I meant to post this yesterday, but FFN was acting up on me. Sorry about that.

Sorry about the two and a half month wait after that cliffhanger, I wrote far too much for Xtober, effectively burning myself out, and then even after I'd rested the process of writing this chapter was like cutting through durasteel with a butterknife. I have no idea why; I'm still not happy with it, but there's no time to reword it so I'll just try to make up for that next chapter.

However, it's a slightly longer one to make up for it!


Han threw Luke a look when he came back from his conversation with Leia, seeming pensive. "So, I'm taking you to—"

"Don't say where the base is," Luke said tiredly. "But yes. Take me there."

"You alright, kid?"

Luke glared. "No. I'm not alright. But as the Imperial prince, I'm technically currently your prisoner, so that doesn't matter."

"Is that what Leia said? Surely we could fake your breakout or something, let you get back—"

"High Command have heard about the kidnapping already. If I escaped now, my reputation as a Rebel operative and your merits as a carrier would be in question."

Chewie roared his agreement from the co-pilot's chair; although Chewie couldn't see him from his position in the chair directly behind, Luke shot him a bitter grin. "You're taking me to the Rebellion's main base, and then they're going to lock me up and decide what to do with me."

"Alright." Han spun around to look at him, tugging off his gloves. "It'll be fine, kid. They know you're Angel—"

"No. They don't."

Han blinked.

"The only people who know Angel's identity are Leia, you two, Leia's master and those people we rescued the other day. No one else. It's meant to be a total secret."

"What about that Togruta woman who threatened me into keeping it a secret the last time I was on base, then?"

Luke grimaced. "I don't know who that was—perhaps she was Leia's master. But that doesn't matter; she clearly knew, and she could only have known from Leia. Leia is the only person who knows about me. It seemed excessive before, but…"

"Imperial prince?"

"Imperial prince. If anyone learns…"

Han sighed. "So… the Rebellion don't know who you are."

"No."

"They… probably hate you."

"Yes."

"And you're willingly delivering yourself into their hands?"

"Yes!"

Han scoffed and grumbled. "Leia did not tell you to do this."

"She didn't. It was my choice."

"And why did you make this choice?"

Luke just smiled. "I want to help the Rebellion. I trust that they won't kill me… immediately… and I trust that Leia will get here soon enough to decide who should know the truth."

"How long until she gets here?"

"She won't get to leave Coruscant for another twenty standard hours—she has several meetings and it would look strange to drop it all at once. But she's coming."

Han gritted his teeth as the buzzer went off, indicating that he was about to drop out of hyperspace. They'd arrived. "Well, here's hoping that she gets here soon enough."

"Knock me out," Luke said earnestly. "I don't want to see the base, for security reasons, and you want it realistic that you've kept me captive for the whole journey here. Stun me, get a drug, and get me unconscious."

"I think you've put way too much thought into this, kid," Han said, but he reached for his blaster.


They landed on Yavin IV. Han watched in concern as Chewie picked Luke's unconscious body up and lumbered inside, careful to keep his face hidden in the fur. Han let him go ahead and explain the situation himself; he didn't want to. He didn't know how.

The kid had got himself in quite some shavit today, hadn't he?

He was too optimistic. Too damn optimistic, always thinking the best of people—he was the Imperial prince, of course the Rebellion might just decide to kill him. He was the next Emperor, son of a monster who hunted them to oblivion, who probably had the same witchy powers that would soon be turned on their bases and their fleets. He was eighteen years old, and he was just a kid, but in Han's experience… that meant nothing.

He watched Chewie carry Luke away, then stormed off to do his own thing.

"Hey," he accosted the nearest person—a Mon Calamari tech just trying to tune up her X-wing. "Have you seen a tall Togruta lady around? Got two lightsabers and an attitude?"

The Mon Calamari said nothing, but he asked around, and eventually he found someone who pointed him in the direction of Fulcrum.

Or, rather, she found him while he struggled to follow their directions.

It was over by the edge of the temple, and she was sitting cross-legged beside the jungle when she called out, "Captain Solo."

He jumped and started. He hadn't seen her until then, though she wasn't hiding, just… he didn't know. Meditating?

"Yeah," he said warily. "Yeah, I needed to talk to you."

"Who did you just bring to base?" she asked shrewdly, narrowing her eyes. "Their presence in familiar, but they… are unconscious…"

"That's Luke."

