Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was in the third month of the Emperor’s reign that the security holos taken from the Jedi Temple the night of Operation Knightfall were released. Not by the Empire, of course- no one knew who had done it, although rumors flew.

Some suspected Jedi survivors, some rogue clone troopers who wanted to expose the role of their enslavement in the rise of the Empire, some even postulated particularly extreme Imperial officers authorized the leak in order to gloat. But no matter their source, the holos spread across the galaxy like wildfire, despite the Empire’s urgent attempts to suppress them.

The galaxy saw, in all of its graphic violence and horror, the demise of the Jedi. And it was not glorious. Children were slaughtered in their classrooms, infants and elderly and wounded in their beds, and fallen in front of them all, the knights and masters and padawans who had tried to save them.

None of this knowledge changed the massacre itself- the Jedi were still hunted, their religion and culture and very existence outlawed by the Empire and punishable by death.

But several things did change. Namely, the practiced ignorance and apathy of the general population seemed to evaporate overnight. Plausible deniability was gone- one could no longer claim that it was a two-sided conflict, that both sides were wrong and it was best to stay out of it, when one had seen children cut down as they pleaded for help.

One could no longer pretend that it was a complicated situation, and ‘who’s to know what actually happened?’, when the footage of what had actually happened was viciously and horrifyingly and accusingly there.

The rebellion that was fomented in this galaxy grew much quicker and on a larger scale than in others- though not because the galaxy had some great love for the Jedi. In other times, this genocide would be passed off as ‘just another war, and the Jedi lost’, the destruction of the Order and slaughter of its people deemed justified at best and a consequence of involvement at worst, judged by a population who did not typically concern themselves with the lives and deaths of others.

It is an unfortunate and well-known trait of sentient beings that they tend to not take great note of tragedies unless they are personal. However, what the released footage of Operation Knightfall did was make the slaughter of the Jedi personal, to even the least sympathetic and bleeding-heart of characters.

One could no longer fool themselves that the Empire had only targeted the Jedi because of their power and supposed influence, that if they stayed quiet and lived their own lives, they would be left in peace. Watching the holos of children cut down as they tried to flee, it was very clear that the Empire would not hesitate to do the same to anyone who stood in its way.

It should be noted that many across the galaxy had already had this realization, long before this footage was released- the Empire had not wasted time with consolidating power and taking what planets and resources it could, given the advantage it held in the turmoil and confusion of regime change.

Most non-Humans had already felt the effects of the Empire’s attention, its scorn- but the oppressed peoples of the galaxy always know more of the reality of the State than their better-off fellows, and are more often than not ignored in favor of the fragile status quo.

It was the eyes of these other people- the middle-class, the earnest, keep-to-yourself-and-follow-the-rules good citizens, that needed to be opened, and, where other proofs of Imperial atrocities had failed, the footage was what finally accomplished this.

The response was disorganized but intense at first, roaring to life in the wake of the holos spreading. Protests began in the streets, emotions running high- a great injustice had been done, and people felt the need to do something, anything, to make their fury known. Great crowds marched in the streets of the newly-dubbed Imperial Center, bearing signs and demanding the Emperor come down and face his crimes.

Similar acts had been done before in the waning days of the Republic, by a populace tired of seemingly endless war and sanctions and rationing, and it had seemed to help then, if only to relieve tensions for a while.

However, the Republic had at least pretended at democracy, even if it was a bloated and corrupted one. The Empire did away entirely with such pretense.

The open protests in the streets were put down quickly, the full force of the Imperial Guard cracking down on them. They were too obvious, too unprepared, and the Empire took full advantage of the instability to break apart the nascent opposition, imprisoning or disappearing many of their leaders.

But in the wake of the wildfire being put out, something smoldered. Something deeper, better hidden, harder to root out. And in the depths of the city-planet itself, it was building.

Some had known the Jedi as legends, heroes who drove away pirates and slavers and famine alike, and some had known them as self-righteous busybodies arrogantly getting into other people’s business, and some had simply known them as the strange monks with laser swords.

But for all their various images, very few had really seen the Jedi as people. Not heroes or monsters, but simply people. People who had a home and an enormous family and a culture and traditions. People who had now been destroyed, horrifically and violently. A people whose survivors were now hunted across the galaxy, their very existence crime enough for summary execution.

The Jedi quickly became propaganda- a symbol of the crimes of the Empire. If one somehow hadn’t known of the holo footage due to their release and the explosive response to it, the nascent rebellion made it explicit that they were taking up the footage as a rallying cry. It was broadcast across the holonet- as soon as it was taken down by Imperial censors, it was posted someplace else.

The holonet echoed with the screams of those children, and there seemed to be nowhere the legions of Imperial-drafted slicers could reach that their opposition couldn’t access more swiftly.

Posters and graffiti became unmissable on Imperial Center, hinging on the information revealed in the holos, and these images were seized as flags of the rebellion.

Here, the face of a small child in Jedi robes, their expression solemn and eyes staring directly out at the viewer, a cauterized lightsaber wound burnt through their chest. The words arranged around their head read, “Did I deserve it?”

There, an image of an unarmed healer making a futile last stand in front of rows of medical beds full of sleeping patients, a youngling clinging to her skirts and one hand clutching a blaster bolt in her gut- this was ripped directly from the footage, and thus the determination, the ferocity, in the woman’s eyes was unmistakable. Any parent on the planet could recognize that expression. Her last words were scrawled at the bottom of the holo, sharp and jagged as they had been roared, “They’re defenseless!”

An image of a crèche- toys and pillows and children's drawings strewn about the rows of cribs, but horrifyingly empty, only the suggestion of blaster marks on the walls telling what had happened to its occupants. This one needed no caption.

An entire shift of the Coruscant Guard was dedicated to cleaning up the streets of these images. In turn, they too became part of the waves of graffiti, the rebels mocking and deriding the Empire’s continuing erasure and concealment of their crimes, using the very men who had been puppeted against their wills to commit them.

The Guard began to disappear, slowly but surely. It was never understood from the outside if it was citizens taking out their anger against the Empire on these poor men, or rebels trying, in some way, to free them from their captivity.

But regardless, their numbers began to dwindle- the Empire replaced them as quickly as was possible, with bounty hunters or people desperate enough to do anything necessary for a paycheck, but it was never enough to keep up.

There were no high-minded, propagandized youths expecting to deal justice and bring peace to the galaxy making up enlistment now, no optimists or even simple opportunists seeking a stable job with a chance of promotion.

Everyone now knew Imperial was synonymous with ‘child killer’, and no matter the cultural differences across the galaxy or the cruelty and pessimism that had been beaten into its people during the War and its aftermath, no one wanted to be branded with that title.

Enlistment soon turned into conscription, but even this was not to the Empire’s favor, as the competent and trained and bred-for-war clones were replaced by largely young Human men who, very fundamentally, did not want to be there. Consequently, it wasn’t long before they began to disappear as well.

Officers began meeting ‘accidents’ and ‘heavy enemy fire’ around the same time- coincidentally, the officers most fervently devoted to the Imperial cause and the superiority of Humans had the highest fatality rate, which only grew as time passed.

The true believers became paranoid and distrustful of even their allies, wary of rebel infiltration and collusion in the ranks. Intel began to become siloed inside various departments as higher ranks avoided communicating with each other for fear of handing over information to the rebels.

None feared anything more than they feared the Emperor and his right hand, Vader, and they did what they must in order to avoid their Lord’s wrath falling upon them, even if it meant fudging the reports slightly.

The truth was that the rebels had never needed to infiltrate Imperial ranks- not really. There were those who enlisted deliberately to pass along what they learned, as well as several who found their own way to the rebels after being pressed into service, but the Imperial war machine, at least on Imperial Center, was faltering without even direct action against it.

The Emperor had forgotten, or simply believed he could surpass, a very fundamental rule of government. Ruling by fear is not sustainable in the long run- it requires an ever-shrinking in-group of the righteous and good, and an ever-growing group of scapegoats, a source of the fear- and most importantly, a strongman leader to save the good, and defeat the outsiders.

Sidious was no doubt well-practiced with this technique, as it was the method he used to manipulate and take power over the galaxy in the first place, by painting first the Separatists, then the Jedi, then the non-Humans as the enemy to be defeated. A populace living in constant fear is easy to feed simple answers, the hope of a leader to fix everything and do away with the evildoers.

However, this narrative of fear relies on oversimplification to the point of papering over both past and present- a fantasy, a mythology constructed to appeal to those simple answers. And past is set in stone in the way nothing else is- a false history mythologized cannot stand forever. A people that cannot even look clearly at their own reality cannot face it with preparedness, and this is where those strongmen leaders always fail.

Authoritarians will insist, time after time, that the Leader can direct the galaxy to their will with enough force, and perhaps it was this the Emperor believed, that he was simply powerful enough to hold the entire galaxy in his fist.

But anything squeezed tightly enough will begin to slip through the cracks, and those in power are nothing if not excellent at ignoring those who fall there. This time, that would be their fatal mistake.

The Empire was slowly, ever so slowly, losing control.

---

Reva was hidden behind a dumpster in a darkened alleyway when she was found.

Her ankle had twisted badly a few days ago- a scuffle with a drunken smuggler that hadn’t gone well- and it had since swollen to twice its normal size. She couldn’t put weight on it, wouldn’t be able to run, but she refused to go down without a fight.

