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Beru brought the baby to Owen, and they smiled down at him. In the sky beyond them, the suns were setting exactly as they had yesterday, and the day before that. Nothing had changed. The farm was the same farm, just beginning to prosper again after Cliegg's death.

They were young, and there was little money, and when they'd thought about children at all, it had only been to say, “Not yet.”

But the baby was Shmi's grandson, and he needed them. They had to keep him safe, whole, hidden from the galaxy that had taken his father. Safe from the Emperor that Obi-Wan had warned them about—and safe from Obi-Wan, too.

He stirred in her arms. Beru glanced down, and smiled again when he opened eyes as blue as her own. They might change, but Anakin had been blue-eyed, so perhaps not. Luke would be blond, too, if the pale fuzz on top of his head were anything to go by. The tiny features were calm and sweet and not entirely unlike theirs. If they said he was their son, nobody would know where he'd come from.

She and Owen exchanged a glance over the baby's head. They'd feed him, care for him, raise him right, but they hadn't hoped and planned for him. They hadn't even wanted a child, not yet. They were taking this one in because he was Anakin's son. Because he was family even though he wasn't theirs. So what if people said they had little duty to a long-dead stepmother who'd only been around for a few years anyway, and none to her offworlder son and grandson?

It didn't matter. Luke was their nephew.

Luke Skywalker.

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Bail brought the baby to Breha, and they smiled down at her. The galaxy lay in ruins. The Empire had murdered Leia's mother and twisted her father beyond all recognition, and only they could keep her from either fate. Safe, whole, hidden—in the very heart of the Empire. Neither of them knew, exactly, how they'd manage it.

Still, they were alive. Padmé had died and Skywalker had as good as died and the Jedi were gone and the Republic was a monstrous version of itself—but Bail was alive, and Breha was alive, and they had a daughter.

Leia blinked up at them with wide blue eyes. But all babies had blue eyes, and her hair was already darker than Skywalker's. She might take after Padmé—though perhaps it'd be better if she didn't, altogether. Best that she favour both enough to favour neither. But she certainly wouldn't look like Bail and Breha. Everyone would know she was adopted.

It didn't matter. She was their daughter.

Leia Organa.