The days whipped past after that, lost and rushed in the scramble of getting Luke an outfit for the ball, forcing him to sit in front of an etiquette teacher for hours on end, recapping old dances he hadn't studied since he'd left for the Academy. His father was just as on edge, alternating between giving him repetitively dire but cryptic warnings and brooding around their apartment. Luke tried to ignore him—except the time when he stumbled into him standing in Luke's room, staring around slightly lost. Luke gave him a hug, then, they talked about what was coming, and Luke hoped it had assuaged Vader's fears more than it had assuaged his.
In every spare moment he had, Luke was in the hangar and workshop. Hiding.
It meant that his latest project, that speeder, was finished very soon.
He took it into the shop as soon as possible. Trace had run that place a few hundred levels down for nearly five years now, and she was one of the best bosses to have on this side of the planet. He hadn't told her who he was when he first rocked up on the doorstep of her dinky little shop, even though her sister had dropped by a few weeks later and been very interested in this sweet-spoken volunteer from Top Side. Luke hadn't wanted payment—something Rafa had been able to neither fathom nor trust, but what need did Darth Vader's son have for credits? He had as much blood money as he required—but he had clearly wanted Trace to teach him everything she knew about mechanics. The obvious exchange there had helped: Luke would be useful to Trace, Trace would be useful to him, and that was the solid deal they'd based their working relationship on.
Now, he drove right into the side hangar off the street, ducking under a large billboard that screamed the advertisement for a new cantina opening up a few levels down—The Tipsy Nexu blared in painfully bright yellow next to a poor drawing of what Luke was pretty sure was actually a tooka, with a large blinking arrow pointed downwards carried in its mouth. At least it wasn't a news bulletin; he'd already flown past a few of them, emblazoned with meaningless declarations of a ball that would introduce Prince Luke to the galaxy and a holo of his face larger than his father was tall. It was extremely awkward having to fly past those; all he could hope was that with his hair grown out much longer than in the Academy cut it was in that holo, the heavy editing to make him seem like an appropriate prince, and the soot and grime smeared on his face, no one would recognise him.
Angel was one thing. It would be less disastrous, but no less mortifying, if his true identity was discovered here, too.
Thankfully there were no customers in the ship. Trace had her goggles on in the front, the welding torch out, and the noise was familiar and deafening. Luke smiled as he dropped the speeder off on the platform and headed in.
"You've been away from a while," she shouted out over the noise. "I was expecting you back a week ago."
Luke huffed a careful breath, but there wasn't anything accusatory in her tone—yet. Han and Trace were very different, but they'd have similar reactions to calling him out on his true double life, he felt, so... that was a good sign...?
"I was busy," he couched, stripped off his jacket to leave him only in his tank top; it was hot in here and he had work to do.
"I can imagine," she said.
He froze, waiting with bated breath for her to elaborate, to say something more, to bust out the accusations...
And was left waiting in vain.
Trace switched off her welding tool; the blue flame vanished, she pulled up her goggles and grinned at him, white rings in the soot around her eyes. "There's a whole bunch more speeders like that, malfunctioning in the same way, if you're interested in doing another one. The company are scratching their heads. Drop it in the back and show me how you did it, then we'll be able to send it back to them twice as fast.
Luke breathed a sigh of relief. Her grin didn't falter.
"Of course," he said, relaxing enough to give her a grin of his own in response. "It was easy once I isolated the problem..."
Trace's shop had not changed. It was a solid space, a steadfast space; a safe space. He was grateful for it, because the moment he returned home and had showered, his father and his worries descended on him again.
The ball was the next day; Luke slept poorly, restlessly, then slept too much. He woke to a sharp poke through the Force, his father's nervousness—though of course he would never call it that to his face—so far through the roof it was out of atmo.
Luke, now regrettably awake, rolled over onto his front and thumped his pillow over his head.
Get up.
Ugh.
The door to his room whooshed open; Luke's face was buried in the mattress, but he could feel the way his father filled the doorway like a massive mynock, chewing on all the annoying cables. "That was not negotiable."
"It's ridiculously early."
"Would that it was. You were meant to awaken ridiculous early. You did not. It is now 0800 hours and you should get up now, or be dragged to the Palace in your pyjamas in order to oversee the preparations as you are meant to."