She had already seen all her family killed before her, hidden under their bodies as they went cold, carried the burden of their deaths on her shoulders as she fought to survive. She had clung to life with her fingertips in the months after, because how else could she repay them, how else could she carry her family into the future with her if she didn’t survive to meet it?

She wasn’t going to let anyone kill her now, not with so many spirits on her back. She levered herself to standing, squinting against the approaching lights, and readied herself to face her pursuers.

Their footsteps stopped in front of the dumpster, the headlamp lights along with them- two individuals, she made out. No one she recognized- not Jedi or clone, but they didn’t have the look of Imperials or bounty hunters, either. There was a murmur, “One of the Jedi kids- I remember her face.”

The sentence struck Reva- it wasn’t said with malice or smugness at having caught her, but… relief? She searched their presences- in one there was a stoicism, a banked fire of righteous fury, and the other was the slightest tinkling of cold, clear relief, a breath exhaled to keep from weeping. These people were glad to have found her, for some reason, and not to turn her in. It made no sense.

One of them stepped forward, hands up to show they were unarmed- a Rodian, teal skin almost glowing in the dim lamplight. They approached Reva, “We’re here to help you- we’re with the Alliance, the Coruscant Underground.”

Her eyes narrowed, wary- she had learned the hard way that trust was foolish, and would not make that mistake again. “How did you find me?”

They turned their face away, some flinching expression hidden behind a mask of purpose. The other- a Nikto woman- spoke up, voice rough and low, “We used the temple footage. It… narrowed down who to look for, who still had a chance.”

Reva tucked into herself at the mention of those holos- she had avoided all mention of it, in the weeks since their release. Her memories were enough, and she couldn’t handle seeing more of her family die than she already had.

She couldn’t handle seeing him again, not since he already haunted her, shadows of his cloaked figure hiding in every corner, every fluorescent neon and flash of Coruscant’s lights turning into his blazing saber, the hum of their bulbs becoming its plasma burning against the air as it whirled, cutting down her siblings mercilessly.

The Rodian spoke up again, a thread of steel weaving through their clear-water presence, “We’ve been searching for survivors, to lend aid where we can- the people are fighting back against the Empire, finally.”

They offered her a hand, angling their head back, "We’re going to get you out of here, kid- get you somewhere safe.” Then they said something she could never have anticipated, which simultaneously froze her to her soul and made her want to collapse in a weeping heap in a way she hadn’t before, even when the massacre happened.

“You’re not the only one who made it out.”

It was a hope she hadn’t dared to rely on, but confirmation nearly broke her where all else had failed. She wasn’t the only one, she wasn’t alone- she still had family somewhere out there, and that would have to be enough.

She took the stranger's hand cautiously, and let them lead her out of the darkness.

Chapter Text

Once they realized any attempt to deny the veracity of the footage was futile, the Empire only leaned into it further. So what that their fictitious tale of the Jedi being attempted usurpers was now demonstrably a lie. It didn’t matter, to the Empire.

All empires are built on lies- that same fictitious history, the galactic mythology that allows a narrative to be shaped. It didn’t matter that the people knew the truth of the Empire’s purges of the Jedi, because the Empire controlled the news and the holonet and the universities and the histories that would be written.

All would be well in less than a generation, and the Jedi would be wiped from memory entirely- all that was left in the meantime was for the Empire to do the same to all who would oppose it.

If they could not hold up the charade, they could at least use it as a bludgeon to crush those foolish enough to speak up- fear was as good a weapon as any, after all. It was one they used mainly against the powerless worlds of the Rim, those who did not have the resources to fight or the political capital to make their plight known.

These worlds were, unfortunately, also the most likely to fight, and the easiest to lose control of, as they were so far distant from the heart of the Empire and its power.

Resistance across the galaxy was much less unified, of course- it was strong on Imperial Center because the people there had seen the Jedi, had known them as part of everyday life in a way that few others did. They had seen the flames, and they had seen the corpses, and they now lived directly under the thumb of the Emperor.

Still, there were pockets scattered in secret- as well as other resistance movements who adopted the cause and used it to further their own aims, to connect with others. Many small, disparate groups came together under the banner of this revolution- everyone from mining unions to agricultural communes to displaced peoples- because there was one cause all could agree upon, and it was the death of the Empire.

Others even found no personal cause or unifying purpose, but still made slight changes in their own actions- it was harder to sit by once one had seen it, after all.

It was simple to help in small ways, ways that required one to sacrifice nothing- if you saw a face you recognized from a wanted poster- no, you didn’t. If you caught a glimpse of a lightsaber or Jedi paraphernalia, it was easier to simply look the other way.

The Imperial enforcers, the bounty hunters and dark side apprentices who were hunting Jedi, suddenly found their tips and sources drying up amidst a population newly, quietly, and almost uniformly hostile to their efforts. And the information could not even be pried from the citizens’ minds, because, after all, no one had seen anything.

In this galaxy, the Path and other refugee smuggling ventures would be much more successful than in others, and more survivors made it safely past the eyes of the Empire- Jedi and other force sensitives, political dissidents, families escaping imperialism and oppression.

The Empire still rampaged across the galaxy, spreading death and destruction in its wake, but lives slipped through its fingers like sand, unseen and gathering in the shadows beneath.

And while all this was happening, there was another change that went largely overlooked, one that would have repercussions beyond what anyone could expect.

The footage showed not only the clone troopers moving unceasingly through the temple, hunting down its occupants- it also showed the man at the head of the invading army. Now, the galaxy knew exactly who lay behind the monstrous, mysterious mask of Darth Vader.

This changed little for most of the galaxy- after all, they had only known Anakin Skywalker as another Jedi general, perhaps known his title, ‘The Hero With No Fear’, if they had paid particular attention.

It was just another story of betrayal amidst a galaxy rife with it, and thus the only people majorly affected by this revelation were those who had known him, those who no longer had any voice to be heard by the galaxy.

---

If Obi-Wan was honest with himself, the reveal of Darth Vader’s identity had broken him in a way that all else had failed to do- and that in itself felt like insult, in the wake of the slaughter of everyone he’d loved and the death of the Republic he’d served for so long. That this could be what destroyed him, after everything...

He hadn’t paid much attention when Vader had appeared on screens in the cantina, the Imperial news droning from the corner- he was too busy trying to numb himself and keep from falling apart in those first days after he’d lost everything.

The Sith enforcer had only seemed another nightmare, like all the others that had sprung out of the woodwork with the rise of the Empire- Sidious had obviously had many dreadful projects hidden in wait, what was one more?

All that had been of note was Vader’s saber style- it was vicious and sharp, hammering away at foes with brutal force and simplicity, but the motions had been stiff, robotic, lacking the easy grace of a duelist. Obi-Wan had given a passing thought to the idea that Grievous’ magnaguards had been a prototype for whatever this new evil was.

Oh, how wrong he’d been. And now he knew better- Anakin was alive, and he was a monster.

Mustafar was at all moments at the forefront of Obi-Wan's mind, and had been since it had occurred. His nightmares taunted him with what he’d done, what he didn’t do, what he could’ve done differently- the scenarios never seemed to cease.

There was nothing, he now believed, he could have done to save Anakin at that point- no amount of talking down or pleading could have swayed him. He had already gone too far, gone infinities too far for Obi-Wan to reach, the moment he had raised his saber against a child.

Still, he had tried, damn him, he had tried- he had fought on the back-foot, always defensive, trying to wear Anakin out at least enough to disarm him, or talk reasonably. But the reasonable part of Anakin seemed to have died first, when the darkness began withering his soul.

The rage in him had been unfamiliar- or, not entirely unfamiliar, but a grotesque sort of exaggeration, a twisted caricature of the righteous anger that had driven Anakin. It was taken to an extreme Obi-Wan had never before seen, all-encompassing and unfocused, directed simply at whatever caught Anakin’s attention, which flickered and shifted as quickly as his pacing had on that lava field.

He had thrown out accusations and blame as easily as breaths, not stopping to think them through and wonder if they made sense before letting the thoughts enrage him further. It was a baffling spiral with no clear beginning, and Obi-Wan had struggled ever since with how Anakin had changed so drastically from their last conversation in the temple hangar.

Part of him had wanted to laugh, hysterically, when Anakin had accused him of ‘stealing’ Padmé- it was the most foolish of thoughts, one birthed from the depths of irrational, quivering fear and jealousy, grasping desperately for any justification, any flimsy reason to strike.

Anakin had already decided that Obi-Wan was his enemy, long before they crossed sabers- although Obi-Wan would not realize this until much later. All that had been running through him then was disbelief, betrayal and confusion and sheer desperation.

Anakin had claimed outlandish things, that the Jedi were evil, that he’d brought peace to the galaxy (peace, while the corpses of children lay cold in what had been their ancestral home), that it was all done to save his wife.

Obi-Wan had wanted to scream then, to shout, 'Your wife? You've killed thousands, and doomed billions to the same fate, to save one person? You justified the slaughter of younglings because you thought that your wife would thank you for tearing the galaxy apart in her name?' The same person Anakin had, in the previous moment, choked into unconsciousness?

There was nothing in Obi-Wan that understood, nothing that could understand- had Anakin truly lived among them for over a decade and learned nothing? Had he absorbed nothing of the teachings Obi-Wan had fought so hard to help him learn?

Compassion for all life, steadiness in understanding of the cycle of life and death, acceptance of change and loss? He’d heard Anakin give these lessons to Ahsoka, and yet his brother had discarded them as easily as a cloak in favor of selfishness and greed and hatred.

