It was Ahsoka who'd delivered the news that the Rebel leaders had decided not to help them, and it was Ahsoka who tried to help her take her mind off it.

"Fancy a spar?" she asked. "You've got a lightsaber. Let's see how much the Empire really teaches its finest."

She bared her teeth in what might have been a grin, might have been a snarl, and followed.

It wasn't like there was anything else for her to do.

As everything on the Dantooine base was, the sparring hall was repurposed from being something else. Here it was an empty hangar which was only designed to hold one ship—hence why it was currently sitting empty—and wasn't quite large enough for someone like Leia or her brother to have the advantage against someone larger than them. Not when they relied more on speed and agility than brute strength. But it would have been serviceable—especially if Leia was looking to practise fighting in close quarters.

That wasn't the problem.

The problem was that they weren't alone there.

The humming of lightsabers already crowded the hangar, along with grunts, thuds and groans. Leia paused, reached out. . . and felt both those light Force presences ahead of them tense.

"Did you—"

"Quiet."

Their shields went up. Leia snorted in scorn. Had they only sensed her from that clumsy probe? And was that their version of effective shielding?

The door hissed open, and Leia sensed them tense again.

Then Ahsoka walked through, and all was calm.

"Ahsoka?" came a boyish, too-inquisitive-for-his-own-good voice. Leia hung by the door to see three people in the room: a tall, poised man with a mask-like covering over half his face and a ponytail, a boy about Luke's age with tan skin and scars across his cheekbone, and a girl Leia's age or older, sitting against the wall, with short hair dyed every shade of pink the galaxy had ever seen.

While the two males—both holding lightsabers—fixated on Ahsoka, she looked straight at Leia, hanging back with the sort of lurking menace only a child of Darth Vader could possess, and narrowed her eyes.

"I didn't know you were on Dantooine," the man—a Jedi, Leia realised, and a blind one at that—observed.

"I arrived yesterday evening with Leia."

The two Jedi seemed to realise her existence, then; she held in a snort. Both turned towards her—the boy with startled blue eyes that reminded her achingly of Luke, though the shade of blue was totally different, and the man with a tilt of his head.

Ahsoka turned as well. . . then paused, amused, at the look on her face. "Ah yes. Leia, I assume you know who these three are?"

She didn't know, but she was pretty certain she could make an educated guess. There weren't many Jedi in the Alliance—or the entire galaxy—after all.

"The Ghost crew. Kanan Jarrus," she said, nodding at the man. She decided it might be a bit tactless to call him Caleb Dume. "Ezra Bridger. And. . ." She glanced at the girl on the floor. She had been the Rebel operative that Luke had cooperated with on his mission to Skystrike. "Sabine Wren."

Bridger, most of all, looked taken aback. Wren looked even warier than before. Only Jarrus seemed to remain calm; in fact, he felt like there was a great well of peace spreading out from within him. Like he didn't move through the galaxy; the galaxy moved around him, and he found no fault in its turning.

It annoyed her, to be frank. That much light. . . it just seemed wasteful, when there were such quicker ways of achieving one's aims through the Force.

"This," Ahsoka said with a wave of her hand, "is my old master's daughter."

Bridger and Jarrus, at least, must have known who Ahsoka's old master had been before she left the Jedi, because they both frowned, tilting their heads in the same way as they began to figure it out. . .

"Leia Skywalker."

They all jerked back. Wren actually shoved herself off the wall, to her feet, and stared.

Took several steps across the hangar until she was standing in front of Leia. She stared at her hip—her lightsaber—then her face.

"You don't have the demon eyes," she said. Her eyes hadn't widened from their narrow glare for an instant.

Leia smiled a little, tilting her head. "Not right now, I don't."

Wren was visibly unsettled by that, but she was Mandalorian—she thrived on confrontation.

So she pushed, "I assume it was your brother who betrayed us at Skystrike?"

"From what I heard, it wasn't you he was betraying," she shot back. "His job was to turn you all in. He let you all go."

