Special note to a couple of authors whose work I've been following and thoroughly enjoying the past few months: QueenYoda, SphinxScribe and QueenNaberrie. You all posted kick-a** updates in the same week, and it had me sweating it out to up my game and keep up with the brilliance. Bravo, friends.
Special note #2 to all who continue to read, review, favorite and follow: I simply couldn't (or wouldn't) do it without your support. Thank you, in particular, to: Raiukage, TeresaLynne, Eldar-Melda, Mireilles3, Jedi Master Misty Sman-Esay, WildHorseFantasy, Haley Renee, QueenYoda, dragonmaster 63 (thanks for looking at my other story, too), Skywalker's Phantom, QueenNaberrie, mouse, Guest, Robert Escher, Abby and Liv Snigglebottom and PhantomFan13.
Almost wrapping things up in Alderaan… And Han Solo is just…
Chapter 25
"Uh… hello? Still here, and still without a mission, your honorable worshipfolk."
Solo's fingers, skinny as the rest of him but deceivingly deft on the controls of a ship, tap impatiently, rapid-fire clicks on the tabletop. Pre-teenagers are not known for their patience, and his fled about the same time his plate containing two last bites of muja-berry cobbler was whisked away.
Bel Iblis does not intend for his tone to be dismissive, but the aftermath of charged discussion has exhausted his usual tact. "The alliance is not a slaver, son. We do not put ten-year-olds in the peril of battle."
Oh, that glint in the boy's eye, Obi-Wan thinks. It's a different hue from what he's used to, but it promises the same obstinacy as that particular shine in Anakin's, come hells or high water.
Usually hells.
"Really?" Solo's head jerks toward the Chosen One, who cocks an eyebrow as if in preparation to scold.
Another habit inherited from Obi-Wan, since Anakin has seen that preemptory lift of his master's forehead more times than there are stars in the galaxy. Practically.
"I heard he saved a planet when he was nine," Solo protests, in full persuasive mode now. "Jedi go into battle not much older than me." An abrupt swash of crimson envelopes his neck, crawling upward as he immediately corrects himself. "Used to, I mean, before… Oh, kriff it, I can fight. Just put me somewhere with a blaster and I'll figure it out."
How many times does he have to repeat the point about blasters? If they'd just give him a weapon and identify a target – Organa's malla petal-stained crotch, perhaps? – he'd be happy to back up his bluster.
While the rest of alliance leaders disperse with a chorus of goodnights, Anakin reads the subtext behind the disgruntled twitch of the boy's smart mouth: What will become of me if I don't stay with you?
Fortunately, Obi-Wan slides into the seat next to the Corellian boy, his knack for delicate negotiations emerging once again. "Glad you asked, young one. The mission I have in mind for you could be the most difficult of all."
It's not really a bunch of bantha fodder, Obi Wan convinces himself. Remaining in Alderaan to look after Padme and the Skywalker twins could become rather hazardous, considering the senator's penchant for attracting assassins and the toddlers' fondness for Force stunts. Did Anakin not say they actually levitated a few weeks ago?
Force, but he's getting too old for Skywalker shenanigans.
"You're not that old," Anakin refutes with that ornery grin of his.
And you're not helping, Obi-Wan shoots back, then suggests slyly to the boy, "Shall we ask for another plate of that delicious-smelling cobbler so I can fill you in properly?"
Solo acquiesces, furtive smirk of his own soon disappearing into three gulps of dessert and a shrewd realization.
Smooth, Jedi. Real smooth.
But before the Corellian can empty his mouth long enough to ask what the Jedi master is really playing at, movement across the room reveals that the way-too-polished host from Alderaan has plopped his smarmy attitude right next to Padme.
Solo nudges Obi-Wan, disengaging the Jedi's beard from the gooey baked confection, and thrusts his fork toward Organa's reddening mug that's practically begging for introduction to Anakin's fist. The Alderaanian's jaw is so near Padme's that any wayward movement of his lips could result in a collision with Ani's pretty wife's, and Solo knows that would not go over well at all.