None of it made any sense, and the confusion and guilt and grief would forever haunt Obi-Wan, every moment another ‘why’ and ‘how’ that went unanswered.

Owen and Beru had gathered outside their home the next time he went to check on Luke- there was a nervous energy around them, something searching. He realized with a sigh that, although they couldn’t see him, they knew he came often to keep an eye on the boy, and he was expected to show himself.

Neither were shocked when he did- so they had been waiting for him. And he supposed he knew what they wanted to speak of. He went to them, resolving himself to meet their questions.

No one spoke for a long moment, all three adults simply standing in a silent impasse. Owen broke it first- his expression was one of contained frustration, and deep fear. “So. Anakin’s alive, then. And not only is he alive, he’s the Emperor’s attack dog.”

Beru’s face showed only concern, brows furrowed in some searching confusion, “You told us he died.” Obi-Wan had told himself Anakin died, as well. “I… thought there was no way he could survive.” “You’re why he’s in that suit.” His head bowed towards the ground, the multitudes of tans and browns in the sand suddenly drawing his eyes. It was confirmation enough.

Owen again, sharp- “Coming here… You’ve put a target on Luke’s back- ours, too.” He was afraid for his nephew, afraid of what the boy’s father could do.

“He doesn’t know th- that Luke exists.” Obi-Wan had almost said ‘they’- a sign of how thrown off he was. He took a steadying breath, “And that is why I must watch over the boy, even from afar- I can shield him, prevent him from being found.” Both children blazed so brightly in the force- if he wasn’t here to hide that, Luke would be found quickly.

There was silence for another long moment, before Owen scoffed incredulously, shaking his head, “Guess I can see now why you didn’t want to raise Luke- not after what happened to his da.”

It was said so casually, with no accusation at all, but Obi-Wan still felt the knife of it slide into his heart alongside all the others. He confirmed, “I can’t fail Luke as I failed Anakin. I will shield you all from him.”

Beru said nothing, simply tilted her head to the side, eyes watching him. But where she was stillness, Owen was sudden motion- he was pacing now, some kind of harried dread leaking from him. He shrugged off Beru’s hand when she tried to still him, turning to her at once. “You know what he did! You saw him when he came back with Shmi’s body, just as much as I did.”

It was a total non sequitur, but Owen seemed to be afraid not only of what Anakin had now become- this was something else, something that ate at him. What, Obi-Wan had no clue.

But ‘you know what he did’… it rang with a horrible finality in the force, the tolling of a deep bell in his soul. Was there more to this picture, then? Something the Lars’ had known that could explain the sudden change in Anakin, more than Obi-Wan’s own memories?

The force told him he needed to know. He didn’t trust himself to speak, simply allowing the silence to stand until it was broken.

Owen crossed his arms over his chest and glanced away, squinting into the setting suns. “Four years ago, when he brought that senator here. His mother had been taken by the raiders- my da spent days out looking for her.

"Anakin took a speeder, came back in the middle of the night carrying her body. Whatever happened out there, he didn’t tell us. But his eyes…” Owen’s hands tightened on his arms, the knuckles showing white tendon, “And the rumors in the weeks after- the other tribes were restless. One of the traders said a whole village had disappeared, from the elders to the babies. I might not have proof, but I know what he did.”

Obi-Wan’s first instinct was to reject the claim, but he thought a moment longer and almost laughed at himself in deprecation. What reason had he now to doubt that Anakin would slaughter whole villages? Hadn’t he seen the holos from the temple, touched the cold bodies of younglings on the floor that bore traces of his former Padawan’s lightsaber?

No, it was perfectly reasonable to suggest that Anakin would do such a thing, even if the sickness grew in Obi-Wan’s gut at the thought.

But this wasn’t the recent massacre he’d seen, the one he’d lived through- and something in him broke that his brother had done this not once, but twice, betrayed not only his family but his vows to protect the galaxy, long before anyone had seen- this was old blood, before even the War. How could it be so old, and undiscovered by any who knew him?

He breathed, “I- I didn’t know.” How hadn’t he known? He and Anakin… they were closer than brothers, his former Padawan had called him the closest thing he had to a father. And he didn’t know this most monumental secret Anakin had been keeping, for years.

Everything in the last four years flashed before his eyes at once- every time Anakin had smiled or joked or looked carefree, he’d had blood on his hands. That saber he'd used to defend his men and his Padawan had already tasted the blood of innocents, and he’d made pretense towards such a strong sense of justice even after having become a child murderer.

Had he Fallen that long ago, and Obi-Wan simply didn’t see it, too blinded by his faith and love for Anakin? Had the last four years been a facade, Anakin simply biding his time until Sidious’ plan could come to fruition? He couldn’t believe that- he couldn’t, it would destroy him.

But his mind whispered- Anakin had clearly hidden these things before, horrible, dreadful things. And he hadn’t known. He didn’t know, the whole time- he would’ve done something if he had. Had Anakin submit to some kind of recompense, whether it be whatever consequences the Sandpeople viewed fit or dedicating himself to learning their ways, to at least understanding the people he had taken.

He would not have let Anakin simply forget, simply cover up the murder of an entire village and live life pretending it hadn’t happened, had he only known.

It was helpless, a rewriting of every memory since that horrible event, but he couldn’t help repeating, “I didn’t know.” Owen seemed to take it as an accusation, huffing, “Even if we could contact you, what would you do? The only authority this planet’s ever had is the Hutts.”

He heard the fear under the statement, the wonder of, ‘But could we have stopped this, if someone knew back then? If he’d been stopped after his first massacre?’ There was a new guilt there.

But also… Anakin had brought a Republic authority along with him- someone who, if she knew of this, would have been obligated, legally and ethically, to report it. Had Padmé known? She had been here, with Anakin, when the massacre had occurred. And he had always been more open with her than with Obi-Wan himself, less secretive.

But Padmé had been so disbelieving when he told her about what Anakin had done to the younglings, had adamantly refused to believe what Obi-Wan had seen with his own eyes- could she have been that shocked if she knew Anakin had done the same before?

He would never know now, and he had to believe she didn’t know, had to believe she would have said something, or else his memory of the late senator as friend and ally would be forever tainted, and he had so few memories left untouched.

Beru took a step forward, her piercing eyes drawing him from his spiral, “What did you mean, that you need to shield Luke?” “He is bright in the force- so bright that, amidst the growing darkness, he would be found by anyone searching were I not here to hide him.” Owen blanched, “You mean those imperials could find him here? Could- sense him, somehow?”

“An untrained force sensitive has yet to learn how to shield themselves. In- in the crèche-”- he had to fight down the basest, deepest part of his soul that wanted to scream at the very thought of the creche, all the youngest and brightest of his siblings, his people, lost and dead and killed and gone- “-younglings were protected by the masters, and taught to shield themselves early. But you don’t need to be afraid- I have quite strong shields, and have ensured he is well-hidden in the force.”

Owen’s arms tightened over his chest, hands grasping at his sleeves. He had made it clear he didn’t trust Obi-Wan, didn’t trust his powers or his motives- and Obi-Wan had never blamed him, given that his first meeting with the man had been informing him of his step-brother’s supposed death and handing over a child for him to raise.

Owen no doubt had seen the path of the Jedi as what had killed Anakin, driven the reckless young man into an early grave- this information changed those assumptions, but not his distrust towards Obi-Wan, still in Owen’s eyes the man who had raised the resulting monster.

But Luke’s protection was more important than this, than everything. Given this new danger hanging over them all, an understanding had to be reached. Obi-Wan could not remain kept at a distance, out of the boy’s life entirely, if he was to keep the family safe from the risk of Vader.

Owen and Beru glanced at each other, a silent conversation passing between the two. Finally, Owen nodded solidly, a decision made, “If it keeps him safe, that’s what we’ll do. That’s what’s important.” He turned to Obi-Wan, “I guess… you should stay close, from now on.”

Obi-Wan nodded, taking the responsibility- he would be coming by the homestead more often now, not only watching the boy he’d brought from Polis Massa from a distance, but working with his aunt and uncle to protect and raise him.

He felt more steadied, more whole, by this purpose, and by the others that had come to mind with these revelations. There was more he had to do as well now, on this planet. Many things that had once been viewed as irreversibly entrenched were now revealed as startlingly fragile, and it was good timing to take advantage of the recent strife to do something about the status quo of misery and oppression.

But first, a visit to the Sandpeople.

Chapter Text

The rebellion had not forgotten about the clones. In fact, their extraction from the Empire had become a priority, as soon as the control chip and methods for its removal became known. Not only because of their horrific treatment and the violation of the chips, but also for the eminently practical reason that every individual stolen from the Empire was one more added to their own number.

And the clones were ruthless once they had been freed. The Jedi had been their people- the only ones who had reliably treated them as people, who had encouraged them to dream and hope and be individuals.

There was a righteous rage in these men, for the control that had been exerted over them, for what they had been forced to do, for those very dreams and hopes and individual lives that had been so horribly taken from them.

The rebellion was truly fortunate, and the Empire severely unfortunate, that these men who had been bred and trained with the purpose of war decided almost as one to organize against the Empire.

Although it was ironic, in a way, and very deeply sad, that the first real choice these men had in their lives- the first fundamental life choice that belonged to them alone- was to continue fighting. Their chance at peace had been stolen, along with their wills and their people.

