Chapter Text
Luke stepped outside. Just for a moment. Just to get out of that stuffy ballroom. For fresh air. That was all.
His shoes clicked on the marble floor of the balcony as he crossed it. He set his arms on the stone railing and let out a shaky breath, staring at his boots, knees weak. Then inhale. Slow, deliberate exhale. Another. The faint sound of waltz music followed him outside, through the curtains separating the balcony from the ballroom.
He was glad tonight was a masked event. Of course, that was the only kind of Imperial ball he could attend, since his face was plastered on every wanted poster from here to the Outer Rim kingdoms, but still. It meant no one could see how white his face got, or the sweat that dripped down his face from the effort of maintaining his shields.
Luke took another breath in. And out. Just like Master Ben had shown him.
There was someone inside that was pressing against his shields like gravity itself. It was better out here, slightly, but—
The pressure returned, and Luke groaned. He straightened.
He would face this assailant. If only to find out who it was.
A masked figure stepped out of the curtains onto the balcony, and Luke paled further. He strengthened his shields.
The Dragon of the Core.
Darth Vader, ever a subtle man, wore a half-face dragon mask. Oranges and yellows and reds, fanning out like thick, sharp scales across the upper half of his face, and jutting out in a long nose. It curled around the edges, up the side and top of his head, in spiked tendrils. The eyeholes were narrowed slits. Vader’s eyes glowed orange behind them. The visible parts of his face were just as textured as the mask, rippling with scars. The rest of his outfit, although richly embroidered—in black—and clearly an expensive fabric, was not so thought out. It was practically his military uniform; albeit a dress set that had never tasted blood.
This was the man who had killed Luke’s father, and chased Luke and his mentor into the sand wastes beyond Tatooine.
The pressure in Luke’s head increased as Vader took a step closer to him.
And mercifully stopped.
They stared at each other for a long minute. Luke’s eyes were watering. His pulse pounded behind his eyes from just the force of all the thoughts of all the people in the ballroom beyond the curtains; Lord Vader was another crowd unto himself.
Finally, it was Vader who broke the silence.
“Your mask is exquisite. It must have been very costly to make.”
Luke’s mask was a horned peacock, with an embroidered suit and shoulder cape to match. Not the finest nor the most elaborate costume in attendance, but more put-together than Lord Vader’s. Luke had been going for middle-of-the-crowd finery; nothing to stand out. His full-face mask was an explosion of greens, lace and shimmering fabric layered on top of each other, little purple, blue, and red beads sewn on. Green, blue, and purple ribbons dangled from his temples, green-wire-wrapped black horns curved up from above his eyes, and a light, shimmering fabric crest held up with more wire, which stuck out and was curled at the ends, curved high over his hair. It had been very costly for the Rebellion; more costly than any normal attendee would have had to pay, since they had also needed to keep their suppliers quiet.
Luke opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Not so much as a hum, or a grunt, or even an extra exhalation of air.
Kriff.
Terrible timing.
Terrible, terrible, horrible timing for his childhood anxiety to flare up.
He’d had episodes like this as a kid, but he’d outgrown them as he went to school. He’d outgrown them. Why come back now?
All of his energy was going towards keeping his shields up amid the onslaught. There was no time to dissect or bemoan his sudden loss of speech. Not with Vader standing right there.
Not with Vader reaching out to touch his mask—
Luke ducked to avoid Vader’s black-gloved hand. The glove was embroidered with threads of fire that glimmered—enchantment. Protection? Or attack? Luke couldn’t spare the focus from his shields to examine it. He sidestepped and stood with his back against the cool stone of the railing, struggling to keep his eyes open against his headache.
The man was relentless. He reached for Luke again, and again, and Luke ducked and weaved and ducked and weaved, all in a swirl of fabric—
Luke tried to sidestep and get around him, but the balcony didn’t have much room to move, and there was only one way off of it. Vader grabbed one of Luke’s hands in a tight, gloved grip.
The curtains punched open in a burst of sound as Luke half-tripped backwards into them. As he fell through, Vader grabbed Luke’s other hand, used his own momentum to push him further into the room, and suddenly they were dancing, spinning across the floor with everyone else, and Luke couldn’t yank his hands away. Waltzing forcefully, Vader dragged Luke into the crowd, in perfect time with the rest of the dancers. The richly embroidered fabrics of other costumes brushed him, but no one tripped over them—people dressed as krayt dragons, shimmering fish, spiky leaves, flowing waterfalls, purple-winged kitehawks, a blue millaflower—
His contact.
Sweat dripped down Luke’s back.
“Do I frighten you, boy?” Vader’s orange eyes examined him from behind the mask. A creeping feeling up his spine told Luke that the mask didn’t restrict Vader’s vision as much as his own restricted his.
He needed to make contact. With anybody. The mission was over; Vader was not going to let him go. Not if he was this interested. No one survived such close contact with the Dragon of the Core.
Luke’s head continued to pound. His shields were holding, but it hurt.
