Written for Angstober Days 10: Apathy and 19: Cowardice.
Luke crashed and woke up in luxury. The bed was genuinely one of the softest things he'd ever lain on, and the room itself was even more indulgent. A wide set of glass double doors opened onto what looked to be a balcony; a blue sky and a lake glittered beyond the wrought-iron railing. Plants sprung green and fresh from every corner, and he could hear the low hum of conversation just on the other side of the door.
He sat up in the bed. The heavy sheets fell down to his waist, and he noticed the delicate, handstitched pattern of rose trellises that flowered over the throw.
"Hello?" he called shyly. The conversation ceased.
"Is that him?"
"He's awake—"
The door to the balcony creaked open; two women stepped inside. A sliver of buttery sunlight fell on him before they fixed the gauzy curtains back in place; it seeped into his chest like something close to affection.
He studied the women who hovered at the foot of the bed, apparently too shy or awkward to speak first. One was older than the other, but their resemblance made him guess they must be mother and daughter. The mother had silver hair tied back in a neat bun and a long, dark blue dress with wide sleeves. The daughter looked to be in her forties, with curly hair that fell around her face and a pale blue tunic. Both of them were staring at him intently.
"Are you Luke Skywalker?" the mother asked first.
His name was a dangerous thing to bandy around, but if they were enemies of the Alliance they'd probably have killed him already. Or, at least, called the Empire on him. So, he nodded. "I am." He looked around. "What happened? The last thing I remember is flying to assist a Gungan call for aid—"
"Your ship crashed in the lake," the daughter supplied helpfully, sitting down in an armchair that faced the dressing table. "We're holidaying here and found you half-dead, clinging to a scrap of driftwood."
"Sorry to ruin your holiday," he croaked.
"Far from it, Luke," she said, and, against all reason, smiled.
"My squadron," he said slowly. They'd been flying to the Gungans' aid, and then the TIEs had roared out of nowhere. They'd cut through them with an almost insulting ease, driving plenty to the ground for capture before shooting them down, and— "I need to go, my men—"
"They're not your concern."
"I'm their commander, of course they're my concern."
The two women exchanged a look. "He does remind me of her," the daughter said to the mother.
"What does that mean?" Luke asked, a little heatedly. He caught himself. "I mean—I'm sorry. Thank you for rescuing me, and for your hospitality. But I need to go."
"Please," the mother said, sitting down on his other side. "Not just yet."
"My name's Sola Naberrie," the daughter said. "This is my mother, Jobal. We knew Anakin Skywalker."
It was slightly embarrassing how quickly that got his attention. "You did?" He leaned forwards eagerly. "How well did you know him?"
"I only met him once or twice," Sola admitted. "He probably wouldn't mention me. He would probably mention my sister, though."
"I wouldn't know," Luke said. "He died when I was a baby."
Jobal stared. "Then who raised you?"
"My aunt and uncle."
"Who?" She sounded offended.
Luke grew hot with offence in return. "My father's stepbrother on Tatooine. Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru. I grew up there—Ben Kenobi kept an eye on me."
"Why didn't you grow up here?"
"What?"
Sola looked just as angry. But she calmed herself before Jobal could carry herself away in her rage. "Do you know who your mother was?" she asked.
Luke shook his head. "Aunt Beru remembered meeting a woman my father visited with once, but she wasn't sure it was her and struggled to remember her name."
"What was her name?"
"I said she couldn't remember." Luke furrowed his brows. "Something like— Pam. Pad—"
"Padmé," Jobal finished, her voice shaking.
"Possibly." The name tasted strange on his tongue. He couldn't tell whether that was a good thing or not. "Padmé."
Jobal said, "Padmé was my daughter."
Luke's mouth dropped open.
Sola added, "At her funeral, the morticians made her look like she was still pregnant. Probably to protect you. But we had no idea you had survived."
Luke swallowed. "You're sure that she was with my father?"
"I never saw her act like that with anyone else," Jobal said with a fondness that seemed to hurt.
"I did," Sola said. "But not for a long time by the time she met Anakin again." She nodded. "You're my nephew."
"Why weren't you brought to us?" Jobal asked sharply. "We— we had the resources to take care of you! We could've cared for you!"
"We couldn't have hidden you," Sola realised. "That was why you were sent to Tatooine."
Jobal glanced at her. "This is an injustice, Sola. The Jedi—"
"Were trying to protect me," Luke said fiercely. He blinked. This was surreal. Even if something told him it was the truth, his brain refused to comprehend it. "I… yeah. I'm sorry we haven't met before, Jobal."
"I'm your grandmother."
"Grandmother." That tasted strange on his tongue, as well. Grandma Shmi had died before he was born, and Grandpa Cliegg not long after.
But he smiled. She teared up, smiled, and took his hand in return.
"It's nice to meet you," he said.
"When we saw the bounty for you… Anakin Skywalker's son… My galaxy changed. Twenty years without her. But you lived." She squeezed his hand. "Anakin's brother raised you, you say? Can I meet them?"
