notes: My second beta is back from her hiatus - but I ended up changing quite a bit since she read through it, so if you see any problems, assume they're my fault. In fact, blame the entire chapter on me. (sansa and absynthe both say they think the chapter good, but I have my doubts...lol. I've spent way too long staring at it and fiddling with it though and I am ready for it to be Done and Gone. Hopefully it doesn't suck too much...)

Anyway, I hope you can enjoy it.


CHAPTER 2

A month passed, then two. The pain of losing Leia and the house by the lake lessened gradually, fading from a sharp, stabbing pain of grief to a dull ache whenever Luke thought about it. He thought he would never quite forget Leia's smile, or the way she laughed, or the fire that seemed to brim over in every thought and action—though as the days and weeks wore on, his image of her began to blur and fade.

He was wrong.

After a month, he tried to draw her. No matter how many times he tried, however, he was never quite able to capture her image. He was not sure if that was because he didn't remember her well enough, or if it was because she was simply hard to draw. Regardless, all he did was waste paper—for which he earned a lecture from Uncle Owen.

So he put his charcoal pencil down, and went back to conjuring to mind her face every night before he fell asleep, hoping against hope that that would be the night he would find his way back to the house by the lake and her.

After the seventh week bled into the eighth, however, he realized that he could barely remember the outline of her face—could only remember her brown eyes and dark hair. What had her mouth looked like? Her nose? Had her chin been pointed or round? Were her cheeks plump or gaunt?

Meanwhile he worked harder than he ever had in his life. He threw himself into his chores and the tasks that Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru set for him, wanting desperately to drive the pain out of his chest, his heart, his lungs. When he was working, he was able to forget for a little while the pain of parting.

"You're working harder than usual," his uncle commented one afternoon on their way home from the fields.

Luke just shrugged. "I guess," he said.

Uncle Owen hesitated, then added, "Your aunt and I have been worried about you. You've seemed down."

Luke thought about what to tell him. He wondered what his uncle would say if he talked about missing his friend from his dreams. That he was being a silly little boy, probably—because people in dreams weren't real.

But Leia had been. Old Ben had all but said so. Somehow, though, Luke didn't think Uncle Owen would take it well if he told him that he knew Leia was real because he could sense Old Ben's lies.

So all Luke did was shrug and say, "I've had a lot on my mind."

Uncle Owen grunted, but did not say that Luke was too young to have a lot on his mind, and did not try to pry deeper. He simply gunned the landspeeder, and left Luke to his thoughts, for which Luke was grateful.

He told Biggs about her one day, when the two of them were hanging out on the hood of Luke's landspeeder. Biggs had bought both of them drinks, and they were sipping the fizzy refreshments slowly as they sat on the warm metal of the hood, looking up at the faint wisps of cloud that were forming.

"She was the best friend you could ask for," Luke said, oblivious to the flash of hurt that crossed Biggs's face. "She was smart, and brave, and kind, and she knew exactly what to do to cheer me up. She and I played all sorts of games, like tag, and hide-and-seek, and bounty hunters and Imperials. And she had these dark eyes that seemed to burn when she'd look at you, and long, dark hair that she always wore in braids."

"Sounds like you had a bit of a crush," Biggs said, taking another sip of his drink.

Luke laughed. "No," he said, completely honestly. "She was just a friend. She...she was like the sister I always wished I had."

As the second month turned into the third, Luke began to grow restless. There was an itch in his mind and in his heart that he couldn't seem to scratch—an itch that whispered of something forgotten that needed remembering, of something lost that needed to be regained. Luke hunted for an answer, looking for it in his work and in his friends, his family, his home. Nothing he did, however—and nowhere he looked—seemed to be right. He could never find the answer he was looking for.

The worst times were when he was on the verge of sleep or on the cusp of wakefulness. In those moments, it was like he could almost reach out and touch what it was he had lost or forgotten—could almost grasp what it was he was meant to find. It lurked on the edge of his awareness, whispering and begging to be caught, remembered, found. But then, just as he was about to seize it, or find it, or remember it, it would vanish as readily as smoke into thin air, leaving Luke irked and desperate.

