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Luke stayed at the edges of the party as much as he could, clutching Artoo, who was in ermine form. It wasn’t a proper party, anyway; not one his parents wanted to put on. It was more like an excuse for the Imperials to come in and look under all the couch cushions for signs of Rebel activity. They wouldn’t find any. His papa, Bail, and his mama, Breha, were too good at hiding in plain sight.
“How are you doing, star flower?” Papa managed to disentangle himself from one of Luke’s Imperial cousins and drifted over to where Luke was standing. Papa’s daemon, a snowy owl, nuzzled Artoo’s nose, and Artoo purred. Luke smiled.
“I’m alright. How much longer, Papa?”
Papa sighed. “Not too much longer, I hope. Dinner is soon, and then perhaps I’ll be able to shuffle everyone off by claiming that it’s your bedtime.”
“I’m not that young!” Luke protested.
“I know,” Papa said, laughing. But there was something sad in his eyes, like he wished Luke was still that young, and not just because he missed carrying him around and reading bedtime stories.
Like he wished Luke was still too young to participate in the Rebellion.
Which was so dumb! Luke loved being a part of something bigger, something better, something that helped the galaxy! He couldn’t do much, but he could do something. No one suspected a child capable of espionage—of course, there were less places a child could access than an adult, but still. He was helpful. And he got to deliver messages to Uncle Ben, who he was finally old enough to know was secretly Uncle Obi-Wan, Jedi Knight. And he was going to learn the Force soon!
He couldn’t wait.
He just wished his father wouldn’t worry so much. Twelve years, and although the Organas were under suspicion for what Papa said in the Senate, for all the times he protested bills or tried to push ones that promoted democracy, the Imperials had no evidence of their rebel activities and thus there was nothing they could do about them.
Except make them throw these ridiculous parties, but that wasn’t so bad. The parties always ended, and everybody went home, leaving the Palace once again at peace between the blue mountains of Aldera.
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At dinner, there was a new high-ranking Imperial. Darth something. Luke hadn’t heard of the title “Darth” in his lessons—just things like Planetary Governor, Moff, Commander, General, Captain, Officer, Admiral. Emperor. He wasn’t sure where “Darth” fit into all that. How high of a rank was it?
Whoever he was, Darth was seated across from Luke at the long formal table. Mama and Papa had exchanged worried looks, but didn’t protest the seating arrangement. Actually, now that he thought about it, Luke wasn’t sure if they got to make the seating arrangement at these parties, or if it was just handed to them from Coruscant like the guest list.
Dinner was a weird, and weirdly silent, affair. Mama and Papa didn’t even try to maintain casual conversation, and Darth didn’t say a word. Neither did anyone on either side of any of them. Luke’s family sat in a bubble of tense silence with the stranger.
In lieu of conversation, Luke occupied himself between courses with stealing glances at Darth. He was interesting to look at. He had a wicked scar running forehead-to-cheek on his right side, just barely missing his eye, and his daemon was a shimmering soot-colored dragon large enough to rest its head on the table next to Darth while laying down. Artoo, out of curiosity, turned into a dragon himself, one small enough to fit on the table between the plates, glasses, and utensils, and blew fire on Luke’s spinach and lentil soup, which delighted them both. The dragon, eyes half-lidded, snorted smoke at that. Mama dropped her spoon with a clatter, then quickly picked it back up with a murmured apology. Her daemon, an eagle, clacked its beak at Artoo, who turned back into an ermine and ran into Luke’s lap, pouting.
When Luke looked up from comforting his daemon, Darth’s golden eyes were watching him. He didn’t look away when Luke met his gaze.
As soon as the last plate from dessert, which was chocolate-covered strawberries from the royal greenhouses, was cleared, Luke’s parents excused themselves and left the table with Luke in tow. Mama even took his hand, which she hadn’t done in public in a couple years, since he stopped running off. Luke looked at her curiously, but just squeezed her hand back and followed obediently. Mama and Papa always had a good reason for what they did.
Their little family were the first back to the ballroom where most of the party took place. As soon as the dining room door closed behind them, Papa knelt, taking Luke’s other hand in his.
“Did he frighten you? Are you alright? Did his daemon do anything to Artoo?” Papa searched Luke’s face, his own pinched in worry.
Luke screwed his face up in confusion. “Why would he frighten me? He’s just another Imperial, isn’t he, Darth?”