Matter of fact, the powers-that-be should be in no hurry whatsoever to return the Jedi's confiscated lightsaber, he thinks, shoveling another heap of cobbler into his mouth.
"Mmph." Solo actually means it as a mild exclamation, such as "Hey!" or even "Um," but sticky-sweet muja syrup has rendered his mouth temporarily immobile. "You've got eyes on this deal with Ani and the stoopa man whose ass he's about to kick, right?"
Apparently, Obi-Wan doesn't, transfixed by doughy muja goodness. Once apprised, however, the master springs as demurely as a Jedi in a hurry can, since Padme's normally placid voice now carries with shrill disgust " – mind your own bloody business, Bail! – " and Anakin's meditative calm is slipping by the standard second.
Despite the seething Jedi at his elbow and another heading toward the fray, Organa has no intention of minding anything. The former confidant of Senator Amidala rounds on both Skywalkers – colossal mistake, Solo thinks – and spits acidly, "She would have been better off with Breha and I, and you well know it! There would have been no hiding from half the galaxy, no threats to her safety! If either of you would have considered Leia's needs rather than – "
Obi-Wan doesn't have to see the flash of Anakin's eyes; the backdraft of his outrage swirls dangerously within the Force, a blistering explosion that builds, hovers, awaits detonation.
"Leia," Anakin bites, and Obi-Wan suspects icicles could hang from the hostile nip of his tone, "is far better off with her parents and her brother." The Jedi's voice lowers to a faint, ominous husk that, as those who have experienced the calculated fury of General Skywalker on the battlefield can attest, should have Organa very, very concerned. "Although it would be dishonorable to act against your… preoccupation with our daughter, it is widely known that I have difficulty following the Jedi Code, especially when those close to me are involved. Remember that."
As if in a coda to the threat just verbalized, Anakin finds himself staring at the Adam's apple centered in the column of Organa's throat. How easy it would be, suggests an innate voice that is distant and yet all-too-near, to constrict that tendon against that muscle in an optimal gesture of… displeasure.
Instincts of the beast roar again, slithering for acknowledgment, invigoration, release. Anakin doesn't have to meet Obi-Wan's gaze to feel his assurance surround him like the warmest of cloaks. You are not that man, Anakin.
Some days, he would come in handy, his former padawan snarks. But the dark opportunity passes, unclaimed.
Padme's rage is less lethal, and yet Obi-Wan feels her restraint against an elemental impulse to claw Organa's freshly-shaved chin. "I am bound by no such code," she retorts, far too bluntly for a diplomat, even as her smile exudes the pleasantry of a sun-drenched Nabooian meadow. "Our daughter is an exceptionally happy and healthy little girl, and you are a selfish boor to covet a child!
"My husband is quite influential with his lightsaber, Bail. But, in the event you need more convincing, keep in mind that I have been told I am quite proficient with a blaster, as well."
Anakin finds his wife irresistible when she juts her slim jaw just so, hardheaded and feisty and desirable to the last.
Without a sound, Solo appears at Padme's side – or was he there all along, Luke and Leia's self-appointed protector? The boy puffs out his scrawny chest, stretches as tall as his borrowed boots allow, juvenile indignation rolling from him. "Well, I don't need to be told – I am good with a blaster."
Fantastic, Obi-Wan bemoans. Now I have to keep three of them from tearing Organa apart, limb by immaculately-dressed limb. And their newly-forged detente with the alliance may evaporate as quickly as a lone drop of moisture in the Dune Sea.
Solo's ten-year-old glower might be adorable, if not for the sternness behind it as his focus narrows to the debonair senator. "You got nothin' to boss me about, so I don't have to be nice. You're a creep show. I don't like you. Go kriff yourself in your fancy robes, Bail, and don't even think about looking at the Skycrawlers again. Got me?"
