The soothing rhythm of Artoo's hooves clip-clopped under him for mile. When they hit the igneous rock of the volcanoes in which he had made his home, Vader smiled. It was a very specific sound, and it always reminded him:
He was going home.
He hadn't seen Luke in months. Messenger hawks and pigeons were good for staying in contact, but they were frequently attacked and shot down by enemy fire, crushed by poor weather, or simply had to turn back. Even Threepio, the messenger hawk Luke had been gifted by the Princess of Alderaan for his services to her kingdom, was not infallible, and it was not uncommon for the two of them to go weeks without hearing from each other.
In that time, Luke had turned eighteen.
Vader had missed it.
He had always insisted on Luke having a big celebration for his eighteenth birthday—they were a lord and his son, and they would celebrate as nobles did; Luke deserved nothing less—so as many of Luke's friends, allies, and simply off-duty soldiers of the lorddom as possible had been meant to attend.
Vader… had not.
It had pained him to write the letter, but… he had not been able to. Naboo had proven difficult to liberate from Imperial oppression—Palpatine was holding onto his home turf particularly strongly—and even if it was now free, barely a week after Luke's birthday… Vader had still missed it.
He had regrets. He knew Luke had been disappointed. But he would make it up to him—he'd stay at home for longer this time, at least a month; Piett was skilled enough to lead the defence of Naboo and plan their next move in the meantime. Vader needed a rest, and he needed to reconvene with some of his other generals; that could be done from the manor, and he—
And he could see Luke again.
Dusk was falling by the time he finally arrived, everything lit amber from the sun-kissed horizon and the magma rivers that wound far below them, through the yellow haze of complex magic shields. They defended against the heat and the toxic fumes the lava gave off, but Vader was still sweating when he cantered through the gates, which whined and clashed shut behind him.
Vaneé, the steward, rushed up to him the moment he dismounted, taking his long coat, and folding it over his arm, the gold silk lining glimmering in the darkness.
"It is good to see you back, my lord," he began, taking the reins of Artoo and gesturing to a stable boy to take them away. "I—"
"Vader!"
His head jerked to the side at the call, to see Sabé stride for him, her scarlet coat whipping at her heels, her brows pinched so tightly they seemed to scar her face with lines. Her usually impeccable bun was askew, the hot wind whipping loose locks about her cheeks and neck, and when she stopped in front of Vader she planted her feet on the ground and her hands on her hips.
"I see you got my message. You took your time, but you're here now."
Vader frowned. "I received no message. I am here because Naboo is liberated, and I can come home."
Sabé huffed a breath out through her teeth. "Well, that's good." She was one of the sorceresses who'd worked for Padmé, with a specialty in shape-changing and defence magic, after all. Though she'd left her post after Padmé had died, the Naberries had rejected all magic and she'd come to tutor Luke, she was still loyal to her homeland.
"Is that the only thing that is good?" Vader pressed.
Sabé said tightly, "By far."
Vader swallowed. "Where is Luke? Is he—"
Sabé grimaced. Closed her eyes for a moment, and Vader was horrified to see a tear slip out.
"Come with me," she said quietly, then turned around, and he followed.
She led him through the main door to the manor, the antechamber arching above them, their footsteps echoing eerily. Then she ducked into a side servant's corridor.
He… never used this corridor.
He gave her a look. "Why are we not going through the main hall?" he asked. Dread was lead in his gut. "If we are approaching Luke's quarters—and I assume we are—it is faster."
Sabé winced, and when they came out of the servant's corridor, she paused to step aside, so he could wander over to where one of the side doors to the main hall was set heavy into the wall. "See for yourself."
Highly unsettled, he twisted the doorknob and heaved it open—only to break out in a fit of coughing. For one choking moment, dust stuffed his lungs.
Then it passed, and his sinuses and eyes cleared enough that he could see what had happened.
The main hall was utterly destroyed.
From this position, he could see the gaping hole punched in the wall, right into one of the side antechambers. The large mahogany table was stacks and splinters, the dance floor cleaved in pieces. Huge bricks of mortar and stone, painted the amber-gold Luke had insisted on the walls being, were littered all over. The chandelier had fallen from the ceiling and shattered; its scattered gems winked in the dim light. Scorch marks suggested that it had started a fire before the thick, filthy air had snuffed it out.
"What…" He stopped. Tried to take a breath, only to cough again. His eyes were stinging, but not from dust. "What happened? When…"
Sabé didn't answer. She didn't need to; he'd figured it out himself.
"Luke's birthday celebration?" he asked quietly.
She nodded, then raised her hand. Red and gold sparks shimmered around the door before it swung gently closed, clicking as it locked.
His heart was crushed in his chest. It was broken pre-emptively, and he didn't know how he'd deal with what seemed to be coming. "Where is my son?"
Sabé led him onwards.
This time, they went faster. Vader overtook her at some point—they were clearly going to Luke's bedroom, and he knew where that was, and he needed to get there faster—he started running, taking the stairs two, three, four at a time, Sabé panting to keep up with him.