Then, one day as he was out in the south field working on a vaporator with Uncle Owen, Luke felt it. His hands were buried in the guts of the vaporator, his mind and will bent on ordering the circuitry, when he noticed a small grain of sand nestled between his thoughts. It was bright, all at once gold and silver and turquoise like the desert sky, and it pulsed in time with his heart, drawing strength from the coursing of his blood, the marrow thick in his bones, the attention fixed on something he knew and loved.

He poked it, prodded at it. It pulsed again, brighter this time, and as his hands stilled and his thoughts contracted around the single grain of sand, it seemed to whisper to him.

I'm here, it said, voice soft and sweet like spring rain. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here...

And he knew, with a rush of satisfaction, relief, and hope cascading through him: This was what he had been searching for. This was what he had needed to find. This was what he had been trying to catch. This tiny little ball of light that he didn't even really understand—didn't understand how it could exist, or where it existed, or what it was meant to be—was what he had needed.

That night, as he lay in bed and looked at the ceiling, he prodded at it again. It had come and gone all day, fading in and out of obscurity, one moment glimmering with light, the next dark as space.

It was there now, though, glinting between his thoughts, alluring and tempting. Luke poked at it, felt it, tasted it. It was warm and bright, and it held the promise of words he could not quite make out. It seemed to whisper, but what it said he could not say.

He fell asleep like that, wondering what it was he had found.

It was there the next day, and the next. Luke continued to try to investigate it—prodding at it with thought and invisible fingers, trying to get it to respond. All it did was whisper its unintelligible words and glow, brighter and brighter, warmer and warmer, until it reminded Luke of a star. It was not a threat, though. Of that Luke was certain. It was a part of him, just like an arm or a leg, and could do no more damage to him than either of those.

By the end of the week, Luke was accustomed to its presence. It was a comfort to him, in a way he could not describe. Whenever he was bored or lonely, or was missing Leia and the house by the lake, he would sink deep into his thoughts and seek out the bright grain of sand. For a reason he did not fully comprehend, doing so made him less lonely—made him miss Leia and the house by the lake a little less.

It began to grow, as the first week ended and the second began. Luke noticed it first at dinner one evening. His aunt and uncle were discussing repair costs of the dead vaporators in the southern field, and Luke was bored. He sank into his thoughts, seeking out the ball of light—only to find that it was no longer tiny as a grain of sand, but was the size of coarse salt. Startled, he blinked and cut his connection with it.

He was back that night, however. He circled it, his thoughts surrounding it, his attention focused on it. It was even larger than it had been at dinner—though barely. Luke reached out and touched it, a formless spear of thought brushing across its surface.

I'm here, it whispered.

Its voice was Leia's voice.

A rush of power coursed through him, accompanying the voice. It burned through him like fire, igniting his blood and crackling like electricity through the marrow of his bones. It yearned, and longed, and desired something Luke could not name—could not fathom, though it seemed just on the edge of his understanding.

Luke jerked back as if burned, wrenching his thoughts away from the ball of light that now burned with the light of a sun. His heart thundered in his ribs, choking him and making it hard for him to breathe.

Slowly, his heart rate slowed and Luke relaxed. The power was gone from him—the burning fire quenched, the electricity vanquished—leaving him alone and cold in its wake.

Very suddenly he wasn't sure which was worse: the rush of power, or the emptiness left behind after it.

He drifted off to sleep that night cradling the grain of salt—but not touching it. He dared not touch it again. Not now; not yet.

Even though he did not touch it, however, the light called to him, siren-sweet and alluring. He tried to forget it—tried to push it out of his mind, or at least to forget it long enough to fall asleep. But no matter how hard he tried he could not make himself do so.

The secret, though—one hidden even from him, at least for the moment—was that he didn't want to forget or push it out of his mind..

The next morning Luke woke early. He climbed out of bed and dressed in the darkness of his room, then made his way out to the garage. He clambered up onto the roof and lay back, watching the grey of predawn fade to violet, to rose, to cerulean as the first sun rose.

