Chapter Text
The waves broke against the side of the dying ship and Luke grunted as he clambered up her side, shaking from the cold. He was soaked to the bone, his hair plastered to his forehead, eyes stinging, but he gripped the edge like a vice, the wood slick and splintering under his hands, and hauled himself on board.
His back hit the deck with a thud. He groaned.
On every ship he'd ever been on, there had been movement. Shouting, laughter from below decks, the ship rocking and keeling, ropes and sails swinging in the wind. There was no shouting here, and no movement, not really—she had run aground, rocks punching through the hull like when that bullet had punched through Biggs's skull. Water was lapping up the sides hungrily, pooling at his feet.
The only movement was the gentle swaying of the sails and the creaking of the mast—gentle, despite the fact that it had been storming. The moment he'd come on board the lashing rain had ceased, a single thread of moonlight had hung from the clouds to limn the doomed ship in silver, and he'd found his way.
You know what to say, Luke? echoed in his head.
I know what to say, Ben.
He heard no sailors' shouts; he heard no loud guffaws. All he heard were…
Muttered, frantic prayers.
He turned his head and saw them all lined up already, and suddenly saw what he couldn't fathom not having seen before. Shadows were moving, peeling themselves off the sides of the ship like they were made of the barnacles that lived there, and— and if the legends were true—
"You there!"
Luke whipped his head around—too late. He cried out as a humanoid mound of crustaceans, seaweed and shells seized his wrist, twisting him round to drag him forwards. This creature—person, damned sailor—barely had eyes, just two oyster pearls that gleamed under the waning light of the moon.
"Get in line."
In the middle of the ship, just behind the capstan, he shoved Luke to his knees, shoulder-to-shoulder with some poor, terrified soul whose hands were plastered together, his lips trembling in prayer. There was a static patch of red on his torso, where cloth and bone had been cleaved.
Luke turned his head slightly to observe the next man along—blue-lipped, blue-fingered, shivering and gasping for air Luke doubted he needed any more. Then the next, then—
"Is this all of them?" rasped a cruel voice.
It immediately sent chills down Luke's spine—it sounded like when the rudder scraped rock, like the grinding of a ship's wood crushed and folded by waves. His breathing was just as harsh—gravel on gravel, with every heave of his crustaceous chest.
Luke glanced at him. His face was half-coral, the cheekbone and brow strong and bone-white, parts of little broken barnacles and shells embedded in his neck on the way up and thick, long hair flowing around his shoulders, intertwined with seaweed. When he tilted his head to observe the line of poor souls dragged before him, Luke noticed that his right eyeball was a polished black pearl, with a vicious amber iris sat inside it.
"These are the men?" he asked.
"The ones who haven't passed."
"Good. Get them lined up. He will be here soon."
Luke shuddered and resisted the urge to buck, to struggle, as rough hands seized him again and forced him back in line from where he hadn't even realised he'd drifted out of it, forcing his head to the floor. The damp deck scraped under the man's boots as he walked up and down the line, flicking… something—a whip?—at his side.
"A poor stock," he rasped, "but it's only the souls who death leaves behind."
Then the boots stilled in front of Luke.
His gaze was fixed to them. So worn they had holes in them—holes that were thriving with lichen, little shellfish hiding in the folds of colourless leather, algae growing on the laces. He kept his gaze fixed on them as the man stopped in front of him and stared.
"You…" he said at last. "You are not dead."
Luke bit his tongue and said nothing.
Speak only to Sidious.
Speak only to Sidious.
He has a poisoned tongue, but only he will know the deal you speak of—
The man lashed out. The butt of his whip caught Luke across the face, hard. Blood filled his mouth; he gasped and spat it out before he choked on it.
Before he could close his mouth again the man caught his chin in his hand and gripped it, so tight it ached. At least his fingertips weren't covered in algae or coral the way his knuckles and arm was, though they still smell fishy.
The man peered inside his mouth. "You do have a tongue, boy," he said, then released his jaw—hard, shoving him back as he did. "You can talk. Do so."
