Apologies for the slow update (though they're par for the course for this fic by now); there were issues that got in the way of writing it.

Also! I wrote a tiny ficlet for this AU back in October and only just posted it; check out my profile for the fic Clinging to the Warmth of the Spark if you're interested.


The guards changed at precisely 2355 hours and R2-D2 knew how to make the most of it.

Veers, Zevulon, had changed into the stolen Rebel guard uniform as Artoo had ordered; good. Humanoids made such a fuss sometimes, and he had expected Veers to shout and protest over something that made no logical sense. If the uniform had extra fabric on him, that just meant it would definitely fit over his head.

They were going to save the Queen's son. Amidala's son. Artoo's first mistress's son.

He knew why the Rebels had captured him, he'd hacked into their mainframe and accessed all the reports about the Imperial Prince—which Artoo was objectively certain was not the correct title for the son of a former queen and senator, but organics were irrational and often changed unnecessary things—and he did not think it was urgent. Or rather, he had no qualms or doubts about simply needing to get him out.

Master: Skywalker, Anakin had glitched at the end of the Clone Wars. Artoo had never been informed what happened to him, or why he was taken to that lava planet and why Anakin had turned on Amidala and she had nearly ceased operating because of it, only to be permanently deactivated later. But the other two models…

Organa, Leia was alive and well, he was told. She was on Coruscant, on her way here, to help her brother.

Skywalker, Luke had been taken by that large black droid who had killed Kenobi, Obi-Wan, and now he was here.

Now he was in danger.

Artoo was going to get him out of it.


"This is not how we thought this would go," Mon Mothma muttered to Ahsoka as the Council fractured into various shouting arguments, hands and limbs and other appendages waving wildly. "I was assured that Vader…"

"When I spoke to Luke"—Ahsoka saw the flash of recognition, understanding, pity in Mon's eyes as she used his given name, but she ignored it—"he was insistent that Vader would not deign to bargain with us. Perhaps we should have listened."

"Listened to someone who spits on Padmé's name in that way?" Mon's voice was calm, if sceptical, but it wasn't just an undercurrent of rage in her voice—it was vast, vast oceans. "He is the Imperial Prince, through and through. I am horrified to see what my friend's son has become. His parents would be so…"

"His father," Ahsoka bit her tongue as she said it, remembering to add, "as far as he is concerned, is Vader."

"And that father just handed over his son to a group of people he decries as ruthless terrorists," Mon said. "Padmé and Anakin are rolling in their graves."

"There's more to this situation than you know, Mon," she shot back.

"So you've assured me. And perhaps when Leia arrives and clarifies what that means, I will understand and agree with you. But as it currently stands, the card which should have been our winning hand is worthless—a liability, perhaps, if he shares the powers of the Jedi and Sith and Vader will be able to track us here through him. Perhaps we should have listened to Draven and Raddus: they were insistent that the Empire, despite their elitism and nepotism, would not sink to rescue their new prince. Palpatine is too cruel for that. There is no mercy in the Imperial galaxy."

"If it was up to Vader, I am sure he would have caved."

Mon glanced at her, surprised, suddenly. The shouting around them ceased.

"Agent Fulcrum," said one man—Rieekan. "Care to explain what that means?"

Ahsoka frowned.

"I would have thought that Vader would concede to our demands. I was as certain of it as all of you—our difficulty in keeping tabs on the boy over the years indicates—"

"Affection?" Senator Jebel spat. "You cannot imply that Vader feels affection, even for the boy he stole for his son—"

You have no idea, Ahsoka thought to herself. Anakin was like that. "Not necessarily affection, no—but we would all do well to remember, Senator, that Vader is a mortal creature just like anyone else. He must have weaknesses, and attachments, even if we don't know what they are." She took a breath. "But it's obvious that he considers Luke Skywalker a valuable asset, or he wouldn't have guarded him so closely during his childhood, and one of our many gambits to rescue the boy from the Empire would have paid off.

"I believe that Vader would be inclined to listen to us," she said, "but that in this case, he was forced to send this terrible message"—she gestured to the hologram—"because Palpatine would not hear of it."

"That is quite a suggestion, Agent Fulcrum," Mon said quietly. "What makes you so certain?"