Organa's mouth rolls into a sneer aimed at Anakin. "Hiding behind the breeches of foul-mouthed little boys now, Chosen One?" The senator's eyes bulge with rage, and Padme realizes that his ire must have percolated for some time to be as fevered as this. "You're fortunate, young one. He hasn't killed you. Yet."
He will steal your children, cavort with your wife, defile your name. Your wrath must be merciless, so others will not follow. The house of Vader must remain intact…
Anakin's right hand slides to his belt, metal on metal, as the other fists at his temple, pressing desperately as if to siphon the devious cackle from his mind. He forces himself to rock from the battle-ready balls of his feet to his heels, abruptly spinning from Organa even as Obi-Wan, alarmed at that wretched voice, insinuates himself between the two.
"You are out of line, senator," Obi-Wan informs sharply, a palm on Anakin's back. "Just as you were the day the twins were born, trying to twist the situation to your benefit."
"You insult your own, Obi-Wan!" Organa shouts, infuriated. "If you recall, it was Master Yoda who recommended separation, not I!"
"A recommendation you readily supported," Padme snaps, her eyes on Anakin as he concentrates on each deep respiration, calming himself one breath at a time. "If Obi-Wan hadn't stepped in…"
Obi-Wan does recall. Master Yoda's plan had seemed dispassionately wise as he'd proposed it: Luke to Tatooine, Leia to Alderaan to preserve a twinkle of hope that would someday, someday, kindle to flame…
He'd been too detached in his own grief to follow the preparations: Organa on the comm link to his wife, Master Yoda commandeering a clandestine ship, both badgering a bone-tired, crestfallen Padme.
Then, Obi-Wan had stared through the opaque glass at Anakin's wife, her signature mournful as she'd kissed Luke's tiny fingers and stroked Leia's head sprinkled with dark hair.
But the new mother had managed a smile, a speck of joy in the darkness. And that had been all the spark Obi-Wan needed.
"Master Yoda was wrong," Obi-Wan asserts, and it feels not only good, but righteous, to openly declare it. "The Order was wrong regarding a great many things that are just becoming clear. And, make no mistake, Senator Organa – " his vernacular becomes formally clipped, " – we may be colleagues, but we are not friends. Advancing the ideals of the alliance is your concern; Leia Skywalker is not."
Sullen but outnumbered, Organa slinks away.
"You sure he's on our side?" Solo gripes, clearing muja juice from the corners of his mouth with a boisterous swipe. "With that one hangin' around, it's a good thing I'm stayin' here to look after things while you two go huntin' Sith."
Obi-Wan quietly nudges the boy's boot with his own in gratitude. Good show, young one.
Anakin nods in confirmation, still dazed from the stealth temptation of the dark. His hand finds Padme's as he exchanges a solemn look with Obi-Wan. It's getting stronger. I can't keep –
The Jedi master exudes compassion through their Force bond. No, you can't.
"Ani?" Wifely intuition tells Padme that something distinctly Jedi ripples beneath the surface of conversation. More troubling, Anakin wears that haunted look again. "The twins probably have Threepio in a tizzy," she states carefully. "Shall we see if they need a lullaby?"
More likely, their father needs the connection that crooked little tune brings, she thinks, as the gloomy mist clears from his brain.
"Are you sure about going to Coruscant?" Anakin asks Obi-Wan as the Skywalkers turn to depart. "I'd rather wrestle a sarlacc than admit this, but Organa is right; you are the finest tactician in the galaxy. They could use your wits against this Death Star."
"What, and leave you to your own devices?" Obi-Wan rejoins, sparing a wink in Solo's direction. "We all know what happens – you blow yourself up, latch onto stray Corellians with filthy mouths and create general chaos that I have to remedy later. No offense, Anakin, but you really can't be left alone."
They could argue this point well into the night, would undoubtedly enjoy the rousing tales that would illustrate both of their contentions. Although neither has bothered to mention the running tally of "who saved whose arse" since their reunion, there are at least a dozen ready-made stories of gundark nests and that business on Cato Neimoidia that buttress Skywalker's frequent boast that he can function just fine without Kenobi, thank the Force very much.
