From here on out, this fic will try to deal with deal with or at least portray Luke's trauma and reactions to the events of the past twelve chapters. However, I have no personal experience of anything like this, so if anyone has any feedback or advice, I would love to hear it.
Military dress uniforms were uncomfortable.
Luke had always known that. He'd had to wear them before, but his father had always let him get away with something similar if he found it too uncomfortable, or— he didn't know. But the dress uniform he found in his quarters, lain out on the bed painstakingly neatly, despite fitting him so perfectly it was eerie. . .
He picked it up and ran his thumbs over the fine material, fisting his hands in it. Then, very slowly and methodically, he walked into the 'fresher to pull off the simple black and blue clothes he'd retrieved from his old apartment, and pull this on.
The trousers fit him very well; they'd be comfortable if he was used to him. The shirt sat on him neatly as well, the same uniform grey of any other officer's garb, though he wore no rank insignia. The collar. . .
Fabric pressed against the skin of his throat.
His vision went dark, his hand at his neck, and he heard winds roaring in his ears—
He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath, everything dark and loud and painful—
Luke.
Ben's whisper pierced the fog momentarily, but he still couldn't see his own pale, terrified face in the mirror. "Huh?"
Luke. Undo your collar.
Almost on autopilot, Luke reached up to fiddle with the top button and loosen it. He could breathe again.
He did. Deeply.
He rasped in great, heaving breaths for minutes on end. In, out, in, out, in out. . .
Eventually, his vision cleared and he was left crouching on the floor, coated in a cold sheen of sweat.
He. . . was not going to think about that.
Was not going to think about any of that.
He studied his reflection. His hair had been shorn military-short at some point in his imprisonment, though he couldn't say he knew when. He was as pale as bone, and the stark violet bruises under his eyes seemed all the darker for it. His hands, when he looked at their reflection, were trembling.
He looked like shavit.
But he could sense a severe, uptight presence approaching, so he couldn't stare at himself any longer. He squeezed his hands together and clenched them at his sides in a desperate effort to still them.
He could do this.
He had to do this.
He stepped out of the 'fresher.
Before he went straight for the door, however, he made for his own room. The cape he'd received on their eighteenth birthday, the twin of Leia's, slipped off the hangar and into his hands, settled around his shoulders.
He took a deep breath, eyes closed.
He could do this.
He had to do this.
For Leia.
Tarkin was waiting for him in the antechamber to his quarters, without having bothered to knock or ring or ask to be let in. Luke's gaze was drawn to the code cylinder in his breast pocket; he suspected that Tarkin had access to just about anywhere he could go.
There was no hiding from his new. . . watcher.
His spine felt like it had been replaced by a metal beam, but Tarkin's cool gaze swept over him and found no fault in his posture, so Luke assumed he was doing alright.
You'll be alright, Luke, Ben said softly. It wasn't a wind, it was a breeze, and that. . . that, maybe, was why he relaxed ever so slightly.
Even if he didn't trust it.
Ben had kept some very important information from him before, after all.
Luke gestured—stiffly—to his own dress uniform, then Tarkin's impeccable one. "What's the occasion? Travel?"
Tarkin's thin lips turned up in a smile. "Unfortunately not quite yet, Luke." Force, he hated hearing him use his given name. "I am aware His Majesty informed you we would be leaving today, but last minute news has come from the front lines. A task force I was commanding on Corellia has finally met with victory. The Rebels in that system have been entirely routed and those that were captured have been scheduled for execution later today. His Majesty insisted that we all celebrate, and so has held a function in the main ballroom in my honour."
. . .wonderful.
"It ought to last long enough for us to watch the executions live."
Even more wonderful.
Be mindful of your feelings, Luke, they betray you.
And I'm betraying everything and everyone anyway, Luke shot back. He had no response.
"Wonderful," he said aloud. He thought he'd done a good job of scrubbing the sarcasm from his voice, but Tarkin turned his nose up at it anyway.
"Your collar is unbuttoned," he observed.
Luke gritted his teeth. "I know."
Tarkin pursed his lips.
"We should go," he said shortly, and they both turned as the door hissed open.