"Since when was I meant to oversee preparations? I went to a military academy, not a technical college."
"You are prince. Your duties—"
"I have duties?"
"—yes, of course—your duties are to handles things that will reflect on your own image—"
"I never signed up for duties. I never signed up for princehood! I was perfectly fine having no image. Everything is easier that way." Especially his more... angelic activities.
"You are my son," Vader said baldly, "and the worthless of the galaxy love to gossip. You already have an image. This is just an opportunity to provide a clearer one, based on your own merits, rather than... than mine."
Luke swallowed. "Why did I need an image at all? No one guesses I'm your son. Why couldn't I keep living in anonymity?"
"Are you ashamed of me, Luke?" Vader asked quietly. There was no judgement, there; Luke knew, with a horrible certainty, that his father was expecting an affirmative.
That his father was ashamed of himself.
Luke paused. Swallowed again.
It wasn't fun, telling people who his father was—he'd seen the disgust in Leia's eyes, all those years ago; Han's reaction; Zev... well, Zev had been one of the few people to react well to it, but he hated everyone's reactions on principle. There was a fine line between awe and horror, hero worship and hatred, and he hated straddling it as carefully as he did. His father was his father. His father was Darth Vader.
"Of course not," he said earnestly. "But it's not fun when people at the Academy would gawk at me, expecting great things"—terrible things, sometimes, but... nonetheless awe-inspiring, unbelievable; great—"from me as they do from you, and expecting me to be..." He shrugged. "Someone I'm not.
"Like a prince," he added vehemently, shooting him a glare. "I'm not. I— I can't do what you do. I'm not you."
"No," Vader agreed. "You are not me. And I would not want you to be." He stepped forwards to... loom over Luke's bed, and rest a heavy hand on his mussed up hair. Luke leaned into the touch.
Then Vader said, "But, to get back to the topic at hand, your habit of sleeping in the mornings is far too similar to what I was like at your age."
Luke snorted. "That doesn't mean anything."
"It's a slippery slope, son."
"To Sith Lorddom?"
"A slippery slope," Vader repeated with humour. Luke groaned, rolled over, and chucked his pillow at him.
"Out," he demanded. "I'm getting up, I'm getting up."
"See that you are."
"I am!"
"You wear your outfit well," Vader told him when he was done.
Luke gave him a narrow look. He was wearing all black, shirt and trousers, with what seemed like several layers of cape; there was silver detailing in the cape's chain, on his quilted boots, at his belt, his buttons, his collar, but he felt distinctly like a void. "I don't know how to take that."
"You look nice," Vader amended. "Though your hair is scruffy."
He reached out a hand to flatten it but Luke batted it away. "It won't go any flatter."
"I know full well it will."
"It won't look any better if it goes flatter."
Vader snorted and dropped his hand. "As you wish."
There was a silence for a moment.
"I know you do not want this," Vader said at last. "And..."
"And?"
He huffed. "If you truly decide that you loathe everything about being the prince, and wish to end it, then I will do my best to convince Palpatine to let you step down."
Luke... knew what that probably cost him. He smiled up at him, not caring that his eyes were glistening. "Thank you, Father."
"But I would like you to at least try it. I truly believe this is what's best for you." He rested his hands on Luke's shoulders, smoothing down the wrinkles in his fine shirt, then cupped Luke's cheek in his hand. "And never doubt that I am proud of you."
Luke leaned into his touch. "I know. And I know you worry about me—I just—"
"You need your freedom. That is acceptable." A pause, then he added, amused, "At least I can rest assured that in all probability, Angel will not be at the ball tonight."
Luke forced himself to laugh nervously.
"Yeah," he said, prying Vader's hand off his face and clinging to it with both of his. "Now let's go."
Luke had to just... stand around for much of the day, nominally overseeing preparations that could evidently have been perfectly completed without his presence, but at least the hustle and bustle meant that the day passed quickly. The sun sank, the cityscape glittered beyond the vast windows, and the harsh white lights were swapped out for warmer, yellower ones. Luke watched from the second level of the ballroom, leaning against the railing, as guests filed in on the floor below. Some of them were chattering; some of them were deadly silent. Some were stiff-backed, some had impeccable posture, some moved comfortably; some kept their eyes fixed on where they were going as they walked stately in, while others gaped around, examining everything they could see.
