Star Wars belongs to Lucasfilm Ltd., itself property of The Walt Disney Company. I make no lucrative nor commercial use of my writings in relationship with the Star Wars license.
The silence was deafening once blaster fire finally died out in the hangar, the engines of the ship long gone. In their haste to prevent the prisoner's flight, three squadrons of stormtroopers had assembled and now stood straight, facing their failure. Weapons were put back into holsters, eyes trained on Vader with fright.
Vader slowly turned around. The euphoria of Luke's escape was receding, and he knew he had to explain this.
He thought for a minute, his heart still light, but his situation starting to sink in. It was obvious for anyone with eyes that he had been the one to break the boy out. It was the only explanation of how he had been able to get out so soon before his execution and why Vader now stood there, empty-handed.
He crossed the stormtrooper officer's gaze and felt the man's fear increase. Vader looked him in the eye, brushing the idea of blaming it on him. What was a mere trooper to him? The man was visibly expecting it... He lifted his hand, feigning anger at the man's failure, ready to take his life.
But the thought died as soon as it was born. The atmosphere shifted, the troopers straightened, the focus of the attention moved away from Vader, and he knew lies and justifications would be useless.
The hooded figure of the Emperor entered the hangar, hunched over his cane, deceptively small and frail. His presence brushed against Vader's, who immediately understood. Disquiet awakened in the pit of his guts, but he didn't move. He stood in place, tall and stoic.
Little by little, in what seemed a very long time, the Emperor shuffled towards Vader. With a gesture, he discarded the troopers and they left, all too happy to be spared. The two Sith Lords remained the only ones in the hangar.
Vader couldn't see his master's face under his hood, couldn't read his mood in the Force. His heart beat faster, the remnants of old fear grasped at his soul, but he didn't give them purchase.
The gravity of his actions dropped on him like a bucket of cold water on his head. Never before had he so deliberately, so completely disobeyed his master. He had defied him; heard his orders, and gone against them.
There was no going back now. His mind wondered, for a moment, whether Sidious would merely renounce him and take the title of Sith apprentice away from him, or if he would kill him, slowly and painfully. He knew the latter was most likely: by disobeying him, Vader had humiliated him, discarded his authority.
But he couldn't find it in himself to regret any of it. Had he been faced with this choice again, he knew he would have done the same thing all over again in a heartbeat.
Luke lived. He let the fact run through him, warm him inside, beat inside his veins with his blood as he stood straight and awaited his master's judgement.
The Emperor arrived at Vader's level and stopped. He didn't say anything at first, and the silence seemed to stretch, unbearable, eternal.
Then he sighed.
"I am sorry, my friend," he said, and Vader was stunned. His master looked so fragile in this moment, so defeated, that he nearly had pity for him. "I am an old fool, and my foresight is no longer what it used to be."
Vader bowed his head, not sure how to answer. Of all the things he had imagined his master to do or say, he had never expected an apology. And for what, anyway? He was the one who had let the boy go. If anybody was guilty, he was...
"I should have expected it," the Emperor said, his voice sad, regretful. Vader felt punched in the gut. "I knew you cared for the boy. Family, love has always been your weakness. I should have known better than to make you stand by while he was executed."
"I was the one who freed him," Vader cut his master off, unable to bear his self-flagellating. It was entirely his own fault.
Only afterwards did he realise he had confessed to it aloud. He looked away, unable to bear his master's gaze.
But Palpatine waved his concerns away by a careless gesture of his hand.
"It no longer matters. He is gone, away from here. That cannot be changed."
Vader swallowed. He wished he was anywhere but here; and yet he couldn't help relief from flooding over him at the realisation the Emperor didn't intend to punish him from him. Vader knew he had hurt him; he could see it in his gaze, hear it in the tone of his voice.
"Master..."
"Let us no longer talk about it," the Emperor said, and his tone was so brisk Vader didn't insist. "Other matters must now hold our attention."
"I am listening, my master," Vader said in haste, careful to conceal his emotions. He was walking a fine line, and wanted nothing less than to upset the Emperor again.