Mara pressed her lips together when she looked at him. She was dressed in an outfit of trousers and a dark blue blazer-like jacket that looked respectable—presentable—enough, but Luke had no doubt she had blasters, a lightsaber, thermal detonators, vibroblades, and another lightsaber for good measure, all somewhere on her person.
She bowed her head to Tarkin and gestured him onwards. "Lead the way."
Controlling himself was a lot harder with Mara at his elbow. He still wasn't sure whether she thought watching him or watching the other Imperials for threats to him was more important.
They arrived at the main ballroom to find the function already in full swing, with austerely dressed officers and moffs and senators milling about with drinks in hand. They turned when Tarkin arrived and greeted him loudly, though a thin smile and a wordless incline of Tarkin's head instantly made it clear to them all what he thought of such fawning.
Sycophants. Trying to climb the hierarchy and seek favours from powerful men and find a position with which they could get more credits, more power, more prestige.
Luke didn't know how Leia had put up with them for so long.
Some people didn't immediately look away at Tarkin's irritation, though. Luke glanced up and caught one such officer's eye—a surprisingly short man with a neat cap on and a rank plaque that named him a captain.
Luke tilted his head slightly. He looked familiar. . .
Then he heard the hissing of a respirator and looked away hastily, pulse leaping. He could feel it beating in his fingertips.
Piett. Piett was his name, the captain from the plan— the captain of the Executor, that was, who he'd talked to and cooperated with on the way back from Kuat—
That heavy breathing was right behind him now. Luke refused to turn, though he was sure the tension in his shoulders and his opacity in the Force gave away more than the stark terror on his face ever could.
His father said, "Luke."
Luke swallowed and, at a pointed, amused look from Tarkin, turned to look up at him. The contours of the mask had never before seemed so horrifying.
"Lord Vader," he greeted in return.
His father's helmet tilted minutely, so much so that Luke knew no one else would have noticed it.
Not even Leia.
"Your collar is unbuttoned, young one," he said finally. His hand twitched, like he wanted to fix it himself—though Luke doubted his prosthetics could handle the fine, fiddly button—but didn't dare reach out.
Good.
"I'm aware."
The Emperor hadn't arrived yet, but Luke knew he would revel in watching this. That, more than anything, was what made him open his mouth to end the conversation, say anything to end the conversation—
But no sound came out.
His throat was scoured drier than the dunes at midday.
Mara, however, did step between Luke and Vader then and asked calmly, "Was there anything else, Lord Vader?"
His father stirred at the interruption. Anger—no, mere irritation, which somehow made it worse—sparked and he lifted his hand in her direction—
And Luke flinched.
Vader froze.
The mask turned towards Luke. Towards Mara. Back to Luke again.
"Yes," he got out, taking a step back. The tiniest bit of tension eased from Luke's shoulders. "That was all."
Luke turned away before he could even make to retreat, Tarkin easily moving to meet him.
"Ah, Luke, I'd like to introduce you to two of my associates here," he said smoothly. "These are Admirals Motti and Tagge."
Two men, equally stocky, balding and stiff, smiled at him by way of grimacing.
"This is Luke," Tarkin said to them, "Lord Vader's son."
"Charmed." Luke wasn't sure which one of them said it; they looked the same anyway.
But then one of them, and he was pretty sure it was the one called Motti, spoke. He cast a dismissive look over Luke, gaze snagging on the lightsaber just visible under his cape, and snorted. "I suppose you consider yourself some sort of wizard as well?"
Luke gritted his teeth.
Vader stood in the middle of the ballroom, a sea of people bunching and swelling around him, but his focus was on one alone.
Luke was bright as ever, but still closed off with shields upon calcified shields, like the layers of a mountain. He looked terrible.
Vader. . . tried not to think about why that was.
He failed.
His chest hurt.
Seeing Luke glare at him the way he had, with that much fury and pain and vitriol, his chest hurt.
He'd done this.
No: Luke— Luke had betrayed him, they'd both betrayed him, he'd been perfectly right in punishing him like this and forcing him to see reason—
But. . .
He had not meant to drive Luke away.
He had not meant to kill Padmé, either.
