Star Wars belongs to Lucasfilm Ltd., itself property of The Walt Disney Company. I make no lucrative nor commercial use of my writings in relationship with the Star Wars license.
The silence was deafening once blaster fire finally died out in the hangar, the engines of the ship long gone. In their haste to prevent the prisoner's flight, three squadrons of stormtroopers had assembled and now stood straight, facing their failure. Weapons were put back into holsters, eyes trained on Vader with fright.
Vader slowly turned around. The euphoria of Luke's escape was receding, and he knew he had to explain this.
He thought for a minute, his heart still light but the situation starting to sink in. His son was free. No more interrogation, trial or execution. Each minute saw him growing farther away from Imperial Centre and the torments he had endured there.
But Vader was still here, empty-handed. He knew things were looking exactly the way they were, and it was obvious with anyone with eyes he had been breaking the boy out. Fear of him was the only thing preventing these men from speaking up.
That fear was not going to hold back the one person he would most hope to fool, however.
Vader crossed the stormtrooper officer's gaze, felt the man's fright increase. He looked him in the eye and brushed the idea of blaming it on him. What was a mere trooper to him? The man was visibly expecting it, and it would be an easy and clean way to keep up appearances.
But the thought died as soon as it was born. The atmosphere shifted, the troopers straightened, the focus of the attention moved away from Vader.
Lies and justifications would be useless, now. He supposed it had always been the case.
Hunched over his cane, shuffling step by step, the hooded figure of the Emperor entered the hangar, deceptively small and frail. But the apparent weakness he was displaying was belied by the sheer blackness of his presence as it brushed over Vader's.
Disquiet awakened in the pit of his guts, but Vader stood in place, tall and stoic.
Little by little, the Emperor came closer. With a gesture, he discarded the troopers and they left, all too relieved to be spared. Vader and his master remained the only ones in the hangar, which suddenly seemed much broader and stiller.
Vader couldn't see Palpatine's face under his hood, couldn't read his mood in the Force. His heart beat faster, the remnants of old fear grasped at his soul, but he didn't give them purchase.
The gravity of his actions dropped on him like a bucket of cold water on his head. Never before had he so deliberately, so completely disobeyed his master. He had defied him, heard his orders and gone against them.
There was no going back now. His mind wondered for a moment whether Sidious would merely renounce him or if he would kill him, slowly and painfully, as he would any guilty of the same crime as him. By disobeying him, Vader had humiliated him and discarded his authority. That wouldn't be easily forgiven.
But he couldn't find it in himself to regret any of it. Had he been faced with this choice again, he would have done the same thing all over again in a heartbeat.
Luke lived. He was far away, safe from hatred, suffering and death. He let the fact run through him, warm his limbs with gladness and wonder, beat inside his veins at the rhythm of his heart as he stood straight and awaited his master's judgement.
The Emperor arrived at Vader's level, then stopped without saying anything. The silence stretched, unbearable, eternal.
Then he sighed.
"I am sorry, my friend," he said, and Vader was stunned. His master looked so fragile in this moment, so defeated, that he nearly had pity for him. "I am an old fool, and my foresight is no longer what it used to be."
Vader bowed his head, not sure how to answer. Of all the things he had imagined his master to do or say, he had never expected an apology. And for what, anyway? He was the one who had let the boy go. If anybody was guilty, he was...
"I should have expected it," the Emperor said, his voice sad, regretful. Vader felt punched in the gut. "I knew you cared for the boy. Family, love has always been your weakness. I should have known better than to make you stand by while he was executed."
"I was the one who freed him," Vader cut his master off, unable to bear his self-flagellating. It was entirely his own fault.
Only afterwards did he realise he had confessed to it aloud. He looked away, unable to bear his master's gaze.
But Palpatine waved his concerns away by a careless gesture of his hand.
"It no longer matters. He is gone, away from here. That cannot be changed."
Vader swallowed. He wished he was anywhere but here; and yet he couldn't help relief from flooding over him at the realisation the Emperor didn't intend to punish him from him. Vader knew he had hurt him; he could see it in his gaze, hear it in the tone of his voice.
"Master..."
"Let us no longer talk about it," the Emperor said, and his tone was so brisk Vader didn't insist. "Other matters must now hold our attention."
"I am listening, master," Vader said in haste, careful to conceal his emotions. He was walking a fine line, and wanted nothing less than to upset the Emperor again.
