The references to the fate of King Lee-Char and Mon Cala are from the Darth Vader: Dark Lord of the Sith comics, and everything else wordbuilding in this chapter I either made up or stole from Wookieepedia.
Despite the fact that he'd squeaked into his room shortly before sunrise the previous night, it was not yet noon when Luke found himself dragging his sorry body out of bed again and hopping on one of his many speeders—not his speeder bike, lest someone recognise it so soon after last night—to go and meet Han at their usual place. He was getting dangerously comfortable navigating the network of Coruscant by now: there were always more routes to take, always side alleys cleared away and blocked up and cleared away again, and by now he had challenged himself to never arrive at his destination by the same route twice.
However, it did mean that it had taken longer for him to arrive than it usually did. And there was already one Han Solo, sans Chewbacca, waiting for him at the shelter. (Nursing a scratched hand and glaring at the street tookas viciously.)
"Han," Luke greeted warmly, hoping that a blinding smile might hide the bags under his eyes. "It's nice to see you. I have—"
"I wish I could say the same." Han raised a belligerent eyebrow, and Luke suddenly registered the... anger he felt in the Force. The betrayal, almost, and he swallowed. "Kid—"
"What's wrong?" Luke climbed out of the speeder and started striding across the dusty, empty room towards him. Was it about that bounty hunter who was on Han's tail again? Had she decided to accelerate her deadline? "If it's even more money troubles, trust me, I've got some stuff here that needs to go to the Rebellion but there's also—"
"You're the Imperial prince!?"
Luke froze. Han's raised voice echoed in the rafters and the large room they were in—what would have been the entrance chamber to the shelter, some individual rooms, all merged together by collapsed walls into one—and he winced at the repetition. Prince, prince, prince.
Then he laughed bitterly. The universe really wasn't being kind to him, at the moment. He supposed it was partly his own fault.
"You saw the announcement? That..."
"I saw the holo. Don't you dare try to pull anything on me, Luke, that was definitely you. You've been lying to me this whole time."
"I haven't been lying," Luke said, vaguely affronted. It was a good way to distract from the official problem here. "You knew that I didn't want you to know who I really was, because it would be a danger to us both. Well, now you know why."
"Because the prince of the Empire is secretly the Rebel thief working to bring them down?"
"I wasn't a prince then," Luke said petulantly. "Barely am now—I'm still..." He sighed. "Nothing's happened yet, and I don't know what's going to happen."
"Well, Your Worship, be sure to let me know when you find out." Luke hated that sarcastic grin on Han's face—hated that title.
"Don't call me that," he grumbled. "Leia—"
"You're both royalty now!"
"Shut up." He ground his teeth. His sister was a princess. He'd never considered how much he'd hate being a prince. "This isn't what I came here for—I'm getting enough of this from Leia and my father. I brought—"
"Your father. That's another thing you never thought to mention." Han shoved his hands so deep into the pockets of his trousers Luke thought they'd be swallowed whole. "Your old man is..."
"Don't."
"...Darth Vader?"Han whistled. "I didn't think he was..."
"Don't!"
"...y'know. Human."
"He's human alright," Luke snapped. "And powerful, and overbearing, and if he ever found out about this..."
Han's eyes widened then, and he seemed to shift, like he hadn't considered that before.
"Y'know, I can't see Vader offering mercy," he said, "for treason."
Luke swallowed. No. Neither could he.
Even if his father loved him, even if he told him time and time again that Luke was his entire galaxy, if he thought Luke had betrayed him...
Neither could he.
"I don't expect it," he said.
"You hate your father that much?"
Luke scoffed a laugh. "I love my father."
Han stared.
Luke shifted where he stood—opened and closed the bag of loot to distract himself. "It's complicated."
"Clearly."
"I love my father!" he burst out. "Okay? He's— he's a good father, and he loves me. But I hate the Empire, I hate everything it does, I hate the Emperor and I hated the academy and I want to make a difference against it. No matter who my father is."