Fulcrum frowned. "You brought him here? Why? Was— was his cover revealed, did his father—"

"His cover wasn't blown, no," Han said impatiently. "Was the kid's quick thinking that got him outta that. But he had to—"

He cut himself off.

Hells, it sounded stupid.

Why had he agreed to this? Because the kid thought it was a good idea!? The kid was insane!

Fulcrum was still giving him a look. He bit his tongue, scowled, then said, "He faked his own kidnapping."

"What!?"

Thank you! There was the right reaction to this shavit!

"He faked his own kidnapping. Changed his voice on comms and lied to his old man's face about Angel threatening the prince and everything. He said he's gotta keep up the charade, so here he is. Chewie just turned him over to High Command to explain the situation."

Fulcrum swallowed. "I… see." She finally stood up, then, folding her arms, lightsabers swinging from her hips. She towered over Han; Han felt reassured by it. Kinda. She was a big person who knew what she was doing—she'd help Luke.

"And you're telling me this because…?"

"Because I'm not an idiot," he snapped. "Luke's got a heart bigger than an asteroid and he's got way too much optimism about what the Rebels will do to him. I don't want him hurt."

"You care about him."

"He—" Han stared. "I… yeah. Yeah, 'course I do. He's saved my neck with the business, he's a great kid. He's my friend." He jabbed a finger in her face. "I don't want him hurt!"

"Believe me, Captain Solo, neither do I. Does Leia know about this?"

"She does… she commed Luke. He told her what happened, and she ain't too happy about it. But she knows."

"Good. I'll convince the leaders to summon her here immediately, so she can testify about Luke—and hopefully tell them about Angel. You're right, Captain Solo. The Rebellion will not resort to murder or assassination—"

Han snorted.

"—but he will not be treated well. Leia needs to let at least a few more people know this secret, if Luke is to survive." She was quiet for a moment, then added, "But not too many people can know. If Luke is to survive."

"Once the tooka's outta the bag," Han said. "Once… he can just leave, right? He doesn't have to go back—he's done everything for the Rebellion already, and he hates being the prince. Surely now he's out, he can stay out?"

"Only if he wants to, Captain," Fulcrum said gravely. "And… only if High Command believe us."


Luke… was gone.

Vader had set up this whole trap, this whole situation, in order to catch Angel and eliminate the threat to his son… and now Luke was gone.

He had failed.

He had messed up so badly.

It had been a sleepless night. So much time spent waiting for Angel, so much time spent chasing him and Luke, and now… Now he'd been fielding reports for hours, desperately trying to track the location, the vector, the history of that single freighter which had escaped the blockade, his chest hollow where Luke should have been. He couldn't focus on the Basic words that scrolled before his eyes for more than a minute before flinching away, one of the control rooms of the Imperial Palace a whirl of frenzied chatter around him. He couldn't stop reaching for that emptiness.

Luke was gone.

Luke was gone, and it was his fault.

He should have anticipated that Angel would not do what he expected of them.

He should have anticipated that Luke would be in danger—should have increased security in and around the flat, privacy be damned.

He should have protected his son.

If—no. When he got his son back, he was going to move them back into the Palace, like he'd intended to, like he should've done from the beginning. He was going to never let that boy out of his sight, he was going to make sure he was trained in the most intense, brutal way possible—he was going to make sure he was safe.

Luke needed to be safe.

And right now, he was in the hands of Rebels.

"My lord, the techs have obtained the recording of Angel's voice from your comlink and are running tests and comparisons on it as we speak—"

"My lord, information is coming in identifying that freighter as the Millennium Falcon, owned by a smuggler with a price on his head from Jabba the Hutt—"

"My lord—"

He whirled on the fifth ISB agent with incandescent fury, drenching the room in a wave of coldness, sticking his finger in the man's face so fiercely he nearly took out his eye. "Unless you have something to say to me that includes the words I have found your son," he snarled, "then you can save it for a report. Do you understand, Commander?"

The man's head bobbed and his throat bobbed and he even bobbed in a bow before Vader turned away, so fast his cape swirled dramatically.

Luke would have mocked him for the flair in that moment.

Luke was not here.

That was precisely the problem—

"My lord."

He froze.

All chatter ceased, as the agents all looked to the unlucky speaker, expecting a swift death—but it was Captain Piett. Piett who was deathly pale and looked even more exhausted than before, his eye twitching. His exhaustion pounded like a headache in the Force.

Piett was worried about Luke too.

