Chapter Text
*
Three months after Endor, Princess Leia Organa Skywalker (soon to be Solo) has already decided that she has had enough.
She’d never been quite suited to the role of a General, Admiral, or Squadron Commander, even in the thick of the Rebellion; now that the conflict has widened and deepened, the struggle of two opponents evenly matched and equally desperate, she finds she fits war even less. What she would not give, she thinks longingly, for the quiet, menacing tension of a treaty negotiation; for the quietude of purpose that so quickly settles over Luke, for the joy of engagement that Han will never give up. She is tired of war, tired of fighting, tired of the callouses that are building up on her hands from her handling of a blaster and, more recently and under Luke’s careful watch, a lightsaber.
What she would not give, to have someone whom she could trust enough to take her place. If her father – her other father, and in many ways her true one – had still been alive, she would have given up her duties to him in a heartbeat. She’s fooling herself with this idle daydream, knows that the pragmatic pacifist Bail Organa would never consent to becoming a war commander; she only wishes she had the courage of her convictions to claim the same right.
Then, three months and two days after Yavin, suddenly and strangely, the opportunity of a way out falls into her lap in the most unexpected of ways.
Kamino is a world she heard much about as a child in her Galactic history lessons, and then again (and much more thoroughly) from Senator Organa. It has traded hands several times during the Rebellion years, and is visibly in decline, but the remembrance of its power, its potential, and its technology is enough to make her shiver as, once they have driven the final Imperial forces into its skies, she walks into the largest of the cloning facilities, still eerily lit in shades of blue and silver.
This is where it happened – this is where the Army that, willingly or unwillingly, destroyed the Republic was born. With her newly-sensitive bond to the Force, she can almost hear the shades of them, quietly begging for redemption, or forgiveness.
The remaining Kaminoans, ragged and anxious, inspect and mourn the devastation. Leia can respect their grief, if not their motivations; when her men discover a group of them trying to sneak a transport full of live pods out of the city, however, she is less inclined to be lenient.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she asks, and is wary of the look of damaged pride that resonates from the lead Kaminoan scientist’s essence. There are four pods, all in various stages of disrepair; only one is brightly-lit, luminescent, and within its murky waters a humanoid form slowly floats.
“We humbly ask that you spare us any further destruction, Princess,” the Kaminoan says politely, but she is no longer listening, because –
She recognizes this face. She recognizes it faster, indeed, than she recognized the wizened, hooded visage that came to her and Luke’s aid so long ago, on the first Death Star. This face looks like the one in the holophoto her father had given her, saying He may have changed and It was so long ago and He may be our only hope.
“You,” she says sharply, and the gathered group of Kaminoans all cringe. “You’re coming with us. And so is that.”
The story comes out in fits and starts on the trip back to the fleet. Lord Vader had left strict instructions, but never visited to view his creation. The Kaminoans were unaware of the source of his reluctance to do so, and also eventually – grudgingly, and with their own particular brand of shame – admit that the process of cloning a Jedi had been more complicated than they had anticipated, and though they had finally achieved success in the physical details they had made no progress whatsoever in imprinting memories, skills, or any version of the consciousness of their subject.
Judging by what Leia knows of General Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, she’s hardly surprised at their difficulties.
Luke hates the sight of It. He visibly shudders, crossing his arms across his chest and clutching tightly at his elbow with his mechanical hand.
“Wrong,” he murmurs, and Leia sympathizes, she really does; she knows that Luke is not just perturbed by the change in looks, by the face and skin relatively uncreased by age, by the faint scars of unknown origin which are precisely mapped, legacies of conflicts not fought and hurts artificially inflicted. This is Kenobi, she has determined, in the midst of the Clone Wars, as the remnant of Anakin Skywalker would have remembered him in those last, desperate days when the Republic was shattering. This is not Luke’s Ben.
But when Leia asks him whether her idea is feasible, he hesitates. He hesitates just long enough, in fact, that she knows he’ll do it despite his doubts, despite his reservations. He’s just as exhausted as her; he’s just as bereft of guidance, still, needing a center and afraid he cannot do this on his own. He’ll try anything.
And so, they try.
“Old fool cleans up pretty good, huh?” Han says, as the tank is readied, the Kaminoans hover, and Luke closes his eyes. Han’s joke is light and meant to comfort; Leia takes his hand, squeezes it hard, and hopes to hell that this will be the turning point she’s hoping for.
Ben, Luke calls, and Leia feels the Force shift. It feels uncomfortable, unsettled, as though it is – afraid.
“Ben,” Luke says aloud, and then there is a burst of light, and in the tank, something thrashes.
The Force screams.
“No,” Luke gasps, and he opens his eyes and flies forward, trying to peer through the sloshing solution; Leia hurries to join him, ignoring the worried whispers of the Kaminoans at their controls.