Mama squeezed Luke’s hand tight. Papa said, “No, he isn’t. He’s the Emperor’s right hand man, and in battles he’s known to—”
The dining room doors flew open. Darth stepped out.
Papa fell silent without finishing his sentence. He rose. “Darth Vader.” Papa bowed.
“Organa.” Darth’s gaze slid off of Papa like water from the back of a duck and landed on Luke. Mama stiffened and pushed Luke behind her.
“We are honored to have you as our guest, Lord Vader,” Mama said regally. “I’m afraid it’s getting a little late for the boy. He has his studies in the morning.”
“Nonsense.” Darth’s—Vader’s voice was smooth and practiced. Luke found himself almost entranced. He wished he had the Force, so he could…he didn’t even know, he just wanted to be closer, and Mama was still holding his hand and her daemon had clacked his beak at Artoo when she made to shift into a bird and fly towards Vader’s dragon. “It would not hurt him to remain a little longer. We haven’t had the chance to…chat.”
Mama squeezed Luke’s hand again. “My sincerest apologies, Lord Vader, but we do not permit even Imperial business to interfere with his schedule whenever possible. We really must be going—”
Vader interrupted. “Yes, you must be going. This is your party, after all. Why, you didn’t even announce that dinner was officially over.” Vader gestured at the empty room. “Your guests are waiting for you, Queen and Viceroy. I can escort young…Luke, was it? Upstairs.” He smiled. The air was cold.
Papa opened his mouth, but Vader spoke again, his voice lower.
“That was not a request.” Vader jerked his head in the direction of the dining room door. His dragon daemon snorted smoke again, eyes narrowed at the Organas.
Mama and Papa hesitated. Vader let them, although the air crackled with electricity that made the little hairs on the back of Luke’s neck stand on end.
Luke was just about to let go of Mama’s hand and step towards Vader himself when Papa excused himself and returned to the dining room. Mama didn’t move.
“You’ll forgive me, Lord Vader, for being wary of leaving my young son with someone I’ve not met in person before,” she said.
Vader bowed. “But of course. I assure you, I mean him no harm. I was younger than he when I left my home to pursue my studies; I am sure the boy can handle being away from his mother’s skirts for a while. You may leave.”
Vader’s dragon hissed at her. A small tongue of flame licked out.
“I will not—”
“Go.” Vader’s voice positively boomed, like a thunderclap. “Or I will inform the Emperor that you were uncooperative, and you will never see your son again.”
Artoo shifted into a mouse and jumped into Luke’s shirtpocket, pressing his little paws and small, warm body against Luke’s chest. Luke reached up to cradle him with his free hand. He didn’t like the sound of never see your son again. He’d thought Darth looked cool, and might be at least interesting to talk to, like the Imperial pilots that stopped at their landing pad. Now what was cool looked sinister.
What was it Darth known to do in battle? Papa had never finished his sentence.
Mama knelt before Luke and pulled him in for a quick hug. She whispered fiercely, “Do not leave the palace, whatever it takes. I love you.” With a peck on the cheek, she was walking after Papa, and then she, too, was gone. Luke kept his eyes on the floor, on the wine-dark marble so polished it nearly reflected his face back at him. The pattern on the marble, made with a lighter hue, was great triangular arrows in circular formations. Luke’s white-booted feet stood in the middle of one that was pointed towards Darth. He peeked up at Darth without lifting his head. The high-ranking Imperial stood on an arrow that pointed towards Luke, with his dragon right behind him. On the floor between them was an empty void where Mama and Papa had stood, in the center of the arrows.
Luke was alone with Darth.
Anxiety churned in Luke’s gut, thick and dark. Artoo pressed against his chest hard enough for his little claws to sting, reminding Luke how strong he was.
He was going to be a Jedi.
Luke straightened. Like his tutors had taught him, he let the circlet on his head draw him upwards with an imaginary string to adopt a regal posture.
“Lord Vader,” Luke said, imitating Mama. He gave a little bow. “You wanted to escort me upstairs.”
Vader smiled, slow and sharp, his expression, paradoxically, softening every moment into something almost…fatherly. “Yes.” Luke stood still as Vader came over to him and took his elbow in his. Vader patted Luke’s arm. “Since your…parents insist you go to bed. Do you always go to sleep so soon? Or was that merely an attempt to be rid of me?”
