Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The twin suns of Tatooine hung low, bleeding their last light over the endless ocean of sand that people called a planet. Leia sat under a patchwork tapestry she'd stretched over four weathered columns wedged into the sand, her fingers raw from hours of wrestling with machinery that seemed determined to die. The makeshift shade did little to hold back the relentless heat; within minutes her clothes clung to her back, and sweat collected at her collarbone. She wiped the moisture from her brow, casting a fiery glare at the old vaporator like it was an enemy she could beat into submission.

It wheezed. It coughed. And it promptly died. Again.

"Stupid piece of Imperial junk," she hissed, pulling her boot back and delivering a hard kick. The metal screeched in protest and the noise rang out, echoing through the quiet evening. Instead of satisfaction, Leia was left with a dull ache throbbing through her foot and the bitter taste of failure in her mouth.

A harsh yell crackled behind her. "Leia!" Uncle Owen's voice carried across the flat desert. "You fix that unit yet, or am I raising a lazy layabout?"

Leia bristled, her hands clenching around her tools until the metal bit into her palms. She didn't bother answering him. Not because she didn't have a comeback — she had plenty — but because she was bone-tired of the same arguments, the same orders, the same sky and the same heat. The farm was choking her. The whole planet was. She could almost feel the sand accumulating in her throat, slowly cutting off her air supply, grain by endless grain.

"You hear me, girl?" Owen's voice was getting closer, his heavy steps crunching in the sand.

"I'm working on it!" She snapped back, wrenching at a bolt she knew wouldn't fix anything. It was fried, like everything else around here. Tatooine ate machines and dreams alive, grinding them down until they were nothing but rust and regret.

A shadow fell across her, and Leia whirled around sharply, ready for another argument. But the words froze in her throat. Aunt Beru stood there, kind as always, carrying a canteen and wearing that look of infinite patience that made Leia's anger feel small and petty. "Here," she said softly, offering the water over. "You've been out here for hours."

Relief flickered through Leia, and she accepted the canteen. The water was lukewarm and metallic, tasting of the recycled moisture they all survived on, but it was refreshing all the same. "Thanks." Aunt Beru was the only person she remembered her manners around. The only person who deserved it, in her opinion. The woman had dealt with Leia's tantrums and dreams of escape for years, her patience never faltering.

She was a saint. A single speck of hope and goodness on Tatooine.

Aunt Beru stared down at the girl, her lips pursed in that sympathetic way she had mastered over the years. "You know your uncle only wants—"

"I know what he wants," Leia cut in sharply, shoving the canteen into her satchel. The leather was worn smooth from years of use, much like her patience with this conversation. "A good little farm girl who keeps her head down, marries some boring moisture farmer, and dies in the same bed she was born in."

Her aunt's face tightened, a sigh falling from her lips. "He wants you safe, Leia. That's not nothing."

Leia's lip curled. "Safe's just another word for trapped." Without another word, she grabbed her satchel and stalked off in the direction of her favorite ridge, leaving Owen's reprimands and Beru's tired eyes behind her. Her boots kicked up small clouds of sand with each angry step, leaving behind deep footprints that spoke of her frustration.

They didn't understand. Her aunt and uncle had accepted their life here, content with their harsh labor and little reward. Leia couldn't imagine staying on Tatooine long enough to believe a life like that was worth living. Sometimes she wondered if that made her ungrateful, spoiled even. But then she'd look up at the stars, and the yearning in her chest would drown out everything else.

She had hopes, dreams that burned brighter than both suns combined. She'd lay awake at night, gazing through her window at the stars that were so close yet so far away. What would it be like to sail amongst them? To see her planet from afar? Would it appear just as ugly and barren as it was from below, or would she gain a new appreciation for the endless stretch of sand? There were parts of Tatooine she'd never seen. Maybe they were beautiful and she was stuck with the worst the planet had to offer.

Biggs had once told her of Jawa folklore that spoke of an ocean covering what was now the Dune Sea. Surface water on Tatooine — the very thought seemed impossible now. It sounded too good to be anything but a myth, but it filled Leia with a fierce longing. She wanted to see a real ocean. She wanted to swim and feel the water cascade down her back as she emerged from its depths; wanted her hair to stick to her face not from sweat, but from something refreshing and pure.

It was something she wasted too much time thinking about.

By the time she reached the ridge, the sky was turning a bruised purple, allowing the stars to blink alive one by one. She huffed as she dropped down into the sand, the cool evening breeze tugging loose strands of her braid around her face. She pulled them back and flattened them against her scalp with a splash of water from her canteen, not in the mood for her unruly hair. It wouldn't hold for long with the heat, but it was something. A small victory in a day full of defeats.

Sighing, she leaned back against a rock, uncaring of the sand covering her back as she stared at the endless stretch of the horizon, where the last light of day melted into night. The desert was beautiful at this hour, she had to admit. When the heat retreated and the first cool breeze swept across the dunes, Tatooine almost seemed magical. Almost.

Someday.

Someday, she'd be out there. Traveling the galaxy. She'd become one with the stars, no longer a moisture farmer with no future. Maybe then she'd understand why fate had chosen this backwater planet as her prison.

Free.

"You remind me of your father a little more each day."

Leia jumped, her hand instinctively dropping to the knife at her belt. Turning, she found Old Ben standing to her right, as quiet and strange as ever. His hood cast deep shadows across his weathered face, and Leia, not for the first time, wondered why the hermit dressed like a human-sized Jawa. There was something about him that made her skin prickle, like static before a sandstorm.

"And what do you know of my father?" she demanded, voice sharp, defensive. It was a tone she took often with the old man. He always seemed to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling. It pissed her off to no end, this feeling of being read like an open book.

Ben smiled faintly, lifting his hood and letting it fall across his back. "More than you might think, little one."

Leia narrowed her eyes, studying him. Most people thought he was just a crazy old bastard, but she'd always suspected there was more to him. Whenever he would grace other living life forms with his presence and pass through town, Leia swore she would catch him staring at her, like he was seeing something nobody else could. Something that made him look sad and hopeful all at once.

She wasn't stupid. She had heard the quiet gossip and low whispers that surrounded the mysterious man: A Jedi. A remnant of something long past. Something people didn't — or wouldn't — speak about with the threat of the Empire looming over them like a shadow darker than space itself.

"I sense restlessness within you." The old man said, his thumb and forefinger stroking his greyish beard. "Not thinking of running away now, are we?"

"I don't care what anyone says," she said, crossing her arms. The defiance in her voice masked the tremor of fear underneath. "I'm not staying here. I'm not wasting my life patching vaporators while the Empire strangles the galaxy."

There was a brief spark of something in Ben's eyes as she spoke. Something like regret, or perhaps fear. It was another thing about him that drove her up the wall — these glimpses of emotions she couldn't quite name, knowledge he wouldn't share. "There's a fire in you, Leia Skywalker." He cautioned quietly, and something in the way he said her name made it sound like more than just a name. Made it sound like a destiny. "It will either light your way... or consume you."

More cryptic warnings. It was apparently all he had for her. She met his gaze, defiant as ever. "I think I'll take my chances."

Ben chuckled, the sound dry like the sand beneath their feet. "I wouldn't expect anything less." He paused, looking up at the emerging stars. "Your father used to say similar things. Before everything changed."

Leia's heart jumped, but before she could demand more answers, the old man had already turned away, becoming one with the shadows of the desert night. Leaving her, as always, with more questions.

The evening air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of flowers from the royal gardens below. Luke stood on a high balcony, his hands resting across the smooth, pale stone as he watched the sky above. The stars sparkled like scattered diamonds, so close he almost felt like he could reach out and pluck one from the endless darkness.

Soon, he thought. I'll see you up close again soon.

The city of Aldera sprawled before him, its elegant spires and crystalline towers gleaming in the starlight. Everything here was beautiful, refined, and sometimes, that perfection felt like a kind of prison.

Behind him, the heavy doors to the palace chamber opened with a quiet hiss, and measured, familiar footsteps approached. "Daydreaming again, my son?" came Bail Organa's warm voice, tinged with the concern he'd worn like a second cloak since news of the Rogue One mission had reached them.

"I think nightdreaming is a more appropriate word for the time." Luke tried to inject humor into his voice, but the attempt fell flat. He turned, offering a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm not dreaming, Father. I'm... thinking."

Bail stepped up beside him, clasping his hands behind his back. In the dim light, the silver lines through his dark hair seemed to catch the starlight. "About?"

"Everything." Luke's fingers drummed against the stone railing, a nervous habit his tutors had never managed to break. "The plans, the mission, what failure would mean for the Alliance. We've no idea what tomorrow will bring. What if the rebels fail? What if it was all for nothing, and the Empire wins again? What will the Rebellion do?"

His father sighed, his gaze dropping to the lights of the city below. Luke could see the weight of responsibility settling deeper into the creases around his eyes. "It's not your responsibility to worry about this, Luke."

"Of course it's my responsibility!" Luke argued, his voice rising from its usual gentleness. The words echoed off the palace walls, and he quickly lowered his tone. "I am just as involved as anyone. Not only as a prince and a senator, but as a fighter. I shouldn't believe myself above or below anyone else within the Rebellion."

Bail shook his head, a familiar gesture that spoke of old arguments and older fears. "That's not what I am saying." He took a step closer, laying a calming hand upon his son's arm. "Whatever happens tomorrow, whether we acquire the plans or not, it isn't you who should be feeling failure. You find blame in everything, Luke. Even when it's not your fault."

Luke pouted, his eyes dropping to the railing under his hands. The smooth stone had been worn by generations of Organas standing in this very spot, watching over their people. "That's not true," he protested weakly, trying to ignore the little voice in his head that immediately scoffed.

Bail simply chuckled, the sound as warm and familiar as his childhood blanket. He patted his son's arm, his touch gentle. "You're so much like your birth mother sometimes," he said softly, and Luke's heart skipped a beat. References to his birth parents were rare, precious things he hoarded like treasures. "She too carried the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders."

A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the city below. Finally, Bail spoke again. "Get some rest, my son. You must leave early tomorrow."

Nodding, Luke pushed away from the stone. "Of course. Goodnight, Father." He paused on his way to the balcony doors, glancing over his shoulder. The starlight caught his father's profile, and for a moment, Luke was struck by how tired he looked. How old he suddenly seemed. "Tomorrow will be a new dawn for the galaxy."

Bail smiled, his eyes full of pride and something else, something that looked almost like fear. "That it will. I love you, Luke. Sleep well."

"I love you, too." Luke returned, meaning it with every fiber of his being. He left his father staring at the stars, but couldn't shake the growing unease in his chest.

He had a bad feeling about all this.

Chapter Text

Luke stood at the bridge viewport, watching the stars blur past in hyperspace. Behind him, Captain Antilles reviewed tactical readouts with his crew, their voices an indistinct murmur of technical jargon and coordinates.

“Your Highness,” Antilles said, breaking Luke from his reverie. “We’re receiving a coded transmission from Scarif.”

Luke’s chest tightened. They’d known the mission was risky, sending an entire strike team to retrieve the Death Star plans. But it had been necessary. The fate of the galaxy hung on those plans.

“Put it through,” he ordered, turning to face the crew pit. The holographic display flickered to life, showing a grainy image of chaos. Rebel ships engaging Star Destroyers, TIE fighters swarming like angry insects. And below, on the planet’s surface...

“They did it,” Antilles breathed. “They actually did it.”

Luke watched as the transmission data streamed in. The plans were being beamed to the Profundity, and from there... His hand unconsciously touched the diplomatic seal at his throat. From there, it would be his responsibility.

“Set course for Tatooine,” he commanded. “And pray we’re not too late.”