He outstripped her easily. Rocketed onto the third floor, with its broad, diamond-paned windows booming with the reds and yellows of the lava fields in the distance beyond them. He was sweating from exertion, from heat, but it was cold on his neck and cold in his chest and he couldn't stop his hands from shivering.
He reached Luke's bedroom, love and hope fracturing between his ribs. No light slid from under the door, no candles were lit within; was he asleep? Was he…
Usually, Vader knocked.
Vader never entered Luke's room without permission.
But he didn't knock this time, and he just flung the door open so hard it banged against the wall.
It was pitch dark in here save for the crimson illumination that came from the window; all he saw was a white lump on the bed. He muttered a spell and the candles on the desks, the tapers on the walls, burst into flame, flooding the place with light, and…
And that white lump on the bed was so, so still.
Vader stopped where he stood.
A low, keening noise unleashed itself from his throat.
There were running footsteps behind him. Sabé skidded to a halt in the doorway, but he paid her no heed. He just stared at the white sheet, covering a boy who was oh so still, and crept forwards.
Step by shaking step.
He didn't think his legs would hold him.
Then he was at Luke's bedside, close enough that his breath shivered the sheets, and he knotted his hand at the top of the sheet, and…
Closed his eyes. Took a breath.
And tore the sheet back. It fluttered down around Luke's knees, bunching in a pile.
Vader stared.
He looked at his son's eyes, first: pale, open, unseeing. They were covered in a thin film of dust from the explosion, his eyelashes crusted with it; his tongue, cradled in his half-open mouth, looked as dry as sandpaper. His hair fell limp and spidery on his forehead.
Vader's gaze travelled down.
Dark blotches pocked his torso—shards of shrapnel bristling like mines or spines, coated with brown. Now he looked, he saw that the sheet was bloodstained as well. The sheet, Luke's fine clothes, the pale blue frockcoat utterly ruined…
The damage was devastating. There wasn't a vital organ the shrapnel hadn't hit, and for one horrible moment Vader wondered how fast Luke had died, and what he had died of first—blood loss? Burns? Suffocation?
He collapsed to his knees.
He put a gloved hand to Luke's soft head and stroked his hair, hating the way he didn't lean into the touch.
He closed his eyes, ignored the tears that trickled out, then opened them again.
There was more damage on the right side of his body than his left. He didn't have a right hand anymore, the flesh obliterated at the wrist, and Vader had sparred with Luke enough to know what he'd done. Instinct more than thought, shields upon shields erected the moment there was a boom; his right hand lashing out, trailing the shields in its wake…
The shield against heat and fire would have been strongest; it was the first thing Luke had learnt, living in Mustafar as he did, and there were no burn marks save for on his lost hand, which meant that one had worked.
The physical shield had not.
Luke had been meant to work on that particular spell, hadn't he?
A sob burst from his lungs like a too-ripe fruit, and he sucked in a breath, realised he wasn't breathing. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe, because Luke couldn't breathe, because his lungs were full of metal and blood, because—
Because Luke was—
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Death was what Vader dealt in.
It was everything he knew, and it had come for everyone he'd ever known. His mother. Padmé. Even Piett, when he'd tried to defect to his side, and been shot for it.
But Luke was his boy.
He was a child.
Not Luke.
Please… not Luke.
Vader stripped off his glove to ghost his fingers along his bone-white cheek, hating how cold his skin was. Hating the lack of response. Hating everything about this situation, because his son was right in front of him, his son was so, so still, his son was—
Dead.
His son was dead.
He scrunched his eyes shut and bowed his head.
He hadn't seen him in months.
He hadn't bothered to come back and see him in months.
He— he was supposed to be there, at the ball where his son was killed. It should have been him. He should have been there to protect Luke, but instead he'd refused to come. He'd rejected it. He'd prioritised killing over a celebration of life, and now…
Now that life was at an end.
It wasn't fair. He was so young. He'd had so much left to do—study more magic, choose which discipline to specialise in; visit his friends, in Alderaan and elsewhere; visit his family, now the Naberries had finally bothered to reach out to their lost nephew—
It wasn't fair.
It should have been him.
Vader had dealt with death so much in his life. It had never been him—it had never been fair.
But that was why he had pursued the power to change that.
Watching his mother die had been hellish. Seeing Padmé dead even worse—and he'd studied necromancy for her, he'd turned to the very power their enemy used for her. He'd wanted to bring her back.
But he hadn't. He hadn't been strong enough to save either of them.
He was not going to fail again.
It was not fair.
So Vader would make it fair.
He caressed his cheek one last time, then closed those empty eyes. The muscles in his cheeks spasmed into a mockery of a smile when he beheld his son—his tiny, precious son.
"We tried to preserve the body as best we could," Sabé said, breaking the reverent silence. "And gathered as many ingredients as we could. I assume you're going to resurrect him?"
Vader said, low and intense, "Of course I am."
