Bail Organa was visiting Dantooine.
His cover story, if necessary, was that he was on planet for humanitarian purposes, running one of his famous mercy missions for the farmers on planet who were having yet another poor harvest. Though the plan was that no Imperials ever found out he'd come here at all, with an inward journey so convoluted it would take a miracle to track it.
Leia thought his fancy clothes and diplomatic air made him stick out like a sore thumb amidst all the dusty and busy Rebels, but no one asked her opinion and she didn't offer it.
She was just out of medical the next day, after the check up on how her hand was healing up from the burn, when Padmé asked her to come to her office. Apparently they had something important to tell her about.
She flexed her hand—it was healing well, the bacta patches were doing their job—then knocked twice. Padmé's voice came through: "Come in."
She entered. She didn't look at Organa, beyond a brief look of sceptical appraisal.
He was smiling at her exasperatedly when he sighed. She could tell.
Padmé sighed too, but tried to be light-hearted—try being the operative word. "Sit down, Leia. Bail brings us news about the situation on Coruscant."
Leia opened her mouth to say something acerbic, then closed it again, taking a deep breath and sitting in the second chair positioned in front of Padmé's desk.
She had to give him a chance. He deserved a chance.
He was still smiling—she felt belittled—but said sadly, "Nothing positive, I'm afraid." He coughed. "Especially not about. . ."
"Spit it out."
"Leia."
Leia pinched her lips together and looked down at her entwined hands, sitting in her lap. Her shoulders were tensed, her hackles raised. She felt like. . .
She felt like she was standing in front of Tarkin again, with the calculating way his gaze was on her, the moves to try and charm her in a guiding, mentoring sort of way, and she hated it.
Or even. . .
She felt like she was standing in front of him.
Even without the stench of darkness. Even without the blatant possession and superiority in his tone. Palpatine was a politician, and so was Bail Organa.
Padmé. . .
At least Padmé loved her.
But her father hated politicians too, she supposed, so. . .
"My apologies," she ground out, but only for Padmé. Only for Padmé.
"It's alright. We're all under strain." His smile was winning, and though it warmed her a tiny bit—she felt the warmth, the genuine forgiveness, in the Force—she still thought he was annoying.
"But the news I have to bring is certainly not news you will want to hear."
He paused. Leia glanced at Padmé to find them both looking at her, and made a sharp gesture with her hand.
He continued, "There was a function for the Imperial Court and other favoured officers on Coruscant recently. It was celebrating the capture and execution of the leaders of the Rebel cell on Corellia."
Padmé winced. "That was a major setback for the Alliance."
"It was." Organa nodded patiently. "That was why they were celebrating it. It was a perfectly ordinary function, nothing new—but Lord Vader was in attendance."
Leia ground her teeth at the mere thought of him. Images reared up unbidden, of a dark shadow and a darker voice asking questions she—Luke—couldn't answer—
She would kill him if she saw him again.
Even if it was not the Jedi way.
"That was the oddity that caused my sources to take notice. Vader very rarely attends formal functions—as I'm sure you know—and he doesn't have the patience for them. Let alone does he talk to anyone. But he spoke to Tarkin's companion, a young man who seems to have been taken under his wing as an aide."
Leia squeezed her eyes shut, and knew— "Luke?"
Organa confirmed grimly, "Luke."
Padmé, ever the diplomat, asked carefully, "And what does this mean?"
"We believe. . ." Organa took a breath. "In light of Master Yoda's concerns about a Force user's ability to 'resist' the 'dark side', as well as your brother's very recent defection. . . we believe that he's been compromised."
The words were half-expected, but they fell on Leia's ears like mallets. It stung.
"My brother," she hissed, shoving herself to her feet; even standing up, she was barely taller than Organa, "is not a traitor!"
He held out a placating hand and she smacked it away. "Leia, please."
"He's not!" She turned on her heel and made for the door; just before Padmé cried out for her to stay, she turned again and kept pacing. "He wouldn't. He would not go back to Palpatine—that's not how torture works—I don't believe it, it's ridiculous—and if he was really at that function, acting like an Imperial, then that means he has a plan!"
"He wasn't acting like one, Leia. He was one."
"He wasn't!" she shot back. "He has a plan—if he's at functions, presumably unharmed, then that means he's out of the cells, less injured. It'll be easier for him to escape! You'll see—when he makes contact with us, asking for extraction or telling us he's escaped on his own because no one in this suns-blasted Rebellion could rescue him, you'll see!"