The colossal Star Destroyer loomed against the void of space, its dark hull blotting out distant stars as it glided to intercept the small Rebel vessel. Alarms echoed through the corridors of the Tantive IV, its sleek form buffeted by tractor-beam restraints. A handful of blaster bolts punched into the corridor ahead, and the hiss of melting steel signaled the arrival of stormtroopers.

In the communications room, Lieutenant Renz fretted over the encrypted transceiver panels. “Your Highness, we’ve lost our primary uplink to Yavin 4. No response.” He jabbed at the console in frustration.

Luke stared out the viewport, the glow of nearby Tatooine suns reflected in his blue eyes. Clad in the white tunic of Alderaan’s crown prince, the family crest pinned at his throat, he held himself with the quiet dignity of his heritage—yet his heart pounded with the weight of responsibility. “Then we’ll have to contact General Kenobi directly,” he said. “He’ll know what to do.”

Lieutenant Renz’s voice trembled. “His last known location was the Western Reaches. He’s gone off-grid. We cannot get in contact.”

Luke’s throat tightened, but he swallowed hard, steadying his breathing. He hurried down the corridor toward the secured area, passing hastily discarded equipment, scattered droids, and the occasional crew member rushing past. He was supposed to be a prince, but right now, in the heart of this battle, he felt like anything but.

The ship jolted again, and he ducked into the pod zone, his heart hammering. R2-D2 was already waiting there with his counterpart C-3PO, his little frame a beacon of stability in the surrounding chaos.

“Artoo,” Luke said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. The droid beeped, swiveling his head to acknowledge him. Luke crouched beside him, pressing his head to the cool surface of his dome. His fingers hovered over Artoo for a moment before opening his compartment and placing the plans inside.

“Record a message,” he said, his voice steady despite the panic clawing at his chest. He knew what had to be done, but that didn’t make it any easier.

The droid beeped in acknowledgment, and Luke stood, his face pale in the dim light. He couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling, the feeling of being trapped. The door was closing.

The Empire was closing in.

He ignored Threepio’s panicked ramblings and took a deep breath, trying to push the fear down, focusing on the only thing that mattered now. 

“General Kenobi,” he began, his voice echoing slightly in the small chamber. “I’m not sure how much you remember me, but I am Luke Organa. You served my father during the clone wars, and you saved my life when I was a child. I regret to say that I require your assistance once more.”

His hands gripped his trousers, and he stared at his reflection in Artoo’s polished metal, watching the way his fingers trembled. He was never supposed to be the one to carry this burden. But it had fallen to him, and now there was no turning back. He wasn’t the hero he’d hoped to be, not yet, not in the way the galaxy needed. But maybe he could be.

Maybe he could become the man Obi-Wan had once hoped he’d grow to be.

“I’m sending this in hopes you’ll complete our mission,” Luke continued, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “This R2 unit has information vital to the survival of the Rebellion within his memory systems. My father will know how to retrieve it. Please, deliver this droid to him on Alderaan safely. You’re my…” His voice broke, and he glanced down at his hands. “You’re our only hope.”

He hesitated for half a second, just long enough for grief to slip through the cracks. Then he reached forward and pressed the button, ending the message. There was a long silence. Artoo chirped softly, almost comfortingly, and Luke managed a small smile. “Go,” He whispered. “Take the pod and get those plans to Obi-Wan Kenobi on Tatooine. It’s essential that no one but him knows of their existence, understood?” 

Artoo beeped softly, like a promise. He and Threepio vanished into the pod, and within seconds they launched it away, safe from the Empire. Luke could only pray it would stay that way.

Outside, the sounds of blaster fire were getting closer. The air tasted like ozone and smoke and the end of things. By the time the door blew open, Prince Luke Organa was standing, chin raised, heart pounding, spine straight as the royal crest. The troopers poured in, white armor shining under the emergency lights.

And behind them…

Him.

The breathing came first: deep, mechanical, like a monster from some half-remembered childhood story. Then the black silhouette emerged from the smoke, cloaked in shadow, every inch a nightmare carved into flesh and metal.

Darth Vader.

Luke remained motionless, his hands empty, his message gone. His part in this moment was already over, but his gaze held steady, unflinching before the man.

Vader’s presence filled the corridor like a physical thing, dark and cold and crushing. Luke felt it pressing against his mind, probing, searching. He threw up the mental barriers his father had encouraged him to learn all those years ago, praying they would hold.

“Your Highness.” The voice was deep, mechanical, devoid of warmth. “I should have expected to find you behind this treachery.”

Luke lifted his chin higher. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a member of the Imperial Senate on a diplomatic mission to—”

“You are a traitor and a rebel spy.” Vader cut him off, moving closer. For a moment, something flickered between them; recognition, confusion, a whisper of something that might have been pain. But it passed so quickly Luke thought he must have imagined it.

“Take him away!”

As the stormtroopers grabbed his arms, Luke allowed himself one small, secret smile. The plans were safe. The droids were away. His part in this story might be ending, but somewhere on Tatooine, he knew, another chapter was about to begin.

He only hoped he would live long enough to see how it ended.

Leia wiped her face with an old cloth, squinting against Tatooine’s twin suns. The moisture vaporator she’d been repairing all morning still wasn’t cooperating, and her aunt would be expecting her back for lunch soon. She gave the stubborn machine one last twist with her hydrospanner, earning a soft whir as it sputtered back to life.

“Finally,” she muttered, gathering her tools. Her hands were covered in grease and sand—always sand. It covered everything on this forsaken planet. She’d long since given up trying to keep her work clothes clean; the rough-spun fabric was permanently stained with the marks of farm life.

The distant sound of a Jawa sandcrawler echoed across the dunes. Leia’s heart lifted. New droids meant a chance at better equipment, maybe even something that could help her convince Uncle Owen to let her apply to the Academy next season. She’d already missed this year’s enrollment, a fact that still stung when she thought about it.

She held no love or loyalty for the Empire, but being accepted into the Academy meant leaving Tatooine. It meant opportunities on other planets. It meant freedom.

Biggs had found his way to the Rebellion there, and Leia felt ashamed of how jealous she was. She couldn’t wish for anything more than to fight and rid the galaxy of the boot against its throat. 

“Leia!” Her aunt’s voice carried across the homestead. “The traders are here!”

“Coming!” She slung her tool belt over her shoulder, her long brown braid swinging as she jogged toward the crawler. She thought about cutting it more and more each day, but could never bring herself to slice her blade through the strands.

The massive sandcrawler was already parked near the entrance, its crew chittering excitedly as they lined up their merchandise. Uncle Owen stood with his arms crossed, examining the droids with his usual skeptical expression. “What about that red one?” he asked, pointing to an R5 unit that looked like it had seen better days.

Leia stepped closer, her eyes drawn instead to a gleaming blue and white astromech. There was something about it, something that made her pause. The droid turned its dome toward her, letting out a soft, almost friendly beep.

“Uncle Owen,” she said, moving closer to the R2 unit. “What about this one? An R2 unit would be perfect for the south ridge maintenance.”

The golden protocol droid next to it straightened up. “I couldn’t agree more, miss. And if you’re looking for an astromech droid, you couldn’t do better than R2-D2. He’s in first-class condition, I can assure you. I should know. We’ve been through quite a lot together.” He paused. “Oh, where are my manners? I am C-3PO, human-cyborg relations.”

There was something endearing about the fussy droid’s manner that made Leia smile faintly. “Nice to meet you, Threepio. I’m Leia.” She turned to her uncle. “We could use a protocol droid too. For communicating with the Jawas and the binary loadlifters.”

Owen sighed, but she could see him considering it. After some haggling with the Jawas, both droids were theirs. As they headed back to the house, Leia couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had just happened, though she couldn’t say what.

That night, Leia couldn’t sleep. She had felt a strange tugging sensation in her stomach all day, and now it seemed determined to interfere with her rest, too.

The heat clung to the walls of the homestead, thick and unmoving. From her cot, she could just make out the shapes of the droids resting in the corner of the garage. Threepio had insisted on recounting his entire maintenance schedule before powering down. Artoo had simply rolled into the shadows and gone silent.

There was something about that droid.

Leia sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. She padded across the stone floor and crouched beside the little astromech, watching the soft blue glow of his indicator lights pulse in the dark.

“Artoo?” she whispered.

The droid chirped softly, acknowledging her presence. A small projector lens extended and clicked once, but nothing happened. Just a quiet whir, and then silence.

Leia frowned. “What’s wrong with you?” she muttered. “Something’s in there, isn’t it?”

She tapped the dome experimentally, then reached for her toolkit. Her fingers hesitated at the edge of the access panel. This wasn’t just curiosity. It felt like instinct. Like something was calling to her. She shook her head and pried open the casing.

And then the message played.

A shimmering blue hologram crackled into life. A young man stood there, dressed in fancy pale clothes, his face drawn with fatigue and fear. Leia’s breath caught in her chest as she listened to the chopped up words.

“General… I am Luke Organa…”

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“…You’re our only hope.”

The message ended as suddenly as it had begun.

Leia sat frozen, the desert silence pressing in around her. Her mind raced, grasping for meaning. 

She stared at the empty air where the hologram had been, then back at Artoo, whose lens had quietly retracted. He let out a series of beeps and whistles. Leia glanced over her shoulder at Threepio, who seemed to have gained an interest in their interaction. She waved him over. “Get your shiny butt over here and translate.”

Threepio stood close and listened to the astromech for a moment. “What do you mean, ‘message’?” he translated. “What message? The one you’re carrying is old and outdated—” He stopped abruptly as Artoo projected the flickering blue hologram into the air again.

“General Kenobi,” the figure began, “I’m not sure how much you remember me, but I am Luke Organa...”

Leia sat back on her heels, transfixed. The name ‘Kenobi’ grabbed her attention. Old Ben was a general? Or did he have some fancy relative roaming the galaxy while he melted under the Tatooine Suns?

The young man in the hologram spoke of this General Kenobi serving his father and saving his life. He seemed regretful to ask a favor, and Leia felt a strange sympathy rush through her. Seeing this boy so obviously scared felt wrong.

“I’m sending this in hopes you’ll complete our mission,” the blond continued, sounding choked up. “This R2 unit has information vital to the survival of the Rebellion within—” Leia straightened instantly. The Rebellion! The boy was a rebel, and one in danger, judging by his tone.

“Are you with the Rebellion?” She asked the droids, unable to mask the excitement in her voice. Artoo shut off the hologram and beeped several times.

Threepio tilted his head, processing. “He says yes, and that he’s under strict orders to deliver this message only to General Kenobi in person. No one else.”

Leia stood, pacing now, the adrenaline washing away the heat-heavy fatigue. Her heart beat fast and tight. The Rebellion. An actual connection, right here, in her home. And somehow it had come to her.

“But Ben’s just some old hermit,” she muttered. “He lives half a day’s ride from here and barely speaks to anyone. He’s kinda a weirdo.”

Artoo gave an indignant whistle which Threepio translated, “He insists this ‘Ben’ is the same individual. Obi-Wan Kenobi, former general of the Galactic Republic, Jedi Master—”

“Jedi?” So the rumors were true. Old Ben was really holding out on her.

Artoo chirped again, softer now. A long, rising tone that made Leia’s stomach twist. Threepio’s voice faltered. “He says… if we do not find Kenobi soon, everything may be lost.”

Leia stopped pacing. Her fists clenched at her sides. She didn’t know why the message had found its way to her. She didn’t know who Luke Organa was, or how she fit into any of this. But she knew one thing for certain: she couldn’t ignore it.

Leia’s hand tightened on her belt. Everything she knew about her life on Tatooine told her to delete the message, wipe the droids, and forget any of this had happened. That’s what Uncle Owen would want. The safe choice. The smart choice.