"I must congratulate you on the way you handled the presumed leak of our project." Vader scoffed at that. The operation in the Nembus sector had been a disaster. "However, it is unfortunate the Rebels left no trace of what they knew. I fear what might happen, were they to learn of the project's location before it is ready... I need you to go there and oversee the last stages of construction. There you will collaborate with Grand Moff Tarkin, who is coordinating it. You will protect the station with your life."
Vader gave him a curt nod. The thought of working with Tarkin again wasn't a pleasant one. He held the man in rather high esteem; he was, in Vader's opinion, one of the few high-ranking officers who was prepared to do what ought to be done in order to succeed in his goals, and who didn't have any qualms over getting his hands dirty when necessary.
However, that high opinion was now tainted by the memories of the last time he had seen Tarkin's brutal efficiency at work. Having to collaborate with him again left a sour taste in Vader's mouth.
But he had no room to complain, not when he was already in disgrace with the Emperor.
"I want it operational as soon as possible," the Emperor said. "It will be an invaluable tool to defeat the Rebellion. Only then will be able to finally bring back the peace to the galaxy."
A pang of regret awakened in Vader's heart at these words. Luke would have been of even greater help than any superweapon in the galaxy... With their combined strength, nothing would have been impossible.
But it was not to be. The boy lived, and that needed to be enough.
"Yes, my master," he said.
He was still reeling from his master's lack of reaction at his betrayal. He had let a dangerous prisoner go. Were he anyone else, he would have died for that crime... yet Sidious had let it slide with barely a word. Did the boy matter so little to him? After all this show, all this insistence that he be interrogated and tried in accordance with the law, he brushed off his escape like a mere nuisance? Why go through this farce to make an example out of him, instead of shooting him in the neck like any other Rebel, if he held so little importance?
Vader didn't understand. But it was just as well, and he couldn't believe his luck. The less risk for Luke to be captured by the Empire again, the better. Perhaps he could find a way to make sure he was safe... even contact him, maybe.
His son lived. Joy awakened in him again at the thought. It was all that really mattered.
The Emperor was heading back towards the hangar's exit when he stopped and turned towards him again.
"Oh, and Lord Vader," he said, as if on an afterthought. "I expect you shall have more than enough work with your posting. Do not bother yourself with the boy; I will search for him myself."
Vader's insides turned into ice. If the Emperor intended to go after him, Luke was lost. And there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do to prevent it...
No. That couldn't happen. He refused it.
Tightly clamping down on the panic rising in his chest, Vader deeply bowed down.
.
Luke woke up disoriented and thirsty, a thousand pounding aches drumming in his body. He groaned, lifted a hand to his forehead. Where was he? What had happened? Everything was a blur of confusion. Unease was gnawing from the back of his mind, telling him he didn't want to remember; but not remembering was uncomfortable, too.
The unease was growing. His stomach rumbled, heaved and Luke only had time to roll on his side before vomiting on the deck, next to the pilot's chair he was sitting in.
The cell. The hangar. The ship. The details were blurry and confused, but he now recalled his terror as he believed he was being led to his death, his shock and disbelief when Vader – Vader –
His vision was spinning, his throat and chest burning. He grimaced, feeling a thin trickle of saliva down his chin, dripping to join the small white puddle at the foot of the chair. Stomach acid, probably; Luke hadn't eaten anything in –
How long had it been? Days, weeks? Luke couldn't tell. Time had barely seemed to have a meaning among the horror and the pain. For all he knew, it could have been a lifetime or just a few hours...
He scrunched his eyes shut, let out a low moan. An acrid and foul taste was lingering at the back of his mouth. His whole body was shaking, he felt so weak he didn't know if he would be able to get up.
But he needed to. He had to find a refresher, hopefully some water and perhaps food as well if he wanted to grow stronger. This shuttle had a hyperdrive, it had to mean it was equipped for at least a day long journey, as per regulations, right?
Oh, how he hoped the shower would be working. The idea of being clean again, of feeling like a human being rather than a disgusting beast felt too good to be true.
A weak laugh escaped him at the thought, tears rising to his eyes. A shower. Something so simple and yet so wonderful, something he hadn't had in ages, something they had never allowed him as they left him to lie in his own filth without any dignity.
Something that meant freedom.
He was free. He was alive. It felt unreal, like one of the hallucinations their drugs had sometimes conjured to make him slip and reveal something he didn't want to, unwilling to hear he had nothing to let slip anyway. He was nearly afraid to believe it, lest his hopes were crushed once more...
