.

.

Vader

.

Alderaan looks a lot like Naboo—of course; historically, geographically and once upon a time politically, they are very similar—but it is a pale imitation of it. What I feel when I cast my gaze around the domed buildings (unnecessarily tall and thin), the mountains in the distance (shorter and squatter than home), is not homesickness. It's scorn.

Even the palace follows the Alderaanian ideal of understated. It's far from the grandest I've ever seen, fairly small, and almost looks like a part of the mountain. One can see it from outside the city gates, but... barely.

When our delegation arrives at the gates, the stiff, pale young soldier manning the gatehouse snaps to attention from what appears to be an unacceptable state of drowsiness, his dark eyes going wide when they clap on me in full, grand armour. Padmé's patron goddess snarls at him on my helmet, and as always I am equally pained and glad that I can carry out my role as her supporter, her partner, her protector—

—her failed protector—

—in this way.

Naboo's most beloved queen was killed. But this continent will still bow to her will, her memory—and her glory.

"The Imperial delegation, sir!" the soldier at the gatehouse shouts, and an older soldier peers at us through the lattice of wood and metal that passes for a defence.

I narrow my eyes behind the visor, studying it, then snort. One well-placed spell could blow it wide open; why my master insists on honouring Naboo's diplomatic ties with these people and striking a peace treaty instead of just crushing such arrogance underfoot like everywhere else, I have no—

Oh.

Something deep inside me shudders when we pass over the border into the city. Something intangible, in the same warm (now cold—for years, so, so cold) spot beneath my ribs but above my belly, where I summon all magic from—dark or light.

This magic, I think grimly, this magic that shimmers round the city and teases and weaves and tenses, is light.

And it is a powerful—achingly familiar, though I can't place where from—magic indeed.

Alderaan has not stopped sheltering our traitorous fugitive sorcerers, then. All well and good, but I hope Her Majesty the Queen understands that if I run into any, I will torment and I will kill them.

We parade through the streets—are escorted through the streets, rather, and only the most solemn of crowds comes to meet us. Autumn's early dusk is falling and the west is clouded by the storms at sea. Only a murky, purplish-grey light heralds the sinking of the sun and washes the shining faces of the few locals who dare poke their heads out of windows to watch us pass in dull, unflattering tones. The drab architecture fares no better.

Theed would still look colourful in this light. Aldera does not.

After a while, we are far enough into the city that the ground begins a definitive slope upwards towards the palace itself, higher up in these hills. The streets wind now, to prevent from being near-vertical, and I narrow my eyes at the soldiers escorting us. This is taking too long.

Finally, we cross through even more heavily guarded gates into the palace grounds. And now... there's another shudder of magic wards bending and bowing to let us in.

This time, I recognise it.

I curl my lip. Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan survived?

He survived the attack ten years ago, when Padmé and Luke—the boy he was sworn and supposed to protect—did not?

How—

Had—

Did he flee like a coward, then?

Did he flee, leaving my son to die?

Did he seek refuge here when we led our purges against the plotters and the traitors, did he run to Padmé's dear friends and allies the Organas and never return to help us rebuild?

If I see him here—

The path to the main doors of the palace stops here, at the base of the seemingly endless steps—if they think that is a decent intimidation tactic, they will soon learn differently—and we dismount. A few stable boys come to lead the horses away, a few footmen come to take our luggage, and the diplomats emerge from their cushy carriages, complaining loudly and haughtily about the pain in their backsides.

I roll my eyes.

Sometimes—all the time—I truly hate what my master has made of my wife's once functional court.

"My Lord Vader." A wiry man in Alderaan's un-fine finest comes down the steps to bow deeply and gesture towards the door. "You arrived later than expected—the welcoming ball is almost ready to begin. If it pleases my lord, I can lead you and your delegation to their quarters for the duration of these talks and perhaps you all can change and rest for a short time, then let us know when you are ready—"

"If I am going to attend a ball," the word disgusts me, the concept disgusts me, but Palpatine likes me to attend such frivolous affairs as a constant reminder of Naboo's strength, so I will obey, "I shall not waste any more time than necessary before we can proceed to the negotiations themselves. Begin the ball forthwith; anyone"—I turn to glare pointedly at all the diplomats; they shrink back from my gaze and the swish of my cloak, puffing themselves up—"who arrives late, arrives late."

"Ah, my lord." The man is surprised. It irks me. "Would you not like to change—"

"To the quarters. Now."

He swallows and nods. "Yes, my lord. Right this way."

The Alderaanian palace fits with exactly what I expected—and remember. I haven't been back here since...

Well, since Luke was a little boy and ran through the corridors with an eagerness at odds with the shyness he exhibited after a figure he mistook for one of the suits of armour turned out to be a guard, who crouched down to let him wear his helmet and stagger about with it on, crowing his delight, until Padmé scooped him up in one elegant motion that didn't so much as crinkle her dress and I laughed and lifted the helmet off Luke's head to find him laughing too.

I swallow, and glance sharply away from the guards who watch us with mistrustful eyes.

The quarters I am assigned are the same as the ones I shared with my family on that trip in happier times. I barely glance at the king's bed, the pattern on the carpet, the stately chair in the corner—Padmé sat reading in that chair while Luke napped in her lap—before I march back out again, to the quartermaster's horror.

"My lord—!"

"Take me to the ball, if you are so insistent on beginning it promptly."

He does not follow, but a nearby guard does. He leads me there, tense the whole way.

The ball has indeed barely begun: a collection of Alderaanian nobles in a large room, with a mostly-glass ceiling supported by columns around the edges where the side doors are. I stride in.

The minstrels' music stutters for a moment when they all clap eyes on me, but I pointedly turn away and they continue. The nobles eye me with the same apprehension, but the result is also the same. No one approaches.

The Imperial diplomats, in nicer clothes, eventually find their way here to make small talk with the nobles anyway. There is no need for anyone to bother me.