He raised his whip again—Luke's split lip and black eye throbbed at the sight of it. "You are not dead. Nor dying."
"Vader," one of the men said, "he's coming."
"I know he is. So we want to make sure this living boy is either dead or gone by the time he gets here. Speak."
Luke swallowed and got out—"I— was supposed to speak to Sidious only—"
Another strike. He jerked his head back and felt blood drip through his eye, from his forehead. His head rang like the bells in Mos Eisley whenever pirates were hanged.
"I am his right hand. You will tell me what you are doing here, or I will make your curiously alive state a brief one—"
"Obi-Wan Kenobi sent me to settle the debt."
Vader froze, the butt of his whip raised.
Then he brought it down with a thousand times more Force than before. Luke's head slammed back.
He spat out a tooth. "Ow."
"Kenobi sent you?" Vader growled. "K—"
"What is this?"
Luke… didn't want to lay eyes on what Sidious was.
It was hideous. He— what.
He'd heard legends about Sidious, the terror of the sea, who observed all dead sailors and commanded the kraken who'd been chasing Ben for so long he'd confined himself to life in Luke's dusty sea port, who claimed souls to work on his ship until their debt was paid—
Luke stared.
He looked like an old man, at first glance. An old man in a long robe, who was slightly hunched over but walked and swayed in time with the ship, whose presence made the half-men, half-monsters around him cringe away in fear. But Luke blinked, and his cloak was a part of him, thick and wrinkled like a blue whale's throat pleats; squinted, and his aging face was white sand that crumbled and shifted with every motion, lined with driftwood and seaweed and detritus at the high tide mark; his white, gnarled hands were shell and coral, spiked and cold.
When he stopped in front of Luke, those hands shot out to grip his soft, flesh chin, and they drew blood.
"You look familiar, boy. And I have not met a living soul in a long, long time."
Luke, despite the tight grip on his jaw, tried to get out again, "Obi-Wan Kenobi sent me to settle the debt."
"I heard you the first time." He stepped back, his robes heaving like the tides around him, like the black fathoms swallowing him whole. "You look very familiar."
He traced the area over Luke's eye, and made a clawing motion—Luke frowned, but didn't dare move to bat his hands away.
"How many souls?"
Luke had been prepared for this question.
He had no idea what this question was supposed to mean.
So he just said, tentatively, the answer that Ben had given him. He had to trust Ben. They had a plan. "Thirty."
Gasps resounded, and guffaws. Luke was too cold to mind the fact that his face heated up, he flushed bright red, but he kept his chin high and looked Sidious in the eye. Then his defiant gaze slid to Vader, whose grip tightened on his whip again. That pearl eye of his glinted, unmoving from Luke's face.
Sidious's laugh was the worst of all—like the clattering of claws across the deck. But it cut off abruptly.
"Kenobi is as foolish, idealistic as ever, I see. As much of a backstabber as well." Sidious's smile dropped. "I accept that offer." The laughter stopped abruptly; silence resounded. "Vader, you know what to do with him."
"And the other sailors, Master?"
Sidious surveyed them cruelly. The man beside Luke was still praying—he'd taken one look at the creatures around them and closed his eyes.
"A man worth thirty souls," he said, giving Luke a viciously amused glance, "should be all that we need to crew the ship. These men are already dead."
Knives flew out. Luke turned his head away as blood splattered—some hit his cheek and ran now to nestle in his soaked collar.
Vader seized the back of his neck and dragged him forwards.
"Come on, boy," he hissed. "Let's show you the ropes."
Vader did not show him the ropes. He dragged Luke onto the Imperial, past the rigging and the sails and the capstan, and right into the pantry, where he shoved Luke up against the wall.
"Why are you here!?" he demanded. "Is Obi-Wan turning to even more naïve, idealistic fools to pay off his idiocy? Did he drag you in with promises of glory, of being a Jedi, then turn around and toss you to Sidious!?"
