notes: Chapter updated 4/22/20


CHAPTER 5

"What the hell was that?" Han Solo demanded as the escape pod door slid shut. Luke lay on the floor between him and Chewie, injured leg bleeding sluggishly from the center of the burn, the edges of the wound black and flaking, the skin bubbled all around it. It was a nasty wound, and would take more than they had onboard the Falcon to treat.

[What was what?], Chewie asked.

"You know very well what I'm talking about," Han snapped, slapping the escape pod release. They blasted out of the escape pod bay and out into the freedom of space, the Imperial hauler fading quickly away. Chewie grumbled something incoherent at Han then turned the escape pod toward the Falcon, sitting squat and dark a few thousand kilometers away, still attached to the wreckage. Frowning, Han relented and clarified, "What did the Kid just do?"

[You should ask him], Chewie said blithely, sending the escape pod spinning as the Imperial hauler realized what was happening and sent a volley of laser blasts toward them.

"He's kind of unconscious, in case you hadn't noticed," Han said, "and I want answers now."

[You ever were impatient], Chewie said. [Waiting will do you some good. Maybe it will help you cool off some].

"Cool off?" Han asked, incensed. "Cool off?! I don't need to cool off. If anything I need to cool on!"

[That made no sense, Cub, and you know it].

"I do not know it," Han groused. The escape pod rattled and rocked as a blast glanced off the starboard fin. "And it made perfect sense."

[You don't do well with other people doing things you can't account for], Chewie went on, as if he hadn't heard Han speak. [You handle the unexpected admirably well—but not if the unexpected is, well, unexpected].

"Now you're the one not making any sense," Han retorted.

Chewie snorted, slowing the escape pod just enough to keep them from scraping along the side of the Falcon. Then he turned the pod, bringing it up and over toward the top hatch—the same one Han and Luke had left out of earlier that day.

[What I mean is this], said Chewie. [You handle surprises well, but not if the surprise is out of your field of experience. When that happens, you have a meltdown. Well, not a meltdown, perhaps], he amended as Han squawked in incense, [but you do not handle it so admirably].

"And you think I should be handling this with calm and composure?" Han asked.

[Yes].

"The Kid just killed twelve people!" Han exclaimed. "Without touching them! He just lifted a hand and bam, they all died! And you want me to just sit back and say "That's fine, that's cool, no big deal"?"

[That is not what I am saying], Chewie said, docking the escape pod. The door hissed open to reveal the top hatch. [What I am saying is that you need to calm down and think rationally, and not go blasting off on a vendetta against Luke. He did just save our lives, as likely as not].

Han sighed, climbing over Luke's inert body to open the hatch. He motioned for Chewie to help him carry Luke down the ladder, which they did in silence. Only once Luke was laid out on the floor of the corridor beneath the ladder did Han say, "Fine, I'll listen to what he has to say. And I'll be kind about it," he promised. "But I'd better get some answers—and answers that satisfy. Or heads will roll, and they won't be mine."

~oOo~

Palpatine woke with a start. He sat up in his luxurious bed, satin sheets pooling around him, the dim light from the sconces on the walls illuminating the rich mahogany furniture and setting the crimson drapes alight with fire. He blinked, wondering what had awoken him—and then he tasted it.

The Force sang with the power of the Skywalkers.

My Chosen, it whispered, crooned, exulted. My Chosen have come to me. At last, at long, long last, they have come…

Had Leia finally snapped? Had she done more than kill the odd man? Had she Fallen—or was she, at least, prepared to Fall? Was the time right and ripe? Was she ready for the plucking?

The Dark Side swelled, the Light Side roared, at odds with one another yet entwined—as always, and yet like never before. Palpatine blinked. The Dark Side drank of the Force, glutting itself and swelling; yet the Light Side of the Force was not diminished or demeaned. It was as strong—nay, stronger—than ever.

What did this mean? What could it mean?

Palpatine laced his fingers together, then propped his back up against the pillows behind him, closing his eyes and allowing his head to sink down. He had a long, sleepless night ahead of him. He had much to think about, and much to ponder—much to plan.

~oOo~

Luke awoke slowly.

The first thing he noticed was the pain. It radiated out from his leg in long, sharp spikes, creeping into his knee and into his ankle until it felt as if his entire leg was on fire. He groaned, rolling his head from side to side as if to escape the pain, and opened his eyes.