But something else, something deeper than thought or reason, pulled her toward a different path. She’d spent her whole life looking to the horizon, dreaming of something more. 

Now more had literally walked into her garage. “Then we find him,” she said, already grabbing her gear. “At first light. I know where he lives. If this is real—if the Rebellion is out there, and they’re asking for help—then someone has to answer.”

Threepio seemed alarmed. “But Miss Leia, what will your uncle say? You can’t just go running off into the desert—”

“I won’t be running off,” she said firmly. “I’ll be delivering a message.” She crouched beside Artoo. “You’ve come a long way to find someone. Let’s finish the job.”

Artoo beeped in what sounded like agreement.

Outside, the first sun was already peeking over the horizon. Dawn was coming, and with it, decisions that couldn’t be undone.

Leia stood at the edge of the homestead’s sunken courtyard, the early morning light washing the desert in gold. She’d left a quick note for Aunt Beru, something vague about errands in Anchorhead, but she knew they’d figure it out soon enough. She just hoped they’d wait until after midday before sending a search party.

The suns crept higher as she loaded a small satchel of supplies: a hydration pack, rations, spare power cells, a tarp, and a pair of macrobinoculars. She slipped her blade into the back of her pants. Not that she’d ever had cause to use it, but with the way things were going, she wasn’t taking any chances.

“You two keep up, or I leave you behind,” she said over her shoulder as she climbed onto the old speeder bike Owen rarely let her use. Its repulsorlift hummed to life with a satisfying growl.

Threepio flailed slightly as he tried to climb into the side compartment. “Oh dear, I was not designed for this kind of travel. I do hope your driving is more precise than your maintenance work.”

Leia rolled her eyes. “Less whining, more climbing.”

Artoo locked into his dock with a mechanical click, his dome swiveling as he scanned the terrain. Leia threw on her goggles, tightened her grip on the throttle, and accelerated out of the homestead with a trail of sand and dust in her wake.

The journey toward the Jundland Wastes was long and dry. As the speeder cut across the dune sea, the landscape gradually shifted from soft, rolling sand to jagged rocks and steep ridges. Sparse spires of stone clawed at the sky, casting long, warped shadows as the suns climbed overhead.

Leia slowed as they neared the outer edge of the Wastes. Old Ben lived in a small hut nestled somewhere beyond the high mesas near the western cliffs, a place even Jawas tended to avoid. “Too close to Tusken land,” her uncle had said when she asked about it.

Her eyes scanned the horizon. And there, half-buried in the stone, hidden between two natural ridges, a rounded mudbrick structure hugged the cliff wall. Faint smoke curled from a pipe jutting up from the roof. Her heart skipped.

She cut the speeder’s engine and coasted to a stop. “Stay close,” she told the droids, dismounting.

As they approached, the silence grew heavy. No sound but the crunch of boots on stone and the occasional beep from Artoo. Leia raised a hand and knocked once on the curved metal door.

No response.

She knocked again. “Ben?”

Still nothing.

Then, slowly, the door slid open with a groan of old servos.

Inside, the light was dim, filtered through sun-bleached cloths strung across narrow windows. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with worn datapads, mechanical scraps, and artifacts that looked older than the Republic. A faint scent of sand, metal, and something vaguely herbal hung in the air.

“Hello there,” Ben greeted from a low table. His eyes, sharp and searching, settled on her, then the droids. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

Leia swallowed. “You’re a Jedi.”

“I am,” he said, unsurprised by her knowledge. “And you’ve brought something very important.”

Leia nodded, glancing at Artoo. The droid extended his projector without being asked. 

The message played again, and unlike her, Ben watched it all the way through without interrupting, stroking his beard.

When it ended, he closed his eyes and sighed. Not with fear, but with the weight of something she couldn’t name. “I knew this day would come,” he mumbled. Then he looked at Leia again. “I believe it’s time I finally gave you some answers, little one.”

Ben’s eyes held a weight Leia had never seen before. He reached for an old wooden chest in the corner, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. “Your father was a Jedi Knight,” he said quietly. “One of the best I’ve ever known.”

Leia’s throat tightened. “Owen never—”

“Owen Lars wanted to protect you.” Ben lifted something from the chest. “He feared that knowing the truth would set you on a dangerous path. Perhaps he was right.” In his hands was a metallic cylinder, elegant despite its weathered surface. “This belonged to your father.”

“What is it?”

“His lightsaber.” He held it out to her. “The weapon of a Jedi.”

Leia’s hands trembled as she took it. The metal was cool against her palm, but something else seemed to hum beneath its surface. When she pressed the activation switch, a brilliant blue blade sprang to life with a snap-hiss that made her jump.

“You’ve always felt different, haven’t you?” Ben asked softly. “More aware. More connected to the world around you. Those weren’t just instincts, Leia. What you feel is the Force.”

The blade hummed in her hands, its glow reflecting in her dark eyes. A thousand small moments suddenly made sense: her inexplicable reflexes, the way she always seemed to know when a storm was coming, how things seemed to respond to her touch.

“My father...” she started, then stopped, afraid to ask the question burning in her throat.

“Anakin Skywalker was a great Jedi, and a dear friend.” Ben’s voice grew distant. “Before the dark times. Before the Empire.”

Leia deactivated the saber, her mind reeling. “What happened to him?”

“A young Jedi named Darth Vader.” Ben’s eyes clouded with old pain and he looked away. “Betrayed and murdered him. The same Vader who now helps the Empire hunt down and destroy the last of the Jedi.”

Leia’s grip tightened on the saber. “Why tell me this now? Why give me this… thing?”

“Because you have your father’s strength, Leia. And his gift in the Force. The galaxy needs that strength again.” He gestured to Artoo. “That droid carries information vital to the Rebellion’s survival. Prince Luke risked everything to get it to us. We must honor that sacrifice.”

“By taking it to Alderaan?” Leia asked, thinking of the message.

“Yes. I have contacts there who can—” Ben stopped suddenly, his expression sharpening. “Leia. When did you last see your aunt and uncle?”

An icy dread settled in her stomach. “This morning. I left a note—” She was already moving toward the door.

“Wait!” But she was running, scrambling onto her speeder bike. The ride back to the homestead was a blur. She pushed the speeder faster than she ever had before, ignoring Threepio’s terrified protests. 

Something was wrong. She could feel it, the same way she’d always been able to feel when a storm was coming.

But this was worse. So much worse.

The smoke was visible from kilometers away.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no...”

The homestead was still burning when she arrived, black smoke curling up into the desert sky. The entrance was charred, the walls scorched by blaster fire. Imperial precision.

“Beru!” she screamed, jumping from the speeder. “Uncle Owen!”

But she knew. Even before she found them, she knew.

She stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the ruins of her home, at the bodies of the only family she’d ever known. Her hands were clenched so tight that her nails cut into her palms, but she didn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. The anger was too hot, too bright.

She heard Ben’s speeder arrive behind her, heard his quiet footsteps approach.

“The Empire,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “They were looking for the droids.”

“Yes.”

She turned to face him, and something in her expression made him step back. “Teach me,” she said, her voice hard. “Teach me everything. About the Force, about being a Jedi.” Her hand found the lightsaber at her belt. “How to make them pay.”

Ben studied her for a long moment. “There will be no turning back,” he warned.

Leia looked one last time at the smoking ruins of her home, at the life she’d known burning away in the desert heat. She thought of Prince Luke’s message, of his face in the blue glow of the hologram. The fear in his voice. The hope. She thought of her father, who had died fighting the same evil that had murdered her family.

“He asked for help,” she whispered. Her fingers tightened on the hilt of the saber. “Said we were his only hope.”

She turned back to Ben, eyes burning with purpose. “Teach me.”

Chapter Text

The lightsaber felt heavier than Leia had imagined. Not in its physical weight, which was perfectly balanced in her grip, but in what it represented. Its presence in her hands seemed to echo with the lives it had touched, the blood it had spilled, the legacy it carried. Every time she activated the blade, it felt like calling something ancient and dangerous into the world.

She sat cross-legged on the sand-smoothed floor of Ben’s hut, the saber resting across her knees. Around her, the midday heat bled through the stone walls, covering her skin with a thin layer of sweat. Ben moved slowly through the room behind her, speaking in that low, even voice that always made her feel like the galaxy had slowed down just a little.

“The Force is not just power,” he said, his hands clasped behind his back. “It’s presence. Awareness. Connection. It’s what binds every living thing. It’s what listens when you’re silent.”

Leia closed her eyes, brow furrowed, trying to listen past the noise in her head: the memory of smoke, the sound of her aunt’s voice yelling her name, the sudden emptiness where her home used to be. Her fingers tightened slightly around the hilt. “I’m trying,” she muttered.

“That’s the problem,” he replied gently. “Stop trying. Just... do.”

She exhaled slowly. Outside, she could hear Artoo chirping as he fussed with the speeder’s systems. Somewhere in the distance, a lizard skittered across a rock. The wind whistled between the cliffs, carrying sand and silence with it. And then, beneath all that, there was something else. Faint, but undeniable. A pulse. A hum. As if the world itself was breathing, and for just a moment, she could feel the rhythm of it syncing with her own.

The saber shifted in her lap. Nothing dramatic, just a subtle movement, as though it had responded to her without needing instruction.

Her eyes flew open. “I—”

Ben held up a hand, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Better. But don’t chase the feeling. Let it come.”

She shut her eyes, breathing through her nose. She tried to focus on that faint feeling again; but the moment was already slipping, the calmness in her head was being pushed around by the anger shimmering below the surface. Leia groaned and fell back against the floor. “I just… I can’t calm down. I keep seeing them .”

She didn’t need to elaborate. He could feel her grief like a sharp blade against his temple. “I know it feels impossible, little one, but we cannot allow anger to fuel us. It only leads to more pain and destruction.”

Leia sat up abruptly, her eyes blazing. “They murdered them, Ben! Slaughtered them and burnt their bodies like they were trash!” She was breathing heavily, her grip around the lightsaber tightening unconsciously. “Why can’t I feel angry about that?”

“There are… risks, Leia,” Ben said slowly, moving to crouch beside her. “The Force is a fragile thing. Jedi have become victims to the worst sides of themselves before. We've lost too many down that path.” He reached down and gently pried the saber from her fingers, setting it aside.

Her bottom lip trembled, but she didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried, not really. Not yet. Did that make her an awful person? This inability to express herself in a way that wasn’t a clenched jaw and a tight grip around a weapon? 

Leia felt Ben’s arms wrap around her, but she couldn’t bring herself to reciprocate. By midday, the Empire would surely track the droids here, if they hadn’t already. They had to go. Leia pushed Ben away and stood from the floor, moving to stand by the window, watching the cliffs beyond. Her mind kept slipping back to the homestead. To Owen and Beru. 

“Grief doesn’t mean weakness,” Ben said quietly behind her. She chose not to respond to that, fearing her voice would break. Her nails bit into her palms, leaving small indentations that spoke of her barely restrained rage. 

“We should be on our way,” she said, her voice tight. “It’s not safe here anymore. The Empire could be getting close.”

Ben simply nodded.

By late afternoon, the sun had begun to slide toward the western cliffs, casting long shadows across the dunes as they loaded the speeder. Leia double-checked the rations and power cells, trying not to look at the empty horizon too long. She hadn’t spoken since their earlier conversation, and Ben didn’t push. There was nothing left to say. Her grief sat in her chest like a stone, unmoved and unmoving. She wouldn't let it go, not while there was still something to do.

They reached Mos Eisley as the last light of day left and turned the sky a shade of purple. The city rose from the desert like a scab; ugly, crooked, and clinging stubbornly to life. The buildings, all domed and sun-bleached, sprawled outward from a tangled mess of streets and alleys, alive with noise and motion and the undeniable stench of desperation.