But there may be a need for me to bother someone.

I feel the ripple of magic—again, hauntingly familiar but I can't place where from—before I see the pathetically slight figure who's sidled in. I narrow my eyes at that blond head when I finally spot him—his manner and clothing, even duller than the average Alderaanian, fade into the shadows effectively; I suspect that's the point—and then tilt my head when he subtly glances in my direction.

Well.

I swore that if I saw a sorcerer here, I would torment and kill them.

He circles the room, but he doesn't fool me, and I make to creep up behind him. He's clearly still young, inexperienced; I can get close enough to seize his wrist without him noticing.

He bites back a cry when I forcibly spin him. It's dark here by the pillars, and the angle of his face casts most of it in the shadow of the lit braziers.

"So Alderaan's found another little sorcerer to try to oppose us with," I mock. He takes a deep breath and stays calm—apparently he isn't quite cognizant of his situation yet. Alderaan can't afford to be fussy if I kill him here and now. "Did you think you could hide from my gaze, little shadow boy?"

His jaw clenches. I smile under the helmet.

He doesn't move and I make to try to take his chin, to tilt his face up. I want to see his fear there. But I wait a moment—give him the chance to do it himself. "Are you deaf? Dumb?"

He gets out around my hand on his jaw, "No, my lord."

I scoff. "Alderaanian manners are worth less than they're famed for if you cannot look a man in the eye when you apologise."

He clearly bites something back there, but something in his shoulders squares. He raises his chin.

I drop my hand in shock.

"Apologies," he says, "my lord."

I stare.

The candlelight casts his face in soft gold and thick shadows, catching his irises to glow like sunlight in a pale sky, and with all his uncanny resemblance to the boy who would never grow up, the boy I always imagine growing up, I could be staring at my dead son.

For a moment, I can't believe it. The chin—

Is cleft like mine.

The nose—

Is small and round like Padmé's.

The eyes—

Mine.

The stature—

Padmé's.

The magic, the powerful, powerful magic, as familiar to me in an unknown, instinctual way as Obi-Wan's was—

Well, that came from me too.

This can't be him.

Obi-Wan is alive, I remember. Obi-Wan, apparently, fled.

And Luke's body was never found.

That doesn't mean anything. That can't mean anything—

I blink and he's gone. Vanished into the crowd?

Or was I imagining him all along?

I swallow, straighten. I'm shaken by... all of this, the way Alderaan is Naboo but isn't, the memories of when I was last here, the ridiculous notion that a place my son only ever visited once could carry such memories of his spirit and laughter and light...

That young, upstart sorcerer is gone from the room, so I glance around. Clench my fists. Then glance around again.

The troopers from the 501st I told to dress up like diplomats or escorts to keep an eye on things are doing their job, sure enough. I scan the crowd until I spot Captain Piett, stiff and uncomfortable in his fine suit and robes. I march over to him before I even consider trying to imitate the subtle, careful diplomacy with which most of the people in this room move, avoiding drawing attention to themselves.

"Piett," I hiss the moment I'm near enough. He has a glass of wine in his hand and jumps at the sound, sloshing several drops over his crisp white sleeve. His face, carefully controlled usually, carries the slightest hint of mortification.

It's only a few red stains. I snap, "Have you noticed any sorcerers?"

Let him wonder what my motivation behind asking is. I have no need to explain myself to him, and his duty is to obey.

"I— uh, not that I am certain of, my lord," he gets out.

I press, "Any you suspect?"

He swallows. "There was a boy in here a moment ago. I thought that he matched the descriptions of the Princess Leia's companion, who I know to be a sorcerer. If he appeared, then I assume it was to ascertain the situation before the Princess entered—he's gone, so I suspect she must be coming soon."

I have no interest in the Princess of Alderaan. "A boy?"

"Yes, my lord. Of course I have no proof to suggest he is indeed the companion—"

"Clarify to me what the role of a companion is." It sounds familiar—Padmé may have explained it to me, once upon a happier time—but I don't remember the term.

"Ah, of course, my lord. Alderaan's tradition—much like Naboo's one of handmaidens—is where each royal scion is assigned a companion at birth or in childhood. I believe Princess Leia's was assigned fairly late, when she was as old as twelve. They are to serve as their closest friend and confidante, as they grow up, and also an advisor or a protector. A bodyguard, of sorts, responsible for their safety and safety detail, though of course by no means the only bodyguard as far as protection goes. The idea is to be someone in whom the scion can wholly and totally place their trust."

"I see." Indeed, it sounds like a toothless version of Naboo's handmaidens; a group of such friends, several who can serve as a potential decoy or body double, would always be more effective than a single person.

Even if that single person was a sorcerer.

"And you believe you saw the Princess's companion in here a few moments ago?"

"I do, my lord."

"Describe him."

Piett swallows. Again. The wine stains on his sleeve are totally forgotten. "Relatively short, my lord, with blond hair, and wearing a similar clothing ensemble to that of the Prince Consort himself." Piett nods at Bail Organa, holding court on the other side of the room. His suit and robes, his vanguards, certainly match what the boy I spoke to was wearing.

So I didn't imagine it.

The boy was real.

A boy, a sorcerer, who came to the Alderaanian court five years ago—with Obi-Wan?—wearing the face of my son...

"Have you any idea how old this companion would be?"

Again, Piett restrains his grimace to say, "If he is of a similar age to the Princess, seventeen. Or thereabouts."

Seventeen. He looks younger, but then—

—Luke always did look younger than his age—

—some people do.

I nod curtly. "Thank you, Captain Piett," I say, and walk away fast enough to make him spill his drink again.

"Wait, my lord—"

I pause. "Yes?"

Piett nods towards the double doors at the end of the room. "There is the Princess—and the boy, her companion."

I turn to see what he's talking about.