Ahsoka swallowed so hard she nearly swallowed her tongue.

"I knew Vader in the days of the Jedi," she admitted. "But there is little I can tell you about him save this: he is protective, and possessive, to a fault. He sees Luke Skywalker as his. He will not suffer for us to keep him for long."

"Oh, that's excellent news," someone piped up. "So we should just send him another message and hope this time he'll choose to trade everything for a kid he kidnapped and brainwashed out of the goodness of his black, durasteel heart?"

"Yes," Ahsoka said. "This time, send—" She hesitated.

No. The Rebellion would not resort to harming Luke—harming Angel. She wouldn't let that happen.

And going down that road with threats and ultimatums was risky.

But…

"Send a message directly to Vader, and ensure that Palpatine does not catch wind of it," she said. "be more subtle—quieter. Simply restate the situation, and… give an explicit threat against his son." She emphasised the word. "Adjust our requests—things that would be enormously useful for us, but which Vader could concede to without the Emperor's watchful eye finding out. Reports of troop movements, freed prisoners, ransom… anything. If we can make Vader desperate enough to defy his master, drive a wedge between them—"

"You really think that Vader will choose an eighteen-year-old boy over the man he's slaughtered civilisations for?"

Eighteen.

Ahsoka's heart panged.

Luke was eighteen, and being used as a pawn.

She said, "I do."

"Well, I think it's utter nonsense," Jebel said. Ahsoka glared at him as his declaration emboldened others, and then there was a cacophony of naysayers, shouts for the idiocy of her plan; they were in this deep, had made such a terrible decision to even pursue this in the first place, it was too much a risk with no reward—

they should just kill the prince and wipe out the next Sith Lord—

She snapped her head up to glower, but she could not find whoever had said that.

But that comment had been too much for Mon as well, it seemed.

"Quiet!" she commanded.

There was quiet.

"I propose we rewatch the message," she said. Ahsoka could tell she was stalling for time, trying to think of something else to say, something to propose. "And Agent Fulcrum can explain to us afterwards, in more detail, why she thinks we will get a more favourable answer via her method."

There were discontented murmurings, but nods all around. One of Mon's aides hit a few buttons to bring it up again.

And as Vader's holographic form shimmered into existence, his horrible voice again booming horrible words, Ahsoka's orange skin paled to peach.


Luke was in his cell when the door burst open and a droid screeched in.

He yelped—he couldn't help it.

Artoo rebounded against the opposite wall of the cell so hard Luke worried he was going to dent himself, but when he spun around to spit a series of squawks at him, sharply.

"Hold on, hold on, hold on." Luke's eyes blew wide, staring from there to the door. "Slow down. You're—"

"Here to get you out."

Luke glanced up, automatically flinching away when he saw the guard's uniform—then his mouth fell open. "Zev?"

"What happened to your nose!?"

Luke touched the bacta patch there self-consciously. "I pissed off the wrong guard. What are you doing here?"

Zev rolled his eyes. "I just told you. Quite dramatically, as well. Come on."

"What?" Luke asked, but his heart began to race. This… this could be the solution he'd been looking for! His father wasn't going to concede to the demands, the Rebels couldn't let him go, but he couldn't just sit here and wait to die—or wait for someone to realise that the Angel attacks had stopped…

"You're getting me out?" Luke whispered, feeling the words and the meaning click into place. "Zev, you… You just got here, you'll be declared a traitor—"

"And you got me here! If the Rebellion aren't above executing Angel himself, just because he's Vader's son, this is not a cause I want to fight for!" Zev lowered his voice when he realised he sounded slightly unhinged.

"They don't know about Angel—"

"I'm here because of you, Luke. I'm willing to become a traitor for you."

Luke gazed at him for a moment, his mouth falling open into a small, "Oh."

Artoo rammed into his shins. The Oh turned to, "Ow!"

Zev frowned. "What do you mean, they don't know you're—"

Artoo chattered about running, getting out of there.

"Alright," Luke said. "We…" He swallowed.

Leia would get here. The Alliance would hear that he was Angel. They'd… probably decide not to kill him anyway.

But would they let him go?