Ah, to the hells of Corellia with "just fine," Anakin thinks.
"Right as always, Master," he concedes with too much submission for Obi-Wan's comfort. The Jedi master recognizes that devilish look, has seen it endless times in Anakin and on far too many occasions already in the faces of his children. Things tend to detonate, and ricochet, and crash in spectacular, fiery heaps after Anakin flashes that particular look.
How Obi-Wan has missed the rollicking adventure of it.
When Anakin rubs his brow and his large stature bows a bit, Obi-Wan is reminded that his healing process – from wounds that mar his skin and others that embed in his soul – continues with each sunrise.
"Have I thanked you for looking after my family, Master? Starting with the moment you stood against Master Yoda to keep the twins with their mother?"
"Not necessary, Anakin. You would do the same." Beat. Smirk. Rascal's smile. "If I had broken the Code by marrying a former queen and had two forbidden children with her, of course."
Before, Anakin would have shrugged an informal thanks and been on his way, squirming with discomfort. Unwilling to crack open the depths of a brotherhood defined in every tangible manner except with descriptors.
Now, Anakin clasps a hand on his master's shoulder, levels those eyes that have always expressed what his mouth could not with Obi-Wan's and waits until the master, every cell as uneasy as his former padawn, returns the contact.
"I said thank you, Master. Now be a good friend and accept it."
Obi-Wan is, and he does. Then observes, amused and a bit… envious as the Skywalkers stroll away, Anakin shortening his strides to fall naturally with Padme's as her arm catches his, wayward curls nuzzling into his shoulder.
Solo eyes the emptied dessert plates, then the scuffed toes of his boots. "If I can't join the Skywalker-Kenobi reunion tour, send my best to Ana-Clone and Darth Nasty, will ya? I know you two don't like blasters, so make sure those flashy swords of yours do the job."
The boy flashes a cocky grin that takes Obi-Wan back to a bold scamp from Tatooine, face scrubbed with dirt as it imagined the stars.
"I'd hate to have to come over there and clean up your mess later."
Resembles that boy in more than just the grin.
x x x
It takes the master and padawan a bit of time to ease back into combat readiness, Skywalker and Kenobi-style. So seamless before, from the planning, to prepping the troops, even to improvisation in the field – Anakin thrives on pulling something workable out of his arse as blaster fire whizzes past it – they are now too polite, too regimented, too… unknown to each other.
It will pass, Obi-Wan thinks, perusing another scenario for infiltrating Imperial Palace without detection. His brow doesn't crease with worry over that; he and Anakin have accomplished more with much steeper odds.
No, the upcoming confrontation with Sidious and his clone pet doesn't prop Obi-Wan's eyes open in his small cot. It is duty, as always, that fires his thoughts even as they should drift into the rejuvenation of sleep. Duty to all that's been lost: to Qui-Gon, the Order that nurtured him as far back as his memories travel. Duty to a glaringly imperfect Republic, to the restoration of democracy.
Duty to the person he loves more than Qui-Gon. The brother whose loss nearly pushed Obi-Wan to the Dark Side after him on that planet of frenzy and fire.
He will not turn, Obi-Wan assures himself, clinging to the Anakin who walks with him now, dressed in black but light of mind. Anakin, levitating one of Luke's toy balls and making it dance as the boy watches, fascinated. Whispering into Luke's ear as the tow-headed boy reaches with chubby fingers, then retracts them as the ball twitches in the opposite direction. Then the father's large hands cup the son's smaller ones to coax the ball into twirling again.
But that voice, that presence, that depraved bond pulses like a sinewy band with no shatterpoint, stretching so thin it should rupture, and yet unbreakable thus far.
Skywalker and Kenobi, unbreakable.
Vader and Sidious, unbreakable.
Anakin will not turn. The ball bounds up and down, whistles around Luke's little head, dives toward the ground before there is a whoop, and a squeal. Then Anakin is gushing, "That was you, Luke!" before the boy disappears into the folds of the Jedi's muddy cloak.