“Turn it off,” Luke orders. “Turn it off, kill the host!”
“We cannot – ” says one of the Kaminoans, and their gathered babble nearly drowns out the thud of a clenched fist on the inside of the thick glass.
Luke reaches over the control panel and presses something; the tank lowers and tilts, and from the surface two hands suddenly emerge; a dripping, copper-haired head; the rebreather is torn from the mouth and dropped on the floor so It can take in huge, shuddering gasps of air before It thuds into a heap on the floor.
There is blood pouring from the edges of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s eyes, at the corner of his mouth, diluting and trickling through the water. Only his voice, when he speaks, is familiar, albeit hoarse and horrified – though it is that, perhaps more than anything else, which suddenly reinforces to Leia just what a mistake she’s made.
“What have you done?”
*
He asks for privacy, and he gets it. Han watches Leia carefully, lounging and feigning laziness, while she finds something from her crew’s meagre stores of Alderaanian attire to send into the private room with a droid; she settles on a blue robe which reminds her of her father, ankle-long and elegant. Neither she nor Luke have any Jedi clothing to offer.
The droid’s departure heralds Luke’s arrival. “He doesn’t want to see me,” he sighs, and settles down with them to wait.
“Anyone gonna explain what happened back there?” Han says eventually, raising both eyebrows. “Because I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the plan.”
“The Force was angry,” Leia says, frustration pricking at her, and Luke nods his agreement.
“We’ve upset some sort of balance, that’s for sure. Just because he still existed within its grace doesn’t mean he was meant to travel between planes,” Luke muses. “Then again – the Force didn’t stop us from doing it, in the end. He’s here,” he adds, and there is definitely an undercurrent of eager, curious awe in his voice. On some level, he’s happy about this, relieved, grateful.
Leia can only hope she can be, too.
When, eventually, the droid comes trundling back to them, it bears the message that the resurrected Master would like to speak to the Princess. She looks at Luke, who shows no disappointment that he is not Obi-Wan’s first request; he has a better grasp on his emotions than she does hers. Han winks at her for strength, and she goes.
The robe suits him. Standing as he is at the wide window in his cabin, staring out over the Endor system, he reminds her of nobles at her father’s palace on Alderaan, known on sight to be wise and gracious.
“Princess,” he murmurs, and turns. He is dry and calm, his hands thrust into his wide sleeves, beard trimmed and hair neatly parted. He fits, suddenly, the sort of handsome figure she imagined in her mind’s eye when her father described his wartime exploits. “I regret that this is our first proper meeting.”
There is still blood beading at the corner of his right eye. He catches her staring, and reaches up briefly to wipe it away; she senses it is not the first time he’s had to do that in the last hour. His Force presence surrounds her, ebbing and surging, a core of bright light partially obscured by outraged pain.
“Your bearing reminds me so much of your father,” he says quietly, not moving any closer to her. A brief shadow crosses his face, and then he lets out a low chuckle. “Excuse me. I should clarify – your father, the Senator.”
“Not the Jedi?”
“Perhaps,” he replies, tilting his head slightly. “When I know you better.”
“Will I?” she finds herself nervous at the implications of the question, but it needs to be asked.
Obi-Wan swipes at his eye again, his fingers stained with red. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
He sounds flat. Already gone. Leia’s guilt settles deep in her stomach, coagulates, hardens.
“I am not meant to be here,” he says abruptly, his face blank and empty, and something in the way the Force swirls at his words frightens her. “You cannot possibly imagine what I lost in life, and now you have torn away everything I regained. What is this view compared to the sensation of inhabiting stardust? What is this,” he continues, gesturing to his fake body, taking a step towards her, “compared to my existence as pure light?”
A small, powerful hand grips her shoulder. It is becoming harder and harder to stand her ground, and as though from far away, she is aware that Luke is coming, that Luke, too, is afraid.
“What are you,” Kenobi whispered, blue eyes blazing, “compared to the company of loved ones I waited so long to see?”
The door opens behind Leia; Luke enters, steps up to Leia’s side, looks at Obi-Wan’s hand clutching Leia’s arm.
The Master’s eyes slide shut; a sigh rolls through him, slumps his shoulders and bows his head. “Skywalker,” he says slowly, as though the name is thick and unwelcome on his tongue. “I am not myself. My control is not what it should be. If you want to keep me alive, you had best restrain me.”
“Yes, Master,” Luke murmurs sadly.
Three droids, set to arm themselves at a moment’s notice, escort him towards the cruiser’s detention block; he goes quietly, upright and measured, leaving Luke and Leia staring at each other in silence.
“What now?” Leia asks, and already knows the answer she will get.
“I don’t know, Leia. I just don’t know.”
*
TBC
*