They couldn't trade him back; the Empire wouldn't accept it. Would they just force him to defect, so he could be of use that way? Force him to publicly defect?

Depending on how this situation went, would he never see his father again?

How… how much better would it be if the Imperial Prince just… escaped, and he could resume things like normal? No harm done, nothing caused by his rash, stupid, reckless decision to turn himself over…

YOU ARE OF THE LINE OF AMIDALA, PADMÉ, Artoo observed sadly.

Luke blinked. "Yes?"

SHE WAS MY FIRST MASTER. He rolled into his shins again, but this time more lightly—affectionately. I WILL SEE YOU SAFE.

Luke swallowed; his throat was suddenly very tight.

"I… thank you," he said. "What's your plan to get out, then?"

"You're coming?" Zev said brightly.

Luke smiled. "Yeah. It's…" The best of a lot of bad options.

There were only bad options, nowadays.

He supposed he had to make of them what he could.

PUT ON THIS PLATING.

"What?" Zev tossed him a guard's uniform. "Oh."

As he fumbled into the fatigues—Zev politely turning away as he did—his friend continued, "We have to walk past a few checkpoints and other guard rotations to get to the landing pad. Keep your helmet on and your face down."

"What about you?"

"They've seen me around base. They know I'm a Rebel. You, on the other hand, have had your face plastered all over every holonews site and billboard inside the Mid Rim for weeks now."

"My face is covered in blood and bacta."

"Even more suspicious."

As Luke reached up to position the helmet on his head, he couldn't help but muse how the Imperial caps looked so much nicer. He appreciated the Rebel fashion sense as far as colour went—they actually had some, though in the case of the orange flight suits they may have a tad too much—but something about the caps Captain Piett always wore just looked more professional. Or perhaps that was the man making them seem that way.

"Are you ready?"

With the broad white helmet, most of his bright hair was hidden; he hoped no one did look at his face. Zev was right. "I'm ready."

Zev grabbed his hand and dragged him out. "Then let's go."

They released their hands the moment they were out, and tried to walk side by side down the corridor—Luke didn't have a blaster, but he hoped he looked sufficiently threatening without one.

"You're walking too stiff. You're walking like an Imp."

"So are you!"

"Yeah, well—"

They heard clipped footsteps coming their way; Luke immediately walked faster, glancing around.

Wherever they were, it was underground, and the cold stone of the walls betrayed it was an older structure the Rebels had repurposed. The cells that lined the walls hadn't been built as cells, originally—they were cold, but not as cold as Imperial design always had them, and Luke's bunk had been makeshift rather than being built into the structure. He supposed they were in some sort of temple, and these were meditation rooms in the bowels of the earth, meant to keep one from all distractions.

They walked past their first guard patrol a scarce minute later. Luke stretched out with the Force, hoping Ahsoka couldn't sense him—good, she seemed distracted right now, if the turmoil he could sense was any indication—and scrutinised them.

No suspicion. They walked right past.

The next one came quite a while—and a few floors—later, but she was sharp-eyed and as stiff as a defector: her gaze caught on Luke's slightly rumpled uniform and she snapped, "I know this isn't the Imperial Army, but have a little self-respect. Straighten that out. And your helmet's too big for you, you need to—" Her gaze moved to Luke's face.

Her mouth opened in shock—then to shout—

Luke darted forwards and closed his fist; she fell like a stone, the Force slumbering around her. That had been surprisingly effective—

He glanced sideways, and Zev lowered the blaster he'd stunned her with.

"What?"

They just exchanged a glance, then sprang to manoeuvre her into the nearest empty room. Artoo hooted, irritated.

"Yes, yes, I know," he whispered. "We need to go."

They made a beeline for the exit—Zev seemed to know what he was doing, where he was going—but then Artoo squawked again and they glanced down at him.

He rolled away, round the back, to a tiny, unused maintenance corridor a few rooms over from the main hangar. It was dark—and dusty; he coughed and groaned—and seemed unused since the Rebels had got here, but Artoo pulled out one of his many appendages from the body of his machinery and lit the way.

They inched along, and Luke realised he could hear voices.

"What?" he hissed. "Are we close to—"

Zev had gone pale.

