Chapter 13

I remember thinking rather innocently during the Revolution that Ben was the only thing that kept me going sometimes. Sometimes when my squadron lost pilots, or we had to rush for our lives to another base, or when the Empire won yet another battle, my own hopes and dreams were hardly enough to get me to wake up in the morning, and the thought of saving Leia for the good of the Galaxy almost seemed a vain effort. Ben, however, reminded me that, no matter what, these worlds I fought above had a future, had countless children on them, human and otherwise, and if I ever won this war…I would win it for them. Ben brought that reaction out in many who encountered him. Han called it "the power of kids."

Ben hasn't lost that power, I think. Anikin has it, too.

We're alone in the Organa-Solo apartment, and I know that I should be encouraging the boys to do their homework, but when I think of the universe as a whole, time racing ahead, unfathomable and abstract to we mortals, unstoppable, speeding faster and faster and youth and peace slipping away into the cooling ashes of dying stars…how important is homework, anyway? Besides, I never did my homework when I was their age—nagging them would be hypocritical. At least, these are the excuses I give myself for playing flight sims and wrestling with my boys, thus neglecting my responsibilities as a "babysitter."

Anikin's a little stand-offish, still. He murmurs a few words from time to time, hesitantly piloting the virtual ships as well as Ben does though nearly four years younger, blue eyes staring intensely at the hologram before them. This is a boy who sees everything. I'm sure he notices the problems between Han and Leia far better than his brother does; maybe—I think with an unsettled feeling—even sees me for what I am. Maybe…maybe it's not only good eyes and keen observation skills…maybe he's Force sensitive. When I was a child, I was tuned to the Force naturally, which ebbed away as I grew older, and I had to learn again. Ben is—I know that. I don't think he knows anything about it, but as I was learning to listen to the Force during the Revolution, I became more and more aware of my step-son's power, but somehow it did not occur to me until later, soon before I left, that something had to be done about it, one way or another. And the way I chose for Ben was never to mention to him and his mother the potential that he had—has—for fear that he would become like our father. Like I did.

I don't like touching the Force, and if I'm high I can't anyway—drugs dim the Force sense. But I have to know about Anikin. I open up to it, and it's like opening one's eyes after having them closed a long while, like turning on the light when one wakes up. It hurts, and I ease into it carefully, pointing my senses at Anikin.

And then I haven't only turned on the light, I'm staring straight at the glowpanel, being blinded.

I stifle a gasp and turn my awareness back off.

Oh my…fucking stars….

I have never sensed anything like that before. It's as if, in the eyes of the Force, the boy is made of light. So amazingly powerful…and so pristine.

But how can that be? We're lucky he isn't somehow miss-developed, even luckier that he's smart and strong as well, beautiful, even. But even if he is genetically and developmentally sound—perfect—shouldn't his Force-presence be cursed for the way he was created? Shouldn't he feel wrong, dirty, dark?

But he's perfect in every way I can comprehend, every way I'm capable of seeing.

And his power…the sheer magnitude of it. I'll have to keep an eye on him, gently restrain him if he starts to use it. With that much potential, he could be another, worse, Vader.

Why is my son so blessed? So damned?

I shake my head in wonder as Anikin, with s great deal of difficulty, but in one try, gets past the infamous "asteroids part." Ben exclaims in exasperation, "How'd you do that?"

But I know how. This is a problem.

There will be plenty of time to dwell on that later, I suppose. For now, Ben tackles me from the back of the living room couch and I flip him gently onto his back. He laughs, and I laugh back. This is it—"the power of kids." In a way, I've almost been ill since that night on Degoba, or perhaps since Bespin, but even people with terminal illnesses—real ones—feel better when they laugh, when kids are around. Something inside me is waking up, and I wonder if the darkness I've shrouded myself in was not to cover up or hide from the light—maybe the darkness was just an absence of light, of love. Maybe to heal, I didn't need to keep running or trying to forget the past. Maybe the emptiness simply needs to be filled.

My train of thought, which was becoming profound enough to lose myself in, derails suddenly when Anikin drops the holo-controller and tackles me as his brother had. I gasp. This is the first time he's touched me, and the closest I've ever come to touching him was when I'd tried in vain to feel him move, hand on Leia's belly, early in her pregnancy. For a minute I freeze, startled, but then I flip him carefully onto the floor, too, and he giggles an amazing, sweet little laugh, and I see my own smile on his face. I sigh happily.