Sure enough, the boy is back, and from a distance it's even harder not to see my son in him. He strolls half a step behind a brown-haired girl wearing a dress that was probably severely expensive but doesn't have anything to show for it, thanks to Alderaanian restraint; that, I think, lip curling, must be the Princess.

How did Luke—if he is Luke, if I'm right, if hope is a luxury and an agony I can afford to indulge in—end up companion to her? How did he end up here?

Luke drifts away from the Princess—Leigh? Rey? Maya?—to dance with a taller girl of a similar age, blonde hair in this nation's characteristic crown around her head. They're speaking quietly, L— maybe-Luke smiling faintly at something she said. Every so often, he keeps a discrete eye on the Princess, subtle enough that even I wouldn't have noticed if I wasn't watching him so intently...

"My lord?" Piett breaks into my thoughts.

I snap "What?" before I come to my senses. I've been staring—for quite a while now, long enough that the minstrels' music is dying out to soon be replaced by another song. Of course he's concerned.

But the boy is turning now, and I catch a glimpse of his face again. His gaze turns towards me, then away very quickly. I grind my teeth.

He walks over to the Princess again, concern and a steely anger creasing his face, and I follow his eyes to see what's wrong. The Imperial diplomat the Princess was dancing with before—Tion, I note with a particular disgust—has not let go, gripping her arm possessively.

The Princess's companion clearly does not take kindly to that.

I edge closer, even as Tion scoffs at the boy, eyeing his small, slim frame (like Padmé's, I don't want to think but do) and then... something swells up in me.

Dislike of Tion, it might be. I'm sure it is.

I move close enough that his gaze latches onto me over the boy's shoulder; he pales as I incline my head and make a sharp gesture with my hand. He lets go immediately, and I half-step back.

Then I pause.

The next song has already started, but I can still twist this to my advantage...

A moment later, then I'm close enough to hear it as the Princess mutters, "Thanks, Luke, you're a hero."

I freeze. Again.

Luke.

Luke.

This is—

The odds of that coincidence—

This must be—

I need to talk to him. I need to talk to him, to know that this hope in my gut is correct, that he is who I want him to be—

I'm looming over him and tapping his shoulder.

He stiffens.

He is not stupid. (He never was.)

Turning, he tilts his head back almost belligerently so he can look me in the eye, and my chest constricts at both the second direct look at the face he shares with my son and the proud, challenging look I saw my wife give so many throughout her lifetime...

I almost bash into him, I hold out my hand so fast and eagerly. He stares at it like it's a rock snake.

He glances at the Princess. She is frowning faintly, but her face is schooled into a neutral expression otherwise.

He takes the hand slowly—too slowly. I pull him into the dance before he has the chance to blink; the song is already well underway.

Then I remember why I hate dancing.

Padmé used to guide me through it, whisper instructions until I didn't trip over my own feet in front of visiting dignitaries and my own court, and now she's not here to help. There's just her son—he must be, I'm sure of it—giggling as he half-recognises my awkward attempts at grace, before he drags his features back into a polite, distant expression.

I almost snarl, tightening my grip. He winces minutely; I loosen it again.

"My lord," he says, slow and careful and diplomatic, "why are you dancing with me, and not Leia— Her Highness?"

(Leia. That was her name.)

I smile at his frown, at this little, living boy, and tears prick my eyes.

It takes me a moment to get together any explanation that makes sense, until: "Princess Leia Organa has other... diplomats," I'll call them that, "to woo. I am here as a symbol of Naboo's might, not to negotiate."

"The Empire's."

I frown at him. "What. . .?"

"The Empire's might?" he says. "Not Naboo's."

What—

What did that mean? What difference was there? "The Empire is Naboo." He should belong to us, not Princess Leia Organa. "That is why I am loyal to it."

His tone is far too light for the heretical words he says next: "Palpatine's Naboo, not Amidala's?"

"They are the same."

Is— is that why he never came back? Why whoever he was with—Obi-Wan?—never brought him, a child, home to his father, because they thought we were different? We made changes, certainly, ones that I'm sure Padmé would understand, in the necessary circumstances—

He cries out.

I'm gripping him, I'm gripping my alive, grown-up son, tightly enough that it hurts him.

The music stops as I stare at him. People stare at me.

I snap my head up to glare at them.

The music resumes, and so does the dance. Only the tightness at Luke's lips betrays his remaining pain.

"Apologies," he says, voice ever-so-slightly shaky. "I was under the impression that Amidala was overthrown so Palpatine could rule. I didn't mean to cause offence."

What?

What?

And therein, I think, lies why he never came back.

Because someone fed him all these lies—

"You... did not," I get out, when I realise I haven't responded. "Though it's a disgrace that a"—prince, a sorcerer, my son—"companion to the heir to one of the most influential kingdoms on this continent is so poorly educated about our politics. That your accent pins you as of clear Naboo blood makes it even more so."

He's silent. Waiting out my outburst, perhaps, or waiting for further explanation...

"Amidala," I try not to sob at the memory of her, "was killed by insurgents." Aurra Sing, Cad Bane, Jango Fett—their names and their faces are branded into my mind, as are their screams from when I executed them. As is the rush it gave me, once I'd embraced the power Palpatine showed me, the power that could have, should have saved my family... "Palpatine, Pad— Amidala's chief advisor, stepped up to be king."

And I supported him. Why would I not? He was my mentor—and I had no one else.

"I see," he says, and says no more on the matter.

But he does say: "You still haven't told me why you wanted to dance with me."

I can hear Padmé in his cadences, but my petulant child whining in his tone, and I laugh.

He... reacts to that laugh, half-closing his eyes, and my breath hitches. Does he recognise...?

No realisation comes. I try not to feel disappointed.

"Your spell earlier was very powerful," I say instead, "very well cast. Why would I not want to speak to such a talented young sorcerer?"