"I think," he said, "we're sneaking past High Command's main debating hall."

Luke swallowed.

"Is this allowed? Is this not a security risk?" he hissed.

Artoo beeped quietly. I WILL INFORM SENATOR MOTHMA OF THE RISK ONCE YOU ARE AWAY.

"Alright, that's… that's something."

BEGIN MOVING.

Luke, ushered forwards by a droid resembling nothing more than an angry little can, crept along the corridor.

Every echo was agonisingly loud in his ears; he struggled with his own fear, the cacophony of his own racing heart, as he kept going. Surely they had heard that? Surely they would question what that thud of a stubbed toe was? Surely they would realise—

But they did not.

They were… distracted, he realised.

And when he realised why, he was distracted too.

It began with the vibrations in the stone beneath him, trembling against the soles of his feet. Then it travelled to his ears, and he recognised that deep baritone—recognised it with a familiarity that tugged at the deepest part of his heart.

"As an announcement to the galaxy at large: I bear grave news.

What?

What was his father—

"In the most recent, disgusting attack by the Rebel Alliance and their burglar, Angel, my son was threatened, injured and kidnapped. Prince Luke is now being held hostage by the Rebellion—the very traitors who claim to be morally superior to the people they murder, rob and capture. This is all the official announcement that will be made about this despicable deed, so know this: justice for this atrocity will be swift… and it will be brutal."

Luke stifled a gasp. Zev, not so subtle, clapped his hand over his mouth; Artoo beeped an almost-silent warning and rammed into him in reprimand.

This… The Alliance had sent off their demands, after all.

And this… this was his father's reply?

Despite Artoo's urgency… he stopped. Pressed his ear against the wall. Listened.

"And to the Rebel terrorists who seek to threaten me so, this is not a concession."

Luke swallowed.

He knew what was coming.

He knew what—

"We will not cave to your cowardly demands. Prince Luke is a vital, vibrant part of our Empire, and you will pay for what you have done to him. We will not be paying you."

Luke fell against the wall; his knees were wobbling underneath him, his entire body weak, out of control…

…very far away…

"My son would be disgusted with the very idea of giving up so much to such scum, even for his own life, and so am I. We do not deal with traitors.

"We execute them instead."

Luke closed his eyes. He did not feel them burning or watering.

He'd known this was coming.

He'd— he'd warned Ahsoka—

But they hadn't listened.

They… they had gone ahead with it anyway, and Vader had confirmed all of Luke's worst fears.

We do not deal with traitors.

We execute them instead.

He was not going to save him. Not if it involved a concession for his precious Empire.

His father loved him. He was furious about this…

But not enough to save him.

Luke had always known that would be the case. He had told Ahsoka as much.

But it didn't mean he had ever wanted to hear it confirmed so damningly.

He had never wanted to hear, in cold ruthless tones, what his father would do if he ever learned how Luke had betrayed him—

We execute them instead.

Luke let out a tiny sob. No one save Zev seemed to hear.

His father had abandoned him.

His father had… left him to the mercy of the Rebellion, of people he regarded as murderous terrorists, to protect the Empire.

The Rebels wanted to kill him. He knew they did; he could sense it in the thoughts and feelings of some of the people watching that very recording, replaying it, again and again and again, until those horrible words were seared into his brain—

The Rebels wanted the Imperial Prince dead.

The Empire—his father—wanted Angel dead.

And Luke realised he had nowhere to go.

He had never felt quite so alone.

He leaned against the wall, legs shaking… and a hand settled on his shoulder.

He turned to see Zev gazing at him. His eyes shone in the darkness with unshed tears of sympathy.

"I'm sorry, Luke," he murmured. Artoo whistled something sympathetic too.

Luke smiled bitterly. "I am too," he said back to him. "About your father."

"I never expected anything different with him, though."

Luke closed his eyes.

"Neither did I," he whispered.

Then, before he could dwell on his dismay, he straightened up again. "Come on. Let's head to the ship."

They snuck out of the tunnel, and Luke sighed to himself when they were back in the generic corridors, for all that it meant he was now more easily spotted.

