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The warning in the Force comes just a little too late.
Before Luke can finish registering the danger, a blaster bolt slams into his shoulder with searing force and it's all he can do to keep his grip on his lightsaber as he stumbles back. He manages, but only just. Pain blooming across his shoulder, the stomach-turning stench of singed fabric and burnt flesh — none of this can distract him, he cannot allow it. Luke grits his teeth and prepares to throw himself back into the fray-
BOOM!
The battlefield inverts: the sky tumbles below him, the ground turns skyward, and a high-pitched ringing subsumes the thunderous sounds of the battle raging around him. He crashes to the ground, rolling once before skidding to a halt. Seconds crawl by like hours; Luke is insensate to how long he lies stunned and unmoving. His fragmented senses trickle back slowly, piecemeal.
The first sensation that pierces through the dazed fog is burning. The epicenter of the most powerful ache is his shoulder, but his entire body feels scraped raw, stinging as if a thousand tiny flames were licking at the tender skin of his cheek and his limbs. He shifts minutely and bites back a hiss when the motion pushes the sharp gravel of the terrain into his abraded flesh. Ah — that's what happened.
The next sensation is cold, breaking over him like a wave, and a shiver runs through him. Despite the temperate nature of this planet it's as if he's laid down to take a nap on the hard-packed ice of Hoth. This doesn't make any sense, but he's so… tired.
Luke doesn't have the energy to figure this out right now — not when he realizes that his hands are empty. Forcing his limbs to move takes every shred of willpower he possesses, but he sweeps his hand in a clumsy arc, desperately feeling for the familiar shape of his lightsaber hilt. The unsuccessful effort leaves him shaking and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. It's gone, flung out of his grip when he was knocked to the ground and now somewhere far out of his reach. He can't quite suppress a groan of pain and frustration.
The final realization to hit him is this: silence. Luke's body tenses instinctively. No sound of blaster bolts, no scream of TIE engines or whine of landspeeders… the skirmish is over.
Voices reach his ears, indistinct yet ringing with a note of authority across the air of the stilled battlefield: calling out orders, making note of gains or losses. Luke can't make out the words, nor even if they are Alliance commanders or Imperials; it all washes into the background. What's more pressing is that he can't seem to catch his breath. He tries to heave air into his lungs in rapid, shallow gasps — heart pounding, as if he's been sprinting for parsecs…
…is this why he's so tired? Not just tired, he's exhausted. Perhaps he can take a little nap, right here on the ground, and then he'll get up and rejoin his people. Yeah. That… sounds like a good plan. The Force roils uneasily, whispering something's wrong, but Luke is so tired… his eyelids are already drooping and he's halfway to sleep already… he'll figure it out later.
He is reluctantly pulled back to consciousness by the deafening crunch of rapidly approaching boot steps over gravel. Luke forces his eyes open to levy an attempt at a glare at the offending figure. The sight of tall, impeccably polished boots fills his field of vision.
Oh no. That can only be an Imperial officer.
"Medic!" an unfamiliar voice calls. "I have wounded!"
Back off, Imp! Luke wants to say. Leave me alone! But all he manages is another groan of pain.
The figure squats down next to him. He feels hands pressing against his shoulders and his field of vision shifts as he is pushed onto his back. The motion of being jostled — however carefully this Imperial seems to be moving him — causes every nerve ending in his body to scream in unison. Luke also attempts to scream, but only manages another weak moan. Instead he squints against the sudden brightness of the sky and blinks in the hope that it will stop spinning. Why is the sky spinning?
A face appears over his, blocking out the brightness but doing nothing for the spinning. It hovers for a moment, peering at his features before nodding decisively and turning slightly to speak into a comm unit. "Confirmation of identity. I have Luke Skywalker. Condition critical. Medic en route." The Imperial holds still and silent for a moment while a reply filters through the comm, too faint for Luke to make out. Then, "Yes, my Lord." He slips the comm unit into some uniform pocket before turning his full attention to Luke once more. He smiles.
"I'm Admiral Piett of the SSD Executor. A medic is on the way. You're going to be alright."
"Wh…at?" Luke tries to ask. That doesn't make any sense… but very little is making sense right now.