Carefully, warily, drawn by intrigue and a morbid desire to feel again the rush of power, even though it had so terrified him, Luke prodded the grain of light buried in his mind. He nudged it with formless fingers, poked around it with a spear of thought. It pulsed and grew, and it felt to Luke as if his thoughts sank into it, the grain of light absorbing them and drawing him in.

For a long second he fought it. He was Luke, and he was laying on the roof of the garage, watching the suns rise. He was not part of the grain of light, it was part of him. He was himself, an individual alone, not beholden to this thing that grew and shone in him.

I'm here, Leia's voice said again, and with it came a heady, exhilarating rush of power.

He was afraid, but this time he didn't immediately sever the connection. Leia was on the other side of it—and that made the fear and the terrifying rush of power worth it. Right? If it meant meeting her again, anything was worth it. Wasn't it?

Luke let himself go.

He opened his eyes to darkness—a darkness so complete it was almost tangible. It was not the darkness of night, or even the darkness of Luke's room when his aunt closed the door, for light crept in through the cracks in the frame and his chrono shone a red glow over his bed. Rather it was the very antithesis of light—the complete absence of it.

"Hello?" he called—but his voice did not disturb the air. It was silent, echoless and substanceless, empty and void.

He felt startlement, then fear, though it came not from him.

Then, aloud, someone said, "Hello? Who...who's there?"

He knew that voice.

"Leia?" he asked, again with a soundless voice.

A brief pause, of amazement and wonder—of hope. Luke could taste it, as readily as if he felt it himself—though he knew it did not come from him, even if he could feel it swelling in his breast and in his bones. It came from the other person—from Leia—the emotions tainted with the very essence of her, which Luke could now feel: bright blue and deepest violet, like desert sky and towering mountains; fire, warm and bright and red, gold, orange; the sharp bite of stubbornness borne of hard times and harder lessons; darkness, creeping and secretive, crawling at the very edges of her bright light, trying and failing to sink claws into her heart, which he could feel beating in his chest.

"Luke." His name was a breathless sonata on her tongue, falling from her lips and tongue like dew. "Luke, I...I thought you were gone forever."

"I did too," Luke said. "Thought you were gone forever, I mean."

"What happened?" Leia asked. "Why did you leave me?"

"Old Ben," Luke tried to explain. An image of the man came to Luke's mind, and he felt it slide into Leia's as well, fully formed and realized. "He came, and he talked about severing the connection. And he did something to me. And then I stopped dreaming about you."

"How is this even possible?" Leia asked to the darkness.

"I don't know," Luke said. "There was this little...grain. Of light. I touched it, and fell into it, and found myself here, with you. I can't see anything, though."

"There's nothing to see," Leia said. "I'm in a dark room."

"What happened?" Luke asked.

"They got sick and tired of me. They called me a worthless brat, said I was untrainable, and threw me in here."

"Who did that?" Luke asked, anger burning through him, igniting his thoughts to red and gold and bruised violet.

He felt Leia shudder at that, recoil away from him. Luke fought to bridle the anger, forcing it to bleed out of his thoughts and out of his heart. He did not want to frighten her—did not want to even make her uncomfortable.

"I can still feel your anger," Leia said softly. "I can...I can feel all of you, almost. All of your thoughts, your emotions, like they're in my head."

Luke sighed, and felt himself sink deeper into Leia's mind. He saw flashes, bright and fast: blood on flowers, the men and women from his nightmares, a tall man he hadn't dreamed of with yellow eyes and red markings on his forehead and cheeks, the doctor. He felt emotions: hope, and joy, and beneath it all a deep, abounding sense of loss and bereavement, sorrow.

They abandoned me, a soft voice whispered when Luke focused on the sorrow, the words as much sinking into his heart from the deep, weeping wound as spoken. They didn't want me.

No one wants me.

"I want you," Luke said without thinking.

Silence. Then, softly, Leia said, "Really?"

"I came for you, didn't I?" Luke asked. And he showed her the grain of light that he had found in his mind, the voice whispering to him from it—Leia's voice—and the moment he gave in and sank into it, choosing her voice above his fear.