Luke swallowed, and didn't dare look away. Vader had him by his collar, up against the wall, and they were eye to eye. Those mismatched irises glared down at him.
"Obi-Wan Kenobi," he choked out, repeated, "sent me to settle the debt."
Vader threw him to the side. "And why you!? Why are you worth thirty souls?"
What in the world did that mean?
"I don't know. I just know why I'm here. Obi-Wan Kenobi—"
"You said that already." Vader backed off, then, but still loomed. Luke wondered at how the image of him silhouetted against racks upon racks of rations only increased his intimidating presence. "I want to know why. Why were you with Kenobi? What is he after? Does he still pursue the imbecilic quest of the Jedi, which incurred this debt in the first place? And is he recruiting young, heroic idiots to throw their lives away for a lost cause?" He looked Luke up and down, then scoffed.
Luke swallowed. "I am here—"
To find Sidious's non-existent heart.
To end the curse and the Imperial.
To free the Jedi from their fear in hiding, and to free all you dead souls.
He desperately wanted to say, I am here to save my father.
But Vader was Palpatine's right-hand man, and any mention of his father, Anakin Skywalker, would have Luke dead by his hand.
So he just said again, stoic—
"I am here to settle the debt."
So that the Jedi could go back to sailing the seas, chartering waters, exploring and helping and protecting, the way they had before Sidious had twisted them into their bartered deal.
So that they need not fear terrible beasts hunting them at every turn.
So that no one need fear Sidious again.
Vader said, "Then you are a fool." He shoved Luke out onto the deck of the ship; Luke stumbled but kept his balance. "And you have thrown away your life for a fool's cause."
He grabbed mop from the side of the pantry and tossed it at Luke; it was only sheer luck and instinct that had Luke catching it. He'd served as the lowliest grunt on sailing ships before.
Vader gave a bitter laugh. "Go scrub the deck below the foremast; it's caked in blood. Welcome to the Imperial, Mister—"
"Mister Skywalker," Luke supplied without thinking, then immediately hoped Vader didn't recognise the name.
He turned away before he could see his reaction.
The decks were filthy. Shucked with blood, mud and something that stank that Luke didn't particularly want to think about. He'd long since abandoned the mop—it was too long; he'd already been decked by the crewmates several times for accidently waving it in their barnacled faces—and instead was on his hands and knees, skin scraped raw and stinging, back heaving and twinging with every swipe of the stiff-nailed brush. Every time the ship lurched, he fell on his face.
The sailors around him cackled.
He gritted his teeth, squared his shoulders, pushed himself back up—he was cleaning his own blood off the boards as well, now—and went right back to it.
I am doing this for my father.
I am doing this for my father.
I am doing this… for my father…
Someone kicked his side and he gasped, and looked up.
The person leered down at him; he knew this bully type, knew he should probably look away, but he didn't. Instead, he met that gaze, glaring right back, and the man—who looked like he'd died in his fifties, from what Luke could see through the algae that clung to his face like a beard and fuzzed up his eyebrows—scoffed at the audacity. Knocked Luke hard around the head.
"You're a new one, huh?" he laughed. "Well, that deck ain't ever gonna be clean—go do something useful. Like…" He raised his gaze. "Help raise the cannons."
Luke jerked his head up. He— he had never been allowed to do anything like that, he was too small, he— "What—"
"Catch."
He dropped the brush at once and caught the rope, hanging on as he glanced up to see the massive thing crashing down.
It crashed down, and Luke crashed up.
He held on for dear life, dragging down on the rope with all his might, but this was a two-person job and— and the other guy was meant to be holding the other end and he wasn't and—
Luke heard the cannon punch and splinter a few layers of wood, felt the rope go slack in his hands, and then he was falling.
He opened his eyes a few minutes later, head spinning, to footsteps chattering around him.
"The kid—"
"Already?"
"On your feet, gotta tell—"
"The captain—"
"Kenobi sells you for that many souls and you prove this poor of a sailor?" said a cruel voice. Luke flinched.