Later scholars would point to this as the moment the Empire truly began losing control of the galaxy, when the clone troopers began fighting back.

For all Sidious had ensured their quality when they were an army meant for the Republic, in order to maintain a years-long stalemate and thin the numbers of those who could oppose him, he had never intended for that army to be turned against him.

It was an oversight that would cost the Emperor greatly.

The vod’e were trained and honed by years of war, and contrasted sharply with the state of the Imperial army. The forces of the Empire’s expansion had begun to weaken at this point, although the Empire would fervently deny this- it was made up of unwilling conscripts who self-sabatoged at every turn paired with the worst of Imperial fanatics, and was an incongruent, poorly-fit force that stood little chance against the Vod’e.

No amount of equipment or weaponry can make up for lack of training and experience, after all, and the people of the galaxy having no faith or love for the Empire made a great deal of difference in how hard they fought for it, even when forced. Desertion from the Imperial Army was rampant, whole battalions at times simply disappearing from their posts and dissolving into the rebellion.

Some few Jedi survivors made their way to this rebellion, as well- recognizing the common purpose they all held and their place at the heart of the fight. They had become symbols as much as they were people, and their purpose began to save others from the horrible fate that had befallen their family.

One by one, this force took planets, systems, peoples from the Sith’s hold. There were losses as much as there were gains, but every life saved from the Empire meant everything.

The tide gradually began shifting. And so its waves spread further, the people of the galaxy bucking off the authoritarian grip of the Empire- one person, one planet, at a time.

---

Boba had been smugly satisfied to learn of the Jedi’s demise, at first. Really, he’d only been glad that Windu was dead- he hadn’t cared enough to look into the rest of it. The other clones had finally woken up to their status as the lapdogs of the Jedi, and done away with their officers- good.

But then the Republic became the Empire, and things got so much worse- entire planets enslaved, governments dissolved and absorbed into Imperial colonies, trade networks usurped. Destruction and oppression everywhere he looked.

And when Boba began to get frustrated- why was no one fighting back, why was everyone just rolling over for the Empire?- the bitter realization came that the Jedi had been perhaps the only people who could’ve fought it, really.

And then that footage was released, and along with it, the information spread that the massacre was an unwilling one, on the parts of the other clones, at least.

This, finally, made him pay attention. He didn’t believe the rumors of the chips- surely he would’ve known about something like that, given that he’d been raised on Kamino, among the others.

So he found a bootleg copy of the holos to see for himself, sure that he could dispel the stupid rumors.

What he saw was unsettling- and not only the sudden change from the Jedi being haughty, unflappable warriors in their high temple to the elderly and infirm he saw cut down. Jedi of all ages trying desperately to fight off the invaders, to protect their young and wounded.

The padawans no older than him trying to lead children to safety, scared and determined and dying. The knights fighting and yet holding back, trying their best to not kill the men, even while the clones had no similar compunction and shot them down with no hesitation.

That was horrifying in a different way, and the cognitive dissonance required to hold both his hatred for the Jedi and the knowledge that they hadn’t deserved this gave him a headache.

But the other clones… Everything about them was wrong- none of the easy, trained sync he’d seen so often on Kamino. No, this was wooden, puppet-like, any individuality stripped away into mindlessness. He couldn't look at it too long, seeing the total and complete lack of life in those movements, and had to shut down the holo with shaking hands.

Those chips the rebellion was shouting about must actually be real, then- there was no way the others would act like that, otherwise.

He’d always thought them foolish for following the Jedi like tame pets, but he had to admit to himself that their loyalty and devotion was real, and he found himself conceding that it had been foolish to believe they would ever willingly turn on the Jedi.

The chips must be real.

And yet… he was also a clone, and he’d never experienced any of this- any control, any taking over of his mind and will like the rebellion had described. Did that mean he really was different? Not just in aging, but in this, too? Had he been purposefully excluded from the control chips?

And- if he had been specifically made without one of those chips, did that mean buir had known about them? Had he known what the others were meant for, were meant to do? Had he known that they would be taken from themselves like that, unmade like that? Was that why he had insisted on not associating with them, insisted on Boba not associating with them?

Somehow, this was what broke him. The very idea that buir had known, had known that he’d given the rest of his clones up as slaves, as mindless drones for the Sith, made Boba sick.

So too did the knowledge that he’d only been the luck of buir’s choice away from that fate himself, from being fed to the War and controlled by the Sith, turned into a lifeless puppet like that.

Buir had always been dismissive of the other clones, treating them as little more than the ‘flesh droids’ he’d heard them called- cannon fodder and livestock for the Republic’s war, not sons or aliit- and Boba had done his best to mimic him, because that was what buir had wanted. Buir had wanted someone to carry on his legacy, and he had chosen Boba for that.

But he couldn’t- he couldn’t pull on a stoic face like buir had taught him, couldn’t make himself unflappable and unaffected by everything going on around him.

This was all too much, it was all way too much. Those were his brothers there, his blood and culture and aliit as much as he’d disavowed them for years, and they were being controlled mind and body and soul, into betraying everything and everyone they cared about, into committing atrocities.

And Boba was beginning to think his buir had known that, and had been okay with it, had intended it to happen.

Buir had always said he would get revenge against the Jedi, hadn’t he? What more complete revenge was there than plotting their mass murder, all the way down to the smallest baby? What revenge more ensured to succeed than placing the weapons at their backs, in the forms of kind, loyal men in need of help that the Jedi would, of course, devote themselves to saving?

It felt like some barrier had broken, something constructed between him and the reality of his existence that had suddenly collapsed. Buir had never wanted to have Boba to have a child, to have someone he could raise and teach- he had wanted a copy, someone to follow exactly in his footsteps, where he knew the others would be lost.

And now Boba saw where those footsteps had led- to the rise of a Sith Empire and the destruction of the only people who could’ve opposed it, to the slavery of men who wore his face and the slaughter of children and non-coms. He wanted nothing to do with that legacy.

Instead, the bare bones of a plan began to form in his mind. The rebellion clearly had some way to deactivate or remove these chips, and were not stingy with the information. And the Empire still held Kamino, held all the younger cadets and babies- but not, if he had anything to say about it, for much longer.

Perhaps, if he offered his help to the rebellion… He was good at blending in with the cadets, he’d already proven that. Maybe this time he could use that skill to do some good.

It wouldn’t free all of them- those of his brothers deployed elsewhere by the Empire wouldn’t be affected, and would have to be gone after separately, as the rebellion was already doing. But it was a hell of a start.

Chapter Text

The surge in rebellion across the galaxy had started with the Jedi, with the release of that awful footage of Operation Knightfall, but it had never been about the Jedi- not really. The footage had merely been a change of pace- an open expression of the intent of the Empire. The first time the people of the galaxy saw the Empire’s true face unobscured, in all its horror and brutality.

It didn’t matter whether one loved or hated or was indifferent to the Jedi, because the message hit the same- the Empire was willing to kill anyone who opposed it, down to the last infant. And that was enough to spark the fire.

But as the Empire’s grip loosened, as the propaganda began to fall away, the people also began to remember what they had known of the Jedi- what they had always known, underneath everything. Before the Jedi had been forced to be soldiers, to be generals and commanders, they had been so much more.

The Jedi were many things at their core- teachers and protectors and philosophers and scholars and craftspeople and carers and sanctuary. Hands reaching out to help or grasping a saber in defense of the helpless or offering food and aid. Knights and Masters and Padawans giving their all for the people of the galaxy, in negotiating ceasefires and keeping peace and ending conflicts and disputes.

The agricorps, which fed so many starving people and brought life back to desolate areas, which held off desertification and engineered crops to withstand the harshest of climates. The educorps, who gave free and comprehensive education to the underserved of the galaxy, because an educated populace is a more free and equitable one. The medicorps, offering free medical treatment and care, inoculations and hygiene and disease prevention. The exploracorps, who braved the distant reaches of the galaxy and brought back knowledge, who made the galaxy just a bit smaller and more manageable, who made the hyperlanes more navigable and updated maps and histories.

The Jedi had never been great in number, but everyone knew someone who had a story, even if it was centuries ago- a village saved from famine or from pirates, a friend or family member who had gone to the Order’s tutelage, a people who benefited from the information uncovered by their research. Slowly, this picture began to reemerge from beneath the propaganda and false images the Sith had painted.

The Jedi had made an easy scapegoat- they were seen as so powerful, and it had been easy to blame things going wrong on their negligence and disregard. They had been made the face of the War, tied deliberately and inextricably with the clones whose background and very existence was so controversial, and it was simple to point to the Jedi as the reason for it all, to lay the fault for the War and the rationing and the bombings and the deaths at their feet, for not doing enough, for not being enough.

In another galaxy, those rare survivors of the Jedi were trapped by their compassion, by their kindness and drive to help. They would risk death, even as they were the last remnants of their people, to save others, and it was what ended the lives of many who had survived.

The Inquisitors took advantage of this trait to lure out and trap the last of the Jedi, targeting innocents to draw out those hidden Jedi. And the galaxy would hate them even more for it, and would lean into the easy blame of the propaganda, the assurance that their safety could be guaranteed within the iron fist of the Empire if only the Jedi menace was rooted out and destroyed.

In this galaxy, the Jedi's kindness and compassion was how they survived.

The people of the galaxy learned -remembered- to associate the Jedi not only with the War, not only with the corpses in the temple, but with protective presences, sheltering hands, a kind smile and saddened eyes and the stalwart determination to continue on, even as the burden on their backs weighed with thousands of souls. The galaxy had turned against them, and still they remained kind.