Not enough to be given a break for. No one could break—no one could rest, not until his son was safe again. And Piett had no idea what sort of agony he could be feeling right now, he had no son to worry about, Luke was just someone he somewhat cared about—

But it was enough to still Vader's ire.

Piett would help.

He had to.

But he did not.

All Piett said, when he looked up to meet Vader's eye, was:

"The Emperor requests that you report to him."


Vader stormed into the Palace throne room without ceremony, without waiting for the red guards to admit him. He did not bother to kneel, or bow, or grovel—he was out for blood, and Palpatine should be grateful that it was not his blood.

This man… this man had been in charge of Luke's training.

If he'd done better, Luke would have been able to defend himself, Luke would still be with them

"Your thoughts betray you, Vader." Palpatine's voice was a whip lash but it did not make Vader flinch. It made him snarl. "You overstep your boundaries. Your son was progressing well, but it was you who led to his kidnapping."

That made Vader flinch.

"He had had only a handful of lessons, thanks to your insistence that he was not ready. Of course he did not fend off this petty thief," sarcasm dripped from the words—Vader couldn't tell if Palpatine was mocking him or mocking Luke—"and was kidnapped by the Rebels you swore to fight against."

"My son is in danger from terrorists—"

"If you had been a more effective apprentice, an effective commander, there would be no terrorists to endanger him!"

He raised a hand. Lightning flashed—a warning. Vader took heed of it, but still charged for his master like a reek at an electric fence.

"Luke is in danger!" he snarled, stopping at the base of the steps.

"He is powerful. He will escape, and if he does not, then perhaps he was not suited to be pr—"

"I will not let my son die!"

Palpatine gave him a scathing look. "You have the same eternal weaknesses, my friend," he sighed. "You made so many grave mistakes trying to save Padmé, even with my guidance—"

"Do not—"

"—are you about to repeat this occurrence with your son?"

Vader said nothing.

Palpatine smiled at him.

Vader said, "I will not abandon his fate to the Force and these terrorists."

"No. A rescue of the kidnapped Imperial prince would look almost as good as him escaping by himself, I confess. And you misunderstand me, Lord Vader; I do not want young Skywalker dead. I have espoused to you his importance—"

"He is my son. Of course he is important."

Palpatine surveyed him with a glint in his yellow eyes—and suddenly Vader wondered what he'd even wanted from this conversation. What his aim had been. Because his next words were, "Then I suggest you return to your operations and locate him as soon as possible, my friend."

Before Vader could react, he continued, "And make sure you do not fail me—or him"—a vicious smile—"again. Who knows what they are doing to him at the Rebel base, after all. We need him retrieved."

Vader clenched his fists so tightly his metal knuckles were permanently indented in his leather gloves.

"And once he is in his rightful place again," Palpatine finished, "I will personally make sure that he does not fail us again, either."

Vader really did not like that.

He did not like any of this.

"You are dismissed."

Vader turned on his heel and stalked away.

He needed to find his son.


His head hurt.

That was the first thought that rose to mind: his head hurt. It really hurt, it was ringing, and it—

Oh.

Yeah.

Han had shot him.

Luke had been stunned before; he knew to just lie there, and try not to aggravate the thumping in his head until it went down. In the meantime, he stretched out with his senses—they hadn't cut him off from the Force, at least; that would have been a hazard if he wasn't relatively sure they were far enough from the Core that his father couldn't sense him that way—to get a feel for his surroundings. It was a small cell, only a few paces across and along, and he seemed to be lying awkwardly on the slab at the backwall. It had a roll mat on it, at least—the Rebels were kinder than the Imperials.

But pain shot through his back even as he moved his neck and he grimaced. He was too young for back pain.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a moment—cold stone, not the metal he'd expect of a ship or a base hastily constructed from scratch, so the Rebels must be using a pre-established structure on whatever body of dirt they were hiding on this time. Then he sat up, trying not to groan, though curious that there seemed to be a lack of guards around…

Ah. They were on the other end of the corridor; he felt it when he slowly returned more to his senses. Far enough away to give the prisoner privacy, he supposed, though he was also pretty sure that security camera above his bed was running live and there was someone staring at the captured prince as he sat there…

Then he turned his head and froze.

There was an astromech in his cell.

Luke froze.

Now that he was listening, he could hear the faint whirring of the machinery that betrayed the mech's presence, the tiny beeps and squeals as they sat there, staring at each other. At least, Luke assumed they were staring at each other. The mech's optical sensor was fixed on him.

