He gasped. And gasped and gasped and gasped, the air barely scraping past his throat. He could still breathe, though it took the effort of heaving his lungs and shoulders to force that precious air through; his father didn't want to kill him yet. His hands automatically scrabbled for his neck, as if flesh and bone could shatter the metaphysical grip on it.

It hurt.

He—

He'd—

In all the times he'd seen this happen in front of him—all of the whimpering, the sobbing, Jade's stoic snarl—he'd never considered that it might hurt. It was just. . . not breathing.

But it did. His trachea warped and caved under the pressure, muscles spasming as they were wrenched out of usual alignment—tears burned—

Somewhere, somehow, he heard Leia's shout of horror past the whistling in his ears.

His father brought his hand down, sharply, and Luke was brought back down with it, hard. He barely remembered to roll when he landed. His knees screamed.

The metal walkway clanged with the collision. It shuddered a little, the mess of smoking struts Vader had left the scaffolding as clattering away, some tumbling into the abyss of Coruscant.

But the grip on his throat vanished.

Luke sobbed as he finally dragged in air. He gasped with it. His legs were shaking, his arms were shaking; if Vader had decided to run him through there and then, he couldn't have done anything. Leia's shouts still carried on the winds, quieted to a tense murmuring of dread, and he barely dared to look up at that death mask. He was helpless.

But Vader didn't exploit it.

His hand had relaxed from its claw-like grip, but now it hovered unnervingly close to his lightsaber. He didn't come forward—just watched, still as the monolith he resembled, like a gargoyle among the shadows of the starscrapers.

Luke wasn't sure if the fleeting whisper of regret he felt from him was real or imagined—he tried to follow it up, read his father, but to no avail. All he felt was a steely resolve, forced impassiveness, and—

He swallowed.

And anger. Hotter than Tatooine's binary suns but colder than death itself, bubbling and boiling and burning inside that black armour, higher and higher and higher with every breath Luke gasped for.

He coughed and tried, "Father."

Vader tensed at the address. Luke didn't know himself what he was trying to do—beg, plea for mercy, explain himself? No mercy would be forthcoming, not from the Emperor's executioner, and he did not have the time to explain himself. This had been such a journey of thorns, right from the moment his father had sat them down and talked about a slave chip in a suit of armour, and he could not articulate all that he'd learned, all that he'd decided, while they stood here in the winds and the skeleton of Coruscant.

He didn't know what to say.

Every lesson in diplomacy he'd ever had told him therefore to say nothing at all.

Luke had never been great at diplomacy.

"Father," he begged, dragging himself onto feet that trembled just as surely as his voice did and holding out his hand, "come with us."

His eyes widened as he realised what he'd said—Vader actually took a step back in shock—but yes. Yes. That was exactly it.

And your father cares more about you than the Empire?

Yes. He does.

"Come with us," he repeated, something dangerously close to hope lighting in his chest. His hand began to tremble as well. "Palpatine doesn't care about you—he planted a transmitter in your suit—come with us, and we can take him down. We've got the preparations for the coup, we can pair with the Rebellion, with Mother, and—"

"Mother?" Vader's voice was low. Deadly.

Luke kept talking anyway. "Yes—Leia was right, Amidala is Padmé Amidala, she's our mother, we can go to her, be a family again—" He took a shuddering breath. "But I can't stay, Father. Neither of us can. We have problems with the Empire, problems Leia says she couldn't fix even as Empress—and I believe her. But if we can tear down the Empire and start anew, we can fix them. Come on, Father," he said again, and again, and again, "come with us. You can do so much good—"

"And I do not already?" There was something. . . odd. . . in the words, flat as they were. Something like heartbreak, or disbelief, or betrayal—or even all three at once.

"Father," Luke shook his head, "you are the Emperor's executioner."

Vader physically recoiled at the words, just as vehemently as Luke had recoiled upon hearing them from the Velts. More and more shields went up, locking away his father's mind like the castle on Mustafar, no matter how desperately Luke pawed along their bond.

"You believe that."

He didn't hide the tears on his face as he nodded. "I do."

"Then you are not the dutiful son I know."

"Dutiful?" For some reason that fired Luke's temper as well, for all that he knew that shouting would only make things worse. "I was desperate. I wanted your approval more than anything, and you let me hero worship you like that, even knowing exactly what you do, exactly what you did do to my aunt and uncle! I love you, Father"—Vader jerked; whether it was at the impassioned admission or the fresh flood of tears on Luke's face, he didn't know—"but I am a far better person when I'm trying to be myself, who I am, and not some idealised version of you!"