His lips tighten—at what, I don't know—but I continue, "How old are you, if I may ask?"

"Seventeen," he says immediately.

Seventeen.

It's him.

I smile. Seventeen.

It hurts.

I've missed so much. I've missed so much.

But, I decide immediately, no more.

"Most impressive, then." I mean it. "I suppose you have no interest in returning to Theed with me to—?"

"I don't feel like getting executed, no."

I snap, "You would not be executed, little one—" He is our prince, not some traitorous sorcerer, he would be returned to the throne where he belongs—

But he's frozen still.

His eyes are wide.

And I realise what I called him.

I swallow, unable to deny the hope pounding in my chest. Is he— Does he—

He shakes his head to himself and I deflate.

The song has come to an end. He extricates himself from my grip; for a moment I consider holding on tighter, never letting go, but that would not endear me to him. I let him retreat.

He smiles stiffly and takes another half step back. Perhaps I can talk to him, lead him away, tell him the truth and convince him to come home; he hasn't left yet...

"It's been lovely speaking to you, Lord Vader."

I pounce forwards. "Wait, Luke—" No—

He walks away.

After one brief step in his direction, I watch him go, heart tight.

He stalks right over to— yes, over to the Organas. His precious princess, who stands next to her father, both glancing between him and me with worried expressions—

Good. I hook my thumbs into my belt. Let them worry that the lies they've fed my son, my heir, my rightful king, will collapse around them. That he'll leave their service and return home, to rule the Empire we've created in his absence. I hope I can see their faces when they see what their deceit has wrought—I hope that when Palpatine sees what treachery Alderaan is capable of, his last act before abdicating to my son will be to allow me to ignore this peace treaty and burn Aldera to the ground for this offence.

The damned Prince Consort puts his hand on Luke's shoulder and Luke leans into it, and I want to roar—

Then Luke walks away.

I track his movement hungrily, and frown when I see him heading for the main doors. He pauses before he exits.

He looks straight at me.

He looks away before I can think to wave, or react, or do anything of use, and leaves the room.

Actual, passive presences cannot be felt clearly through magic—even dark magic. But trails of magic, the eddies and swirls, can leave imprints, particularly around powerful sorcerers like us, and I can already feel his imprint fading.

I turn to look at Organa. He, of course, is looking at me with his usual diplomatically neutral expression, but I can see the strain in the tightness of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes.

It worsens when I shift, finally, from my position in the centre of the dance floor, like a statue coming to life to slowly, methodically, walk towards him.

His throat bobs, and he fights the urge to flee.

Princess Leia tries to move so she's angled between myself and her father, then her father pushes her away and does the same for her. I can have no sympathy for his protectiveness: he stole my son from me.

I halt right in front of him.

"Your Highness," I hiss out, watching his tan skin pale even as he straightens up, those dark robes—so much like Luke was wearing, so Alderaanian—brushing his shoulders. "May we speak in private?"

Organa makes eye contact with his daughter and jerks his head. She narrows her eyes, but, after much staring, goes.

Would my relationship with Luke have been like that? Stubborn heirs trying to establish themselves, while their fathers tried to keep them safe?

I don't know.

I will never know.

Because of him—

"Of course, Lord Vader," Organa says smoothly, and gestures to some of the smaller doors that line the hallway. "Right this way."

I let him lead me out of the room, but I'm a head taller than him and I know the rasp of my breath inside the helmet, the clank of armour as I move, has proven a severe distraction for lesser men. Organa doesn't break, but he does bend a little bit: his tension is becoming more apparent by the moment.

We leave the ballroom, and it's a short walk across the corridor to a small room, half office, half living room. The desk pushed into the corner is made of a heavy wroshyr wood, from Kashyyyk, and I raise my eyebrows behind my visor. Is this supposed to impress me?

Neither of us sits at the desk. Organa pulls both chairs around, to give us equal footing, but I don't sit when he does. I stand, and tower.

Then I pace.

"So, Lord Vader, what was it you had an interest in—"

"That boy," I interrupt. "That boy is everything I have an interest in."

He tenses further, but has the sheer gall to ask, "And, what about him—"

"Did you think, Organa," I march over to him and bend down so we're on eye level, the scabbards on my belt containing my sword and my wand swinging down to smack his knee, "that I would not recognise my lost prince?"

Still, he has the nerve to continue, "My lord...?"

"That boy is Luke Naberrie," I spit. "Prince of Naboo, and now of the Empire we have created. He was declared dead ten years ago."

Organa folds his hands in his lap. "Well then, Lord Vader," he said, "if you had wanted us to hand him over for execution on the off-chance that he be a threat to your master's throne, I'm afraid that would have violated our commitment to protect any sorcerers seeking sanctuary in Alderaan, and—"

My glove is at his throat in an instant, but I do not squeeze.

I need him alive, for now.

"His destiny does not involve execution," I hiss. "I have no idea why you, and he, are so convinced of that."

"Then what does his destiny hold?"

"Being Emperor. Reclaiming his throne. He should not have been raised in service to your daughter, he is above her—"

"Be careful who you insult in Aldera, Lord Vader, you are here under our hospitality."

"—and above this. He should have stayed with us, loyal to his kingdom, and known every comfort imaginable." I straighten up again. "I demand that you return him to our custody immediately."

"He is seventeen. Under the laws of Naboo and Alderaan, he has been an adult and in his own custody for over a year now."

"I do not care." Leather creaks as I clench my fists. "You will turn him into my custody, if you have any desire for these negotiations to succeed."

He straightens at that, alarm crossing his face and tossing words from his lips: "Lord Vader, you are not a diplomat. King Palpatine—"

"Will entirely understand if I raze Aldera to the ground for your treason," I purr. "Kidnapping of a royal heir is an act of war, remember? Perhaps if you refuse to give me our prince, we shall see how cooperative you are if your princess is in Imperial hands."