A beat. Then, "Yes, you did."

"I'll always come for you."

The promise felt brash and brazen, half-dared and half-known. It bubbled up in him, bursting forth before he could question it—its truth, its wisdom, its understanding. But as soon as he uttered it, he felt its truth in his bones and in his blood, sunk deep within his soul.

He was bound to her, just as Old Ben had said.

Luke remembered playing with her in the house by the lake, remembered learning to swim in the shallows, remembered the final day on the island's beach when they had stared up at the stars. He remembered her voice whispering to him from the grain of light. He remembered the thrill of amazement, wonder, and hope he had felt from her the moment he had spoken into her mind.

He remembered all of that—and he knew, deep within himself, that he had found something in Leia that he had never realized he was missing.

She was a part of him. He was a part of her. And there was no going back from that.

"I'll always come for you," Luke said, and he meant it.

"Luke?" a voice called. "Luke!"

He opened his eyes to bright blue sky. The first sun had risen, and the second was peering above the horizon. The metal of the garage's roof was warm beneath his back, and Luke knew he would be pink from sunburn by the afternoon.

Luke sat up and looked over the edge. Aunt Beru stood there, shading her eyes with a hand as she looked up. She smiled when she saw him, and said, "Come on down. It's time for breakfast."

"Okay," Luke said, and slid down off the roof.

The grain of light in Luke's mind pulsed and whispered. Luke listened with half an untrained ear, clumsily feeling the connection that had not waned between him and Leia, even after he had pulled out of her mind and back into his own. It was still there, still strong, still pulsing with untapped power and knowing.

"I'll be back," Luke whispered aloud, and hoped Leia could hear it.

Then he went inside to breakfast.

~oOo~

Leia lay on the floor and sobbed. The warmth and light—the hope—she had felt when she had heard Luke's voice was gone as surely as daylight at dusk, only the faintest echoes of it remaining on the edges of her mind and soul.

She was in a completely dark room, the ceiling high and the walls long and narrow. The door was at the head of the room, the back of it eight steps away. It was only three steps side-to-side, however—Leia could reach both walls at the same time when she was laying on the floor—leaving her feeling cramped and claustrophobic.

It felt like forever since the Grand Inquisitor had come into the white cell and released her hands from the chain. He had grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out of the room, over Malothar's and Thirteenth Sister's corpses, Leia bent half-double and stumbling after him. He had taken her down the hall, nearly to the lift, then turned and opened a metal door set deep into the wall. "You a worthless brat," he had said. "Untrainable, and worthless." He had given her a shove, sending her tumbling to the permacrete ground, and slammed the door shut, leaving her in total darkness. Her hands smarting, she had lunged to her feet and ran toward the door—only to slam into it face-first. She had fallen back, blood trickling from a quickly swelling nose, and she had banged her fists against the door.

"Let me out," she had screamed. "Please, let me out!"

No one had come.

It had taken what Leia guessed was three days—though she had no real way of knowing, besides the infrequent trays of food and water that were slid through a grate beneath the door—for the hallucinations to start. What had begun as dots and lines of color had turned into thrantas and pittens, into men and women Leia had known.

She saw Sabé, and Malothar, and Seltha, her nursemaid. Seltha had been killed after Malothar; it was after her death that Leia had been brought to the dark room. She saw Rebécca, and the burned and charred faces of those who had died in the apartment trying to stop Twelfth Brother. She saw, again and again, her father standing up from a bed of glass and bloodied flowers, his body misshapen and eyes hollow, mouth filled with maggots when he opened it to speak to her.

She saw many things—many bright and beautiful things, as well as horrifying. She saw fairies and angels, ghouls and demons. She saw the Palace of Alderaan, and the Imperial Palace. She saw Aldera, and the river of lava from her nightmares.

She saw Shmi lashed to a wooden cross, blood on her face and her clothes half-torn from her body. She saw a beautiful, dark-haired woman lying in a hearse drawn by a team of horse-like creatures; the woman was pregnant. She saw again the two men on the lava's riverbank, one of them standing above the other, weeping while the man below him burned.

