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It was a simple, if dangerous task—so dangerous that they felt it was safe. After all, no one would expect a Rebel as infamous as Luke Skywalker to go to the Emperor’s homeworld, and certainly not alone.
And certainly not to escort a Rebel senator off the planet.
“Luke,” Senator Pooja Naberrie hissed as they ducked behind another gravestone. “Is this— are they—”
“I don’t know,” Luke whispered back. The fact that when getting from the Palace cells to where Luke had left his getaway ship, their best way of going undetected was by going via a graveyard, had an irony that was not lost on him. “Give me a moment.”
He closed his eyes and centred himself in the Force, reaching out…
“The stormtroopers are turning the other way,” he said. “We’re safe. We just need to get through this graveyard, then over the bank, and we’re safe.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Pooja let out a breath. “And… Luke? I don’t suppose you’re the son of Anakin Skywalker, are you?”
Luke frowned. “Yes…?”
Winds howling, a monstrous behemoth reaching out his hand, it is the only way—
“Nothing,” Pooja said hurriedly. “I just—”
She swallowed, and quickly changed tact. “My aunt is buried in this graveyard,” she said. Luke started creeping forward, not liking the mist off the lake that snaked around each headstone and each ditch. It made it hard to see; it made him jump at shadows.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
“Don’t be—she died…” That look, again. “Well, she died twenty-two years ago.”
Luke frowned, wondering at the weight that the Force gave her words. He turned to ask more, to ask… something… but when he did—
Pooja was gone.
“Senator?” he asked quietly. Then he called a little louder: “Senator!?”
Nothing.
Only the noise of the hissing waterfalls in the distance, and the still, still mist.
Luke walked slowly forwards. The path between the graves was well kept and planted with beautiful flowers—beautiful white flowers, lining the grassy verge and carved into the stone memorials and—
When he reached the end of the path, he found a larger tomb, covered in those flowers.
Here lies Padmé Amidala. Queen, Senator; Beloved.
He laid his hand on the stone and nearly jerked away, but—
My son.
He snapped his head around. “Who’s that?”
Please don’t be Vader; no, please not Vader; no—
He is not here, Luke.
Your father has not returned to me in years.
Luke blinked.
That… that voice…
It reminded him of nothing more than Aunt Beru’s, but… softer. Differently accented. It resonated with him on a level so intrinsic, so close to his core that he nearly gasped aloud. He knew this woman the way he knew Leia, somehow, the way he knew no one else…
I am so proud of you, my son…
Son. He’d wanted to be called that for so long and yet for months now, that was the word that haunted his dreams. But the way she said it…
“Mother?” he asked, voice breaking.
He sensed a smile. You do not come from darkness, Luke.
He let out a breath and wanted to cry. “Mother? But— but he— how did you fall in love with—"
Anakin did not come from darkness, either.
I loved him because he was good.
I love him because he is still good.
Luke blinked fiercely. “I wish I could believe that.” His prosthetic hand flexed.
You already do. I know you…
He closed his eyes. There was a breeze, and then the mist cleared; Naboo’s three moons above him shone brighter than they had even on Tatooine.
…and I love you.
Now save your cousin—and once you have… save your father.
The presence vanished. So did the winds. And for a moment after, before Pooja appeared around the tombstones again, all Luke was aware of was the thick, sweet scent of the flowers.