Han was staring at him with worry and concern in his eyes. It seemed to Luke, in that haze of pain and—and something else, something that darkened the edges of his eyes and the edges of his thoughts—that the worry and the concern were separate things: that the worry was a living thing, ardent and thrashing in Han's eyes, trying to climb out and smother Luke; that the concern was a latent thing, born of something Luke could not know, could not quantify, could not qualify.

"Hey, Kid," Han said, grinning a half grin.

"Hey," Luke tried to mumble, only to find that his tongue was thick and heavy and did not want to obey his mind's commands.

"Naw, don't speak," said Han. "You've been asleep a long time, and you're doped up pretty heavily."

"Still hurts," Luke said, forcing the words out past the hunk of meat that was his tongue.

Han frowned, then reached forward to pat Luke's shoulder. "'Kay, Kid. Give me a second." He rose and disappeared from Luke's line of sight, only to return a moment later carrying a hypo. He pressed it against Luke's thigh, depressed the trigger, and coldness streamed into Luke's leg. Almost instantly the pain in his leg began to dissipate, morphing into a shadow of what it had been.

"Thanks," Luke mumbled, smiling.

"No problem, Kid," said Han. "Now sleep. I have some questions once you're a bit more coherent—but they can wait. For now." He hesitated, then said, "I wanted to ask you them now, but Chewie said we should wait. So you have him to thank."

Luke nodded against the thin pillow beneath his head, and closed his eyes. "Thanks, Chewie," he slurred. He was asleep in seconds.

When he woke again, it was to dim lights and the hum of the Falcon's engines. He was alone. Sighing and closing his eyes once again, he reached for Leia.

He found walls. Walls upon walls upon walls, the likes of which he had never felt before. It seemed like a maze to him, as he pressed forward and the first wall shattered before him.

"Leia?" he called, worry and concern rising like tentacles into his heart and into his throat. "Leia, what's going on?"

The walls disintegrated, and Leia flung herself into Luke's mind. She was sobbing. She was in pain—a lot of it—but somehow Luke didn't think that was the cause for the tears.

"Leia?" he asked, something new—terror—rising in his throat. "Leia, what happened?"

"They came for me," she whispered.

"Who came for you?" Luke asked when no more was forthcoming.

"Imperial guards."

A chill raced through Luke's blood.

"What did they want?" he asked.

Leia opened her mind, and Luke felt himself drown in her memories.

She awoke slowly, to the taste of metal in her mouth and needles in her hands and feet. She blinked against the harsh lights of her cell, then sat up on her cot, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her shins.

Reaching for Luke, Leia felt only swirling darkness. So he was asleep—asleep or unconscious. Fear sprinted through Leia, from her mind to her stomach, constricting her throat and turning the metal in her mouth to blood. Was he okay? He had been hurt, but why was he unconscious? Had he been hit by a stun blast while she was unconscious? Had he been knocked out? Had the pain stricken him senseless? Or was it something else?

She didn't think he was dead. She would know if he was dead, she was certain. It wouldn't just be darkness on the other side of their bond, it would be emptiness, pain, desolation. So no, he wasn't dead—just unconscious.

Leia swallowed and buried her face in her knees. What was she going to do? She could do nothing to help him; she was helpless here, stuck in this cell while he was out there in trouble. She could do nothing but sit by and watch and listen as he was tortured and tormented. Right?

Or maybe she could help. She had helped with the Tuskens, hadn't she? Perhaps she could do so again. Perhaps—

The door to her cell opened. Two tall guards, dressed all in red from head to toe, stood in the doorway. The one on the right stepped into the small room and motioned for Leia to stand. When she did not obey, he crossed over to her cot, grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her off of it. Then, pushing her forward, he propelled her toward the door and the second Guard.

They passed no one on their journey from Leia's cell to the speeder bay, only duracrete walls and locked doors and lifts. Leia stumbled along between the two Imperial Guards, half running, half staggering as they walked briskly. After only a few minutes of walking, her legs trembled and her breath came in gasps.

At last they reached the speeder bay.

The doctor Leia had met on her first day at the prison was waiting for them, a hypo in his hand. When he saw the Imperial Guards he bowed low, then stepped forward.

"I have what you requested," he said, voice oily, and proffered a hypo in one hand.

The first Imperial Guard motioned with his free hand for the doctor to approach. He did so carefully, keeping a weather eye on the Guards. When he drew near, he pressed the hypo to the side of Leia's neck. It snicked as it released.

Leia felt her muscles go weak. Then darkness swooped in and claimed her vision.