"I already told you, Lord Vader," Organa says lowly. "Be careful what you say in Aldera. You are outnumbered here."

"I like my odds. And I recognise no restraint when dealing with kidnappers—"

"His legal guardians entrusted him to our care. I do not believe that is considered kidnapping."

"I am his legal guardian."

"My l— What?" For the first time, now, he looks genuinely surprised. "How—"

"I will ask you again, Organa," I drop my voice, "to return Prince Luke Naberrie of Naboo, my son, to Imperial hands, so that he may return home with us when we leave."

Organa mouths my son and stares.

He says, "Anakin?"

"Silence." I fold my arms across my chest and glare down at him. "Are those conditions acceptable?"

"Luke thinks—we all thought—that you're dead—"

"Are those conditions acceptable."

"...as I said, my lord," he says, "Luke is an adult. He will choose to come with you if he wishes to."

"Then it is vital that we explain to him why he should come with us, isn't it?" I smile, but there's no joy in the expression. "Now. Have you records about what happened to him? How long he has been here? Documents of these legal guardians who claim to know best for him?"

Organa pauses. "We do, but—"

"I will raze Aldera to the ground if you do not cooperate with me, Organa, and the only thing that will stop me is my son's word. I would hope therefore that you'd do everything you could to put my son in a position, with me, where he can give that word."

"Yes, my lord." He's seething. I don't care.

"Good. Fetch the papers for me, and tell me where you sent the boy to get him away from me." A snap of my fingers and two stormtroopers appear in the doorway. "I will have him fetched, and brought here."

Organa hesitates—not long enough for me to snap at him, but notably nonetheless. "The conservatory, upstairs."

"Good." To the troopers, I say, "Go."

They salute and obey.

I turn back to Organa. "Now retrieve those papers, so I can familiarise myself with what I've missed in the last ten years of my son's life."

Organa does fetch them. It doesn't take long; a few minutes at most, but I still only have time to skim the first page.

Then, and only then, do I sit down on the chair. The seat is uncomfortable and, out of a habit I barely remember from when I last saw my son, I give his chair an extra cushion from mine. I doubt he needs the extra height anymore, Padmé's build though he may have, but...

He's at the door.

I fix my gaze on him the moment he's there. His face is slightly flushed, his robes less painstakingly neat, but he looks...

Angelic.

The way Padmé always did. Both mother and son wear formality and informality as well as each other.

His gaze meanders around the room in a desperate attempt to avoid looking at me—to the curtains, to the table, to the hat stand. Then he finally deigns to slide his gaze to me, and his jaw clenches unconsciously.

But then he tilts his head. Narrows his eyes slightly. I wonder what he sees.

Without taking my eyes off him, I wave my hand at the troopers. This is not something they have the right to witness; they barely have the right to be near him. "You may leave."

He stiffens at the command and half turns away himself, before he catches himself. I can practically hear his heart hammering.

He tenses again at the snick of the door and I can't help but snort, bite out: "You will not be locked in, Luke."

The name slips out without permission and part of the sheer... relish of getting to use it, my possessiveness, must slip out with it. He narrows his eyes immediately.

I sigh.

"I suppose you don't need locked doors to—"

"Have a civil conversation with my lost prince?" I interrupt, before I can think twice, and I grin as I'm finally able to say it aloud. This is my prince. This is my son. "Hopefully not. I don't intend to scare you away."

But his eyes widen anyway, and he backs away, terror stark on his face.

I growl to myself, low in my throat, and I'm stalking forwards before I even manage to think.

What does he think of me? What rumours has he heard—what lies has he been fed?

Why did he never come home?

I clench my fist—gently—around his wrist. "Though it appears I already have."

He flinches. I resist the urge to let go immediately, and just tug him further into the room, pushing him slightly towards the chair with the two cushions.

"Sit," I say, surprised at the tenderness, the calm joy, in my own voice. "I have no intention of hurting you. I mean you no harm. I just want to talk to you, Your Highness."

He flinches again. I clench one fist in my lap—have the Organas, has Obi-Wan, alienated him from his rightful place, his rightful family, his rightful kingdom and his rightful title so thoroughly?—but just coax, quietly, "Would you prefer 'Luke'?"

He wouldn't. That is obvious; he shuddered when I called him that earlier, and he doesn't like or trust me—no, not me, the Darth Vader of his imagination—at all. Yet I find myself hoping...

He grimaces, swallows, and shakes his head.

I bite back my disappointment.

The fact that I get to call my son, my living, breathing son, anything at all is a blessing.

"Highness it is, then."

I... need to do something with my hands. I can't look at him either, not for too long, or I'll tear up or collapse or try to say everything at once and terrify him into never coming back—

I reach for the papers Organa gave me instead. Run my fingers over his name, the full title written next to it. They knew exactly what they were doing when they took him, and anger hardens my voice when I continue.

"Your Highness, you have been missing for quite some time." Far too long. "We thought you dead."

"Well," he does not hesitate to snap, "I suppose that's the point of keeping it a secret. How did you—"

I snort. "Give me some credit, Highness. You are a sorcerer. You have a Naboo accent. Your name is Luke, you are seventeen, you look..." My breath hitches. "...so different, to ten years ago, obviously, but similar enough that it is—" My chest is in agony. "Uncanny.

"And..." I stare for a moment, here, because he's clearly very well trained. Whoever decided magic was more important for a prince to learn than the accurate political situation of his own kingdom—Obi-Wan?—baffles me, but he is very well trained. Knowing that I had nothing to do with it hurts. "Your magic feels much the same as it did back then, too."

He scoffs. "You remember what that feels like, Sith?"

I flinch. The venom in his voice as he says that word, the old curse for evil, evil beings that gets applied to my strand of magic far too often...

He has been led astray, and I am apoplectic.

"The dark side of magic is infinitely more powerful than light magic; I am sorry that you and your powers were limited, squandered and squashed for all these years because your kidnappers raised you to think differently."

