His father had arrived in a far less orthodox way than Luke had, it seemed. When Luke had asked how it worked—he seemed to dust intentionally, and reappear without the risk—he'd only received a cryptic, "That is for far later in your training," and he'd left it at that.

However, with one hawk and a handful of imperial words, Palpatine did commandeer a carriage and driver from the nearest Imperial outpost, and it was the next day that it arrived outside the city gates. Luke suspected that the only reason Leia let it into her kingdom was in an attempt to get rid of him as soon as possible, and he couldn't say he blamed her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her the morning they left, when they slipped past each other in a side corridor. She had taken back all of the clothes she had given him, regretted all of the help, so all he had were the woollen jerkins and jackets left to him by Beru. (Death almighty, Beru—how would she hate him, now?) He had noticed the disdainful curl of his father's lip when he laid eyes on him dressed like that, but he offered him no change of clothing; just made him get out of his sight as soon as possible. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

"Now you are," she told him bluntly. "But I'm sure you won't be once you get all your memories back."

"I will, I will, I don't— I can't believe I would—"

"You don't know yourself."

Luke flinched. Retreated back into his warm jacket; at least it smelled like one of Aunt Beru's hugs, something he would likely never have again.

It was true. He didn't know himself. He knew nothing about himself, all his conclusions had been wrong, and he—the real him—was apparently…

He was apparently a genocidal, manipulative sadist?

"If that fossil is your father, I'm not surprised you would do something like this. I'm not surprised you turned out this way. But I want you to know," she leaned in a little, her snarl baring her pearly teeth, and Luke backed up until he hit the corridor wall, "that I will never lie down and allow you to use me. You will not order me around, no matter how pretty your Death Speech is. I will not be your puppet, Your Highness, and I suggest you anticipate a fight every time you turn your carriage in my direction."

"I'm not going to come here and order you around," Luke said—Luke promised. "I won't. I wouldn't."

"We've already been over this. You don't know yourself." She took a deep breath and sagged back, then, just looking at him sadly. The anger was still there, but… "And I apparently never knew you either."

He cringed. "You do know me," he said.

She scoffed. "I think it's very clear that I don't."

"You do—"

"Are you going to talk at me until I agree?" she mocked. "Try it."

"No," Luke said. "I am not going to try that. I am never going to do that."

She flinched at the sound of the Death Speech—then stared at him in baffled fury.

Then she turned around and walked away.

When Luke reached the courtyard, and climbed into the carriage, his father sat down opposite him and smiled at him.

"Ignore any fools you may have met here," he said kindly. "They know nothing of you. Are you ready to come home?"

Luke said nothing.

They sat together in silence for a very long time as the carriage trundled westwards, Palpatine gazing out the window at the snow-capped peaks and blooming white flowers littering the banks of the road. Luke was staring at the carpeted floor, sunk back against the cushions, lost in thought.

"How many times did you dust, my son?" Palpatine asked at last, tearing his gaze away from the window to fix on Luke intently.

Luke blinked. "What?"

Palpatine narrowed his eyes and Luke winced. "Pardon?"

"How many times did you dust?" he repeated

"Uhhh," Luke clenched his teeth. "Once. I think. From Theed to the— to near Alderaan."

Palpatine nodded once. "You are lucky it was not more. It is a dangerous business."

"But you're able to dust on will? And keep all your clothes with you?" He tried not to let the envy seep into his voice, but his father laughed.

"Indeed I can. It is a skill I developed after many, many, many years of magical study."

"How many years?"

Palpatine tilted his head. "Do you not think that's a rude question?"

"You're immortal. No."

Palpatine seemed torn, as if he wasn't sure whether to laugh or scowl. "A few hundred years old. I intend to live for hundreds more, and our empire will prosper therein." He reached up to squeeze Luke's shoulder. "I fully intend to pursue such immortality for you too; I couldn't bear to lose you."

Luke didn't know how to react to that, so he didn't react at all. He just kept his expression neutral.

Palpatine was totally unbothered, and just let his hand slide off Luke's shoulder. "Where did you first appear when you dusted from the resurrection?"

"Theed."

