Chapter 5

Luke woke up still lying on the bed in the testing room. Most of the devices were still there, though the electrodes were gone, leaving only sticky residue in their absence. Doctor Zha and the neurologist were gone as well.

He peeled himself off the long gray bed, finding his crutch was stationed outside the room, near the door. Simple enough journey.

Luke looked down at his legs.

Simple.

He swung his feet over the side of the mattress, his braced foot hitting first. It twinged, but it seemed harmless enough. He stood, looking up at his crutch just a few paces away.

"Luke?"

Han stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Waiting. Luke licked his lips, finding the throbbing in his skull deepening the longer he looked into the light of the hallway, the silhouette of his friend.

"Need your crutch, hotshot?"

"I—sure."

Han grabbed it, tossing it under an armpit before walking over to where Luke precariously balanced.

"How do you use these things?" He handed the crutch over to Luke, who took it gratefully. Luke shrugged as Han bumped into his shoulder playfully, escorting him for another two steps before Luke started to sway. "Easy, kid. They said the sedative might make you groggy. How about you sit back down, and I'll take your crutch, and we'll just wait out those last few minutes for it to wear off?"

The room was tilting, and Luke couldn't bring himself to say otherwise.

"At least it's the good stuff, eh?" Han said, shouldering him again once he was sitting back down on the bed. "Is it the lights?"

Luke shrugged again.

In one swift motion, Han pulled out his blaster, aimed, and fired at the light switch. The room went dark.

"Captain Solo, I know you have your friend's best interest at heart, but would you please refrain from putting holes in my facilities?

Mon Motha in all her brilliant white garb appeared in the doorway. Han stretched an arm around Luke's shoulder, the other stuffing his blaster back in the holster.

"I'm sorry, but I was told two things: not leave the kid's side, and take care of him. Not sure how putting holes is in the wrong at this point, your grace."

"You're wrong. Soon I'll be dead, and you with me."

Why his taunt to the Emperor rang in his head, he didn't know. But it had the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

Mon Motha gave an overly-patient smile. "I'll have someone down to fix it soon. I came to ask young Skywalker a few questions."

Luke braced himself. "Of course. Sorry I haven't been available sooner for briefing. I… I've been… in and out."

Mon Motha acknowledged his statement with an inclination of her head. "Then you wouldn't mind me asking you now? What happened that night, Skywalker?"

What happened that night, Skywalker?

What happened?

"I—"

Luke's eyes darted downward, toward his bandaged arm. Han hugged him tighter to his side, squeezing his bruised shoulders. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, skipping and skipping and skipping and—

"Why don't we all meet up for some green gelatin and talk about it later?" Han said tightly, his humor showing he was only half kidding. "He's just woke up from whatever the hell they put him through and I'm not going to sit here and watch him shake."

Luke hadn't realized he was shivering.

He pulled his hands into his lap, trying to gather himself.

"I owe an explanation," Luke whispered. "I had to go, I surrendered myself. I'm sorry I went behind the Rebellion's back." Her eyes told him that wasn't a valid explanation. "The Emperor, and Darth Vader, were both there. They were looking for a new apprentice."

Mon Motha leaned forward. Luke wet his lips, his voice cracking.

"I fought them both."

His world started to spin.

His father's words. The Emperor's death. The dark. The colors.

Han let out a low noise that could have been mistaken for a growl.

"How about you go meet my friend outside, and have a nice long chat while Luke and I start to breathe again? His name is Chewbacca the Wookiee. You can't miss him," Han said through clenched teeth.

Mon Motha's gaze was even. She inclined her head.

"I apologize, I understand if you're not yet ready to speak. In time, though, if you are to remain in my facilities—if you expect to remain a part of the Alliance—I expect a full brief of that night."

"You don't actually think Luke is some sort of spy, right? That's-that's—"

Han had pulled Luke closer, almost against his chest.

Luke's goo-covered skin sort of stuck to him.

"I am merely asking Master Skywalker to go through standard protocol, nothing more. A full brief is something all of his squadron has already undergone." Mon Montha cleared her throat. "The truth, Skywalker, is how the galaxy must be rebuilt. Starting with us. Good night to you both."