"You wait here," Zev instructed him, pushing him back into the shadows of the hidden corridor. Sunlight was so close; he could feel the distant warmth, feel the wind caressing his face. "Artoo and I will go and get the ship we've designated. We'll fly over here, get it onto the landing pad, pick up the cargo its usual pilot is meant to be going for, then you'll sneak on while we're out front. Got it?"

"In front of everyone?" Luke hissed.

Artoo beeped. THIS IS STATISTICALLY THE OPTIMAL ROUTE.

Luke privately thought that might mean the best of some truly terrible options, but he was willing to try it out.

They were helping him.

They… had come for him.

His own father hadn't, but they…

He suddenly had to look away, emotions overtaking him.

"Thank you," he said. He rested a grateful hand on Artoo's dome.

Artoo beeped something quiet enough that Luke couldn't make it out, but he teared up anyway.

"Now, go," Luke said. "Go get your ship."

"Before we do," Zev said, and reached for Artoo, to tap him on the dome. "Remember something?"

Artoo whistled, and ejected something from one of his storage compartments.

It looked a lot like…

"Is that my father's lightsaber?" Luke was awed—and surprised. "How did you—"

IT WAS ASSIGNED TO ME BY ORGANA, LEIA: PRINCESS OF ALDERAAN.

Assigned. Luke suddenly had a vivid image of R2-D2 going out waving a lit lightsaber, fighting with it—with his father—and wreaking general havoc. He shuddered in terror.

"You know Leia?"

I AM ASSIGNED TO ANTILLES, RAYMUS: CAPTAIN OF THE TANTIVE IV.

"That makes sense." A trusty droid, trusted to work on the Rebel base when necessary, but just as often accompanying Leia on her missions. "I… thank you, for this."

USE IT TO REMAIN SAFE. DEFEND YOURSELF. THERE ARE MULTIPLE BLASTERS AND HOSTILES IN THE IMMEDIATE VICINITY.

"Yeah." Luke's grip on it tightened. "Don't remind me."

He wasn't going to use it.

He shouldn't use it—these were Rebels. They were on the same side, even if all the people who hated his guts, wanted him dead, didn't know it.

So he pocketed the lightsaber, praying that he wouldn't need to use what limited training he had received, and waved his hand in a shooing motion. "Now go. I won't say it again."

Artoo went, Zev followed, and Luke was left alone.


Vader's day was getting worse and worse.

Everyone knew to avoid him. Even the captain seemed to be doing his best to stay on the other side of the ship to him. He didn't blame him. Piett was a wise man and at least he could rely on him—at least he knew that he was doing his best to look for Luke.

But the declaration he'd made—the entire speech he'd submitted on the holonet—still bothered him. Palpatine had been right, conceding to their demands would have only hurt Luke, but he still hated how he had sacrificed his son on the altar of pragmatism.

It didn't matter. He would make it up to him. He would find him and destroy the rebels who'd taken him, and then he'd keep him safe for the rest of his life.

"My lord!" Piett approached him from the other side of the bridge, where he'd just strode in the door, and gave a sharp salute. "The bounty hunters you requested have arrived. They await you in Hangar 3."

"Thank you, Piett," Vader said distractedly, then processing what he said, with all his attention. "I will be there immediately. Ensure they are impressed with the gravity and vitality of this mission."

The captain saluted again. "Yes, my lord." He turned to the aide at his side—a young woman with large bags around her eyes who looked like some sort of overworked intern. "Esmeralda, contact Lieutenant Naton and ensure that he knows what is happening in hangar Bay 3."

"Yes, sir." She turned around immediately and went to carry out the order. Piett followed, casting Vader a nervous glance over his shoulder before the doors hissed shut and he was gone.

Vader let the cycles of his respirator run monotonously for several long minutes. They didn't calm him.

"I'm coming for you, Luke," he promised so lowly, so quietly, he could barely hear himself. He cast it through the Force as well, but their bond was dull and empty and if he had ever expected a reply, he did not receive one. "You will be safe. I promise.

"I will find you."


Leia's mad rush to get to Yavin 4 had paid off, she hoped. when they exited hyperspace, she received a call from Ahsoka, with her assurance that Luke was still in his cell. She was fairly sure she could sense her brother on the moon below: shrouded amongst the jungle and the lingering spirits of the Massassi Temple, but undoubtedly there.