"I must congratulate you on the way you handled the presumed leak of our project." Vader scoffed at that. The operation in the Nembus sector had been a disaster. "However, it is unfortunate the Rebels left no trace of what they knew. I fear what might happen, were they to learn of the project's location before it is ready... I need you to go there and oversee the last stages of construction. There you will collaborate with Grand Moff Tarkin, who is coordinating it. You will protect the station with your life."
Vader gave him a curt nod. He despised Tarkin's Core-world arrogance, but he had to admit to the man's cleverness and vision. The perspective of working with him was irritating but by no means unbearable; besides, he really couldn't complain.
"I want it operational as soon as possible," the Emperor said. "It will be an invaluable tool to defeat the Rebellion. Only then will be able to finally bring back the peace to the galaxy."
A pang of regret awakened in Vader's heart at these words. Had he stayed at his side, Luke would have been an even greater help... Nothing would have been impossible with their combined strength.
But it was not to be. The boy lived, and that needed to be enough.
"Yes, my master," he said.
He was still reeling from his master's lack of reaction at his betrayal. He had let a dangerous prisoner go. Were he anyone else, he would have died for that crime... yet Sidious had let it slide with barely a word. Did the boy matter so little to him? After all this show, all this insistence that he be interrogated and tried in accordance with the law, he brushed off his escape like a mere nuisance? Why go through this face to make an example out of him, instead of shooting him in the neck like any other Rebel, if he held so little importance?
Vader didn't understand. But it was just as well, and he couldn't believe his luck. The less risk for Luke to be captured by the Empire again, the better. Perhaps he could find a way to make sure he was safe... even contact him, maybe.
His son lived. Joy awakened in him again at the thought. It was all that really mattered.
The Emperor was heading back towards the hangar's exit when he stopped and turned towards him again.
"Oh, and Lord Vader," he said, as if on an afterthought. "I expect you shall have more than enough work with your posting. Do not bother yourself with the boy; I will search for him myself."
Vader's insides turned into ice. If the Emperor intended to go after him, Luke was lost. And he could say nothing, could do nothing to prevent it...
No. That couldn't happen. He refused to lose him.
Tightly clamping down on the panic rising in his chest, Vader deeply bowed down.
.
Luke woke up disoriented and thirsty, a thousand pounding aches drumming in his body. He groaned, lifted a hand to his forehead. Where was he? What had happened? Wasn't he supposed to die?
Oh. True. The hangar, the ship, the escape from Imperial Centre. Vader breaking him out...
He repressed a shiver and pushed himself up sitting, grimacing from the pain. His whole body felt numb, but especially his right arm, on which he seemed to have slept. Prickles were going up and down his forearm; he rubbed it absent-mindedly.
He was free. He was alive. He repeated the words a few times, barely daring believe them, impossible as they sounded. He had been so certain he was going to die... Even now, he nearly expected stormtroopers to burst through the door at any moment and manhandle him back to his little cell, ready to start another round of torture. The bulkheads of the ship didn't seem real, as if he was dreaming them.
But no. This was real. He could hear it in the subtle thrum of the hyperdrive. Luke latched onto it as he forced himself to watch his surroundings.
Around him, the cabin was Imperial grey. Luke wondered why the Empire seemed to hate colour so much. For a moment, he was seized with an irresistible urge to paint these walls bright red, or with the same off-white as the interior of his homestead.
His homestead. For the first time in months, a powerful wave of homesickness ran over him. He missed Tatooine so much: the endless sand plains stretching out to the horizon, the warm wind in his face, the twin sunset; his kind and wise aunt, his gruff but loving uncle, the both of whom he had often thought of during his captivity. He had never thought it possible before, but even the thought of the vaporators evoked a terrible wistfulness in him. He wanted to go home.
How much time had passed since his arrest? It felt as if he had spent a lifetime there, cut off from the world. He had no idea if it had been weeks or months. They hadn't let him see the sun or any other mean to count the time.
He took a deep breath, desperately needing oxygen in his lungs yet not daring expand them too much. If felt as if a knife was stabbing him in the chest every time he breathed in, and he wondered if he didn't have a rib or two broken.
Cold against his cheek. His arms pulled up over his head in protection. Pain exploding in his chest.
Luke ran a hand on his face with a sigh. He should try and find a refresher. He was so thirsty it was as if his mouth was full of flimsi, and he felt terribly dirty. He longed for a good, hot shower, for the sonic waves to vibrate through him, soothing and cleansing.