And there were many, many unacceptable things in his life—Palpatine's continued rule, Luke and Leia having turned traitor in the first place—but one such unacceptable thing was the idea that he would never see his son smile at him again.
He closed his eyes. Clenched his fists. The creak of strained leather drew Piett's alarmed gaze, Ozzel's too-inquisitive-for-his-own-good gaze, but Vader ignored them both.
He would get his son back. No matter what manipulations Palpatine had ensnared him with, no matter how harsh or justified Vader's reaction had been, he would have his family reunited. Happy. Loyal.
Luke was wearing the cape he'd given him on Empire Day. Surely that meant something. Vader would see him come around again. He would.
Wouldn't he?
Foresight had never been his forte, but he found himself desperate enough to reach out anyway, under the cackling gaze of his master in the Force.
I have never known you to have much luck with foresight, my friend.
He frowned, brushed it off and focused—
A scene. Dark—both because of the dark red lenses he peered through, and the dimly lit nature of the throne room. Luke's bright bob of hair, kneeling on the floor, and Vader knelt next to him, arms around his shoulders. Luke's face was pressed into his chest and Vader held him tightly. Ever so tightly.
Vader smiled when he opened his eyes again.
Embraces had always been rare between them. And with the way Luke had flinched back from his mere touch earlier. . .
Yes. Yes.
Things would get better. They would.
Satisfied, and content to allow the future to shift into the image he saw, Vader turned away.
"You," a cool, smooth voice behind Luke said, "I have not had the pleasure of speaking to yet."
Luke turned, ignoring the way his muscles bunched and tensed instinctively at the sight of yet another officer in uniform, with yet another aide—was that all Luke was now? Aide to Tarkin?—who no doubt wanted to suck up and coddle—
He blinked.
His eyes found the Grand Admiral's rank plaque first, eyebrows creeping infinitesimally up his face, then his gaze caught on the blue skin and red eyes and he understood.
"Admiral Thrawn," he greeted—half-begrudging, half-curious.
"Grand Admiral," a pointed voice corrected him. Luke raised his eyebrows minutely—just enough, Leia had taught him, to immediately make his face look snooty and haughty without noticeably changing his expression—and looked at the aide at Thrawn's elbow. He looked short, and young, but only because he was standing next to Thrawn. He was several years older, and quite a bit taller, than Luke, with dull brown hair and a slightly pinched expression.
Eli Vanto, Luke recognised. He had nothing against the man, but moved his gaze away with a dismissal that surely stung.
This was the Imperial Court. As much as he'd want to be nice to an officer who'd genuinely worked well and performed admirably for years, as an Outer Rim hick serving a non-human in the elitist Imperial military, this was the Imperial Court.
Luke just stared Thrawn down until even he had the political acumen to wave his aide's objection to the side.
"I've heard so much about you," Luke continued at last.
"Oh, I assure you that it is my pleasure, young Vader." Thrawn held out his hand and Luke shook it firmly. It was cold, and very dry.
"Vader is my father's name," he said stiffly. "I'm just Luke."
Skywalker still fit him like a glove, he thought bitterly, but no one here wanted to call him that.
"Nevertheless, it has been quite some time that I have meant to speak to you," Thrawn told him. Luke shifted on his feet.
"Oh?" he said, instead of voicing. . . all of that. "Why?"
It was blunter than he usually was. His father—
He looked at Thrawn, who was studying him with that crimson gaze.
"You were the one to recommend my service to the Emperor for the hunt for Amidala, were you not?" Luke got the sense he was about to regret that. "You and your sister also flew my TIE Defenders extremely well—and your father's subsequent support in that project has proven invaluable." He nodded his head in gratitude—and respect. "Thank you for your assistance."
"It was what was best for the Empire," Luke said automatically, suddenly aware that someone's gaze was fixed on his back. He didn't know who it was—Tarkin, Vader, Palpatine himself, sitting on his throne—and didn't dare to look around.
"Then I thank you for your faith and confidence, rather than your endorsement."
Luke tried to say, coldly, "I hope you've proven worthy of it."
