Luke Skywalker knew how to look severe and stoic. I mean it—the man had this mastered as surely as he had his Jedi skills mastered. Whenever I was around him these days I just wanted to agree, "Yes, Master Skywalker," to whatever he said, because I wasn't desirous of arguing with such composed seriousness. Too, he had this look now where he would stare into your eyes and it was like he saw your whole soul. I always felt profoundly uncomfortable after just one second of enduring it.

At any rate, I hardly wanted to argue with him now. What was there to argue about? The facts themselves just sucked.

"Another Death Star? Stars. What is this kark?" I uttered as we walked along the hallways of the Yavin IV base post briefing. The briefing had been one delivered to the highest levels of the rebellion leadership and to me, as Mother's representative. At least the so-named Rebel Alliance believed in my sanity and capability. But the meeting had also included one little, somewhat unpleasant fact: i.e., that Palpatine had built a new Death Star.

A new Death Star!

"It feels like you just destroyed the last one."

"It's hardly a surprise. Sidious never would have let a weapon like that slip from his grasp. It was the main thing keeping all the worlds under the Empire's thumb."

He always said such things like "This is not a surprise" or "I have foreseen it," thanks to his Jedi foresight. It ticked me the kriff off. I mean, of course, it was real, and incredible, and useful, but come on. Stop seeing how everything would work out then saying mystical things about it. Say it straight up.

"How did they even manage to finish one in six years?"

"Well," he reasoned, "it isn't finished yet."

I inclined my head to this truth.

He ventured, "Padmé—are you sure that you want to get the information from the Tarkins' yourself—?" (The task for which I had, in the meeting, volunteered my services.)

"I'm sure. Andor didn't give me all that spy training for nothing, you know. Besides. I even have the perfect excuse. Poor little pathfinders aren't getting the memo. I think a trip to the Spike might clarify things."

Luke raised his eyebrows. "As in the Carrion Spike where people die?"
"They won't if they remember what Adalyse and I have taught them. And if they do, then they signed the release form."

"Your level of motherly concern for your students' welfare, as always, warms my heart."

I made a little 'x' motion over where my pulmonode loyally worked, circulating the blood around in my body. Then I sobered up. "Will you do it?"

"It'd be kind of trite to deal with another Death Star myself."

"Lives up to the legend."

Luke could look very prim these days. There was a specific tightening to his lips and a set to his chin that occurred—such as it did now. "I'm not a legend, Mé."

Yeah, okay, boyo. However, I didn't push him. No sense in telling him that he, in fact, was galactically famous and revered. He would only be modest and humble about it all and the conversation would end up nowhere.

So in mutual-but-silent agreement, we rerouted the conversation. Somehow, we got on the topic of the Frosts' recent visit to Aldera, given we both didn't want to discuss the mission we would soon set out on together. Because that was how we dealt with unending mortal danger: we pretended things were normal and that Vader wasn't rabidly hunting him and that Mother and I might not be executed any day if our involvement in the Alliance got out. In fact, Luke and I got into a spirited debate regarding my seduction of Sir Frost, to which I freely admitted. Everyone else already knew of it, I was sure. Palaces were good for nothing if not good for gossip.

Then, Biggs walked up, and Luke got that prim set to his lips again.

I jumped in. "Hi, Admiral Darklighter." Sometimes over the years I had taken to calling him "Uncle Biggs," but these things could only be said among friends, rather than in open hallways full of countless other rebels passing by. Besides, I hadn't done it in a while, since I realized it genuinely caused my uncle pain. "Good to have you here. You can resolve a debate between us."

Luke said, "I was telling Padmé that diplomacy needn't always be practiced by breaking sixteen-year-old boy's hearts in order to get back at their sister." He spoke formally.

I jested, "Actually, he was sixteen and a quarter."

"That helps," Biggs returned lightly.

"Not from what I could tell."

Biggs let loose a laugh. Luke's lips twitched, and for an instant he looked like the uncle I'd gotten close to six years ago. Then, the sobriety and serious focus returned. Luke generally disapproved of jokes these days. His sassy nature seemed a mere memory.