Sidious stepped forwards. Luke tried to summon the bravado he'd held not five minutes ago, but it was all gone. He trembled in his boots, his head throbbed in time with his hammering heart, and he could feel Sidious's cold breath on his skin.
"Ten lashes." Sidious turned away, and gestured to Vader, who'd seemingly materialised at his side—or maybe Luke's vision was blurring—hand twisted around his whip.
Luke's gaze flashed, wide-eyed, terrified, to Vader, but... Vader hesitated. "Skywalker here—"
"Skywalker is a member of the crew," Sidious snarled. "He will receive the due punishment for destroying one of my cannons."
"And Ozzel…" Vader eyed the man who'd taunted Luke; he clearly knew what had happened.
"Was a witness to his idiocy, as were we all."
Ozzel nodded and puffed out his chest, grinning at Luke.
"Ten lashes," Sidious commanded again—then he looked at Luke's sorry state and paused. Luke was still wearing the ripped, soaked clothes on his back from before, face still bloodied, and he'd only accumulated more scratches and injuries. "No." He smiled. "Thirty."
The blood drained from Luke's face.
Vader did a double take. "You—"
"Thirty lashes. Appropriate, don't you think?"
Vader said nothing. Luke couldn't tell if his grip on his whip was white-knuckled, or if he just had bone-pale coral for hands.
"Do it, Vader. Or"—he glanced around—"Veers, you can also—"
"No." Vader jerked himself out of his reverie then, stepping forwards and holding his whip out to the side. "I will do it. Restrain him."
Luke's eyes blew wide as rough hands seized his arms, dragging him back, tearing the shirt off his torso to leave his back exposed then bending him over and—
Vader raised the whip.
Then he brought it down.
Fire lashed. Luke's roar was guttural, something that hurt his throat more than his ears, something that knotted in his lungs and drew so tight he couldn't breathe.
It came again. Laughter sprang up—he could hear it like birds chittering at the edge of his consciousness, Sidious's low rasp grinding against his skull. He bowed under the weight of the lash, feeling it kiss his shoulder like a stab wound. He screamed.
And again. And again. He shuddered, heat dripping from his back; he gasped, as Vader flicked his wrist and the whip's bite retracted. He didn't have it in him to scream so instead his moaned, his arms bruising as he strained against his captors.
A fifth one came, and he blinked. It had started raining fiercely at one point, at some point, chilling the raging fire on his back, dripping in his eyes and blurring the blood to pink to transparency, dripping onto the deck below. He hoped hysterically he wouldn't have to scrub this up, then laughed to himself hysterically—after thirty lashes?
After thirty lashes he wouldn't be alive.
Sidious had to know that.
Ben had handed him over to his death.
Vader paused for several pregnant beats as he watched Luke laugh, heaving painfully. He wondered what his mess of a back probably looked like; he decided he didn't care to know. Sidious observed them both.
"Stop," he said. "The boy is about to keel over with five. Might as well not kill Kenobi's latest payment too quickly."
The arms holding Luke let go and he collapsed, shaking.
"Back to your posts!"
The looming sailors dispersed, the floorboards creaking and groaning underneath him, and he could breathe. He stayed lying there for a while, chest and cheek to the rain-slick wood, feeling the rivulets work through his hair the way his aunt used to tousle it affectionately.
There was a gentle hair on his head now, just like then, and now a gentler one on his shoulder.
Not gentle enough. He tensed, hissing, crying out.
"Careful, Luke."
Luke snapped his eyes open at Vader's voice, scrambling to— to get up, to get to his feet—
"Hush, young one. You should not move."
"I need to get… back to my… post…"
"You need to rest."
He cracked his eyes open. "You…"
"Come, Luke. I've got you." Vader slid a careful hand under his elbow and got him to his feet, pointedly not touching anywhere near his back. He even gathered up the shreds of Luke's shirt around his torso to try to preserve some dignity, but Luke didn't see the point—it was thoroughly soaked in blood and water; translucent.