Anakin will stay in the light. He has too much to lose.
Obi-Wan listens to them, Anakin's hearty laughter, a sound emitted far too rarely during his twenty-five years. Luke's high-pitched giggles of adoration for a father, found.
The Jedi master bows his head.
And so do I.
X x x
Twilight before the mission to Coruscant
Hidden base, Alderaan
Solo thinks they could pull it off without too much trouble.
They could "re-borrow" the Falcon, "procure" a couple of blasters and charge outta this place, because these Rebel folks and their blah-blah-blah judgments are starting to irritate him even more than those blank stares of Kenobi's.
It's further irritating that he hasn't actually seen one of those blank stares in some time. With the two Jedi off planning the offensive of the standard century, there's been little time for dejarik, or tweaking the Falcon's hyperdrive, or even poking fun at Threepio's eccentricities that are hardly droid-like.
If I had a coupla credits every time that goldenrod's had me counting to twenty just to squelch the urge to unplug his brassy, waddling butt…
The squat droid with all the lights is busily chirping as Solo drags his boots lazily up the gangplank. Head buried in a control panel of the Falcon as he works a screwdriver with precision, Anakin is only half-listening as Obi-Wan talks through another invasion scenario.
"… possibility of hacking into the central operating system of the stormtroopers? If we can plant a contingency order to stand down, ninety percent of troops surrounding Imperial Palace could be disabled at one time."
Threepio's mechanical back straightens as Artoo emits a string of beeps. The prissy protocol droid would, clearly, rather discuss any subject to which his programming has rendered him an expert to avoid the distasteful thought of unplugging.
"Artoo said he could program a virus in the clones' central processing system to disable them for up to fifteen standard minutes," Threepio translates. "However, access to the system is likely protected with a complex series of firewalls and intricate passwords."
Obi-Wan fills the leather pouches of his utility belt with essentials: food capsules, a grappling spike launcher and a holomap are tucked away as he answers, "Ferus Olin is among the best slicers in the galaxy. He'll be a comm away if our gallant Artoo cannot break the codes."
Anakin's curls emerge from a labyrinth of multi-colored wires. "We'll need a plan of attack for the Royal Guard. I saw at least a dozen in the chambers leading to the throne room, and four trailing Sidious at all times."
Obi-Wan flicks several switches on a holopad, repeating until he's satisfied they're functioning to his preference. "Well, they're not clones, so we can't just shut them off. And their training makes them impervious to mind tricks." The hilt of his lightsaber has seen better days, but it molds into his hand before Obi-Wan clips it to his belt, suggesting with a sigh, "It'll be aggressive negotiations, then."
Anakin nods somewhat grimly. "More than likely."
"Begging your pardon, Master Ani," Threepio interrupts helpfully, "but Artoo calculates the odds of successfully infiltrating Imperial Palace without mortal injury at approximately five-thousand, three-hundred twenty-two to one."
"Whoa… what?" Solo's leisurely pace has suddenly livened as he plops into a chair next to Obi-Wan, rattling the Jedi's carefully arranged tool belt. "You heard that, right?"
"Be mindful, young one, that Anakin has already done it."
Well, of course, Solo thinks with a scowl, remembering smoky corridors, insane astromechs and being scared out of his wits. "I was there, remember? And there goes your 'one!' I'm startin' to think this isn't your best idea, no offense."
The Jedi master gives that maddening look of his, sifting through an assortment of utility knives before finding one that pleases him. "Artoo, what were the odds of escaping execution on Geonosis?"
Whistle. Beep. Beep.
"Six-thousand forty-seven to one," Anakin deciphers before Threepio.
"That was rather close," Obi-Wan remarks, nonchalantly. "How about eluding Dooku, a gundark and poison gas on Vanqor?"