There were all sorts of complications to deal with. Vader had resurrected thousands of men, to fight in his armies and combat the Empire's widespread tyranny, but success had never mattered more than now. The fifty percent success rate taunted him like a noose.
Time was of the essence. The longer someone had been dead, the harder their soul was to bring back, and Luke had been dead for a week before his incompetent father bothered to return to him.
The body itself was of the essence. The more changed from life it was, the harder for the soul to recognise it. Luke was a walking scar—and he had lost a hand.
That, at least, he could fix.
It was an unholy combination, but Vader had studied medicinal magic at his mother's knee and necromantic magic at the Emperor's. A new hand was found from the corpse of one of the young men on the battlefield—or so a lieutenant had told him; he hadn't much cared besides the fact that it was the best specimen and closest match they could find—so he spent several painstaking days drawing the symbols on Luke's empty corpse in his own blood, putting together the Death Speech chants for maximum efficacy, then blended healing and resurrection to regrow necrotic flesh and fuse the new hand to Luke's. It hung limp on the end of his arm, the skin slightly discoloured, paler than the rest of the body.
He barely slept. Time was of the essence and Luke's was running out. He worked through the night, day after day, and barely stopped to eat or sleep. He knew Sabé was hovering just outside the door with insults, with declarations that the more unwell he was the worse he would be at resurrecting Luke, but this needed to be done.
He would not lose his son.
Necromancy was control. It was power, and control, over life and death itself.
Luke would not leave him.
Not again.
For four days and three nights he worked, until the fourth night, when it was ready. A body stuffed with the appropriate ingredients, the carefully grafted hand, the summoning circle. Luke's corpse was dressed in the black robes of a necromancy vessel, meant to ease the transition between planes and locations, moving with the soul and providing the least resistance. The candles were lit with low, indigo flames. The chalk symbols were drawn.
There were different types of resurrections. The mere control of a body. The mere creation of a puppet. The undead soldier, warrior, who would not age or die as mortals did, until their bones clattered together and their flesh rotted beyond repair. He had used them all.
But Luke would be brought back with the most complex spell—the Second Life. It was the one Vader had rarely had cause to use, the one Luke had used for some reason on the Princess of Alderaan.
Luke would live like a normal human boy, grow like one, grow old and die… and if he did, then perhaps Vader could resurrect him again, because he did not want to be alone.
The Second Life. Minor side effects from being undead, but he would live.
He would live.
He would—
He murmured the words like thunder on his tongue. Lightning coursed through him and the candle flickered, switching colours, the smoke belching from them thick and winding as a light shone from the centre of the circle…
"Luke," he said, insistent, the call a demand and summons and desperate plea all at once. Luke would hear him, surely? "Luke…"
Faces formed in the smoke—he saw laughter, tears, Padmé holding Luke tight in an embrace the way she had never had the chance to in life. Before he could feel guilty about tearing him away from her again, his chant crescendoed to a roar and all the lights went out.
Now.
Now was the time—
He lit the candles again with a wave of his hand, scrambling forwards into the circles, even as the chalk markings peeled and floated away. Luke body was still so still, but stirring, and he heaved his boy into his lap, clasping his new hand, cradling his head.
His voice broke as he whispered, "Luke?"
Luke murmured something, but his eyes did not awaken.
Vader gritted his teeth, and… pried at the general area where a necromancer-vassal bond should be, sending down it, Luke? He got a flood of confused replies from all his other resurrected men, but…
But Luke stayed still.
And suddenly Vader realised there was no hand in his.
He looked down in alarm, his palm full of ash as the hand disintegrated. Then the arm, then the side of the torso, the robes going with it, puffed up in glittering black ash and soot. Vader sucked in a breath that tasted burnt and scrambled forwards, grabbing at Luke's shoulders—
But they crumbled under his hands.
Luke! he shouted.
Luke!
Luke!
Luke…
He kept going. He kept trying. Dusting… dusting was a known side effect, even if it was rarer than—don't say failure—and he was sure any minute now Luke would wake up wherever he was, wherever the spell had dragged his young, fragile soul, and he would hear his frantic call, he would reply—
But no matter how long he knelt there, no matter how much he called, there was no response.
Which meant… the spell had failed.
Which meant that Luke was truly dead.
Vader was alone.
Leia was still seated behind the desk of her study, seething about Luke's betrayal and what the hells she was supposed to do now if His Imperial rutting Highness came back round to order her about, when the news came of a war force headed by a gentle-faced woman at the gates.
"Beru Lars?" she asked the guard, shocked. Antilles shifted.
"It's the same woman, Your Majesty. She insists she must speak with you, and…"
She prompted, "And?"
"And Vader is with her."
Leia blinked. "Vader?"
Antilles nodded. "Would you like me to turn them away?"
He had a point. Both opposing leaders in the war that had cost her everything arriving in one day was a terrible, terrible omen. Something was going on, something she hated, and it was something to do with—
Luke.
She scowled. Then, before she could indulge in fury, she calmed herself and tried to think through things clearly.
She could turn Vader away, she supposed.