He took a deep breath. "So here. There's a fancy expensive bejewelled jester's cap in there—sell it and it ought to get you a decent chunk of credits. Or keep it; Leia said she thought it would suit you." He tossed the bag over to Han, who caught it and scowled. "And there's a lot of diamonds off a chandelier. Just make sure the datachips and the datapad get to the Rebellion; that's the information we need."
Han still wasn't saying anything. Just staring at Luke.
"Y'know, Vader only started hunting Angel recently. A week and a bit ago. Heard he was in the Outer Rim before that."
Luke turned away, blinking hard. "Yes. On Ryloth."
"You've looked like shavit every time I've seen you since then."
"Yes."
Han looked uncomfortable. "You— you alright, kid?"
"Yeah." Luke squared his shoulders. "I'm fine."
"'Cause you really don't look it—"
"I'm fine."
"I told Chewie to stay behind today while I confronted you 'bout this," Han said. "He's pretty angry about the deception."
"I know, and I'm sorry, but it was necessary—"
"No, no, I understand now, kid. I don't understand why you, of all people in the galaxy would want to be doing this, but I understand the situation you're in 'cause of it." Han grimaced. "Anyway. Chewie's not here right now, so you can't hear it from him too, but believe me when I say that this goes for the both of us."
Something drew Luke's gaze back to Han, then. The dim light and shadows on his face, his intense hazel stare.
"If you ever want out," he said quietly. "If— if you still need to leave. I get now that might be a little hard when your dad's Darth Vader—"
"I love my father. I don't want to leave him."
"You're gonna have to eventually. Even if he never finds out about... Angel," he gestured around at them, hand splayed, "you gotta leave him eventually, junior. That's life." He shrugged. "I'm just saying. We'll take you on when you do, if you want."
"You'll take on the Imperial prince?" Luke said sceptically. He appreciated the sentiment, but... "If my treason becomes widely known, that'd put a target on your back even bigger than the one you've got now. And if it doesn't, you'd probably get accused of kidnapping."
Han said, "We'll figure it out. You're good in a fight. You're worth it."
Tears pricked. Luke stared.
"Thank you," he said. "I... thank you." He nodded. "And I promise we'll get your debts paid before that bounty hunter's deadline as well. That should go a long way towards it. We can do it."
Han took a step forwards. "Don't worry about me, Luke. That's Chewie's job. Worry about yourself." He punched him in the shoulder. "Don't make Her Highnessness do it all."
Luke laughed wetly. "Thank you. I—" He gasped, suddenly, when there were large arms encircling him, but he clung to Han like he was drowning and returned the hug with vigour, burying his face in his chest.
Between Han and Leia, he thought, tears streaming down his face, he was so lucky when it came to his friends.
"I'm sorry I dragged you into this," he whispered.
"Nah. I'm sorry I pick pocketed a lonely teenager one day who was too chatty for his own good."
"You still owe me twenty credits."
Han squeezed him tighter. "I owe you a lot more than that, kid."
After a moment, he let go again. Ruffled Luke's hair; Luke swatted his hand away with a scowl. "Take care of yourself. The Imperial Academy was full of vipers. I bet court will be worse."
"Thanks for the reminder," Luke said wryly.
"You're smart. But you ain't cut out to be one of them."
Okay, this was getting less encouraging as they went on. "Yes..."
"Don't be offended, kid, it's why I like you. But you'll do great." He punched his shoulder again.
Luke laughed, but rubbed the spot of the punch; that had been hard. "Glad you think so."
"You're not how I imagined Vader's kid would be—"
"I get that a lot."
"—and if you need a break from the politicians, we're still here."
Luke nodded. "I imagine you've... still got questions."
Han pursed his lips. "Yeah," he said. "I do."
"Can they wait?"
Han nodded. "I guess." He... hovered awkwardly, unsure what to do now. They looked each other in the eye for several long seconds before Luke broke the contact. "You gotta go now?"
"Before my father gets suspicious."
"Right." Han stuck his hands back in his pockets, the sack thumping against his leg. "Your father."