Mon Motha floated out of the room, barely looking over her shoulder as Chewbacca stood up at his full height on her left. Han and Luke watched her go.

"Easy, kid, easy," Han said over and over under his breath, rubbing his shoulder as he glared over his shoulder at the door. "What the hell is she thinking, coming in here, blasters blazing…"

Luke tuned him out, focus drifting down to his hands in his lap, their uncontrollable shake, the lub dub-dd sound thundering in his wrists.

It was a perfectly innocent question. Everyone had to go through briefings, especially solo missions. He wasn't an exception. There were pilots he knew that had come back from the brink of death to give their full briefs, barely breathing and freshly dipped. Hadn't he done the same, back when the Rebels were stationed on Hoth, and that Wampa had him upside down for Force knows how long—

He was Luke Skywalker.

Rebel Pilot.

Hero of the Alliance.

Jedi Master.

Son of Lord Vader.

"You know, I've seen torture chambers that looked just like this room," Han muttered, still rubbing his shoulder. "And I ain't trying to undermine that hag's medical staff, but this place is getting kriffing creepy. Think you're ready to get out of here?"

Luke nodded.

Han called for Chewie to "go grab a wheelchair, pal, and walk a little slower, why don't you?" as Luke sunk into Han's embrace for a few more moments.

"You know, I'm not much of a hugger," Han admitted with an awkward laugh. "So you can tell me if I'm doing this whole comforting thing wrong."

"Thanks, Han."

"No problem, kid." He snorted. "You're stuck to me."

Luke pulled back, his cheek and forehead making a stiick noise as he did so. His hair stuck in strange places too. And his nose felt weird.

Chewbacca pushed a wheelchair into the room a few moments after, growling about nosy staff and dismemberment. Luke slowly shifted from Han's chest to sitting straight, to standing, then melted quickly back down into the chair.

Force, he wished he had the energy to walk right past the chair, right down the hall and out onto the nearest ship out of this place.

Or even, just the energy to argue just a little, just a little.

Han took the handles of the chair. Chewie grabbed Luke's crutch.

The hallway, upon his arrival, slowly dimmed to a tolerable brightness level. Han kept up a stream of conversation, talking about the terrible food quality, the lack of privacy anywhere, and the Alliance's celebration plans—

"What?" Luke interrupted, quickly trying to backtrack in the one-sided chatter. "The Alliance is going back to Endor?"

Han shrugged. "C-3PO's fault mostly. I was against it."

"You're turning down a party?"

"Those fuzzy things don't party like I do, pal."

All Han knew was this: that the Alliance was starting a ripple of hope across the galaxy, that these sort of celebrations were popping up on every planet, in every major city, and that parades were not an uncommon sight. Rebel troops were depleted and catching up on much-needed rest and medical leave, but in a day's time, they would all get back together where that last battle had been fought and celebrate the coming of a new era. Together.

It had been ten days since that night…

"Sounds like hippy garbage to me," Han said loudly. "But… Leia wants to go. And because she's a princess, she'll probably get her way."

The three passed through the entrance of the dining hall, engulfing them in rich smells of thick soups and dark-crusted bread. Luke's stomach turned almost at the same time his stomach grumbled.

Lando sat alone at the table.

"Thought you might be hungry?" Lando said quietly, eyes darting from Luke then back down to the floor. The Force weaved his wounded emotion around them. "And I also wanted to apologize."

Chewie gave an approving mew.

Luke pushed at the wheelchair sides, getting himself onto his feet. He crossed the distance between him and Lando with little difficulty, despite Han and Lando's protesting, and wrapped his arms around Lando's back with a heavy thud of his bandaged arm on skin and bone.

"It was my fault, Lando," he said into the fabric of Lando's cape.

"Like hell it was." He paused, and Luke heard him take a deep, choppy breath. "Blast all this, Luke. You going to be at the celebration, right? The worst is behind us, right?"

"Yeah, of course."

Han snorted. "I'm here to eat more delicious medical-grade food, so if you two would sit down already I'll get us a few plates."

Lando gave Luke a hearty pat on the back. Luke forced a smile.