But Beru was with him. Beru was sweet. Beru had certainly not know what evil her nephew had engaged in before he was killed.
Why was Beru back?
Why was Vader here?
She… wanted to know.
And she was fairly sure that, anyway, if she tried to turn them away, they'd pound down the gates and she'd have even more repair efforts to organise.
"Let them in," she said, rising from her desk and putting her spectacles onto the book she'd been trying to read. She hadn't taken anything in for the last ten pages, anyway. She reached for the crown, a bejewelled silver circlet with spires the height of her thumb knuckle, and fixed it back on her head, smoothing her dress. "I will meet them forthwith."
The entourage that thundered into her courtyard was vibrant with death and death magic—enough that she almost didn't notice Beru, the sole person who was neither necromancer nor vassal. But she did notice her, because it was Beru who came up to her first, urgently.
"Is Luke here?" she asked. "It's important—Vader—"
"Luke is gone," Leia said curtly. That same rage filled her at the thought, and she rubbed at the deathmark on her chest.
"What—"
Vader dismounted from his massive warhorse with an almighty thump, striding for her with a terrifying purposefulness. "What do you mean," he stopped in front of her and tilted his head to glare down; she wasn't sure whether to look at the designs on his helmet, the acidic eyes behind them, or the massive greatsword that loomed at his back, "gone?"
She lifted her chin. "I mean gone. Back to Coruscant and his precious throne. His father came for him."
There was a shudder. Leia's eyes widened; she glanced down at the ground beneath Vader's boots. The paving stones had split, and gravel was trickling down into the crevasses.
"That is impossible."
"That's what Luke would have had me believe, but—"
"That is impossible," Vader growled, "because Luke is my son."
For a moment, all Leia could think was: Vader and Palpatine—
Then Beru said, "Vader is my stepbrother, Luke's father. He was married to Padmé, who you know was Luke's mother."
Oh.
Oh.
"Then why did the Emperor come here claiming him?" Leia asked, tone still sharp. She… didn't know what to make of this. She didn't know—"Why did he tell me about those Imperial soldiers calling him the Prince?"
Vader scoffed. "That was the nickname Piett and I developed for him," he bit out, gesturing to the general on his right, "so we could discuss him with a measure of more subtlety than simply saying his name. Even in Death Speech, there are eavesdroppers."
Leia nodded, but Vader wasn't finished.
"Palpatine found out about this. And when he kidnapped my son—one of his many attempts to use him as yet another servant and human well—he tried to have him instated as Imperial prince, based on a flimsy justification that he used to try to steal him when he was a child, too. A high-profile defection."
There was still bitterness in his tone, but Leia could hear the smirk in his voice as he said, "Luke… did not acquiesce. His plan failed."
"Luke was rescued?"
"Of course. And Palpatine killed him for it."
Leia flinched.
She understood what sort of ruthless logic the Undying Emperor was applying there.
"And now," she said slowly, "with Luke resurrected, and with no memories—"
"You have let him fall right into Palpatine's hands."
She glared back. "Luke intended to use me as a puppet—"
"Luke helped you and your kingdom out of the goodness of his heart. I did not understand why. None of us did. But he did." He pointed a hand in her face. "Do not insult him for that, Your Majesty."
She swallowed, and had to concede.
Believing Palpatine's lies had already done enough damage.
"What now then?" she said. "Do we go after him? How do we save him?"
"Will the Emperor hurt him?" Beru asked.
Vader turned away dismissively. "Palpatine's goal is, and has always been, total, eternal control. Infinite life, infinite power—he collects sorcerers and makes them dependent on him. Even ordinary beings cannot escape his control, not after death. He has lived for so long that he is no longer human; he is a mortal, rotting leech with powers I never will and never want to understand."
He paused, before continuing, softer and sharper. "He consumes magic and life directly from any target. Binds the shells to his bidding. He even removes the deathmark from some of my vassals, using the magic harvested to elongate his unnatural life and shaping whatever is left of the person into the perfect tool or slave." He laughed harshly. "The perfect, obedient prince, if it goes well."
For a moment, he stopped next to his warhorse, turning his face slightly towards them. He looked like a woodcut print from a fairy tale, with the chiaroscuro of the starlight falling on his cape, arching over his back and helmet, catching in his eyes.
"Luke is young, a powerful sorcerer, and has barely begun his second life." The rest of him was stamped in shadow; when he finished, his voice was soft as fur. "If we do not catch up to them soon, Palpatine will do more than hurt him."
He mounted the saddle in one smooth motion, his cape flaring, his hand seizing the reins on instinct. One moment he was on the ground, then he was looming over them, his horse and his head silhouetted against the moon.
"If you intend to come with me, hurry," he said. "I will not wait for you. I will not tolerate carriages or wagons or the easier, slower roads. We ride fast and across some of the most dangerous passes if we have to."
Beru had already scrambled up into the saddle behind Piett. Leia widened her eyes and ran off, barking orders to her men, trying to find her horse—
When she was mounted, trotting up to beside Vader, he gave her a long, hard look.