"He took a hell of a long time to do it. A man died because he—"

"Took more than five minutes to shake off a decade of Imperial conditioning and loyalty?"

Wren frowned, half taking a step back—both at her words and their implication.

"It was a complicated time. For everyone. I doubt you want to hear the full story."

"Try me." Wren smiled. "Where's your brother? I have a few more questions for him about what happened at Skystrike."

The words drove the breath out of her lungs.

She ignored Wren's sudden bewilderment as she struggled to get her breathing out of control, struggled not to let herself reach for that section of her heart that was cordoned off, walled away, the wound gaping and raw.

Struggled.

"Captured," she said quietly. "During the escape. By my father."

No one needed to Force to hear the disgust in that last word.

"You look like you haven't slept," Jarrus said gently. His gentleness was exactly what she didn't need right now—there were two people in her life who were allowed to be gentle with her, and one had just cut the hand off of and tortured the other.

Except. . . now she had Padmé.

Ahsoka was clearly trying her best to look after her.

And Jarrus—

She snorted. "That's 'cause I haven't."

Ahsoka frowned. "Leia. . ."

"He's my twin, and he's in Palpatine's hands. Did you really think I couldn't feel exactly what was happening to him?"

Ahsoka flinched. "Leia. . ."

"It's alright." It wasn't, not by a long shot, but she would make it alright. If it was the last thing she did.

She knew it might well be.

She reached for her lightsaber and lit it. She ignored the side glances all the light side users gave the red blade as she tested it in her hand. She was still a bit sore from the chase and the flight from the throne room—not much bacta on the Hidden Star—but bruises were bruises. She could deal.

"I believe we came here to spar?" she said.

The droid jabbed his palm and Luke flinched, automatically curling the fingers of this new, wrong hand as he did. Evidently it was the result the droid wanted to see, because it moved on to prodding each individual fingertip, and Luke zoned out. Minor stabs and twitching, he could ignore.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting here, since the droid had entered and roughly woken him from his slumber. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious.

The droid repeated its stabbing, and Luke continued to ignore it.

But once the droid was gone, even with the knowledge that his cell was monitored and probably used for Palpatine's own personal amusement, the hand was something he could not ignore.

It felt. . . off. It was stiff, certainly, though the droid had told him to expect such a thing. It just. . . lacked scars. The synthskin was a fresh and unmarred as the skin of a newborn. His palms were no longer callused, his skin not unevenly tanned or burnt, his fingers didn't move with the same. . . fluidity. . . anymore.

He stared at the hand in his lap. He clenched it into a fist.

His father had done this to him.

The bunk underneath him startle to tremble. His father, the man he'd adored and idolised, had done this to him—

"Anakin used to tell me that one gets used to it in time."

Luke snapped his head up. "Who's there."

He really hoped the holocams were image only.

A bluish. . . shimmer. . . on the air, then something more solid as light half played across its surface, half passed right through. It seemed to emit its own light, somehow, in the way that holograms did, or even in the way some of the most farfetched stories about students of the Force would describe—

Luke's eyes blew wide at the blue coalesced into something recognisable—something that registered in his senses.

"You're a ghost."

The. . . apparition. . . smiled. "Indeed I am. I suppose you could call me that."

"What else could I call you?"

That smile shrank a little.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," he said.

Luke blinked.

Had that droid injected him with any drugs? Was he hallucinating? He had to be, because—

"Old Ben?"

It'd been nearly eleven years since Luke had seen him die, carved in half by the first lightsaber Luke had ever seen—the one that had taught him to fear them. Sure, he'd been the one to take them from— to guard them for their mother, and spend years watching over them on Tatooine, but if he could become a ghost why had he only shown up now. . .?

Ben perched daintily on the bunk in the cell, but Luke was too astonished—and antsy—to sit as well.

"I am," he said heavily. "And I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For failing to fully protect you on Tatooine, all those years ago."

"What?" Luke thought about it. "No! My father—"

"Killed Owen and Beru and stole your memories. Taught you to support an immoral government. And. . ." He gave Luke's hand a pitiful look.