She turned to Captain Antilles. "He's safe."

"Who is, Your Highness?" asked the captain, focused as ever on his job, but taking the moment to smile at her, and her relief.

Leia smiled. "Luke," she said.

Her brother was safe.

They landed soon after, barely having to submit the confirmation codes before Mon Mothma and Ahsoka had hailed the communications Department to clear them for landing. Leia stepped off the ramp to the muggy, warm atmosphere inside and a breath that was full of humidity. Rick was here he was alive—if… stressed—and he was here to be saved.

She saw Mon striding for her and she strode to meet her too.

"We need to reconvene High Command. Immediately. There is absolutely vital information I need to share."

Mon inclined her head. "I assume this is about the prisoner. Your… friend?"

"My best friend," she corrected, even as the word brother tingled on her tongue. "but it is also in vital for the survival of the whole rebellion that more people know about this. Harm has been done to a good person, a great asset to us, who did not deserve it."

Mon noted, "Your... caginess regarding the situation has not made it easy to convince the other members of High Command to leave our guest alone."

"But you have left him alone?"

"One of his guards became a little hands-on, and his nose is the worst for the wear, but he is alive and in one piece."

"What did you do to his nose?"

"Ahsoka has healed it, for the time being. You should concern yourself with convincing the other Rebel leaders of his... necessity."

"His necessity will not be difficult to convince anyone of, I assure you."

"That is all well and good for you to say, but I must insist—" Mon paused. "What is that?"

Leia turned to follow her gaze. "What are you...?"

Then she saw it.

She heard the sound of a lightsaber loud and clear.


There really wasn't any way he could've avoided the Rebel.

He came at him quickly, hand raised and a knife clenched in his fist. Luke since the malice before he sensed the presence and jerked his head up, only to see an infuriated Rebel staring at him, murder in his eyes. He swallowed, lifted his chin, and tried to use the force to make himself seem... invisible.

It didn't work.

So he reached out with the force again, and at least tried to gauge their intentions. His attacker was human, tall and broad, with dark shaggy hair and a scar that twisted his lips. His sense in the force was not a friendly one.

"Can I help you?" He smiled a little bit, in attempt to seem nonthreatening. The sense he was getting from them was nothing promising, but he didn't want to attack or flee until he absolutely had to—

It didn't matter. The man kept coming for him.

"You're the kriffing Imperial Prince!"

Well, shavit.

"You must be mistaken." He tried not to glance around, not to seem suspicious. "I—"

The fist flew—thankfully the one without the knife—and Luke ducked before it took out his chin.

"I'm pretty sure your High Command want me alive," he growled, irritation flaring to the surface. He'd never hear the end of this, the moment they left him alone he got attacked—

"I don't care what High Command want," his attacker shot back. "your dad killed everyone I love. Now I'm going to return the kriffing favour."

They didn't seem to be a way Luke was getting out of this.

He'd forgotten one thing about the Rebels, when he'd willingly handed himself over to be their prisoner: most of them were here because they were angry.

No wonder. They were angry because everything had been taken from them; Luke couldn't blame them. But in this case, it might just kill him.

The man's aggression was drawing attention—it was stirring the Force around them, bloodlust and fury tumbling over each other, and Luke was fairly sure Ahsoka could already sense it.

So he threw caution to the wind.

He opened his hand, opened himself to the Force, and sent the man's knife flying.

It skittered across the uneven, ancient paving stones of the temple, and came to rest within the cracks. It glinted in the sunlight, but Luke wasn't looking at it anymore. He turned his full attention on his attacker, and even tried to ignore the gazes they were drawing from the people around them.

He had the lightsaber on him, he remembered. He had the lightsaber, so if he was really desperate, if he really, really needed it—

But he did not want to kill a Rebel.

His father had done enough of that.

"I don't want to fight you," he said earnestly, holding our hand. A slight Force push sent the man sliding back a bit, but that only seemed to make him angrier. Go figure.

"Well, that's just tough," the man snarled back, "because I have been waiting for a chance like this."