"I was under the impression prisoners were usually left alone in their cells," Luke said evenly, breaking the silence. The mech skidded back—ever so slightly; only a few inches—when he did. "Unless you're a prisoner too and they're out of space?"

The mech spat out a twisted mess of garbled binary—and Luke knew that; binary was the only language he'd been interested in learning from the broad range he'd been forced to study as a kid—that betrayed him as a droid practically old enough to be ancient, rotating his dome with the expressiveness of a human. Luke laughed.

"You're gonna have to repeat that more slowly, I'm sorry but I don't know your dialect."

MY. GRASP. OF. STANDARD. BINARY. HAS. NO. FLAWS.

The condescending beeps were insultingly slow, and Luke laughed.

"Not for the time you were made, I don't think, but recent updates under the Empire—"

I AM NOT. A. PRODUCT. OF. THE. EMPIRE.

"My mistake, I'm sorry. Clearly the range of droids I interact with is too limited."

The mech backed away in shock again, slightly, then crept forward, until he was nearly bumping into Luke's knees.

I AM IN THIS CELL TO FULFIL A TASK, the mech admitted begrudgingly.

"Oh? What task could you have in here?" There was only one, of course, but Luke thought it was ever so slightly odd that they'd send an astromech to do it—

TO OBSERVE THE CAPTIVE VIRUS.

Enemy. Right.

"Well, I can't say I understand why," Luke said amicably, shooting a pointed look at the holocam. Force, his back and head still hurt. "I'm glad I have a little company in here though. What's your name?"

SHARING SAID INFORMATION IS UNNECESSARY TO MY FUNCTION.

"I'll be a lot easier and more amiable to observe if I know who's observing me." Luke reached out to place his hand on the droid's dome—then gasped, yanking his hand away as the lightning prod shot out faster than the eye could see to zap him.

"My apologies," he bit out. "That was rude."

IT WAS IMPROPER.

"Yes, that's what I said. But if you won't tell me your name, I'll at least tell you mine."

THAT IS NOT RELEVANT INFORMATION TO—

"I'm Luke Skywalker. It's nice to meet you."

The mech froze in place, not even finishing its sentence.

Then it said, MY DESIGNATION IS R2-D2.

Luke smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Artoo-Deetoo—"

ARTOO.

"Artoo, then."

They stared at each other for a few moments more. Luke could see his reflection staring at himself, distorted, in the bulb of Artoo's lens.

Then Artoo screeched. He spun in a half-circle—Luke watching perplexed as the door slid open to admit him—and fled the room.

The door slammed shut behind him before Luke could even think of getting up.


"I wish to know what your informant knew about Angel's location and what they knew about where they would attack," Vader growled into the comm. Aphra hadn't answered when he'd contacted her, but that was no matter; she would answer for this later. "Learn everything. Bring them in, if you can, and I will learn it myself. I have no patience for further failure with you."

He clicked it off and tossed it aside, hating the dull clink it made on the side of his hyperbaric chamber. Hating everything.

She had better not fail him again.


High Command wanted to see him. He knew that, and it was only a matter of time before they came to fetch him. Artoo didn't come back until they did, and Luke sat up sharply at the flurry of indignant squawks he heard before the door slammed open and Rebel guards stormed inside.

"Get up, Imp," one of them snarled, giving him a wary look but still storming forwards—Luke supposed he didn't look that intimidating, father's reputation or not—"You're going to talk to the bosses—"

Luke smiled tightly and got to his feet before they could grab him, quietly holding his wrists together in front of him. That didn't stop the men; they grabbed his shoulders roughly and dragged him forwards, twisting the arms behind his back and snapping the binders on them, forcing him to his knees. He grunted, fear shooting through him—no, stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, don't be afraid—

A hand twisted in the back on his jumpsuit—right. That was right. He was still wearing the black jumpsuit he'd worn as Angel, he'd neglected to ask Han to borrow some of his clothes. He wondered if they noticed anything odd about it, or if they thought an all-black, easily manoeuvrable ensemble was fitting for the son of Darth Vader.

Oh, Force.

He was the son of Darth Vader.

They were going to kill him, weren't they—

The person yanked him to his feet by that grip on his clothing; he stumbled but regained his balance, and regained it again when they jabbed at him. Just sucked in a breath.