When she woke for a second time, it was to find herself in her old room in the Imperial Palace. It seemed smaller to her now, somehow, the bed more cramped, the dresser shorter, the toilet too low to the ground. She blinked as she sat up, scrubbing a hand across her face, shoving away the cobwebs if unconsciousness, and reached for Luke.

He was still unconscious or asleep. Her fear for him mounted.

She rose on unsteady legs tired from the long trek from cell to speeder bay, weakened further by the sedatives and sickness still coursing through her. She had not thrown up since waking, and she did not feel as if she was about to vomit, but she still felt nauseous and her head pounded. Leia lifted the shirt she wore to reveal the bacta patch sealed over the long cut Vrosha had inflicted upon her. The skin was red tinged with black. It did not look good, and made Leia's belly churn at the sight.

Shoving her shirt back down over her stomach, Leia perused the room that had once been hers. She used the toilet and washed her hands in the sink, then peered into the dresser. Shirts, pants, and underwear were there, as were, to her surprise, bras. She frowned. Those hadn't been there the last time she was in the room. Curious now, she took out one of the shirts and shook it out. It was larger than her old ones had been. Holding it up against her torso, Leia guessed it would fit her just fine.

Suddenly excited, she snatched out a pair of clothes and put them on. She revelled at the feeling of underwear, at the waistband of the pants around her hips. For too long she had worn only a shirt and nothing else.

Sitting back down on the bed, Leia reached again for Luke. Still nothing but darkness—true darkness, not the swirling shapes and eddies of colors that usually accompanied Luke's sleep. Leia grew more and more certain that he was unconscious and not just asleep.

Was he okay? When would he awaken? And when he did awaken, where would he be? Still in Imperial custody? Or would Han and Chewie have figured out a way to escape by then? Would they leave Luke behind, though? Or would they be loyal enough to bring him with them, even though they barely knew him?

The door opened, breaking Leia out of her thoughts. She looked up to see two more Imperial Guards. She had no way of knowing if they were the same Guards as before, as their faces were covered by sloping red masks and there were no tell-tale features on their red armor.

They entered the room and gestured for Leia to rise.

Something dark but glorious rose in Leia. Being here, in this room, in the Palace, brought back to mind her days there when the Inquisitors had sought to train her. She remembered her reticence—remembered her fight, her spunk, her ardor. She remembered resisting them at all costs, and she realized, with a sick jolt, that she had nearly lost that fire. She had been existing, to escape pain and torment but not really fighting. She only ever escaped now: into Luke's mind mostly, but also into her own mind.

She closed her eyes.

I was going to fight the Emperor, she thought. For Papá.

She remembered flowers crowned in dripping blood.

She remembered glass shattering around her father's body.

She remembered the red of Twelfth Brother's lightsaber on dark walls.

She remembered the dead and the dying guards.

Leia took a deep breath.

I have to fight, she thought. I can't stop fighting. I can't. If I do, I'll lose myself to the darkness.

She opened her eyes.

"Go to hell," she told the two Imperial Guards, and remained sitting.

She was expecting them to curse, or to shout, or to come in and smack her into the wall. Instead the two Guards simply walked, slow and purposeful, into the room and seized her by the arms, dragging her to her feet.

When they released her, however, Leia dropped to the ground like a stone. She landed hard, clacking her teeth together, but she did not care. She crossed her arms over her chest, and resisted when the Imperial Guards sought to drag her upright, throwing herself back and down, making her body as heavy as she could. They were forced to hoist her up between them, then carry her kicking and shrieking out of the room and down the hall.

Leia continued to thrash and scream as they carried her through the Palace, drawing askance and concerned looks from those they passed: servants, courtiers, Stormtroopers, slaves, messengers, officers, officials. The Guards ignored them. Leia, however, did not.

"Help me!" she screamed, getting her feet underneath her for just long enough to throw herself against the Guards' hold in a desperate bid to break free. She looked up and locked gazes with a servant hurrying down the corridor with a stack of linens in her arms. "Please, I'm begging you—help me!" Leia said, scrabbling her bare feet against the slick tiles of the floor.

The serving girl averted her eyes, bowing her head and hurrying on.

Leia swallowed and tried again.

This time she beseeched an elderly nobleman, dressed in court finery. "Please," Leia begged, nearly sobbing, "help me."

The nobleman shook his head and hurried past with a worried look at the Imperial Guards.