Organa set his jaw. "Leia," he snapped, "your brother has betrayed you. Denial won't help anyone."
"It's not denial. It's common sense."
"Palpatine is persuasive and manipulative, I'm afraid. Your father fell into his grasp long ago, and now he's managed to have your brother return to him. There is no use screaming about it."
"Bail," Padmé admonished.
"Luke has not returned to him, and he never would," Leia reiterated stubbornly. She clenched her fists and, at a pleading, pained look from Padmé, sat down again. Her nails embedded in her palms; her healing burn stung. "He tortured him. That's not how torture works."
"Perhaps he didn't go back to Palpatine," Padmé offered lamely. Leia glared at her too—for even entertaining this ridiculous idea, let alone believing it. But of course she didn't know how fiercely Luke would never do that. She didn't know Luke at all. "Perhaps he went back to Vader—you told me that he used to idolise your father."
Bail grimaced. "I'm not sure. Apparently things were very frosty between them at the f—"
Leia interrupted, "Vader tortured him too."
They stared at her.
Padmé said, very weakly, "What?"
Leia pressed her lips together and nodded gravely.
"I dreamed about it," she whispered. "My father was torturing my brother, and it was as real as the wound on my hand right now."
Padmé glanced at her hand briefly, a question in the furrow of her brow, but Leia left it unanswered.
"Luke is not a traitor," she said. "That is as real as the wound on my hand, too."
"I believe her," a voice said behind her.
Leia's head whipped round, shocked out of her quiet fervour. Ahsoka was standing there, the door slightly open behind her. She must've been really distracted not to notice her come in.
Ahsoka smiled supportively at her, and it was a thousand times warmer than any of Bail Organa's practised sympathy.
"Trust Skyguy Junior, for now," she said. "Give him time. It doesn't have to be long, perhaps a few weeks at best. But if Leia's right—and as the only person in the room other than her who's met him, I think she is, and I also think she's the most likely to be—then just give him time. He'll contact us himself with all the answers soon enough."
Organa only nodded neatly, but a weight seemed to roll off Padmé's shoulders. She dragged a hand over her face.
"Alright," she said. "Good. Alright. Let's do that."
Ahsoka, when Leia mouthed thank you at her, only smiled mysteriously. But, Leia decided, that was something to think about for tomorrow.
The next morning, Luke found himself throwing together various bags of clothes and throwing them onto the servant Tarkin had sent to shuttle them onto the Star Destroyer Sovereign II. Hearing the II made him smile to himself every time; Luke and Leia hadn't been on Mustafar during that. . . incident where Tarkin had had the first Sovereign destroyed by the Ghost crew, but they'd certainly laughed at him about it later.
The servant Tarkin had sent loaded all their bags—Han's bag was a ratty little thing, unlikely to hold his uniform let alone any off-duty clothes; Mara's was small and compact and no doubt deadly; Luke had multiple—and gave him a sharp nod before he pushed the hover trolley down the corridor again. The door to Luke's grand quarters hissed shut.
Luke took a seat on one of the futons in the room adjacent to his sleeping quarters and made to tug on his boots.
"What time are we estimated to be leaving?" he asked Mara.
She gave him an unimpressed look. "Now. Tarkin and His Majesty want you to settle into your quarters on the Sovereign II before we jump to hyperspace, so we're heading up now."
Luke smiled. tried to, at least: he failed, but he did manage a diplomatic twist of the lips. "Lead the way, then."
There was an officer waiting for them when the shuttle set down in the belly of the Star Destroyer, and Luke watched his young face crease with confusion when he saw someone as small and unassuming as Luke stride out, accompanied by two clearly heavily armed bodyguards. He expected he looked even more pathetic in context: Han looked rugged enough to be experienced, Mara's death glare was a force to be reckoned with; between them, he looked like a thin ray of sunlight clad in black, bruised with sleeplessness.
"My lord," the ensign greeted nervously, and Luke tried not to wince at the address. That wasn't him. "I have been instructed by Grand Moff Tarkin to escort you to the bridge and your quarters—"
"Very well," Luke cut him off, "to the quarters, then."
The ensign paused, horrified. "My lord—"
"Sir will do."
"Yes, m— yes, sir. I was instructed to take you to—"
"The bridge and my quarters, yes. In that particular order?"
The ensign hesitated.
Luke said, "The quarters. Now."
The ensign scurried away.
Luke let his shoulders slump and followed.