Leia slowed the speeder and pulled her goggles up, her braid sticking to the back of her neck. She could already feel the weight of eyes watching from the shadows.

“I thought Anchorhead was bad,” she muttered. “This place makes it look like a palace.”

Ben, now cloaked in his hood, gave a quiet warning: “Keep your head low. We don’t want to draw attention.”

Leia snorted. “Nothing suspicious about a farm girl, two droids, and a cloaked old man walking into a wretched hive of scum and villainy.”

They left the speeder in a crowded docking bay under the bored supervision of a droid mechanic who barely looked up from their datapad. Artoo locked himself to the speeder’s back compartment while Threepio fussed endlessly about sand infiltration and the lack of proper ventilation.

Inside the cantina, the air shifted instantly, cooler, darker, and pulsing with chaotic energy. The scent of alcohol, sweat, and unwashed travelers clung to every surface. Music played from a recessed stage where a group of Bith musicians performed a tune that wormed its way into the back of her skull. Aliens of every shape and species packed the space, hunched over drinks or watching the door like predators.

Leia kept her chin lifted but her hand close to the saber at her hip. The moment they stepped inside, every one of her senses sharpened. Danger clung to the walls here. The air felt thick with it.

Ben moved with purpose, his form disappearing into the crowd as he sought a pilot. Leia followed, noting how many people turned to watch them pass. A Rodian narrowed his eyes. A tall insectoid muttered something into a comm. A group of Weequay snickered as she walked by. She shot them a poisonous glare, and they quickly turned away.

Ben returned a few minutes later, motioning her toward a corner booth where a man already sat waiting.

He was lounging like someone who thought the whole world owed him a drink, arms sprawled across the back of the seat, feet up, smirk locked in place like armor. His shirt was open at the collar, his hair a little too perfect in a roguish sort of way. The Wookiee beside him was nearly twice his height and far more imposing.

“This is Captain Han Solo and his co-pilot Chewbacca,” Ben said without fanfare. “He says he can get us to Alderaan.”

Leia slid into the booth opposite him, her arms folded. “Millennium Falcon, right?”

Han raised an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Mostly complaints.”

Chewbacca growled a short bark that might’ve been a laugh. Han chuckled and leaned forward, cocky and unbothered. “Look, I don’t care who you are or where you're going. My ship's fast, my price is high, and I don’t answer questions. You want a ride; I want credits.”

Leia tilted her head. “What you want is a job that pays before the Hutts find you.”

The Wookiee rumbled a low warning, but Han held up a hand. “Easy, pal. She’s got fire. I like that.”

Leia didn’t smile. “We don’t have time for games. We leave tonight, the cargo is sensitive. You keep your mouth shut, fly fast, and maybe we all live through it.”

Han hesitated, his smirk faltering just slightly as he took in her eyes. There was something there he hadn’t expected. Steel, maybe, or grief sharpened into something harder.

He sat back again, weighing her. “Alright, womp rat. You’ve got a deal.”

The Falcon was docked in Bay 94, and it looked like it couldn’t fly at all.

Leia stared at the ship from the shadows near the bay entrance. It was squat, wide, and scarred by age and battle alike. Plating had been patched, scorch marks barely buffed out, and one of the landing struts let out an occasional hissing groan that didn’t inspire confidence.

“That’s your ship?” she asked Han as he unlocked the side panel with a casual flick of his wrist.

“She’s got it where it counts,” he replied, clearly offended. “Fastest hunk of junk in the galaxy.”

Chewbacca barked something sharp in Shyriiwook, and Han translated. “He says she’s sensitive. So maybe don’t insult her to her face.”

Leia gave a noncommittal grunt and adjusted the strap on her satchel. Artoo rolled up beside her, whistling low. He’d been oddly quiet since they left the cantina. She could feel the tension building in the droid’s circuits, the way he rotated constantly, scanning, anticipating.

“You feel that?” she asked quietly.

Ben, standing just behind her, nodded once. “They’re here.” Leia turned in time to see two squads of stormtroopers rounding the far corner of the port access road. Blasters ready. Formations tight. Their armor caught the last light of the twin suns, gleaming like death.

“Looks like someone tipped them off,” Han muttered. “A den of thieves and backstabbers ratting us out? Shocking.”

“Can you get us out of here or not?” Leia snapped, already pulling her saber loose from her belt.

“I can get us gone,” he said. “Whether we’re still alive when we leave is up to you.”

Ben stepped forward, pulling back his cloak. He didn’t reach for a blaster; he didn’t need to. The moment the troopers opened fire, he moved like water: smooth, fluid, and impossibly fast. His saber snapped to life in a bright blue that carved the air, deflecting blasts with minimal effort.

Leia didn’t hesitate. She ignited her own saber awkwardly, a beat too slow, but the blade surged to life in her hand with a hiss that filled her chest with adrenaline. The first trooper she faced stumbled, clearly not expecting someone so young, so small, to come at him with a Jedi weapon.

His mistake.

Leia’s form wasn’t perfect, but her instincts were strong. She ducked a blaster bolt, turned her hips, and brought the saber up in a rising arc that knocked the trooper’s blaster from his hands. A follow-up kick sent him sprawling.

“Get the droids aboard!” Ben called, voice calm but commanding.

Chewie swept Artoo under one arm and charged up the ramp while Threepio anxiously hurried behind. Han laid down cover fire from behind a supply crate, cursing every few seconds but somehow grinning all the while.

Another squad burst into the bay, flanking from the left.

Ben raised his free hand and pushed outward. The Force rippled like a wave, slamming into the group and sending several troopers flying backward into the wall.

Leia backed toward the ship, breathing hard. Her saber hummed in her hand, the blade casting her face in blue light. She saw one trooper level his blaster at Ben’s unguarded flank. “No!” she shouted. Before she could think, her hand lifted, palm outstretched. The blaster jerked backwards—as if yanked by an invisible rope—and slammed into his head, knocking him out cold. Ben turned, surprise flashing briefly across his face before he nodded. “Good job,” he said simply.

They reached the ramp just as Han yelled, “We’re clear! Move it!”

Ben jumped aboard last, his robes billowing as the ramp began to rise. Blaster bolts pinged against the hull, but none found purchase.

Inside the Falcon, the world narrowed to systems and switches. Han vaulted into the pilot’s seat, barking orders to Chewie. Leia held her balance as the ship lurched and lifted, grabbing a handrail with one hand and deactivating her saber with the other.

She could still feel the way the Force had moved through her. The way it had obeyed. Not perfectly, but enough. The fear was still there, curling around her ribs, but under it was something else.

Resolve.

Ben stepped up beside her, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think.”

She didn’t answer. She just stared through the viewport as the Falcon punched skyward, leaving the port and the smoldering wreckage of her old life far behind.

The cell was cold, but Luke barely noticed. He sat on the narrow bench built into the wall, his wrists still bearing faint red marks from the binders they’d removed only after locking him inside. The smooth, sterile walls of the detention block seemed to press inward, absorbing light and sound until all that remained was the steady thud of his own pulse.

They hadn’t interrogated him. Not yet.

That was the worst part. The waiting. Not knowing what they would do to him.

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly, evenly. He didn’t know if the message had reached Obi-Wan. He didn’t know if Artoo had made it safely to Tatooine.

All he knew was that the Death Star was real. Not just a concept, not a rumor passed in frightened whispers between Rebel cells. It existed. He’d seen it. Walked its halls under escort, surrounded by black-armored troopers and officers who looked at him with a kind of detached interest, like he was a rare animal on display. Something too valuable to kill. Not yet, at least.

The door hissed open, and he looked up instinctively, his breath catching.

Vader.

The Dark Lord stepped into the cell with slow, deliberate movements, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow made solid. Two troopers flanked the door but didn’t follow. This moment was meant to be private.

“Your Highness,” Vader said, voice low and mechanical, yet somehow laced with something Luke couldn’t name.

Fear? No. Maybe uncertainty. Confusion.

Luke stood, not out of respect, but because he refused to let this thing look down on him. “You won’t get anything from me,” he said. His voice was hoarse but steady.

Vader tilted his head. “You already gave more than you realize.”

The cell seemed to shrink around them, the air heavy with something unspoken. Vader stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back. “The Death Star plans were transmitted during your capture. They’ve since gone missing. We know your ship jettisoned an escape pod.”

Luke’s heart thudded. Vader paused. “You sent the plans with the droids.” He said it not as a question, but as a certainty.

Luke said nothing and Vader moved even closer. “You should have destroyed them. You had the opportunity.”

“I made a choice,” Luke said quietly.

“An emotional one.” A note of disdain, or perhaps something colder. “You protected those droids instead of ensuring your own safety.”

Luke’s fists clenched. “I ensured my mission’s success.”

Vader stopped, a mere pace away. The silence between them was thick now. Charged .

“Your father would be disappointed,” Vader said. Luke flinched, just slightly, but Vader caught it. He continued. “Bail Organa is a man of duty. Of logic. He understands sacrifice. But I wonder what he would think of you now, his only heir, captured, disarmed, and defiant.”

Luke’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice level. “My father believes in peace. He would be proud of what I’ve done.”

There was a flicker in Vader’s posture. Barely perceptible. “Peace is a lie,” he said after a pause. “Order is what preserves civilization. And you are what threatens it.”

Luke looked away. Not in submission, but to steady himself. To resist whatever game this was. “You can kill me,” he said. “You can torture me. But I won’t betray them.”

Vader studied him for a long moment, the mechanical sound of his breathing the only noise in the cell. “Kill you?” he repeated. “No, Prince Organa. That would be… wasteful.”

Luke’s gaze snapped back. “What do you want?” He demanded.

There was a beat of silence. And then, so quiet Luke almost didn't catch the words, Vader replied. “To understand you.”

He turned without another word, his cloak sweeping behind him as he exited the cell. The door sealed shut, and Luke was left alone again, but not the same.

The quiet now carried an echo. A tremor. Something Vader had left behind, and Luke didn’t yet understand.

The observation deck of the Death Star was silent but for the soft hum of consoles and the muted murmur of officers below. Vader stood alone at the viewport, watching stars crawl by, his reflection faint and distorted in the transparisteel. In front of him, the black void of space stretched on endlessly, but it was nothing compared to the void clawing at the edge of his mind.

The boy radiated calm. That, more than anything, disturbed him.

Luke Organa had not begged. Had not blustered. He had simply watched with wary eyes and a stillness that hinted at depth. There was power in him. Not raw strength, not trained skill, but something subtler. Coiled. Quiet.

And familiar …

Vader had stood in his cell, watching him closely, waiting for the cracks to show, for fear to bleed through the bravado. But there was no collapse. No submission. Only that steady pulse in the Force, like the rhythm of a drum he couldn’t place.

Familiar, and not.

Bright, but not naive.

It pressed at him like a whisper under his helmet.

You know this.

The door hissed open behind him, dragging him from his thoughts. “Lord Vader,” Grand Moff Tarkin’s voice cut through the air, clipped and confident as always. “Our guest remains silent, I assume?”

Vader did not turn. “He’s resisting interrogation.”

Tarkin made a faint sound of acknowledgement, or perhaps irritation. It was always difficult to tell with him. “The Organa boy has been trained well. Or stubbornly, at least. But his usefulness is limited. The longer we keep him alive, the greater the risk.”

Vader’s fingers flexed at his side. “You’d kill a royal hostage before extracting intelligence?”

“I’d kill anyone who could compromise the Death Star. The Senate’s hold is slipping by the hour, and Bail Organa is a nuisance. The prince may serve as leverage temporarily but his background will not save him.” Tarkin stepped closer, folding his hands behind his back. “You said nothing during the meeting. Are you uncertain?”