She saw her father now, body broken and blood on his robes, standing in the corner of her vision. His eyes were empty and dead, his flesh beginning to slough away from his bones as it rotted. He did not speak—merely stood there and watched her.

"Luke," she said through her sobs, curling into the fetal position, arms over her head. "Luke, don't go," she begged.

But only silence answered her.

Had Luke really been there? Had he really been in her head? It had seemed like it—but the more she thought about it, the more Leia realized that what she thought had happened was impossible. People couldn't speak to other people in their heads, could they?

They could if he was imaginary, a sinister voice whispered to her from the depths of her heart where her fear and doubt dwelled. If you're just making him up, of course he could talk in your mind.

"No," Leia whispered to the air. "No, he's real. He's real."

Is he, though? the voice asked.

"Yes. Yes he is. He...he has to be."

She didn't think she could bear it if he wasn't—if he was only a product of her desperate imagination.

But how can I know for sure?

"I can't," Leia said aloud in answer to her own question. "But I can decide to trust myself. I can decide for myself if he's real."

That's not how it works, the snide voice said.

Leia gritted her teeth and snarled, "It can be."

The snide voice retreated then and fell silent.

Her father looked on, half of his face now rotted away, leaving only bare bone and one empty eye socket staring at her.

She thought back over their conversation. Luke had talked about a grain of light buried in his thoughts—a grain he had fallen into. Maybe—maybe there was a grain of light in her mind, just like his.

She closed her eyes, though there was no change in light. Taking a deep breath, Leia fought down the frantic beating of her heart, the clench of her stomach, the small tremors wracking her bones and body.

Calm down, she ordered herself. There's nothing to be afraid of in here. They're just hallucinations. No one is going to hurt you.

That was the one good thing about being in here, Leia had decided after the first hour had crawled by. No one was hurting her. She was alone, and though she was cold and the floor was hard, the darkness was soothing, comforting, embalming. It hadn't been at first—at first it had been terrifying, hiding all sorts of nightmares that she couldn't see—but by the end of the first day it had become her companion, her confidant, her friend.

Not like the hallucinations that had followed.

Slowly, her heart rate, which had been elevated ever since she had first heard Luke's voice, settled. Her stomach unclenched, and the tremors eased.

Think, Leia told herself. Find that grain of light.

She tried for hours—or, at least, what felt like hours. She dug through her thoughts, pulling them out one by one, stringing them up piece by piece and thread by thread. She rooted around between them, searching along the avenues of her mind and down the alleys of her emotions. She found only darkness, confusion, horror, despair, and sorrow.

No golden grain of light.

The grate on the bottom of the door slid open and the tray of food that Leia was given once a day slid through. Leia lunged for it before the grate could close, fingers wrapping around the wooden cup of water before her light, faint as it was, was gone. She had learned very quickly that, if she did not get it while she could see, she was more likely than not to knock it over, spilling what precious little water she was given.

She gulped the water down. It tasted metallic and thin—a stark contrast to the sweet, heavy taste of the water she had been given while working with the Inquisitors—but it was water all the same, and she was parched. It was cool and soothing as it slid down her throat, and Leia sighed with delight and relief.

Putting the cup down, Leia fumbled for the hunk of bread sitting on the tray. Her fingers brushed over it, and she picked it up. She took a bite, and for a second almost choked—it was dry and heavy, dusty, soaking up all the moisture left in her mouth from the water—but she forced herself to swallow. She took another bite.

Once she was done, Leia settled back down on the floor, lying on her back and couching her head with her clasped hands. She stared up at the ceiling she could not see, and once more thought about Luke and the grain of light he had described.

Do I not have it? she wondered.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. In and out. In and out. In, out…

She stood above the fire of the Force that burned in her blood and bones. It was hidden and quenched, rain falling constantly on the glass and durasteel panes, hissing and sparking with smoke.

Was this the light that Luke had spoken of? Was the light he had found his Force? The Grand Inquisitor had said that the Force looked different to different people. Could she use the Force to contact Luke?