Luke clenched that hand. "Yes, but—"

Ben gave him a pitiful look.

"He—" His heart hammered in his chest; his words were half repetition, half emotion. "I love my father. I don't regret that he found us, I love him and he loves us, and he's taken care of us as best he could. . ."

"Yes," Ben drawled, eyes drawn back to the mechanical hand like a magnet, "that is why death has followed you since the moment you laid eyes on him."

Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen's screams filled the silence in his head.

Luke shook his head.

"What do you want?" he whispered.

"I want to help you, Luke. I couldn't come earlier—you were too dark, and it was too difficult, but now it is of utmost necessity. You have to get through this."

He mumbled, "I already knew that." Then he shook himself. "How long can you stay?"

"I estimate twenty minutes at any one time, then I must recover from the effort." If Ben's grimace was any indication, he was as displeased with that number as Luke was.

But it was what they had. And it was what they'd have to work with.

"So," Luke said, letting out a sigh through his nose, "how are you going to help me?"

Ben folded his hands in his lap, and looked at him. His gaze moved slowly over his torn and bloodied black clothing, to the open hatch in his mechanical hand, before he finally looked Luke in the eye.

His voice was grave. "I know you have lived and breathed the dark side and the power it offers for a decade now, Luke, but I also know that you are not truly one of its disciples. And when Palpatine comes to hurt you with it, you cannot fight fire with fire."

Luke gritted his teeth. "So you're here to spout Jedi nonsense?"

"No." Ben gave a stiff chuckle. "No—at least, I don't think it's nonsense. I just know that when you spend long enough in a dark place, having one lie repeated to you over and over and over, you may start to forget that it's a lie." He made a strange motion with his hand, towards Luke's shoulder, then aborted the gesture. "I just. . . want to be able to remind you that there's a life—and a different opinion—beyond these walls as well. If you want to talk, if you think it would help. . . it would be my pleasure."

Luke raised an eyebrow. "Useful."

"I will, of course, also do my best to appear to Ahsoka and your sister whenever I have the energy and assist them with the rescue attempt wherever possible. You can use me to pass messages."

Luke raised the other eyebrow, considered it, then nodded a little. "More useful."

"And I will warn you." Ben leaned forward. "Palpatine is returning. And he will bring every weapon at his disposal, every skill, every manipulation, to bear against you." A pause, then a sorrowful— "Even the ones you handed him yourself."

"What does that mean?" Luke asked—almost whined—but then he blinked.

Ben was gone.

And he could hear footsteps approaching beyond the cell door.

Murmuring, imperious voices, then the door slid to just long enough for the man who now haunted Luke's nightmares to step through, before it closed behind him.

Palpatine smiled.

"Good morning, my boy," he greeted. Luke, based on the rotation of the meals and the timing of the droid and just a feeling, had the sneaking suspicion it was late afternoon. "How is your hand?"

Luke couldn't resist the jab— "Better now that I have one."

"Ah yes." Palpatine held out his own hand. Luke debated refusing, but he knew exactly what that would lead to. He gave him his artificial hand and let him examine it. "That was particularly brutal of Lord Vader, wasn't it? I understand that he uses limb amputation to punish or teach the Inquisitors, or to deescalate a fight very quickly, but from what he told me there was none of that! He must have felt threatened."

Threatened.

Threatened?

His father? Darth Vader?

Threatened by his son offering his hand and asking for them to be a family again?

Hmm, Luke thought. He put it aside to dwell on later.

Palpatine's fingers drummed along Luke's palm, then his knuckles, then his fingertips. Luke tried not to grind his teeth.

"It was the best quality we have, you know."

"I'm thankful for it."

"Only the best for my heir."

He could dwell on the implications of that later as well.

"Or rather," he corrected himself, "my heirs. I'm sure that once we find Leia, she will come around as well, won't she?"

Luke said nothing.

