By the next evening, thankfully, Vader had deigned to arrive.

Artoo came screeching in from watch duty while they were eating dinner, and neither Luke nor Threepio could provide enough words to keep up with him as he chattered. Long after he'd finished his shouts Threepio was still stumbling out, "Vader—on—ridge—below—short—while—away—"

He was here.

Artoo tracked them all as they set up camp, a tiny blue speck against the violet sky, and fed information back like a bird carrying worms to its chicks. The tensions in the camp had leapt from bored, subdued and melancholy to tense as a drawn bowstring within moments. Suddenly Luke was strapping on his darkest clothes—black dye was expensive, so he'd been saving this set—and hiding a few precious blades on himself.

"Take one of Ahsoka's shortswords," Leia insisted. "Or my pistols."

"They're not exactly subtle," Luke pointed out, eyeing the barrels.

"Then take the shortswords. I can't believe you travel around without a weapon. Have you not—"

"I avoid trouble. I don't run headfirst for it."

Leia gave him a look and they both burst out laughing.

"I have my knives. I know how to use them. If needs be."

"And you know how to use magic."

"I won't use magic to attack anyone. Not even Vader." He wondered how soon he'd be going against that statement.

Leia let out an exasperated breath but nodded. "Not even Vader," she scoffed.

His darker clothes were full of pockets, and he padded them all with stuff he might need—the sheathed blades, ropes, silent whistles. He didn't know yet, stealth wasn't his expertise, but he had spent months moving through the continent undetected. He could move through the camp undetected, surely.

But he would have to leave his pack behind.

No matter how much denial he'd always been in, he knew that now. He would have to leave…

He'd been staring at the bag for too long. Ahsoka was watching him. Leia was watching him.

"Take care of it?" he asked, and his voice cracked. "Don't take it away from here."

"We will," Ahsoka promised, and Threepio echoed the sentiment.

"We will!"

He could trust them. He could trust them. He could trust them.

He had to trust them.

And if they broke their word, and took it elsewhere, as well they should? And if they were all killed and Vader came to find it?

There was nothing he could do about that. Nothing.

There was nothing he could do but do his best.

The Codex would be here when he came back. He had to hope for that outcome, even if he didn't know if it was certain.

"You know that I'll protect it for you," Leia said, squeezing his shoulder. After their conversation last night, she seemed far more sympathetic. "With my life."

That was one thing he could know, if he chose to trust it. He did.

He inclined his head, rather than choke out his thanks. Then he turned his gaze towards the road, barren and white as bone

"Let's go," he said.

The men on watch were playing cards. They were being quiet—quiet enough for their compatriots to sleep—but still hissing, crying out, bemoaning their luck. Of the three of them, the tallest man seemed to be raking in all the coins. Coruscanti crescents, by their silver gleam under the moonlight.

"I think yellow birds are symbols of bad luck," one of them complained. "There was that yellow one on Little Corel we was meant to be hunting, then we lost the brat and lost my two favourite daggers as well."

"The parakeet old Kreel was giving you hell about?"

"Yeah! That one! And now I see a yellow bird flitting around here and lose all my money." He pushed away the share he had lost and stood up. "I'm gonna patrol the perimeter, I don't have to stay here and get skint."

Luke, crouching low in the bushes and creeping around, froze.

"You don't have to," the tall man said, shuffling the cards again. From the shuffling style, that was sabaac. Luke had lost count of the number of times he'd played that in Tatooine. "But you know you want to."

The soldier from Little Corel wavered, then sat down again with an angry red flush. "Deal fair this time," he snapped.

Luke let out a sigh of relief and crept back around.

With them thoroughly distracted by the next rigged round, he crept along the bushes, biting his tongue to keep from cursing when he pricked himself. He looked down. They were blackberry bushes, picked clean of fruit.

Hungry soldiers, he supposed, and left it at that.

He got several threads caught on the bush as he tried to disentangle himself, and they trailed behind him like shadows when he finally clambered over it and landed, light on his feet, between two pitched tents. He could hear the coarse snores and snuffles of the soldiers sleeping within, and listened. The air vibrated around him, magnifying sounds: he heard pacing, the arguing gamblers… and he heard the shimmers that magic left on the air when it was used, like residual energy not sure where to go next. He followed the song to the centre of the camp, where there was a bigger tent—the strategy tent. It must be.

