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Luke tried desperately to cough out every single grain of the rough sand that had lodged itself in his teeth and gums. His cheek was pressed onto the ground with a bruising force, while his eyes burned from the thick smoke blowing past his eyelashes.
Suddenly the pressure of the heavy boot on Luke’s upper back shifted back, releasing his body just enough for him to roll sideways and desperately suck air into his rattling lungs.
It wasn’t completely dark yet, but the fireplace was already lit, flames licking up against a heavy iron pot hanging right in the middle.
Shadows flickered over the sandy rocks, and men with rifles casually slung over their shoulders.
They apparently didn’t deem Luke as a threat as the few men that were in his direct line of vision had removed the scarves that had previously covered their faces.
“Easy now.” A voice rumbled above him, it was low and calm, utterly unconcerned with Luke's rattling breaths.
The man standing over Luke was broader than the others, both of his hands were propped on his hips. Luke could see even from his position that the right hand was carefully draped over the gun holster. The man had removed the mask obscuring the lower half of his face as well and Luke didn’t even need to ask for a name. He’d recognize the pale and scarred face anywhere.
Vader regarded Luke with an uncanny stillness, his head was cocked sideways and his singed eyebrows were drawn upwards with eyes starring into Luke’s as if he was a too expensive piece of cattle.
Luke tried to push himself up onto his elbows. He failed halfway, his numb hands slipping out from under his weight. The world swayed when his head fell back. Luke felt like his brain had been stuffed with cotton that was spilling through his mouth. His thoughts were as sluggish and slippery as the words trying to push through the cotton, past his lips.
“You… you drugged me,” Luke rasped.
Vader’s mouth twitched. “You’re quite the runner. This was faster.”
Some of the men laughed softly from somewhere behind Luke. Vader lifted a single gloved hand, and the sound died instantly.
“Sit him up.”
Hands grabbed Luke under the arms and hauled him upright. The motion sent a spike of pain through his knee, and he yelped despite himself. His nerves cramped and burned like tiny fires racing up his thigh.
It felt like something was caught inside the joint. As if something inside had slipped into the space between his kneecap and Femur. When Luke’s weight shifted even a tiny bit, the pain flared hot and sharp, ripping the air from his lungs mid breath. His leg trembled uselessly beneath him, muscles locking in protest, every instinct screaming don’t move, don’t move.
Luke tried anyway.
The effort earned him another surge of agony, deeper this time, a grinding sensation that made his vision blur at the edges. He bit down hard, jaw clenched until it ached, determined not to give them the satisfaction of a full cry. The firelight smeared into orange streaks as sweat prickled along his spine.
“Careful,” someone muttered above him, not unkindly but not especially concerned either.
Luke’s knee throbbed in heavy, pulsing waves now. Each heartbeat seemed to echo inside the joint,like a dull and relentless reminder that something was wrong. He couldn’t tell if it was twisted, bruised, or worse—whatever worse might be.
When they finally let him go, he sagged, barely catching himself before collapsing. His bad leg folded instinctively, and the sudden relief from pressure was almost dizzying.
He had been dropped near the fire, with his back leaned against the single tree stump that lay there like a throne. The fire was still close enough that Luke could feel the heat through his torn shirt. His wrists were still bound; the rope bit into his wrists whenever he moved.
Vader followed the trail of the drag path left behind Luke’s limp body and approached him. Each step was slow, heavy and measured. He crouched in front of Luke, close enough now that Luke could smell smoke and leather and something sharp, medicinal.
Vader studied him in silence. Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and tilted Luke’s chin up roughly. Vader’s thumb was warm against his jaw, grounding in a way Luke didn’t like at all.
The cotton in Luke’s head became heavier, making it even harder for Luke to pry open his lips to speak: “If you’re plan’in to ransom me, you gotta wrong one.”
“No,” Vader said quietly. “I think I have exactly the right one.”
And ignoring Luke’s mumbled words he carefully sat himself down on the log behind Luke, tilting the boy's upper half between his long legs.
Luke tried to bend away from the calloused hands smoothing over his tousled hair, but to no avail. His head could only loll against the strong thighs of the murderer of his family.
Vader and his men resumed their conversation, ignoring the boy's whimpers of protest.
Against his own will, Luke started to relax against the rough hands cradling him and could only continue to stare into the flickering flames with his mouth wide open and eyes slightly parted. He didn’t even feel Vader's thumb religiously removing the tiny trail of spit running past his open lips.