The offence on his face is... the moment I know I'm in trouble.

Padmé used to get that expression before she went very, very quiet.

"Excuse me?"

"However," I hold my hand up; I can't afford an argument I'm doomed to lose, not here and now, "this is not a topic I wish to discuss with you for the moment."

"Then you shouldn't have brought it up."

"It was not I who brought it up, Highness," I grind out. Please, just let me continue. "And again: I have no wish to discuss it now."

Before he can speak, I barrel on, clutching those papers like a lifeline. "Now, the Prince Consort tells me you've lived here with the Alderaanian court for five years?"

He blinks.

I blink too, as he chokes on a sob.

Why is he being so—

Oh.

"Calm yourself, Highness," I try. I feel like he wouldn't appreciate a hug right now—not from the enemy he's afraid his protector just sold him to. "Organa was hardly a willing participant in this."

He winces and I hurry on, "That is to say, he... did not volunteer this information. He was barely persuaded to part with it."

He shakes his head. "You're... not making this sound any better."

I'm not, am I?

I sigh. "This is not what I wanted to discuss, Highness. I had meant to ask where you were for the five years immediately after—" I swallow, trying not to choke on a sudden flood of tears. "Immediately after Padmé's death."

I watch him, closely, wondering if he noticed my slip. His expression does shift, somehow, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it means.

"We searched for you incessantly."

He clenches his fists suddenly.

Before I can even wonder why, he hisses, "Making sure I was dead?"

What.

What.

My hands tremble in my lap but my shoulders are still. All I can do is stare.

"What did you say?"

He swallows, a belated sense of self-preservation shoving itself to the front, and for the first time I realise my magic is filling the room in a dark, choking cold.

But he squares his shoulder and says:

"You and your king overthrew my mother and murdered her, so I can only assume you were searching for me to make sure I was dead as well!"

"Who told you that." It takes conscious effort to rein the magic in, and all I want to do is unleash it, hunt down every liar and fraud and kidnapper responsible for this and hear their musical screams as I tear them limb from limb—

"Does it matter?"

"Who told you that—" My fists clench; under the gauntlets, my tendons bulge. "That blatant lie."

"How is it a lie?" His loud, youthful voice vibrates right into my helmet, louder and louder and louder— "You killed my mother—"

"I loved your mother!"

The admission tears from my throat. Stopping it would be like stopping my blood from flowing.

"...what?"

I lean forwards and make sure, helmet or not, he looks me in the eye.

"I loved your mother," I grind out, "and I loved you."

The familiar screech of metal as my hands fist on my knees and I confess, "I still do love you."

Agony on his face, of the awkward kind, and he shakes his head. "I," he informs me, voice ringing with all the authority of an emperor—a greater emperor than my master, as powerful as he is, could ever hope to be— "don't remember you, Lord Vader."

I laugh.

Bafflement clouds his face, I laugh even harder, and I can't hold back anymore; I ruffle his hair, careful not to bash his scalp with the gauntlet.

It has been so long since I touched someone affectionately.

He freezes and stares, and there will never be a better time than this.

He's staring for every moment that I remove my helmet, as I fiddle with the latch, the visor, as I place it on the table to the side without breaking his gaze. His mouth has fallen open to form a small, dainty 'oh'.

His eyes rove across my face, and his mouth forms a word—

And then he says it. Quietly, reverently, like this is a dream he doesn't want to wake from...

"Papa?"

I couldn't have stopped myself from smiling if I wanted to, and suddenly Luke is there, right on top of me, small (but not as small as they used to be) hands clutching at me—

I wrap my arms around him too, trying not to sob.

"Hello, Luke," I rasp out. He's here. He's alive. "It's been a while."

"Papa..." He leans back and I let go reluctantly, clasp his wrist before he can back off too far, but he has no plans to; he stays close, and stares. "What— I thought you were dead!"

Smiling this broadly hurts, and I wouldn't change it for the world. I slip my hand down his wrist, to take his.

"And I thought you were dead, until I sensed and saw you in that ballroom. Where—" I can't speak, so I rest my hand on his cheek instead, marvelling at the way he leans into the touch. "Where were you, I—"

"We fled. Into the mountains."

My breaths quicken. "We figured as much at the time, but Luke—" I choke, and smile as he leans into my hand more. The smile drops as I say, "Why didn't you come back?"

"I— I was seven," he swallows, "I couldn't go without them and they didn't want to explain it and scare me—"

I growl, "Who's they?"

He hesitates, and suddenly doesn't want to meet my eye. "The handmaidens," he says eventually, though I suppose I could've guessed, "aunts—Sabé, Cordé. And Ben..."

"Ben?" Who—

Then, of course, I remember: a baby voice struggling to say my friend's true name and mangling it to Ben, an affectionate nickname that stuck, even when we'd entrusted that friend and brother to look after him on that fateful day.

"Obi-Wan?" I say, and— I don't want to believe it, but I know he fled Naboo, I thought it was to avoid facing his failures and their consequences, but if it was actually to—

To—

Luke continues, perfectly innocent, "When the attack came Mama told him to protect me and get out of Theed, to get to safety."

"I... understand all of that." I breathe in, then out; I need to stay calm. I drop my hands from his face to his hands, running my thumb over his.

He's here. He's alive.

"But," I add, voice breaking, "why didn't you come back—why did you think I was dead?"

"Because Palpatine announced that everyone in the royal family was dead! Including you!"

"Because you never came back!" I forcibly calm myself. "I thought— I thought you and your mother were both dead, perished in the chaos, and I wanted to die too, I wanted to vanish into obscurity and never look anyone in the eye again after how badly I failed you both, but Palpatine convinced me that your kingdom still needed me! So I put on the damned mask so I didn't have to face anyone, and continued to protect the new king and wage his wars against those who threatened the peace that Padmé fought so hard for..."