From the stillness in the air, and only the pungent scent of wet canvas and paper, no one was inside. He glanced around him, the tents pale ghosts looming under the moon, then seized the air and stilled it further. Not a sound rippled out as he gently lifted the door, glanced around—no one—and crept inside.

The tent seemed larger on the inside than the outside, and bore a table, chairs, a great map of the continent. Luke couldn't help but note that it looked exactly like the Empire's set up for major battles, like the invasion of Naboo he'd grown up studying and mourning. He wasn't sure whether to be flattered or horrified that he and his Codex apparently merited such a force.

And on the table too, sat a stack of papers. Books. Was there…

He stepped forwards, loosening his grip on the air particles in his eagerness. His footsteps fell heavy upon the ground and he tensed, glancing around, craning his neck. But no one came. The wind stirred the tent and no one came.

Good. Good. Vader must be sleeping in a different tent—in hindsight, that made sense, what sort of obsessive general would sleep in the public strategy tent?—and that made it less likely for him to have been heard. He glanced at the four loose sides of the tent again, clocked that he was alone here, the place was empty save for the table, and stepped forwards.

Tugged the pile of books towards him.

He lifted the first one. A book of maps of the southern part of the continent—Naboo, Coruscant, Chandrila. Printed by the nascent presses he'd heard Coruscant was starting to develop, the writing stick-straight and the letters standing separate from each other. Some of the maps were even recognisable as having been the product of a Codex or another, Jedi handiwork written all over them in their ornate style, their colours, the conventions they'd used, which set a fire low in his chest. But no. Those Jedi had already been killed and pillaged in the name of the Empire, their guts and brains slapped on printed maps to be picked time and time again. He needed to retrieve his own piece before he could worry about anyone else's.

There were letters—letters from the Emperor, from other leaders, from Naboo. None were penned in his mother's hand, which he took a stab of vicious amusement from—she had not deigned to respond to him herself. But they were all painfully official documents, so perfectly pointed one had to wonder what was beneath them.

He put them aside. They weren't what he was looking for, and time was not an infinite resource. The other papers slipped between his fingers, but nothing was there; he grunted, unwittingly, in frustration as he twisted around…

Surely Vader didn't sleep next to the heart-map, right? He must have left it in the strategy tent somewhere…

There.

There it was.

One of the chairs cradled a leather satchel, and in it he could…feel the map. He'd made it. He'd poured his love and own desires into it, painstakingly mapped out the world that had shaped him. Just as he knew where his hands were without looking, the way he could feel his heart beating in his chest, he could feel his heart-map. It was in that bag.

He stepped forwards, picked up the bag, tugged the map out a few inches—and stopped when he felt a cool steel tip at the side of his neck.

"I wondered why you had stopped moving, letting us catch up to you," Vader said softly. He could hold the air for silence as well; when he released it, it was like a small sonic boom. It ruffled Luke's, tugged a few strands free from his bun. "Turning to petty thievery now?"

"If what I'm taking was petty, you wouldn't have stolen it in the first place," Luke replied levelly. He was suddenly hyperaware of the hard, unbending blades shoved against forearms, shins and thighs. The tip of Vader's blade was growing colder and colder, like Vader's fury leeched all love and energy from the world around him. "Which kind of negates my thievery as well, anyway. Doesn't it?"

Vader hadn't impaled him yet. Luke knew why. "Tell me where the Codex is."

"I don't have it," he said honestly.

"Obviously. You're small enough that you couldn't fit it on your person. So I want to know where you stashed it." The tip dug in, just deep enough to draw a spot of blood. It touched the blade and ran down the groove at the centre like a baptism. "Otherwise, when you don't return, it will be food for the worms and kindling for lost travellers in need of a quick fire."

Luke thought of Leia, promising to keep it safe. He didn't have any choice but to trust her. He had to trust her.

He could trust her.

"Parchment burns quickly and easily. You should know." He couldn't resist the jab. "It wouldn't be much of a fire."

"Desperate people do desperate things. Which explains why you are here." The cold, cold blade began to heat up now—he winced, and it was hot against his neck. He fingered the knife in his sleeve, barely longer than his index finger. "And why you are going to tell me where it is."

"It's a good thing I don't know, then." When he didn't return, Leia would take it far away. He had faith in her. She would take it back to Alderaan, and it would be safe until the Empire came knocking there, too.