"Theed? That is odd." Palpatine frowned. "Your mother was from Naboo, naturally, but usually dusting is more specific in its location—"

"Well, near Theed. In the ruins of a little cottage at the bottom of the Naberrie estate."

"Did you meet the Naberries?" Palpatine leaned forwards, apparently very engaged in the answer.

Luke leaned back a little. "I… did." He got the feeling Palpatine already knew this—how would he have known to come to Alderaan if he hadn't been tracking him somehow?—so he just resolved not to lie.

For now.

"Did you like them? Your mother's family can be—"

"They kicked me out and threatened me with a knife and armed guards."

"—unrelentingly closed-minded." Palpatine pinched his lips. "Indeed. They never did like unusual things."

Luke frowned again, and rubbed at his chest. "Unusual things?"

"Yes. Magic. Or anything that they view as magic. I imagine they took your deathmark to be the equivalent of a brand for piracy or treason."

Luke was quiet. They… had.

"Why was I not raised with them?" he asked. "If they were my mother's family, why did they have no idea who I was?"

"Is it not obvious? I hid you from them. They would have killed you—or have wanted nothing to do with you. Your mother was a prominent politician, purely unmagical and human, but your father was one of the most powerful sorcerers ever known. They never liked him, they never trusted him, and they would not have welcomed his spawn into their house."

"I see." He didn't know where to even begin feeling about that.

"But that cottage you dusted to… that makes more sense. You were born there."

Luke blinked. "Oh?"

"Your mother gave birth in that little house, trying to keep her magical child a secret, but still needing help from home. She started travelling towards Coruscant a few days later, to visit me with you, but my men had just reached her to escort her the rest of the way when…"

He broke off, staring into mid-air.

Luke prompted, "Father?"

"Vader attacked her. Killed her. He had always desired her—was incredibly jealous of your father—and when he learned they had married, he couldn't bear it. And then I suppose he figured, correctly, that the child would be as talented as his father…" He sighed. "He has tried to kidnap you many, many times."

He lifted a hand to cradle Luke's cheek. "The day you died was the first time he was successful. I suspect that was a part of his plan as well—imagine if he had found you as you are now, without memories? It would be awful, to see a beloved son taken advantage of in his weakest, most vulnerable hour, and twisted against me like that… You would have been a powerful weapon in his arsenal."

Luke suddenly felt distinctly uncomfortable.

"I am no weapon," he said.

"Of course not! But Vader certainly thinks so."

"You're the one who won't stop talking about my power."

Palpatine smiled, lifting his hand back to his cheek again. His touch seemed to grow colder and colder with every brush; Luke tried not to shiver at it. "I simply do not want you to undervalue your own worth—"

"Is that based on power?"

"No." His mild-mannered smile was getting infuriating. "But nor do I want you to underestimate how high-profile a target you are, especially for Vader—both as a prince, and as a weapon. I do not want you to be caught unaware. In case another attack comes."

"Then shouldn't we be travelling with guards?" Luke glanced around.

"I am more than capable of defending us both, no matter the army launched against us, so long as you remain vigilant."

"I understand," Luke said. He didn't. "If I could remember my abilities, that would help, right?"

"Of course."

"Well, I have a spell that could restore them—"

"No."

Luke blinked. "What?"

Palpatine wrinkled his nose. "I imagine that whatever spell you have was cobbled together from old books—based on a limited grasp of magical theory—correct? Something more theoretical than practical."

"Yes, but—"

"I know a more sophisticated spell," he assured him. "One without the risks and pitfalls of an improvisation. Magic is inherently sketchy and unstable, which is why resurrections only work perhaps half of the time, but you can make it more stable depending on how much you understand it. Now, my spell is more complicated, and will require ingredients I don't have with me here, but once we return to the palace, I will cast it. And I will make sure there are no side effects." He met Luke's gaze levelly, nodding his head in reassurance. "Am I understood?"

Luke said, "Yes, Father."

They travelled for several hours more, and at one point Luke saw his father relax minutely. He'd been the picture of poise and perfection before; he hadn't looked tense… but when he pushed aside the velvety curtain of the carriage to glance outside, something about the quaint little town they were passing below made the corners of his lips curl upwards, and a tension Luke hadn't even noticed eased from his shoulders.