That word— uncertain —twisted something deep in Vader’s chest. Something raw and buried.

“I felt something in him,” Vader said slowly, his voice low even beneath the respirator’s constant breath. “In the Force.”

Tarkin arched a brow. “Force sensitivity? The Organa line has no such history.”

“No. Not that. Not fully. He isn’t trained.” Vader paused. “But there is… something.”

Tarkin gave him a sidelong look. “You believe he’s a threat?”

Vader finally glanced away from the viewport. His presence filled the space, heavy and sharp. “I don’t know what he is.”

Tarkin hummed, tapping a gloved finger against his wrist. “Nevertheless, a child raised in the Alderaanian court doesn’t smuggle military secrets onto a consular ship without instruction. He knows where the Rebellion’s true command lies.”

Vader’s respirator filled the silence for several long moments. “He knows. But he will not break easily.”

“Then perhaps,” Tarkin said, voice lowering slightly, “we should reconsider our methods.”

Vader turned to face him fully. “Explain.”

Tarkin’s expression remained calm, almost bored. “A demonstration, Lord Vader. To establish the Death Star’s reach. To remind the galaxy what defiance costs.”

“You mean destruction.”

“I mean persuasion.” Tarkin drawled. “Alderaan is useless to us. Bail Organa is a threat. We would be doing ourselves a favor.”

Vader said nothing. Not immediately. He thought of the boy in the cell. Luke Organa. The name twisted in his mind like smoke. The Force curled around him differently. Wrongly. Rightly.

There was something here he couldn't name.

Tarkin continued, sensing hesitation. “Imagine it, Vader: we bring the boy to the viewing deck. Let him see what happens when the Rebellion hides behind pacifists. We offer him a chance to stop it. One word. One name. The Rebel base.” A slight smile. “And if he refuses… Alderaan burns.”

The silence that followed was not agreement.

It was a chasm.

Vader turned back to the stars, but the void no longer calmed him. The Force pressed harder now, insistent and layered with contradictions.

Luke’s presence stirred something ancient. Something buried. Why did the Force echo with grief when Vader reached toward him? 

“Proceed with caution,” he said finally, voice low. “If the prince is to be broken, it must not be at the cost of our leverage. If he suspects we will destroy Alderaan regardless of his answer, we lose our hold.”

Tarkin smiled, ever pleased with himself. “Then we make him believe it’s his choice. The burden will be his.” He turned and left, boots echoing against the metal floor. Vader said nothing.

The conversation ended, but the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. The hum in the Force hadn’t faded. If anything, it had grown louder.

He reached out with his senses, probing the cell far below, and there it was again. That flicker of something . Like the afterimage of a name he couldn’t remember. The echo of a voice he should have known.

Who was this boy?

And why, when Vader reached for anger, did he feel something else waiting?

Recognition.
Grief.
Hope.

He clenched his fists and pushed the thoughts away.

Hope was a lie.

The hum of the Falcon’s engines was constant. Low, grumbling, almost alive. Leia moved with it; feet bare against the grated floor of the main hold, her lightsaber gripped tight in both hands. The blade extended with a clean hiss , casting a soft blue glow across the worn walls.

She exhaled slowly and stepped into a familiar sequence. Ben had shown her the basics: stances, angles, the names of forms she hadn’t yet earned the right to use. But this wasn’t about precision. Not yet.

It was about control.

Each motion felt slightly off, her movements not quite matching what her instincts demanded. Her center of gravity was too high. Her wrists too tight. But she kept going, letting the saber hum through the air in slow arcs. Every swing carved a little more doubt out of her chest.

Again.

A footstep behind her broke the rhythm. She turned mid-strike, blade half-lowered, breath caught between reflex and recognition.

Han leaned in the hatchway, one arm braced overhead, a ration bar half-unwrapped in his other hand. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, mouth crooked in a lopsided smirk. “I didn’t take you for the laser sword type.”

Leia frowned, keeping the saber lowered but active. “Are you actually interested in watching me train or are you just being lazy?”

Han stepped into the room, casually, as if unbothered by the humming weapon between them. “Bit of both. I get nervous when my passengers can cut holes in the hull.”

She rolled her eyes and deactivated the blade, the silence it left behind somehow louder. “I need to be ready,” she said. “We don’t know what we’re flying into.”

Han nodded, tossing the ration bar onto the table. “Sure. But swinging that thing in a ship made of faulty wires and scrap metal might not be the best idea.”

Leia raised an eyebrow. “You're afraid I’ll accidentally take a chunk off?”

“I’m afraid you’ll accidentally take me off. Or Chewie. Or the nav console.” He said it like a joke, but there was a flicker of something more behind his eyes. Curiosity, maybe. Or caution. He wasn’t used to people surprising him.

She studied him for a moment. “You’ve seen one of these before.” It wasn’t a question. She could see his recognition.

Han didn’t answer right away. He leaned against the table, arms crossed now, expression flattening. “Once,” he said finally. “Long time ago. Bounty hunter picked a fight with the wrong guy. Didn't end well. Thing’s not as glamorous when you’re on the wrong end of it.”

Leia nodded, not offering comfort. “They’re not supposed to be glamorous.”

Han glanced at the hilt in her hand. “Why are you carrying one? I thought the Jedi were all gone.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. It was a fair question, but she didn’t have a whole answer. “I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But it feels right.”

He looked at her, really looked. “You’re not what I expected.”

“That makes two of us,” she said.

There was a beat of silence. The stars outside streaked endlessly past the viewport, painting lines of light across the metal walls. The ship felt smaller at that moment, like the distance between them had narrowed without permission.

“You sure about this?” Han asked, voice quieter now. “Alderaan’s not a casual stop.”

Leia tightened her grip on the saber, then set it gently down on the table. “No. I’m not sure about anything. Except that I can’t stay still while the Empire keeps burning the galaxy.”

Han scratched his jaw, almost thoughtful. “Well. That makes you either very brave or completely insane.”

She gave him a tired smile and gestured toward him. “You’re still flying me there, so what does that make you ?”

Han tilted his head, that crooked smile returning. “Tragically underpaid.”

They stood in silence for another beat, both smiling faintly. Then he nodded toward the cockpit. “I should get back before Chewie starts complaining. We’ll be coming out of hyperspace soonish.” He turned and walked away without waiting for a reply. 

Leia watched him go, then sat slowly, the saber beside her. Her heartbeat was slowing now. Her mind was a different story.

She had a feeling she’d be arguing with Han Solo for a long time. But something told her, deep down, that she wouldn’t mind.

Not much, anyways.

The boots they gave him didn’t fit. That, for some reason, was what Luke noticed most as he was marched through the gleaming corridors of the Death Star. His wrists were bound again, flanked by two white-armored stormtroopers. Vader walked ahead without a word. The air smelled sterile. Felt cold. Luke swore he could taste ash in his mouth.

The command deck loomed large and open, its black floors polished to a mirrored sheen. At its center stood a large viewport, wide enough to see the curve of a planet just beyond. Blue and green and cloud-swirled. Peaceful. Beautiful.

Alderaan.

Luke’s stomach dropped.

Waiting in front of the viewport was Grand Moff Tarkin, calm as ever, hands folded behind his back like he was admiring art in a gallery. He turned as they approached. “Prince Organa,” he said with a small, formal nod. “I hope your accommodations have been tolerable.”

Luke didn’t answer. His eyes remained on the view outside the spotless glass. A shiver ran through his body, and he felt something insistent prickling his skin. It felt like a warning.

Tarkin motioned, and the guards pushed him forward. Vader took up position behind him, silent and massive, the ever-present rasp of his breath the only sound in the room besides the quiet hum of distant consoles.

“We’re giving you an opportunity,” Tarkin continued. “One I suspect your cause would never offer us were our positions reversed.”

Luke straightened his back, glaring at the old man. “What do you want?”

“The location of the Rebel base.”

Luke didn’t flinch. “I don’t know.”

“You do ,” Tarkin said, voice sharpening. “You helped smuggle the Death Star plans off Scarif. You coordinated the mission. You were trusted with that information.”

Luke’s eyes flicked to the viewport. Alderaan floated there, vulnerable. He could almost see the continent line where he’d spent summers as a boy, just below the clouds. The capital would be waking now. The people going about their lives. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” he said.

Tarkin took a few steps closer. “Then tell me this: where do we strike?”

Luke blinked, his breath coming out faster. “What?”

“If you will not give us the base, then you will give us a target. A name. A system. A fleet. You will name something , or we demonstrate the power of this station.” He gestured toward Alderaan with quiet, casual precision.

“No.” Luke’s voice cracked. “You wouldn’t—”

“We would,” Tarkin said. “And we will.”

Vader stood still as stone behind him, unreadable, unmoving. Luke’s chest rose and fell rapidly now. “There are civilians. Millions of civilians. This is a core world . My parents are down there—”

Tarkin’s expression didn’t change. “Then choose somewhere else. Where is the Rebellion hiding?”

Luke’s hands shook inside the binders. His throat felt raw. He looked past them, out the window, to the planet that had raised him. The palace. The gardens. The clean air. The people. The calm.

He glanced backwards and met Vader’s gaze through the mask, though he couldn’t see his eyes. “You talk about order and power,” Luke said. “But this isn’t power. It’s cowardice!”

Vader didn’t respond, only gripped his shoulder and forced him to stare out at Alderaan once more.

Tarkin turned slightly to the officer at the terminal. “You may fire when ready.”

The deck fell into silence. Luke surged forward, struggling against his restraints and Vader 's grip. “Wait—don’t— don’t —!”

He could barely hear his own voice over the sound that followed: a low rising hum that grew and grew, a scream of unnatural energy building to its inevitable peak. The viewport darkened as the dish aligned.

Luke stared down at the planet.

At home.

His father.

His mother.

Then it was gone.

The explosion was silent at first, just a bloom of light, sudden and terrible. Then came the shockwave, rippling through space, debris scattering. The place he had called home for every moment of his life vanished in an instant.

Alderaan didn’t fall. It ceased .

Luke dropped to his knees. The world tilted sideways. Sound faded. His chest caved inward. He could faintly hear an agonized wail, and with a hint of detachment realized he was making that noise.

Tarkin stepped forward again. “Remember this,” he said. “The next time you think of hiding something from the Empire.”

Luke didn’t look up.

Behind him, Vader remained still and silent. But something around the room shifted. Wavered. Disturbed.

Not from Luke.

From Vader .

The training remote hovered in lazy circles, blinking with the occasional warning flash before darting forward to sting. Leia pivoted and deflected, her saber catching the red pulse with a hiss of blue energy.

She missed the next one by half a beat.

“Focus,” Ben said gently, stepping into her peripheral vision. “Not on the droid. But on what isn’t being seen. The Force is not sight. It’s knowing .”

Leia gritted her teeth and tried again, letting the helmet’s blast shield fall over her eyes. Darkness enveloped her, but she could still hear. The hum of the saber, the faint drift of ship noise, the soft rotation of the remote.

And then—

A strike. She deflected it, barely. The next one grazed her arm and she hissed in pain, more annoyed than hurt.

Ben continued, his voice steady but faint now, as if pulled from far away. Leia straightened, lifting the blade again. But then, abruptly, he stopped speaking.

There was a change in the air. Not the mechanical shifts of the ship’s systems, but something deeper. Subtler.

Ben’s hand trembled at his side. His eyes went distant, unfocused, like he wasn’t in the room anymore. Leia could feel the tension in him, how it radiated from his posture like a storm held back by sheer will.

And then she felt it too.

A pressure in her chest. Like the air had vanished. A tear through her very core. Something cold and wrong and final.