I trail off at the sight of his expression. It's frozen in a sort of dull horror, scepticism, a disappointed disapproval that again, Padmé used to wield so well.

"And conquer and slaughter and oppress," he finishes, "to make his empire for him?"

What lies have they told my son about me?

"The Empire," I spit, "is—"

"A disgrace to everything Mama stood for."

That shocks me enough that I don't resist when he releases my hands and backs away, like I'm a vicious animal about to bite. A— a disgrace?

He's not done. "Helmed by the man who overthrew her—"

"Who told you such lies about him—us?" I burst out. I can feel the dark magic writhing around me, responding to my anger, feeding off it, but I don't care. Even as he goes pale, his breathing quickening, I don't care.

"Who turned you against your own kingdom? Is this why you never came home, because someone, the Organas—"

He shouts, "They're not lies!"

He's almost bent over double, half-clutching at his head amidst the storm, but he still has the strength to shout, "I know they're not! Sabé showed me the evidence Mama was collecting on Palpatine even before he had her killed, and I was there, in the room when she interrogated some of the conspirators to confirm that he ordered it! But when she went back to find someone who would listen, she was chased out by your Inquisitors and their anti-terrorist mandate!" He sobs. "Nobody would listen!"

I clench my hands on my knees. "He was Padmé's most trusted advisor, she would've told me if—"

"She didn't want to tell you until she was absolutely sure, she knew you were close to him—"

"Palpatine is a good man," I hiss, finally shoving myself to my feet and closing the distance between us again.

He shrinks back, but lifts his chin with all the regal bearing of his mother and declares, "Good men do not order massacres in the name of their own glory."

A single, pregnant pause. I stare at him.

Then he finishes: "And nor are their right-hand men famed for being brutal, murderous monsters—"

I roar and he goes flying. There's a crash: as his chair hits the floor, as he hits the floor, and also as the door swings open to admit—

I stare.

Obi-Wan has seen far better days.

His eyes blow wide when he lays them on Luke, and he instinctively angles his body between me and my son, bending down to brush his fingers across his forehead—

And, despite myself, I look at Luke too. He's... very, very still.

No. I— I can't breathe—

He twitches and stirs again and Obi-Wan breathes a tiny sigh of relief, rising to his feet to point his wand at me and finally look—

And he stills, barely breathing.

"Anakin."

He glances away from me, back to Luke, who's looking up at him with an imploring expression. I stamp down my jealousy; not now. Later, but not now.

Obi-Wan shakes his head. "What have you done—"

Anger ignites in me again and I stalk closer. Obi-Wan refuses to budge from in front of Luke, refuses to let me see Luke, and it offends me enough that I spit: "Obi-Wan. So you stole my son and hid him from me all these years."

"As I heard Luke say," Obi-Wan says smoothly, shaken but unperturbed, "we all thought you were dead, and we all knew he would be in danger from Palpatine if he returned. Every word of what Luke told you is true."

"Palpatine is a good man," I repeat. "I trust him, I am loyal to him."

Luke bites out, tears glistening in his eyes as he cradles his head, "I thought you said you were loyal to Naboo."

I still, glancing back down at him. I want to look away the moment I see him wince in pain, the moment he starts crying quietly—I caused that I caused that I caused that—

I try, "They are one and the s—"

"I don't think, Anakin," Obi-Wan drawls cuttingly, "that any man who teaches you a magic and a lifestyle full of so much violence that you hurt your son within minutes of reuniting with him is a good man."

How dare he— "Dark magic—"

"Nearly killed Luke ten years ago," Obi-Wan crouches down beside Luke, rubbing his back gently and I glare—I am his father—"when Palpatine sent his sorcerers after him in the coup. Please contain it," Luke sobs and gasps, "interacting with it is never a good experience for him."

I pause, about to tell Obi-Wan exactly what I think of his light magic... but Luke is in pain. Luke is crying.

I nod stiffly and rein in the darkness.

Luke chokes for a moment before he manages to breathe and get out, "Th— Thank you."

I say, "Anything, Luke," as he wipes away his tears.

"Whether you deny it or not, Anakin," Obi-Wan cuts in, "Luke was right when he said that Palpatine had Padmé killed." I clench my fists. "I have copies of the investigations and the evidence upstairs, if you want to see it. Sabé gathered it all."

I can't.

I shouldn't.

I am loyal to Palpatine—this is clearly all a big mistake, a misunderstanding, perhaps a trick on the part of the Organas, or a traitorous handmaiden, or something to steal away my son and see Naboo suffer for it—

Luke says quietly, "Mama trusted Sabé with her life."

I slowly, very slowly, turn my head towards him.

"More than that," Obi-Wan adds on. "Padmé trusted Sabé with her son. I"—his smile makes something in my chest ache—"was just told to tag along."

It's true.

Padmé trusted Sabé implicitly. Because Sabé loved her. And because Sabé was no fool.

If she is convinced of something, I should take her word seriously.

"I do trust Sabé's word," I say, half to Luke, half to convince myself. "But I want to see this evidence for myself."

Obi-Wan has the nerve to smile. "Of course. Come with me." Then, to Luke, "Do you want to stay here?"

Luke nods, saying nothing.

He staggers to his feet and then into the chair, accidentally jostling the table and knocking some of Organa's papers to the floor. I reach out a hand to steady him. "Luke..."

He doesn't make eye contact with me.

"Go look at the papers," he orders, "then we can talk."

I take back my hand. Bow my head, and try not to feel stung. "Yes, Highness."

He closes his eyes and crosses his legs in lieu of responding and within moments his breathing evens out, his back perfectly straight.

"Healing trance," Obi-Wan says. "He's good at them."

I glower. "I remember him being terrible at them."

Obi-Wan shrugs. "Ten years is more than enough time to learn a skill. Now come on," he continues before I can say whatever cutting thing is on the edge of my tongue, "the papers—the evidence—are this way."

