This idea came to me a while ago, and with the news that Bail will likely be showing up in the Kenobi show, I was inspired to finish it. Also, there's not enough Bail and Leia (and Breha!) sweetness out there, so I had to make some. Shoutout to my Scoundress peeps, who helped me sprint to the finish line with this fic and regularly put up with my yelling "BAIL ORGANA! It's BAIL!" at random intervals.


What they could do

Nobody was supposed to talk about their younglings, the ones who had left. The little ones, mostly toddlers and preschoolers, who had been offered a place, a calling with the Jedi Order. The ones they'd sent off to be with others who shared their gifts, to be in a place where their strange beauty would be understood. Where they could spend their lives in service to the galaxy.

It was a great honor, on many worlds, to have your youngling identified as Force-sensitive. And in some cases, a relief, an explanation for why strange things seemed to happen around them, why they seemed so sensitive to strong emotions, why they could do physical feats unheard of for their ages. But it was still a loss, a goodbye, an understanding that they were joining a new family now. That their path would diverge from that of the family who had birthed them or brought them home.

Nashra had been grateful when the Jedi had connected her and Shandar with other parents of Jedi initiates. For years, they'd communicated, connected on message boards and through holos and occasional gatherings, talked with other parents and caregivers across the galaxy who understood the bittersweet feeling of letting a youngling answer their call to the Force. It was a blessing.

Even more so when their children, like all Jedi, were suddenly declared enemies of the state.

Not all of them had stayed connected, even before. The Clone Wars had disrupted life in so many sectors through occupation or outright conflict, and seeing news of the Jedi leading the Clone battalions inevitably reminded them that if war persisted, their children would join the Jedi on the battlefield. Some of the Jedi padawans in battle were as young as thirteen. For many of the families, it was better to concentrate on moving forward without the ones they'd given up. Better to forget, or not to know.

But moments after she'd seen the broadcast from the Senate on the holos, the declaration of a new Empire and the denouncement of supposed treachery on the part of the Jedi, Nashra had hopped onto the holonet to find the message boards teeming with the same question: What about the younglings?

The official answer was that the Jedi had turned on them, had slaughtered the children at the temple, or that the older ones had joined the treachery ("a cult," beings were calling them now) and were considered dangers to peace.

Nashra's friend Priya had sent her an encrypted comm with two words to that: Bantha. Shit.

Shandar knew information security protocols, realized almost immediately what a conquering power would do to shut down dissent. Knew that any information tying them to the Jedi now made them as suspect to the Empire as the Jedi were. Persuaded Nashra that the message boards could not be trusted, only encrypted comms and secret channels with trusted friends.

But they found each other again, secretly, those families who did not trust what their new Empire was telling them. Could not believe that a thirteen-year-old child thrust onto a battlefield, given to be a champion of the Republic one day, would be a traitor the next. They could no longer speak of the younglings who had left, could scarcely let their other younglings out of their sight. Force-sensitivity ran strong in some families, and they'd heard the rumors, tales of siblings and cousins who'd been tested, then disappeared. Not invited, like with the Jedi. Stolen.

For three years, they'd organized in secret, knowing if they were discovered they would be considered as much an enemy as their children. Nashra and Shandar. Priya. Sixteen other families in the Esaga Sector. Gathering allies. Gathering strength. Sharing knowledge. Collecting and hiding funds. Determining what could be done by such a small group, a small resistance, without endangering the lives of their other younglings, their families and friends.

"Wait," Shandar had said. "When the time is right, we will find someone to help us."

When the Chandrilan junior representative had come to Aloxor, Nashra had been skeptical that anything would come of it. But Priya had sent another comm: TRUST.

Trust in the Force, though no one dared say those words anymore.


It was natural for Alderaan to assist Chandrila in its many humanitarian missions; the senators of those respected worlds were longtime allies and personal friends. It was less usual for the Viceroy himself to oversee such a mission.

Mon had convinced Bail to make an exception, and Breha had been in full support. "I have a good feeling, B," she'd said before he left.

"There's a group you need to meet," was all Mon had said, and while he probably could have called Fulcrum, he hated to pull her out of the field mid-mission. And Saw of all people had vouched for them, so….

The meeting was under the guise of talking with refugee families from the Clone Wars, learning their stories. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence on these kinds of trips, to learn stories that he could share with the beings of Alderaan, or with the Senate.

But as soon as the first being opened her mouth, he knew exactly why he was here.

"My name is Nashra," said the soft-spoken human woman, who'd given a different name before, "and this is Shandar." She indicated the being beside her. "Our son Naid was three when he went to live at the Temple eight years ago." She held up a holo of a toddler with deep brown eyes and a dimpled smile.

Bail met six of the eighteen households making up their independent cell, all families of the younglings. All risking themselves, their other younglings, their freedom in search of justice. Or at least closure. His heart broke, again and again, as he heard names, saw holos, listened to stories, felt their grief.