Vader stilled. "You don't know?"

"I don't know anything," he confirmed. For the first time, that sounded like a weapon.

It wasn't his only weapon.

He yanked away from the sword tip, counting on Vader's momentary shock at his disintegrating plans to draw the knife and throw it. It would have bounced off Vader's armour, but Vader wasn't wearing armour, he noticed. He was in soft sleepwear, white cotton, and where Luke's knife had dug in, his bicep was seeping dark red.

Vader's too-familiar face contorted into a snarl that resembled nothing of Luke's expressions. He flicked his wrist to set his sword aflame and lunged.

Luke dived to the side—a moment too slow. The burning blade raked down his back, hissing through his leather clothes, carving up skin like a winter roast. He stifled a cry, hit the ground and rolled. Blood tracked in his wake.

He got back to his feet and backed away from Vader, teeth gritted. The pain was unbearable but he bore through it, pushed through it, feeling the charred edges of his skin and the red splashes up his back and willing them to tingle, to knit together, the cells zipping back in line as he pushed them into overdrive…

Vader stalked away him. There was none of the bitter humour or smugness that had been in his face during their last encounter. He was tired, exhausted, and unamused.

"I think you are lying to me. You have guarded that Codex with your life for years—you certainly know where it is. But if you know nothing, or will not tell me where you have hidden it," he said, "then it's time to finally put you out of my misery."

Luke yelped and dodged the next attack, but Vader was faster than him. One sweep of his leg and Luke, off-balance, went down, making sure to roll again, lashing out with his hands for the air to thicken and slow his fall. For the air to thicken and slow the swipe of Vader's next strike, so Luke ducked before he was beheaded. And again. And again—

Vader roared and threw off the effect. The air turned slick as oil and Luke tumbled back, grimacing. Scrambled to his feet as Vader towered above him, aimed his next knife—

It struck Vader in the stomach. He doubled over, snarling, and Luke dived past him. The white map across the table was sprayed with Vader's blood and Luke leapt onto it, over it, to try to get back to his heart-map.

But Vader knew how to heal himself too. He was up again in a moment, and the sword came down in a flash of flame.

The map caught with the heat of it. The table cracked in two with the force of it. Luke fell with one half and was dumped over the floor, the fiery map fluttering atop him still burning and he screamed. Batted it away. It did nothing.

By now he could smell burning hair. His eyes were dazzled yellow and white. He reached for the humidity that Naboo's air was always pregnant with—sucked in a breath of water vapour when it materialised around him like a cloud, soaked him and the map from head to toe. The damp parchment was rent to pieces by his knife but they still trailed him, like the black threads of his outfit, like ghosts, as he half-stumbled half-ran backwards, away from Vader.

He was right above him, just as soaked as Luke, and twice as furious. His sodden sword was struggling to keep burning but Vader expelled the water right back to where it had come from, leaving the air so bone dry it seared the breath from Luke's lungs.

Just like Tatooine, he thought nostalgically, just as a last shred of the ruined map fluttered off his head. It read Bestine in neat, printed script. Just like home.

Vader's sword had leapt back to life and was already cutting for him. Luke threw one knife, two, three—they all veered close enough to Vader that he should have dodged them, they would have missed if he'd dodged them. But he didn't care about knife cuts. He didn't care about the blood weeping from a myriad of wounds on his torso. His swing continued, red, white, and burnished gold ablaze, and for a moment Luke thought he should be a statue.

He should be, but he wasn't. Statues were made of stone, or bronze, or even gold, and Vader was none of those things. If he had been, Luke would be too; he was Luke's flesh and blood, down to the bone.

But his sword was not. That meant something.

Luke rolled out the way of the swing and jabbed up with his longest knife, just as they skidded past each other. Two thoughts, unity, the bonds and breaking points of metals, and he left his knife soldered to it, long enough and heavy enough that it was a significant annoyance. The metals still glowed red as Luke moved back, and then they were back to dull grey, and Vader scowled as he tried to swing again, but the balance was all off.

"Was that supposed to make a difference?" he demanded, genuinely irritated. He reached out to snap Luke's knife off with his bare hand.

And while he was distracted, Luke threw a chair at him.

"What—"

He staggered back, turned to glare, to keep Luke in his sight—and Luke threw another chair. Magic bolstered him as he did: a stamp and yank of his fists back, and the energy locked in the earth beneath him ignited, bursting free as the chair spun over and over and knocked Vader flat.