Vader was silent for a moment. The wind caught his cape and waved it around him.

"So this is who you believe you really are," he said dispassionately. He eyed Luke's outstretched hand. "A Rebel?"

"Yes, Father. Me and Leia both." He offered his hand further, not missing how his father seemed to shrink away from it. He was gripping his lightsaber like a lifeline, now. "This is who we want to be.

"So please, Father." His voice broke. "Come with us."

Vader's helmet tilted from his face, to his hand. He twitched forward, almost instinctively, then drew back again with a flash of self-hatred. The moment stretched for an eternity. . .

. . .and then an eternity came to an end.

Vader let out something akin to a roar and lit his saber, bringing it up in a flash so fast Luke could barely blink. He stumbled back, but not fast enough; he collapsed to his knees with a cry; he shoved his eyes shut against the agony that ripped up his arm—

His proffered hand, severed at the wrist, fell to the floor with a thud.

Shock and terror froze his mind. All Luke could do was stare at the red stump which used to be a working, coordinated hand, scarred and tanned and blemished in irregular places that told of a life adventurously lived. The red-tinged light of the setting sun. The red, angry lightsaber blade as it deactivated and was returned to his father's side.

He said icily, "I will not have a Rebel son."

And, somewhere behind him, Leia screamed to the winds.

Ahsoka's arms were strong and unyielding and bleeding, blood seeping out of ragged tears made by human nails, desperate swipes. Leia knew it must hurt; she also knew she didn't care.

"Luke!"

Ahsoka's arms tightened around her torso, lashed her arms to her side, and still she kicked and screamed.

"Luke! Let him go you— you bastard, let him go! Luke!"

Distantly, the falling darkness shrouding everything in shadow, she could see Luke stare blankly at his lost hand, like he couldn't quite believe it. She'd hoped—for one precious, crystalline second, she'd hoped—and now—

Luke—

"You—!" she sobbed, quieter now, too quiet for the object of her rage to hear her. "You bastard."

Vader said something. Luke's face crumpled; Leia felt the rejection, the heartbreak, crash across to her like a planet shifting out of alignment, and she screamed again.

"Leia," Ahsoka said, quiet in her ear, "we need to go."

"No!" She scrabbled at Ahsoka's grip again, but her arms were pinned and she couldn't get a decent angle. "Luke—"

Vader reached out a hand, a shadow in the night, and pressed it like a leech against Luke's stunned forehead. Her brother slumped to the ground.

He bent over him. For a moment, Leia thought he was going to kneel down, hoist him into his arms like when they were injured and got a bad scrape while play-duelling. They'd jokingly kicked and protested that they were too old to be carried like this, the injury wasn't bad, they could walk, but he'd never put them down.

The thought stilled Leia enough that she was aware of the silent tears on her cheeks. The wind chilled them.

But that was not what Vader did. He just turned, gestured sharply to the white figures she could see starting to emerge from the walkway, blasters aloft. He dragged Luke up by the scruff of his collar and practically tossed his unconscious body at them; two troopers dragged him between them none-too-gently, his head bouncing awkwardly against his chest with every step.

Then Vader turned, the wind catching at his cape, and pointed a steely finger out into the chasm—towards Leia.

The stormtroopers turned their heads.

One raised a comlink to speak into it—

"Leia," Ahsoka said again, "we need to go."

"What about Luke?" she hissed back.

"We can and will rescue him later. We will. But we can't do anything for him now."

"We can fight—"

"There are entire platoons of stormtroopers coming after the both of us right now, Leia. We are two Force users against Vader, all his troops, and the risk of Luke getting caught in the crossfire. We would die."

"But what will happen to Luke? Vader— Vader will—"

"Luke said Vader cares more about you than the Empire, right?"

"He just cut off his hand—"

"Making decisions in anger is one thing. Later on, once he's calmed down, I'm sure he'll get his priorities straight." Ahsoka wasn't even arguing as passionately as before, more worn out to a bone-deep tiredness Leia recognised from veterans of the 501st. She just backed away from the edge of the platform, towards the walkway to the ship.

She didn't even seem to believe what she was saying.

But she was right about one thing, at least: there was nothing they could do.

Leia slumped, all the fight leaving her. Luke had disappeared from sight, back into the maze of starscrapers; only her father remained, watching her with the mask's flat, insect-like eyes.

"Luke," she whispered.

But Luke was gone.

She took a deep breath. "Okay. You can put me down now."

Ahsoka hesitated, clearly sceptical, but released her, almost idly moving to rub the deep scratches along her arm. Leia didn't apologise.