Luke smiled for a moment. "You get used to the idea," he said. "Leia did."
Then he climbed into his speeder.
Just as he sped away, he had to laugh over hearing Han mutter, "Leia. Leia befriended Darth Vader's kid!?"
He got home, sure enough to an irate, anxious father—but not for the reasons he expected.
Certainly, there was a mention of, "There was another Angel attack last night, against several senators, and so far I have not found any conducive leads to who it might be."
But that was good—that was something Luke could weather, listening gratefully as he shut the door to the garage and stripped off his gloves, wiping engine grease off his face. The issue was...
"And," Vader told him, hesitating when he turned to full on face Luke in the door to their living room, hands knotted behind his back... "The Emperor commands your presence."
Luke's day immediately got infinitely worse.
"Why?" he asked bluntly, walking straight for the 'fresher. He washed his hands briefly before striding back out to his father's unamused stare.
"Why?" he echoed. "You are the Imperial prince and you are asking why your Emperor wants to speak to you? He hasn't since the announcement."
"And I don't want to speak to him," Luke shot back, gracefully seating himself on the sofa, kicking his shoes off and kicking his legs up, "since the announcement."
Vader snorted. "You have not wanted to talk to him for much longer than that, son."
"True." Luke had to concede the point. "But the point stands."
"No one wants to talk to the Emperor. He revels in it. But this is something you have to deal with, if you are going to be the prince. You will deal with the court, you will deal with the Empire, and you will deal with him."
Luke kicked his legs back off the sofa, to plant them solidly on the carpet and glare. "I never wanted to be prince."
"I am aware. We have had this conversation. But you must. It is your destiny."
Yes. They had had that conversation.
For a moment, Luke thought back to the previous night—talking to Leia, about what he could do, about where he wanted to go from here. He wasn't going to leave. He wasn't going to join the Rebellion, or join Han. He was going to stay.
Which left him, unfortunately, with very few options.
It is your destiny, Vader claimed.
Luke didn't know what his destiny was, but he was fairly sure it involved helping people. It had to.
And considering the influence he might have as Imperial prince, he reminded himself, how much he could help people in that way... perhaps his father was right.
But not in the way he meant.
"Alright," Luke said. "I'll meet with His Wrinkled—"
He froze. His father was looking at him, amused.
"—Highness," he finished belligerently, meeting his gaze with a twitch to his lips.
All his father said, amused, was, "The correct title for an emperor is Imperial Majesty, Luke, not Highness."
"Your Imperial Majesty," Luke greeted as the servant led him into the lavish room, bowing to Palpatine. He was seated on a richly decorated armchair, amidst richly decorated trinkets: old, valuable oil paintings hung on the walls; the windows were large and rimmed in mahogany, providing a stunning view of the Coruscanti skyscrapers; the carpet was thick and lush. Palpatine beamed at Luke when he entered, revealing all his yellow teeth, and waved him into the armchair that sat on the other side of a small, stately table from him.
"You are aware that your father is hardly an expert on noble titles himself, my boy?" Palpatine said the moment Luke seated himself, feeling... almost on edge in the way the man seemed to crackle in the Force. "Your Imperial Majesty. It is important for you to understand them, as prince, certainly, but do know that I am hardly picky about what I am called, so long as it contains the appropriate respect." His closed one gnarled hand around the head of his cane and thudded it against the floor to punctuate the word.
Luke—for whom disrespect of Imperials, particularly his father and the Emperor was a middle name—felt very threatened.
"You may call me Majesty, Imperial Majesty, Excellency, Highness..." Palpatine blinked slowly, tilting his head as he regarded Luke. "Or, I did request that you call me master."
He had. He had done that. Luke had forgotten.
"Apologies, master," he corrected himself, the name like ash on his tongue. "I meant no disrespect."
"I know you didn't, my boy." He chuckled lowly. "Which is why I have no problem with it."
Luke was fairly sure there was a for now hanging in there somewhere. He swallowed.
"Now," Palpatine said. "I am sure you have questions for me, my prince."
