit more prepared.
Especially considering what had happened to his father. . .
He glanced at the bed, under which he'd hidden the sword Ben had given him. Later. He'd think about that later.
"Alright, Uncle Owen," he shouted back, even as he took the stairs at a run, "but the moment I'm done, I'm going to check the post office again."
His uncle snorted as he passed him, where he was hammering away at some horseshoe. "You can try, boy, but you know as well as I do there won't be any post waiting for you."
"It's been two weeks," Luke informed him. "There'll be something."
"Like there was yesterday?" Owen pinched his lips together—Luke knew he worried his idealism was only going to hurt him, one day—but shrugged. "Just get to the front, Luke. There's a trader there wanting to buy a sword and you know I can't leave this unattended."
"Okay."
The man standing at the counter glanced up when the door to the backroom opened, scowling. "Took you long enough," he grumbled, which was just rude. He dumped the sword he'd picked off one of the displays onto the counter. "I'd like this one, kid, if it's not too much bother for you."
Luke gritted his teeth, but accepted the sword and started rifling around in the drawers behind the desk. He glanced up at the man surreptitiously as he did.
"Your name?" he asked. "For the records."
The trader's scowl deepened; he glanced around slightly nervously. "Who keeps records about the things they sell?"
"My uncle," Luke said coolly. "It helps keep track of things, orders—makes sure nothing's stolen." The man stiffened at the implication, but before he could open his mouth, Luke plastered a sickly sweet smile to his face. "Your name?"
The man's face turned murderous, but he snarled, "Solo. Han Solo."
"Solo. . ." Luke repeated, jotting it down. "So. . . Uh, are you in town for long?"
"What?" Solo scoffed. "Do you need to put that on record as well?"
"I was just curious." The pen had run out of ink; Luke dipped it in the pot again, and kept writing. "I always wanted to go to sea."
"Yeah, well, so long as this sword is good enough, I won't be sticking around long."
Luke's eyebrows flitted up. "Do you see a lot of action?" His gaze flicked to the pistol half-hidden at Solo's hip—double-barrelled, if he recognised it correctly.
Solo puffed up at that. "Are you suggesting I'm a pirate, kid?"
"There are more official blacksmiths than this for traders to go to," Luke pointed out, putting the pen down. "If you've come here, and don't want your name getting recorded, it's because you've got something to hide."
"Well ain't you got a big mouth. Look here, if I was trying to stay secret, I wouldn't've put up with your questions, and you'd be in real trouble right about now. All my business is perfectly legal."
"Uh huh," Luke said, but didn't press. Contrary to what Biggs and his uncle seemed to think, he did know the line between brave and reckless. He simply chose to ignore it sometimes.
Fortunately, this was not one of those times. He just wanted to get this over with, and get to the post office.
But Solo didn't seem to want to let it go. "What would it be to you, kid, anyway?"
Luke didn't meet his gaze as he said, "My father was killed by pirates. I'm sorry if I'm not a fan of them."
"Big deal. Everyone dies," Solo scoffed. Luke carefully didn't look at him, and after a moment he coughed. "Uh—I mean, sorry to hear that. But that don't mean everyone's a pirate."
"Oh, I know," Luke said quietly, finally putting away the paper into the ledger and pushing the sword back across the counter. "Some people are traders who smuggle while they're at it."
Wariness flashed across Solo's eyes at the words. But Luke had said them quietly, with no hope anyone could hear, so he just nodded with a grudging acceptance as he took the blade. "Yeah," he said. "Sometimes they are."
He jerked his chin towards the racks of swords along the walls. "You make these?"
"Some of them."
"Know how to use them?"
A smile curved the side of his mouth. "Yeah. I train with them every day."
Solo's eyebrows flew up. "You any good?"
Luke just shrugged.
Solo glanced at the door, then back again, indecision on his face. "Look, kid, I gotta go, but. . . I'll be in the port until tomorrow morning. Mos Eisley Port, that is—the smaller one." No doubt to avoid the Imperials. "Look for the Millennium Falcon. Maybe then you can show me how good you really are."
It wasn't quite an invitation—was, rather, the closest thing Luke would get to an apology for Solo's cruel words—and maybe the kindling of some sort of mutual curiosity. It didn't matter.
It didn't matter, because it made Luke smile anyway. "Sure. I'll try to see you there."