Luke's throat went dry.
"No," he said. "They're dead too. I didn't think I had any family left."
Sola went white. "Dead?"
"Stormtroopers executed them." He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. "They bought the wrong droid."
"So, you joined the Rebellion," Jobal said. Her tone was a little dull.
"Well, events spiralled, then I blew up the Death Star. There wasn't really much going back." He shivered at the memory. It had just been one trauma after another for several days. "Even Biggs—my childhood friend—died at Yavin."
"Everyone died? You had nowhere else to go?" Sola asked. Luke shook his head.
Jobal patted his hand. "Well, you do now," she decided. "You should stay here. The queen gifted us this manor after Padmé died—we holiday here to remember her, when we can, even now that my husband's gone—and we have plenty of room for you. This," she glanced around sadly, "used to be Padmé's room."
Another shiver ran through him. He didn't know how to feel about that, knowing he was lying in his dead mother's bed.
"I'd love to come and visit," he said. "But I—" He faltered at Jobal's look. "I need to get back to the Alliance. My ship must be destroyed, but I know a few codes to get back, they need me—"
"Another one," Jobal muttered.
"Mum," Sola warned.
"My squadron—that's the first thing I need to do." Luke swung his legs over the bed. "How long have I been out?"
"Three days," Sola supplied. "You had a lot of cuts and bruises, but bacta fixed them up." He could feel the tenderness of the skin around his torso and limbs. "Mainly it was exhaustion that took you out, I think."
"Three days? They'll either be with the Gungans or executed already. I need to—"
Jobal closed a hand around his wrist. "You don't need to do anything," she said sternly. "You're injured."
"Not anymore, you healed me—and thank you for that. I really appreciate it."
"It's dangerous, Luke."
"That's exactly why I need to go, Grandma"—he saw her face harden at the title, fixing her resolve—"my men need me."
"Your family needs you," she hissed. "We only just recovered you—we've barely discovered you're alive. We haven't even taken a blood test to prove it yet!"
Luke stilled. "You don't believe in the Alliance," he said slowly.
"It's not that, Luke," Sola tried.
"Even after the Empire killed your daughter and her partner."
"Don't condescend to me. I know what the Empire is."
"Then you know how important it is to fight it!"
"I know that it gets people killed for nothing," she bit out. "My daughter is dead, as is her partner, as you said. My granddaughter ignored all my warnings and went to the Senate like her aunt to defy Palpatine, and now she's locked away in some prison on Coruscant. For all we know, she's dead. My husband is dead, from the stress of all this mess! And my other granddaughter—"
"Leave Ryoo out of this, Mother," Sola ordered.
"—is just as reckless. Every time she goes to another one of those protests she risks discovery. I am not letting this war take more of my family from me."
"You don't care about the cause, then?" Luke stared at her. "The Empire is evil."
"That doesn't mean that you have to do something about it."
Luke had never been one for politics as much as Leia had, but he'd heard her rants. Every time, he'd been shocked by what she said. By the main reason people didn't want to join a rebellion they agreed with wholeheartedly.
Apathy.
Apathy and cowardice.
"You're afraid," he said.
"Of course I'm afraid! Only a fool wouldn't be."
"That doesn't stop me," he said.
She hadn't risen from her seat, so he was taller than her as he stood, but somehow she still looked down her nose at him. "And you would have died had we not been there," she said. "I do not consider that a sensible course of action."
"Do you not care?" Luke burst out. "You don't want anyone to bother to do anything? Do you not care about the people the Empire has hurt?"
"Luke, of course she cares—"
"I am one of those people, Luke," Jobal informed him. "And I have reached my limit of empathy. I have nothing left to give."
Luke swallowed. "Then I'm sorry for that, Grandma," he said. "But I have much more to give." He turned to Sola. "What did you do with my clothes?" He was wearing silk pyjamas right now, which were very comfortable, but not war-appropriate attire.
"Burned them," his aunt said. "But I'll find you some clothes. Darred always overpacks anyway." She stood up. "Come with me."
"Please, Luke," Jobal pleaded. "Don't make me bury you too."
Luke paused on the threshold of the room, just behind Sola. Jobal hadn't risen from her chair, but she was watching him with dark eyes.
"I'll come back, Grandma," he said softly. "Don't worry about that. I'll be the one who lives."
Jobal hesitated, her face a rictus of disapproval. But she lifted her chin and pointed with it. "Open that drawer."
Hesitating only momentarily, Luke opened it. It was full of scarves. He dug a little bit, and underneath them he found—
A gleaming silver pistol.
"That was Padmé's," she said. "If you intend to rescue your squadron from the jaws of Imperial imprisonment, you'll need a weapon. May it bring you luck, as it did her." She paused. "It had better be good luck, this time."
Luke nodded and slid his hand around the grip. It was cool and light in his palm. "Thank you, Grandma," he said, and slipped out of the room.
He didn't see her again for another four years. But that was alright. By then, they had a lot to talk about, many tears to cry, and one more lost granddaughter to add to her family.