A few gazes caught on Luke, high up on the second level next to a pillar, half shrouded by a black velvet curtain; he smiled and inclined his head to them politely.
Later, the ball was in full swing. Luke had been announced, the important introductions had all been made and people were dancing vigorously on the floor in swirling, looping circles. Luke had to spend much of the time that evening standing at the foot of the dais Palpatine's throne was on, listening and standing in on his idle discussions with various moffs and senators who approached, but he spent the rest of the time... socialising. Names and faces flickered by; he did his best to remember everyone who took his hand and engaged him in conversation, aware from some of his political studies who the truly influential families of the Empire were.
His poor feet in his boots were starting to ache, so he excused himself to the young man he was dancing with—a scion of a droid magnate, with family ties to Baron Danthe—and went to the long table of delicacies to the side, taking a drink and a moment to breathe.
"You look tired," an amused voice called. Luke would've jumped if he hadn't sensed him coming beforehand, and turned to face him with a warm look.
"You look uncomfortable," he shot back. Piett did. He was just wearing his dress uniform, but he looked so stiff, an eternal expression of faint disdain—as well as confusion—gracing his face. "Did my father force you to come?"
Piett chuckled. "I wouldn't miss your... introduction... to the court, Luke."
"You think I needed moral support."
"Well." He cast a knowing look around the place. "It's barely 2200 hours and you already look dead on your feet. Clearly you do."
Luke laughed, and raised his glass to clink against Piett's. "I do. Thank you for coming."
"I came with Max, in fact— speak of the Sith." Luke turned his head up to see Veers approach, towering over both Luke and Piett. "I wouldn't have had the courage to face the vipers without him."
"So you ditch me to immediately get drinks?" Veers shot back.
Piett just tapped his glass.
Luke smiled at Veers cordially. "I'm glad to see you here. I..." He swallowed. "I did talk to Zev, like you asked, though I'm not sure how much it helped."
"You did? Well, that's news to me. It hasn't helped much." Veers hesitated, then. "Thank you for doing it anyway. Zev is... he's... Yes." He clammed up again. "It hasn't helped much."
"Of course," Luke just said, and from the look Piett was giving Veers, the way he was opening his mouth to say something further, sensed he was no longer quite welcome in this conversation.
He still didn't want to dance with anyone—not at all. He raised his eyes above the crowd to search the alcoves along the far wall of the room, and there was a flash of red. He knew Mara was on... duty tonight—bodyguard wasn't the right word; watch duty was closer—so surely, surely the galaxy would grant him a break and let him just talk to her for a bit...
Not quite. He was waylaid by a senator just as he went.
"Prince Luke," she said charmingly; it was a moment before he placed her. Senator Hyadum, of Pantora. She had the blue skin and yellow eyes of all Pantorans, with vertical gold tattoos that crested her brow and her cheekbones, but her indigo hair was braided over her shoulders and the back of her head in a style unfamiliar to him. "Would you do me the honour of dancing with you?"
Luke resisted the urge to raise his eyebrows; Hyadum was not a known Rebel sympathiser, but certainly a suspected one, and he wondered what interest she'd have in interacting with the newly appointed prince.
He could feel the weights of several gazes on him—Vader, Mara, Piett—possibly wondering the same thing, but he shook it off.
He had to be courteous, after all.
"Of course," he said, taking her hand and ignoring the way his feet groaned in protest at yet more movement as they stepped into the dance.
"You are a good dancer, Your Highness," she said to him, a little resentfully, though he would never have guessed that from her tone alone.
"Thank you," he replied. "It was never my favourite thing, as it rarely is for eight year olds, but I was forced to attend classes for it anyway."
She humoured him and laughed. "They paid off."
"Was there a specific reason you wanted to dance with me, Senator?" Luke asked, shrewdly and bluntly. "You don't seem too fond of me, and I don't want to make you uncomfortable or feel obliged to."
She tensed up. "I had hoped to... discuss what you thought your policies and attitudes might be, as prince."
"In the middle of the dance floor? Even if I had had the time to grow accustomed to this role, enough that I could have such plans, that wouldn't be an ideal place to do it."