"I…" His head spun, but he thought… he was pretty sure… "I never told you my name."
"I think you did, Mister Skywalker."
"Not… Luke…"
Vader helped him down the ladder into the bowels of the ship, towards where Luke assumed the crew must stay, and he wondered if the men around them were staring at the pair like the world had gone insane. He wondered if the world had gone insane.
He wondered if he had gone insane.
But there were worse insanities to suffer. Vader led him through the corridors, catching him when he stumbled over his feet with the rocking of the ship—he knew ships, knew the sea, never failed to find his sea legs, but something about the seas of the dead they were sailing was impossible for him to get a purchase on—then leading him into a small room. The ceiling was low, low enough that even Luke had to duck (painfully; everything was painful), let alone Vader, but it was nonetheless a relief to be guided into what looked like a proper bed, hard straw mattress and all, his legs trembling and giving out underneath him.
The pillow would've smothered him if Vader hadn't gently tilted his face to the side so he could breathe, sending twangs down his spine.
"You did not need to," Vader said softly. "Your mother… She was unequivocal on what she wanted to name our child."
Luke blinked, wondering if he'd imagined the words—wondering if he'd imagined the way Vader's hand ran through his hair, the way Vader bowed his head in a moment of self-loathing and grief, before retracting and retreating—but then he closed his eyes and all was lost in a swathe of red darkness.
When he woke, it was to the coarse sensation of bandages scratched across his back.
He grimaced and dragged himself to his feet, glancing around. This was the tiny cabin expected of a ship—any cabin that wasn't the captain's, at least—and he… was surprised Vader had bothered to drag him here. Was… was this a medical room? Was this…
His eyes caught on a chest of clothes, and a cup sat loosely on the deck, and the thick taper on the wall burnt to a stub. He twisted the sheets in his fists.
Was this Vader's cabin?
Vader was the first mate. He was head of the ship besides Palpatine. Was he…?
What was happening?
What had he said?
Luke was fairly certain he'd been delirious, but the more he looked around, the more he felt his back—it really had been heavily bandaged, and carefully treated, some sort of ointment—the less certain he became.
Surely…
Vader…
He stood up—swayed on his feet and winced when the rough wood rubbed against his bare skin. Apparently Vader had even taken his boots off, which…
He hadn't thought such gentleness existed on such a ship.
He hadn't thought Sidious would allow it.
He didn't bother finding his boots—he wasn't sure he could bend down to put them on anyway. He just staggered to his feet and pushed forwards, distantly remembering the way from the previous… night.
It wasn't like sailing ships had much room to spare to be complicated, anyway.
He struggled, and gritted his teeth, but by the time he'd hauled himself up he knew a few more things—mainly that it was night. It had to be. Firstly, it was too quiet to be day; from the sounds of it only the nightshift was running, the skeleton crew. Secondly, he could see stars above him.
When he emerged onto the deck, despite the agony in his back, he smiled. Just a little.
Then he saw Vader at the prow of the ship and limped towards him.
"Don't," Vader called. "Save your strength."
Luke huffed. "Only if you save your secrecy and start spouting answers right now," he shot back. Then, not quite able to keep the bitterness out of his voice: "You whipped me."
"If I had not, Veers would have. With his strength, it would have taken far fewer than five lashes to incapacitate you, young one. Permanently."
"And why do you care?" Luke lifted his chin. "You're—" He bit his tongue before he said it.
Vader said, "A monster?"
Luke said, "Yes."
Then he clenched his jaw and said, "But then you stuck me in your bed and took off my boots and put on bandages—"
"Should you not be wearing boots right now?"
"I didn't want to strain my back to put them on."
"But you were willing to climb a ladder and walk across deck barefoot just to talk to me?"
"Yes," Luke said bluntly. "And I want to ask why."
"Good. I also want to ask why."
Vader turned, suddenly, and loomed, dark against the moonlight. Luke blew his eyes wide and couldn't help but take a step back.
"Ask… why…?"
"Why are you here, Luke Skywalker?"