The footage had reminded the galaxy that the Jedi were just people as they were, a people who had taken up the burdens and the mantles the galaxy had pushed on them out of compassion and a determination to do good.

The people began to wake, and the galaxy began to remember the Jedi as they were. And in turn, the Jedi began to emerge from hiding, the light beginning to shine through the darkness once more. They were not alone in this galaxy, and there was hope.

---

Ahsoka couldn’t believe the holos. It was like she was physically incapable of processing what she was seeing, of accepting what it meant. It wasn’t real- it couldn’t be real. Could it have been altered footage, like during her trial?

But no- she had studied under Anakin for years, she knew his lightsaber techniques better than she knew her own name, and there was no doubt that it was his fluid, deadly forms cutting down their family.

She made herself watch the footage- all of it. This was her family, these were her people. She needed to know, to honor them in this way.

There was Crechemaster Taila, who had taught her meditation, falling in front of a squad of troopers as she force-pushed the padawan behind her out of view.

Here was her friend Ghirar, using the last of his strength to fling a squad away from the younglings he’d been protecting as they escaped, before succumbing to his wounds. He’d been training to be a crèche master, and it wasn’t surprising this was his last act.

Her hand went unconsciously to the the seam of her boot- Ghirar had repaired it when the leather split, while she was at the temple last. He’d been something of a makeshift quartermaster among their little group, always with a piece of candy in his pocket and a sewing kit at his belt, and most of them had at least one garment of his horribly gaudy knitting.

She remembered the pink-and-green chevron patterned sweater he’d made for Prescho, and almost laughed at the image of her friend’s fluffy Bothan fur contrasting against the neons, before choking on the noise.

Prescho had been the first of her friends she’d felt die- he was a corps pilot, employed with helping guide flagships through uncharted space, and must have been shot down before he even realized what was happening.

He had only been the first- and then the floodgates opened, a wave of death and betrayal on a magnitude she had never known spilling over into her mind, crashing over her.

It had been debilitating for a moment stretching into an infinity, paralyzing in its intensity, before she had been able to react, and no doubt the spector of its fear and confusion had hung over her decisions in the hours after. She wasn’t proud of releasing Maul, but in the moment, she’d seen few other options, and there was nothing she could do about it now.

Echoes of that feeling fell over her now, numbing her even as the holos played. It would have been horrifying enough to just see Anakin killing younglings at all, but these were younglings he knew- younglings Ahsoka had played with and taught lessons to and accompanied on field trips as part of her Junior Padawan duties.

That was the crèche where she was raised, now covered in blaster marks and corpses before her eyes. She’d learned to read and write in that room, and her drawing of Master Plo- an orange and brown and gray blob unrecognizable as a being- still hung amidst the rest of the younglings’ drawings on the wall. The pillows and blankets and toys were still on the ground, even as they were hidden, tripped over, and covered by tiny corpses.

She knew these corpses, had known them in life- their smiles and laughter and bright inquisitiveness. One youngling, Lest (she’d lost a tooth last time Ahsoka was at the temple, and had eagerly run to show her, dragging her stuffed tooka- named Loveydoll- in her wake), had curled into herself, clutching Loveydoll close as they were cornered, and another, Has’la, had tried to shield her with their body, before both were shot without any hesitation at all.

It was the same with every other holocam-view she watched- every room she had loved, that had been filled with happy memories and experiences and family, was plastered over with death.

The refectory where she’d taken meals and enjoyed time with her friends, where they’d cleared out the tables and all eaten community pot together in big groups on mats when the Feast Days came around. The gardens she’d played and meditated in, with the trees she liked to climb and the ponds she’d learned to swim in.

Every aspect of the Temple had seen death now- death that sank into the walls and bled despair and darkness into the wellspring. Its atmosphere of Light and Family and Home that had always comforted her was now tainted forever.

She couldn’t imagine what Rex felt, knowing that it was his brothers committing this slaughter, watching his men march mechanically through the temple killing everyone in their wake, and knowing that there had been a chance to change it all. A chance they had all passed by without recognizing. Fives had tried to warn them, and he had died for nothing. Everyone had died for nothing.

“Was it all a lie?”, he asked later, voice small. They’d planted themselves at the table of their little ship, pressed side-to-side in its booth with mugs of caff that had long gone cold. It was the first thing he’d said since they’d finished the footage, and even the soft hoarseness of his voice was shatteringly loud in the heavy silence.

He took a shuddery breath, “Every time he acted like he respected and cared for us, raged against the naval officers treating us like droids, put himself on the line to save our men… How can any of that have been real, if he was just going to turn around and do this? To enslave my brothers and turn us into weapons to destroy the people we love? We trusted him to lead us, and he led my brothers into the temple and aimed them at younglings.”

Rex moved to run a hand back through his hair, and fell into it instead, his hands holding his head up against collapse as his shoulders shook.

She wanted to reassure him, to say that of course Anakin had cared, their friendships had been real- but she suddenly wasn’t sure of that herself. Everything seemed like a lie now, in retrospect, having seen what he’d done, what he’d become. Everything he’d taught her, every good moment they had shared together.

It haunted her- if she had been there, if she hadn’t left, could she have stopped it? Talked him down somehow? Or would she be just another corpse cold on the floor of her home? A hysterical laugh bubbled up from her mouth, torn from her throat by disbelief- it was a foolish thought.

What Anakin had done at the temple, the depths he had fallen to in order to think the slaughter of infants and wounded was justified, was somehow necessary, was not something one could simply be talked down from.

The horrible certainty settled over her that, if she had stood between him and whatever aim he served when he slaughtered their family, he would have struck her down just as carelessly. It somehow hurt more than anything else had, and that in itself hurt, that she was mourning the loss of her Master’s love just as much as she mourned the deaths of those he’d betrayed.

And she hadn’t even been there to- she didn’t know, fight, help others escape, die alongside her family? All would have been better than watching from afar like this, utterly helpless.

Ahsoka would have gone back- she knew she would have. She had simply needed time, to figure herself out. She had come to her training in the middle of a war, and it had shaped her adolescence and coming of age, honing her for combat in a way Jedi were never supposed to be. So when the bombing at the temple happened and she was framed, she had reacted as a soldier and not a Jedi.

Looking back, she had to admit that her actions, in the moment perceived as escaping an enemy, did nothing but play into the perception of guilt Barriss had created around her. She couldn’t blame the council- they had done what they could, and could not shelter her any more than anyone could expect to shelter a suspected criminal in their home without consequence.

But she had just needed time afterwards, to understand herself and her place in the galaxy. She had planned to return once she’d seen the War to its end- and with Dooku dead and Grievous cornered, it had seemed like only a matter of time.

In the month leading up to the Purge, she had begun dreaming of the gardens, the pools and archives and meditation spaces and classrooms, begun anticipating returning to her people. And there had never been any doubt in her that they would welcome her back- they had said so many times, and she’d always known she was wanted, she was loved. She’d ached to go home, by the end of it.

But now she would never have that chance. And the one who had taken it from her was none other than her own Master.

She had mourned Anakin, fearing him dead along with all the others, seemingly knowing, in the way she’d always thought she’d known him, that he must’ve died protecting the temple, protecting their family against his own men. She had constructed a memorial in her mind for her lost Master, mourned at its feet for months, and now it was crumbling before her, and she didn’t know what to do.

Ahsoka curled into herself, tucking her face into her knees and caging her arms around them. She wanted to go home. She wanted her Grandmaster- she wanted his unflappable calm, his ready wit and wise remarks and steady hands. She wanted to hide in his cloak, as she’d done during the War to escape everything for a while and simply be a Padawan again.

She hadn’t felt him die, but then, she hadn't felt most of her family die, either- it had been such confusion, so much death all at once, that individual signatures had become impossible to tell apart even as they were extinguished. And if Anakin had turned into this… there was no way Master Obi-Wan would’ve let him, without fighting it to the last.

The grief manifested itself in the mundane now, the sucking vacuum of space tugging at even the smallest of moments, as everything brought a new realization, something new she’d lost. They would hit her in quiet moments of contemplation or routine, each one carrying the emotional weight of a blaster bolt to the gut.

She had long finished the last of the curry packs Ra’ult had given her when they last met up- they had always been a bit of a mother-wookiee, and had snuck an extra comm and several freeze-dried meals into her pack.

It hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time, when she ate the last one. Something to tease her friend over when she returned home, a celebration to have when the War ended- she’d ask Ra’ult to make a big pot of curry and their friends would all hang out together, like they had before the War had forced them all to the corners of the galaxy.

The Purge had occurred only a week later- she hadn’t even been able to savor the last taste she’d ever get of her friend’s cooking, because she hadn’t known it was the last.

Her boots were wearing out, as well- what would she do when they fell apart completely? She’d have to buy a new pair- the first non-Jedi boots she’d ever have. It felt foolish, but these boots were some of the last things she had from the temple, and that stitching on the seam was the last thing she had of Ghirar, too. What was she going to do when she lost that last remnant?

She’d already lost even the view of the temple on the news- it looked so different now, as the Emperor’s palace.

What had happened to the animals in the temple? The birds and tookas in the gardens, the fish and marine creatures tended to in the Room of a Thousand Fountains? Ghirar had had a pet scalefish named Teeth that he’d doted on lovingly. What had happened to it, in the aftermath?