"We are back in Imperial territory," he said calmly. "The dangerous part of our journey is over; we should be safe now."

"Why?" Luke asked.

Palpatine smiled. "Vader trying to get a significant force through my territory is much more unlikely than getting one through his." He sat back against the cushions. "From here, we are safe."

Luke glanced out the window.

They rode through the night, and it became increasingly clear that they were in Imperial territory as it went—more outposts, buildings and towns along the side of the road flew the Imperial flag, a bone-white crest on black fabric. It unsettled him, seeing it, for some reason… but he didn't want to examine that too closely.

He glanced at his father, then glanced away.

They rode a little while longer, the sun rose the next morning, and the news of the Emperor's approach seemed to have spread: he saw soldiers and locals laying down red and yellow flowers at the side of the road as they passed, people laughing and shouting and tossing petals in clouds of colour.

Despite himself, Luke smiled.

Palpatine ruined it, of course.

"This is what Vader and all his allies—the Queen of Alderaan included—would see destroyed," Palpatine murmured. "The Empire, and all its beloved people with it."

"What about Alderaan?" Luke found himself asking.

"Pardon me?"

"Did Alderaan not have children throwing flowers?" He gestured to the window; they'd rolled past that town, now, with only a few fluttering crimson petals, like drops of blood, clinging to the carriage as a reminder. "Or love for their rulers?"

The response he got was sharp and unambiguous. "They did not have it for the Empire."

"Oh."

Palpatine sat forward, his brows drawing together in concern. "Remind me, son—you said you had a deathmark? I assume you do."

Luke nodded. "I do."

"I thought so—would you like me to remove it?"

Luke put his hand to his chest, almost protectively. "I thought it was a mark of the resurrection."

"It is. Well, not necessarily, not in the way you are thinking—"

"I thought it was permanent."

"It is not." He lifted a hand, and spread his fingers.

"Leia said it was a side effect of the resurrection, it was what held the magic—"

"Organa is not a sorceress, no matter how much she fancies herself to be one. Necromantic power is held in the body, not one specific mark. The deathmark is what the necromancer inflicts which cements his control over the vessel—or vassal. Yours means that, in all likelihood, Vader would be able to control you. Organa's means you can control her."

Luke grimaced at that, but he was listening now. "They… can be removed?" If he could remove Leia's, then perhaps he could make sure she couldn't be controlled again.

"They can. Would you like me to remove yours?"

Luke… hesitated.

Something felt… off.

But then he nodded.

"Show me how it works," he said.

Palpatine lifted his hand and spread his fingers further, resting his fingertips on the surface of Luke's woollen jerkin. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath… and muttered something in Death Speech that Luke didn't understand.

A pressure built in his chest, a tightness. After a moment, Luke realised he was fighting for breath; oxygen couldn't come deep enough, couldn't reach him, and then when it did it hurt, like a pulled muscle getting pulled again and again and again.

His pulse jackrabbited in his neck. A vice squeezed his heart. His eyes blew wide, his hand shot up, and he grasped his father's hand to push it away from his chest, tight in his grip.

The pain faded, but his heart still stumbled erratically, like an unbalanced bird beating its wings for stability.

His thumb brushed over Palpatine's hand, and he noticed there were fewer wrinkles there than before.

"Please," he gasped out. "Stop."

Palpatine watched him closely… then nodded, sitting back. Luke dropped his hand.

"I… apologise," Palpatine said. There was nothing genuine about the sympathy in his face; Luke knew that much. "It seems that Vader's spellcasting was… tighter… than I anticipated. I will find a way to remove it, but it may take time."

Luke nodded, still breathing heavily.

"But nonetheless, it must be overcome," he continued. "Shall we try it again?"

Luke shook his head. "No. Not… not now. I don't want to do it again now."

Subtle frustration—and possibly even fury—coloured Palpatine's voice, but he said, "Very well. Perhaps it would be beneficial to have a short rest, now; we still have a long journey ahead of us."

Luke nodded, leaned back against the cushions, and closed his eyes.

Eopie was exhausted by the time they got back up to the farm, and so was Beru. The sun was just kissing the horizon, her back was sore from the long, long journey, and her hand were cramping around the reins. They trundled to a stop just in front of the cottage, and Beru barely had the mental capacity to throw a tarp over the cart—she'd unpack it properly in the morning—and escort both it and Eopie into the little stable, before she stumbled inside with a groan.