Would Vader transform here, in the middle of this room? Luke wondered hysterically. Tear apart his fancy outfit, scatter the crowd probably break through the ceiling as well? Swallow him whole, as he’d eaten Luke’s father?
Luke doggedly shook his head no in response to Vader’s question. Show no fear. Fear only invites hunger, and darkness.
Vader had the lead position. He let go of one of Luke’s hands to twirl him as the other leads in the surrounding dance pairs did the same. Luke tried to use the increased distance between them to yank his hand away—
A freezing cold breeze caught him around his neck and pulled him back to Vader, who put a heavy hand on Luke’s shoulder and continued dancing as if nothing had happened.
At that unearthly touch, Luke’s knees went weak again. Vader was half-holding him up. Luke’s eyes fluttered, the ballroom a blur of color and light.
Luke didn’t understand. He just didn’t understand.
Luke’s head lolled as Vader spun him again. This time, Luke didn’t attempt to pull away. He practically fell into Vader’s arms as the spin ended.
Vader pulled him close and whispered in his ear, the nose of his mask bumping Luke’s, “It seems your…Master never told you about your heritage.”
His heritage?
Luke’s head was spinning. And it pounded in time with the music; or his heartbeat. It was hard to tell, with both so loud in his ears.
The song ended. The dancers stopped, and clapped politely. Vader held Luke tight at his side; Luke might have fallen down, otherwise.
His eyes just wanted to close. He was safe now, wasn’t he?
Yes; there was a rumbling noise vibrating through him that said as much. Safe.
He was exhausted. It took a lot of effort to maintain his shields under this onslaught. And he’d been on edge for three days, preparing for this ball; getting fitted for the final time for his outfit, learning dances from Leia until his feet hurt, running over his cover story again and again, memorizing the code phrase he was supposed to say to the woman in the blue millaflower costume. Most prefer the red millaflower. But I find blue to be more comforting. And the woman’s response: Hard to notice the blue among all the red, sometimes.
His eyes fluttered shut as music started up again.
His mission was over. He couldn’t quite remember why, but he knew that much. So it would be okay if he just…
------------------------------------
His son collapsed in his grip and nearly burst into dragon form then and there. Vader smiled, an action that pulled on the scars marring his face, and kept the boy contained. Luke’s form shimmered, but did not change. Vader stopped rumbling.
A small measure of magic held the boy’s body upright enough to seem conscious, if barely, as Vader extracted the pair of them from the dancers, towards the wings.
Once there, he set Luke delicately upon a chaise lounge, and laid Luke’s head comfortably on the armrest. Next he removed Luke’s mask, and finally gazed upon his son’s face for the first time.
Vader’s heart ached at how old Luke was. No longer a child, but a young man. Only the slightest hints of baby fat on his cheeks, soon to be gone. Young still, yes, but his childhood was gone, lost beyond Vader’s reach.
Kenobi.
Vader turned away before his anger eclipsed his sense. Not here. Not now. Not now, when his son was finally and irrevocably in his grasp.
Kenobi was not here. Kenobi was dead already, and beyond Vader’s reach.
He turned back to his son, and traced Luke’s soft cheek with his gloved flesh hand. His hand trailed down further, and found the breast pocket of Luke’s coat. He drew out the minuscule communicator device within and crushed it with a thought. He patted down Luke further. Aside from a dagger concealed in his boot, the boy carried nothing. Vader huffed. Perhaps the boy had intended to depend on his magical ability. It was a considerable ability, to have fended him off for so long—a feat which made Vader both proud and annoyed, as it had forced his hand into a more direct confrontation—but it was not protection enough.
Surely the boy had associates he was supposed to meet here as well.
They were of no consequence now. Luke would not be meeting with them.
Would never see them again, in fact.
Vader dropped the dagger and the crumpled comm in the shadows and scooped Luke into his arms.
He walked briskly, casually, through the halls and to the entrance, and into the open air.
.
.
.
“Skywalker? Come in, Skywalker. Kriff.” Noemi hit the off button on her comm with too much force. She leaned against the cool stone wall.
The heavy flap of wings had her whipping around to watch the sky. What she saw froze her breath in her lungs.
A giant dragon, black with rivulets of molten orange running all along his cracked scales. His wingspan was the size of one of the many buildings that made up the Palace. And in those fearsome, wicked black claws…
Noemi gasped. Her heart sank.
She knew the shine of that fabric. She’d helped make the costume, after all.
Luke’s mask dangled, headdress shimmering in the light.
Noemi didn’t see Luke, though, just another dragon, golden, limp. A second mask hung by one of Darth Vader’s claws, but she couldn’t make out what it was from here. Perhaps a trophy from their meal tonight.
Her whole body heavy, Noemi dialed Mon Mothma.
She spoke without preamble. “Mon…Luke’s gone. I don’t think we’re getting him back.”
Overhead, Vader angled his wings, and soared off behind the castle, out of sight.