But he had never felt so physically wretched during those deliriums. There had never been such silence, broken only by the subtle and comforting thrum of the hyperdrive. There had never been space to hear his own thoughts, scattered though they were.
It made Luke wonder if it might just be real.
He grasped the armchair with his right hand, his left flailing in front of him so ridiculously it made him laugh again, and pushed himself upright once more. Then he clasped the chair on both sides, took a deep breath –
– and gasped, white pain bolting through his chest.
Panting, his breaths shallow, Luke put a hand on his ribcage. It wasn't serious – a cracked or a broken rib, at most. He could still breathe if he was careful –
"No – owh!"
A boot in his stomach, then in his ribs, his lower back. He jerked, howled. He put his arms up to protect his head, his knees drawn next to his abdomen, but the blows kept coming –
– if he was careful and didn't make too sudden movements. No sudden movements, just be careful, focus on that and everything would be fine. It was fine.
His legs felt like jelly when he rose, his arms too weak. Black and white spots danced in front of his vision; he swayed for a second, blinked, then put a foot in front of the other.
Carefully at first, then with a bit more assurance, he exited the cockpit and wandered in the passenger hold. The bulkheads of the cabin were Imperial grey, and it made Luke scoff. He wondered why the Empire seemed to hate colour so much; for a moment, he wanted to paint it bright red.
He shuffled around, opened a few empty cupboards before he found supplies. Military-issued water and nutrient bars, the kind of thing whose expiration date he wouldn't have to worry about.
Luke took the rations then, feeling his legs weaken again, went to the long couch-like seats set along the bulkhead of the passenger hold. He dropped down in one with a suffering sigh and took some time to catch his breath around the acute, throbbing pain in his chest, his eyes closed. Then he took a water ration, opened it and brought it to his lips.
The liquid felt like heaven against his cracked lips and parched throat. He swallowed greedily, in great gulps, his thirst unquenchable...
... until he retched and bent forward as all the water he'd ingested came back up and down on the deck.
Right. Little sips if someone hadn't drunk in a long time, Luke remembered as he groaned in discomfort, wiping at his mouth, his rib burning. That was something everybody knew on Tatooine, where dehydration was a constant threat. He and Biggs had scoffed in first aid and survival course when the teacher had brought it up, certain they already knew so much better. Luke felt ashamed and embarrassed not to have thought of it.
He only took one more mouthful to rinse the taste in his mouth and swallowed it carefully, still thirsty but knowing better now, before putting down the ration with some regret. He then turned to the nutrient bar with much less enthusiasm, but he knew he needed the strength in order to get better. He took a tiny bite then another, chewing for a long time before swallowing, and managed to get through a third of it before giving up.
Already feeling a little less like death warmed over, and he supposed the expression was nearly literal considering what he had escaped, he hesitated to leave the supplies there then finally decided on putting them into the cupboard again. It was stupid, but leaving them here, in plain sight, made him worry they would be taken from him even though he knew he was alone on the ship.
Or at least, he thought he was alone. For all he knew, there was a squadron of stormtroopers in the cargo hold, only waiting for him to lower his guard in order to capture him again...
The thought made his breath speed up. It was ridiculous, he knew it was, but it wouldn't leave him alone. He rose from his seat, put the supplies away and looked around him. Nothing that looked like a weapon. Luke bit on his lip, feeling naked and vulnerable.
His concern didn't abate.
His breath short from both worry and injury, he headed to the cargo hold, his heart drumming painfully in his chest. Thankfully there were no cabins, or he would have had to check them all as well to be reassured. He arrived in front of the door and his hand froze over the opening button, too afraid of confirming what he knew to be a preposterous idea.
Not that it seemed to matter to his terrified body. He gritted his teeth, took a deep and painful breath before flattening his hand against the button.
The doors slid open with a pang of terror in his chest, revealing a dark and deserted room.
Nobody. Luke was truly alone in the ship, as he very well knew.
He braced himself against the wall, still half-expecting for this to be a trap, for them to jump on him as soon as he stepped into the hold. But there was nothing there, nobody, no movement whatsoever. Luke straightened, and took a hesitant step forward.
The first thing he did was turn on the light and look around at his surroundings. The sound of the hyperdrive was slightly stronger here, a discrete whizzing instead of a hum. There were a couple of crates, but otherwise the hold was empty. No place to hide, no hidden corner.
But the unpleasant impression that he was being watched, and the vulnerability that came with it, didn't leave Luke. Ignoring it, he knelt in front of the crates and opened them. One of them held more rations, the other a stack of black uniforms similar to his own.