But that would be dangerous. She wasn't supposed to use the Force, and for good reason. She couldn't start playing with it now, even if she did want to talk to Luke again.

No. She would wait for him to contact her again. Shmi had never said anything about Luke using the Force, just her.

She just hoped he would contact her—hoped it hadn't just been a fluke, a happy accident that would never happen again. Even more than that, though, she hoped hearing him hadn't just been a figment of her imagination, a friend conjured by a scared little girl who wanted to find something kind and peaceful in a world that was anything but those things.

Miserable, her eyes puffy from crying and the backs of her hands smeared with snot from trying to dry her nose, Leia curled into a ball and went to sleep. Perhaps things would make more sense when she woke.

"Leia?"

Leia blinked her eyes open, certain she had heard someone call her name.

"Leia, are you there?"

"Luke?" Leia gasped aloud, the hope that had withered in her chest flaring suddenly back to life.

She felt something alien and strange—a presence, bright and shining with an inner light, strong and stolid—slide into her mind, settle between her thoughts. It was familiar, somehow—known, understood, the last piece of a puzzle she had not even known was incomplete.

"I'm here," Luke said, and Leia could tell he was smiling—could feel it in his words and in his thoughts, which were pressed against hers, smooth like glass and warm like fire. "I came back as soon as I could, but Uncle Owen wanted help with a really stubborn vaporator, so I had to eat lunch while working."

"Where are you now?" Leia asked.

"On the roof of the garage," Luke said, and Leia caught a glimpse, as if through a window, of a sky turning to dusty orange and brilliant red.

"Did you just send me a picture?" Leia asked. "Was that sky what you're seeing?"

"It worked!" Luke exclaimed, excited. "I figured since I can put my thoughts in your head, why not put a picture?"

Leia smiled. It felt strange and uncomfortable, her cheek muscles stiff. "It did work."

"You're smiling," Luke said. It was not a question.

"How did you know?" Leia asked.

"I don't know," Luke said. "I just...could feel it."

Leia curled into a tighter ball, fighting a shiver. "I'm cold," she said softly—to Luke, to the cold, to no one.

"I wish I could help you," Luke said.

Leia felt as the thought came to him—could feel it like a flower blooming in her mind, pressing against her own thoughts, expanding to fill the spaces between.

"I was able to send you a picture," Luke said. "Maybe I can send you a feeling!"

He concentrated. Leia felt the alien thing in her mind contract, harden, turn from brilliant light to hard, grey iron. It was solid and firm, but still shone with an inner glow.

"Here," Luke said. "Can you feel this?"

"Feel what?" Leia asked.

And then she felt it: a snaking warmth beginning in her head and trickling down her neck and into her shoulders. It pooled in her stomach, liquid heat, bright and hot. Her limbs remained cold, but she was warmer than she had been in a long time.

"How did you do that?" she asked Luke.

"I thought about how I sent you the picture. Then I pictured the head from the roof sinking into me, and through the grain of light I told you about."

"It feels like I stepped into a warm shower," Leia admitted.

"You've been in a real water shower?" Luke gasped.

Leia laughed. The sound surprised her; she hadn't laughed aloud since her father had died. That thought sobered her, and as always happened when she thought about her father, she felt a rush of pain and sorrow overwhelm her.

"Leia?" Luke asked. "Are you okay?"

Leia thought of flowers, and blood, and glass glittering like a halo beneath his head.

It could have been beautiful, she thought, in a strange sort of way.

"The flowers?" Luke asked. "Is that what you mean by beautiful?"

Shocked, Leia asked aloud, "Did you just read my thoughts?"

"I don't know," Luke admitted. "But it was like I heard you say something to me, but in my head. Not like I was hearing it with my ears—well, with your ears, I guess."

"Can...can you hear me?" Leia asked silently.

"Yeah," Luke said. "I can.

"Leia?" Luke asked then. "Who...who died?"

Leia was silent for a long moment. Finally she told Luke softly, "My father."