Artoo's response is an immediate string of excitable sounds that Threepio translates as "Three-thousand, nine-hundred seventy-two to one, and he said it isn't his fault if your opposition doesn't uphold its end of the calculation."
Obi-Wan harrumphs and Anakin chuckles, inclining his head once again in the Falcon's thorny wiring system.
"I'm guessing the point is, never tell you the odds?" Solo decodes, fiddling with a handful of food capsules that are yet to go into Obi-Wan's utility belt.
"Something like that," the master agrees.
"Ani?" The Jedi's head turns immediately, of course, to a feminine voice as Padme enters the Falcon. "We have a bit of a situation. It's Luke." The former queen's hands wring together. "And Leia. I think the skills of both Jedi and father are needed."
Anakin nearly hits his head pulling it out of the panel. "Are they all right?"
"Yes, of course. It's just… well, there was a ball… flying through the air. Luke, I think. From what I could gather from a one-year-old, Leia wanted to make it fly, too, but couldn't. She's having a bit of a tantrum. Ferus Olin offered to help, but… well, he's rather flustered by Leia's temperament."
Solo winces. Prettygirl Skywalker has exhibited a bantha's worth of testiness for one so young. He pities the guy who snags her heart someday. Nothin.' But. Trouble.
Obi-Wan outwardly guffaws, eyes soft with apology toward Padme, but he has no mercy for Anakin's plight. The young Jedi father sighs, but pleasantly, as the screwdriver moves faster in his hand.
"Be there in a minute," he promises his wife with a lingering look that induces a flush of pink on her cheeks.
"Be sure it's only a minute," she demurs before hurrying back to her cranky toddler.
"Might I offer my services, as well, Lady Padme?" Threepio inquires, waddling after his mistress as Artoo follows. "I am a protocol droid, after all."
Solo sidles to the control panel, handing Anakin a smaller tool before the Jedi even asks, the boy's face abnormally pensive. There is a chippy clink of metal turning metal and the hiss of Anakin's breath as he sorts out the wiring problem; it's a few minutes before Solo deigns to speak.
"You know what you're walking into, right?" An image of Anakin, broken beyond comprehension even to the view of a scrappy boy accustomed to the worst, flashes behind Solo's brown eyes. "I mean, I know you know, but maybe we need to change the rules here. Who needs this rebellion thing, anyway? The Falcon's gonna hum like a dream when you're done with it. I've been thinkin' we can just grab Padme and the crawlers and head for Corellia, or Anison, or any planet where there's not a bunch of Imps tryin' to kill you."
Are those pinpricks of tears in the boy's eyes? Solo's words get caught in his throat as he thrusts another tool into Anakin's grip and blurts, "You don't have to do this, you know. Not for them."
The Jedi's ministrations cease, fingers carefully untangling from a maze of wires as he faces the boy who, Anakin senses more keenly than ever, wants to trust him.
"Maybe you're right," Anakin concedes. "Maybe I don't owe the alliance anything, but I do owe the galaxy a debt for throwing in my lot with a dictator. Even if neither of those things were in play, Han, I'd still have do this for my family." He stretches his hands onto Solo's shoulders, softness against the steel of the screwdriver he's still holding. "I need to be free of the darkness. If I am not free, my children will never be free, either. Now that you've heard why I made the decisions that put us here, does it help you understand?"
Solo wants to shrug off those hands, dismiss the knots of dread he's felt quarreling in his stomach since the alliance lackeys smooth-talked Anakin into doing their dirty work. He wants to not care so much about this Jedi-turned-Sith-turned-blasted-honorable-kriffin' -Jedi who could have – should have – dropped a few credits on that bar in the bowels of Corellia and minded his own business.
Why didn't he do that, like everyone else in Solo's life had, minus the pirates and the guardians who claimed to protect his best interests with callous threats and vicious backhands?
Solo swallows. Hard. "I've always gotten by on my own, but now that I have people who aren't so bad, like her – " his scrawny shoulder jerks toward the gangplank where Padme has just departed " – and maybe him, but he's really gotta grow a sense of humor – " his chin indicates Obi-Wan, whose attempt at cluelessness overtly fails " – and you, I might be freaked about losing you all, too."