"Well, if you'd prefer, I know there are several meeting places along the corridor just outside," she said stubbornly. "This is truly something that I do not want to be blindsided about—"
"And I promise that you won't be," he said, sincerely. She pinched her lips together. "If you wish, I can arrange a separate meeting for us to go over them—do you have a comlink frequency I could contact?"
She frowned. "Your Highness, I do insist..."
"I cannot come right this moment, I'm afraid."
"It is a matter of some urgency."
The song ended and he dropped her hand. "Thank you, Senator, but I need to go."
"Wait—"
"Luke." Another hand settled on his shoulder and he turned to Mara, who'd already grabbed his hand and... dragged him far away from Hyadum in some bastardised form of dancing. They were on the other side of the room by the time they stopped and actually did the steps properly.
"That was abrupt," he mused.
"She knows I'm a bodyguard. She knows what that's about."
"What was it about?"
"She's under observation," Mara told him gravely. "As a suspected Rebel. If she was trying to get you to a secondary location..."
"I didn't sense any deceit from her."
Mara laughed. "That should've given it away, then. Politicians are always deceitful."
"Fair enough."
"Though I admit I don't see the value of it," she mused. "It'd be pretty inglorious if you were to get kidnapped and assassinated now, I suppose, but you haven't even sat in on any meetings yet. You don't know anything of value." Her tone turned more cheerful. "Your job at the moment is just to be a pretty face."
"At least I know I'm doing my job well, then."
She flicked his arm. "Keep telling yourself that. But it's not like there are any projects whose secrets you could spill." They stopped dancing when the song ended and moved to the side of the room, next to an alcove, still conversing.
"So it's possible that that was a perfectly harmless conversation and you just dragged me away for nothing?"
"That's not what I said. It'd be a less tactically useful move to kidnap you now, but it'd still be a show of force from the Rebellion." She chided, "You need to keep your eyes out."
"My father and you are already doing that better than I ever could, apparently."
"Doesn't mean you should get lazy, Your Highness."
He wrinkled his nose at the title and she laughed.
But... he figured...
"Besides, I know of a few projects," he said carefully. "Project Aurora, Project Ion Ring, Project Harvester."
He watched her closely; she just snorted. "Project Harvester? Never heard of it. You're making those up."
He blinked.
She was telling the truth.
Whatever Project Harvester was, Mara had no idea.
"Alright," he conceded. "I was making that one up."
"I knew it."
She smirked. "See? Not much use." She poked him teasingly, and he yelped appropriately.
"Rude."
"It's the truth."
"That doesn't make it any less—"
He broke off when he sensed someone approaching him. He turned, and smiled at his sister.
The impression Leia gave off was nothing but akin to a sort of regal amusement. She was resplendent in white, as always, though she'd forgone the usual silver that she wore hints of for... gold. Her dress shimmered with faint gold detailing, and at the hems; her belt was thin and made of interlocking metal scales. She looked like an ancient warrior princess, complete with bands around her biceps and her hair coiled above her head perfectly.
When she turned, slightly, he choked to see that the patterning on her dress continued onto her back... in the shape of an angel's wings.
Leia had so much nerve.
"Do you mind if I dance with him?" she asked Mara, as his apparently assigned watcher. "As a princess to a prince?" She raised an eyebrow at Luke
Mara said, "Of course," and threw Luke another smirk.
Leia seized Luke's arm playfully and yanked him out onto the dance floor; Luke let himself be pulled and laughed with his sister, a stiffness he hadn't even realised was in his limbs melting into contentment as Leia took charge of the dance, far more assertive a princess than he could hope to be a prince. The music whirled around them, they followed the steps of the dance, and Luke just felt relaxed.
"Thank you," he said to her. "I've been dancing and interacting with strangers all night."
She smiled at him gently. "Mara has your back, I see. I'm just stepping in to help you out a little more."
He raised an eyebrow. "You know each other?"
"Of course. We used to bump into each other in the Palace corridors frequently. One time there appeared to be a threat on my life, and she was assigned to watch me."
Luke swallowed—he thought he might know what that had been about. It wasn't uncommon for Palpatine to invent fictitious plots on a senator so he could assign them a watcher.
"We've got along ever since," she finished, then frowned at him. "Are you alright, Luke?"
He just shook his head. "I feel exhausted."
