I'd like to reiterate the warning for torture, and also one for gaslighting and similar manipulations for this chapter.
The door slid open and Luke jerked awake, wincing in the harsh light. That leering face haunted his dreams so vividly nowadays, despite the rarity of its visits, it took him a moment to realise that no, he wasn't still asleep—and yes, this was real.
Be brave, Luke, said a whisper of wind. Luke wished Old Ben could be helpful for once.
"How are you feeling?" Palpatine asked. "Are you well rested?"
Luke shrugged noncommittally. It hurt.
Palpatine seated himself on the bunk next to him and rested a gentle hand on his knee. Slight shocks sparked against his skin. "Luke? Are you well rested?"
Luke said nothing again.
Palpatine got up with a sigh and a rustle of dark fabric. He walked around the room and spoke, half with his back turned to Luke.
Luke watched him, hyperaware of the throbbing in his muscles, the disc his brain spun on every time he got to his feet. Like this, he could lunge at Palpatine's back and, if he could draw on the Force in time, snap his neck before this frail old man dropped the act and reminded him just how powerful he was, but. . .
He'd never succeed.
He knew that.
He would not give Palpatine the satisfaction of seeing him try.
"Luke, please answer me." He paused, half-turning back to him; for a moment his eyes looked more blue than gold, then it was gone.
Luke wouldn't fall for these manipulations. He swore it.
"Luke, " he said, turning back to him entirely, "answer me. Why can't you cooperate—engage in a reasonable discussion with me? I'm worried about you, my friend—about your sister, too."
Luke's eyebrows hiked up his face.
He croaked out, "Why would you care?"
"My boy." Palpatine brushed a hand over his cheek and sat down beside him again. Luke repressed a shiver. "Of course I care! You and Leia, your father. . . You're all like family to me."
"Then why did you stick a transmitter in my father's suit?" The words were out before he could stop them, and he winced.
The hand on his cheek tensed.
Then Palpatine laughed. "What did I do?"
"You. . ." Luke's cheeks burned; he didn't even know why. "My father said—"
"Child, are you sure? You know I would never."
He knew the opposite, he was pretty sure. But Palpatine sounded certain, and—
"Why would I plant one in his suit? He's had that since immediately after Mustafar, when Kenobi, as you know, diced your father and left him to burn to death. Vader had been the most loyal, promising apprentice I'd ever had—I'd not had you or Leia yet, of course," he patted Luke's knee with his free hand, "—so why would I ever want to alienate him in that way?"
That. . . had been one of the questions Luke had asked himself when his father had first told them.
"I— My father said—"
"Luke," Palpatine tutted, "you must be remembering wrong. How long have you been in here—a few days?" He placed his hand on his forehead to feel for the temperature—Luke was suddenly, violently transported back to Tatooine, to the last time someone had done that to him. Uncle Owen's anxious eyes.
His father had never had cause to do it, of course; his hands couldn't sense temperature well.
But. . .
"A few days?" It felt like. . .
"Yes?" Palpatine looked at him quizzically, and Luke knew he couldn't trust anything he said, but that meant nothing when he was the only person other than his inner monologue to listen to. "Three days, if I'm thinking correctly—or two and a half, to be precise."
. . .weeks.
It felt like weeks.
Luke shook his head, trying desperately to count the meals he'd had. Dozens, at least. He thought. His head was spinning—
"No—"
"It has." Palpatine looked concerned. "Are you sure you're alright?"
Luke repeated, "Why do you care?"
"Why, my boy, we're family."
Luke shook his head. "No. No, we're not."
"Luke, your father is like a son to me. I— did I never tell you this story?"
Luke gave no response.
"I assume I didn't then. . . Well, I'm sure I have told you the tale of my master, Darth Plagueis the Wise, and how he discovered the power to create life or cheat death itself?"
Despite himself, Luke nodded. He distantly remembered that, from his childhood—if only because of the bitterness that had always permeated his father's tone in the telling.
"He was my master. He taught me all he knew. And so, in my quest to create the perfect being, the perfect apprentice—a line of Force users who could ensure that a Sith dynasty could protect the stability and peace of the galaxy for millennia—I manipulated the midichlorians to produce a child inside a human woman. The child would be born to no sire, but he would be born of the Force itself—he would be powerful beyond imagining.
"That child was your father."
Luke blinked.
"And so, from a certain point of view," Palpatine's smile broadened, "I am your grandfather."
Luke frowned. He let it settle for a moment.
"So of course I care about you." He patted him on the shoulder. "We're family, are we not?"
Are we not?
Luke frowned.
Narrowed his eyes at him.
"Are we?" Luke challenged.