It wasn't too far a walk from the hangar, as far as large Star Destroyers went, though they had to take three turbolifts. When they finally arrived, the ensign handed out the code cylinders he'd had peeking out of his front pocket—one to each of them.
"These are the quarters assigned to you and your entourage, sir," he said, then opened the door.
Luke stepped in, cast a brief glance around, then looked at the ensign. "Leave. Come back in half a standard hour to escort us to the bridge."
Clearly the ensign thought that was too different from his set of orders too, from the way he swallowed, but he nodded dutifully—"Yes, sir"—and turned on his heel. Luke watched him retreat down the corridor, and out of sight.
Then he looked back at Han and Mara. "Let's settle in then, shall we?"
The quarters weren't large by planetary standards, but they were vast by spaceship standards. There was one bedroom for each of them—Luke's, of course, being the largest—and a small study, presumably for Luke once Tarkin had assigned him tasks to fulfil in his. . . new position. There was a communal living space too, with two sofas and a holoscreen and a table, nicely carpeted in a vibrant Imperial grey. Their bags had been dumped on the floor between the sofas.
Han whistled. "This is fancy."
"Try not to feel too out of place," Luke teased quietly, and instantly regretted it when an angry flush crawled up Han's neck.
Han was not Leia, and he was hiding something. He couldn't talk to him like that.
But then Han rubbed the back of his neck and made a sound that was half-scoff, half-laugh. "This is a far cry from Corellia, for sure."
"Oh?" Luke asked, before Han could realise what he'd said and backtrack. "You're from Corellia?"
Han tensed up. Luke saw when Mara noticed it: her green eyes narrowed, head tilting so slightly that the bun her red hair was pulled back into barely shifted.
"Yeah," he said finally, with a small laugh. "Born and raised. Joined the Imperial Army when I was nineteen."
That. . . wasn't a lie. As off as it felt, it wasn't a lie.
"Always dreamed of being a foot soldier?" Luke asked, slight. . . surprise in his voice. He really needed to learn how to control his emotions.
Han did outwardly scoff at that. "Nah. Wanted to be a pilot—"
"You and me both."
"—but got kicked out of the academy for having a mind of my own."
Luke grimaced. "That sounds familiar. I wondered how you'd come so far in Imperial ranks with an attitude like yours."
"Hey, kid, no need to be rude." Han puffed himself up to hide his nervousness.
Luke backtracked, ignoring Mara's gaze on him. "It wasn't intended to be. The Imperial forces need more independent thinkers. People who are willing to use their brains to challenge what they know is wrong," he slowed his voice down, every word pointed, "and change it for the good of the many, rather than let outdated traditions and old men rule the future."
Mara was no longer looking at him.
But Han was.
Luke shrugged, and continued: "And because some rules are just inconvenient for everyone, and they deserve to be broken."
Han whistled. "I think, kid," he said, "we might get along."
Mara snapped, "That's enough."
Luke raised an eyebrow at her but she just stalked forwards, summoning her own pack to hand and tossing his three at him with the Force; he barely caught them in time, letting one hover about his foot.
He ignored Han's stare.
"Let's go unpack, then that ensign will be back to take us to the bridge to report to Tarkin. As we should have already done." She glared. "Skywalker, get on with it."
Luke laughed, and hoisted up his bags. "Yes, ma'am."
Han was still staring between the two of them—the floating bags, mouthing Skywalker when his gaze landed on Luke again.
Just as Luke passed him, he heard him mutter, "Shavit."
Padmé said, "Thank you all for coming on such short notice."
The briefing room was cramped with Rebels and Partisans alike. Leia shifted on her feet, accidentally bumping shoulders with both Erso and Qi'ra on either side of her, shooting them apologetic looks. Jyn only smirked slightly, though Qi'ra nodded reassuringly.
Padmé looked down at the holotable and pressed a button, bringing up a holo of an industrial moon of some insignificant planet. "This is Cymoon One. It's one of the Empire's main sources of raw materials, and their most successful one."
Intrigued, Leia leaned forward. Padmé caught her eye over the head of an Ugnaught leaning in to listen and continued, a faint smile on her face: "We intend it to be the target of our next mission."
"A joint mission?" Jyn called out.
Padmé paused. "If Saw permits it, yes. Another joint operation between the Partisans and the wider Rebellion."
Jyn rested back on her heels, nodding.
"The Empire is building something massive," Padmé continued. "We know about it, have known about it for a few months"—another glance at Leia, another smile—"but now is the first chance we've had to strike at its construction. Cymoon One is having its quotas doubled to keep up with the demand, and once the visiting officials leave the moon, we'll have the means, and the opportunity, to strike."