"What?"
"I am aware you were adopted." He shook his head. "And you look a great deal like someone I used to know."
She frowned. "I—"
"Now come." His tone took on a decidedly desperate edge. "That can be dealt with later. For now, we have no time to waste."
The flash of light faded as quickly as it had come. Luke strangled his gasp before it came out, not wanting to warn Palpatine—Palpatine, fuck, he was in a carriage with Palpatine—what had happened. Images whirled in his head like spinning tops and colours, realisations, exploded at the back of his mind: Piett, Death almighty, he'd threatened Piett, and Leia—
Leia thought—
Luke?
He choked his gasp into silence again, trying to disguise his sudden shift as just the twitch of his nightmare.
That was Leia. That was—
Leia, that spell you had worked, it's not true—
Don't worry, I'm sorry, I know it's not true—
Luke.
He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, but not tight enough: tears seeped out, and down his cheeks, and his mental call was a child's relieved cry.
Father, he sobbed, and felt reassurance embrace him back.
We will be there soon. Do not move anywhere.
Stop the cart, he confirmed. That… that had been what his father had told him to do, if Palpatine tried kidnapping him again. Stop the cart. Got it.
He reached down with his senses, magic blooming—Sabé's exasperated voice came at the back of his head, remember to use technique and not just raw talent, Lu—and sensed the ancient death along this road.
So many battles.
So many bodies.
So much blood.
There was a reason their home was called the Necromountains, and there was a reason it was thought to be cursed.
Palpatine's eyes snapped open at the surge of power, but too late; Luke had already dived for the door.
It kicked open and then he was falling.
Not for long. He seized the dusty earth and stone underneath him and smoothed it, softened it. He rolled on impact, the breath whooshing from him, then rolled off the side of the road itself and yelped.
He grasped for the grass and held tight, dragging himself back to his feet.
The morning sun pierced the mist, but it still wreathed the distance and the trees, dissolving figure, forest and future inside it. He crouched behind a gorse bush a little way down from the road, glancing further down the incline—it got steeper and sharper the farther along it got, then plummeted into a river far below—and held his breath as there was a frustrated roar.
The carriage clattered to a halt.
Still waiting with bated breath, he crept higher up the incline—this would be a terrible staging point for the fight he was about to have, and he was already fighting Palpatine. He didn't need the low ground on top of that.
He had to stall.
He couldn't win against Palpatine, not on his own, but he had to wait for his father to get here, and he had to stall.
When he crept back onto the road, Palpatine was standing beside the stopped carriage, his burgundy robes blowing around him.
He sighed, smiling that warm, fake smile again, and tutted. "I always underestimate you, my boy, don't I?"
Luke drew his hands close to himself. His left wrist itched without his bone bracelet on it, but he would make do. He had to. "Feel free to do it again."
He didn't wait for Palpatine to make the first move. His right hand felt off—had he… lost that, when he died? He couldn't remember. Was it new?—so he bunched his left, summoned a stone and threw it at Palpatine. It spun and spun and burst into flames like a small comet.
Palpatine batted it away with ease, but that was good.
Luke uprooted the earth from under him.
Palpatine went sprawling, but he'd barely taken a small tumble before he was on his feet again, brushing blood and dust from his robes. Luke tried to blast fire at him again while he was off balance—I'm sorry for doubting you, Aunt Sabé, fireball really is the most useful spell—but he was too quick; he dodged, and tried to whip it back round to attack Luke in retaliation.
He failed. It dissipated at his touch, but he was still on his feet.
Then Palpatine hissed, "Stand down, boy, and you will not be hurt."
Luke froze.
The words tugged at his gut; he lowered his hands, blinking. That made sense.
Palpatine continued, more gently, "You can trust me. We need not fight."
No. No, they didn't. Luke nodded.
Palpatine smiled, and when Luke smiled back, he beckoned with his hand. "Give me your hand. Come back into the carriage with me."
The Death Speech was seductive, alluring, compelling. Luke's jaw hurt from gritting it, but he did not know why; he was smiling. It made perfect sense to let the muscles in his legs drag him forwards, his hand twitching as it unfurled and held itself out.
One step. Two steps. He could see the triumphant gleam in Palpatine's—his father, that was his father, what delusion had convinced him otherwise?—as he held out his hand to meet Luke's, but then…
Then Luke stepped on the uprooted earth.
It was hard and jagged under his boots. Enough that it distracted him. Who had torn up the ground? Who had come to fight?
He had, he remembered suddenly.
He had.
To fight for his life and soul.
His outstretched hand clenched to a fist and fire shot past Palpatine's ancient, majestic robes, singing them.
He was shocked enough that he stumbled back, and Luke threw another spell. Lacerations lashed across Palpatine's chest, bleeding heavily; he staggered to keep his balance.
"As I said," Luke growled. "Thanks for doing it again."
Palpatine's smile had dropped into a snarl. Luke wasn't sure if that was more terrifying or gratifying.
"I will not be repeating the mistake," he said. "Have no fear of that."