"Owen?" she called, limping down the hallway and nearly knocking one of their old photographs off the wall. "I'm back. Luke decided to stay in Alderaan with his friend, but—"

She reached the door to the kitchen and froze.

There were a hoard of men in her kitchen.

She blinked. Six of them were seated around her dining table, another six leaning against the counter. From the sounds of it, there were even men in her living room.

They had better all have taken their shoes off.

Owen, her Owen, was at the sink, and immediately strode for her.

"Beru," he hissed. "Where's Luke?"

"In Alderaan," she replied. "Like I said—"

Owen turned to look at the man—the soldier, because these were all soldiers, she realised now—sitting at the head of the kitchen table.

He was the leader. That was obvious, from his choice of seat, the way he held himself, the way he sat, straight, with an intense stare. He wore black armour with intricate patterned designs over it, some of the scratched beyond recognition, and a helmet sat on the table beside him.

She recognised that helmet before she recognised him. "Vader?" she said.

Then she looked at his face again—properly looked at it, past the blotchy scar that covered much of his nose and cheek and past his terrible gaze. She met those intense blue eyes, saw the scar over his eyebrow, his sheer, short hair cropped close to his crown, and had to catch herself on the side of the table before she fell. Owen clasped her arm to support her, but her gaze careened wildly between their framed photographs and Vader's face.

"Anakin!?" she yelped.

"Beru," he said monotonously. His right hand was at his left wrist; when Beru glanced down, she saw that a long string of bones, looped many times into a bracelet, adorned it. They rattled as he fiddled. "I have already reacquainted myself with my stepbrother, but he is not the person who I came to visit." He narrowed his eyes. "Where is my son?"

"Who are you?" she shot back.

Outrage flashed across his face—Owen looked nervous and irritable, but stood at her back to support her, crossing his arms—and before she could speak, she barrelled on, "Who are you to him? He has no memories. He has no idea what is happening to him, and I have no idea what has happened to you." She eyed him. "So my question is: who are you to him?"

"I am his father."

"Does he know that?"

Anakin said, his voice tight, "He will, when his memories are restored. I raised him."

"Well?" Beru pressed.

His mouth fell open. "How dare you—"

"I love that boy. I will not tell you anything until I know."

"It has been a few scarce days you had with him. I had years—"

"He is a kind, clever, passionate child! A few scarce days are enough to love him!"

Anakin halted his rant, then—restrained his anger. To her surprise, a smile twisted his lips. It made his stony face, harshened by war, look pleasant.

"Yes," he said quietly, and no one could have faked the naked adoration in his voice. "Yes, he is."

Beru's chest both tightened and eased.

"I assume you love him too, then," she said.

"Of course I do." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Who could not?"

She smiled.

She didn't know what had happened here, though she could put some things together. Anakin was Vader—the warlord. Anakin had raised his son, likely in isolation, and just never deigned to tell her and Owen that either of them were alive. Of course it had been him who trained Luke in sorcery—in necromancy.

"Was it you who resurrected him?"

Anakin narrowed his eyes. "You know about that?"

"When he appeared on the mountainside, he was buck naked and covered in ash. The deathmark was pretty clear to see."

"Dusting doesn't work for most clothes, unfortunately. Only specifically treated necromancer robes." Anakin's mouth set tightly, but he said, "Yes. I resurrected him."

"And he died via shrapnel, correct? That was what his scars looked like."

She was aware that she was interrogating a man—a very powerful man, as Owen's expression was reminding her—who had seen his son die. She was going to stop in a moment; she wasn't heartless. But she needed to know.

Anakin hissed out a breath. "Palpatine has long had his sights set on Luke's power. He tried to steal him from me shortly after his birth, claiming that Padmé had entrusted him to his care over me, and eventually kidnapped him to use his power as his own. He tried to turn him against me and claim him as his son and heir." He took a breath, his voice lower and lower. "He held him for nearly a year. Then when we finally achieved a rescue, the bastard planted a bomb in our manor. That was what killed Luke. I came home from the warfront to find my son dead."