She pressed a few more buttons and the holo expanded to zoom in on a simulated shuttle approaching a base and landing pad. It landed, and three figures stepped out.
Padmé said, "Our initial strategy is. . ."
"Leia," her mother said, before she could follow everyone else out the door at the end of the briefing. "Wait."
Leia turned dutifully, and held her place on one side of the table. The simulated explosion in the holo kept looping and she found it oddly fascinating to watch: the way the base and factory disintegrated and shattered outwards in fire and stone, over, and over, and over. . .
Her mother moved around the table to lay a cool hand on her shoulder. "Leia?"
She jerked her gaze away. "Right."
"Are you alright?"
Leia swallowed and nodded, ignoring the way her shoulders were bouncing slightly. "Yeah. Of course."
Padmé raised an eyebrow.
"I'm fine."
"Are you sure you want to go on this mission?"
Leia glanced back at the holo—at the base assembling and dissembling itself on loop. Padmé slapped a button and it vanished.
"Leia?"
"I definitely want to go on this mission."
Padmé cocked her head. Hummed, and realised, "You want to stop thinking about—"
"I want to be useful."
"And distracted."
"Useful."
"If you have faith in him, Leia, I have faith in him," Padmé said quietly.
"You're his mother. You should have faith in him anyway. You should know him well enough for that."
Padmé didn't comment on that. Leia was glad; she didn't know what she would've done if she had.
Instead Padmé said: "No lightsaber?"
Leia glanced down at her hip—at the empty ring on her belt missing an accessory. "Yeah. I mean, no. No lightsaber."
"Where is it?"
Leia shrugged. "I destroyed it."
Padmé raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth slightly. "Oh?"
Leia shrugged again. Tilted her chin in a way that was halfway between a nod and a shake of her head. "It was a Sith's lightsaber."
"I see." Padmé didn't press further, but she did say, "Will you need another?"
Leia. . . frowned. "Probably. I don't have Barriss Offee's lightsaber from our attack on the Palace anymore, but if I can find another. . ."
"Barriss Offee?" Padmé looked alarmed. "She was—"
"Yeah. Heard all about her."
Padmé nodded. "I understand." Then, tentatively— "Why can't you build one?"
Leia flexed her right hand—the burns had almost entirely healed from a few days ago, but the tightening of new skin distracted her briefly. "What?"
"Your lightsaber. Couldn't you build it?"
"Probably." Leia frowned. "I've never built a lightsaber before."
"Never?"
Leia said, affronted, "Our lightsabers were badges of honour. We earned them, not built them. Luke and I received them as a gift from F— from Vader," she stumbled, "after we'd finished our training."
"I see," Padmé said.
Leia didn't like that tone of voice. It sounded too much like disappointment. "I can probably build a lightsaber."
Padmé dipped her head. "I wouldn't presume to tell you what to do."
"I could do it."
"I believe you."
They both paused.
"Have you had lunch yet?" Padmé asked abruptly.
Leia shook her head. "No."
Padmé held out a hand. "Would you like to have lunch with me, then?"
Leia hesitated, took her hand and nodded.
The bridge of the Sovereign II was far, far less impressive considering the last Star Destroyer Luke had been on had been the Executor. But it was large, and somewhat impressive when Luke followed the ensign in to the view of dozens of officers working on their terminals, and Tarkin presiding over all of them like some messiah.
"Good," Tarkin said shortly when he saw them. Luke sensed Han's distaste for the man skyrocket, and had to stifle his grin. "You're here."
His irritation was evident. Luke smiled sweetly and faux-eagerly, bringing himself to attention. "At your service, Governor."
"I'd expect you to be."
Luke barely restrained from rolling his eyes. "Is there anything—"
"No. I will give you a brief tour of the important areas of the ship, such as this bridge, my office, other places you will be expected to be familiar with. The rest of the ship you are expected to investigate yourself, or get someone else to show you."
Luke hadn't stopped smiling. "Understood, sir."
Tarkin narrowed his eyes. "I don't appreciate sycophancy."
"I didn't think you would, sir."
Tarkin glared. "I don't appreciate mockery either, or you will be sent straight back to Coruscant."
Luke bit his lip and forced himself to glance at the floor.
Tarkin leaned it to hiss, "I do not trust you yet, no matter what His Majesty may say on your behalf. If I discover that your behaviour is a result of treason rather than sheer childishness, I trust you understand exactly who you will answer to."