Then he barked, "Attack!"
His hands flexed like a marionette's and Luke summoned a defence on instinct; whatever he was trying to do, he didn't like it, he didn't—
A crossbow bolt shot at him and embedded in his shield.
Luke's eyes blew wide; he shoved the bolt aside and blocked another, another, as they whistled at him at lightning speed. He didn't dare to lower the shield to cast another spell until he figured out where they were coming from so he pivoted on his foot, looking around…
The driver.
The carriage driving was moving jerkily, as if on strings, a crossbow aimed straight at Luke.
"Stop," he snarled, but Palpatine's grip was tighter, so he could do nothing more than rumble the earth again and knock the driver off his feet. His crossbow clattered away down the side of the mountain and—
A flash of yellow in his peripheral. He dived to the side, rolling, as the shot of fire soared and seared over his head, singeing his back. He rolled again, barely avoided the next one, then the next, then—
He gasped in pain. Aunt Beru's nice woollen coat caught fire and he scrambled to get the coat off, tears flooding his eyes as his skin burnt and burnt; he rolled to duck the next one, the fire went out, but he still needed it off—
Don't turn your back on Palpatine. Got it.
But he couldn't turn his back on the driver either.
He was still on the ground when the two sleek boots marched up to him but he saw the rapier glinting in the silvery light and was on his feet in a moment. The driver thrust it forwards and Luke tangled it in his ruined coat. His burnt arm shrieked.
He kicked out. It was a bad kick but the driver, puppet as he was, was worse. He took out his knee and Luke snagged his rapier, slipping his hand around the pommel.
That's not the grip you're meant to use! Piett's voice scolded in his mind. He grimaced and shifted it.
Then he turned to the rising driver and stabbed for his torso.
He dodged. Luke slashed again and he dodged again; Luke could see Palpatine's magic solidifying in his movements, as he became more and more dextrous. It meant he wouldn't be casting as many fireballs, now, but it meant the driver was a significantly worse threat—
The driver threw a punch and Luke barely dodged. It skimmed off his injured left arm and he squeaked with pain. While they were close together, he lashed out with the rapier—and finally connected.
He carved a deep cut right across his chest. The man stumbled back and fell back; Luke followed. Slashed again. Missed.
Thrust forwards, and sent his blade right into the driver's heart.
It came back out slick with blood. The undead man was still staggering, still going, but—
Not for much longer.
Luke tried to rumble the earth again, knock over Palpatine and break his concentration, but he failed—lost his balance himself, and fell. The driver's animated cadaver leapt onto him and twisted his injured arm behind his back, seizing the rapier, lifting it high—
Dizzy with pain, Luke screamed.
He bucked in the grip and shoved the driver off, but the rapier came down, slicing a deep cut in his back as he rolled away. It wept blood and he left a trail as he staggered back to his feet, his back to—
Palpatine.
No—
Rocks, ice shards and cold, cold wind slammed into his back. He went flying, bouncing across the rocky path, bruised and beaten, skin broken by the sharper rocks. One jagged edge punched a wet hole in his cheek.
He heard the crackling as Palpatine summoned bones from the ground beneath and squirmed as rudimentary constructs latched over his legs to keep him down. He kicked up, bruised his shins, kicked harder, harder—
They shattered. He spat blood, shoved himself back to his feet before Palpatine could try again, and ran his hands over his arms, feeling healing magic knit itself across…
Then aborted the spell in favour of a shield. The driver staggered and tried to swing the sword, missing completely, but Palpatine's hit was more dangerous. It shattered against him, but the wind blew through anyway, shoving him back a few inches.
"These are impressive shields," Palpatine cooed, stepping forwards. While he was distracted with talking, Luke turned to the driver—reached for his undead bones and his undead lungs and his undead heart.
And tore them out.
There was a squelching, spluttering sound; he flinched when he saw the horrors he'd inflicted on the mind-controlled man—the same way he had on those Imperials who'd chased them—and nearly vomited. Blood and… something else… splattered across his face, his clothes.
He tossed the remains at Palpatine for good measure. He managed to deflect most of them away, but a few still dirtied his clothes.
He did not look amused.
When he continued his manipulative little speech, it was with much more vigour. "Would these shields have been useful when you died?"
"You mean when you tried to kill me?" Palpatine's next blast of rock, dust and bone was brutal—shattered his hasty shield and sent him flying, skin scraping off his back, head pounding and sticky with blood. Not one part of him wasn't bruised, he suspected, and he really hoped he wouldn't survive this just to die later.
Again.
"Ah, perhaps not such impressive shields, then," Palpatine said regretfully. "Fairly rudimentary, actually. No wonder you were so easy to assassinate. And yes. I killed you once, boy: I can do it again."
He pushed himself to his feet, lifted his hands. He tried anything—ice, fireball, sound, stone, bones and blood, but every time his hands shook and his head shook and his world shook and he screamed with pain when Palpatine blasted him with fire again, burning his arm even further.
It hurt.