Before he could get back up, Luke seized the larger half of the shattered table as well, heaving with all the strength he could steal, and that went flying. Vader was too solid to be crushed, but it was a heavy table. It should hold him for a few minutes…

A few precious minutes…

His map was still sitting there, the satchel a little singed by floating scraps of ashy parchment. But he seized it, unrolled it to check it was correct, scanning—that was Naboo. That was his handwriting. That was the unicorn based on Leia's favourite childhood fable. This was it.

He didn't have a pocket to stick it in, so he made to run—just as two screeches came and he yanked his head up. Artoo saw the blood soaking him and shouted, enraged, swooping around the tent to find the culprit. Vader was still struggling with the heavy table, prying his arm out from underneath. He could only stare at the bird who divebombed and raked two deep cuts across his cheek. He snatched for him and missed.

"What are you doing?" Luke asked. "Did you hear me yelling? Did you come for me?"

"Come for. You!" Threepio settled on the back of the chair holding the satchel and cawed in distress. "Yelling!"

"I'm not hurt."

"Hurt."

"I—" Luke glanced up at where Artoo was still flying in disapproving, satisfied circles above Vader, zooming back towards him. "I'm fine, but if you're here, take this." He rolled up the heart-map and held it so Threepio could fasten his claws around it. "I'll get out of here my own way, but you make sure this gets back to the others, alright? I do not want this falling into Vader's hands."

"Not! Alright! Get out of here!"

"I will! Take it."

Threepio took it. With a simple beat of his wings and the drop of a handful of emerald tail feathers, he took off for the door, until—

Artoo screamed.

It was more a scream of fury than pain, but it was a scream nonetheless. Luke snapped his head around to look. Artoo was zooming for them, like a tiny fluffy cannonball, but he was caught in mid-air as the air moved around him as… as…

"Artoo!"

Vader threw off the table and stood, his bloody and bruised hand outstretched. "There is no escape."

"Artoo! Artoo!" Threepio flapped in mid-air, dithering. But there was only ever one thing he was ever going to do. He dropped the map—Luke barely caught it, fingers fumbling—and went for Artoo, his husband, even as Vader seized a scrap of the ruined tablecloth and—

A few sharp motions, seams stitched into place before Luke's eyes, and then Artoo and Threepio were pulsing inside a makeshift cloth bag. Vader tied the top in a ruthless knot.

"If you take that heart-map away," he promised, "your birds' lives are forfeit."

"They're my friends," Luke snapped. "I've heard they were once yours as well."

Vader didn't flinch. He didn't flinch, but he did glance at them with a slight flicker of expression, his jaw tightening.

"No longer, clearly. And not since they conspired against me. Give me that map, and they will go free."

Luke stared at them, listened to their screeches. "No! No! No!"

It was a wonder, he thought idly, that the whole camp wasn't awake yet. Perhaps they were. Perhaps they were waiting outside to finish off any stragglers, but letting Vader have the pleasure of the kill first.

"I know you're lying," Luke said. "You turned your friends into birds because they said your wife didn't want to see you. You asked to look at my map and have done nothing but attack me ever since I tried to trust you. I know you won't keep to your word."

"Why would I want to?"

Luke gritted his teeth. "Then why would I trust it?"

"Because you care about your friends, I gather." He shook the bag, and for a moment the cawing was still. "So you don't have much of a choice."

He didn't have much of a choice, that was true. There were three laid out before him:

Walk away and leave his friends behind.

Willingly give Vader the map and probably see all three of them dead.

Or the third one—the one he'd mentioned as a last resort, when they were originally planning this attack.

He unfurled the map. Let it face Vader: the ornate drawings, the spread of countries. The bloodspot was hovering right over his heart. And then he clicked his fingers.

The trip through the caverns had been enough practise. This time, sparks flew on the first click. A flame sputtered on the second.

His emotions laid naked without his helmet, Vader's mouth dropped open in horror.

"Release my friends," Luke said, "or I'll burn it."

"I can make another, boy. Do you think I need you, or your map? I have already told you that I am more powerful than you will ever be."

"Then why are you afraid?"

Vader dropped the sack of birds. They moaned as it bounced onto the floor and Luke winced, but he couldn't take his gaze off of Vader, stalking towards him, drawing his sword in the only threat he knew how to wield.