Carefully, he set his feet on the ground and stood up. It was still difficult to do so, but already less harrowing than it had in the past few days. He didn't know if it was that he had slept or if freedom made his shoulders lighter.
He was free. He was alive. It was still hard to wrap his head around it.
Luke wandered around the passenger hold, feeling like a ghost haunting this desert place without a purpose. He opened a few empty cupboards before finally finding some supplies.
The first thing he did was to seize a water ration and to rip it open. His throat and mouth were so dry he was burning with the desire to gulp the whole thing down, but he knew better. Fighting against himself, he forced himself to sip it slowly, letting it linger on his tongue before swallowing it, and stopped when he had drunk half of it. It was hard to resist the incredible relief the water brought him, but too much would only unsettle his stomach.
He put the container down and turned towards a ration bar. Vague nausea made the idea of food unappealing, but he needed it to regain his strength. He opened the packing and took a tiny bite, then another, and managed to get through two thirds of the bar before giving up. He would have to try it again later.
Already feeling a little stronger, Luke seized the first aid pack and left the passenger hold in search of a fresher. He could just have undressed then and there, he supposed: there was room, there was light, and he was alone. But the idea made him uncomfortable. It would be all too easy for someone to find him and use that moment of vulnerability against him.
He turned the lock of the refresher room twice, just to make sure. His fingers went to the fasteners of his tunic and hovered there, hesitating. Part of him dreaded to discover what they had done to his body, what marks of their abuse would be imprinted in his skin.
But he knew he had to make sure none of the wounds were infected, at least, and check there wasn't anything too serious at work. Feeling strangely exposed, he closed his eyes and opened his shirt. Then he let it slide down his arms and fall on the floor.
He stood like this for a couple of breaths, eyes tightly closed, before looking down at last. He lightly ran his fingers over the bruises on his left arm, then the right. His hand lingered on the needle marks on his neck, then went down to his clavicle, his chest. His whole skin was marbled with blue and purple; on the right side of his ribcage, a dark stain the size of his hand was spreading, and he winced touching it. Small, round red burns were etched into his sides, continuing down to the lower part of his abdomen, where his skin was most sensitive, and he took off his trousers to continue his inspection. Two wounds only were open and already scabbing over, remnants of a particularly vicious beating: one on his left thigh, the other on his upper right arm.
Nothing that wouldn't heal in time.
His hands shaking, Luke took the first aid kit he had put in the sink and fumbled with it to find the bacta patches, carefully avoiding to look in the mirror. Two for his wounds and cream for the largest bruise on his chest should be enough. He was just about to apply them when it occurred to him showering first would be wiser.
He removed the last of his clothing and stepped into the shower before turning it on. Despite the aches in his body when the sonic waves reached his bruises, it felt as good as he had pictured it, removing layer after layer of sweat and dirt. It had been so long since he had last been able to have this... Luke washed himself as well as he could, wincing when a sharp and blinding pain went through his chest as he tried to raise his right arm, or when his hands brushed a sensitive bruise.
Shouts. Shocks in his lower belly, shaking him whole. Ragged breathing, helpless rage, weakness, muscles trembling when he tried to move.
In the small space, his thoughts and memories seemed to echo as much as the sound of the shower. His stomach was tight with anxiety, a nagging worry at the back of his mind. Images and feelings flashed before his eyes, so swift he couldn't grasp them before they were gone.
Laying on the slab, a needle in his neck, his eyes firmly closed. Taunts.
Kneeling, hands tied behind his back. A breath too loud in his ears. Pressure on all his limbs, his blood boiling, his head about to explode... a deep and raging voice demanding answers he didn't have... tears, screams, hatred...
Luke came out of the shower much sooner than he had planned to. Medical supplies forgotten, he hurried to dress then went back to the passenger hold, drank and ate some more. He felt safer and calmer here, in the somewhat larger space, where the soothing sound of the ship's engines buzzed regularly, just soft enough not to disturb the silence. The light too was warmer and more natural.
He was free. He was alive.
Before he knew it, his eyelids dropped and he passed out again on the passenger seat, overwhelmed by exhaustion.
.
