this is a disclaimer.

AN: part of the swallows and amazons verse.

(what grace has given me)

"You and Luke looked like you were up to something, this morning," Dad says.

"Dunno what you're talking about," Anakin says lazily, and then grins at him.

Dad rolls his eyes. "Like I don't know the pair of you better than that."

Anakin sighs. "Yeah."

Comfortable silence on the balcony for a while. The sun came out in the afternoon, turning the clouds redgold and sending light skipping through the raindrops: nothing but typical Yavin winter weather. Nevertheless, the sight of it opens a bubble of warmth and laughter in Anakin's chest.

In the west, hovering over the jungle beyond the herb gardens, a rainbow is forming.

"You could have it if you wanted it," Dad says.

So that's what this is about.

Anakin smiles. "I know," he says. "And maybe there's a part of me that does want it. But..." he pauses, finds himself struggling for words. "It's like Uncle Luke said this morning. I'm a fighter, Dad. Like you, like him. Jaya and I both are, but Jacen..."

"If you're about to tell me that he's not a fighter because he's more like your Mom I might laugh you out of this apartment," Dad says, amused.

Anakin shakes his head. Tell the truth he has a hard time picturing either of his parents as fighters, regardless of the stories. In all of his memories there's something settled about them, heavy in a way, as if they've both been held down and steadied by the weight of their own happiness. A weight of contentment; a good weight, then, like the weight of his daughters asleep on his chest or his son clinging piggy-back to his shoulders or Tahiri's leg flung across his thighs.

Like sunshine in late evening: warm, golden, sliding slow and thick as honey over the world, and when it touches you it makes you smile and when it's gone you can't miss it, because tomorrow you'll see it all again.

That is what his parents are. That's what he wants for himself – for all his family.

"Jacen's got something," he says. "Gravitas." He grins again. "Maybe it just comes from having kids earlier than the rest of us."

Dad laughs.

"But he's got something," Anakin repeats.

"You're stronger than either of 'em in the Force," Dad points out.

Anakin waves the tumbler in his right hand dismissively. "By accident of birth. Midichlorian counts aren't everything. There's knowledge, too – knowledge worked for, hard-won. Jacen's got that. Where I match him, I match him because it's my nature."

Dad considers this for a minute. "It doesn't make you less," he says at last.

"No," Anakin agrees instantly. "I mean. It used to bother me, when I was younger. It felt like I was cheating my way into something the twins had had to work for."

"But not anymore?"

"It doesn't make me less, Dad. I just think that – maybe it makes Jacen more, in some ways."

"I think that might make more sense if you'd had less whiskey, kid."

Anakin can't help but smirk. "Or maybe it won't till we've both had more."

Dad holds out his empty glass with an answering grin. "Well, go do the honours then."

authority's end

They hold a convention, as Ben suggested, and the New Jedi Order fills the Great Hall much as the Rebel Alliance once did, although with more shouting and a lot less decorum.

Luke stands off to one side and watches the debate in silence, trying and failing to keep a faint smile off his face. Mara is arguing with Kyle; Leia is waiting with a politician's patience for Kenth Hamner to make his point, and then she'll tear him apart; the kids are scattered throughout the Hall, going from one group of debating Jedi to the next, persuading, being persuaded, discussing, arguing. Every new idea is noted down; every objection is remembered.

There's a step on the stairs behind him, and then: a presence Luke has felt more than once over the years, in brief flickers and flashes that blaze up and die down quickly like a lantern-light being hidden in a dark night, but never before in full.

Not since Endor.

He can't turn round.

If he turns round, it's over.

"Very impressive," Father says, gentle mockery, but of himself not Luke.

"Full of surprises," Luke says, swallowing hard.

Father laughs, and the sound makes something coiled tight in Luke's chest unwind: the first time in his life that he hears his father's laugh. "Not really. I knew you could do it."

Luke bites down on his bottom lip. "Do what?"

He thinks Father shrugs. "This."

"You're being cryptic."

"Am I?"

"Cryin' out loud," Luke says, exasperated. "You know what? I think you enjoy this. Hanging around pulling the mystic dead Jedi card – it reminds me disturbingly of Obi-Wan."

"Oh, now, that was a low blow."

"Father!"

"Luke," Father says, wealth of satisfaction in the way he says his son's name, infinite pride in his Force presence, and Luke knows he and Leia are the cause of it.