Once Solo had left, Luke wasted no time in shouting to Uncle Owen that he was heading off. All he got in reply was a non-committal grunt, but Luke didn't really care.
She had to have written back to him. It'd been over two weeks—she had to. She was always on time.
He was practically sprinting through the streets in his excitement, automatically ducking and weaving round the crowd like he'd been doing his entire life. It was unavoidable that he crash into a few people, but most of the people in the area knew him already, so they just clucked their tongues and waved him on.
"Luke!" someone shouted. He pivoted on his foot, barely keeping his balance, to spot his aunt standing just outside the greengrocer's.
"Take these, will you?" Beru panted, thrusting a basket of fruit on him. "I can get everything else, but I'm only one person. You need to carry something." She glanced around. "I suppose you're going to the post office?"
He nodded, unable to keep the eagerness off his face. He didn't need to; his aunt just smiled at him fondly.
"I saw that friend of yours who works at the post office—Miss Marstrap—round here this morning; she said her Ma noticed a letter for you there. It's probably from her."
His heart leapt. She had written back!
"Thanks, Aunt Beru!" he said, beginning to turn away. There was a new vigour in his step: he started jogging before he was even walking.
"Careful not to drop the fruit everywhere!"
"Love you too, Aunt Beru!"
He caught a glimpse of the fond shake of her head before she was swallowed up by the crowd again, and he grinned as he ran.
The familiar streets blurred together. The indistinct chatter bouncing off every cobbled surface, the brown and grey of the horses and carriages that careened all over the place—then, finally, the grand front of the post office, one of the oldest buildings in the town.
There was a massive queue snaking out of the doors; Luke sighed, but made to get into it. If the letter was from who he thought it was from, then it was worth waiting for.
Before he reached the end of the queue, however, he was waylaid.
"Don't bother, Wormie," Camie said, her lip wrinkling slightly as it always did when she saw him. "Here it is. This is what you came for, right?"
Hi eyes blew wide at the sight of the envelope. Printed on the front with wide, loopy curls in blue ink so dark it was nearly black, was his name: Luke Skywalker.
He knew that handwriting.
Camie only smirked faintly at the eagerness with which he took it, and began tearing it open. "Well, that's one less customer I have to serve on my shift," she said drolly, eyeing the queue with distinct distaste. "Get out of here, Wormie, or you'll drop it in the mud."
"Thank you," he told her earnestly, deciding just this once to let the stupid nickname go unchallenged.
For a moment, she seemed to genuinely smile at him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, but he'd walked off before she could say anything else.
He wandered along the high street for a few moments, before he found the old jetty no one used anymore and strode out onto it. This was where he always read her letters: at the end of the jetty, kicked his legs against the tide, staring out over that distant horizon.
He carefully tore along the edges of the envelope, trying not to damage the letter inside. When he'd finished, he tugged the sheet of paper free then unfolded it, tucking the envelope into his pocket, and began to read.
Dear Luke,
I hope this letter finds you well—or finds you at all, if you've finally run off to sea and are no longer at the forge.
He snorted at the thought. His younger self may have fantasised, vocally and vibrantly, about doing so, but he knew better now. Unless Uncle Owen managed to find an apprentice to take on who could do at least as much work as Luke could, running off would just damn his aunt and uncle to an even harder life than they already had. Luke couldn't do that to them.
I'm obligated to report that your sister is also alive and well, and as eager to meet you as you are her. Leia wanted me to say hello to you for her, and I promise you will meet her soon. I'm working on a way to make it happen. You have to trust me.
Luke pinched his lips together, unable to ignore the stab of disappointment, although he wasn't exactly surprised. She'd been saying "soon" since she'd told him he had a sister, three years ago. But all she'd been able—or willing—to say about her since then was a name. Leia.
He read the rest of the letter, as always running his fingers over the signature at the end as if it was a miracle in writing. It was a miracle—if this was the closest he might ever get to knowing his mother, then at least he knew her name.
Padmé Naberrie.
Even after he'd read it, and reread it, and reread it some more, he stayed sitting there for a long time, just watching the horizon. Wondering whether his sister and mother were watching that same horizon, and looking right back at him.
Finally.
After nearly twenty years of hunting him, of tracking the old man's movements through the Empire, plotting and scheming and seething over false lead after false lead. . . He'd finally found him.