Luke grimaced, and stepped back to give himself better fitting. If they were going to brawl, fist to fist, and draw attention like that—

He at least was going to lose the fight that was going to blow his cover.

He was better than that.

The first punch came quickly, and despite Luke's expectations the man was tougher than he'd expected. it was hard and it was fast; Luke barely dodged in time, and when he returned it the man was just as quick. He snarled, unable to help himself in frustration, and his assailant just looked thrilled.

"I'm happy to break your kriffing nose a second time, Your Highness," he taunted.

Then he came at him again, and Luke dashed to the side, still trying to keep within the realms of that corridor hidden to the side, still trying to avoid attention. The sounds of the scuffling would no doubt draw it anyway, but that didn't mean he had to encourage it.

He dodged the next jab and returned one in the man's ribs, and couldn't help grinned himself when he heard him gasp and grunt.

"You'll pay for that." the man spat out something. Luke didn't know what: he hadn't hit him in the face.

He bared his teeth. "I don't want to hurt you." He lifted his fists. "But you clearly want to kill me, and I don't want to die. So calm down, and we can both walk away unhurt, but if you continue—"

"I'm not the one who's going to get hurt."

He still had the lightsaber, Luke remembered.

He had the lightsaber, if he really needed it.

Surely he didn't need it.

Surely...

He could take this man. Right? He didn't need to light the lightsaber, he did not need to unleash that, he did not need to draw more attention to himself, he could just reach out in the Force—

And he did. He… reached out with the Force and... pushed him back. When it worked he, he did it again.

He threw him back.

The man went sprawling, hit the wall hard, and landed on his back on the floor. He rolled to his feet again, spitting again, and glared.

Luke was supposed to be keeping this a secret.

Luke was supposed to be being subtle.

Zev would be here any minute with the ship; Artoo would be here any minute, to help him get away from this random Rebel with a grudge.

But they were not here.

They were not here, and the Rebel was, and Luke was too, so he had to deal with this himself.

"I don't want to hurt you," he repeated like a broken chrono. "Back off, leave me alone, let me—"

He'd let the guy recover for too long. Rage roared: Luke barely had time to react before he lunged at him, his shoulder slamming into his torso and sending them both down, rolling on the cold dusty floor. Luke swore, tried to push him off of him, but he was stuck fast.

And this man was much bigger than him. He pressed him down, against the uncomfortable paving; a hand clamped over his mouth and held his head down; Luke struggled to breathe—

"Where's your precious father now, Skywalker?" came the hissed admonishment, the vicious satisfaction and victory cry. "Where's your—"

Luke bit him. There was a shout and a cry; Luke took the opportunity to shove himself up—lash out with his knee.

He connected with something hard. The man yelped, higher than Luke had known the vocal range of the human voice went, and he managed to shove him off him, heart racing.

Something was wrong, though.

Something...

Luke reached for his waist.

There was nothing there.

The lightsaber...

The man had recovered, and was looking at him with hatred.

Hatred that morphed into glee when he noticed the same thing Luke had.

He reached down to the large groove in the floor where the lightsaber had rolled only a few feet from where he was kneeling, and fastened his hands around it, rising to his feet.

"This yours, Skywalker?" His grin said he already knew the answer.

Luke scowled. The man lit it, and the bright blue blade stung his eyes.

Kriff.

The harsh hum and hiss and buzz bounced off the cold stone walls over the temple, probably announcing to everybody, including Mon Mothma and the rest of the council, that their most prized prisoner had escaped. This had been an utter bust. Luke was not going to escape without notice: not now.

Well. That didn't mean he couldn't escape. He just had to be fast—

Faster than this man was, as he ran at him, the lightsaber waving in his hand as he drove it towards Luke—

He dived to the side, the Force blaring around him like a klaxon, and winced as the saber gouged a thick, deep scratch in the fine polished wall.

Why had Artoo given this to him?

Of course he'd only been asking for trouble.

"Hey, buddy, you don't know how to use that." Luke tried to put up his hands in a conciliatory manner. "Put the lightsaber down, and... Try not to cut off your own hand. That's happened before, I know it has."