He tries a different tactic. "I suppose you're here to keep an eye on the proceedings? Wouldn't want your grand plan going wrong."

Sigh. "I take it my namesake has been expounding on his crazy theories."

"I eavesdropped," Luke admits, and feels a satisfaction of his own when the confession makes Father laugh a second time.

"Good for you. They're a secretive lot."

"Part of the fun."

"Hmm."

"Are they accurate? Anakin's theories, I mean."

Father pauses. "Yeeee-eeess," he says. "For the most part, at least. It's slightly more complicated than that."

Luke turns round.

Presumably Father, being who – what – he is, can look like whatever he wants to look like; the last time Luke saw his image, he wore Jedi robes, but this version of Father is in a loose black tunic and dark brown pants, and there's nothing very Jedi-like about him at all. Mischievous, possibly. Sneaky, underhanded, secretive. And something about his hands that makes Luke think of back-breaking labour and Tatooine sun.

But definitely not Jedi-like.

And for whatever reason, he still has that vivid sabre-scar above his right eye.

"While you were alive," Luke says, and then stops, because the sentence is so very absurd and the question is even worse.

"You can't pour six litres of water into a jug designed for two," Father says.

"Sounds like something Yoda would say."

"Before or after he pokes at you with a walking-stick?"

Luke barks a laugh. They smile at each other.

Out in the Hall, there's a brief commotion; Ben has leapt to the top of the steps. Ever so slightly to the right, and he'll be standing in the same spot Han once did.

"Ladies and gentlebeings," he shouts. "We've been at this for hours now, and I don't know about you, but I'm gettin' hungry" – ripple of laughter – "so I'm gonna cut to the chase. I'd like to put forward the name of Jacen Solo as nominated for the position of next Grand Master of the Jedi Order."

"What!" Jacen yells. "Ben, get down from there, you idiot!"

"Stole my thunder, Benji," Anakin laughs. "Seconded!"

Jacen rounds on him. "Why you –"

The shouting starts up again. Ben glances over at Luke with a grin; it falls away from him, surprised, when he sees Father, and then comes back wider than before.

"Sound about right?" Luke asks.

"Oh," Father says. "It'll do."

And then, ridiculously cheerful, "I'll see you when the baby's born, then."

"No more skulking?" Luke asks bluntly.

Father purses his lips. "There are rules to this," he says. "It's one thing to watch over the kids; it's another to interfere in what you and Leia had to do."

Makes sense, Luke supposes. "And now it's accomplished?"

Father smiles again. "I'll see you when the baby's born," he repeats.

And with that Luke has to content himself.

He finds he doesn't mind too much.

(well, I'm back, he said)

This, then, is redemption.

A tiny squalling bundle in a blanket, red-faced, red-haired. Not the first great-grandchild, nor the last: but the first to share his name.

Ben sprawled exhausted in a seat by the crib, too tired to smile but his eyes lit up with joy. Luke stands by him, equally tired, lines of worry etched in his face. Jysella's labour was uncomplicated but long, and the memory of how difficult it was for Mara with Ben still sits deep in Luke's bones.

Anakin lays a hand on the baby's chest, gentle, feeling heartbeat and the delicate rise and fall of that tiny ribcage. No different to any other of his descendents when they first entered the world and unique as they all were and are unique.

And now, too: with Luke stepped down and Jacen in his seat as Grand Master of the Order, there is a circle completed. Proof of the viability of the New Jedi Way; proof of its durability, too.

Proof of balance.

This little one will know peace.

"We're naming him Corran," Ben says, yawning.

"Corran Skywalker," Anakin says. The baby blinks at him sleepily. "Welcome to the world, Cor." He smiles. "I think you're going to like it."

Nonsense words, pointless rambles. There should be fireworks; there should be celebrations all across the galaxy for this most ordinary of miracles.

Leia's leaning in the doorway, watching them: looks more like her mother than ever. Anakin tilts his head and watches the threads of light spinning gossamer-steel bonds between Cor and his family, tying them together, their circle opening for him, drawing him in, weaving itself around him.

Luke comes to stand beside him, arms crossed over his chest. Anakin can't stop smiling. Probably looks like an idiot. Any second now Leia will tell him so.

Ben's fallen asleep, one hand resting on the side of his son's crib. Leia drapes a blanket over him and bumps her brother's shoulder with her own; he wraps his arm around her.

Cor gazes up at them for another moment, and then applies his attention to sucking his thumb.

They all three reach for his dummy simultaneously.