Your name is Luke Skywalker.
The most important thing you ever learn is this: Your motherâs name is PadmĂŠ Naberrie.
Sheâs beautiful and stunning and you can trace your nose and small statue back to her.
The next lesson you keep in mind is not one ever told to you, but shown with gentle hands: You are a Jedi and Jedi do not rule.
You donât have the desire to do so either, are more content to guide and watch, to be a supporting pillar than a prince of a king.
Right now, you are neither. In another life, one where it might be your mother raising you, you could be both, you would be more.
âWhat is your name?â Her Imperial Highness hisses, temperament flaring in the Force and you are certain that for all she looks like your mother, Leia Amidala, Crown Princess of the Galactic Empire, has your fatherâs temperament.
Youâve never met him because your mother killed him when he tried to save you and your sister.
You were saved, you grew up loved and cherished, hiding underneath Obi-Wan Kenobiâs robes as he attended meetings with the other leaders of the Rebellion.
This is the last bit of knowledge instilled in you: your mother loved your father, loves him still. Saw his burdens and held her children and decided that sheâd end it all, no matter how he begged or plead.
(And you saw your father beg still as a bled out, asked his love to listen, because Obi-Wan dreams of nothing else and his mind was always your refuge.)
âMy name is Luke Skywalker,â you tell your twin sister. âObi-Wan Kenobi sends his regards.â
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