Luke took a minute to think as they began walking towards the stairs. Vader’s attention was like an extra circlet, one of a much heavier metal.
Finally, on the staircase, out of earshot of anybody Luke could think of, Luke spoke.
“No,” he said carefully. “I don’t always go to bed so early. But events like this can be taxing.”
“Taxing.” Vader seemed to consider the word as they ascended the staircase. His dragon walked heavily behind them. “That is true. These are not parties at which to celebrate; they are merely locations in which to court favor and work over politicians. Your father’s natural habitat, I presume.”
“No,” Luke said again. “Father loves to spend time in his study, actually. And with me.”
Vader’s attention sharpened like a knife. Luke inhaled sharply. “Is that so? And what activities do you and your father do together?”
“My room is down this hall, Lord Vader,” Luke deflected, tugging his arm in the direction indicated.
Actually, it wasn’t. His room was another level up, but he figured that Mama didn’t want him to show Lord (Darth?) Vader where he really slept.
“Hmm.” Lord Vader paused on the carpet. Luke was forced to stop as well by his trapped arm. Artoo, in his pocket, curled his claws fiercely. Lord Vader’s dragon bumped against his legs and Luke let out a gasp, forced to stumble forward. Lord Vader himself tightened his grip to keep Luke upright.
Luke looked up. “Lord Vader?”
The high-ranking Imperial looked down at him, and there was something in those molten gold eyes that made Luke’s heart beat like hummingbird wings. A shadow almost erased the scar across his face.
“Lord Vader?”
The weight of Lord Vader’s attention grew, a hand pressing down upon his head. Luke automatically shook his head to dislodge it and only succeeded in throwing his circlet off. He made a small disappointed noise, gazing after it.
Lord Vader spoke. “Executor, catch.”
Everything happened so fast.
A big paw scratched across Luke’s front and he screamed, terrified and hurting. Artoo shifted into a hawk and screeched, leapt out of Luke’s pocket. She dived at Vader’s dragon with her claws extended—
Then Luke went limp.
His knees hit the floor, then the rest of him—no, not the rest of him. Artoo was caged in Lord Vader’s bare hands. And Luke’s head hit the warm, scaly back of Lord Vader’s daemon.
He was sick, faint, with shock, disgust, horror.
No one touched another person’s daemon; not mothers, not fathers, not lovers or siblings. No one. It was the ultimate taboo, like going up to somebody on the street and ripping their heart straight out just to kiss it.
Luke felt the rough finger caressing Artoo’s beak as if it touched his own face. He shuddered, and shuddered again when his own cheek touched scales. Tears dripped down his cheeks. Artoo’s hawk form was pale, shaking just like Luke. She reached for him, with claw, with beak, with wings…
They fell still. They were captured.
Vader was caressing Artoo’s feathered head…It wasn’t allowed… Not supposed to touch…Wrong…
A comm clicked on.
“Have my shuttle ready. And a pilot.”
Unintelligible words in response.
“A discrete pilot.”
Static.
“They will not dare retaliate. Nor do they have a right to. He is mine. ”
Luke lost track of the conversation. He could hardly breathe. Words drifted through the air, still, but he could not mark them. He felt cold. The galaxy was enormous around him, crushing, infinite, without his daemon at his side.
“...shock…will not remember…Organas…”
He was vaguely aware of being lifted, draped over an armored shoulder. His eyes were half-lidded. Colors and vague shapes drifted by him. Wood-lined stairs. Wine-dark marble. Open-air arches… Most of his awareness was tied to Artoo, inches away and yet unreachable in the vile human hands of another. They reached for each other, but Luke had no strength, and Artoo was too trapped. Luke was too shocked even to cry.
There was shouting, but it was distant. A roar, a hiss of flame. The heavy creak of a door being opened. And closed.
And then there was light on Luke’s face, but it did not warm him. He might never feel warm again. Artoo squeaked, shifted, squealed, but those fingers were fierce against him, and Luke felt them bruise Artoo’s body as if his own. Feebly, he reached for her, but he couldn’t convince his arm to move more than an inch, and in a moment it was swinging limply below him. Tears blurred his vision. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t see her anyway.
A hand cradled Luke’s back, palm spread wide, and he was tilted down, laid on a thin cot with a thin pillow under his head. The tears rolled down his cheeks now that he was no longer upside down.