Had the Empire killed the animals as well, or simply let them starve or set loose on Coruscant uncaringly? It seemed cartoonishly evil, almost silly in a way, to picture the troopers hunting down the animals of the temple just as surely as they had the people, but she couldn’t discount any depths of depravity after what they’d already done.

She found herself turning often, to speak to people she’d forgotten were gone- her friends, her men, her Master and Grandmaster. There were things she wanted to say that forever stayed trapped on her tongue, the intended recipients not there to hear them, never again.

The only person she had left was Rex, and he was trapped in his own guilt, one she couldn’t absolve him of. Their grief conflicted, although they knew no one but the Sith was at fault- the Purge was still difficult to speak of, given what they had seen, what they had done. Neither could deny it. They had been listless in a way after the chaos of the end, paralyzed and lost. Two people who had never been meant to be lonely, always surrounded by enormous families, floating alone in a tiny ship in a dark galaxy.

But it couldn’t last forever.

“He’s kept the 501st.” The sentence fell like a weight into the silence of the room, and a dull horror dropped into her gut at the proclamation- Rex had been quiet for days, and she had let the silence remain, unsure of how or if she could break it.

“'Vader’s Fist', they’re called now.” It was said in a seemingly nonchalant manner- but she could feel the roiling grief and guilt and fear and protectiveness bubbling at the borders of him. His hands fisted, nearly trembling with restrained rage. “I can’t leave them with him- not like this. I’m going to get my brothers back.”

She covered his hands with her own, and caught his eyes solidly, “We’ll get them back.”

Her siblings may be lost to her now, but there was still a chance to save his. They had now found their purpose, in this new galaxy. Ahsoka was a Jedi- and it was all the more important now that she remain one, when her people had been destroyed.

Someone needed to carry on their traditions, their light, into the future. And the best way she could do that was by helping the innocent, as the Jedi had always done. It would only take returning to the heart of it all.

Chapter Text

Tatooine was only the first to be lost, although the Imperial citizens would never hear about the scale of it until everything was over. Rebellion boiled over quickly, and the Hutts were soon overthrown. With their captured resources and assistance from other rebel groups, the Empire was firmly booted from all of what had been Hutt space. The Imperial forces this far out were simply spread too thin- too poorly manned, too poorly equipped to stand a chance against the force that came for them.

This rebellion had no leader, no head- it was simply a people who had grown tired of being crushed beneath the heels of their rulers, and finally had come into the solidarity and numbers necessary to throw them off.

Stories would tell, later, of the alliance that fueled Tatooine’s infamous rebellion- finally, a peace, an accord of trust and healing of wounds, between the settlers, the Sandpeople, and the slaves. Little was known of how they had reached this peace after so many centuries of animosity, but all that mattered was that it had been done, and the effects were massive.

Tatooine was a free planet, for the first time in millennia.

This one planet was not monumental in the galactic scheme of things- no grand tipping point or show of strength for the rebellion. It did not alter the entire galaxy on its own. But Tatooine’s sudden freedom was indicative, in many ways, of the change that had come over the galaxy.

It was not sudden and it was not quick, but it was a culmination of many things. The foundations of power in the galaxy had rested on unstable pillars for long ages, and rebellion had only required a catalyst to spread across the galaxy like wildfire, to bring many disparate causes together and change everything.

The instability crept inwards- not only the far outer rim planets, but the mid-rim ones, planets that had previously seemed irrevocably under the Empire’s thumb. Slowly, one by one, they broke away, and the Empire’s reach began to shrink.

Suddenly nothing was as it had been, all precedents fallen away, and where the precarity of regime change had benefited the Empire before, it did the opposite this time.

The Empire’s strict, deliberate rejection of history and reality- the insistence on a superior race and a supreme, unaccountable leader and a regime that will be permanent this time- left it particularly vulnerable to the hammer blows of uncontrollable change. Those who refuse to accept and learn from history will always be forced to learn the hard way.

---

Bail Organa saw a great deal, even while appearing to have seen nothing. It was how he continued to survive every day in the heart of the Empire he was plotting against- how he managed to face the Emperor and Vader without flinching, as he hid his rebellion and his daughter under their sight.

It was a fine line he walked, a careful dance he choreographed, to remain in the Empire’s good graces while also attempting to block their path of destruction at every turn.

Bail had been studying politics, particularly historical politics, all his life- he had always known how easily democracy could slip into authoritarianism, how easily the desperate people of the galaxy give their hope and faith to a strongman leader who promises to make everything okay and to hurt the people who need to be hurt.

It was a spector that had hung over his entire career, the corruption and self-serving greed of the Republic Senate proof enough of its decline, and the War had only brought those fears to life.

Again and again, Palpatine had called for more power, more influence, and again and again, it had been granted to him, the Senate desperate to keep their tenuous grasp on control and the people of the galaxy desperate only for peace, in whatever form it came.

And Bail supposed that the galaxy under the Empire was peaceful, for a given definition of peace- one that lacked open conflict.

But it was a false peace that had resulted from the destruction and oppression of opposition, a peace molded from durasteel and manipulation and rested on mountains of corpses. A peace that lacked justice, and so could never be complete.

Many may have been content to simply have the rationing stopped, to see ‘normalcy’ on the news, to have their minds eased although their bodies had never seen the War. They were not the ones being slaughtered and enslaved for the sake of this false peace.

Things changed, however, somewhere along the way. He knew of the stirrings even before the Empire did, and he saw when those stirrings began to come to fruition.

And he saw how the Empire reacted to any threat- they had shut down any nascent rebellion with ruthless efficiency, disappearing or making an example of any leaders to scare the rest into submission. Bail had been resigned to it, to standing by helplessly, to playing the long game and keeping a straight face as more hopefuls shattered themselves to pieces upon the Empire’s walls.

But something changed, then- the rebellion hadn’t simply dissipated this time, or broken apart into reckless, despairing martyrs. It had gone underground, operating and gaining ground at an unprecedented scale- completely unseen to the powers of the Empire, beneath its notice.

The shifting point, Bail had marked, had been the release of those security holos from the temple. Even he did not know who it was who had done it, although he wished to, if only to offer them his resources and assistance.

He had seen enough that night at the temple, when he’d watched Padawans, children, cut down before him, and his inability to do anything more to help haunted him. He had given Obi-Wan and Master Yoda refuge, and he continued even now to secretly funnel information and aid to the Coruscant Underground.

But it never felt like enough, having watched it all with his own eyes. He had been struggling with his purpose, every time he fought so hard to restrict the Empire, to slow its eternal expansion in vain, and was bowled over entirely as if he had done nothing at all. So often, his every effort meant nothing in the face of the sheer strength of the Empire.

Every time he was faced with the powerlessness of the Imperial Senate, his purpose as mere decoration, a thin veneer to cover up the singularity of Imperial authority, it threatened to drag him into despair. The power of the Empire seemed overwhelming and inexorable, marching ever forward and trampling lives and freedoms and entire cultures underfoot.

But he had noticed when things shifted, with the release of that footage, and he saw the renewed fire across the galaxy, how the people changed.

It felt like vindication, that the rest of the galaxy finally saw what he had seen, was beginning to understand the injustice and the horror of that night and everything that had both led up to it and occurred since.

He was not fooling himself that all this was about the Jedi, of course- the footage had simply been a convenient wake-up call to the true motives of the Empire- but still, seeing that the galaxy had ceased to blame the Jedi for their own genocide was heartening.

And the sudden, hushed mentions of Anakin Skywalker, no longer the 'Hero with No Fear' with the revelation that it was he at the head of the massacre, was also quietly satisfying. The truth was out now, irrevocably, and whatever it led to could no longer be stopped.

Truly, Bail had been sure of the inevitability of his own death, when Darth Vader’s identity was revealed with the holos. He had already known who Vader was, of course- he was no fool, he’d been on Polis Massa. He’d seen Padmé in her last moments, he’d seen Obi-Wan in the wake of whatever had happened on Mustafar.

He knew what had become of Anakin Skywalker, even if only in the abstract sense. Still, he had feared, when the information was publicly released, feared what Vader would do, knowing that others knew who he was. Anakin had always been rather explosive, even before he’d become a Sith Lord and massacred the Jedi.

But Vader’s rage was undirected, crazed in a way- he lashed out at Imperial officers as often as he did rebels or the citizenry. He had become a supernova constantly at the moment of implosion, a well of endless rage and anger that went off at the slightest provocation. His intentions were indecipherable.

Bail was forever thankful to Obi-Wan for teaching him how to construct mental shields after Zigoola- there was no way he would have lasted this long, otherwise.

The Empire’s response to rebellion had changed, as well- they still wielded their power, the people’s fear, as a weapon. Executions of rebels were public, were done slowly and painfully- the consequences of treason against the Empire reinforced at every moment, as if fear alone could hold down an uprising.

The Empire had become fervent in attempts to hunt down the leaders of this rebellion- a futile task in Bail's mind, as this rebellion seemed to not have any direct leaders, but instead was a manifestation of the will and desires of the people. Something the Empire seemed incapable of understanding, as they gloated in the televised execution of the head of the worker's unions, claiming to have cut off one of the heads of the insurgency.

But then planets in the Rim started disappearing from maps, first Tatooine, then building to a handful, then a few dozen. He was familiar with the tactics being used, from his sources’ information- the Vod’e were at the head of many of the routs the Empire suffered, and they were giving the Empire no quarter. Bail recognized, also, many strategies and movements reminiscent of the Jedi those Vod’e had served alongside- it was good that they lived on, in some way.

