I'd always intended for him to take care of her after I left. I suppose I knew that something would happen between them, but I still didn't want it to. As I was preparing to leave my life with Leia and the Alliance behind, my feelings were so confused and mixed that I had my drive to leave and not much else. All at once, I needed to be free of my past, but at the same time, I had to give it a parting gesture. I said goodbye to Leia. I thought about going to say goodbye to Han, but I couldn't–I was still angry at him. And what was I supposed to say?

I didn't pack bags. I didn't tell anyone besides Leia that I was going. I left Artoo and my X-wing. I left a message of formal resignation for Alliance command because, just incase I survived my confrontation with Vader, I didn't want to face a court marshal. I cut off my hair–I couldn't say why, exactly, except that it is tradition on many worlds to cut ones hair in mourning, and that perhaps I was in mourning for the Jedi and child I'd been. I knew I'd changed, and that the change had been coming ever so slowly since I left Tatooine, accelerated four months ago when I'd confronted Vader, and was now almost complete. I didn't know my own reflection as I inspected the job I'd done, a pile long wisps of fine dark blond hair on the bathroom counter before me. This man was not Luke Skywalker. Luke Skywalker had bright eyes, and a tan, and too-long, messy hair, and a smile, wore a commander's uniform. The man in the mirror had dull grey-blue eyes and scars across his face from a fairly recent Wampa battle, looked pale and wan, lost, all in black. I was in very good shape from training with Yoda, but I still looked unhealthy. Because my muscle tone couldn't disguise the sick soul within. And I knew it. I almost welcomed it, just to stop fighting. Yes, the darkness would take me. That was inevitable at this point, I knew. But it didn't mean victory for the Empire. Or the Jedi. I wasn't playing their game anymore. This battle would be fought on my terms.

I couldn't eat for fear of nausea whenever I thought about her. I couldn't sleep for fear that I would dream myself in her arms, dreams which caused me to awake in fits of panic and hatred of a mind that could still subconsciously long for her after what I'd learned. Even then, I wouldn't let myself think the word incest, and I can't to this day. After cutting my hair off and trying to sleep, I knew that I would simply have to be on my way, and have it done. I was so afraid, but it was time.

Han. I had to say something to him, to let him know that I was leaving for a reason. One way or another, he had to know why. I thought maliciously that perhaps knowing every detail of our fucked-up family might give him pause when moving in on my territory after I left, maybe repel him enough to keep him away. But that was not the point. The point was, that he was part of this, too, like it or not. He slept with Leia, he claimed friendship to both of us, and he'd always been like an uncle to Ben. He had to carry the burden, too. And he had to understand.

Partly in cowardice, partly out of need to put my thoughts in order, I left him a note on his bunk on the Falcon, in my messy script, in a fury before I tore myself away from this life forever. I tried to write neatly at first, knowing that he often complained about not being able to read my handwriting, but something began to poses me as I wrote it all down–some things that he had no need to know, things that I couldn't tell Leia, feelings and thoughts and wishes. It was because, regardless of what had happened between him and Leia, I knew that I could trust him with my thoughts and confidence. Not with my wife, but somehow with my soul.

I never talked to him about the scribbled, tear-stained farewell note. I can scarcely believe I had the courage to even leave it for him, so passionate it was. But I had to do it. I closed with:

I know all of this doesn't quite make any sense, and I guess it's partly my fault–I didn't try to write this all that clearly. But try to understand why I'm gone, as I will be by the time you read this. If I live, I'll let you and Leia know somehow, but I don't want to see either of you again. I'm sorry–forgive me. This is what I have to do. Take care of her and Ben...and the new one. Don't tell Ben or my son any of this, I beg you. And don't dwell on me, especially when you talk to them. It would be better if I was forgotten, as all of this–you, Leia, Ben, the Alliance, the Jedi–will be to me in time. I'm not the boy you knew–understand that. There's nothing left inside me to miss.

Just promise me that you'll take care of her.

–Luke

After I'd stopped crying, and left the letter, written on at least ten pieces of flimsy, folded on his bed, I stopped to wonder if I really did want him to take care of her. I wanted to know she was safe, though at the same time I didn't want her to be. But if another man was going to have Leia, then it should be Han.

I brought no baggage aboard the pint-size Alliance transport I stole, at least not in the physical sense. I had the clothes on my back, and my lightsaber. That was all. Now, even those are gone. But non-physical past doesn't get left behind so easily. I don't know what I'd expected after the confrontation if I lived, but I suppose I'd hoped that I could start over. Three months later, I found that a new apartment and clothes didn't help, but a bottle of rum did somewhat. But in hyperspace on the shuttle, rushing off to intercept the Executer, I was optimistic in comparison. I wasn't going to survive. And if I did, Luke Skywalker wasn't going to exist anymore. It turned out to be a lot harder than that.