Another rapid crunching of boots on gravel signals the approach of someone who must be sprinting. They skid to a halt and Luke tilts his head to see a Stormtrooper with the clear markings of a field medic. They drop to their knees and begin pulling supplies from various pouches with crisp and efficient speed.
"Hold him down, this will hurt," the medic barks. Luke doesn't have time to process the meaning before the Admiral's hands are pressing down on his right shoulder and upper left arm, carefully avoiding the blaster wound to his left shoulder in a surprisingly firm hold that has him effectively pinned to the ground. Then something in the vicinity of his thigh is yanked tight, and the world goes white.
When Luke returns to his senses again, he's breathing in harsh ragged gasps and is soaked in sweat.
"Alright there, Luke — may I call you Luke?"
It's getting hard to hold onto his thoughts, let alone parse the absurdity of this situation. Luke can only gape up at him; the Admiral seems to take this as an affirmative. "Luke, that was a tourniquet."
Tour-ni-quet.
The word drifts through his mind, disintegrating into syllables. Faces without names surface and blow away; names without context skip across his mind like a stone skips across a pond.
He's worried about something. He can't remember what — or who? — he's worried about.
Concepts slip away like sand through grasping fingers; then language falls away entirely until all that remains is feeling.
Pain.
Cold.
Exhaustion.
Fear.
Fear.
…Peace.
The line between Luke and some great cosmic tapestry is becoming more and more indistinct. Some part of him instinctively recognizes it as the Force (even if he can no longer name it), and he knows it's okay. He can let it all go, unravel from his borders and twist into the uncountable threads stretching across infinity.
Already the edges of his essence are fraying.
And it's okay.
Something vast and heavy rears up from within the cosmic tapestry and weaves a mad-dash through the threads until it can coil around his essence, holding tight the places where he's started to unspool, holding it all in.
Why is this presence keeping Luke contained? Doesn't it know that it's okay?
It's okay, Luke feels — and the message is broadcast in the vibrations of a thousand cosmic strings. It's okay to let go.
The presence presses into his even more tightly, wrapping around him like a blanket. There is a discordant thread of urgency weaving through this presence, but the weight of it is… soothing. He feels safe.
Perhaps this is okay too. Luke sinks into its warmth, allowing the comfort.
He is reminded that his body is currently an unpleasant place to be when he is slammed back into it by the bite of a needle and the sting of a spray hypo. Something cold is filtering into his veins where an IV has been rigged up and he bitterly misses the warmth of that mysterious, possibly-imagined presence. But with each passing second the agony of the too-tight tourniquet, the burning of the blaster wound, and all the numerous cuts, scapes and bruises across his battered body begin to ebb away. Pain recedes like the tide and is replaced with blessed numbness.
He glances askance at the Admiral, who returns a knowing smile. "Painkillers. The good stuff, I imagine."
This chemically-induced numbness is strange and oddly pleasant. He's vaguely reminded of being drunk — his only experience with inebriation — but it's also very different from that sensation. There is a vague, disorienting sense of being very slightly outside of his body; he is nevertheless far more grounded in his body and sense of self now than when unspooling entirely into the Force. (Death, a part of him realizes. He was dying.) Now that the all-consuming pain has been smothered by the painkillers, he can focus again. Bone-deep exhaustion remains but some measure of coherent thought returns.
It's in this moment Luke realizes how fucked he is. He needs to get up and get out of here, away from these Imperials!
"Thanks for the help," he breathes, cringing internally at how weak his voice sounds, but he pushes on. "I'm fine now, so I'll be going." With clumsy movements and great effort he just manages to prop himself up on shaky elbows.
"Whoa kid, stay down!" the medic snaps.
"Easy, easy." With a gentle nudge the Admiral pushes him back down, but not before Luke can catch a glimpse of himself.
Oh. Oh.
Everything from his belt to his ankles is red — soaked in blood. His own. The ground around him too is stained by dark viscous liquid, almost black against the soil. He feels suddenly lightheaded; perhaps laying back down isn't such a bad idea after all. That's a lot of blood. That's a lot of blood.