Such it was with everyone they passed. Leia begged—and the others ignored her, or looked at her with something small and sad but did nothing but hurry past.

At last they reached the doors to the Throne Room. There the Imperial Guards halted, while two more, stationed on either side of the double doors, opened them. Leia at last—at last—fell silent as the large room swallowed her.

The only light in the cavernous room illuminated the dais; the rest of the large room was bathed in darkness, shadows eating the carpet underfoot and the pillars to either side, the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Leia swallowed against it, holding her breath as if, should she inhale, she would drag the darkness into her lungs and make it one with her. It was a silly notion and a sillier thought, but Leia, suddenly terrified, could not seem to stop it.

I've used the Force, she thought, terror rising like bile in her chest, her throat, her mouth. I've purposefully used the Force. I've wanted to use the Force. I've gotten weak, and weaker.

I've Fallen. I've already Fallen. I've failed Shmi. I've failed her every time I've used it. And I've failed her totally. That's why I'm here. I Fell, and now they're taking me to see the Emperor.

Leia began to cry.

The guards reached the foot of the dais and dropped Leia. She crashed to the floor on her knees, and there she stayed, sobbing and shaking and terrified.

From above came the Emperor's voice. "Leave us," he commanded, and to either side of her the Guards bowed, then left. After a long moment of silence punctuated only by Leia's tears and the Emperor's breathing, the grinding groan of the doors swinging shut echoed through the room. Then came the soft boom of the doors latching.

"Why are you crying, child?" the Emperor asked, voice soft and kind.

Leia, shaking, did not answer.

"Why are you crying?" the Emperor asked again. This time his voice was edged in something brittle but hard.

Leia shook her head.

"Tell me," the Emperor demanded, all pretense of kindness gone.

If he doesn't already know, I won't tell him, Leia thought savagely, sniffling and wiping at the tears still coursing down her cheeks.

A first of power closed around her chest and squeezed. Leia gasped, feeling ribs groan, then pop, then snap. She clawed at her chest, forgetting the uselessness of such actions, and twisted where she knelt in a desperate, and futile, attempt to escape the bonds constricting around her. Above her, sitting on his throne, the Emperor laughed.

As suddenly as they had come, the bands disappeared. Leia collapsed to her hands, gasping through the pain and black fog threatening to squeeze away her vision. She was still crying, though now from pain more than terror—though more from despair, still, than pain.

"Stop crying," the Emperor ordered.

Leia did not obey.

"I said, stop crying," the Emperor repeated—and this time there was an edge of persuasive power in his voice that compelled Leia to listen to him, to obey his commands.

She did not.

The Emperor sat back on his throne and steepled his fingers together. "You are not the girl who was brought to me last," he said slowly. "Have they broken you, Leia Skywalker?"

"No," Leia said through her tears, speaking at last.

Yes, Leia thought. I've Fallen—and that's the same thing, isn't it?

The Emperor laughed again. "They have," he said. "I can see it in your eyes and in your soul."

Leia shook her head, but felt defeated.

"Now then," the Emperor said, "concede to being my apprentice, and I will take you away from the pain and torment."

Concede to being his apprentice? Did that mean she still had a choice in the matter? Did that mean she wasn't just consigned to Darkness after all?

The Emperor was not done speaking. "In fact, I'll give you leave to do whatever you like with those who tormented you. You may exact your revenge on Jerrid, and on Vrosha, and on anyone else who ever touched you in that prison."

Leia swallowed, her tears ceasing at last. Have revenge? Make them stop hurting her—make them stop hurting everyone?

"Fall," the Emperor said, "and I will give you the world. It will all be yours for the taking. All you have to do is obey my commands, and there will be no one who can stand in your way." His voice was soft and smooth, slick and sweet. What he said sounded like heaven, compared to the hell that had been her life for the past year and a half. And if she had already Fallen…

But what if she hadn't Fallen? What if she was wrong about that? What if even her purposeful use of the Force wasn't what consigned her to Falling? What if it was the choice to Fall?

But Shmi—but her grandmother—had said that Leia would bring darkness to the galaxy if she used the Force. Hadn't she? Yes, she had. But perhaps it would take more than once or twice wanting to stop someone from hurting her that would do such a thing.

If she had Fallen, the Emperor would know, wouldn't he? He would be able to sense it. He wouldn't be pushing her to Fall. He would be gloating and triumphant.

"Well?" the Emperor asked. "What is your choice? The world, and revenge on those who hurt you? Or more torture and rape?"