The boy's face falls to his boots – a scruffy, beat-up pair Anakin liberated from a bloke in Corellia who had more than enough. Then, his gaze rises until brown stares intently, gratefully into blue, with Solo's shoulders quivering under Anakin's fingertips. "I guess it isn't so much that you were an evil piece of poodoo. You were just a scared, stoopa scoundrel like me."
Anakin feels as if he's been granted the grudging edge of forgiveness from the boy. It's tacit and fragile, but it's the first step toward reconciliation, which, the Jedi finds, has become surprisingly important to him.
"I was scared, of many things. And I'm not ashamed to tell you I'm scared now." Anakin's peripheral vision yields a raised eyebrow from his master. "But my destiny is to face the Sith and restore balance within the Force; no matter where we ran, that would remain."
There is no smart-arsed remark that refutes Anakin's reasoning; pointless to try, Solo thinks, lowering his head to conceal his tears as the Jedi releases his shoulders.
"Didn't you tell Padme you'd be along in a minute?" Obi-Wan reminds, pointedly.
Anakin snaps to, quickly sealing the control panel and lobbing tools into a container. "Aw, kriff. Guess I shouldn't have been so enthusiastic about the ball trick. We should start with some simple meditation techniques for the twins, adapt them to their age – "
" – When we return," Obi-Wan finishes resolutely. "Now go. I sense you're already in trouble."
"Yeah, me too." Anakin is off without another word, Force-jumping to hasten his speed as Obi-Wan shakes his head.
The Corellian is left standing near the control panel where Anakin left him, knees a bit wobbly as he sinks into a chair.
"I will not tell you there is nothing to worry about, young one, because you are far too intelligent to believe that kind of rubbish. This mission is dangerous. It will test the limits of everything we have been taught as Jedi."
The boy is incredulous now, eyes widening with fright. "Will he stay a Jedi this time?"
Obi-Wan withdraws his lightsaber from his utility belt, rubbing the scarred hilt with fondness. "He will try with every ounce of courage he possesses. And I will be there if that is not enough." The master allows himself a secretive smile. "We are more than just a couple of pretty faces."
Kriffin' Jedi and their hocus-pocus-y ways. "Yeah, whatever. Just bring him back in one piece," Solo grumbles. "And yourself, too. So somebody can get those Force-freaky twins under control."
Then, he rises grumpily on more solid knees, deciding to find something better to do than decipher damnable Jedi riddles.
Kriffin' Jedi.
Kriffin' alliance.
Kriffin' families.
Finis. For now.
A couple of things about this chapter, which got freakishly long by the end. We'll be out of Alderaan soon, I promise.
Bail Organa: I'm not trying to make him a bad guy, per se, but I needed a mechanism that would tempt Anakin toward the darkness, lest we forget that he does have a certain inclination to go there when he's cornered. Or if his family is in jeopardy. Enter Organa. Sorry about that.
Solo: This cutie-pie will not leave my muse alone. Imagine that; Solo being a pest. He and Ani needed to mend the fences, anyway. Hope you liked.
Obi-Wan: Solid and irresistible, as always. Who's my second-favorite Jedi? Yep, Obi. And yet, he's certainly not dim enough to think Anakin won't be tempted when they go storm Imperial Palace.
Q/A for mouse and Haley Renee: yes, the Death Star is way, WAY ahead of canon timeline. That's why I love AU – I can do whatever I want, so my Imps are really motivated. Luke and Leia are about 18 months old here, just squirts with lots of Force mischief.
Coruscant/Imperial City: Some have asked why I don't call it one or the other. The inconsistency is intentional. Our heroes tend to dismiss the name Sidious gave it, preferring to call it Coruscant. It's just a style/character thing. But thanks for pointing that out.
Coming attractions... Ani/Padme 'shippers, the next chapter is for you. Swoon.