There was no mention of these losses within the state itself, however- no outrage or new stream of propaganda. The Empire had reverted to simple denial of the happenings, assertion that nothing could challenge their power- a play to keep their losses from becoming known to the public, to hold onto the myth of authority by exercising control over information.

But it could not work for long. Even the other Senators, who didn’t have the information network Bail did, noticed when planets started to go dark in the eyes of the Empire, when fellow Senators disappeared and didn’t return, when certain places ceased being spoken of. It was like they had never existed, as quickly as they were erased.

The rebellion was spreading inwards from the Rim, and outwards from the lower levels of Coruscant, and the Empire was beginning to feel the pressure in the middle.

More and more topics became dangerous to even speak aloud, and the jails of Imperial Center were full to bursting with protesters. None in the halls of the Senate dared mention it, but the Empire was becoming visibly weakened- the point of no return for any authoritarian regime, Bail knew from his studies of history.

A reign that depends on the appearance of strength, the complete, impersonal absence of any weakness whatsoever, is uniquely vulnerable to the blows of reality. Uniquely incapable of maintaining the narrative mythology in the face of the hard times that always come. No amount of historical revisionism could erase the fact that history continues to happen at every moment.

He watched as things began to splinter, the murmurings begin as to the Empire’s legitimacy and longevity. Many planets had only been held in place by fear of the Empire’s might, its willingness to destroy or withhold resources, and now that it had proven itself weak, they were taking their chance.

More broke away, more disappeared- too many, even, to be combatted by the Empire, too many to be conquered by force and held under puppet leadership. Agreements began being made under the table- power plays, subtle, quiet, easily deniable if caught, but still there nonetheless. It was a sign.

Bail could see what was occurring- had been certain of it, as soon as the planets started to disappear on the Imperial radar, all information of the Empire’s losses being hidden from its public. The wheels of the future had began to turn, shifting from a vision of unending oppression to one of clouded possibilities, possibilities that could be shaped and molded into a better future.

The Empire’s time was coming to an end, and he needed to have things in place for when that happened, to avoid a power vacuum and the rabble that tended to take advantage of them.

He had to be ready.

Chapter Text

The Hero with No Fear had always, secretly, been consumed by it. Fear of losing the people he loved, fear of failure and disappointment and loneliness- it tinged every moment, waking or otherwise.

He had started life afraid and powerless, and though one of those things had changed, the other very much had not. And it forever defined his relationship to power- how to wield it, when to strike and when to hold back, what was right to influence with his power and what wasn’t.

The Jedi had tried to teach him balance, compassion and calm and self-reflection, but the fear bothered him, made him feel helpless, and he always stuffed it away.

And his massacre of the Tuskens had only been a catalyst for a greater type of fear- that of conspiracy. The fear that comes with guilt and the possibility of discovery.

This fear is a paranoid one- it turns friends into enemies, strangers into spies, and every simple conversation into a careful dance of deceit.

Anakin did not do this deliberately- he thought in himself his slaughter of the Tuskens to be just, to be righteous- the deed was done and put from his mind, the bodies left fallen where they lay to be shrouded by sand and forgotten by time. The Tuskens never haunted him like the specter of his mother did.

Indeed, he had considered the years of his knighthood to be rather good ones, war notwithstanding- he had Padmé, and he had Obi-Wan and Ahsoka and his men. He had his people, his to protect against the enemy outside.

But that fear was always there, at the back of his mind, hiding from conscious thought and warping his perception from the shadows.

A yet greater fear ruled his mind by then, twisting and fueling everything else. He was afraid of his secret marriage being discovered, of losing the way things were.

Anakin knew that if it were revealed, he would have to choose, and he didn’t want to choose. He wanted both- he wanted everything. He wanted it all to stay as it was, to never have to change, never leave or die.

He knew what he was doing, and he knew that it was wrong, but he believed, wholeheartedly, that the choices he was making would allow him to have everything, to keep everything and everyone he wanted.

And he was wrong, almost every time. But he still kept choosing this path, because the alternative of accepting that he couldn’t have everything was unthinkable.

It was this fear- fear of losing Padmé, fear of their relationship being discovered, that had finally tipped the scales. When his visions had begun once more, visions of Padmé calling for him and crying and dying just like his mother had, it had signaled the inevitable climb to a peak of some sort. Something began to build.

He couldn’t go to the Jedi for help- he would have to tell them the truth, and he couldn’t do that. He had given a half-hearted attempt at seeking advice from Yoda, but without giving the elder any relevant information, there was little to be gained.

And he hadn’t liked the answers he was given- he didn’t want to accept it, to accept that death was inevitable and he couldn’t keep its cold hands from his people forever. He didn’t want to let go, he wanted to keep and have and hold, tightly if he had to.

Some small, buried part of him had known then, what had to happen, and had begun hardening his heart.

But Palpatine had always been trustworthy, had always reassured Anakin that he was in the right, that he was justified and the others were unfair to him. What did it matter that he was a Sith? He could save Padmé.

Palpatine had the easy answers Anakin wanted- the simple solutions that no one else was offering. He didn’t tell Anakin to let go, to accept what was- he knew ways to twist the galaxy to his liking, to conquer death and keep what was his.

And then Windu had tried to kill him- tried to kill the only person who could help Anakin- and it proved to him once and for all that the Jedi were traitors, were against him.

He rejected everything they had taught him, turning wholly to Palpatine- he was the only one Anakin needed, the only teacher who could help him keep Padmé. From that moment, from the moment he raised his saber against Windu, there was no turning back.

Thus, Darth Vader was built from the fear of Anakin Skywalker- a fear so great it had consumed everything else. Love and compassion turned to possession and attachment and greed, righteousness and protectiveness to obsession and selfishness and insatiability and lust for power. He had allowed the darkness to twist everything good that had once been within him, traded it all for power.

And it still wasn’t enough. Even his tightest of grips, the kind made heavy and slick by the blood of thousands, had proved not strong enough to hold Padmé safe within. And so he must be greater, gain the strength to hold tighter.

There was a terror of being perceived that came with Vader- the enormous black suit and expressionless helmet, the deepened, monotonous voice and respirator breathing, all made for an unreadable grotesque of a being.

Most would not even recognize him as a person, only a monolith of destruction, a monument to the twisted will of the Empire.

But no one knew the man beneath- and that was rather the point, in some respects. That he was so shamed by himself, by what he had done- what he had gained and what he had destroyed to gain it- that no one was allowed to know him.

Because anyone who saw his face- who knew who he was- would know what he had done. The betrayals he had committed, the lives he had taken and destroyed and twisted.

Vader rejected the light at every turn, every attempt to make him see the truth and accept his wrongs, because to turn away from the dark would be to admit that it had all been for nothing. That he had betrayed and slaughtered and terrorized his way across the galaxy, and gained nothing for it.

And that was unacceptable.

In the wake of the footage release, there were eyes everywhere. Everyone in the galaxy knew who he was now, and he saw the judgment, the accusation.

It was everywhere- the citizens of Coruscant, the Senate, Imperial officers, even. The faces of the Jedi he’d killed, the younglings he’d slaughtered because he had to, they couldn’t understand- they stared out at him from rebel propaganda posters, always watching, always following.

He lashed out- he didn’t know how to do anything else anymore- and took out his fear and rage on anything unlucky enough to cross his path, from mouse droids to Imperial officers.

He had killed a surviving Jedi Knight last week- the young man had looked at him with such betrayal, such contempt and derision. There was no fear in his face, only disgust, only accusation, and it had made Vader feel as if he were wearing no helmet at all- his face, his identity, naked to the galaxy.

The Knight had died, and Vader had ensured he died painfully, but he could not simply slaughter everyone who knew him, although he had tried, tried to kill off the old galaxy with this birth of the new. The eyes were everywhere, and he could feel their accusations on his back.

His Master had moved him, frustrated with his undirected volatility. Had sent him to oversee the construction of the Imperial Palace- rather, the transformation of the former Jedi Temple into said Palace.

Here, too, he was haunted. He had lived here for over a decade, and could not help remember each room as it was, could not help the instinctive map of memory that drew him effortlessly through its halls, although he forced the memories back viciously.

Better to remember Knightfall- the corpses and screams, the revenge he had taken upon the Jedi for their lies- than to think of this place as warm and happy and Light, things it would never be again.

He had made sure of that.

The corpses had been removed- to where and to what end, he didn’t know. And he didn’t care. It was all being paved over, transformed into spotless white marble. All sign of the massacre replaced with resplendent monuments to the Emperor’s might.

The tapestries and paintings and statuary of the Jedi were all burned or destroyed- although some the Emperor kept as trophies, deeper in vaults where they would never see daylight again. His master enjoyed the feeling of triumph, the giddy, blood-sated high of a prevailing conqueror, they brought him.

Vader spoke to no one in his role as overseer, and no one spoke to him- the architects and their teams all too cowed to do more than glance in his direction.

Still, he felt their knowledge- they knew him as well, now, knew who he really was. Even these lowly nobodies, who he should not have to spare a passing thought for, could see through him.

He spent most of his time in this role hovering, menacing and bored and restless.

But one day, while he was stalking aimlessly through the halls, there was a sudden flash around the corner- a glimpse just out of sight of familiar tan. He knew that shade.

Vader pursued. No Jedi scum could survive his wrath.