She gasped and stumbled backward, the helmet clattering to the floor. Her saber flickered and extinguished as she dropped it. Her knees hit the deck hard, hands splayed out like she was bracing for impact, but the ship hadn't moved.

It wasn’t the ship.

It was something else .

She clutched at her chest, her breath shallow and uneven. There was a grief there—not hers, not exactly, but so fierce and sudden it felt like it had come from inside her.

An image flashed through her mind. A boy screaming in silence, falling to his knees .

“Ben?” she choked, looking up at him.

He didn’t answer. He stood completely still, eyes closed, his face drawn and gray with quiet devastation.

“I felt…” Leia’s voice was barely a whisper. “Something’s happened.”

Ben exhaled, and it was the sound of a man who had seen too much death. “I felt it too,” he said quietly. “A great many voices, silenced all at once.”

Leia stared at him. Her heart still pounded. Not just because of what she’d felt, but because something else had been in that wave of loss.

A thread.

A tether.

Pain that wasn’t her own, but so deep it had cracked something inside her.

“Someone’s grieving,” she whispered, eyes wide. “I don’t know who, but… I could feel it. Like I knew him. Like I could see him.”

Before Ben could speak again, Han’s voice cut in over the ship’s comm system “Hey, you two might wanna get up here. We’re coming out of hyperspace.”

Leia scrambled to her feet, hands still shaking as she retrieved her saber and followed Ben to the cockpit. Han was seated, Chewie beside him. The stars in the viewport stretched, narrowed, then snapped back into pinpricks as the Falcon exited hyperspace.

Leia leaned over the back of the co-pilot’s chair and froze.

There was nothing.

No planet. No Alderaan.

Just debris . A floating graveyard of shattered rock and burning fragments still glowing faintly in the void. It stretched across the system like the scars of a god’s tantrum.

Leia’s breath caught in her throat. “No…” she whispered. “That’s not possible.”

Chewbacca rumbled something low and uncertain. Han’s face was pale, jaw clenched. “That was supposed to be a planet.”

Ben lowered himself into the navigator’s seat, slowly. “It was.”

Leia couldn’t look away. She stared at the wreckage, hands tightening around the edge of the seat.

It was gone. An entire planet. Everything— everyone —gone.

And yet the sharpest pain hadn’t come from seeing the aftermath. It had come before . Through the Force. Through someone else who had watched it happen in real time.

A connection. A distant, wounded ember on the edge of her awareness.

Leia felt like she couldn’t move. She stood behind the co-pilot’s chair, eyes locked on the wreckage that had once been Alderaan. Her hands were white-knuckled around the headrest, her mouth slightly open, but she made no sound.

The cockpit was silent, save for the low rumble of the Falcon’s engines and the occasional soft click of Chewbacca adjusting the nav systems.

Han checked his scopes again, then frowned. “That’s weird.”

Ben’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

Han tapped a readout, irritated. “Gravitational readings just spiked. Hard. Like there’s a moon in-system pulling mass. Except there’s no moon. Just... debris.”

Leia finally turned her head, slow and deliberate. “Then what is it?”

The Falcon jolted slightly, not enough to throw anyone but enough to be felt. Chewie growled low, concerned. His paws flew across the controls.

“I don’t know,” Han muttered, already flipping switches. “But we’re caught in something. Tractor beam, maybe. There’s no signal, no warning, just—” Another jolt. This one stronger. “Yeah, that’s not natural drift,” he said. “That’s something grabbing us.”

Ben’s face hardened, his voice quiet but certain. “It’s not debris.”

Leia looked between them, the panic in her chest rising again. “Then what is it?” She asked again, louder. 

Han didn’t answer with words. He just nodded toward the viewport. Leia followed his gaze and saw it .

It emerged from the edge of the wreckage like a leviathan rising from black water. Not a moon: a fortress. A station so vast it blotted out the stars behind it. Its surface was jagged with towers and antennae, and its dish, a massive crater carved into one hemisphere, was unmistakable.

A chill rolled through the cockpit. Han exhaled, low and disbelieving. “That’s no moon.”

Leia swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “They didn’t destroy Alderaan with a fleet.”

“No,” Ben said. “They destroyed it from there .”

Another pull shook the ship. The stars shifted in the viewport. “We need to get out of here,” Leia said, stepping forward. “Now.”

“I’m trying!” Han barked, hands flying over controls. “The Falcon’s fast, but this thing’s got us locked. They’re not letting us go.”

Chewie roared an alarm as warning lights lit up across the dash. “They’re pulling us in,” Han said. “We’re gonna have company real soon.”

Leia exhaled shakily as the Falcon was dragged closer to the belly of the beast.

Chapter Text

The Millennium Falcon shuddered as the tractor beam drew it toward the Death Star’s hangar bay. Metal groaned under the pressure. Warning lights flickered across the cockpit, and the hum of the ship’s systems was undercut by a low, vibrating pull—like gravity itself had been twisted.

Leia stood just inside the cockpit, her hands gripping the back of Han’s chair. Her expression was taut, pale with strain. Through the viewport, the station filled their view: a colossal monstrosity of steel and shadow, its surface bristling with towers, antennae, and gun emplacements like the spines of some sleeping beast.

Han glanced over his shoulder, lips pressed in a grim line. “We’re caught in the tractor beam. There’s no breaking free unless we blow the emitter.”

Ben settled into the co-pilot’s chair beside Chewbacca, eyes fixed forward. “We may not need to break free just yet. But we do need to disappear—if you understand my meaning, Captain Solo.”

Leia looked between them. “What do you mean?”

“Smugglers’ tricks,” Han said with a small grin. “We hide in the smuggling compartments. They’ll scan the ship, find nothing, assume we bailed before capture. Best chance we’ve got.”

Leia hesitated, eyes narrowing. “Unless they already know we’re on board.”

Ben turned to her, his face unreadable. “Then you must be prepared for them to come looking.”

There was a pause.

They had come all this way. She had come all this way, leaving behind everything she had ever known on Tatooine. She thought of the blond boy from the message, his trembling hands, his fearful expression. She thought of the piercing ache of pain she’d felt through the Force, the image of a boy falling to his knees.

Leia nodded once, firmly. “Let’s hide.”

Han moved fast, pulling up panels in the floor near the rear of the ship. Chewie handed Ben one of the extra breath masks, just in case they needed to lie still for a long time. Leia hesitated at the top of the ramp before dropping into the compartment, pressing herself into the tight space between Han and Chewbacca. Ben climbed in last, pulling the panel shut above them, plunging them into darkness.

The ship thudded softly as docking clamps locked into place. Heavy boots clanged across the gangway. Muffled voices filtered in—Imperial officers giving orders, the hiss of scanners, the clank of boarding tools.

Leia closed her eyes. She reached out with the Force, not deeply, not enough to draw attention. Just a ripple. A thread.

Pain.

It was still there. Not her own, but something close. Distant, yet sharp. A soul screaming quietly through the dark.

She swallowed hard. It was undoubtedly the prince. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did.

Above them, the ship creaked.

Another voice, closer now: “No lifeforms on board,” a trooper reported, voice filtered through a helmet. “No power signatures either. They must have used an escape pod.”

“Have the ship searched stem to stern,” came the clipped, accented voice of an officer. “And notify Lord Vader. He’ll want to inspect it himself.”

Leia flinched slightly. Vader. The man who had murdered her father.

Ben opened one eye. His presence brushed against hers.

Be still.

She jumped at the voice in her mind and gave him a bewildered look, but obeyed with a quick nod.

The search dragged on. Every knock of boots against steel made Leia’s pulse spike. But the compartments were left alone, and the Falcon—modified countless times by smugglers—was nothing if not good at hiding secrets.

Finally, the sounds receded.

Ben exhaled quietly. “They’ve moved on. For now, at least.”

“Great,” Han muttered. “Now what?”

“We wait,” Ben said. “Until they start their second sweep. Then we act.”

Leia lay back against the metal, eyes open in the dark. Her heart was still racing, but not just from fear. There was something else threading through her, electric and disorienting. Not adrenaline, not danger. Something deeper. She could feel how far she had come, the weight of every choice pressing into her bones—from the quiet desert nights of Tatooine to this silent, suffocating crawl inside the belly of the enemy.

And then, just at the edge of her senses, like a whisper carried on a wind she couldn’t feel... him . The presence she’d touched before. The boy from the message. Faint but unmistakable, fragile and flickering. She didn’t know how she recognized him. She didn’t know why she did.

But he was here. Somewhere.

And he was afraid.

The hangar bay of the Death Star thrummed with orderly chaos—troopers marching in formation, engineers scanning the captured freighter, officers barking clipped reports into comms. The ship sat quietly at the center, like a beast feigning sleep.

Stormtroopers filed down the ramp in twos, weapons low but ready. A scanning droid hovered overhead, its sensor dish retracting with a quiet whirr. The lead officer turned, posture stiffening as a tall figure swept into view.

Darth Vader moved without hesitation, cape trailing like a shadow behind him, boots striking the durasteel floor with measured force. The air shifted in his wake.

The officer leading the investigation stiffened at the sound of his boots striking the floor. “Lord Vader,” he said crisply. “We’ve completed the sweep. No lifeforms detected aboard. We suspect the crew may have abandoned ship just before interception.”

Vader said nothing. The officer hesitated, unsure. “We could do another sweep—”

Vader’s head turned slightly toward the ship, as if hearing something beyond human range. His breath deepened.

There. A pulse.

Faint. Elusive.

But familiar.

It struck him not with clarity, but with instinct. Like a shadow half-glimpsed through fog. A thread of something bright and fraying at the edges.

He narrowed his eyes behind the mask. The presence was tinged with worry and a deep, buried grief.

The boy.

Organa.

Why was his signature so strong in the hangar? Why could Vader feel it as if he were standing before him?

Vader turned from the officer without a word.

“My lord?” the officer asked, uncertain. “Shall we detain the vessel or—?”

But Vader was already walking away, each step echoing like thunder in the cavernous hangar. The officer fell silent. The Dark Lord did not need permission to act. He did not explain himself.

Inwardly, Vader reached again for the presence, trying to grasp the shape of it. But it slid through his mind like water through his fingers. Familiar. Unresolved. Wrong , somehow.

Skywalker. It whispered.

No. Vader thought. Impossible. 

But the boy bore a striking resemblance to Anakin Skywalker, and his presence whispered—

Padmé.

The name hit him like a blow. His stride faltered, muscles locking beneath the armor. 

No.

It couldn’t be…

The hidden compartment was quiet again, but only for a moment.

More footsteps echoed above, closer this time. Not a crowd, only two. The tread was deliberate, practiced. Leia could hear the weight of armor shifting with each step. She tensed and met Ben’s gaze in the dark. No words were spoken, but the meaning passed clean between them.

He nodded once. “Now.”

Han eased the panel aside with practiced care, wincing at the soft hiss of displaced air. The corridor inside the Falcon was dim, shadows slanting across the walls from the hangar’s floodlights. They didn’t dare use blasters. They were too loud, too fast. One sound too sharp and the whole hangar would descend on them.

Leia slipped out behind him, pressing herself flat against the Falcon’s interior hull. Her heart thudded in her chest, not from fear, but focus. The calm before a strike. The storm beneath still waters.

The two stormtroopers were already inside, scanning the ship with handheld readers. One knelt beside a console, tapping at a screen with gloved fingers. The other stood near the corridor junction, weapon held loose but ready.

Han caught that one from behind, slamming the butt of a hydrospanner into the base of his helmet. The man went down in a heap, armor clattering softly against the decking.