Obi-Wan Kenobi—or, as the residents of this tiny, insignificant backwater port called him, "Old Ben"—had been seen wandering down a street in the more rundown area of town, spending a substantial amount of time inside the blacksmith's there before leaving. No one they'd interrogated had revealed—or even known—the location of Kenobi's residence, but that blacksmith's was as good a place as any to start.
He was close. He could feel it.
Vader didn't bother to be subtle as his troopers marched down the street. If people wondered, let them wonder. Let them see what the consequences of defying their Empire were.
And oh, he remembered this forge.
The moment he stood in front of it, he knew.
This was the Lars forge. Owen, Cliegg, Watto, his mother—
He would enjoy burning this place to the ground.
The door was shut, but he didn't bother pushing it open—he kicked it down, the wood splintering easily under his good foot and slamming to the floor. All the carpentry in this area was pathetic.
The kick had created a racket, so Owen was already storming out of his forge into the front room, Beru pale from fear at the sight of the soldiers that filed in. Vader strolled leisurely forward, smiling in a way that was far from reassuring; he saw recognition flash across both their faces as they exchanged a glance.
"Lord Vader," Owen said slowly, muscles working in his throat. So, they knew who he had become. Who had told them?
The answer was obvious. Kenobi.
"Owen Lars," he said coldly. His step-brother flinched. "You, and all residents of this household, are accused of assisting a fugitive from the Empire, and must prepare to face the punishment."
"Assisting a fugitive from the Empire?" It was Beru who asked, almost mockingly. She had more backbone than he'd given her credit for—just like her, came to mind, unbidden—and her voice was unflinching even as her husband's mouth flapped soundlessly. "We have done no such thing! You have no right—"
"But I do," he cut her off with a wave of his metal hand. He may respect her backbone, but that didn't mean he respected her. "You have been accused, on solid terms, of aiding a known fugitive. Or do you deny that Obi-Wan Kenobi came into this very shop only a few hours ago?"
Owen's mouth dropped open before he spluttered, "Old Ben Kenobi came into the shop, but I didn't help him! I sent him packing!"
"And yet we know that he did receive assistance here," Vader continued. He couldn't deny that he was enjoying this—enjoying making the people who'd allowed his mother to die suffer. "So if it wasn't one of you, who was it?"
Owen and Beru exchanged a look. "Luke. . ." Beru whispered.
"Therefore, you are guilty of conspiring with an enemy of the Empire, rebellious activity and treason, and shall receive the punishment for it." He gave a hand signal to his men, who cocked their rifles. "Prepare to fire."
"No!" Owen shouted. "Beru, get into the backroom!"
"Fire!"
The volley of shots went off; Owen, halfway through the doorway to the forge itself, collapsed from a shot to the head. There was a shrill scream, then one of his troops shot again and hit Beru between the shoulder blades. There was no more screaming.
"Search the forge for clues about Kenobi's whereabouts," Vader ordered, "then burn it to the ground."
"My lord," one of the troopers objected, "with the design of the houses in this area, a fire in one could spread to them all. The whole street could burn."
Vader turned so his face was inches above the man's, his tall frame filling his vision. His voice was deadly. "I don't care if this whole island burns, trooper," he hissed. "I want this forge burned to the ground, not excuses."
"But, my lord—"
Vader didn't think about it as he pulled out his pistol and shot him
There was a gasp.
Too high-pitched to come from one of his troops. Vader turned.
There was a boy standing in the doorway. A boy with eyes bluer than the sea and sky, skin ruddy from working the forge for years, and a look of utmost horror as he beheld what had happened to Owen and Beru. As he processed what Vader had said.
A son? No—he didn't look anything like either of them. If anything, he looked like Vader himself, though that was a comparison that irked him. An apprentice, then.
Owen had said that neither he nor Beru had helped Kenobi.
Someone in the forge had to.
And an apprentice—the Luke Owen had mentioned. . .
Vader narrowed his eyes. "Get him."
The boy—Luke's—eyes flew wide at the order, at the troopers converging on him with rifles raised and ready. And he fled.
"After him!" Vader barked, quick to make chase. That boy had helped Obi-Wan—likely knew where the man was hiding. He needed to find him—
But when they made it out onto the cobbled street, he seemed to have vanished into thin air.