"You look exhausted. Whose idea was it to dress you up in black?" She scowled at his outfit. "You haven't been on a planet with proper sunlight since you left the Academy and it shows. You look sickly."
"Thank you, Leia, that might be the stress and sleep deprivation."
Her gaze softened. "You've had an interesting week, haven't you?"
"Interesting," he informed her, "is not the word I would use for it."
"Don't worry," she said softly. "This will all be worth it. Things will get better."
He spun her, as was the dance, and for a moment wondered what they looked like together: the fair-haired prince in black and silver, and the dark-haired princess in white and gold.
"How can you know that?"
"Because things always do," she said simply. "And you wouldn't be working so hard to make things better if you didn't believe it as well."
"I—"
They spun where they stood. Luke turned so he was facing towards Palpatine's throne and all words dried in his mouth.
The Emperor was watching him.
As he returned the gaze, Palpatine raised one crooked finger and beckoned him over.
The music came to an abrupt halt—at least, it seemed abrupt. Luke's moment of respite was over, so he just bowed to Leia, even as she curtseyed perfectly in response, an eyebrow raised at his sudden tension.
"Is it His Wrinkled Majesty?" she asked quietly. He nodded minutely—though he didn't fail to note that apparently, she'd been chatting to Han on comms recently.
He stepped away from her and forged his way towards the dais; he couldn't help noticing how though people approached him at first, they backed away as quickly as possible once they clocked where he was heading.
He reached the base of the dais, and... bowed, very low; he didn't outright kneel, couldn't bring himself to, and certainly not in front of so many people. But Palpatine seemed satisfied with that, as he waved a hand and gestured for him to rise, to stand next to his throne. Luke's father was standing dutifully on the other side of the dais, a few steps down; Luke could almost feel him straining to hear their conversation.
"You have done well, my prince," Palpatine praised him, taking his hand and folding it between his on the armrest of his throne. "This is a better introduction than I could hope for. You have been unfailingly charming, polite; the image of the Imperial prince the Empire needs. You even condescended to interact with more... rebellious senators, to keep up an image of a fair, just Empire."
Image.
Luke knew too well that this was just an image.
Well—at least if keeping up a gentle image was what Palpatine wanted him for, then hopefully he wouldn't force Luke to do anything too... Imperial... during his time as prince...?
"Come." A holocam droid buzzed towards them; Palpatine smiled brightly into it, and Luke, kneeling at his side, hand still clasped by his, tried to smile too. An image. Project an image. "This is an excellent start, and we must continue it for as long as we can. There is going to be a meeting of all the heads of strategy for the Empire tomorrow morning; I would like you to attend, along with your father and I, so you may see the true state of the Empire as it is."
He sighed. "I'm afraid that when I say we need you, Luke, it is more true than you know. Lord Vader was in favour of shielding you from our weaknesses and recent failures, but you deserve to know the truth—how precarious this situation really is."
...what.
What did that mean?
"This... situation, Your— master?" he asked, correcting himself at the last minute. "You mean, with Angel—"
"Yes, now hush, child, we should not speak of it here." Palpatine's gaze narrowed on a spot of white in the crowd and Luke silently prayed— "Though your friend, Princess Organa, is not subtle about the message she is sending at this event."
His prayers went unanswered.
"Leia has had that dress for months, now," he offered. He knew it was true; he'd seen it in her senatorial residences. "I am sure it is just a coincidence—that she means no disrespect."
"Organa is clever enough to know when to avoid sending messages she does not want. And of all people in the Senate, she is the last person I would expect to avoid showing disrespect." Thankfully, Palpatine just sounded amused.
Good. Luke resisted the urge to let out a breath. His sister was safe.
"We will be finishing the event within the hour," Palpatine said. "You are required to stay to the end, as its main host, but I understand you will need to sleep properly tonight."
He patted his hand again—once, twice, thrice. His skin was cold, clammy, and... crusty; Luke's skin crawled.
"You will have a very long day tomorrow."
Vader watched Luke with nervousness the whole night, but although he looked too pale—that boy needed to look after himself properly—he navigated the waters well. Vader found himself smiling faintly at it; Padmé would be so proud, if she could see him.
Vader would just have to be doubly proud of him, in her absence.