"Don't come any closer," Luke snapped, in words and with his fingers. Now there was a small amber fire resting smugly in his palm, and the corner of the map began to smoke. "I'll burn it."

Vader stopped.

"No," he said. "You will not."

"I will." Luke edged his hand closer to the map, but the motion wasn't even noticeable to him, let alone Vader. His hand was shaking too much for that. "Don't try it."

Vader took one more step forward, as a test.

A test Luke failed.

His hand flexed. He fisted it around the corner of the paper, willing it to catch—but it didn't. It couldn't. He couldn't.

He couldn't burn his own heart, no matter how much power it granted Vader in knowing it.

"As expected," Vader said. "You're predictable, boy."

"You don't know anything about me." He didn't even know the most important thing.

"I've studied that map you made—fuelled with your deepest desires and wants. It's clear that you pour love into everything. Your home. Your friends. Your creations. They will all turn against you one day." His lip twisted in a bitter smile as he hoisted his sword. Two-handed, for a killing blow. "Be grateful that you won't live to see it."

"From what I've heard, it wasn't your loved ones who turned against you. You turned against them."

Vader stilled. "You know nothing."

"I know everything," Luke spat, and was suddenly filled with the flooding urge to tell him. For once, he wanted to tell him, damn the risks, watch him understand, watch him realise what he had done—

But if he had not realised what he had done to Luke's mother, he would not realise what he had done to Luke.

If he was so convinced they had all betrayed him, having his son for another enemy would only make things worse.

"YOU KNOW NOTHING!"

And Vader drove his sword forwards.

Luke's brain was so overwhelmed that it stumbled in processing the blade coming for his face. He managed to jerk back, gracelessly and desperately, and the blade sheared through the air in front of him, leaving behind a golden trail, a trail of…

Fire.

Heat roared between them, and Luke stared at his hands in horror. The heart-map had caught, the edge of the sword's flames jumping across the air and the parchment crumbling under the energy of it, sparking, blackening in his very hands.

Vader's expression was just as shocked. He snatched for the burning heart-map, but Luke backed away. He snarled at him, words Luke's brain drowned out—give it to me—and drove his hand forward again, and Luke's back hit thick canvas—the edge of the tent—

The sword was back, and it was coming for his head. He ducked and let it shear through the tent wall instead, letting the inky nighttime spill in. Something struck him across the face; he felt a hot, wet splash, then his knees hit the floor and he realised his hands were empty. His heart-map… his heart…

The heart-map was gone. Vader was gone. Moments—minutes?—of darkness, then he blinked to see the strategy tent in flames around him. There were shouts outside.

He needed to get out of here. Everything burned.

The birds.

The heart-map.

Where…

There was too much smoke. He couldn't see. He stumbled through the world and found frigid night air, and found a grumpy, sleepy soldier pointing his rapier at him.

"This must be him," he said. "Still alive, eh? Put your hands up—"

The earth quaked and threw them back.

Luke ran. Even if the night wasn't pitch dark, he wouldn't have been able to see anyway. His eyes were streaming with tears.

He found Ahsoka and Leia back at their camp and collapsed into them, sobbing. They stared at him in horror and erupted with questions, but he couldn't answer them. He gasped out individual words between sobs and they had to piece it together from there.

"Vader—map—burned—birds—captured—"

Ahsoka seized him in a hug.

He broke off abruptly. And though he'd cried before, here he cried in earnest. He could have overloaded the tides and sunk the entire Corellian archipelago with the tears he shed, but when they were gone there was nothing left. The flame had been doused, and he was only left with the burns.

"We should keep moving," he said once the story was out and his face was dry. They'd suggested lighting a fire, but he couldn't bear to look at it. "Vader is right there, and he's angry. And we need to rescue the birds. And—"

"Are you sure any of them are still alive, Luke?" Ahsoka asked quietly.

He glared. "I'm going to rescue them anyway."

"You can't go tonight," Leia said. He could hear in her voice how she hated to say it. "Vader will be expecting you. Half the camp will be awake."

"I know I'm in no shape to go tonight, Leia, you can just say it."

She pursed her lips. "I wasn't going to say that."

"I know." He deflated. "I'm sorry."

"I forgive you." She shuffled up to him and wrapped his coat around him as well as her, so they were snuggling together at the edge of the hill. Ahsoka watched them both sadly.