"That's a lot of blood," Luke murmurs.
The Admiral's hand lingers on his shoulder, the weight of it almost a comfort. "You've sustained a very serious injury, Luke."
The Stormtrooper medic snorts. "That's one way of putting it. You were bleeding out, kid."
"How?" Luke asks. "That cut on my leg… it was… small."
"You took shrapnel to an artery! Even with a small cut there you could've been a goner in minutes. Lucky for you we were here."
Lucky me, Luke thinks bitterly. He's glad to be alive, truly… but now he's in the hands of the Empire and (he has to admit) in no condition to escape any time soon. He's only heard rumors of what the Empire does to its prisoners-of-war, but he's prepared to believe the worst of them. It may be a long time before he can return home to the Alliance… if he ever gets to see his friends again at all. The corners of his eyes sting, but he will not allow the tears to fall. Not in front of Imperials.
Luke wrenches his focus back to the immediate. He turns his head toward the medic and gestures at his injuries and the medical equipment with a shaking hand. "Why… are you doing… this?"
The medic doesn't acknowledge him, already turned away to beckon someone beyond Luke's field of view. Several more boots crunch across the gravel toward their position.
"Here's the stretcher sir."
"Very good."
"I'm going to need two men to lift at his shoulders — watch that left one, very good — I've got his feet. On the count of three. One — two — three; lift!"
Luke squeezes his eyes shut against the dizzying sensation of being hauled off the ground and set onto a hover-stretcher. The motion is ginger and efficient, over before he knows it. He cracks his eyes open again when the Admiral drops a quick pat on his good shoulder.
"Well done. We're going to transfer you to a medshuttle, and from there get you properly seen to in the Executor's medbay."
Luke makes a fumbling grab toward the Imperial Admiral's sleeve, asking once more, "Why?"
The Admiral's thin features morph into a bemused expression. "Why?"
"…bother with… a…"
Understanding dawns in the Admiral's eyes. "…A Rebel?" Luke nods and lets his hand drop back by his side. The Admiral straightens. "Your safety and survival is my highest priority mission, Luke Skywalker. My orders come directly from Lord Vader. And I take my duty very seriously."
Luke allows his eyes to fall shut for a brief moment of resignation. Of course. The bounty Vader — his father — had put on him specified alive and unharmed.
As if sensing his thoughts, the Admiral continues, "Of course, unharmed is a bit tricky if you insist on being an active combatant in a war zone…" a wry chuckle, "…but I will ensure you will receive the finest care."
So this is it.
He feels the hover-stretcher tilt slightly as it's brought up the ramp into the med shuttle. When he opens his eyes again, he is surrounded by Troopers who are strapping themselves into the seats along the walls of the shuttle, and the Admiral, situated in a seat near Luke's hover-stretcher, is leaning forward to call orders to the cockpit.
"That's everyone. Clear for takeoff!"
"Kid? Still with me?"
Rolling his head toward the source of the voice puts him face-to-helmet with the medic. "Yeah," he whispers.
"Good. Now that we're on the shuttle I can give you a sedative. It will take full effect in just a couple of minutes."
It's not a question but Luke nods his assent anyway. He's not sure if he's ever felt so drained in his life… unconsciousness seems nice. Maybe he'll wake up in his bunk back on the base and find this has all been a twisted nightmare. The greater part of him knows this is a childish hope, but he doesn't much care right now. He'd nearly bled out, everything hurt, and he's in Imperial custody. He's due a measure of comfort.
When his muscles and mind begin to relax of their own volition, he knows the sedative is working its magic. His limbs grow heavier, his breathing evens out, his eyes slip closed once more, and even his shields within the Force seem to withdraw as he relaxes.
The last thing he knows before succumbing to sedation is the return of that presence from earlier —familiar and dark — brushing against his in the Force. It feels wound tight… unsettled. Distantly he recognizes the feeling as anxious—worried. He frowns a little when he places the name to that emotion, but before he can dwell on it any further a wave of peace and calm is pushed toward him. It breaks over him and he forgets what he was trying to decipher. Sleep now, young one. And Luke finally relinquishes his hold on consciousness, falling into a deep and dreamless slumber.