Luke opened his mouth to speak, saw the twitch in Tarkin's jaw, the minute raise of his eyebrow. . . then lowered his head. "Understood, Grand Moff."
"I do prefer Governor," Tarkin informed him, but smiled thinly in a very Palpatine-like way. "Now, I'll lead you to the places you ought to familiarise yourself with, as my aide."
His change in tone surprised Luke. The lash and the lure, he thought.
Luke glanced at Mara and Han, both scowling—what at this time, he had no clue—and tilted his head forwards. "We're coming, Governor."
The tour was dull—Luke knew how a Star Destroyer was laid out; was intimately familiar with them—but useful. Not in what Tarkin was saying, but in how he said it.
Tarkin, Luke was starting to think, was far, far more predictable than Palpatine.
After viewing the bridge (in excruciating detail), the secondary bridge, the main hangars, the room Luke had been assigned for exercise and lightsaber skills, they entered his office. It was a drab place, reflective of the typical brutal nature of Eriadu's culture. Looking around the few trinkets Tarkin had from his homeworld—a hunter's pelt of some veermok; a blocky, monochrome painting of a man in military uniform; and a string of medals made of some flinty stone—Luke couldn't help but grimace. Rather than making Tarkin seem like more of a living, breathing human being, they just made him seem like less of one.
Tarkin pulled out his heavy, unnecessarily large chair from behind his desk and sat in it. "This is my office."
Luke could see that.
"This"—he slammed his hand down on a stack of datapads to the right of his desk—"is where I expect you to put your reports. If you need to speak to me directly, do so, but do not interrupt."
"Yes, sir."
"Now—"
The comm on the desk began to blink. Tarkin curled his lip, glanced down at the caller ID—
And his lip uncurled.
"Out," he ordered immediately. "Daklan will show you the rest; I must take this. Return in one standard hour."
Luke wasn't about to put up a fight about being allowed to leave Tarkin's presence. "Yes, Governor."
They did return one hour later. Luke knocked tentatively at the door, then pushed it open at the sharp "Come in," that sounded immediately.
When Tarkin looked up at him, he was smiling.
Luke did not like that at all.
Tarkin lay the datapad he was holding flat on the table and gestured to the seat opposite his desk. "Sit down, boy. We have new orders."
"New orders, sir?" Luke asked, though he did as he was bid without questioning it.
"Yes." That unnerving smile widened as he pressed a button on the side of the datapad and a holo flickered up. A holo of a spherical object, with a dish in the side. . .
"I see you recognise it," Tarkin said. "As I'm sure you remember from the Empire Day unveiling at Kuat, Project Stardust is under my jurisdiction—once it is complete, I will be taking control of it on the Emperor's behalf."
Luke had to wrestle his face into indifference. Tarkin?
Tarkin was going to have control of that. . . thing?
It— it made sense. But. . .
Tarkin?
The Rebellion needed to destroy it.
Tarkin, a kriffing sadist, could not be given access to a weapon with the firepower to destroy entire planets—
But nor could Palpatine. Nor could anyone.
But they would.
Which meant. . .
"The purpose of this trip we are undertaking through hyperspace this very moment is to visit Cymoon One the site of—"
"The Empire greatest producer of industrial materials, I know."
Tarkin narrowed his eyes. "I said," he bit out haughtily, "not to interrupt me."
Luke swallowed. "My. . . apologies, sir."
"Nevertheless, you are correct," Tarkin continued. "It is a vital source of resources. Their quotas have doubled in the months since Kuat, as the Emperor has ordered an acceleration on Project Stardust—an acceleration which its director has failed to meet, but that is irrelevant for the moment—and Director Vilrein has proven incapable of keeping up. Our original plan was to visit there and. . . motivate her workers."
Luke swallowed again. "I see." A look. "Sir."
"However," Tarkin continued, "I have just received word from the Emperor himself that Amidala is planning an attack on Cymoon shortly after we arrive."
A moment, then Luke dared, "So. . . are we going there to stop them, sir?"
"No." Tarkin twisted his lips. "His Majesty has stated that he would prefer two of his most useful servants merely shore up the defences and leave behind additional troops to defend the base, then remove themselves from the fighting."
"I see, sir."
"But," Tarkin added, "he specified that your sister is confirmed to be one of the Rebels participating in the attack."