My prince. It sounded awful.
"Yeah. I do."
"Yes, I do."
"Yes." Luke bit down on his rage. "Why?"
Palpatine raised an eyebrow and reached for... some sort of sweetmeat that was on the table. Luke didn't trust it. It seemed like every time Palpatine tried to talk to him, he tried to bribe him with sweets like a child. "Why, Luke? What do you mean?"
"Why make me prince?" Luke said baldly. "Master," he added, and... yeah, there wasn't much respect in it.
Palpatine... let it slide. For now. "Because you are intelligent, and powerful, and an ideal candidate. You told me yourself you were looking for direction with your life. I was only all too happy to provide it. My Empire needs you, my boy," he used his spare hand to rest it on Luke's shoulder; Luke, by sheer force of will, did not tense up, "and I think that you need it, more than you know."
Luke lifted his chin. "I am no politician, master."
"Nonsense. You have your mother's spirit." Luke really, really hated that Palpatine knew he could get to him so easily with his mother's memory—make him flush with pride at a simple comparison—but he could, and it worked. "And you play word games in our chats quite beautifully. It's a joy to speak to you. You will be phenomenal."
Luke needed to stop being so charming. "I am undeserving of this honour, master. If the Empire needs a prince, or if you need an heir, then there are countless other Imperial youths who would better suit—I can already name—"
"If you are going to name the Princess Organa, or any of your friends from the Academy, I must stop you there. I do not want them. They were not raised by my most trusted, loyal lieutenant. They are not as trusted and loyal as you." Luke's mind flicked to a loyal Imperial like Zev had been, then to his own rebellious activities, and barely stifled a snort. "They do not suit. It has always had to be you, child."
Great. "I... am not ready." His father wasn't going to talk Palpatine out of it, so all Luke could do was talk him out of it. If he even wanted to. His decision to spy, to be the propaganda face of both sides of the war, was unsteady in his chest and these word games danced in circles, shaking and flaking the mortar around it. "Majesty, I—"
"Nonsense. I have already listed all the reasons I want you as my heir—ideally, I could begin to train you in the Force as soon as possible as well. I do so enjoy your company."
Why? Did he just enjoy keeping the company of those who hated him? That might explain why he kept Luke's father around...
"I understand you have reservations about your new role. That is only natural; it has been many years since I first stepped onto the political stage, but I myself had fears, doubts... As is the nature of the dark side, I used that fear, and the anger that accompanied it, to make me stronger." He swallowed a sweetmeat neatly, then his hand contorted around his cup, the deep red liquid inside it trembling. For a moment, Luke wondered if it was blood. "I recommend, if you are afraid, that you do the same."
"I'm not afraid!" Luke defended. "I..."
Palpatine hummed with satisfaction.
Then he put the cup down. "Come. I would spend more time with the boy who is to rule over my legacy when I am gone, and we must discuss important matters—there will be a gala in a few days to formally introduce you to the court and the galaxy. Everything must be planned: your clothing, your appearance, the food..."
Luke already had a headache.
Palpatine laughed at the expression on his face. "You will come to enjoy these sorts of things—if you ask your father, I'm sure he will tell you that your mother did, too, as much as she stressed. Though Anakin certainly bore the brunt of her panic when things seemed to go wrong." Luke blinked at the use of that name, his father's old name, but Palpatine was already moving on. "She was a dearly beloved protégée to me—I am sure that you will prove the same."
Luke eyed the cup laid out next to him; it was definitely some sort of fine wine, or spirit. He took a large gulp.
"I will... endeavour to, master," he said. "I will try not to disappoint."
Palpatine brushed his thumb against his cheek. Luke pointedly leaned back, and watched the storm clouds roll across Palpatine's face at the motion—but he dropped his hand. So, he was willing to play this game.
The challenge was probably what he found so fun about it.