He leads me out through the door; I take the time to slip my helmet back on before I go. Luke barely twitches as I jostle the table beside him.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan says, and I tear my gaze away.

It's a short walk, but it feels like miles. The silence is stiff and awkward; it's not until we emerge from that long, steep spiral staircase into a glass observatory that I find something to say.

What I say is: "Fancy."

Obi-Wan twitches his lips. "The Organas had money to spare."

While he rifles in some cabinets by the side of the stairs, I wander over to a telescope and peer through it. It's not fixed on the sky, strangely enough; it's fixed on a point in the mountains. A point where a light glows...

"That's the safe house Luke and I hid in for five years," Obi-Wan explains, coming back to dump his papers on the table next to the telescope. A sweep of his arm clears the dust and papers already occupying it. "Before we came here."

I squint even harder at the light then, but at night it's too hard to make out anything. We have to ride near there to get back to Naboo anyway; we'll visit then, I resolve. I'll get Luke to show me around. Show me where he was.

Now, though, I need to know why he was there at all.

Obi-Wan unfurled a leather wallet of old papers, and my heart seizes the moment I recognise Padmé's writing.

"This is..." He trails off when I pick up the letter—a very serious letter, from Padmé to Sabé in response to this other one in the pile, from Sabé to Padmé. I haven't used the code it's written in for a decade but I remember it—

Remember it enough to blink tears back at seeing my wife's writing, my wife's words, as she talks about the man she fears will kill her.

The man who did kill her.

The paper crinkles, I'm holding it so tightly.

"He'll pay for this," I growl, "I will make him pay for this—"

"Anakin!"

I march down the stairs, leaving Obi-Wan scurrying to keep up with me. I take those steps damn near four at a time, and it's only magical interference that keeps me from toppling over. After a while Obi-Wan stops shouting for me to calm down, and just does his best not to fall behind.

He fails.

I burst back into the room, past the troopers left outside it, to find Luke still in his healing trance.

He's smiling, I notice, and go still for a moment. He's calm, at peace, and he's smiling.

I sit opposite him, remove my helmet again, and rest my hand on his shoulder. "Luke?"

No response.

I curse. Of course. I don't know the keyword to wake him from his healing trance—

"Bractealis," Obi-Wan says from the door. He's at Luke's side by the time my son wakes; Luke automatically leans into him.

I swallow tightly.

Luke stretches, uncrosses his legs and plants his feet back on the floor. "Did you get the evidence you wanted?" His gaze finds the papers—I flung them on the table.

I nod.

"I... understand now," I get out, suddenly aware of how hoarse my voice is. I didn't realise I was crying in my mad rush to get here, but now the tears are sticky and hot. "I believe you. I... know why you never came home."

Padmé's beautiful scrawl is still imprinted behind my eyes—as are those damning, damning words. I think he wants to kill us, and take the throne for his own.

Luke says, quietly but intensely, "I wanted to."

I want to cry.

But I won't.

No. I won't cry.

"So," Luke asks, "what now?"

I won't cry.

"Now," I tell him, "I make things right."

I grab his arm—careful not to hurt him—and not even his startled cry of "Papa!" makes me pause. The troopers outside have the nerve to try to slow me down.

"Out of my way!" They're yanked back like marionettes on a string.

"Papa..." Luke says, and even in the midst of my frenzy and my fervour I turn towards him like a flower towards the sun. "Your helmet..."

"I don't care," I declare. There are far, far more important things at stake now—and with my son at my side, vengeance as my sword, I will be able to look the world in the eye again.

"Then what are you—"

The ballroom doors bang open and the minstrels stop their music to stare. Good. Let them stare. They are witnessing the rise of a new king.

The greatest king this continent will ever see.

The minstrels evacuate the dais—good—and I make for it. This lacks so much of the grandeur Luke deserves, the official paperwork, the history and tradition and meaning behind every symbolic act, but I will bring Palpatine war. And I will use Alderaan to do it, if I have to.

They are no fans of the Emperor. They will support my son.

And I will not give them a choice.

"Vader," Luke hisses at me when we finally mount the dais, "Vader, what are you—"

"As a part of the treaty between our two kingdoms," I shout. The rest of the ballroom is deathly silent. "And in the spirit of long partnership between them."

I stumble over my words—this is Padmé's forte, she should be here for this, not me—but it is of no consequence. So long as Luke is announced.

Once Luke is announced, once his presence is known to the world, and to these irritating but influential Imperial diplomats I am forced to babysit, Palpatine cannot make him disappear.

"We will unite in support of— and support and celebrate—"

Luke and Padmé were popular, and Palpatine's reign is still young—he still relies on the image of being their natural successor to get by.

Luke's return will destroy his claim, and then I will destroy his life.

And...

"—the righting of an old wrong, the return of someone dearly missed."

This is my son.

My son will be king.

I knew that when I first held him. I knew that as I raised him. But for ten years, I never thought it would come to pass.

"I ask that here, now, you will recognise my son—"

My eyes slide to Piett, to the other guards, to those Imperial diplomats, whose lives rest on how they react to this news.

Their faces have drained of colour.

"—Prince Luke Naberrie of Naboo."

Their faces light up. And fall. Crease with confusion, with understanding, with a myriad of emotions that reveal exactly what they think about this.

How they know it will change everything.

We will travel with Luke back home. We will spread the word before Palpatine can suppress it. And when we arrive, when that slug inevitably tries to invalidate Luke's claim or cling to power despite the funeral bells ringing or even kill him, I will reveal his treachery, and I will slaughter him with all the mercy he deserves.

I am done living in the shadows.

My son will bring the light.

I raise Luke's arm to herald a new future, a new beginning, a new life.

"And," I finish victoriously, "that you support his ascension as king."

Thank you for reading!