Palpatine froze. "Yes. . .?" he tried a small laugh. "Luke, I just—"
"What was my grandmother's name?"
The hand contracted on his knee; fingernails dug into the sore, tender flesh through Luke's ragged trousers. "What?"
"If you're my grandfather"—Luke rolled the word around his mouth like a vegetable he was trying to find a tactful way to spit out—"and care so much about my family, what was my grandmother's name?"
Palpatine scoffed. "Skywalker."
"Obviously." Luke kept his gaze on him. "Her first name?"
"Luke—"
"What was it," he leaned forwards, eyes daring, "Grandpa?"
It was a ridiculous test.
Even if she'd meant nothing to him—which Luke was already sure she did—there was every reason for Palpatine to remember her name.
Even if he'd not chosen her for the task specifically, if his dabbling had gone wrong and the Force just decided to give a miserable slave woman a ray of light in her bleak life, Palpatine had still spent years speaking to the woman's son. Years being confided in about his fears for her.
He'd still spent years watching her grandchildren grow up.
And yet he said nothing.
Luke tilted his head to the side, narrowed his eyes in mocking challenge. Palpatine ground his teeth.
And still said nothing.
"Her name was Shmi Skywalker," Luke said quietly. "Her grave lay outside the homestead I lived in for seven years. She was brave and kind and strong, and every part of my father that is worth knowing came from her."
He spat on Palpatine's robes and took a vindictive pleasure in the way he recoiled in disgust.
"You are nothing compared to her."
Palpatine's eyes were shadowed. "She was a slave. I am an emperor."
"She was brave. She was loving. She was family." He smiled bitterly. "She was everything you are not."
He lifted his chin.
"I will not tell you where Leia is. I will not rejoin you. I will never stand by your side again, because you are a murderer, a tyrant and a liar, and I am done listening to your poisonous words."
Luke had never before seen fury the likes of which eclipsed Palpatine's face. His eyes glowed.
"Then I will speak no longer," he said sweetly. "If you are so insistent on rejecting my offer on civil grounds, then we shall strip any civility away.
"No more breaks." His voice was mounting with a terrible, terrifying vigour. "Every day, you will feel the force of what it means to betray me. And in the end you will atone for your betrayal or die a traitor's death: alone, disgraced and in agony."
Luke refused to flinch.
"No more mercy for traitors and terrorists," Palpatine whispered. "From now on, you will face your justice."
"You don't know what mercy is," Luke told him. "And this is not justice."
Blue fire blinded him.
He was thrown back, pried open his eyes again to see that dark, hulking figure open the door and the crimson stains file in.
"Ensure he does not die, or take any permanent damage," Palpatine ordered. "Otherwise, do as you will with him."
The doors slammed shut, and they descended.
You did well, Luke.
There were gentle hands around his ravaged arms and back—more gentle than he'd expected, than perhaps the person thought he deserved. After a moment, Luke registered that shadowy presence in the Force and recognised it.
Mara.
"What did you say?"
He winced—then winced harder when spasms shot through his cheeks at the motion. He tried to shake his head, and hastily aborted the motion.
"No, Skywalker, I know you said something." He hadn't meant to. "Repeat it. What did you say?"
He closed his eyes. Her visor was up, so he could see every minutia of her expression when she looked down at him, and he didn't want to.
". . .it sounded like Mara."
He didn't say anything.
She dragged him upright so she could get at the lacerations to his torso, swiping a cloth over them with disinfectant that stung. He hissed.
"Tell—"
He couldn't help but frown, despite the pain, at the hesitation in her voice.
"Tell me what my name was, Skywalker."
The words were an order, but. . . whispered. Their heads were close enough that the holocams couldn't even pick up on the motion of their lips.
He wasn't going to deny her.
"Mara Jade," he breathed, then slumped back against the bunk and let his eyes slide shut.
She made no verbal reaction. Just finished wiping the blood off the floor and his face, then marched out the door again with the same contained urgency she always used.
It was there, without even opening his eyes again, that Luke choked out, "Is it true?"
Silence in the cell.
Then, like Luke had expected— Is what true?
"Don't. Don't play devil's advocate, you— you said you wanted to be the voice of truth? Reason? Sense? Answer— Answer my question. Was anything he said there false?"
Another pregnant pause.
You have been in here for much longer than two and a half days.
"I know that!" His throat muffled a scream. "What he said— about family—"
None of us ever knew how Anakin ever came to exist, Luke. We thought it must be the will of the Force, the fulfilment of a prophecy. But. . .
Luke choked on a sob. "I am not the son of darkness and. . . lust for power."
No. You are the son of two good, clever people who loved each other very much, and loved you even more. And we do not know where your father came from, but I am certain of one thing: he was meant to be a blessing to this galaxy, not a curse.