“Here,” a soft voice said as if from underwater, and then the galaxy brightened again.
Artoo, in Manka cat form, was laid on Luke’s chest.
They both came back to life, clutching each other frantically. Artoo kneaded Luke’s chest, purring like a freight train, rubbing her soft mane of fur on his chin as he sobbed. Luke couldn’t touch her enough, sat up and curled around her, shaking like the end of the world. Finally Artoo climbed into his shirt and purred there, warm beating heart to warm beating heart.
Luke had a voice again now that his soul was back with him, and he used it. He wailed, so loud it echoed off the metal walls that were closer than any room at home, and cried, “Artoo, Artoo.”
Gradually, he ran out of strength, and his sobs quieted into hiccups. Artoo pressed her paws against his bare skin, breathing loud and exaggerated, encouraging Luke to follow along, and eventually his hiccups quieted, too.
And he realized that there was another person and their daemon staring at them.
Luke squeezed his daemon so tightly his arm shook. Artoo dug her small claws into his chest, pressing her whole weight against him.
Lord Vader and his dragon stared.
Lord Vader’s golden eyes seemed more sinister now, his scar no longer cool but scary—a mark of violence, a promise for more. His dragon, too, terrified; her eyes were gold like her human’s, her claws wicked sharp, her very scales glittering with malice.
Unexpectedly, Lord Vader reached to the side—he was sitting on a stool at the edge of the cot Luke sat on—and pulled a bottle from what must have been a shelf set into the wall. He unscrewed the lid and held it out.
“Drink. You will feel better.”
Luke stared at the bottle warily, wearily. He felt strung out, exhausted, and still cold, although Artoo’s warm body against his helped. He didn’t want to drink. He didn’t want anything touching his mouth, or in his stomach, at all. He just wanted to hold Artoo.
And his parents.
He wanted his parents.
The thought hit with a sudden fierceness that took his breath away again.
All at once, he became aware that he was no longer in the palace. Mama said not to leave the palace. Where was he?
Luke looked around and finally took in his surroundings. Durasteel, durasteel, durasteel. All of it polished to a dull shine. He sat on a cot partially set into a wall—a folding-slab cot that could be stored against the wall, out of the way. The wall across from him was lined with fold-down seats with straps dangling. He twisted. There was a door, closed, with a small viewport. Behind it was a helmet.
A pilot.
He was on a ship.
“Wher—I want my parents.”
Lord Vader laughed.
“Who are you?” Luke demanded. He dug his fingers into Artoo’s fur through his shirt, anger rising to meet terror. She turned and hissed at Lord Vader, tusks and fangs bared.
“The Organas only adopted you,” Lord Vader said. “Stole you.”
“My birth parents are dead! ” Luke shouted. He was shaking again. “Mama and Papa are my parents!”
“No.” Lord Vader stood. He towered over Luke and Artoo, cast them in shadow. His daemon put her claws on Luke possessively. “ I am your father.”
“No,” Luke said automatically. His head spun. He still felt weak from—from the violation—Vader touching Artoo—no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, it couldn’t be true, it wasn’t possible.
He only realized he was saying anything out loud when Lord Vader replied, “It is. You are my son.”
Luke backed up until he hit the wall. “No. No, my birth parents are dead.”
“I can see that this is upsetting to you. You will acclimate in time.” Vader leaned down and it was like an avalanche about to bury him. Luke, only twelve years old, was powerless to stop it.
“No!” Luke screamed until he thought his throat would tear. Vader’s dragon batted Artoo with her paw until she tumbled out of his shirt. She shifted into an Alderaanian furry moth before she hit the floor, small and nimble and difficult to catch. But it wasn’t Vader’s daemon that reached for her.
It was Lord Vader.
His fingers closed around Artoo, and Luke vomited on himself, sobbing, weak and sick and alone. Vader’s dragon climbed up onto the cot and cuddled against Luke’s side, purring, but it was wrong, all wrong, just like everything would be forever, and Luke still didn’t know who Lord Vader was or what ship he was on or where, and Vader was sitting in a fold-down chair on the other side of the cabin, stroking Artoo’s wings and shushing them both.
As if from far away, Luke heard again, whispered, “You will acclimate in time.” It sounded like a prayer.