The boys wear me out completely—I'm not nearly as strong or energetic as I once was. It's amazing how quickly my fighting skills come back to me, however, though I'm only mock-dueling with my sons. They both have quick enough reflexes to keep me on my toes, and are both stronger than their small stature would suggest.

I manage not to burn the pre-packaged soup and rolls I make for them, and after dinner Anikin obediently does his homework Ben needs a lot more coxing, and I almost want to let him off the hook, for his own sake and because I feel as if I shouldn't be left in charge of anything and I seem to enjoy proving it. But not with my kids. They need to be cared for, so they don't turn out badly the way I did, the way Vader did.

I tell Ben that he can stay up a little past his bedtime as long as he stays in bed and reads quietly. He seems satisfied with that and picks out a book, gives me a huge hug and says, "'Night, Dad," heartfeltly. "Will you come back soon?"

I don't like making promises, but I can't say no to those eyes when they're in his mother's head, nor can I when they're in his. "I promise. Go to sleep, okay?"

"I will."

Good enough. I close the door, but Ben calls out before it's fully shut. "Love you, Dad."

First Anikin's power, then his touch. Now Ben says he loves me. How much can I handle in one night? I need spice suddenly, and I feel the weight of the box in my pocket, but I take a deep breath instead and say, "I love you, too, Ben."

I make a similar deal about bedtimes with Anikin, but he says he doesn't want to be left alone. "Why not?" I ask

"I have bad dreams," he hesitantly admits.

A very small amount of adrenaline rushes through my veins, as if I could protect him from his own subconscious. But he's my son—I want to protect him from everything. "What about?"

He shakes his head frantically, and I understand. "It's all right," I say as comfortingly as I can. "You don't have to tell me. I'll stay with you."

I read him a few fairy tales from a book he has, and then I tell him about a real-life young hero who rescued a princess, something that could have happened to me in a past life or a dream it seems to me now, so far removed is Luke the frightened and angry recluse from Luke the would-be Jedi Knight. "Was that you and Mom, Dad?" he asks.

He called me "Dad." My heart soars. The fourth wondrous and frightening thing that's happened today. I nod. "A long time ago."

"Before I was born, right? Before Ben was born."

I nod again.

"Was it love at first sight, like in the fairy tales?"

I don't want to think about that, about the way, every time I look at her, I tingle all over. I look into Anikin's bright eyes, my eyes, on his Leia-shaped face. If some things I had never learned, I could be tucking this boy in every night, amazed at what mine and Leia's love had created. But the memory of it makes me momentarily frightened of the boy again.

"Go to sleep, huh?" I murmur, pulling the blankets up to his chin. I turn to leave.

"Dad!"

I spin back around, startled by the small voice's intensity.

"Don't leave, Dad. I'm scared," he murmurs quickly, in a panic. His voice breaks slightly and his eyes glass over with unformed tears.

That, I cannot handle. Seeing Leia cry tears me apart; seeing Ben cry breaks my heart; but seeing my little Anikin cry for the first time nearly kills me. It's unbearable.

I realize it's the old Luke talking—the afore mentioned would-be Jedi. The hero Luke. It's been years since making anyone cry has done anything but delight me. But I can't do it to children, to my children. That's the power they hold.

"I'll stay with you. Don't worry," I say in a hurry, trying to keep those tears in his eyes, because if they start streaming down his cheeks, I don't know what I'll do. I sit back on his bed where I'd been reading to him and turn off the light.

He sighs contently, all signs of trauma ebbing away. I lay beside him, over the covers, watching his breathe as he falls asleep. I brush blond bangs out of his eyes—too long by a centimeter or so, despite looking well kept up by his mother—and he smiles. Something swells in my chest to see how like me but so much more angelic he is, and I realize it's love. I kiss his forehead and whisper, "I love you, Anikin." He doesn't stir.

I admit it, I love him. Maybe I can hate how he was created and still love him. After all, he's amazing, impossible not to love.

Laying next to my son, I slowly fall into a happy, exhausted sleep.