Leia opened her mouth. Then closed it again.

I promised I'd fight for Papá, she told herself. And more than that: Luke. He was brightness, he was light. He was kindness and goodness and all that was right in the world. What would he say if she accepted Palpatine's proposal?

He would never forgive her, Leia realized.

She closed her eyes. This time she knew what her refusal would bring her.

"No," she said, as stoutly as she could manage. "No, I won't. I won't be your apprentice. I won't Fall."

The Emperor leaned forward. "No?" he asked.

Leia shook her head. "No," she said again.

The Emperor raised his eyebrows beneath his cowl. "And what," he mused aloud, "gives you the strength to say no to me?"

Leia bit her lip and was silent.

"Not going to answer me?" the Emperor asked.

Leia remained silent.

"So be it," said the Emperor. "Then I will take the knowledge from your mind."

What felt like fingernails and shards of glass dug into Leia's brain. She collapsed onto her back screaming, hands rising to her head to clutch at her temples. The fingernails and shards of glass raked through her thoughts and through her mind, seeking, searching…

No! Leia thought. No, he can't find Luke!

She had to protect him. Palpatine couldn't find out about him, at the cost of Leia's life. If he did, then Luke would face the same life as she did, and Leia could not—would not—allow that to happen.

Tell me, the Emperor shrieked silently into her mind. Tell me what I want to know, and the pain will stop.

Never, Leia retorted, hot and furious, retreating deeper and deeper into her mind with her secret of Luke in tow.

Palpatine battered down wall after wall, causing more and more pain as he did so, until it felt as if Leia's very mind bled—only to find another one as the maze of Leia's mind grew deeper and deeper still.

"So be it," said the Emperor at last, withdrawing. He lifted a hand, righteous fury stamped across his features—and lightning lanced from his fingertips, blue and white and deadly. It struck Leia in the chest, throwing her backwards on the floor. She fetched up against a pillar a dozen feet away, screaming, fire racing up the avenues of her bones, down the avenues of her veins.

Everything went black.

"Mother," Luke breathed, coming out of the memory. "Leia…" He didn't know what else to say.

Then—then it settled in.

On the other side of their bond, Leia shrugged. "It's okay," she said.

"What happened then?" Luke asked.

"I woke up back in the prison, shaved and naked."

Luke settled back onto his pillow. He was tired; living the memory through Leia had been exhausting.

"Go to sleep," Leia said. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Luke slept.

~oOo~

"So, Kid," Han said, "how'd you do it?" He was sitting in the chair beside the cot built into the wall in the Falcon's small infirmary. Luke had been confined to that bed for the last two days, while they made their way to Nal Hutta—or so Chewie had told him, when he had stopped by the night before to bring him supper.

We'll be able to get you patched up there, Chewie said, typing quickly on the datapad he had found on Luke's bunk. No one will ask any questions, and no one will be interested in collecting a small Imperial bounty, since everyone on Nal Hutta has an Imperial bounty on their head in some form or fashion.

"Did you know?" Luke asked.

Did I know what?

"That I have the Force?"

Chewie sighed. I suspected, he typed, though I did not know for sure.

"Did you lie to me when you said my father wasn't the Anakin Skywalker you knew?"

Chewie shook his head. Then he sighed again. I know who your father is, he typed. But for one thing, your aunt and uncle lied to you about who he was.

"Then he was the Anakin Skywalker you knew?"

Chewie took the datapad back, typed again, and handed it back to Luke. That's not what I said, Luke read. What I meant is that it is dangerous for you to know who your father is. Knowing your bloodline would put you at risk—just as much risk as going by the last name "Skywalker" would bring you. Which, speaking of that, you will need to start using another surname.

"Why?" Luke asked.

The name Skywalker is known. Anyone associating you with Anakin Skywalker is dangerous.

"Okay," said Luke. "I'll use a different surname."

Now, Luke looked at Han and asked innocently, "How did I do what?"

Han glared. "Now don't bullshit me," he said. "You know very well what I mean."

Luke just stared at him, blue eyes wide.

"Don't make me say it," Han warned.

"Say what?"

Han huffed, and Luke felt bad. He probably shouldn't wind the man up, especially since Luke's future lay in his hands—but it was easier to play innocent and dumb than to face the truth: that he had used the Force.