"I know you have, Sithspawn. I don't care—"

Luke lashed out with the Force and knocked him off his feet again. He tried to tug the lightsaber out of his grip, but it wasn't like he'd had very many lessons on the finer motor functions of the Force, and the man was gripping it too tightly. He tried to reach for his mind, to put him to sleep the way he had the guards in the senator's apartment, but his shields were locked tight—was shielding a common thing taught in the rebellion? It seemed so. Or perhaps it was the anti-interrogation training...

His forays into the Force had long been noticed.

Or perhaps it was the loud shrieking of the people around them, the lightsaber, that meant Ahsoka and—and Leia—were suddenly reaching out to him, concerned.

What are you doing?

Why are you out of your cell?

What is happening—?

No time to answer. No time to answer. Luke stepped forwards, reaching down to try and retrieve his lightsaber physically, since the Force was no help, and he looked down into the man's glaring grey eyes—

And then there was a slash of blue.

Luke screamed.

He staggered back, all his senses blaring, everything too painful, too bright, too much.

This—

What—

What had happened

The man rose to his feet, the blinding lightsaber flashing in his hand as he grinned with all his white, white teeth. Luke staggered back; His back hit the wall, and he slid down it, until his legs hit the floor and he was left shivering, because—

His hand—

His wrist—

It—

It was—

It was gone.

He stared at it, totally unable to compute this.

He ignored the man coming for him, lightsaber raised high above his head. He just stared.

And stared.

And stared.

His hand—

His hand was lying on the floor several metres away from him.

"I am going to enjoy this, Sithspawn. Very much."

He didn't even look up.

The man raised the lightsaber—

And it was snatched in mid-air from his hand, to land neatly in Ahsoka's.

"What," she demanded, "is the meaning of this?"

She was approaching from inside the temple, alone. Mon Mothma was—

Mon Mothma was coming from another direction, surrounded by guards who were clearing the scene of the Rebel pilots and other spectators who'd come to stare, and walking side by side with…

If Luke had had any shred of mind spared from the unparalleled agony in his wrist right now, he would have been relieved to see Leia.

The man who attacked him stuttered. "I... I saw the prisoner escaping, ma'am."

"And you took it upon yourself to kill him for it?" Leia's tone was ruthless.

"Your Highness—" he got out. "That's— that's the Imperial Prince."

"I am well aware of that, Major," Mothma snapped. "but as it is, we wanted him alive for a reason. Do you think your petty vengeance more important than the overall good of the Rebellion?"

"I did not intend to imply it was, sir, but—"

"Guards," Ahsoka said, loudly and clearly, "please take this man to the cells. We will run a full investigation into your behaviour here. This is not acceptable."

The man did not go quietly. But he went.

Luke was... not entirely paying attention. There was nothing except his wrist.

Because there was nothing beyond his wrist.

Because—

"Luke?" Leia knelt down in front of him, her face drawn tight with concern. "What happened to your nose?" Then she seemed to clock what the more pertinent question here was. "Your hand—"

Mon Mothma seemed to have less sympathy for him. "Leia," she began. "As you can see—"

Behind the two women, Luke could see a ship landing and Zev striding down the shuttle ramp, gazing in his direction- then freezing awkwardly. Luke shook his head in an abort motion.

Zev whistled and turned away, pretending he hadn't seen the situation—but still shooting Luke very concerned glances. Luke wondered how terrible he looked.

"—the decision on Angels part to bring the Imperial Prince here has caused us many complications, this altercation only being the most recent of them. What is the highly important information you wanted us to know? You cannot keep this a secret any longer."

Leia wasn't paying attention to her. Her gaze was on Luke, her hand trembling as she went to rest it on his shoulder, pity and sympathy mingling horridly in her eyes.

Still, she murmured, so quietly Luke could barely hear her—so quietly he was fairly sure not even Ahsoka could hear her—that, "Luke is Angel."

The silence rang. Mothma had definitely heard that.

"He is the traitor to the Empire who's been helping us so much."

In any other situation, after the whole spectacle he'd put on to keep up the charade, Luke would have enjoyed the look of utter shock on Senator Mon Mothma's face.

But now…

But now…

He just turned away from her—hid from hers and Ahsoka's horrified, horrible gazes—and buried his face in Leia's shoulder.