"Oh, believe me, young Skywalker," Palpatine chuckled. "You won't." He rose from his seat in a swirl of black robes and... imperiousness, looking down at him once he was standing. "Now, I saw you appreciating the artwork on my walls earlier. Would you care for a tour of my personal gallery? It has several paintings from our shared homeworld of Naboo—and I am sure you would appreciate some of the things my collection has to offer. It will be a good way for us to spend time together."
Luke drank down the rest of the cup before setting it back on the table, a little too forcefully.
"Of... course," he gritted out. "It would be my pleasure."
Luke had gone to visit the Emperor without too much of a fight, Vader tried to tell himself. That was a good sign, correct? That must be a good sign.
But he shouldn't dwell on it—not now, when he had a job to do, and a report to listen to.
"So," he snapped, before Aphra's hologram had even finished materialising. "What have you uncovered?"
"Not much," she admitted, far too chirpily for such a statement. "There isn't much to be found, boss. I've got a compilation of all the rumours and chitchat I've heard about it—there's always a grain of truth in that—but I haven't investigated any further just yet. It'd help if you could send me something."
"I... do not have much to send." It killed him to admit it, but it was true—and the precise reason he'd hired her in the first place. "There was yet another Angel attack this previous night; I am sending you authorisation to accompany me to investigate the scene."
"Aww, boss. You're letting me play with the big guns now?"
"Pray that your observations therein are more pertinent than the observations you make here."
"I'll do my best. Is there anything you can already tell me about Angel that's not classified?"
"He stole a respected senator's chandelier, and a slightly less respected senator's ornamental hat."
"So he's got taste and likes picking on senators he dislikes. So do most Imperials—well. Maybe not on the taste part."
Vader snorted... but that was an idea. "You believe Angel is a spy in the Empire? An Imperial?"
Aphra shrugged. "He broke into IMH. He seems to know and move through most Imperial cordons easily—and clearly, he knows Coruscant. My bet would be someone involved—maybe someone young, based on the simple fact we've never seen anything like this before; an academy student or maybe the child of some senator, noble or moff. Or a young stormtrooper or pilot stationed on Coruscant—it'd have to be someone who knows the terrain."
"So not someone who returned from the Academy recently," Vader noted. That eliminated all of Luke's classmates, so he couldn't ask his son for his input about them—though he supposed he could always ask Luke's input on everything else. His son was smart; perhaps there was an angle here that neither Aphra nor Vader was considering. "Someone in the Imperial armed forces, you suspect?"
"Someone who knows the Empire, is both physically and mentally skilled, Force-sensitive, and very familiar with Coruscant," she confirmed, "yes. Does that narrow it down?"
It did. A lot.
It narrowed it down to impossibility.
Any member of the Imperial forces, especially someone who'd been serving on Coruscant for a few years, would have been vetted and caught if they were Force-sensitive. While the caveat that Angel was clearly intelligent eliminated a good chunk of the troops from consideration... there were still, simply—
He sighed just thinking about it.
It narrowed the number down from the trillions of people who lived and breathed and suffered on Coruscant, yes. To a few thousand, instead, who lived and breathed and suffered and served the Empire on Coruscant. None of whom ought to be Force-sensitive... and yet, one was. And one was powerful or trained enough to avoid detection.
Angel was slowly but steadily racking up the urgency of their situation. A skilled, knowledgeable Force-sensitive, in the Empire, for several years... It got worse and worse.
They probably already knew about Luke. There was no keeping Luke away from them—especially now that his son was the Imperial prince.
Who were they? A senator's child—a senator themselves? (Vader took a moment to imagine a borderline Rebel such as Organa taking to petty thievery for her cause; the image was absurd. She was hot-headed, true, and likely would sink that low, but he doubted she had the strength or skill in any of the above categories to succeed.) A stormtrooper? A pilot, honoured enough to serve the elite garrisons that defended the capital?
Why would a member of the Imperial forces who had come so far, received so much adulation for their work, want to throw it all away in service of the Rebellion? What had poisoned their heart against the Empire that had given them so much?
He didn't know.
He was going around in circles.
Aphra's suggestions both narrowed it down and left far more questions that had no answers.