All of it made that place in my chest which had once housed my heart ache. Luke had done amazing things, and great work with the Rebellion. I still didn't understand how he had gotten so much funding, such advanced tech, and recruited so many allies, but somehow, he'd turned the proverbial "one nail and a rusted hammer" I'd once referenced into a veritable force to rival the Empire. Because after all, a force didn't have to be the enemy's equal: it only needed to reach a certain mass. And by the stars we had reached that mass, and had a man as our symbol who was the known needlebug in It's side.

It made me fear for Luke. No one could mess with It for long and get away. Six years was an impressive feat. But at what point—?

No. I couldn't think of that. I would go mad again if I did.

Might as well get down to business, then. To Biggs I said, "So—are you here about the mission?"

"I am," Biggs confirmed, returning to his usual briskly businesslike demeanor. "If you both could follow, Andor has some information for you both about just where you might want to go…"

Luke and I followed. And this was how it was, now. Biggs a now-famous rebel in command of the flight forces, pretending he wasn't in love with Luke. Luke a now legendary Jedi Master and commander of Rogue Squadron, pretending he wasn't in love with Biggs. Both of them pretending they were fine when everybody else knew the two were just one Corellian-brandy-filled eve away from knocking each other senseless in the bunks. And I pretended not to notice, either, now, because I didn't want to hurt Luke. I didn't want to hurt either of them.

I had hurt those I loved enough for a lifetime.

OOO

He comes out to greet me, his black cape billowing behind him. His vast height looms over me, an unusual sensation when I am typically the tallest in the room. My heart beats harder, and I pray he doesn't somehow know so through the Force. "Princess Padmé."

"Lord Vader. Thanks for inviting me here! It was ever such a surprise, but ever such a wonderful one. You have a very posh pad." I smile charmingly.

It seems he doesn't know what to do with having his palatial dark castle called a "posh pad". Well, good. I caught him off guard. I feel a little victory, but not much. I'm too terrified.

Does he know? He must. But about what? Uncle Luke? Or Mother and Dad? Or the whole movement they are trying to put together?

Or—worse—all of it?

I have heard that Vader hunts Jedi. What happened to my brave good grandfather, Anakin Skywalker, proves that. So probably it is about Uncle Luke.

And that means that he called me here for only one reason. A reason that chills me to the core and makes me want to run, but I can't do that. I know I can't. If I show any fear Vader will latch onto it and I will ruin every possible chance for denial. I must stay and hold my ground, for everyone.

But, surely, he wouldn't hurt me. Surely. I'm the princess of Alderaan! I have always been loyal to the Empire! (Yes, I know of my family's activities, but I haven't helped them.)

"What can I do for you?" I add, because still Vader hasn't said anything and it has started to make me sweat. My hands, clasped together, are sticky with moisture.

The sightless eyes take me in, as if committing this moment to memory. And then he speaks, speaks to me like he now sentences the most grotesque of criminals: "Die."

OOO

I woke up with a wild scream. The hand on my arm stilled. I thrashed wildly, fighting the grip, reaching for the blaster I always kept under my pillow but finding none—

The light went on. I saw him. I relaxed.

And then I felt myself flush, hard. "It was just…" I struggled for breath, and for a story—"a dream. Sorry."

I knew he didn't believe me. Probably I had been screaming in my sleep. I was told I could do that. Usually, I used a sonic neutralizer. Mother had been so happy at how much "better" I had gotten these past few years.

(Only… not.)

On this trip, I'd forgotten to bring it. So now Luke, at least, knew one of my lies. But I also knew he wouldn't sell me out. Just like I would never sell him out for some of his secrets.

He nodded, giving me one of his usual gentle smiles. It didn't contain the sunshine it used to, only the compassion of the Jedi he had chosen to fully be. But it made me feel safe. He made me feel safe.

As safe as I ever could feel.

Luke said only, "We're about to make planetfall. If you wanted to get ready."

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks." I spoke gruffly, and coughed once. At least we wouldn't talk about it anymore. Time to get down to business.

Not that I exactly felt great about this particular mission… After all, the last time I'd seen my father, things hadn't exactly been persona grata between us. Well, here was hoping things could at least be alright. Because the Rebellion needed his help.

OOO

A/N: So—what are your thoughts so far? Do you like Padmé's POV? Definitely a shift, right?