True to his word, Han returned balancing four plates of bread and cheese, glasses of blue milk and a bowl of thin soup, handing one plate and cup to each, plus the soup to Luke. Chewbacca poked at his meal, frowning. Lando started to pull the bread apart without eating it. Han drained the milk. Luke stared at it all with a sick feeling.

No one talked.

Luke thought as he stared into the soup, his face looking even more sickly and pale in the broth's reflection. His face still stuck and itched where the EEG glue had been, and his hand stuck to his forehead as he rested his head, settling in to wait out the meal.

"So," Han started from the silence. "At least we can look forward to real food back on Endor."

They all voiced their agreement.

Leia fixed his collar on his dark outfit she had chosen so carefully for the Endor celebratory occasion feeling… wrong. Too similar to that night.

He couldn't peel his eyes away from the mirror.

Under his eyes were dark pockets of sleepless purple, his arms aching and stiff. The line of stitches across his left side had showed starkly against his pale skin, dotted with green and yellow bruises. He slumped, unable to handle the sharp throb of his wounds at full height, seemingly worse each time he woke from sleep. His arm and leg kept time to the ugly rhythm of his heart, thudding against his hot skin. His chin, where he was told he had fractured his jaw, was slowly turning a deep black.

Test results and old-fashioned x-rays were slowly rolling back from off-planet. Mon Motha's facilities were limited in their machinery, loaning and borrowing from other facilities nearby when the need arose.

X-rays showed his fractured jaw, fractured eye socket. They blared his stupidity at using a crutch by showing the fractures in his humerus, and hairline fractures in his fibula. Two ribs, almost coinciding perfectly with the stitches and bacta patches, were broken, bound by tight, white bandages.

Still, he had begged Dr. Zha to let him go to Endor.

"Fracture, fracture, fracture, hairline fracture, and two broken ribs. Broken ribs, Mr. Skywalker. You should be in bed," Dr. Zha had muttered. Luke had promised he'd take it easy, rest on the way.

What convinced the doctor was not that, but Chewbacca's nod of enforcement.

Luke had held his breath as the medical assistant droid had loaded and depressed double doses of anesthetic and pain blocker into his bicep and neck; Dr. Zha said he wasn't taking any chances with Luke being laid out in the middle of space, unreachable to experienced medical personnel.

The Force wrapped itself around him, comforting him in his haze of pain blocker, slipping out of the broken crevices when his concentration faltered.

And yet, when Leia looked at him, his battered body still produced a smile.

"I'll just have to wash your hair again by hand," Leia tsked. "That glue just isn't coming out."

Luke choked out a laugh. "Sorry Leia."

"Stop apologizing." She tousled his hair, shagging up his bangs until the glue caught and kept at a ninety-degree angle. "You know that it's not too late to back out of all of this, right? We'll tell the Alliance that you're just not quiet ready for—"

"I don't want them to know any of this."

She frowned, moving so that he had to look her in the eyes. "They'll understand, Luke. Besides, you can't exactly hide your boot and crutch."

"Not that, the…"

Whatever was going on inside of his brain. Whatever they were testing for.

Leia's lips thinned to a straight line. "There's nothing definite on that yet. Nothing to worry yourself about now."

At his sister's beckoning, he limped over to the sink one more time, letting her scrub (admittedly rougher this time through) at the glue in his hair and face.

"I'm sor—"

"Don't apologize. Just sit."

He did.

"And if I get even a feeling that you're not up to this, I'll have all five of us back on that ship and headed straight back here, got it? I'm not going to put your health back in jeopardy."

Luke quickly agreed, hearing the Princess sneak back into his sister's voice fast and dangerously.

She held a towel to his head and he took it, rubbing his head dry, feeling the fabric catch on the stubborn goo. He thought better than to tell Leia about it, especially as she made the last touches to her own outfit.

"Ready?"

"Sure."

He crutched slowly out of the room behind her.

Since joining the Rebellion, Luke's circle of friends grew exponentially, almost filling the hole that was created when he saw his Aunt and Uncle…and the smell of their flesh…

But no, there was Han and Leia and Chewie, and Lando and his squadron, and his commanders and generals that all treated him like their son or brother or best friend. It all made it worth it, every time he sacrificed a bit of himself to fill their needs. It was his gut response, weaved so deep inside him it rivaled the Force that ran in his veins, that need to help others.