The second time Luke awakened, there was an insistent beeping in his ears. He sat up, tried to determine the origin of the sound. The cockpit...
He rose from the seat and headed to the room. Indeed, the annoying noise was stronger here, coming from the hyperspace console. He approached it and looked at the readings.
Reversion to real space in less than five standard minutes.
Luke frowned. He didn't remember setting an hyperspace course. Come to think of it, he didn't remember anything past that first run out of Imperial Centre's orbit. No matter how long he racked his brain for it, there was nothing but a big hole in his memory, as if he'd blacked out as soon as he'd left.
He would have believed that was what happened if evidence to the contrary was not just right there, before his eyes.
At least he hoped he had planned enough jump points. A cold chill ran through him. It would be all too easy to trace him if he hadn't... and pluck him like a flower at his arrival.
No. That wasn't going to happen. Luke shivered and opened the travel journal, soon reassured to see the five stages he had programmed into his journey. It wasn't much, but it should be enough to prevent pursuers from calculating his course. From what he could see, he had taken care not to use the lanes with the most traffic.
Which left the question of his destination, of course. He thought he recognised the numbers; there were maps and indexes for planetary coordinates, but some of them he had actually memorised. He ran his fingers over the display.
Conquering his uncertainty, he engaged the reversion procedure and dropped in the pilot seat, hissing at the pain in his ribs the brusque movement had caused. He took the controls, checked the warning lights and the readouts.
Soon enough, the threads of light typical to hyperspace diminished into stars again. Deceleration pushed Luke forward on the controls, but he held on to them until the ship had stabilised.
Soon enough he was staring at a familiar ochre planet, striped with brown and orange.
He kept his eyes trained on it for a moment, his throat tightening. Why was he being so emotional about this old rock? A few years ago he wanted nothing more than to get away from it...
But so much had changed since then. Luke hadn't seen Tatooine since leaving for the Academy. It seemed like he had been a different man then, a boy with starlight in his eyes, his head full of dreams of adventures and no idea what life really was like. In these years he had learnt so much, been through so much. Coming back here, where everything had begun, was impossible to describe.
Despite everything he said about it, despite his complaints and his griefs, it was home.
He swallowed the knot in his throat and began his descent.
The planet was very different seen from above. Luke hesitated for a while about the direction in which he should take his ship; the settlements looked similar, and he would be hard-pressed to recognise Mos Eisley from Mos Espa.
He knew the Dune Sea, though, Beggar's Canyon and Anchorhead. He flew a little bit faster.
Luke's heart accelerated. He was so close to home now... He missed it so much it was like an ache in his chest. He couldn't wait to see his aunt and uncle again...
He frowned when he saw the homestead down below. It seemed to have changed... Perhaps it was only the altitude, though. Luke checked the coordinates to make sure he was at the right place, but there was no mistake.
A heavy feeling had settled in his chest, a sense of wrongness. He tried diving deeper in the Force to understand what it was telling him, but it felt murky and clouded, uninviting.
Luke landed as quickly as he could, feeling like a stone had fallen in his guts. He barely took the time to turn off the engines and ran out of the ship.
He barely recognised the homestead. It had to be another farm, it couldn't be his home...
But no. He recognised the shape of the buildings, the way it was facing the suns, the way it was built – even though there wasn't much left of it.
It had all burnt. The dome that stood at the entrance was no longer white but black, soot soiling the whitewash walls. A part of the structure had collapsed, leaving a hole in the roof.
Luke's breath caught. It was a nightmare. That couldn't be possible. How had it happened? Was it an accident, or had someone done it on purpose? He couldn't imagine his guardians to be so careless as to let their house burn so badly... He hoped they had escaped, that they had left early enough and hadn't been taken in the fire...
Another detail, even more horrible, attracted his attention and shattered all his hopes. On the doorstep, just in front of the entrance of the home, laid two skeletons, so burnt they were unrecognisable; but Luke knew who they were.
A wail of distress escaped him and he fell on his knees, feeling like his heart had been ripped from his chest. No... Aunt Beru... Uncle Owen... He stared at them, numbed and dazed, praying it was only a nightmare and he would wake soon... it couldn't be true...
He remained kneeling for a long time, rigid and unmoving, his gaze set on them without seeing.