I couldn't save him from his fall. I never could protect the things Padmé loved most when she needed me to. But I can try to set things right—I can try to help you.
Look at the door, Luke.
He lifted his chin. Only then did he notice the tear tracks on his face. "What about it?"
He could hear the smile in Ben's next words:
It's unlocked.
"What"—a burst of lightning fried her senses, momentarily shattered any semblance of rational thought and ripped a violent grunt from her vocal cords—"have you done?"
She tried to lift her chin and say, "Master, I—"
"You were foolish, incompetent and stupid," he answered his own question. "Or you were traitorous. Are traitorous." His eyes narrowed, and she was suddenly, violently reminded of what he'd told her when he'd promoted her:
I fear Lord Vader's children are hardly the only spies in this palace.
I will need a capable Hand to hunt them down.
She shook her head—slowly, then more vehemently. Her neck screamed in protest. "No, Master, it wasn't me, I would never—"
"I am sure you wouldn't." But he still looked suspicious, still raised his hands for another onslaught—
"Master—"
The agony barrelled into her. Tears burned, but she bit them down; weakness would be scented and snuffed out. The Inquisitorius had taught her that.
She tried to feebly lift her head from the floor, then grimaced. Let herself fall back down. She waited for her fingers to stop twitching with the latent charges before she whispered, "I did it to break him."
His gaze snapped down to bore into hers. She did not waver; she did not flinch.
"What?"
It was all the permission she needed.
"I did it," she said slowly, "to break him. He was still resisting you, my master. He still held out a hope of rescue—of escape. He couldn't comprehend the position he was in. If he takes this chance—"
"He has already taken it. My pet is gone, because of your carelessness. And I cannot sense where he is."
She swallowed. "He'll never get past the security around your private cells, Master." It had frightened her when he'd bequeathed her the honour of entering them, serving in them; to an agonised boy, half-dead and dazed, escape from the cell block would be as impossible as escape from a black hole. "And when he fails, when he is more cognizant of your offer and the situation he finds himself in, he will come to accept it."
"My offer or the situation?" he sneered.
She said nothing. Fear and pain welled up inside her; she let it, her Force presence growing darker, richer. Her master lapped it up.
It meant he couldn't taste the lies in it.
"You will never again do such a thing without express permission," he ordered. An agonising shock accompanied it for effect. "If he escapes, your life is forfeit."
"Yes, Master."
"Now get out of my sight." He turned away, striding back up to his throne. She sensed him cast out for senses, looking for a supernova that had vanished into the Force-suppressant nature of the cells' perimeter.
She bowed her head again.
Relief shattered her concentration and some of it slipped out; she hoped he just thought that it was relief over being allowed to live. But what she was, actually was. . .
She was immensely glad he hadn't read her mind.
Hadn't heard the words that thundered in it, no matter how hard she tried to suppress them. The vulnerabilities they invoked.
I was going to step forward, you know. Whether Leia ordered me otherwise or not, I was about to step forward. I signed up willingly to put myself in danger, not you. Or anyone else
But that wasn't even the worst of it.
If he found out her obsession with what Skywalker had told her, right before she'd. . . slipped up, she would be thoroughly, royally, doomed.
Even so.
Mara Jade took a deep breath and strode out of the throne room.
It hadn't been that hard for Luke to escape the cell block.
He still wasn't sure why—whether it had been negligence, if Mara had something to do with it, or if he just had obscenely good luck. He hoped it was the latter; he'd need it, if he wanted to get out of the Palace, out of Imperial City, off-planet, and then to hyperspace.
And then to find Leia.
He'd need more luck than there was in the galaxy for that.
But he was going to try anyway. He had to. So he kept moving.
Upon exiting the cell, unlocked or not, there had been two red guards standing outside it. He'd stared at them for one precious half-second, then legged it.
The corridors were like a maze—he'd never been down to Palpatine's private dungeons before, he didn't know the layout, and it was showing. Every twist and turn just showed more and more cells, more and more cells, more and more cells—
He pivoted on his foot to slam the heel of his hand into the controls for one of the blast doors. It closed slowly, but he hit the lock button and begged it would buy him time.
Shouts—up ahead. His heart nearly stopped when two more figures in those hated red robes appeared and he scurried forward to hit close and lock on those blast doors as well, heart hammering like the drums in the Imperial anthem on Empire Day.
He stared between them. The screech of Force pikes could be heard.
Tears swam in his eyes. There was nothing to do, nothing he could do, he was trapped and he was going to die here, and—
The Force was gone.