Without rank insignia, of course. Luke's throat closed at the reminder that they had taken away his own, the burning humiliation and injustice that he was no longer one of them.
He still didn't understand. It had been so sudden, so unexpected. One moment, he was rejoicing with his squadron in preparation for Empire Day, discussing peacefully with his superior officer, and the next – the next –
Luke swallowed. He took the smallest looking uniform in the crate and rose up. The one he was currently wearing was torn and burnt in places, and the smell did nothing for his headache. He left the cargo hold, grabbed the first aid pack in the passenger hold, and went to look for the shower he was dreaming of.
He turned the lock of the refresher room twice, just to make sure. It was stupid, but he couldn't help feeling it was safer. The walls were white, the lightning a little weak and the room a bit too small, but he ignored his discomfort. He dropped the clothes on the side of the sink then let himself drop to the floor. He set the medkit next to him and hesitated as his shaking fingers hovered over the fasteners of his tunic.
He knew he was injured. There was no way it could be otherwise, with the way his right lung burnt with each breath, with the ache and the weakness he could feel in every inch of his body. But he wasn't sure he wanted to discover how much. He didn't want to know what they had done to his body, see how deformed he had been by the marks of their abuse, like so many reminders of his ordeal imprinted into his skin.
But he knew he at least had to make sure there wasn't anything too serious and to disinfect his wounds. Feeling strangely exposed, he breathed out as slowly as he could, closed his eyes, and opened his shirt. Then he let it slide down his arms and fall on the floor.
He sat like this for a couple of breaths, then at last he dared peek down at his body. He lightly ran his fingers over the marbled skin of his upper arms, then let them linger on the bruised needle marks on his neck, his clavicle, his pectorals. There was a dark stain the size of his hand spreading on his ribcage, and he winced touching it. Small, round red burns were scattered in his side and the lower part of his abdomen; he took off his trousers to continue his inspection, wrinkling his nose at the smell. There was dried blood in several spots; all wounds were already scabbing over, but some seemed to have reopened when he had removed his clothes. His wrists were red and grazed from worrying against his restraints.
It was nothing that wouldn't heal in time.
His breath came out in a shaky sigh. He had expected much worse from the torment he had experienced, from the never-ending hell his imprisonment had been. He had been so certain he was going to die, so many times... Even now, he felt so weak, nauseous and aching all over. He had been certain his body must be covered in scars.
And yet it seemed he was not much worse for wear than a drunk man after a bar fight. He felt he should be relieved, but couldn't quite manage it.
He reached out for the medkit – some bacta patches for the reopened wounds and cream for his bruised rib should be enough – when it occurred to him showering first would be wiser. Bracing himself against the wall, he stood, took off the last of his clothing and stepped into the shower before turning it on.
Despite the jump he made when the sonic waves first reached his bruises, they felt incredibly good against his skin. The shower peeled off layer after layer of sweat, blood and other bodily fluids, and Luke felt like he was revived, his relief making him weak in the knees. He washed himself as well as he could, wincing when a sharp and blinding pain went through his chest as he tried to rise his right arm, or whenever his hands brushed a sensitive spot.
Shouts. Shocks shaking him whole. Ragged breathing, helpless rage, weakness, muscles trembling and unresponsive.
Despite the delight of finally feeling cleaner again, soon he found the small space suffocating him, the echoing sounds deafening as the walls of the shower seemed to close in on him. His stomach was tight with anxiety, his mind assaulted with nagging fear. Images and feelings flashed before his eyes, so swift he couldn't grasp them before they were gone.
Lying on a cold slab, nauseous, exhausted, shivering...
"Not had enough yet, little Jedi?"
He rinsed his hair with only the left hand, the right carefully braced against his chest. It'd been so long, it felt so good, like the showers at home and at the Academy, he'd always liked the sensation of the sonic on his skin after a good workout...
He turned the temperature higher, unable to suppress a chill.
Kneeling, hands tied behind his back. A breath too loud in his ears, a deep raging voice overwhelming him, blood boiling, head exploding.
The low hum went from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, covering every inch of his body in a delicate and cleansing vibration. Luke did his best to focus on the pleasant feeling and calm down the gasps of his breathing.
He was innocent, he'd never betrayed –
Luke came out of the shower much sooner than he had planned to, feeling short of breath and nauseous. Medical supplies forgotten, he hurried to dress then went back to the passenger hold, desperate to regain a hold on reality.
It wasover, it was over. He had escaped for real, he wasn't going back.