"Have you any idea where she is? We'll have to find her as soon as possible—the Rebel leadership might have promised you both amnesty, but I wouldn't put it past that terrorist rabble to disobey even their chosen leaders in order the exact vengeance on the daughter of Darth Vader." There was an odd glint in Palpatine's eye. "One of the demon twins."

Luke. . . hadn't thought about that.

It flashed to mind, too quickly for him to dismiss as a fancy: pilots and maintenance workers and ground troopers converging on Leia alone, as Ahsoka stood back and let it happen, watched her getting beaten black and blue, bruised and bones broken—

Worry, violent violet and sharp, fizzed in his chest.

And Luke realised what Palpatine was doing.

He will bring every weapon at his disposal, every skill, every manipulation, to bear against you.

Even the ones you handed him yourself.

He buried that stab of realisation under more worry, blooming red with helpless fury at the image of his sister in a medbay, skin more bruised than blank, and a medic who treated her in disgust.

Ridiculous, he told himself. The whole scenario was ridiculous—Ahsoka was a good person, and Padmé Amidala was their mother.

But emotions were not rational and they did not go away.

All the better.

"If we only knew where she was, we'd be able to find her faster—save her faster." Palpatine released his hand and let it drop back to the bunk. "Do you know where she went?"

Luke shook his head.

"Come, now, my boy," he coaxed. "You must have some idea?"

"I have none."

"Did Fulcrum never mention anything of that to you?"

Luke looked at him like he was an imbecile. "They're an intelligence agent. They're not going to let slip vital intelligence to someone in the heart of Imperial territory."

Palpatine frowned in a grandfatherly-like fashion. Luke wondered why he still bothered with the act, but supposed it was difficult for him to break the habit. "You mean to tell me that you had no idea where they would take you once you fled? Luke, I never thought you were this naive."

"It wasn't naivety." Luke smiled at his own joke before he made it. "It was a leap of faith."

"And that clearly ended well for you."

He tried not to think about whistling winds halted dead, hanging in space by a grip on his throat—

He shrugged. "For me? No. For Leia. . ."

"For Leia, it could end even worse." Cracks were beginning to show in the facade. Palpatine leaned forward, spittle bursting from his mouth to spatter Luke's face. "Luke, we must find her. Is she on Chandrila?"

"I don't know."

"Lothal?"

"I don't know."

"Alderaan?"

"I don't know."

"Naboo?"

"I don't know!" But Luke let himself hesitate, let that image swell back into his mind and let himself feel worried—let Palpatine feel that violent violet worry, as well.

Palpatine could use Luke's techniques all he wanted. But Luke could use them better.

He patted his cheek.

"Naboo, then. Good boy; we'll have your sister safe and well in no time."

Then he turned away.

"Naboo," he continued. "My homeworld—her homeworld. I should have known she'd set up there. To add insult to injury, I suppose. . .?"

He wasn't really expecting an answer. He just narrowed his eyes at Luke. "Your father departed for Naboo. He will have arrived by now—"

Palpatine froze.

"He will have arrived by now," he said silkily. Oh no. "And he would have sensed Leia if she was on the planet."

He turned, strode back to Luke and dragged him upright by the front of his shirt. And glared.

"You clever boy," he hissed. "You try so hard. But I will find Leia. You know I will. And you, meanwhile, will tell me what I want to know—"

Luke wrenched his head back at the spike that shot into it and screamed.

A few days passed in quick succession and Leia had nothing to do.

She. . . bounced around a lot; apparently Padmé was as loathe to leave her idle as she was loathe to be idle. Although she never slept well, the paperwork she filled out for Padmé's aides, the supplies she organised and distributed for maintenance, the missives she translated for the comms officers, were all impeccable.

For now.

Dantooine was a small base. Most people here were on loan from other bases, it seemed—the Phoenix Squadron from Atollon, the mechanics from Yavin IV, the pilots from Ryloth. For a base that was the legislative heart of the Rebellion, it held very few Rebels itself, and thus became a very. . . tight-knit crew. She supposed it made it easier to root out security breaches.