"We should sleep," she said. "I know you're trying to think of what you can do, but there's nothing you can do tonight. We will decide tomorrow."

Luke shook his head. "I'll sleep. But I've already decided what to do. I know what my priorities are."

"The Codex?" Leia guessed. She reached for her pack and drew it out, unwrapping it from the cloth she'd shielded it with. "Here, I made sure—"

"No." He gently pushed it back to her. "You take it. Take it back to Alderaan and the library there. Keep it safe."

She rewrapped it hesitantly. "You're entrusting it to me?"

"You're my sister," he said. He thought of the map that had burned, the blueprint of his loves and loyalties—and thought of the great swathe of Alderaan that he and Ben had never depicted while travelling, blacked out. Vader knew far too much about him for one who knew nothing, but he did not know about this corner of his heart.

He did not know about Leia.

"I am," she agreed. "And I'm going to help you save the birds."

"No," he said. Vader couldn't know about her. She had stayed hidden so far; she needed to remain hidden. She was their last hope. "I'll rescue the birds." Face Vader again, if needed. He wished that this evening had cured him of sentiment. He wished that his desires had burned to ash alongside the vessel he'd poured them into. But that hadn't happened.

No matter how many times they were slaughtered, they rose from the fires again and again, unchanging. He wished he could do the same.

"The Codex is… important," he said. "I don't know what to do with it, but I know that. And I know that two people can protect it better than one." He looked at her and Ahsoka. "And it's hard to carry on your own, anyway."

"Then all three of us should take it."

"I'm not leaving the birds behind," he said. "But I have a duty to make sure the Codex is safe, so I'm giving it to you." He swallowed. "Look after it for me."

"I'm coming with you," she decided. "You can't stop me. You know that I won't let you do this on your own."

"I do know that. And I also know that you're more sensible than I am."

She narrowed her eyes. "Flattery isn't going to work on me."

"It's not flattery. It's the truth. You're more sensible and pragmatic. You know that if Vader gets his hands on the Codex, Alderaan will fall. The last pockets of resistance around the continent will fall to the Empire. And I know that you won't let that happen."

She worked her jaw. "Ahsoka can take it back to Alderaan. I'll come with you."

"Vader will still be tracking us. I don't even know if the map was wholly destroyed—I don't think it was—and even if that was the case, Vader studied it. I think he has the knowhow to make his own map. And then Ahsoka will be hunted as well." He glanced at her pistols. "You gonna leave her to do that on her own?"

"I've been surviving on my own longer than you've been alive, Luke," Ahsoka informed him. She always sat quietly like this—he knew she'd been reckless in her youth, but through it she'd achieved a sort of tempered wisdom that only came out when it needed to. Luke hoped he'd have that one day, as well, instead of being so uncertain all the time.

Leia didn't heed her master's words. She looked at Luke with a hard stare, then looked away.

She knew how to prioritise. And she knew, despite everything, that saving her brother and two friends instead of stopping the fall of a country was the foolish route to walk down.

"I hate you," she said.

"I know."

"I'll take care of it."

He blinked fiercely. "I know."

When she embraced him, he held her tight, like he might never hold her again.

"I'll see you soon," he whispered. "We… we can sleep here tonight, but when we part tomorrow, I'll be tracking Vader. And Vader will be tracking you. We'll be together soon again, I promise. All of us."

"This coming from the man who wanted to leave the continent and never return?"

He nodded. "Thank you for stopping me."

"I'll always stop you from doing stupid things."

He laughed. "Yeah." On a practical note, he had to add, "Vader is travelling with a few horses. If you get in there just before dawn, you should be able to steal two and make good time. I'll walk along the hills for a bit to get some distance and pick up more supplies at that safehouse Ben and I have."

"That sounds like a plan." They waited for Ahsoka to object, but she just hummed in agreement as well. "But first, you need to sleep, Luke."

"I know, I know. I just have too many thoughts." He paused. "Vader thinks we all turned against him."

"Then he gets the award for biggest fool in the Skywalker family. What else is new?" She flicked his forehead. "Just go to sleep."

He did. They lay down and drifted off, but Luke's thoughts couldn't stop whirring.

Vader was the second biggest fool in the family, it seemed. Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw the pain in his father's face from the almost moment of truth, and it was a pain that he felt acutely.