"Not used to suffering, princeling?" snickered a man. Luke wondered how it would help if he told him how often he'd broken a few ribs or worse trying to help the Rebellion; it wasn't the worst thing to suffer, but he had known pain, he had fought

"Move along," they grunted, and dragged him out of the cell.

Luke gritted his teeth and obeyed. He caught a flash of blue and silver and smiled, twisting his neck to see Artoo following the entourage closely, beeping.

Luke stumbled once, trying to keep up with the quick pace set—his legs were significantly shorter than his guards'—and they elbowed him. He let out a breath and ignored his bruises.

These Rebels really hated him.

He wondered if this was standard for all prisoners—but no, he supposed the Rebellion was meant to be more humane than that. Meant to be. If Leia or her father had known about it, they'd have put a stop to it.

So it was just Luke, for Vader.

Knowing what his father had probably done to these men, Luke found he didn't have it in his heart not to understand them.

Though he was seriously annoyed when—

"Agh!"

Artoo erupted in a flurry of more shrieks and beeps, bumping into the legs of his lead guard—a Devaronian with thick horns and a scar through his eye, nose and lip, his grin leery—hard enough to make him stumble as well.

"What was that, droid?" The guard kicked Artoo, but not too hard—he clearly didn't dare harm him, for whatever reason. "I don't speak that."

Luke knew it would only aggravate them, but he smirked to himself. He understood him.

"He's saying to be gentler," he called out, perhaps more arrogantly than he should have. "He says High Command needs me in one piece, and I don't deserve your abuse anyway."

The Devaronian didn't even dignify that with a verbal response. There was a blur of green and a hand collided with Luke's face; his nose crunched and blood burst from his nostrils like a blaster shot. He spluttered, tasting it on his tongue, his teeth.

He spat it out. "Ugh."

"Kriffing—"

He shouted. Artoo backed away, retracting his still-smoking laser rod.

"You little—"

"Just take me to High Command," Luke asked tiredly. He wanted to pinch his nose and tilt his head for the nosebleed, but his hands were still bound behind him. His words were thick. "Please. I'm going without resistance."

Didn't stop him from getting another kick—and Artoo another kick, as well—on the way.


High Command didn't look shocked to see him with a bloody nose, and nor did they offer to clean it up before they made him stand in a room, shackled to a podium, facing down Senator Mothma at the other end of it. Blood continued to drip down his face.

He could make of that what he wanted, he supposed.

There was a one-way mirror stretching along the wall to his left; he could sense a myriad of presences behind it, none of them personally familiar. But they knew him—their gazes were hungry, heavy with hatred, as they filed in to see him standing ramrod straight in the centre of the room, eyes closed in some vague semblance of meditation.

He might die here. The Rebels might kill him.

No. They wouldn't.

Leia wouldn't let them.

Leia… she had the influence, surely, she wouldn't…

"Luke Skywalker," Mothma addressed him, when he sensed that all the onlookers had deigned to settle in their seats. He opened his eyes slowly, to nod at her—not deep enough for it to be respectful, but not shallow enough for it to be disrespectful. He did not miss how she'd intentionally omitted Prince from his title; she didn't recognise it as right.

That was alright. Luke didn't recognise it as right himself.

"Senator Mothma," he returned cordially, and took the faint surprise he sensed with satisfaction. No one in the Empire called her, or even acknowledged her as Senator anymore, not since her infamous rebellious parting speech and escape from Coruscant. "I am glad to meet you, though they are under," he pointedly shook his bound hands, "less than pleasant circumstances for me."

One of the guards hovering at his shoulder raised a hand to strike him for that, but Mothma's mouth twitched and she waved a hand. The guard grunted, but stepped back—but he didn't leave Luke's side.

"Don't even think about using any of your sorcery, Skywalker," he hissed in his ear. "Or I'll—"

"That is enough, thank you." Mothma's cool accent rang out in the room, sending chills through Luke's arms. She commanded presence, in the same yet totally opposite way his father did.

"I do regret these circumstances, Skywalker, and rest assured you will receive something to clean your face with once our meeting here is concluded." Mothma folded her hands behind her back. "But I assume you know why you are here."

Luke gave a wry smile. "I was kidnapped from the comfort of my own home and dragged halfway across the galaxy by a burglar?"

"You were captured."

"Indeed. And what is this, a trial?"

Mothma shifted uncomfortably—barely perceptibly uncomfortably, though, he'd give her that—and glanced to the mirror, then back again. "Of sorts."