She never bothered ingratiating herself into that circle. She was Amidala and Tano's guest instead, the one who was polite but stonily silent, and everyone else seemed to respect that.

The Spectres hadn't told anyone who she was. She had the feeling that she wouldn't be afforded such generosity if it got out.

She was translating another message from Huttese to Basic when Ahsoka found her, so immersed in the words that inadvertently reminded her of the first home she remembered that she didn't notice the woman until she placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Leia jumped so hard she slammed her knees against the desk.

It hurt. Datapads slid off the desk and clattered to the floor; several other officers shot her concerned looks before her mutinous face had them glancing away just as quickly. She took a deep breath and drew on the pain in her kneecaps, felt the dark side glitter in her veins like stardust, before she turned to look at Ahsoka.

The room had grown colder—the other officers shivered—but what did she care?

Ahsoka pinched her lips. "May I speak to you outside?"

Leia walked outside with her in lieu of answering.

Ahsoka took a moment to study her, the way her fingers twitched at her sides, the bags under her eyes, before she observed, "You seem antsy."

Leia gritted her teeth. "I'm fine. I just need a little saber practise, blow off some steam."

"You haven't left the base in a week."

"I said I'm fine."

"How about a mission?"

Leia blinked.

Shook her head, more out of denial than refusal. "You— you want me to go on a mission for you?"

Ahsoka crossed her arms. "Yes."

"You—" You trust me enough for that?

Ahsoka, for all that Leia hadn't voiced the thought aloud, said, "Yes."

Leia swallowed. "What is it?" She wouldn't say yes until she knew.

"Walk with me," Ahsoka said, gesturing down the corridor. They walked to a small room just down the corridor—an unused office from when this base had been the area's main archive for farm records—and Ahsoka leaned against the window there, peering out at the golden fields swaying in the sun. "If I remember correctly, you were on Naboo when Saw launched his attack there?"

"It wasn't a very good attack."

Ahsoka laughed. "No. It wasn't. But that's because it wasn't an attack—it was a distraction. He had other things going on."

Despite herself, her interest was piqued. "Such as?"

Ahsoka traced a pattern in the dust on the windowsill. "You are aware of Naboo's natural resources? Why it's such a wealthy economy?"

"Yes." Leia nodded. "The human colonists had a lot of money to begin with, so Naboo was able to thrive off its reputation as a planet of artisans and creative pursuits—of culture." She smirked. "But also because it's one of the largest natural sources of plasma in the galaxy."

"So," Ahsoka let her hand drop back to her side, "do you see why Saw wanted to sneak in and establish a small base there?"

"I do."

"We're as low on resources as he is—lower. We want in on it. Want him to cooperate with us." Ahsoka smiled. "So we're sending you."

Leia stared.

Then she burst out laughing.

"Me?" she asked. Ahsoka nodded, smiling queerly, and she guffawed again. "You're both crazy. I shot most of the Partisans when I was there."

"They won't," Ahsoka agreed, "but this way at least we're being upfront about who we're dealing with."

"Still. Padmé's insane."

"Actually, it was my plan."

"Then you're insane."

"I hope not." There was humour in that tone, but. . . also a little self-deprecation, as well. Leia wondered about it. "I just have a good feeling about sending you—it took a lot to convince Padmé. She doesn't want to put you in danger. Latent maternal feelings, I expect."

"Very latent," Leia muttered.

Ahsoka pretended not to hear. "Our intel tells us that Vader has been in the Naboo system for a few days, but he'll be leaving tomorrow—and gone by the time you arrive. Just be careful of any Imperials nearby; your image might already be wanted by the Empire."

"I understand."

"Everything?"

Leia considered. "One question."

"Shoot."

"Didn't Padmé split from Gerrera for a reason?"

Ahsoka let out a deep breath.

". . .yes," she admitted, "and she is not happy that she has reached a point where she has to re-establish ties. But we are reaching a critical point of this war, and we desperately need the Alliance to come together at this time—we need every resource we can get. We can defeat the Empire together, or we cannot defeat them at all."