He was Leia's Luke, Han's hotshot, Chewie's companion, Lando's friend.

So much so that he was forgetting who the Luke on Tatooine was.

They made their way to the Falcon, Luke swallowing his exhausting to keep conversation with his sister, who practically glowed at the change of scenery. Her dress rolled like waves in the hangar wind, her hair long and let down in loose curls. She was the picture of grace. His sister, a princess, and a helluva general too.

Luke smiled to himself.

His shirt wrinkled over the protective layers of gauze covering the stitches on his chest, the fabric pulled taut over his bandaged arm. The brace on his leg covered his tailored pants up to his knee, making him look ridiculously lopsided.

And the tick, tick, tick of his crutch was going to drive him insane.

Each time he took a step, the slash along his arm and neck pulled, and he would wince, then do it again. Keep up with Leia. Don't complain. It doesn't hurt nearly as bad as being left alone would.

"Good to see you up and about, kid!" Han called from his spot on top of the Millennium Falcon. "You look like hell, but I'm sure a few drinks and we'll all feel better. Hey, Chewie! Get the thrusters online and we're outta here."

Leia ruffled his hair again, her soft smile turning into a frown.

"You're still sticky!"

The fivesome boarded the ship, C-3PO jovially greeting Master Luke and congratulating him on his bravery. R2-D2 whirred his usual borderline-dirty jokes. Lando was sprawled out in the cockpit, running his hands over the consul.

"Get out!" Han crowed. "That's my seat."

"Arrah grrha!" Chewie said.

"Fine, fine, you old scoundrel! I'm just saying hello to her!"

Leia helped Luke into one of the seats, readying for takeoff.

"Look at them argue," she said under her breath. "They're just like an old married couple. You'd think that this ship would get sick of them and just spit them all back out."

He kept waiting for something dastardly to happen. Star Destroyers coming out of nowhere, strange galactic beasts or villains appearing on deck, enemies of the Alliance coming to hunt them down—

But there was nothing.

He knew there were no immediate threats, yet he saw them at every corner, searched for them restlessly as far as his Force awareness could reach.

Luke tried to drag in breath after breath, focusing on that to ground him.

He could still be out there, Luke thought suddenly. Healing, biding his time.

His concussed brain ached as he pushed his senses farther, reaching, reaching… and coming back with nothing. He wasn't sure whether to indulge his feeling of sadness, or force the small spark of relief.

The Falcon started its decent, and Luke could already see the fireworks from the window, shooting miles into the air, sprouting leaves of scattered light above the treetops themselves. Green, gold, red, blue…

Engulfing, shredding, hotter than white-hot lightning, coursing through his body, lighting up his pain receptors. His desperate call out to his father—

"Ready to get drunk?" Han's head ducked into the room where Leia was helping Luke back onto his feet. Force, his chest was so tight he could barely breathe.

"Don't get carried away, flyboy," Leia said, moving from Luke to Han with the sway of her hips, her hand going through Han's barely-combed hair before their lips met. Luke looked away.

Let them celebrate. They're grateful to be alive.

And yet Luke found… he found that with so many gone…

He would feel the emptiness tonight in the Force, how many they had lost, and relive the agony he had felt each time a life was taken from the fight. How many young lives ended because Luke wasn't fast enough, wasn't brave enough, wasn't strong enough, wasn't smart enough to defeat the Emperor when he had the chance? Rebels picked off by faceless stormtroopers, hundreds of families broken, thousands more grieving.

He was one that lived.

Grateful didn't cover it. Guilty got close.

Force, why was it so hard to breathe?

His ribs felt like they were slowly closing in, compressing, trapping, crushing like in the Death Star's trash compactor.

"Hey, kid." Han's voice. "You good?"

"Yeah," Luke said, hating how hoarse his voice sounded. "Let's go see everyone."

But not everyone. Because so many were dead.

It was night, and the stars felt especially bright.

They made their way into the festivities, Han walking close to Leia, Chewie walking close to Luke.