When they were done, Bail hesitated before speaking. He could offer no guarantees of justice, nor closure, nor peace. He could not share even a hint, a glimmer of the light in the Force waiting for him back on Alderaan. He had a daughter to protect, a planet counting on him, a rebellion still in its embryonic stages.

But he could offer the families a story of his own. Breha knew it, both the brief outlines he'd shared at first and the details that had slipped out over the last few years after he'd relived it in nightmares. Obi-Wan knew pieces, as did Master Yoda. No one else.

"One of your children saved my life," he began quietly. He didn't share why he'd come to the Temple (to help, however he could); he didn't share what had happened after (he'd tell Leia someday, when she was old enough to hear the truth); he tried to avoid any pretense at bravery or heroism on his part (real, or attempted).

When he was done, he felt deeply inadequate. He was so rich, in all senses of that word, yet he could offer almost nothing to all of them.

Hope, he felt Breha say. Purpose. You can offer them that.

He shared what he could, and made plans to help them connect with other cells. Fulcrum would be a good contact for them, though they'd have to be cautious. Sensitive.

On the flight back to Alderaan, he could think of no one but Leia. He couldn't imagine what that must be like, the knowledge that your child was in grave danger, was likely dead, but not knowing what had really happened to them.


They took what Captain Antilles called "the long way home," making several additional jumps on their route to Alderaan. It was early morning when they landed in Aldera, the sun beginning to rise over Appenza Peak.

His daughter was an early riser— so much so that they'd taught her to read the numbers on the chrono and instructed her that she was to remain in her bed until the first number read six, to prevent her rising at 4:00. Today, he'd never been more glad of her early-bird tendencies. Soon after he entered the hall of the palace, he could hear her little feet pounding against the floor as she ran to meet them, TooVee and her governess trailing behind her, the droid sputtering admonitions in her wake.

Leia. His baby girl, his bright and beautiful daughter, bounding down the hall towards him.

"Papa!" she cried out, the most wonderful damned sound in the galaxy, and ran directly into his arms.

He smiled broadly as he scooped her up and hugged her tightly. He'd promised himself he wouldn't cry, wouldn't break down, because he was afraid if he started crying he might not stop. But the tears came anyway, because he was happy, so happy to have the chance to call this spirited, joyful girl his own.

He hugged her tighter, kissed the top of her head— she must have been in the middle of her morning routine, judging from the way her hair was smoothly brushed on one side and curling up on the other— then released her and balanced her on his hip.

"I missed you, Lelila," he said brightly, smiling past the lump still in his throat as they walked to greet Breha.

Leia leaned her head on his shoulder, but before Bail could greet his Queen, Leia rose up, those dark eyes intent on him. Three years old, and already this child saw so much.

"Papa hurt?" she asked.

Yes, and no. They were all hurt, the galaxy one giant wound Bail wasn't certain would ever close.

"I'm all right," he said, pulling her closer and kissing her cheek before turning to his wife.

"Your Majesty," he said with a small bow. The kind understanding in Breha's eyes made him almost want to break down again.

"My love," she said, forgoing the formalities for the moment. "Perhaps you would like a moment, before breakfast," she suggested, and beckoned to their private quarters.

Bail nodded and followed her. Leia was still clutched to his side, but she was sitting up straighter, smoothing her little hand down his arm as they walked, in a series of tiny, gentle pats. When they reached the private suite, Bail turned toward his daughter.

"What are you doing, Lelila?"

"Papa hurt," she said again, this time in that stubborn, insistent tone she had sometimes. "Where to kiss it?"

She's trying to make it better. Leia only knew of knee scrapes and elbow bumps (from the moment she began walking, she wanted to run, run, run), wounds that could be solved with soft pats, with kisses and a colorful bandage. For such a rough-and-tumble child, she had an incredible capacity for gentleness; she knew to treat her mother's pulmonodes with care. And her father's heart, apparently.

"Right here," he said, pointing to his cheek, and Leia kissed it softly.

Then Breha leaned in, kissing his other cheek before taking Leia from him. Her eyes followed him, and he knew that she understood. He would tell her everything, later.

"Let's finish fixing your hair, wild girl," she said, bringing Leia to her dressing table, "and then we can join Papa for breakfast."

Sometimes Bail wasn't sure what the hell he was doing, attempting to organize a rebellion against an actual Sith Lord, a cause that more than half the galaxy likely thought was doomed to fail, if they even knew it existed. But today he remembered the younglings. The boy who haunts his dreams but he can never thank enough; the younglings whose families will never forget, whose lives inspired them to fight; the little girl stubbornly trying to make it better, the best she knew how.

Breha was right. Hope. Purpose. They could give them that.


I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
Or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
But because it never forgot what it could do.
— "Famous," Naomi Shihab Nye