Leia scoffed. "Do you want me to be taking notes so I can parrot this to him, or. . .?"

"Leia." That was the. . . not sharpest, but most serious tone she'd heard from Ahsoka so far. "This is vitally important. This stage of the war, these next few months. . . they could change the galaxy."

She sighed. "What I told you about Operation Eclipse remains incredibly, incredibly relevant. Padmé always had more to her plan than having someone on the inside to carry it out—there were always contingencies, and if we frame them right, we can do this without an inside agent at all.

"There's an end goal to all of this," she said, "and it's much closer than I think you realise."

Leia was silent for a moment. "And the odd map in the office?"

Ahsoka shot her an exasperated look. "I can't tell you about that."

"Alright then." She smiled sunnily. "I'll go to Naboo and play nice with Gerrera. If you really think it would help."

Ahsoka, incredibly, laughed a little. She was giving Leia a look that felt like something her father sometimes gave her, when he was feeling pensive and shrewd and thinking. She wondered if he'd been the one Ahsoka learnt it from.

"I'm glad," she said.

Shields slammed up in front of the spike almost by instinct but it kept driving through, kept pushing, and hairline cracks started to spread—

Luke scrunched his eyes shut. There was suddenly a bony hand at his throat; his head was slammed into the wall, hard, and a strangled cry was wrenched from his lips as he gasped for breath. Tears leaked from his eyes. He tried to jerk his head forward, to loosen that gnarled grip, but it only tightened and he choked.

That spike was getting colder, so cold it burned, a spot deep in Luke's mind so cold that cracks and fissures webbed out from it like ice shattering glass—

Then Luke's shields collapsed.

Momentarily. But that moment was all that was enough for Palpatine to get in, to be standing in a memory of standing in the Imperial throne room, diamond-stars glinting above him, watching violet lightning lance out to strike Jade down—

No.

Luke wrenched the fabric of the memory away and suddenly they were standing in something Palpatine had already glimpsed, that he'd already peripherally known about:

"You're a J—"

"Not exactly."

Wren's face, creased with confusion—

"'Not exactly'? Who else is there?"

—and slowly dawning understanding.

"Demon."

The stab of rejection he'd barely felt at the time, but that he now felt keenly—that Palpatine fed off of—and the worry, looking at the others, that they'd follow her example.

"Why should I trust you? You're an Imperial, you're—"

Palpatine was clearly very interested in what he said next.

"I know exactly who I am. If I wanted you dead, I would have left you to Pryce. Now, I suggest you get moving, before she manages to catch up with you.

"And tell Amidala," Palpatine leaned in, curious and smiling broadly, "that Luke Skywalker sends his regards."

They fled.

"Well, child," Palpatine mused. "You were certainly prone to grandiose gestures, weren't you? It's a wonder you weren't found out immediately."

Luke ignored him. He knew what was coming next. And he didn't want to incriminate that ISB officer—Kallus?—as well.

"But I'm curious—was this the point of your treason? Was this what triggered it? Four pathetic cadets trying to undermine the great order we've sacrificed so much for—"

Luke tossed him out.

The shock of a heartbeat, then Luke was dragging in deep, bruised breaths of air as Palpatine staggered back, eyes narrowing. The harsh white light of the cell was painful after the sun-branded memory.

"Luke Skywalker sends his regards," Palpatine mocked. "How dramatic."

He took several more steps forward; Luke took a step back, massaging his throat. He didn't bother disguising his fear; it would only amuse him, and he would drink it in either way.

The walls of his mind were rattled, like flagstones without cement, but with every moment he had to stare into that serpent's eyes he rebuilt them dry.

He had to.

Palpatine reached out a finger to tilt his chin up, then to trail it along the purpling skin around Luke's neck.

"But you didn't give me what I was looking for," he finished softly—oh so softly, like the whisper of wind that warned of a sandstorm. "So.

"Let's try that again then, shall we?"