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Metal screeched as Luke ripped the door from its hinges with the Force. He raised his saber and blocked the incoming blaster bolts—one, two, three, bouncing neatly back at the ones who fired them. The men crumpled, holes burning in their chests, blasters clattering to the floor. Luke stalked forward, seething.
If the Rebels thought they were going to get away with this, they were gravely mistaken.
He rounded a corner and slashed through a group of soldiers with one wild, vicious strike. He turned his saber on the next lot and painted their faces red before snuffing out the lights behind their eyes. His boots clanged against the metal grating on the floor as he walked, footsteps controlled and steady despite the blur that was his saber through bodies.
A corridor appeared on his right and he followed it, deflecting the blaster bolts that came his way with ease. The Rebels were thinning out now. Either he had killed most of them, or they had fled and hidden. He assumed it to be the latter—fear-ridden air wasn’t created by corpses, and the Force was positively trembling.
Though Luke would have savoured a prolonged bloodbath, he was glad for the isolation as the last body fell. He had arrived at his destination and didn’t want to be disturbed.
Still bristling with anger, he stalked along the dark, cell-lined corridor, listening to the Force as he went. He made it all the way to the end before he located what he was after and stopped. A large, heavyset door stood before him. The highest security cell. Of course. It would be a logical choice for any Inquisitor, but for the one who lay inside it was the only choice. Not just because of how dangerous he was, but because of how much the Rebels coveted him. How much they wanted to keep him, twist him and never give him back.
Luke sneered. He wasn’t going to let that happen. Boiling rage curled his hands into fists and the metal door in front of him crumpled. He yanked it with the Force and it came crashing down at his feet, the noise echoing down the corridor, and no doubt throughout the complex. Luke stepped up to the doorway and examined the room. His heart nearly dropped out of his chest.
Ezra was crumpled in the corner, wrists bound and unconscious. He didn’t stir when Luke entered—didn’t even react when Luke hurried over and gently laid a hand against his cheek. Luke’s heart fluttered with worry. Was Ezra still—
Yes. He was breathing. He could feel the shallow breaths against his palm. Luke dropped to his knees, relief filling him. For a moment, it drowned out all the anger.
But as Luke’s eyes roamed over Ezra, as he caught sight of every cut and blemish on his lover’s skin, the simmering in his belly slowly crept back in. Ezra’s wrists were rubbed raw and bleeding below the metal cuffs that bound his hands together. Luke sought the locking mechanism through the Force and shattered it, pulling the damned contraption off a second later and tossing it across the floor. Ezra still didn’t stir. Luke reached up and gently brushed the hair out of Ezra’s face, noting the paleness to Ezra’s skin and the redness around his eyes.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, as he gently pulled Ezra into his lap. Reaching out with the Force, he sought Ezra’s presence. It should have been bright and burning like a sun, but at the moment it felt feeble, like a far off star in the night sky. Luke brushed up against it, sending love and hope and reassurance—
Ezra’s eyelids fluttered and he mumbled something under his breath. Luke let out a shaky, relieved sigh, taking up Ezra’s hand to clutch in his own.
“It’s me,” Luke whispered. “I’m here.”
Ezra opened his eyes, blinking blearily, and looked up at Luke. No sign of recognition or relief crossed Ezra’s features—he seemed to stare straight past Luke and out into space. Luke’s chest felt tight. What had they done to him?
Ezra’s pupils were blown wide—too wide for the amount of light streaming in through the door, and they didn’t look to be adjusting. The anger in Luke’s stomach bristled and boiled. Had Ezra been drugged?
But of course, that would be the only way to keep him here, Luke realised bitterly. Ezra was too powerful to be contained by a simple holding cell. And those pathetic metal binders wouldn’t have lasted a second if Ezra had been even the tiniest bit conscious.
Luke was half proud at how much of a threat Ezra seemed to pose to the Rebels. At the same time, he was furious. How could the ones that claimed to love him—that no doubt thought they were somehow ‘saving him’ by keeping him here—do this to him? Luke had never wanted to kill that blasted Jedi Kanan Jarrus more in his life. Ezra had never let him, and whilst Luke had disagreed with the apparent sentiment Ezra still held for his old master, he respected Ezra’s request and had agreed not to lay a hand on the Jedi. Now, however? He wanted nothing more than to seek out Jarrus this very instant and—
“Luke,” Ezra murmured. His brow was furrowed in confusion as he looked up at Luke, but as he blinked, the haziness in his eyes seemed to fade.
“Ez,” Luke breathed, relief washing over him. He pulled Ezra close and pressed a kiss to his temple. Shutting his eyes, he forced his anger away for the moment. It was difficult—too difficult, when all he could feel was Ezra trembling in his arms, pale and cold and hurt.
“Did Jarrus do this to you?” he growled, unable to stop himself.
Ezra shifted in his arms. “Luke…”
It was a confirmation in Luke’s eyes—he could feel Ezra’s uneasiness and desire to avoid the question. Weakened as he was, Ezra’s emotions were swirling unrestricted in the Force. Luke knew that if he prodded he’d be able to look into Ezra’s memories, find out exactly what happened and use it to inflict the same punishment on Ezra’s captors.
But Luke would never invade Ezra’s mind like that. He loved him too much to go breaking his trust so easily. Answers would come in time. Ezra would tell him if he asked.
“Ezra,” he whispered. “He hurt you. He deserves only the same.”
Ezra’s brow creased and though he seemed too weak to say anything, Luke knew that look well enough to know that Ezra’s opinion on Jarrus remained the same. Luke breathed in deeply and forced the air out through his teeth, trying to push his anger out with it.
“Fine,” he grit out. “I won’t touch Jarrus. But someone needs to pay.”
He felt Ezra’s approval at that through the Force—approval at both Luke’s acquiescence and desire for vengeance. Good. He would hate to act without Ezra’s agreement—and now that he had it he could feel his anger settling, satiated in the knowledge that full recompense would come in time.
Luke cupped Ezra’s face in his hands and gave him a smile. Ezra returned the gesture, albeit weakly.
“I’m so glad you’re alive,” Luke whispered. He brushed his thumb over Ezra’s cheek and then leaned in to kiss him. It was a soft kiss, gentle so as not to hurt his lover in his weakened state. He let it linger.
“Sleep now,” Luke murmured against Ezra’s lips. “I’ll get you out of here.”
He felt Ezra give a small smile—just a brief quirk of his lips against Luke’s own—and then Ezra slipped out of consciousness again. Luke watched him for a moment, listening as his breaths fell into a shallow, steady rhythm. Then he scooped Ezra into his arms and stood.
Holding Ezra close to his chest, Luke stepped out of the mangled cell doorway and strode down the corridor. Anger returned to him as he passed the bodies of the Rebels he had cut down. He could feel it burning in his chest like a fire, but he kept it contained. As much as he wanted to turn his blade on the rest of base and the cowards hiding within, getting Ezra to safety was the main priority. His squadron of stormtroopers could deal with the Rebels for now.
He would be back. And with him, he would bring nothing less than a reckoning.