"And what am I on trial for?" Luke asked in the ringing silence. "I did not raise a hand against Angel. I have never fought against the Rebellion. Why am I here?"

"You know full well why you are here, Skywalker."

"Because you want a hostage against my father?"

"In such callous terms, yes. To an extent. This 'trial' is more of deciding what to do with you." Mothma tilted her head. "You call Darth Vader your father, but you bear the name Skywalker. Am I to presume that your biological father was Anakin Skywalker?"

Luke frowned. This… wasn't where he'd thought it would be going. "Yes."

"A man who Vader reportedly killed?"

Reportedly. Luke let himself smile ironically at that, not caring how it looked to the onlookers—and it truly must have looked heartless, to smile at reports of his father's death—and nodded. "Yes."

"And yet you still worship and give your loyalty to Vader. Security holos show he is quite protective of you, and you hold strong affection to him. Are you so fond of the man who killed your father?"

"He raised me. Of course I love him." Luke enjoyed the collective flinch at hearing the L word applied to Vader. "The past is dead. My father is Vader."

That… that was the story they had always peddled, when Luke was old enough to understand the dissonance between his father's name and his own. Vader had wanted Luke to keep a unique name, until a time came he would want to change it, to honour his grandmother and be free… but he had wanted nothing to do with his own name, and Palpatine had wanted that a secret from the galaxy.

So Vader had adopted the child of the Jedi he'd murdered—whether it was for sentiment, for power, or simply because he could. He'd adopted him, supposedly, at age four or five, when Vader had finally allowed the public to know that his son existed. As far as the Rebels knew and assumed, the Empire had stolen him from wherever they'd gone to hide him—Tatooine, supposedly—and raised him as their own prince and weapon.

Interesting, he realised, how Angel was hardly the first secret of his identity he had had to keep from the world. He'd been swamped in it the moment he was born.

"And your mother? Is she dead too?"

Luke stilled at the question.

Gave Mothma a curious look.

She and Padmé had been friends, he remembered.

So he answered honestly: "I have visited her resting place on Naboo, yes."

There was a lot to unpack in that statement. Mothma's expression froze as she did, her lips tight, fixing him with a stern gaze.

Luke just changed the subject and said, "Now, if you don't mind, I don't understand what my family situation has to do with the situation, and I had assumed you were simply going to use me as a hostage—"

"So eager to be exploited, Skywalker?"

"Eager to return home if you want to ransom me, and if not just eager to know where I stand."

Ransom, hostage, interrogation… they had been what Luke had expected. But Mothma…

She, he expected, had been trying to recruit him.

Appeals to his dead Rebel mother, to his 'dead' Jedi father… she had definitely been trying to gauge if she could recruit him.

He wondered if he could tell her the truth.

He wondered if he could tell anyone the truth.

Would they believe him? Would they trust him? He doubted it.

And… there was also another, minor matter: could he trust them?

The Rebellion was pumped full of Imperial spies, from top to bottom; he didn't know how many were near to High Command, he didn't know how many could learn the truth if he revealed it now.

He couldn't tell them.

He… he couldn't tell them.

So, until then—

He lifted his chin haughtily. "I appreciate the chatter and the nostalgia, but I'm afraid that if you are trying to investigate if my feelings towards my Jedi father and pacifist, democracy-loving mother would leave me open to the idea of defecting then you are gravely mistaken."

Mothma's face fell.

Luke fixed her with a look. "Do what you want with me," he swore. "I will not betray my ideals."

I will not reveal myself, until I am certain.

I will not risk everything just because I am afraid.

Mothma sighed. "It is a shame that Padmé's son gained so much of her intelligence and wit, yet so little of her goodness."

Luke gritted his teeth—she couldn't have known how those words stung. Or she did, and it had been intentional.

She was a politician, after all.

"I think that was all we needed from you, Skywalker. We can discuss your situation without you present." Mothma gestured at the guards. "Take him a—"

"Wait!"

The doors burst open.

And when Luke whipped his head around to see who the newcomer was, he crashed into a wave of burning, furious light in the Force as a Togruta woman charged forwards.


Ahsoka took one look at Luke, Leia's beloved brother and Padmé's son—saw him chained to the pedestal, his face covered in blood, stiff and on edge, but still smiling and engaging and listening. Her heart panged. This was the boy Leia had described; she needed to— she needed to—

Mon was staring at her.

She needed to explain herself.