An assortment of memories flashed through Leia's mind. Her father picking her up and placing her on his hip; her father dancing with her standing on his toes; her father telling her to pick up her toys, "Or so help the Mother, Leia, you will be grounded for a week"; her father kissing her goodnight and turning off the lamp by her bedside; her father laughing.

She knew—knew—Luke had seen them all.

"He seemed really amazing," Luke said softly.

"He...he was," Leia replied. "He really was."

"I wish I could have met him," Luke said.

"I do too. I think he would have liked you."

Once again, Leia could feel Luke's smile. "I hope so. Will you tell me more about him?"

Again Leia paused. But then she said quietly, "What do you want to know?"

~oOo~

Darth Vader was both tired and irritated.

It had been a year since he had been home to Coruscant. The Emperor had kept him busy, sending him from Mid Rim planet to Outer Rim planet to hunt a Jedi that was supposedly living out in the backwater dredges of the galaxy—but secretly, Vader suspected that the Jedi was nothing more than a rumor planted by Palpatine himself to keep Vader busy. The Emperor did not want him at the Palace for some reason—Vader just didn't know why, though he had his suspicions. All of them were related to Leia Organa.

Thus his irritation.

It had been a long and grueling year. He'd gone for days without sleep, and weeks without rest, chasing the ghost of the Jedi that he didn't think existed. The Jedi's trail had led him through some of the worst and seediest places of the galaxy, into and amidst the worst sorts of crowds. He did not know how many smugglers he had tortured, how many slavers he had killed when they did not give him the information he wanted.

"The Bane of the Underworld," he had heard himself called in the later months. And "The Black Death". He reveled in those names, found them a ray of light in the darkness of his fruitless hunt.

At last, however, the Emperor had called him home. "I have a task for you on Coruscant," he had said in his message to Vader. "The Senate is about to commence, and I want you here to bring them to heel."

It was a task Vader was not looking forward to—dealing with politicians was just as exhausting as the most intense day of the chase—but he was glad to be on Coruscant, and away from the futile hunt for the ghost of the Jedi. He had grown sick of the pointless mission, and of the lengths to which he was driven to search for him, after the first two months.

He finished uploading his files to the Imperial database and rose from the chair behind his desk. For a moment he stood at the windows, looking up at the lights arrayed against the night sky. Then he turned and strode out of his office.

He remembered the last time he had been in his office. Jak had brought him news of the Force Sensitive Leia. He had gone to see her—and had regretted that decision at once. He could still recall the scream of the Force around him, could remember her piercing eyes that reminded him so much of Her.

But why, he wondered now. Why did they remind me so much of Her? Many people have dark eyes, just as she did. What was special about Leia Organa?

He had no answer to that question. Only the echoes of profound hope and terror he had felt when he had seen her eyes, sharp and burning.

Vader wondered what had happened to her. Jak had sent a report to him every week for twelve of the thirteen months he had been gone. His last report had come five weeks past, and had consisted of only two lines:

They have moved 851. I haven't been able to find where they moved her to.

It seemed she had simply disappeared.

In spite of himself, Vader found himself wondering what had become of her. He had not visited again since that first uncomfortable meeting, but she had remained in his thoughts—and not only because he suspected Palpatine intended to replace him with her, once she was trained. She and her eyes had claimed his thoughts, nearly to obsession. Yet he had not gone back to see her; though he would not admit it, he was afraid to see her eyes again.

But where had she gone?

While he was here on Coruscant, Vader decided, he was going to find her—to keep tabs on her, on the girl who was supposed to take his place as Palpatine's right hand. In a secret, hidden part of him, however—one that still listened to the scream of the Force whirling around him, one that still hoped to believe in the impossible—it was because of her eyes.

She had had Her eyes, though Vader had convinced himself he believed otherwise. He had convinced himself that he believed that her eyes were just the eyes of another sad, frightened little girl. That Her eyes had died with Her and their unborn child. That there was no way for Leia Organa to have Her eyes.

The truth, however, was that he did believe Leia had Her eyes.

Even though that was impossible.


end notes: Thoughts? Comments? Concerns? Did it suck as much as I think it did? Let me know!