Luke stiffed. Leia—
—the ruined husk of a moon gutted by Imperial industrialisation, Leia glaring at him and screaming, running straight for him with her crimson lightsaber alight and hungry, leaping to bring it crashing down against his—
"And also said that if you wished to prove your loyalty by capturing or killing dear Leia in the name of the Empire, he gives his permission for you to stay behind for the battle."
Luke worked his throat.
This was his chance.
He could pretend to be loyal. Sneak down to the moon and stay behind, without Palpatine's watchdog breathing over his neck. And when Leia came at him with a lightsaber, he could talk her around and beg her forgiveness, and they could escape together—
No.
No. He'd seen the vision. He didn't think it was literal, but it was a warning: if he tried to escape now, something would go wrong.
Something would be missing.
Something to do with Leia. . .
His gaze slid around the room, until it rested on the still-lit holo of the Death Star, hovering like an innocuous moon in its own right.
He took in a breath.
There was no way of knowing what the vision meant, exactly. Why he'd grasped it so quickly, and briefly. So he wouldn't make his decision on that.
He'd make his decision on something else.
Namely: the fact that the Death Star was in the hands of a monster, and he needed to find a way to send both those abominations to an early grave.
"I am grateful that my Emperor is so thoughtful and generous," he said. "But his permission is not his blessing, and I live to serve him. If he prefers that I survive to serve him another day, rather than risk my life and my usefulness to a fool's errand which may well turn lethal, I will honour his wishes above all else."
Tarkin raised his eyebrows. "Well said, boy. I will convey to the Emperor your graciousness." He waved a lazy hand. "Now go. I have no further use for you today."
Luke inclined his head, and made to leave the room.
Han and Mara were waiting for him outside. Han's tension was a klaxon in the Force.
"You really need to learn how to shield yourself," Luke snapped, marching down the corridor much faster than necessary. Han swore as he jogged to catch up.
"I need to what—?"
"Shield yourself. Your distaste and irritation and nervousness is making my head hurt."
"Well I didn't realise I was going to work for some kriffing space wizard— and hey, who said I was nervous?"
"I did. I can sense it."
"Well—"
"I'll teach him to shield," Mara interrupted when they finally paused in front of their quarters. Luke fished the code cylinder out of his pocket and opened the door, walking in. "If it's so important to you."
"Of course it is. Can you not sense it?"
"Yes, but not strongly." Mara paused outside of the door to her bedroom. "I'm not part of the oh-so-powerful bloodline you supposedly belong to, Skywalker."
Luke snapped his mouth shut at that.
Then he looked at Han's face and laughed.
"No, I'll teach him," he decided. "Force forbid anyone has to suffer through your brutal teaching techniques."
The only response he got was a slammed door.
Luke collapsed onto the sofa.
"Kid." He cracked an eye open to see Han stare down at him. "Who says I wanna learn in the first place?"
"No one. But you have to." Luke slid his eyes shut again. "I don't know how you got to this position, Han Solo, whether it be bribery, fake scandocs or sheer accident, but I suspect it wasn't standard or legal."
Han tensed up.
"Don't panic; I don't care. I just know that you're here now, you're in the Imperial sphere, in the company of. . ." His lips twitched. "Space wizards, and you're at a disadvantage if you can't shield."
Han folded his arms across his chest. "And what does shielding involve, exactly?"
"Blocking off your thoughts. Erecting a wall, so people can't peer in," Luke sifted through briefly, "and tell you that Solo wasn't the name you were born with, but a random one some Imperial recruitment officer gave you to put on the form."
"Hey!" Han's hand jumped up to his head. "Stop that!"
"I have. Others won't." Luke opened his eyes fully and sat forwards, staring up at Han. "But if you learn how to shield, they won't have a choice."
Han paused.
Luke coaxed, "I can teach you now, if you want."
Han narrowed his eyes, flexed his hands. . . But nodded.
"Alright," he said. "Let's give this a shot."
It wasn't until hours later, physically and mentally exhausted, that Luke stumbled into bed. Memories rang in his mind—he wasn't sure if they were Han's, Leia's, or his own.
Leia. . .
"Ben?" he whispered. The old man was silent. "Ben?"
He closed his eyes. A tear worked its way out through his lashes to trickle down the side of his face, wetting the pillow by his ear.
"Ben?" he tried again. "Leia. Tell me about Leia."
Leia, who was going to attack Cymoon-1 once they'd left.
Leia, who Tarkin would be laying a trap for while they were there.
"Tell me—" He choked up. "Tell me she's alright. That she will be alright. Please."
There was still no reply.
Luke stopped pleading, but lay there in the dark, listening, for a long time after.