Luke swallowed. "Obi-Wan Kenobi sent me to—"
"Find your father?"
Luke froze.
"Obi-Wan," he repeated, "sent me to settle—"
"An injustice. Right a wrong. Risk the son to rescue the father he risked all those years ago. Correct?"
Luke said nothing.
"What if your father does not want you here, Luke?" Vader said softly. "What if he was able to live his half-life so long as he knew you were far from Sidious, and the sea, and safe?"
Luke said, "And what if I don't want you here, either?"
Vader flinched, his black pearl eye closing.
Luke took a pained step forwards, reaching for one of those coral-knuckled hands. "What if I want my father back?"
Vader squeezed his hands painstakingly gently. "Then you are a misguided fool with a heart big enough to sink a ship. You cannot save me, Luke. But you can save yourself."
"No," Luke insisted. "I can save you. I came here to settle the debt." He took a deep breath and whispered. "I came here to kill Sidious."
Vader stiffened.
Turned his gaze on Luke.
"Sidious cannot be k—"
"I know about his heart—"
"His heart does not exist," came the bitter interjection.
"—and if I can find it, and stab it, he will die." Luke gritted his teeth, reached for his pocket and drew out a short blade. He'd had it since Uncle Owen had seen him get beaten up by the town kids one too many times. "I will not rest until I've found the chest, and this blade pierces his heart."
Vader shook his head.
"Luke. You have no idea what the cost will be."
"I'm willing to pay it!" he insisted. He was mortified to realise tears were running down his cheeks. "I— I want you back, Father, and I want this debt ended so Ben and Ahsoka and everyone can be safe, I want—"
"You want the impossible."
"You don't know me." The words were harsh—Vader flinched—but true, and Luke needed him to understand. "You don't know what I'm capable of. I can do this."
"No."
Luke nearly threw his hands up in frustration. "I—"
"I know nothing about you," Vader said fiercely. But I know that you are injured, afraid, alone, and far more scared than you are letting on."
Luke frowned, and said nothing.
Vader lifted a hand to cup Luke's cheek. "And it seems that I've learnt that you will not give in."
Luke did let out a little huff of laughter, then. But it was mirthless.
"You will not give in. You are injured and fighting Sidious will do you no favours." Vader sighed. "Leave, Luke."
"What!? No!"
"Leave."
"I—" Luke lifted his chin, lips wobbling. The moonlight shone bright in his eyes. "I won't leave you!"
"And you won't," Vader agreed. "I will come with you, soon. I promise."
Luke said, "What?"
"If you leave," Vader promised, "I will destroy the heart."
Luke froze.
Vader gave him a little push. "But only if you leave."
"If you can do it." Luke hesitated. "Why didn't you do it before?"
"What did I have to live for before?" Vader replied. "You were safer if I was his henchman, not his murderer, and not killed for mutiny."
Luke just said, "Please. I… I don't…"
"Me neither, son. And you will not." Vader gestured off the side of the ship. "There is a boat. A small one, but it shall get you to where you need to go. I will come and find you when the deed is complete. You will have to lie under the tarpaulin as you float away, to hide from any watchers."
Luke said, "Are you sure?"
Vader… reached out a hand. Rested it on his shoulder.
Luke leaned into him for a hug as well, even as Vader made sure not to touch his back.
"I am surer of this than anything else," he whispered, "since the moment I first held you in my arms."
Then he pushed Luke away. "Now go."
Luke gave him one last beseeching gaze.
"Go," he reiterated, "and I will take care of this."
Luke nodded. Climbed over the side of the ship, to where Vader had tossed a ladder…
And clambered down.
Vader watched the boat bob away, a small lump disguised underneath the tarpaulin, before he strode back to work, keeping watch.
Luke watched the boat bob away as well. He clung tightly to the figurehead of the Imperial and hid in a cranny, the elaborate decorations on the prow more than suitable for a hiding place.
He had come here to rescue his father.
He wouldn't be dissuaded that easily.