But the ball was winding down, people were being ushered out, and now Luke's unfailing smile finally dropped from his face, exhaustion clouding it in its absence. He swayed slightly on his feet, his fine clothes all in disarray; Vader came up behind him to put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Luke didn't even flinch; just leaned into it.
"Come, Luke," Vader murmured. "You have done well. It is time to go home."
Luke nodded, smiling, forcing his eyes open from where they were drifting closed. "I'm coming."
Vader frowned.
When he cast out his senses, he could tell that almost all the senators, courtiers and moffs were already in their speeders, far down the corridor. He turned to the nearest guard. "Ensure that no one lingers."
He sensed the guard's confusion, but he leapt to obey.
Then Vader shifted his grip on Luke's shoulder, bent down in one fluid motion, faster than anyone would expect a man of his bulk to move, and picked him up.
"What—!" Luke's indignant exclamation cut itself off with a huff. "I'm... eighteen, Father."
"And you are tired."
"I can still walk."
Vader chuckled. "You do not have to."
Luke huffed again, then thumped his head to rest on Vader's breastplate, closing his eyes. That was a bad idea; he would definitely fall asleep if he did that. But Vader didn't mind.
He could sense Luke's relief, at being finally off his feet.
He could also sense his master's yellow gaze on his back, cold, calculating... but he ignored it. The holocams were gone, the guests were gone, and any who remained were nothing. Let the galaxy know that Luke was his weakness. Let people wonder about them.
People would already be targeting Luke. (He unconsciously clutched him tighter; the fact that Luke didn't react was what told him that he was well and truly asleep.) This would not change anything.
Palpatine, Luke's greatest threat, had known that this was his weakness from before Luke was even born.
Luke mumbled something in his sleep, shifting his head on Vader's shoulder, and Vader shifted to accommodate him. The corridors of the Imperial Palace wandered around him in a blur; for the first time, he did not feel boxed in by them. Nor did the memories of the Jedi Temple sour his mood.
And nor did the painting of Padmé hanging on the wall make his heart hurt nearly as much as it usually would.
"He's so much like you, Padmé," he murmured to it as they passed it. "You would adore him."
They reached their speeder and he settled Luke into the backseat, letting him lie still and peaceful, before flying back to their home. Carried him up the stairs, carefully removed his boots and his cape and the other accessories of his outfit, setting them on the chair in the corner, then lay him in bed with just that. Luke would wake up any moment, when he could undress himself, or he would sleep through until morning and gain some much needed rest, wrinkled clothes be damned.
Hopefully, it would be the latter.
Vader backed out of the room, flicking the lights off with the Force and shutting the door carefully behind him.
He was just heading for his meditation chamber when his comlink chimed.
He opened it—it was Palpatine. "Yes, master?"
Palpatine didn't waste time. His face was expressionless. "Is the boy available?"
Vader swallowed. "No. He is asleep."
That sent as much of a message as anything—Palpatine might still take that as available, might still demand that he wake him up. But Vader had made it perfectly clear that he would not.
Palpatine accepted it. "Very well. You should know this as well. You are aware that he interacted with multiple suspected Rebel sympathisers tonight?"
"Of course. That was a part of this... image... you wanted." Vader spat the word—he hated politics.
"Senator Hyadum, of Pantora, was a Rebel spy. She was instructed to go to the ball, get him out of that room by any means necessary, where assassins were waiting."
Vader nearly dropped the comlink.
"Fortunately, the boy rejected her first attempt, and her accomplices were caught before she could make a second. We currently have her in custody."
A senator...
A Rebel senator...
...had tried...
...to kill...
...Luke.
Luke had danced with her. Been kind to her. Talked to her.
And she had been plotting to kill him.
A vase on the living room table shattered. Flowers—flowers that Luke had picked himself, in the Senate gardens—were strewn all over the floor.
"I trust you will interrogate her tomorrow?"
"Yes," Vader ground out. "I will."
He turned to march into his meditation chamber, his cloak billowing around him, the dark side billowing around him.
Yet another threat to his son, hiding in plain sight.
Was there no end to them?
Would they one day succeed?
And—his breath caught in his throat as the hyperbaric chamber closed—by pushing Luke into accepting his place as prince...
Had Vader made him an even larger target than he'd been before?