Beru blinked fiercely, trying to imagine that. That… "That's awful."

"Yes. It is." His tone was sharp. "But he is back, now—I thought the resurrection failed, but it didn't. He is alive. I want him back, and you will tell me where he is."

"Alderaan," she said immediately. "He was contacted—mentally, magically, I don't know—by Queen Leia. She knew him, and offered to help him."

Anakin's shoulder lost some of their tension. "Then he is in good hands," he said. "Luke resurrected her and helped her drive out the Empire, when Alderaan fell; she must have used the bond between the necromancer and the vassal to contact him. I tried to contact him the same way when Piett told me he was alive"—a short, dark-haired man sitting at Vader's right hand flicked his gaze to his lord, for a moment, then went back to scrutinising Beru—"but I…"

He broke off.

"I think I frightened him," he said abruptly.

Beru laughed a little. "Possibly. But he's safe and happy in Alderaan, even if Her Majesty couldn't tell him much about his past—we can head there immediately, and you can tell him the truth."

Anakin stood immediately, and picked up his helmet. "I intend to." He paused, worked his mouth, then said, "Thank you both, for helping him."

"He's family," Owen said gruffly. "You both are."

Anakin ignored him. "We ride for Alderaan immediately."

"Right now?" Owen's tone was painfully sceptical. "It's be pitch dark outside. Alderaan is hours away."

"I have come all this way. I have no intention of waiting, Lars."

Beru added, "The Alderaanians will never let you in the gates if you turn up at midnight with a small military force demanding entry."

"I will deal with that—"

"We will," she corrected. "I'm coming with you. The guards will recognise me; they'll know that our convoy intends no harm."

Anakin fixed her with a look: narrowed eyes, pinched lips. But then he nodded.

"Come on, then," he gave in. "But you cannot use that mule; it won't keep up. Piett can take you on his horse."

She glanced at Piett, who nodded in acknowledgement.

Anakin shoved his head back into his helmet, then turned to behold her; she found herself instinctually frozen under the gaze of the legendary Vader. She could see what was so terrifying about him—so arresting.

He barked to his men, "Resaddle the horses. Gather your things. We ride within the hour." They scrambled to their feet without a word, equal expressions of ferocity and intent on their faces, and Beru wondered if Vader's squad of men here had been handpicked for the reason that they knew and loved Luke too.

Seeing one of them shove his feet into his boots as fast as possible, it occurred to her for the first time to wonder how long they'd actually been there—how long they'd been waiting for her, or rather for Luke, to come home.

They filed out of the kitchen, buckling their rapiers and longswords to their sides. Vader—Anakin—was the last to go; his gaze had caught and stuck on their monochrome photographs. Padmé and Shmi's faces looked back at him through time.

Owen offered, "I didn't know your wife that well. But Ma would be proud of you."

"I have no patience for kind lies," came the curt reply. Vader's eyes had not moved from his mother's face. "Do not trouble me with them. She was a healer. She hated war."

"She hated the Empire," Beru countered. "And she loved you. She was so proud of you in life, and she still is in death."

Vader scoffed. "What have I done for her to be proud of?"

"You did the same thing she did. You raised a wonderful son, and have never stopped doing right by him—no matter what. You're still fighting for him."

Vader turned to look at her, then. "Of course I am," was all he said.

Owen shrugged. "She'd be proud of that."

Waiting for Palpatine to fall asleep was agonising. Eyes closed, Luke calmed his breathing: deep, steady, slow. Sleep crawled at the corners of his consciousness, but he fought it back; he needed to wait. He just needed to wait.

He was so tired, but he just needed to wait.

Leia's spell rose to the forefront of his mind and he went over it, over and over, until he was sure he had it.

Then he heard a faint snore.

He cracked one of his eyes open. Palpatine had leaned back against a cushion, his neck stiff, his eyes closed and face slack. His chest rose and fell; his lip fluttered; another snore whooshed out, and Luke took a deep breath.

He opened both eyes.

Glanced down at his hands, pale and thin, and knotted his fingers together in his lap.

Then he took another deep breath, and he muttered the spell.

Light flashed behind his eyelids, bright and blinding, and—

He remembered.