"Indeed, I hope so too. We believe we have narrowed down the location of Amidala's main base to somewhere in the Raioballo sector—Dantooine seems the most likely candidate at the moment, though I do suspect Lah'mu. I am on Coruscant to ask His Majesty for permission to conduct further operations and raids in the area."
Luke nodded politely—almost disinterestedly—but he was anything but.
Listen, Ben whispered in his ear. Cold pricked along Luke's spine. Listen. . .
He had no idea where Leia was.
But if she was in the Raioballo sector. . .
Luke smiled. Stiffly but genuinely, and he hoped his loyalty was unquestionable.
"Then I am thrilled," he said warmly; Vanto jerked his head up to stare at him, the sudden change, "that we have the right man on the job.
"I am sure you won't fail." He smiled again, a little sharper. "An officer of your reputation and calibre, after all. . ."
"I shall endeavour not to," Thrawn said. "If—"
There was a sudden fanfare. The Imperials around him all turned in unison to face the viewscreen that was scrolling down at the end of the room. Luke had already turned, almost before the fanfare sounded, and his gaze was already fixed to the other side of it: on Palpatine's smug smile, as he sat on his smug throne.
That yellow gaze met his and Palpatine nodded to him, lifting a glass. Luke felt mocked.
The viewscreen lit up to show a view of Corellia. A city square Luke vaguely recognised and a squat, grey building that was probably the local Imperial garrison made up the background, but the holo's focus was on the governor who stood with practised stiffness and watched twelve beings in binders be dragged out from inside the building.
Luke saw a slight figure, a head of dark hair, and immediately seized up—then relaxed. It was not Leia being dragged out to face a firing squad. She was not with the Rebels on Corellia.
That left an infinite amount of planets for her to be on—an infinite amount to search. Good.
"For the charges of high treason, destruction of Imperial property. . ." the governor began to read out, then continued with a list of their crimes. Luke glanced at the Emperor, then looked away quickly when he realised he was looking at him.
He shifted where he stood, uncomfortably aware of the oh-so-perceptive Thrawn at his back. He was half-glad that even Tarkin had had no real desire to hold this function on Corellia; Luke didn't have to see the executions in the flesh, feel their lives vanish forever in the Force.
Four humans, two Duros, three Twi'leks, one Rodian, one Ithorian, and one of a species Luke didn't recognise.
The governor on the screen gave the order, and they were marched to stand along one wall. It was nighttime and it was raining; harsh floodlights made airborne droplets, droplets on their hair, droplets on the binders, glow like static. Luke half wished it was static.
That human with a crown of dark hair still looked unnervingly like Leia.
He took a deep breath. It was not Leia. He knew it was not Leia.
There was muttering—Luke couldn't tell if it was from the silent, anticipatory ballroom or the holo. The Rebels' shadows trembled on the damp duracrete.
A shout. A crack.
Holes bloomed in the Rebels' heads and Luke looked away before he saw any blood. He still heard the thump of flesh on duracrete, though.
He thought he could hear high winds.
He didn't look up again until the holo had frozen and the applause began.
Deafening applause—like the applause he'd heard at the Death Star's unveiling. His gaze instinctively sought his father, though he glanced away again before he could note anything beyond the fact that he wasn't clapping, heart hammering, throat tight—
He could hear high winds.
He looked at Palpatine—then rapidly looked away again, because the old man was still staring at him.
When his gaze landed on the viewscreen, though, he tensed.
It was frozen on the image of one of the Rebels. And it wasn't really surprising which one.
Luke squeezed his eyes shut, tried to get his breathing under control—
With the spill of blood hiding the shape of her features, her eyes closed, she looked even more like Leia.
He started forwards.
"Luke!" hissed a voice from somewhere, suddenly, near his elbow. He ignored it, shoving his way through the crowd. Mara shoved after him but it closed like a rock fall at his back and she couldn't get through in time.
No one was paying attention to him. They'd gone right back to mingling the moment the viewscreen went dark but Luke shoved through, made for and out of the vast double doors and ran—
"Skywalker!" Mara bellowed from the entrance but Luke had already turned a corner and vanished deeper into the Palace.
He didn't know how far away he was when he stopped.
Collapsed.
Pressed his knees to his face and bent over double in some alcove, behind some statue. Servants milled past, either not noticing him or pretending not to notice him.