"Ma'am," Ahsoka said. "I don't know what you've already decided to do with the prince, but I assure you there is information you do not know that needs to be taken into account."

Ahsoka saw Luke blink in surprise—she considered nodding at him, reaching out in the Force, doing anything to acknowledge yes, I know who you are, I know what you have fought for and I know what you have done for us.

But she didn't want his reaction to make anything about this look suspicious.

She could feel Draven, Dodonna, Rieekan… everyone glaring at her through the one-way glass. She wasn't going to risk Luke's life to reassure him.

"Oh?" Mon folded her hands in front of her, clearly surprised—and rattled—but trusting Ahsoka enough to hear her out. "And what is that?"

"It's a piece of intelligence I came into in confidence, and I cannot…" She trailed off. "I cannot divulge it to you, or anyone, when I don't know how stringently the secret keeper wants to keep it—out of basic respect for them, and the weight of this. So I recommend you summon that person here, and they can testify themselves on what you should do with the prince."

Mon was frowning. Ahsoka—knowing that though she trusted Luke and knew that he was already aware of the situation, the Council would not be impressed at her namedropping a Rebel operative in front of an Imperial—stepped up to Mon's podium and murmured to her, "Summon Leia. There is so much to the situation that you don't know—that I don't know—and we need Leia here."

Mon looked her in the eye. "Are you certain, Ahsoka? The longer we keep Skywalker here, the bigger the risk. You know that; you know the risk to bring Leia here. Are you sure your attachment to his birth father isn't—"

"I am sure," Ahsoka said earnestly. "Believe me."

Mon raised her eyes to look back at Luke, who was staring studiously at the floor, like it held a thousand secrets.

"Take him back to his cell," she ordered. "And the Council will convene to discuss this more tomorrow." To Ahsoka, she muttered, "If Leia gets here soon enough."

Ahsoka watched Luke be dragged away, sensed the outrage coming from the Council—but all she felt was relief.

Once Leia was here, it would all be explained.

"Ma'am, from what I know about what happened here," Ahsoka said honestly, "I think she's already packing her bags."


It had all been fruitless.

Aphra had not yet replied to him, Palpatine would hear no more of his pain, and Luke…

Luke was still gone.

And as the sun sank over the buildings on Coruscant, Vader felt exhaustion wrap its downy wings around him. It had been… days. He wasn't sure. Luke had been gone for hours and days and rotations now, perhaps two or three, and Vader had neither slept nor stopped in that time. His son was out there, in danger. He needed to find him.

But he was drifting, and—what hurt the most—was that he could hear Luke's voice in his head, nagging him into getting some rest.

You will be no use if you collapse unconscious over a monitor, Father.

You can't rescue me if you're not in as good a shape as possible.

You can't stop looking after yourself just because of me.

He could, if it was necessary—he would.

But in this case, Luke was right.

There was nothing he could do. Nothing that being unconscious for eight hours would change.

That was exactly the problem—

Vader shouted the moment he brought the speeder to a halt in the hangar, nearly crashing it into the opposite wall, but—no. This was Luke's hangar, those were Luke's projects scattered about, he needed to leave them intact for if—when, when, when—he got back—

Vader exited the speeder so fast his cape flared behind him and strode inside, the extra stormtroopers he'd ordered for him home saluting the moment they saw him. He did not acknowledge them; they were lucky they were alive.

They had failed his son.

He was here to rest. He needed to be quick about it. Only the slightest bit of rest, then he would leave again, go right back to the search…

But he couldn't help but slow, as he entered the living room. His hand grasped the back of the sofa.

Hesitantly turning his mask. He could… feel Luke's presence here, the way he couldn't on the other end of the bond. He could feel him.

He could feel his absence.

His hand contorted on the sofa; the leather creaked. He didn't care.

Luke…

Suddenly, he moved again. He strode forwards, along the corridor, past his meditation room and past everywhere else, to Luke's room. One of the biggest in the apartment, with the most windows, the stunning view of the sunset and the glimmering, glittering city beyond it, speeders twinkling like pearls…

Vader looked around. The desk was still in disarray—blueprints Luke had been working on. The bed wasn't made. Luke's boots had been knocked over where he kicked them off in his haste, as always.

There… there was no one here.

Luke was here—so, so vividly. But he wasn't.

He was gone.

And as Vader sank down onto his bed, bending over almost double, chest spasming with the pain of the respirator not knowing how to sob… He feared that unless things improved, he always would be.