It had vanished the moment he stepped into the corridor—the very stones against his bare feet seemed to repel it, and that warm, bright, mystical power that always suffused his entire being was gone. He couldn't sense anything. He was cold and trembling and weak without it.
Because Palpatine needed the Force to electrocute dissidents in the cells themselves, because he need it to tell truth from lies, but they needed it to escape so if they got this far—
If they managed to leave the pathetic, isolated little bubble of brightness he left them each wallowing in, then built the corridors out of a stone that cancelled or dampened the Force so they couldn't run or hope or hide—
No.
No. Luke was smart—with or without the Force. He was strong, with or without the Force.
He remembered Tatooine—his aunt and uncle hadn't had it, and yet they'd survived in one of the harshest planets to exist. They'd survived without it. So could he.
His frantically roving gaze flicked up—half in prayer—when the metal blast doors bucked like they were about to slide open, and—
Fell on the air vent just above his head.
Luke thought of all the reports he'd read about Phoenix Squadron, the Spectres, the Ghost crew. He thought of Ezra Bridger, a boy almost exactly as old as him, Force-sensitive, raised on a different side of the war.
He wondered if Leia was with him, wherever she was.
He had no tools with which to pry open the vent, no Force with which to. . . well, force it open. He had only his fingernails and his desperation—and the sound of the doors grinding open, inch by painstaking inch.
He made do.
The stone that cancelled the Force had its advantages to Luke, as well.
It was softer than any stone a prison was built out of had the right to be—which, albeit, meant it crumbled a lot under his hands and feet once he was in the vents, and got all in his lungs; he coughed a lot, and hoped no one could hear him.
But he managed to escape. He'd managed to escape.
And now, completely cut off from the Force. . . none of them—Palpatine, the Inquisitors—could track him.
Or his father.
If he was still on planet. If he hadn't left his son to unimaginable torment and stuck around to watch him undergo it—to help recapture him if he tried to escape it.
Luke choked on a sob.
He followed the vents for as long as he could, taking arbitrary twists and turns, wherever they might lead him. At one point the air stopped smelling dry and filtered, and more. . . rotten. Damp. Left to fester.
Luke's heart soared.
The Jedi Temple.
The next grate he clambered over, he peered down into complete darkness. The Force whispered at the back of his mind again—he threw up shields before Palpatine got lock onto him—and he laughed in sheer delight.
He'd be safe here. He'd be safe, he'd be safe, the shadows had always been the twins' playmates—
A few bangs, a strategic press of his newly rediscovered power, and he was tumbling out of the grates, to land on the hard floor.
That was where he really got in trouble.
He fell strangely—blinded and dizzy and, quite frankly, out of it as he was—and the crack that sounded from his right ankle could not sound more like a death knell.
"No," he muttered, gritting his teeth at the sight of it. Definitely sprained, or twisted; possibly broken. "No."
It hurt.
No more than anything else hurt right now—it wasn't like any of the bacta patches and disinfectant Mara had so generously applied would benefit from a crawl through the ventilation systems, and it screamed with every movement he made—but. . .
He'd been so close.
He'd been so close, and—
And an injured ankle wasn't going to stop him now.
He gritted his teeth again. Felt along the floor in the pitch dark for the wall, and braced himself against it.
And pushed.
He staggered onto his feet, the bones in his foot grinding oddly. He pushed aside the pain—if he tried to used it to connect to the Force, Palpatine would find him all the quicker, and it would be an annoyance otherwise—and stumbled onwards.
He did not get far.
He fell more than he advanced, scratches and grazes and bruises aggravating the mess of injuries already masquerading as his body, a little of the fight flooding out of him with every oomph as he did.
He shoved himself back to his feet, ignoring the tears that now freely tracked through the dust on his face, and kept going.
The bacta patches had long since peeled off, fluttering down behind him like a bloody trail of breadcrumbs pointing exactly where he went. He couldn't bring himself to care.
He couldn't navigate this place without a glowrod, injured or not. He was probably going to die here anyway; die, that is, or get dragged back to Palpatine's tender care—
Footsteps.
His head whipped round; it hurt in the way that the ripple from a stone toss disturbs a raging sea. There, further ahead in the lightless corridor: white light, growing closer, and larger. Closer, and larger, and brighter.
He looked around for somewhere to hide—
"Skywalker?"
He froze.
Not just at the use of the name—the name he hadn't heard anyone here except Mara use—but. . . also at the voice.
Also at the figure that emerged from the shadows. Colourless hair drawn back in the tightest bun Luke had ever seen someone tie, bony hand clenched urgently around the glowrod, long, neat blue robes brushing and dirtied by the detritus on the ground.
Ice-chip eyes met his.
He said, "Horada?"