It hurt, it hurt, it hurt—
No magic for the pain; no magic for the distraction. But there was a rapier, glinting dull in a mess of blood, so with a leashed roar he ran forwards, snatched it into his hand, and speared it towards Palpatine.
He missed. He missed again. Palpatine was laughing when Luke finally got him, slashing deep through his robe and into his left shoulder.
Palpatine snarled, tried to shove Luke back, but Luke—staggering, half-conscious, agonised—stood his ground. Twirled the blade and slashed again; Palpatine seized his wrist, yanked it to the side, and punched him in the stomach. Luke bent over double with pain; Palpatine kneed him in the face.
"You went very fast," Luke panted out, spitting blood; his nose was hot, sticky and flooding, "from trying to adopt me," he pushed himself upright with trembling arms, "to trying to kill me."
He still had the rapier. Palpatine wasn't even giving it a second glance.
"You were more useful dead, it seems," he said dispassionately. "And perhaps once you're dead, if I resurrect you again, you'll be more obedient. This time I'll be able to ensure your memories are gone for good—"
Luke thrust the rapier forwards—right into Palpatine's summoned fire. He screamed as his hand scorched, and dragged it back out again, lunging to the side, slashing more…
There was no one there.
He felt to his knees, vision red and silver from blood and tears.
"Or I'll… just be… truly… dead," he coughed out. He didn't know where Palpatine had gone. He didn't know what he was about to do. The bones in the road glimmered underneath him, but not in any useful way. He just knew he might soon join them. "You— bastard—"
He was probably about to die.
Again.
Palpatine clucked his tongue. "A reasonable risk to take, don't you agree?" There was a scraping noise as he picked something off the ground. "As the situation stands now, you're no use to me alive."
When Luke finally twisted his head around, it was to see him with his rapier—the driver's rapier—whichever—in his hand and smugness in his face. Luke looked at the bloody blade, saw his own lost, scared, wearied eyes reflected back.
And then a trumpeting cry shattered the morning.
"PALPATINE!"
Palpatine whipped his head up. A procession of black and white horses was thundering for them, led by a splendid man in splendid armour. His lips curled back in a snarl—
And Luke lunged at his legs, knocking him over, sending them both down the hill.
He clung on tightly for a few seconds, feeling Palpatine's hands knot around his throat and squeeze, then let go—shoved away, and they rolled separate. Luke grabbed at a gorse bush to stop his fall, just above a sheer drop; the skin of his hands cracked and stung on the spines, wet blood painting them dark, but he dragged himself up. He teetered on his feet for a moment; fell back onto the grass. Turned around to start the long climb up…
And a firm hand closed around his arm.
"Come on, Luke," Leia said, grunted as she stumbled up the hill. She threw his arm around her shoulders and they staggered their way back to the road. "Look at you. What happened to you?"
"Don't pick a fight with an Undying Emperor," he muttered. He was getting blood all over her jerkin.
"And yet you did."
"Well, you and Father said to stop the cart— ow." She jostled his burnt shoulder and he winced.
"Come on," she said. She… touched the shoulder lightly, and he could feel stirrings of healing magic, but she wasn't a sorceress yet; it did little, and she huffed. When they got back to the road, she led him towards the horses.
"Oh, and," she slipped something off her wrist, a bone bracelet, "your father said to give you this."
His bone bracelet.
He wound it round his wrist.
There was the distinct sound of a musket shot, an enraged shout, and Luke turned his head to see Palpatine retreating down the hill from the advance of Vader, his men, Beru, all sorts of others. He was bleeding heavily from his shoulder, but snarled, and raised his hands. Several of the soldiers twitched, lunged forwards and fell right off the cliff.
Luke cringed as he heard their shocked cries.
Vader's voice rang out, echoing in the mountains, loud and booming. "You are outmatched and beaten." Beru shot again to punctuate his point; Palpatine doubled over, gasping.
But he still spat, "You and your brat will never beat me."
"There are more people here than myself and my son," Vader bit out. "If you are too arrogant to consider them—"
Too much talking. Palpatine's hand whipped around and blasted them all back; Luke gave a strangled cry when he saw Aunt Beru go flying, thud into the grassy verge, her musket toppling out of her hand to splash into the river far below. She groaned faintly—
Vader shouted something. There was a flash of light, but Palpatine absorbed it. He was coming forward now, away from the verge, right at Vader, his fist full of fire—
Vader barely got the shield up in time before he threw it. There was another onslaught, another, another, every spell cast like lightning, Vader's hands blurring as they wove shield after shield after invisible shield, fire, rock, light, magic, reluctantly retreating step by step—
If he ever became a sorcerer, Luke was going to discover a spell to cast a shield for more than one thing at once.
"Hey!" he yelled, pulling away from Leia. She grasped for his sleeve, but he was already in motion.
Everything hurt but now, it just cleared the world to diamond clarity, the skeletons of dead men all around him, balls and joints and beads of treated bone on his wrist. They shone brighter and whiter than anything else here; he'd treated them himself, they responded to him, and—
He slashed his right hand down with all the force he could muster. It wrenched agony from his shoulder.