He took his rations again, drank a few more mouthfuls of water, ate a few more bites of food. The soothing sound of the ship's engines managed to alleviate some of his stress. He felt safer and calmer, here, in the somewhat larger space where the light was warmer and more natural.
He was free. He was alive.
Before he knew it, his eyelids dropped and he passed out on the passenger couch, overwhelmed by exhaustion.
The second time Luke awakened, there was an insistent beeping in his ears. He opened eyes that seemed stuck with sand and glue and sat up, still feeling weak but in considerably less pain than before. Where was that sound coming from?
He rose from his seat and headed to the cockpit, finding the annoying noise going stronger there. He laid eyes on the hyperspace console, came next to it to look at the readings.
Reversion to real space in five standard minutes.
Luke frowned. It made sense that he had set an hyperspace course, since he'd heard the hyperdrive before... but he didn't remember setting an hyperspace course. Where was he headed?
He hoped he had planned enough jump points. A cold chill ran through him. It would be all too easy to track him if he hadn't, pluck him like a flower at his arrival...
No, that wasn't going to happen, because he must have planned enough jump points. Luke shuddered, hastened to open the travel journal, and was soon reassured to see the five stages he had programmed into his journey. It wasn't much, but it should be enough to prevent pursuers from calculating his course. He had even taken care not to use the high-traffic lanes, the ones with the most Imperial controls.
It still didn't answer the question of his destination. The numbers seemed familiar, but he was far from having memorised the entire galaxy's coordinates. There were maps and indexes for that.
He ran his fingers over the display, puzzled, before engaging the reversion procedure and lowering himself in the pilot's seat, careful of his still throbbing ribcage. He took the controls, checked the warning lights and the readouts.
The threads of light typical to hyperspace diminished into stars again. Deceleration pushed Luke forward on the controls, but he held on to them until the ship had stabilised.
Outside the viewport stood a familiar ochre planet, striped with brown and orange.
Luke stared at it, his throat tightening. Why was he so emotional about this old rock? A few years ago he wanted nothing more than to get away from it...
But so much had changed since then. Luke hadn't seen Tatooine since leaving for the Academy; it seemed like he'd been a different person then, just a boy with starlight in his eyes, his head full of dreams and no idea what life really was like. Never would he have imagined, back then, how much he would have changed, everything he would have to come through when he finally came back here.
Never could he have fathomed, either, how much he would miss it. The sight of the planet filled him with so many emotions his chest hurt with it, not from his broken rib but something different, swirling inside of him. It was indescribable.
It was home.
He swallowed the knot in his throat and began his descent.
For a moment, he hesitated about the direction; the settlements looked similar, he couldn't really distinguish Mos Eisley from Mos Espa. He knew the Dune Sea, though, Beggar's Canyon and Anchorhead. He flew a little bit faster.
His heart, too, accelerated. He was so close to home now. He had missed his aunt and uncle so much... he couldn't wait to see them again. No matter how childish it was, he wanted nothing more than to hear their voices again, to bury himself in their embrace like he did when he was a child and forget everything...
He could see the homestead now, white against the bright yellow of the sand, the blue of the sky. But something was off about it. A heavy feeling settled in his chest; he tried diving in the Force, but it felt murky and clouded, hostile, uninviting.
Luke landed as quickly as he could, a stone falling in his guts. He barely took the time to turn off the engines before running to get out of the ship, fidgeting with worry as he waited for the ramp to come down.
No. They were all right. Nothing had changed – his home was there as always, his family would be there to welcome him, surprised maybe, but happy to see him.
Finally, the unforgiving light of the twins suns dawned into the ship and Luke dashed outside...
Before stopping dead, his breath catching, his eyes wide.
Everything had burnt. The homestead was blackened with soot, the whitewash walls stained with dark trails. A part of the dome had collapsed, leaving a gaping hole in the roof of the building. The vaporator of the eastern ridge had crashed and fallen down, too.
But Luke's horrified eyes didn't linger there.
In front of the wreckage lay two scorched skeletons.
A wail of distress escaped him and he fell on his knees, his heart coming up in his throat. The corpses were so badly burnt there was barely any flesh left on them, and it was impossible to recognise them, but Luke knew who they were.
"No... no..."
Nausea rose at the back of his throat as he kept whispering these words senselessly, like a desperate prayer. He was frozen, unable to think, unable to do anything but stare at the remains of his guardians, so crudely left in the sun to rot.
He was free. He was alive.
But his family had paid the price.