I don't know why I have trouble saying no to Han, but last night when he called and asked me to pick up the boys from school today, I said yes. I wanted to say no–gods know I did–but it was either the soft tone in his voice or the memory of the light in Anikin's eyes that made me consent. It's been almost a week since I've seen either of them, or had any contact with their parents. When Han called, his first question was, "Where ya been?" as if he expects me to suddenly be able to be part of their lives again after how long I've tried to forget everything about it. It's not as easy as that, Han.

I'm as sober as I get, walking to the Imperial Palace. The night after I saw my boys...and Leia...was hard. Very. And the only way I know how to deal with hard situations is to push them into the oblivion of spice. But the next morning I awoke with the resolve to try, for their sake, to cut back. I'm not helping anything with this, after all, if the very things I'm trying to forget are part of my life again. I'm only hurting them. So today I've only had two sticks, and it's already almost sundown. That's the best I've done in months. I can feel the signs of withdrawal coming, but it's not too bad yet, and I fight it.

Parents stand in the outdoor play-yard waiting for their children. I stand among them, anxious around the big group of people. My first thought in groups is always, "Will they recognize me?" But they don't. I'm sure the occasional person does, but brushes it off, with a "he probably only looks like him" sort of sentiment. I pull the collar of my coat up, blocking out the winter wind as well as blocking much of my face from view, stuffing my gloved hands into my pockets. Winter on Corruscant is so cold, it almost makes me long for Tatooine. Almost.

The kids' school's entrance sits on the south wall of the Palace, the yard on one of the massive ramparts that wind around the building. It's intended as a school for the children of those living in the Palace, those involved in the new government centered there. I'm supposed to pick up both boys–Han didn't say why, but Anikin doesn't have play practice today–and take them home, play with them and make them dinner, and generally hang around until Han and Leia get back from a senate meeting. Apparently, my function in this family is babysitter. I sigh, thinking it wasn't fair for me to dismiss it like that. There are plenty of people Han and Leia could have asked to babysit, but they asked me because naturally a father and his sons would want to spend time together. And they know I need an excuse as a little nudge. This ought to be fun–I can hardly take care of myself, and somehow I have to cook for and look after a ten- and seven-year-old for three and a half hours. I'm supposed to call Chewbacca if anything goes wrong, or if I need any help, but I won't be doing that. I haven't seen Chewie in seven years and that's bound to be an awkward interaction. I'll just have to manage on my own.

The kids start to pour out of the double doors, most of them under six, born in the first months of peace after the Revolution's end. Ben isn't the only older child, but the others belong to people who became involved with the Republic after the war, because no one in their right mind would have had a child during the war–I think rather ironically–except an ill-fated princess and her lover, an overly idealistic farmboy. Ben spots me across the yard and breaks from his class' line in excitement, almost dropping his school bag as he runs into my arms. We hold each other tight for a long moment and I wonder, as I feel his soft, dark hair against my cheek, how he could be so blind to the fact that I'm not the father that he remembers, that I'm not much of a father at all, anymore. I'm sure as hell going to do my best tonight, though. I set down some rules for myself for the night: no spice until I get home–I can hold out; no sulking or thinking about the past–in other words, try to let go of everything not Ben and Anikin; and, lastly, make an attempt to interact with Anikin. The sooner I do it, the easier it will be.

Anikin comes walking across the yard with a friend, a dark-haired girl about his own age, laughing and talking. I ask Ben the girl's name. "Tamin Antillies," he answers.

"Antillies? Is...is Wedge her father?"

Ben nods.

Well, that came out of nowhere. Wedge hadn't been involved with anyone when I left, and now a beautiful auburn-haired young woman is picking up their daughter from school. I almost want to go introduce myself to the girl and her mother, ask how Wedge is...but it's too much. Maybe someday, but not today. It's too hard. "Do any of the other kids belong to people I know?"

"Lando has a little boy. But he doesn't live on planet. He's annoying, anyway. A lot of the other kid's moms and dads are Republic pilots like you were."

Anikin says goodbye to Tamin and approaches me timidly. He takes Ben's hand and doesn't meet my eyes. It doesn't bother me–it's almost comforting that I'm not the only one who's apprehensive about tonight–Ben sure isn't. He looks up at last and gives me a tiny smile before looking away. I know I need to say something, but what? Anikin, I'm at least as scared of you as you are of me. Anikin, I'm sorry I left your mother to have you on her own. Anikin, I know I never can make up for the past seven years, but I'll try. Anikin, you weren't supposed to happen, but I think I might love you anyway....

"How was school?" I ask.