The hallway was empty when he turned the corner, the dust thick in the artificial lights swirling only from his own displacement of air. There was no sense of life here, no signature to puncture the dark smog the force had become.

Still, someone had been here- he knew it.

He spoke a warning to the hall, to the nobody who had been there, “You are dead- stay that way, or I will find a way to kill you again.”

The sightings continued, always just out of his sight, just on the fringes of his awareness. A corner of robe or tunic disappearing behind a corner, gentle footsteps, the echo of voices- whispering, laughing, crying, screaming. Movement easily mistaken for visual glitches in his visor, if he didn’t know better.

He was never alone, even away from the prying eyes of the public who knew him- the ghosts followed him as well, every moment.

Even the blank, obedient eyes of the troopers followed him, though he never saw any trace of actual movement- sometimes he thought he saw knowing there, some hint of the person trapped inside.

He ignored it. They were beneath his notice- only tools now.

He deliberately stopped himself from remembering who they had been, casting names and identifying features into the abyssal recesses of his mind- none of that mattered anymore. His Fist were not people, they were his.

The rebellion had latched onto him, as well- posters that had been made during the war, The Hero With No Fear and his jaunty smile, found themselves posted all around the city, marked over and vandalized in various creative ways. His own face, lovely and unburnt, gazed out at him, knowing, accusing. Look what you’ve become.

It was everywhere- signs bleeding ‘betrayer’ and ‘murderer’ hung on buildings and monuments, paint coating his face and hands with the blood they had always carried. He saw the fear that had been hidden in those blue eyes, even then, the horrible end it was always going to lead to.

Anakin Skywalker was no longer a beloved memory, a fallen hero in the eyes of the public. The citizens who had idolized him, had looked up to him during the War, now bayed for his head. The once-knight’s legacy had been thoroughly drowned in the shadow of Vader, of the depths he had fallen to.

Paranoia pulled at him, tugging him further down into the darkness- they were everywhere, the ghosts. In the graffiti and the rebellion posters that were being put up faster than they could be torn down, seemingly taking over the levels of Imperial Center. In the corner of his eye, the shadows that trailed his step, dogged the edges of his vision.

All knew him, all saw him- saw him for the betrayer, the turncoat he was. He had been taken in, loved and treated as family, and he had in turn slaughtered them all, down to the last infant in their crib.

It shamed him, it destroyed him over and over with every reminder- but still he could not conceive of having chosen differently, not at the end. When choosing between his people and the galaxy, he would let the galaxy burn, every time. Had let the galaxy burn, and still wasn’t strong enough to keep Padmé.

He bathed in the guilt, drowning himself in it and souring it into further rage and despair. It was too deep, too much for even one this strong in the darkness to keep control, but there was nothing else he could do. There was nothing but this, anymore.

His Fist disappeared one day- all of them, taken or escaped, but gone all the same. Their empty helmets had been left, blank and staring, in rows in front of his quarters. A message, a mocking, a warning.

Vader felt many things, many poisonous things, but most of all rage- they had been his to keep, to have, to control. Who dared take what was his? Who could have gotten close enough, slipped into his guard, hidden in the shadows, watched him?

It was the eyes, it was the ghosts- those he had killed, those murdered haunts who stalked him! They had stolen his Fist from under his eyes, dragged them into the shadows just out of sight. Once again, his grip was not strong enough to hold.

After that point, none dared cross his path- he had been removed once more from his position overseeing construction and restricted to his quarters, the portion of the Palace that had been completed.

None but his Master spoke to him, and then only condescendingly, berating Vader for his weakness, for allowing himself to be taunted by the shades of his victims. It was only imagination, he was stronger than this- the dark was stronger than any false ghost. And yet these ghosts haunted so fiercely.

He no longer slept, what little sleep he managed with all of existence a fiery, aching pain- he but endured the haunting now. His senses forever told him someone was watching, even though the force was silent, unbudging in the face of his searching, his rending, tearing claws.

The darkness was not natural, not easy as the light had been. The force never came to him as it used to, sun-bright and blazing- he had to put hooks in its presence, bending the force to his will by sheer strength. It screamed, every time, its otherworldly ‘voice’ mingling with all the others.

The voices always came to him, voices in every cadence, every timber he knew, whispering in his ears even after he’d destroyed his external audio speakers in a fit of hysteria. Traitor, coward, murderer.

Behind him, around corners, always just out of sight, they lay in wait. Footprints, shadows, eyes, all hovering. Ready to pounce, to take revenge upon him for what he had done.

His hand always itched for his saber, yearned to strike, to slay, to pull them from their incorporeal mocking into bloody, visceral reality and rid himself of their damned haunting for good. He had destroyed everything in his quarters in such a rage, hunting the ghosts as they whispered to him, and still they hung, just transparently out of sight, forever out of reach, watching and laughing.

He stood in the empty room, lights flickering and sparking, the acrid scent of molten metal and fried electronics and spilled bacta penetrating his filters. Vader stood alone, and began to tremble.

That old fear once again overcame all else. He would never escape it, the weight of the voices, the spirits and haunts pressing down on him, never escape the eyes, the accusations, the things he had done. The fear.

There was nothing else- there never was.

Anakin crumpled under the weight, all at once. It was unbearable- he couldn’t take it any longer, alone and yet surrounded. They were everywhere, always! They saw him! The eyes, the ghosts, they were-

The door slid open.

---

Many things happened all at once, the day the Empire fell. A cascade of events after a long period of the galaxy holding its breath.

A fleet appeared in the skies above the planet- a massive fleet of mismatched ships, painted and outfitted disparately but all moving with the same purpose. Their numbers blotted out the sky, and stretched to every horizon from the view of one on the city planet.

At the same time, the entire underground seemed almost to flood to the surface of the planet- in mere hours, the Imperial Palace was wholly disconnected from the rest of the planet and its satellite forces, surrounded on all sides by throngs of millions.

News began to come in from all angles, all the information the Empire had spent months blocking from its citizens- planets falling and escaping Imperial control in a seeming avalanche as the censorship broke all at once. And those citizens who had refrained, who had remained quiet out of fear or complacency, finally found their voices to roar.

The Senate stepped back, choosing to negotiate with the rebels instead of supporting the Imperial forces that were, by this point, very much on the back foot, hands full with dealing with rebel attacks from all sides, including within. They saw which way the wind was blowing.

Meanwhile, in the Emperor’s Palace, a quiet, frantic hysteria reigned- advisors and messengers running to and fro, stories changing as quickly as the mouth could speak.

It was unclear what exactly had occurred, but both the Emperor and Vader were dead.

The Emperor had been mutilated almost beyond recognition, hacked apart with brutal saber strikes and broken upon walls- a frail, twisted old man at the end. Vader, in turn, was suitless, or mostly so- pieces of the black armor scattered carelessly upon the floor, the clammy white-pale skin underneath marked with fresh lightning scars.

Even the force-null Imperials could feel the smog of malice and darkness coating the room like char, and none stayed longer than absolutely necessary.

There was a contemplated plan to conceal the deaths, but before any attempts could be made, once more footage was anonymously released.

This time, a simple still of the scene- both Imperial monsters, crumpled and shrunken and pitiful in death. There was no denying it after that. Not after the Senate leapt upon the footage, taking the confirmation and spreading it as official.

The Empire collapsed with barely a blown breath after the death of its Emperor- it had never been meant to survive him, after all.

The all-powerful, singular authority figure had fallen, and with it, Imperial forces and governance soon fractured into splinters and were overrun by the rebellion, by their victims.

Empires may die with their leader, but imperialism is much harder to kill. Certain zealots made grabs for power, attempts to continue the mission of their emperor and build off his achievements, or to steal his empire for themselves.

However, the infighting between these impassioned factions only did the work of the rebellion for them, their squabbles for fractions and crumbs weakening these Imperial splinters further.

Battles continued over various planets, various small sectors, but as a whole, it was done.

The bounty hunters and mercenaries that made up much of its forces fled, taking Imperial tech and coffers as payment, and the remaining forces largely surrendered unequivocally, the poor conscripted eager to put down their arms and return home.

A new government body formed in place of the old- a temporary body guided by the Senate until such time as a more permanent solution could be decided and voted upon.

This body’s purpose was mainly to reckon with the many crimes of the Empire, to have them recorded for history and to mete out justice for the wrongs. To ensure that none in the future could deny what had occurred, or consider them anything less than atrocities.

So many officers pled ignorance, pled ‘only following orders’. But after they saw what happened to the worst of their fellows- one particular Imperial general who had masterminded the enslavement of Ryloth was paraded through the streets and beaten to death by his victims, his body displayed openly- many of those selfsame officers were happy to be sent to prison instead, spilling all they knew in exchange for solitary cells.

The people stripped away the Imperial trappings, burning the Empire’s flags and pennants and tearing away the symbols of its power, freeing themselves from the chains the Empire had placed upon them.

The galaxy rejoiced.

But the surviving Jedi could not return home. If the temple were to ever become a home again, it would be long after any survivors of its sacking had gone to their rest- the wellspring had been tainted by the Sith and the millions of deaths he had orchestrated, and it would take decades to cleanse it, to make the force in the planet habitable once more.

Still, it was a future, something the survivors had all thought denied to them in the wake of the Purge. It was a hope to hold onto, to carry them through the work of rebuilding into a better future.

And with the Empire collapsed, and worn and battered individuals returning and greeting each other and coming together, that work could now begin in earnest.