The second barely had time to react. Leia reached him in two long strides, catching him in a swift, precise hold. One hand on the side of his helmet, the other bracing his arm. She jerked him backward and bashed his head against the wall. He slumped, unconscious, before he could make a sound.

Chewbacca stepped in silently and caught the falling body before it could crash into the floor. He grunted low in approval.

Leia straightened, breath catching for a beat. Not from exertion, but the echo of something deeper—something ancient. She could feel it thrumming in her blood. The Force wasn’t loud here, but it watched her all the same.

“Nice work, womp rat,” Han whispered, still crouched by the first trooper’s body. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

She shot him a sharp look as she knelt beside the other fallen trooper. “You're already on it.”

They moved quickly, dragging the unconscious men into the small maintenance alcove tucked beside the access ladder. Their bodies slumped behind crates, hidden from view. Han was already unbuckling the chestplate of one uniform, grimacing as he pulled it over his head.

“Ugh, I forgot how much I hate wearing full armor stuff like this. It itches and smells like carbon scoring.”

Leia wriggled into the other suit, frowning. “It smells like it hasn’t been cleaned since the Republic fell.” She ignored the sounds of Han grunting and groaning as he dressed himself, adjusting her helmet. It was slightly too large, and the visor distorted her depth perception. “Can you even see in this thing?”

“Not really,” Han said, clipping his belt into place. “Just walk like you’ve got a stick up your—”

“Enough,” Ben interrupted mildly, stepping down from the upper deck with a soft swish of his robe. “We don’t have time for banter. They’ll sweep again soon.”

Han clamped the final piece of armor into place and turned to Chewie. “All right, pal. Time for the old ‘prisoner transfer’ routine.”

Chewbacca growled low and skeptical, baring his teeth in mock protest. “Yeah, yeah. I know it’s humiliating,” Han said, fishing a pair of binders from the emergency kit under the console. “But it’s convincing. You look dangerous, they get nervous.”

Leia helped him fasten the binders, looping them loosely around Chewbacca’s massive wrists. She didn’t miss the irony of it. Once, when she was younger, she used to imagine the Empire as a storybook villain. A faceless evil that kidnapped people and locked them away. Now she was dressed in their armor, doing the same thing. She tried to ignore the bitter feeling, knowing she was doing this for something good.

She sighed and glanced over at Ben. He stood still, head slightly bowed, as if listening to something distant. When he opened his eyes, they were calm and unreadable. “I’ll slip away once we reach the checkpoint,” he said softly. “The tractor beam’s control node is housed in the upper tower, just above the central core.”

Leia’s brow furrowed beneath her helmet. “You’ll be outnumbered.”

Ben gave a faint, almost sad smile. “I’ve been outnumbered since the Clone Wars.”

She hesitated. She still didn’t fully understand the man. But something about his presence reminded her of old, half-forgotten myths. He seemed tired, but not weak. Wounded, but still standing.

“Trust in the Force,” Ben added.

Leia nodded. “We’ll find the prince and meet back here.”

Ben didn’t respond. His expression darkened, just slightly, but he gave her a small nod and disappeared back into the Falcon’s shadows.

Han glanced sideways at her, and she could almost see his furrowed eyebrows through his helmet. “You sure about this plan?”

“No,” Leia said, squaring her shoulders. “But we’re doing it anyway.”

They descended the ramp with Chewie between them. The hangar greeted them with cold light and structured movement: troopers still moving in formation, engineers climbing over the freighter’s hull. An officer barked orders into a datapad. The entire space buzzed like a machine mid-function.

But no one stopped them.

Two real stormtroopers passed by on the upper catwalk, glancing briefly down. One called, “Another prisoner?”

Han grunted through the helmet filter, “Level five. Detention block AA-23. Orders from Command.”

The trooper barely nodded. “Move along.”

Leia held her breath until they passed. She reached out again, carefully, the way Ben had taught her—like dipping a toe in still water.

Prince Luke. She felt him. The thread of pain. Tighter now. Afraid. And close.

And behind them, somewhere above, Vader’s presence pressed against the air like thunder held at bay.

They moved forward into the corridor, deeper into the belly of the Death Star. Into danger. Into darkness.

But they were no longer running.

They were here to fight.

Chapter Text

The cell was quiet now. Quieter than it had been before. A suffocating silence.

Luke sat slumped against the cold durasteel wall, knees drawn halfway to his chest, one hand curled loosely in the fabric of his tunic where the front had been torn slightly. His face was streaked with dried tears, but his eyes were dry now. Empty. 

Blinking felt like a chore.

They’d thrown him back in an hour ago, or maybe more. It was hard to tell. Time didn’t feel real inside this place. He remembered hitting the floor, the pain flaring in his ribs, and then… nothing. Just this silence, thick as fog.

The scene repeated itself in his head, over and over, like an engine failing to catch. The way his home had caved in on itself. Gone. Not attacked, not invaded. Just gone.

He closed his eyes.

He could smell his mother's floral fragrance. Feel his father’s firm hand on his shoulder. See the sunlit courtyards where he'd practiced speeches he never had to give. He could hear the soft-spoken maids who'd braided his hair when he was small. Every guard who ever bowed to him, every gardener who'd tended the trees. His favorite library alcove, with the broken old datapad he’d never gotten around to fixing.

He would never see any of them again.

A sharp ache clenched in his chest, but there were no more tears left to spill. Grief had burned too hot and too fast, like a dying star. Now there was only the hollowness.

Somewhere deep inside that hollow, something stirred.

He felt it like a whisper against his skin; no sound, no sight, just a presence. Not familiar. Not quite. But… kind. Warm. Not trying to fix the ache, just willing to sit beside it.

His breath caught.

What was that?

He sat up straighter, muscles trembling with the effort, and reached out—at first with his hand, then with something else. Something deeper. Instinctive. He didn’t know what he was doing, only that he wanted more of that feeling.

But it slipped away like water through his fingers. A flicker of comfort, then absence again.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. “I’m losing my mind,” he muttered, hoarse.

But some part of him, the quiet, stubborn part, knew better. He wasn’t alone in the dark. Not entirely.

The hum of the Death Star was omnipresent; deep and droning, like the breath of something asleep and waiting to wake. Obi-Wan moved through the corridors unnoticed, his footsteps nearly silent on the gridded floor, his robes blending into the shadows. 

The tractor beam control room loomed just ahead. Obi-Wan paused against a wall and closed his eyes. The Force swirled around him, a sea of movement and emotion, of tension and death. So many voices. So many lives bound to a machine built for slaughter.

And Vader.

His presence radiated from the far side of the station like a dark star, pulling gravity inward. Cold, seething. Controlled. But under the armor of willpower and rage, Obi-Wan searched for something else.

Anakin.

He reached for that name the way one might press their palm against a locked door, hoping someone on the other side still remembered how to answer.

At first, nothing. Just the bladed edge of a predator’s mind, alert and stalking. But then faint, flickering, guilt. A memory. A breath. Something old and buried, thrashing in its grave.

Obi-Wan pulled back before he was noticed, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with fear. Anakin was still in there. Somewhere. Chained and screaming.

The knowledge hurt more than he’d expected.

He hesitated a moment, listening again, not for the alarms or footsteps or the feel of an old friend, but for Luke. The boy was still on board. Still grieving. He could feel the ache of it like a phantom limb.

We're here. She's here, he thought. Just hold on.

The lift doors groaned open with a mechanical sigh, depositing Leia, Han, and Chewbacca into the bleak corridor that led to the detention level. Harsh white light glared off the walls, sterile and humming with a quiet menace. Leia adjusted the stolen trooper helmet, eyes sharp as she glanced around the room. Chewbacca let out a low growl, already bristling at the oppressive aura.

Han swaggered ahead in his own trooper armor that was too big in the shoulders. The chest plate stayed crooked no matter how many times he tugged it straight. He wore it like a dare, like a kid playing dress-up with a loaded blaster at his hip.

Leia gave him a look. “Try to act like you belong.”

“I always belong,” Han said, stepping up to the checkpoint terminal. Chewbacca grunted, sounding like he'd lost all hope for their success.

The officer seated at the console barely glanced up. “Where are you taking this—thing?”

Han cleared his throat. “Uh, prisoner transfer. From cell block…” He looked to Leia for help. 

She rolled her eyes under the helmet and muttered, “One-One-Three-Eight.”

“Yeah, that. Cell block one-one-three-eight.” He straightened, trying to sound official. “We had a—uh—detour. Ran into some trouble on the way. Very dangerous. This Wookiee’s a real handful.”

The officer frowned, skeptical. “I wasn’t notified of any—”

“Look,” Han interrupted, waving a hand. She could hear the cocky smirk he undoubtedly wore. “Everything’s under control. Situation normal.”

The officer narrowed his eyes. “What happened?”

Han paused. “What happened? Uh…” He shifted, glancing at the panel in front of him like it might help. “We had a slight weapons malfunction, but uh… everything’s perfectly all right now. We're fine. We're all fine here now, thank you. How are you?”

Leia palmed her helmet in exasperation as the officer reached for the comm.

Han shot first, two bolts springing from the weapon in quick succession. The terminal exploded in a hail of sparks and smoke, and the officer slumped over the console, blaster burn smoking on his chest.

“Wow. Great job,” Leia snapped, shoving her way past him. “Very subtle.”

Han followed, yanking off his helmet to give her a grimace. “Well, he was gonna call somebody! It was either that or let Chewie rip his arms off, and I figured this would make less mess.”

Chewbacca howled in agreement, already barreling toward the cellblock.

Alarms began to blare. Somewhere down the corridor, a klaxon screamed to life, and stormtrooper boots thundered toward their position. Leia didn’t flinch. “We need to find the prince before they shut everything down.”.

She pulled off her helmet and let it drop to the ground with a loud clunk. The detention block reeked, blood and sweat lingering on the recycled air. Blaster fire sizzled down the corridor, ricocheting off the walls in violent flashes. Leia pressed her back to the wall, heart thudding as a stormtrooper barreled around the corner with a scream. Han’s blaster smoked from the other side of the hall, and the trooper dropped.

“You're welcome,” he called.

Leia ignored him, sprinting to the terminal. “Cover me!”

Chewie roared and took position, his bowcaster barking out bright bolts that sent the last of the troopers coming forward diving for cover. The hallway filled with smoke and sparks.

Leia shoved the officer’s slumped body out of the chair and dropped into place, fingers flying over the console. Her breath hitched when the prisoner manifest loaded.

Cell 2187.

Her stomach clenched. “There he is,” she breathed.

Han ducked beside her. “The prince?”

Leia didn’t answer. She was already up and running, helmet abandoned on the floor, braid swinging as she bolted for the far door. Chewie thundered after her, and Han cursed before following.

The corridor was quiet this deep in the block—too quiet. The kind that made your skin itch and your instincts scream. Leia stopped in front of the cell, chest heaving, and laid her palm on the lockpad. 

It chirped. Denied.

“Move,” she snapped. She pulled her blaster and shot once, twice, right at the lock. The panel sparked, sizzled, and the door hissed open.

Inside, the light was dim. There were no restraints, no guards. Just a boy on the floor, slumped against the wall.

He looked up slowly, blinking through the gloom and Leia froze.

He was her age. Maybe a little older. Pale and hollow-eyed, tunic torn, cheeks streaked with grime and dried tears. But his gaze was vivid and wide, the color of a clear sky before a storm. Not broken, not exactly. Just emptied. Scraped raw.

“You’re real,” he whispered.

Leia stepped inside, cautiously lowering her weapon. “Prince Luke Organa?”

His eyes flicked to her face, then her hands, then the saber clipped to her belt. “I… yes.”

She exhaled. Relief crashed through her, too fast and too deep to process. She crossed the space in three strides and dropped to her knees beside him. “We’re here to get you out.”