That wasn't Leia. Leia wasn't dead—he would know if Leia was dead, he'd sense it—
He tried to gasp for air, but there was something around his throat, yanking tighter and tighter and tighter—
And suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder.
A flesh hand. A gentle hand.
It wasn't Mara. He knew that immediately. The hand was too broad, too large—and he could sense her, anyway, casting her mind out to look for him, quite a way away.
Had he really run that far? It felt shorter—but also so much longer.
The hand was gone from his shoulder now; it was just one finger instead, tapping. And a voice.
Luke blinked at the face blocking the light from the alcove.
"Kid?"
That. . . didn't compute. Luke shook his head slowly; he felt like his whole body had been thrown into freezing water.
". . .you alright?"
There was another hand, now, hovering over his arm. Luke didn't resist when he pulled him from his alcove.
He tried to snap, "Evidently not," but it just came out weak. Matter-of-fact. Passive.
"Yeah. . . well." It was no Imperial accent speaking, Luke could tell that much. The hands were bare as well, not cased in the gloves stormtroopers wore. "I didn't know what else to say."
This. . . man's—Luke was pretty sure it was a man; these hands were human and his voice was low—mind was wide open, littered with all sorts of conflicting emotions: alarm, a smidgen of genuine concern, fear, and a general tension. It exacerbated Luke's headache just to peer in there, though he was amused to find that if cussing was an emotion, that would have been the most prominent.
Luke. . . almost wanted to laugh. He did laugh. Then his throat tightened again and he coughed.
"Hey, hey. Take it easy." The man let Luke lean on him for a bit, then helped him stagger out of the alcove. They knocked the small statue on the way out; it rocked on its base, then the moment Luke collapsed to the floor of the well-carpeted corridor it crashed down as well. An amphibious creature lost an arm.
When Luke glanced at the brown, rugged face of his companion, he looked even more alarmed than before.
"Blast," he said. "Hope that wasn't expensive."
Luke bent over double and dissolved into a fit of giggles.
"Kid?" The man crouched next to him. "Calm down, I guess? Just. . . breathe?"
Luke kept laughing. He started crying, too, but tried to wipe them away on his cape before his companion could see them.
He breathed.
He didn't even realise he had a headache until it eased.
His hands were still trembling. He tucked them together, against his sides, and when he looked up at the man next to him he realised he was on eye level with the collar of his grey uniform.
He'd done the buttons up unevenly, he noted.
"Who—" he tried to say, then cut him off. There were clipped footsteps behind him.
"Good. You found him." Mara came closer and Luke kept his gaze on the floor to avoid meeting her eyes. There was no need: she barely looked at him.
His companion scowled. It was amusing, the contrast between them—elegant, put-together Mara and the scruffy, steadfast man. Luke wondered what in the galaxy they could have in common.
"I found him," the man snapped. "What now?"
"Now, Solo, you show some respect."
"To you or to him? 'Cause he doesn't look that bothered—"
"Get up," Mara told Luke. "We're heading back to—"
"I'm not going back to that function," Luke said flatly, though he did push himself to his feet. Wobbled a bit, but stayed up.
Mara tilted her head. "I was going to say, back to your quarters," she said. "You still have to prepare for leaving tomorrow."
"I've already prepared."
Mara nodded at Solo. "Now you've got another member of your entourage, you're not."
"I have an entourage?"
"Shut it, Skywalker, and get moving." She made to move away, then paused. "And this is Solo—"
"Han Solo," the man said fiercely.
Her lips twitched. "This is Captain Han Solo. Here for your security."
The Force screamed.
It wasn't a lie.
Mara, strangely enough, believed it. And there wasn't a threat here.
But something was wrong.
Luke studied Han Solo. He looked to be in his late twenties, worn and scarred, and—as he'd thought earlier—scruffy.
He didn't look like he'd spent a day of his life in an Imperial academy.
Luke said, "Interesting," and noted how Solo shifted awkwardly as he said it.
Again, if you have any feedback or advice about presenting Luke's response to his trauma, please let me know (either in the reviews, or on my tumblr (username: spell-cleaver. Either would be fantastic.)