Even more than just using the Force, though, it was that he had killed people. He had never killed before, save for the odd womprat in the Wastes and an occasional eopi that he and Biggs found stranded in the desert, half dead from dehydration. Then it had always been in mercy, though, never for the fun of it.

He had killed a man, though. No, not one man—twelve. He had killed twelve men, and it had been as simple as lifting a hand.

How could he live with himself? How could he accept what he had done? How could he go on, knowing that he was a murderer? That he, in a secret and horrible, terrible, despicable part of himself, had enjoyed the feeling of the power that had accompanied the men's deaths?

"How'd you kill those men?" Han asked, and Luke winced. Han grinned, though the motion was mirthless. "I told you not to make me say it."

"I don't know," Luke lied.

Han shook his head. "Bullshit," he said for a second time. "You and I both know you do—and Chewie does too, though he just keeps telling me to ask you."

"Then I can't say," Luke said.

"And why not?" Han asked.

Because the girl I talk to in my head said it would be dangerous, Luke did not say. Instead he said, "Because you don't need to know."

"I'm the captain on this ship," Han snapped, "and you're my crewman. It's kind of important that I know these things."

"What do I say now?" Luke asked Leia.

She was curled in his mind, sore and aching inside and out. Vrosha had finally taken the bacta patch off of her—and Pale Eyes had celebrated by bringing three friends to her cell that night. The three of them had fucked her while Pale Eyes watched, laughing and cheering and urging them on to greater acts of depravity. Leia had kept Luke from seeing the worst of it, but what he had seen had been enough to make him throw up in his mouth.

Something had been different about Leia, though—something in her had changed, since the last time she had been raped. Luke had felt it, even though he had not seen what was happening to her—had felt the rigor with which she fought Pale Eyes and his companions, had felt the strength to her screams, had felt an image: blood on flowers. She had fought with purpose, not just out of fear of pain.

Yes, something was different, though he could not say what.

"Tell him it will put him in danger if he knows," Leia said. "Make it out to be saving him, rather than hiding something from him."

Luke looked at Han, blue eyes wide and innocent, and said, "If I tell you, you'll be in danger. And I don't wanna put you in that position."

"I'm already in that position," Han growled. "If I didn't know better, I'd say what you used was the Force—but that's impossible, because all Force users are the Emperor's henchmen. Aren't they?" He looked suddenly uncertain.

"I couldn't say," Luke said. Then he added, "I just can't tell you, alright?"

"I'll leave you on Nal Hutta."

Luke's eyes grew wide.

"I'll pay you your wages, and get you to a doctor, but then you'll be on your own."

"That's better than telling him the truth," Leia said.

Luke disagreed. There was something about Han, and about Chewbacca. They were kind—even Han, beneath his bluster. Of that, Luke was strangely certain. They hadn't abandoned him to the Imperials; and more than that, Luke could feel it. Just as Leia could sense a lie, Luke could feel what type of men Han and Chewie were. They were kind, and honorable, and decent, which was rare enough in the galaxy, if his aunt and uncle were to be believed.

"I'm going to tell him," Luke said.

"Luke, no," Leia protested—but Luke was already speaking.

"It was the Force," he said, all in a rush. "I can't explain how I escaped the Emperor's notice, because I don't know. But I have the Force—and I can use it, apparently. That was the first time I purposefully used it, and I've never killed anyone before, but if I hadn't we'd be dead, or worse." The need to justify himself, to explain and rationalize away what he had done, was overwhelming. "Chewie knew. That I had the Force, I mean. Or, at least, he suspected."

"How do you have the Force?"

"I don't know," Luke said.

"Well, I have my answers now. Though they weren't the answers I was expecting."

Luke grinned, small and relieved. A part of him he hadn't acknowledged until that moment had been afraid of Han's reaction to the information.

"Get some rest, Kid," Han advised. "We'll be in port early tomorrow morning."

"Okay," Luke said, and settled back.

Han left, dimming the lights as he did so.

"Well that went better than I expected," Leia said.

"I knew it would be fine," said Luke calmly.

"Hm," said Leia.

Luke closed his eyes. "You should get some sleep too," he told her.

"Hm," she said again.

Luke shivered. There was something odd in her voice—something hard. Something old. Something ancient. Something he had never heard in her before.

"Are you okay, Leia?" Luke asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"Something seems...off. Different."

"I feel different," Leia said slowly. "Something happened at the Palace. I...I remembered who I am."

"And who are you?"

"The daughter of a murdered man."

"And that changes something?" Luke asked.

"It changes everything."