He blinked, slow and blank, like the words were in a language he didn't understand. “How…?”

“Your message,” she said. “I saw it. Artoo found me.”

His breath hitched. “The droids. They made it?”

She nodded. “I’m Leia. Leia Skywalker.”

Behind her, Han’s voice echoed down the corridor. “I hate to ruin the moment, but we’ve got company!”

Blaster fire roared again. Chewie barked something urgent. Leia turned back to Luke and extended her hand. “Can you walk?”

He hesitated. “I think so.”

When he reached for her, his fingers trembled. She pulled him up gently, steadying him with an arm around his back. He was taller than her, but thin, and softer somehow. He leaned into her for balance like his legs had forgotten how to trust the floor.

As they moved toward the corridor, he paused, hand still on her shoulder. “You felt it too, didn’t you?”

Leia looked up at him. “Felt what?” She already knew what he meant.

His voice was quiet. “That… thing. That connection. It was like I could… feel you. See you.”

She didn’t answer. Not right away. She didn't understand much about the Force. Didn't understand why it would tether her to this boy she's never met before. Didn't understand why she could feel his grief, feel his hurt, like he was a part of her.

“…Yeah,” she said finally. “I did.”

The moment they emerged from the cell block, the storm hit. Blaster bolts scorched the air, sending Leia diving behind a thin beam, her grip tight around Luke’s wrist. He stumbled after her, still shaky, barely upright, but moving.

Chewbacca roared ahead of them, ducking inside a cell and returning fire with a fury that rattled the walls. Han leaned around a corner and fired twice, shouting, “So much for the quiet exit!”

Leia dropped to one knee beside Luke, heart hammering in time with the blaster fire. “Can you shoot?”

Luke blinked at her, still disoriented. “Of course—I mean, I’ve trained. At the palace. Nothing like—” Another blast slammed into the wall above them, showering sparks.

“Good enough.” Han slid a blaster across the floor toward them. 

Leia snatched it up and pressed it into Luke’s hands. “Don’t point it at me,” she muttered, then popped up and fired two shots down the hall.

Han ducked back beside them, panting. “We need to move. There’s no way they haven’t flagged us station-wide by now.”

“We cut through the hangar deck,” Leia said. “I saw a corridor on the south wall that should link back to the docking bays.”

Han groaned. “That’s two levels down and probably crawling with troopers!”

“Then we don’t stop running,” Leia said sharply. “Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

Chewie barked something urgent from ahead, gesturing. The path was temporarily clear.

Leia didn’t wait.

They sprinted.

Down one corridor, across another, turning sharply into a side passage as red lights began to flash along the walls. Luke ran just behind Leia, his grip on the blaster tight, the sharp stink of burned plastoid in his nose. He was running on adrenaline now, nothing more. Pain flared through his side with each jarring step.

As they rounded another corner, a squad of stormtroopers opened fire.

Leia dove for cover. Han slammed into the opposite wall and shouted, “I really hope the old man’s done his part, or we’re screwed!”

“He did,” Leia snapped, firing back. “Ben wouldn’t let us down.”

Luke glanced up at the name. “Ben?” he asked, ducking beside her. “Who’s Ben?”

Leia didn’t look at him. She was too busy lining up her next shot. “Ben Kenobi. The man you sent the message for.”

Luke’s brain stalled. “Obi-Wan?” His voice cracked over the name.

“Yeah.” She finally glanced at him, then stood to fire again. “We all came here together.”

Luke blinked hard, like his mind couldn’t catch up. “But… you called him Ben.”

Leia grimaced a little as she shot down a trooper. “That’s the name he used on Tatooine. He likes secrets.”

A breath escaped Luke, too fast to be called a laugh. “Obi-Wan Kenobi. Hiding on a desert planet and calling himself Ben. That’s so—” He shook his head, grinning despite himself. “I can’t wait to see him again.”

“Then move your royal ass,” Han yelled. “Or none of us are seeing anybody ever again!”

They surged forward, Chewie leading with a furious growl and heavy footfalls. The hangar was close now. The air changed, thinner and sharper with the scent of fuel and open space. Alarms shrieked across the station, echoing like ghosts.

Leia fired, Luke fired. Han cursed and fired some more.

The way ahead was chaos, but it was forward. And that was enough for them.

The Force was loud now. Even through layers of metal and fear and sound, it pressed against Obi-Wan’s skin. The ship was coming alive around him: sirens screaming, boots pounding, blasters crackling somewhere down the spine of the station.

But none of that mattered. He could feel them. Leia, burning bright and wild. Luke, softer, flickering like he was on the edge of collapse but still holding on. And fainter, a thread of lightness tangled in equal parts nerves and excitement—that would be Solo, no doubt.

They were close. Almost back to the Falcon.

He stepped lightly through a maintenance corridor near the edge of the hangar quadrant, his hood up, his presence cloaked like a whisper behind the hum of failing circuits and the wail of alarms.

And then the air shifted.

A shadow fell across the corridor, not cast by light or darkness, but by presence. Cold and massive and deliberate. It curled around the edges of Obi-Wan’s awareness like a claw. A heartbeat later, the door to his right hissed.

Vader stood on the other side. Still. Waiting. His saber was not yet drawn. Neither was Obi-Wan’s. But the air between them might as well have been a battlefield.

“You were always bold,” Vader said, voice thick with contempt. “But I didn’t think you were foolish enough to come here and believe you could go undetected.”

Obi-Wan stopped. Straightened. “I was always more foolish than you gave me credit for,” he said quietly. “I’ve come to see you again. After everything.”

That gave Vader pause. He took a step forward, slow and deliberate. “You expect me to believe this is sentiment? That you came to visit?”

“No,” Obi-Wan said, and his voice was gentle. “Not a visit. A farewell.”

A long silence hung between them.

Vader’s head tilted, almost curious. “You think this ends with one of us dead.”

Obi-Wan didn’t answer.

Instead, he slowly reached back and pulled back his hood. The years weighed heavy in his features now, lined and worn, but his eyes were the same. Always sharp. Always seeing something long past.

Vader’s hands curled at his sides. He took another step. “You’ve aged terribly.”

Obi-Wan allowed himself a faint smile. “We both have.”

The hum of Vader’s saber ignited like a warning flare, deep red, angry, alive. The glow bathed the corridor in bloodlight.

Obi-Wan didn’t move. Not yet. He simply looked at him.

“I warned you not to underestimate the power of the dark side,” Vader said. “But I see now that you underestimated me far more.”

Obi-Wan’s fingers twitched. His saber was still at his side. “And why’s that?”

Vader’s voice dropped, almost a snarl. “I know the truth, Obi-Wan. About the boy.”

Something sharp slid into the silence between them. Obi-Wan didn’t flinch, but he didn’t speak either.

Vader stepped closer, the red glow catching on the edge of his mask. “You trained him in secret, didn’t you? Or perhaps you hoped to do so. You watched him grow. Your apprentice, your prize. Tell me, Obi-Wan—” the name was venom now—“was your deception as satisfying the second time?”

Obi-Wan’s voice came soft. “He’s not my apprentice. And I didn't watch him grow. I've barely seen him.”

“But you knew,” Vader snapped. “You knew he was mine.”

The words hit like a blow, and for a moment the only sound was the mechanical rasp of Vader’s breath. Heavy. Imbalanced.

“You knew,” Vader repeated. “All this time. And you lied to me.”

Obi-Wan met his gaze—or the place his gaze would have been. “I didn’t lie. You just stopped listening long ago.”

There was silence. Then the snap-hiss of blue light, as Obi-Wan’s saber came to life. They circled each other now, slowly, like two predators in the dark.

“I named him,” Vader said. His voice was almost distant, thoughtful. “Did you know that? Padmé…” His voice caught on her name. “she chose Leia if we were to have a daughter. I chose Luke for our son.”

Obi-Wan’s chest tightened, but he held his ground. “You gave up the right to that name the day you let the darkness consume you.”

“You took him from me!”

“I saved him from you.”

The corridor exploded with light and motion as they both struck. Sparks flew as sabers clashed, red and blue howling in the confined space. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t elegant. This wasn’t the fluid dance of master and apprentice. It was raw, brutal, inevitable.

Obi-Wan’s breath hitched with every impact, his muscles aching with each parry. Vader pressed forward, relentless, strength behind every blow. But Obi-Wan didn’t give ground. Not yet.

Outside, the station shook with alarms and fire and rebellion. But inside, here, in this narrow corridor of silence and fury, it was just them.

Two ghosts, and a past neither of them could bury

The hangar was worse than chaos. Blaster fire echoed off the walls, bolts sparking against the hulls of grounded ships. A fresh wave of stormtroopers poured through the far entrance, but Chewbacca roared from in front of their little rescue team, cutting them down in a storm of fury and fire. Han spun beside him, firing over his shoulder. “We don’t have long!”

Leia’s boots slammed against the floor as they sprinted across the open bay, Luke panting just behind her. The Falcon rose ahead like a battered angel, her hull scorched and lights flickering.

They were ten steps from the ramp when it happened. A sound, a hum, sharp and electric, cut through the noise of the hangar. A second followed, crashing against the first in a violent pulse.

Lightsabers.

Leia skidded to a stop. Luke slammed into her back, nearly sending them both sprawling. They turned in unison.

Across the hangar, just beyond the storage barrier wall, two figures moved like phantoms. One wrapped in brown robes, the other in shadow and black armor, their sabers locked in a whirlwind of red and blue.

Leia’s stomach dropped. “Ben—”

They ran without thinking.

They rounded the edge of the barrier just in time to see Bem duck low, his blade catching Vader’s in a parry that sent sparks screaming across the metal floor. The battle was slowing now. Every movement carried weight. Not hesitation, but decision. As if something had already been accepted.

Leia’s breath caught.

Vader towered in front of them, hulking and cold, his saber dragging through the air like a scythe. But Ben was watching them. His eyes found theirs across the space. Quiet and steady.

Leia felt something twist in her chest.

It wasn’t fear.

It was rage.

Deep, and ancient, and blinding.

She didn’t think, couldn’t. The emotion cracked through her like lightning and Vader felt it. His head snapped toward her just as Ben’s smile broke through the lines of his face.

Peaceful. After so very long.

“Obi-Wan!” Luke’s voice cracked.

Vader struck. The saber passed cleanly through Ben’s body. Except there was no body left. His robe crumpled to the floor, empty.

Gone.

“No—!” Leia’s scream tore itself from her throat, raw and furious. Luke shouted too, choked with heartbreak, stumbling forward. The Force pulsed around them, wild and unbound, and Leia—without knowing how—reached for it.

Her hand flew out. And Vader flew back. He crashed into a wall with the screech of twisted metal, arms snapping wide as if shoved by an invisible wave. The red saber flickered, then steadied.

Leia’s breath came in ragged gasps, her fingers still outstretched, shaking.

She didn’t remember moving.

She only remembered the heat.

The weight.

The loss.

“Leia!” Luke’s voice was hoarse, panicked. He grabbed her arm, eyes wide and wet, tears streaking down his cheeks. “We have to go—we have to go!”

“But—” Her voice was breaking. “He—he killed him—!”

“I know,” Luke sobbed. “I know. But we can’t stay.”

Behind them, Han’s voice rang out, sharp with terror. “Move!”

Chewie howled from the cockpit, engines whining as the Falcon prepped for launch.

Leia looked back once, just once. At the cloak on the floor. Then she let Luke pull her.

They ran up the ramp, Luke holding her close as the Falcon lifted into the air, the hangar falling away beneath them. Stormtroopers scrambled below. Vader pushed himself to his feet.

But the ship was already gone.

And the only thing left of Obi-Wan Kenobi was a robe and a lightsaber.