A/N: Apologies for the wait guys :/ I was pretty spent over the holidays and just didn't have much creative energy (thank you so much grad school). At risk of boring you poor wonderful people who've heard this from me a couple dozen times over the years, I have a standing promise to myself and my readers to finish what I start...eventually :)

CANTO VII

"Well do I see how the Eternal Ray, which, once seen, kindles love forevermore, already shines on you. If on your way some other thing seduce your love, my brother, it can only be a trace, misunderstood, of this, which you see shining through the other."

~ Dante's Paradiso, Canto V

He scowls at the hologram, waiting. His attendants, courtiers, ministers, guards, all are dismissed until further notice. It is not with anyone living that he would speak.

She's been nowhere to be seen since the incident in his throne room. He has been satisfied with her absence—proof that she overextended herself, that while she might have contrived one or two extraordinary tricks she is in the long run no match for him. Still, one cannot fault her for persistence. Despite months of silence, he took it for granted that sooner or later her preternatural visitations would resume.

But there is nothing preternatural about her appearance today. She's standing before him in the flesh—her height, her nose, her energy, the manner he'd forgotten she had of leaning forward earnestly into her words, the peculiar luminescence of her smile. She's here, he suspects, in spirit too, laughing at him through her new mask.

Skywalker.

The impossible name reached him last week, but he'd refused to credit the full implication of the report until holographic evidence at least was presented for examination. There is no denying it now. Both mother and father are written all over Luke Skywalker's face.

He did not foresee this, and that nettles him. As does the fact that this merry scapegrace, scarce twenty years of age and ignorant of everything, has foiled Lord Vader's uncommonly energetic pursuit for an entire year now. The sand flea is dancing circles round the krayt dragon. Stinging it into madness, too. Recently, for instance, the boy was sighted on Gibroa, raiding a munitions depot. The commander of the local garrison, in the excitement of the moment, forgot Lord Vader's standing orders to capture the young rebel Jedi alive, ordering his men to "aim for those baby blues." When the report reached him, and although Skywalker and both his unscathed eyes were already long gone, Vader spent two days in hyperspace one-way to travel to Gibroa…where he remained not one minute longer than the fourteen it took him to order the entire garrison into formation, rip their commander's eyes out of his head, and crush them under his heel.

Even he finds that tale disturbing.

Not the mere gruesomeness of it, of course, that weighs nothing in his scales; what he dislikes is the intimacy of it. Vader does not often play with his food. Contrary to popular wisdom, most of his victims die barely knowing what's hit them. A miserable few amuse him for a few minutes first, dancing on air; but his vindictive worst he reserves for those special, personal occasions. What placed the lieutenant's error in this category of offenses? A pure overstimulated thirst for vengeance, sharpened by repeated failures? Jealousy of a perceived threat to his rank among the Sith—or even of a rival for his former place in Kenobi's affections? Contemptible and irrational, but no less likely for that…

…or does he know?

If he does, he's a far better hand at cloak-and-dagger games than he's ever let on before. All official warrants and documentation related to the Death Star pilot remain anonymous. The name Skywalker has appeared nowhere in the intelligence databases, nor in any of Vader's information channels, whether official or personal or clandestine, not even the two or three that his apprentice truly thinks hidden from him. He himself obtained both the name and this recording through a personally cultivated source whose loyalty and discretion were never subject to significant doubt and are, as of fifteen minutes ago, permanently guaranteed.

He sits back, hands steepled, malevolent stare pinned to the oblivious form of young Luke Skywalker. The object of his regard suddenly twists sideways and looks him directly in the eye, as though, months ago and lightyears away when this recording was made, he felt his enemy's gaze. No, not as though—the boy holds the contact for almost half a minute, brow slightly furrowed, farther from whatever conversation he was in at the time than he is from the Emperor now.

Indeed the Force is strong with the son of Padmé Amidala.

His spies tell him the boy often speaks of his late father, the Jedi Anakin Skywalker. None of them has mentioned whether he is haunted by other ghosts.

The look meeting his is bold, unflinching, clear. They're Skywalker eyes, electric and incisive and blue as a pair of lightsabers, but it's a Naberrie soul they open—all soaring hope and shining faith. Padmé Amidala is not nearly as dead as he assumed. All these years he has easily deflected her from Vader, made her unseeable, unhearable. But now she has feet, hands, eyes to be seen…

…eventually, perhaps, a voice to be heard.

He will not speak of this discovery to Vader. If, as he deems likely, Vader already knows and has endeavored to conceal the fact, best to wait and watch. If on the other hand Vader does not know, best to preserve that state of affairs as long as possible. The boy is, after all, only the second creature of his kind ever to exist, and he'd like to complete his collection. Or at least upgrade the model he currently owns.

But he also does not care to find out whether Vader will hear what Padmé Amidala is laughing from those lively young eyes.

You haven't won. He is not yours.

tbc