"Alright." Ahsoka tilted her head. "The ship's this way. And—" She grimaced. "For what it's worth, there is someone who wanted to meet you. Both of you. But. . ."

"One will have to do," she said dispassionately.

"Yes." Ahsoka laid a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her forward. "One will have to do."

They walked for only a short time before they reached the coordinates they'd been given, though it was risky enough as it was. Vader knew where they were, and was hunting Leia as fiercely as he was Luke. It wouldn't be long until the stormtroopers came with speeders and ships, and managed to catch up to them.

But they reached the hiding place of Ahsoka's ship soon enough. "Well," Ahsoka admitted before they even arrived, "it's not really my ship."

Leia didn't even have the energy to muster up surprise at seeing the Hidden Star's familiar shape in the dusk gloom.

The landing ramp descended before they even approached, warm yellow light spilling out. A figure—presumably the pilot, though Leia would have thought Ahsoka could fly herself—stood waiting for them.

Again, Leia didn't have the energy to be surprised at Biggs Darklighter's face. Even as he gaped at her, glancing at Ahsoka only as a courtesy.

"I've run the pre-flight checks and we're ready to take off," he said to her, eyes sliding back to Leia every other word like some compass pointing north.

"Good," Ahsoka said, "then we'll do that as quickly as possible. We need to get off Coruscant before Vader can get a blockade in place. Leia," she turned her gaze to her, "go and head into your old cabin—Biggs and I moved all our stuff to the spare one when we heard you needed an escape route. We thought. . ."

We thought Luke would be with you as well.

Leia nodded, unsmiling. "Alright." She wasn't of any further use here.

Ahsoka made for the cockpit, but Biggs—Biggs, the boy from Tatooine she could actually remember now—lingered for a moment. He looked conflicted.

"Biggs Darklighter," she said.

"Leia Skywalker," he threw back, a little accusatorily. "I—"

She turned her back and walked into her cabin.

She had no belongings to unpack, nothing to ingratiate herself in with. She just dumped herself onto the well-made bed and tried not to cry.

The ship hummed underneath her as it took off and shot into the sky. Distantly, she could hear planetary security's warnings about sticking to the approved airlanes blare out of the cockpit, until Ahsoka shut off the comm and focused on getting them out of there as fast as possible. She felt the ship rock when it took its first barrage of fire from a pursuing TIE fighter, then after that the rest of the shots were white noise, drowned out by the wailing of the Force.

Leia.

Her father was calling to her, alternating between desperate, heartfelt pleas for her to return and threats for what would happen to her—to Luke—if she didn't. She shut him out, didn't respond, sure he could feel her rage over what he'd done to Luke loud and clear.

Instead, she reached for Luke. He was still unconscious, the bond dimmed in a way that was more unnatural than sleep but not as definitive as death. It did not help her rising panic.

Luke, she called, trying to prod him awake. No reply; Vader had him too far under. Luke. . .

No answer.

She screamed.

Her throat was raw, but she screamed some more, and some more, until it was hoarse and she couldn't dredge up enough air to continue. She grappled with a pillow, pressed it to her face and screamed silently, airlessly. Hot tears soaked the fabric and her face.

"Luke," she whimpered. "Luke."

Nothing. Not a flicker of response.

Luke stayed unconscious for the entire dogfight and escape, until long after they'd jumped to hyperspace and their bond stretched to nothingness. Only then did Leia finally emerge from her cabin, uncaring of the tears still staining her eyes, and sat in the back seats in the cockpit to watch the streaked star warp and shimmer.

Biggs turned to her, no doubt to say something inane, but one look at her dissuaded him. He and Ahsoka left the cockpit.

Leia brought her knees up to her chest and kept watching the stars, watching the hole in her chest grow larger and emptier with every parsec they travelled.

Another tear escaped her eye.

She was so, so cold.

.

End of Part I

.

Okay, so that's all for the first part of this fic and that's all that I've written out so far. I'm going to stop updating for a while now while I start working on Part II (which ought to be the last part, but we'll see how it goes and how long it gets).

I'm not sure how long this break will be, but it'll definitely be over a month, if not several. There are still some other fics I want to turn my attention to writing, I'll have a lot of research to do to do the fic justice, and I think the time I'll have to write will severely decrease as well. But I will finish the fic, I have too much exciting stuff planned not to, and despite what the last few chapters might imply it will have a happy ending, for all of the main characters. It'll be a long, difficult road for them to get there, but they will get there. I'm not going to make this a tragedy.

In the meantime, thanks for reading, and it'll be back in a few months!