The bones shot off his wrist, warping shape in mid-air. Tiny daggers, sharper than knives, sharper than spears. Palpatine had barely turned around to cackle at him when his eyes widened—and they plunged into him.
Thousands of tiny bone shards.
In his neck. In his chest. In his abdomen.
They shattered his torso like shrapnel, and then they flew back to reassemble on Luke's wrist, soaked red. He heaved for breath.
Palpatine looked down at his soft, mortal flesh as blood spilled down his robes. There was no horror, no anger, in his expression. It was just shock.
Vader roared, lunged at him, and smacked him round the head with his greatsword. The dying Undying Emperor crumpled to the ground.
"Where is she?" Vader snarled, looming over him. The sword was poised above his throat. "What did you do with her?"
Luke limped away from Leia, closer, until he could hear Palpatine cough up blood and croak, cackling, "You… are still looking for her?"
"I will never stop. What did you do with her?"
"It has been eighteen years. You cannot resurrect someone that long gone."
"I am no ordinary necromancer," Vader said.
Palpatine just chuckled wetly again. Scarlet spittle flew from his mouth. "She is dead. Ask your… precious son. He saw her."
Vader paused, glanced to his left, to see Luke slip over on the damp grass, fall lightly onto his backside and shuffle down the bank from there. Then he glanced back down to Palpatine.
"Tell me where she is."
Palpatine laughed again. "I am… not dead, Vader."
"Not yet." The greatsword dug into his throat; blood ran down the groove in the blade, then pooled in the hollow between his collarbones. "Tell me."
"You already know. When I killed her, I had her cut into pieces. Mangled beyond recognition. Then when that was done, I burned some of them. The rest were left to rot." He snorted. "You can never have her back, now."
Beru groaned and stirred, face pale; Luke shifted over along the grass to squeeze her shoulder. She reached to squeeze his hand back.
Vader had gone silent for a moment. "You are barbaric."
Palpatine just smiled. "I control death," he replied.
"Don't indulge in fantasies in your old age," Vader said, and neatly severed his head from his shoulders.
Luke closed his eyes, so he heard rather than saw the squelch of his decapitated head hit the ground. There was a dismissive kick, and he opened his eyes again to see it fly off the side of the cliff. Vader watched it sail down, down, down.
Luke could sense it when Vader bowed his head in thought, running magic through the corpse, picking apart centuries upon centuries of death-cheating enchantments, then he kicked the rest of the body over the cliff. He wiped his greatsword on the grass and stuck it back in his sheath.
Then he lifted his head, and looked straight at Luke.
There was a moment's hesitation.
He took a tentative step forwards, his armour clanging. The men knocked down were groaning, stirring, getting back up again now, but Luke tore his gaze from them to Vader, meeting two blue eyes behind the helmet.
Death almighty, he had hated that helmet so much.
It always took his father away from him.
Vader seemed to tell that, for all that Luke was just staring dumbly. He reached up with one massive hand, unclasped the helmet and held it—tossed it aside, to roll to a stop next to the sword. He took another step forwards, and fell to his knees in front of Luke. The hill meant they were on the same level, eye to eye.
"Luke?" he whispered.
Luke's eyes roved over his face. He couldn't believe he'd ever forgotten it—not the scars, both pasty and red, not the way his lips curled up, not his eyebrows or the shape of his eyes or the stiff, soft hair over his forehead, just like Luke's.
Vader was staring at him too. He lifted a trembling, gauntleted hand to Luke's cheek; when Luke flinched at the cold, rough touch, he withdrew, stripped it off, and put his bare hand there.
"Father," Luke said, his voice cracking, and threw himself at him.
Vader laughed quietly as he caught him, wrapping his arms around his torso. Luke clung to his neck, forehead pressed against the armoured shoulder, hard and steady and warm with his father's scent.
"Hello, little one." Vader carefully extracted Luke from the tight embrace, though Luke gave a faint moan in protest, so he could stare at his face some more, tousle his hair. His thumb ghosted over the hole the road had punched in his cheek, and Luke did not realise how much it had hurt until it tingled fiercely and healed. He ran his hands down Luke's chest, arms; they tingled and stung as they healed, too. "I—"
He blinked hard, glancing down, his hands dropping. Luke caught them, and kept eye contact until Vader looked back at him.
The resemblance to the Anakin in Beru and Owen's photographs, Luke thought, was uncanny.
"I thought you were dead," Vader said tightly, and then he crushed Luke against his chest again. Luke gasped. "I thought I'd lost you forever, I thought—"
"I know," he murmured, and tears soaked the front of the armour. "I— I know. Father…"
He broke off into tears, his shoulders shaking. Everything hurt, everything was sore, but he didn't want to move, he wanted to stay in this moment forever, because…
He'd spent so long trying to find who he was.
He'd spent so long trying to find his family.
He had found his family, along the way. He had found people he loved. But now his father was with him, too, and everything would be alright.
"Father," he said. "I'm here."