"You will meet me at my residence at first light tomorrow," he ordered, "and you will accompany me to inspect Senator Organa's residences. She was one of the places hit."
"Organa? Isn't she—"
"Yes. Apparently this thief does not discriminate between Rebel sympathisers and Imperial hardliners." Of course, it was entirely likely that this was intentional, to stop the Empire from suspecting Organa had anything to do with it. Or perhaps she had information they needed the Rebellion to get, and the most efficient way was for Angel to 'steal' it from her. Or perhaps she was, in fact, an innocent bystander who'd been every bit as enraged as she'd seen that morning.
Vader doubted it. She was a politician. He didn't trust politicians—and the Organas were some of the best.
Like father, like daughter, in that respect.
He would interrogate her in more depth later—perhaps she was personally acquainted with Angel, knowingly or unknowingly; she might have been hit out of personal rather than political reasons. Let it never be said that Rebels were rational.
"After we have inspected her residence, we may have to inspect some of the other targets. You will accompany me there, also. Any observations you make are welcome, if pertinent..." She opened her mouth. "...and polite."
She closed her mouth.
"Good day, Lord Vader," she said, mostly sarcastically, but with a little salute to top off the performance.
Vader sighed.
"This, my boy," Palpatine said, "is a collection I've been gathering since you were born."
Luke stared down the corridor, hyperaware of the yellow gaze not on the art, but on his face. Of the red guards at his back, lest they try to run. They were meant to protect the Emperor, but they served Palpatine's will first and foremost, and he had no doubt that they would take no umbrage at chasing down a prince who'd decided to bolt.
Force. He was a prince.
Was he gonna get his own contingency of red guards too, now? He hoped not. Stars, he hoped not.
"It's... lovely," he tried. It wasn't a lie. It was lovely—some of the finest oil paintings from Naboo, the water paintings from Mon Cala, the artful tree bark decorations and growths from Kashyyyk and all sorts of others... He stared around; there was more colour here than there was in the entirety of the Empire, it seemed, if you were excluding Luke's own wardrobe from that count.
But these paintings had been stolen.
"I collected them painstakingly over many years," Palpatine said, and Luke restrained himself from clenching his fists. He was not that unsubtle. At least, he hoped he wasn't. "This Alderaanian moss painting"—he gestured to an image of what Luke recognised as Appenza Peak and the royal palace in Aldera, from what he'd seen of it during a visit to Leia in the holidays once—"was a gift from your dear friend's father, I believe. I mentioned to him that I admired it on a visit there fifteen years ago—it was already a pleasant visit, what with getting to meet his lovely wife and daughter for the first time in person, but his generosity in relinquishing it to me out of the goodness of his heart was a highlight, certainly."
Luke was going to be sick. He thought he knew what might have happened there—what, or who, Bail had desperately been trying to protect when he'd made such a gift.
"This one, meanwhile," Palpatine continued, turning to the Mon Calamari water painting. Luke narrowed his eyes at it in thought—it looked just like blobs of various inks on an uneven canvas of white and grey seashells, to him, red and blue and green threads of colour winding through it to illustrate a spherical shape, a bubble, of some kind. "This was done for me personally, as I was such supporter of their culture, and particularly their aquatic ballet. King Lee-Char had it commissioned for me; it's a scene from an opera he knew I particularly liked."
Luke didn't want to think about what the Empire—what his father—had done to King Lee-Char and Mon Cala. He'd been extremely young when it had happened, but he still remembered his father coming home, Luke asking tentatively where he'd been and then with more vigour, not stopping until he'd heard the story...
At the time, he'd been focused on the Jedi, how his father had fought the people who would have stolen Luke away from him, if they'd had their way. He'd enjoyed it.
He'd realised with a punch to the gut how horrifying the story was once he got older.
"What is that? Master," he asked to distract himself, pointing at something over Palpatine's shoulder. It was a sculpture, of japor, but the flowing shapes and forms of it, some of the textures, looked familiar...