A bonfire seemed to be the epicenter of the event, Rebels and Ewoks and old friends dancing and talking around its roaring glow. There were drums—the constant beat loud enough that Luke felt it in his chest—singing, dancing, laughing. The helmets of storm troopers were passed around, beat on, spat on.

This was what victory looked like.

There was still a fair amount that looked beaten. A pilot with a sling, a young commander missing a leg, plenty of bruises and stitches and patches. He wasn't the worst out of them, wasn't the best out of them either.

There should be so many more.

Their small group dispersed, Lando moving on to hug nearly everyone he ran into, Leia and Han pulling off to the side to dance, C-3PO and R2 getting surrounded by little Ewoks. Chewie nudged Luke, probably a cue for him to find a chair, and Luke took another look around. There was a small group of pilots gathered around a smaller fire, seated on logs, holding mugs and glasses.

Luke crutched over, Chewie close behind.

"Hey, fellas," he tried for nonchalant. Hard when he was just so loud and noticeable, limping pitifully with a Wookie for an escort. "Mind if I join?"

The pilots scooted in their seats. A mug materialized from seemingly nowhere. One pilot from Rogue squadron—Rogue 4, Hobbie—smiled.

"What about letting some guys know you're alive, eh?"

"I've been in and out," Luke said.

"In and out of death's door? 'Cause you sure look like it."

Luke took a long look at his mug, wondering if he could stomach any of it.

"I actually haven't heard much of what all happened," Luke started, glancing back at Chewbacca quickly.

"We won," Janson, one of the gunners, said.

"Besides that. Details." Luke had to swallow hard. "How many we lost."

The pilots exchanged glances. They looked tired; like men that lost too much.

"The Alliance fleet arrived to a fully operational Death Star. Ground forces managed to take out the shield generator but…not before we lost a lot of ships. A lotta men, too. Got to that damn reactor core and outta there before we could lose any more. It was chaos," Hobbie said.

"Who?" Luke asked, voice cracking before he could finish his question.

"Kott, Yong from Gray 3, Frix—that poor kid that took your call sign. We think Zev, too, 'cause we haven't heard from him. Force, we thought you too," Janson said, elbowing the pilot next to him, who splashed his drink down the front of him. "But lucky us, we were wrong."

Luke took an experimental sip. The drink burned all the way down.

Maybe, he thought. It will help whatever's lodged in my throat.

More stories were exchanged, more music and dancing and food and drink. Luke felt distant from it, his thoughts drifting.

He looked to the side, and he thought…

Nothing.

He tuned back into the conversation around the fire.

But he had thought he saw…

Luke set his mug down. "I'll be right back, give me a second."

"The hell are you going?" Janson asked. "Luke?"

He could barely here their protests. Chewie had probably started to follow.

"Ben?"

Luke called out into the darkness, trees creating a knitted picture frame where Ben Kenobi stood, shimmering with the proudest look in his eyes next to Yoda, who smugly grinned at him.

Luke found himself smiling back.

"Luke." Ben shifted so his hands tucked into either side of his long robe.

"Ben, Master Yoda," Luke said, his voice barely a whisper. "I-I thought—"

He had thought Vader would have been with them.

"He thinks of you in his lucid moments." Ben's gaze was even, understanding his unfinished thought. Luke blinked away at the stinging in his eyes.

His father was alive.

"Where is he?" Luke said, stepping closer to his mentors. "If I knew where he was, I could figure out a way to get him medical help—he was so close to death, even when I was with him…"

"Luke, the moments you had with him were meant to be your last."

"I don't understand."

"Your heart, it is, hm?" Yoda poked a finger at his chest. "Your pain, we sense."

"Where is my father?" Luke asked again, his voice pitching higher. "Please, I need to know where he is."

Ben closed the gap between them, placing a ghostly hand on his shoulder.

"Sit down, my very young friend. Reach for your sister through the Force."

"Wh-wha?" Luke's tongue felt thick, the air getting dense around him. "Wha'ss goin' on?"

Then, oh Force, lilies.

The smell of lilies everywhere.

Luke's eyes met Ben's eyes, his wide and scared, Ben's even. Calming.

His knees gave out.

The darkness had him before he ever hit the ground.