"Ah." Palpatine's lips curved into a smile as he watched Luke closely, and something... prickled in the Force. Along the back of his neck, along his spine itself, along his sixth sense. "That was part of a gift exchange with the Empress Leeya, of the Regency Worlds—I trust you learned about them in your studies?"
The Regency Worlds.
Arkanis.
Again.
What was this about?
"Of course, master," Luke said. Palpatine gave him a look and he parroted dutifully: "They're a group of worlds, ruled by one dynasty for years, with the throneworld Arkanis. They're model Imperial citizens, submit to your— our laws with grace and eagerness, and in exchange they are granted with less taxation and more benefits to their citizens." He swallowed, the words bitter on his tongue. "They're a valuable ally of the Empire."
"That they are. But it took work to get to that point." He waved his hand at the sculpture. "This was a part of an exchange, of goodwill—she gifted me a beautiful piece of her homeworld from her own collection, and I gifted her a beautiful piece of mine from mine."
Luke's throat was dry. "Why foster good relationships with them in particular?" he had to ask, trying to be subtle. "They're in the Outer Rim. Out of the way."
"Of course. And I would never assume to give them military or political influence, but... Arkanis has its uses. It has some significant space faring connections. It was willing to subject to my rule without warfare, which was unfortunately a rarity in the strife that was the wake of the Clone Wars. And the very fact that it is so loyal, and so out of the way, makes it ideal for hiding projects on that the Senate must not know about."
"You have secrets from the Senate?" Luke feigned surprise.
Palpatine laughed. "Of course, my boy. They are only a front—one day, we will be powerful enough that they can be done away with completely and this farce, this remainder of the Republic, can be swept away." He laid a hand on Luke's shoulder, and studied the sculpture for a few moments. "Arkanis, and the projects I have there, are just some of the things that will see us towards that end."
"There are others?"
"Of course. You and your training, I have to say, is perhaps the most important of them." Luke blinked at the dizzyingly fast shift of subject, and winced. "Your destiny will be a great one. But the future is always beholden to the past."
Luke frowned at him.
Palpatine smiled. "Your father... there are numerous holos and paintings and small statues of your mother, in existence. You have been to Naboo, to visit your family there; you know that. Your father was assigned to gather up some of the more rebellious or fake ones, but I have a collection here, if you want to see how much you can find out about the woman you never knew." Palpatine turned into a corridor off the right from the main one, his gait unfaltering. Luke's was not the same. "Your father wanted you to see them, when you were old enough, but he didn't want to look at them himself. So I kept them for him."
Luke blinked.
Palpatine... had a collection... of artwork... for his mother?
What did he use it for, other than keeping her image and name out of the public eye—out of the Rebellion's hands? Gloating, it had to be. Gloating over her death, and her husband's servitude? Gloating over the fact that she'd fought so hard to protect her Republic, only to fail, and die, and lose everything? Gloating over the fact that he even had her child in his grasp?
No.
There was only one of those thing Luke had any say in, but that thing he was shout about loud and clear: Palpatine would not control Padmé Amidala's child the way he controlled the husband. He would never bow to him. Neither would Leia.
They would continue the legacy Palpatine thought had been destroyed, reduced to worthless trinkets, gathering dust. They would make her proud.
It was their destiny.
"Thank you, master," Luke said. "But... I know my mother through the stories of people who knew her—Viceroy Organa, her family, my father... If you have any stories of your own you wish to share, I would be grateful. But I have no need to see trinkets."
Palpatine pressed his lips together tightly, before he regained his smile. Luke saw it. He didn't miss it.
"As you wish," he said. "I certainly have some tales about my time mentoring the young Queen Amidala—and then Senator Amidala!—that could entertain you..."
"But for now, I'd like to see the rest of your," loot, "collection." Luke smiled toothily.
He would later regret seeing the rest of Palpatine's collection—"The intent of Lord Momin's work was exactly that: to inspire horror, hatred and disgust in the viewer, young Skywalker"—thanks to some of the more disturbing pieces, but... he felt resolved, and proud of himself, all the same.
