texasdreamer01

Title and Platform: The Serenity Protocol (AO3) (tumblr)
Recipient: Spiraling (Stormwind13)
Rating: Teen
Fandoms: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Characters: Bail Organa/Breha Organa
Additional Tags: POV Bail Organa, Order 66, Post-Order 66, aftermath of war, Worldbuilding, The Rebellion, Long-Distance Relationship, Power Couple, loving family, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mentioned Original Characters, Mentioned Leia Organa, Mentioned Obi-Wan Kenobi, Mentioned Darth Vader, Background Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Background Star Wars: A New Hope, Fade to Black Major Character Death, Canon Compliant
Summary:
"Bail’s first call to Breha sparks a plan that grows, and grows, until it blooms."

He inhaled, steadying his nerves. The flickers of light that signaled each rapidly-executed death still imprinted itself behind his eyes, starbursts of tragedy that constricted his breathing. Lingering stoically outside of the holoemitter’s view was his aide, the same grim look upon her face she had carried since the news of the Jedi’s slaughter was confirmed by him.

The unique sound of Breha’s waiting sound, pitched to alert him that the encryption protocol was verifying the connection according to the parameters he had inputted along with the number’s coordinates, made him fight off a grimace, knowing his wife would be on her toes by sheer virtue of him using the assigned burner Alderaan’s Royal Palace Security kept logged for just such occasions.

It was less satisfying to see his wife’s face than it usually was, for this was unlike the regular turbulence of the Senate and Coruscanti politics, even with the interceding war that stretched his time thin. Still, he smiled, grateful – particularly today – that he was able to look upon her face and hear her voice.

“My Lady,” He greeted her, the mischievous smile that typically adorned his face absent for this call. It immediately signaled a worried frown onto her face, tucked into the creases of her lips, “We must take in refugees.”

“Of course,” Breha agreed, now looking perplexed as well.

“They will not be labeled as refugees,” He warned, feeling more drained than afraid. Damn Palpatine, damn him and all his machinations. This would not be an easy thing to do, and he didn’t relish his wife’s position in accomplishing this.

Instead of questioning the particularities of definitions – another past-time of theirs discarded for the sake of professional expediency – Breha seamlessly changed tracks, “I will arrange for entry points. What else will you require?”

He grimaced, echoed by his aide as she silently extended a data pad. “Emergency medical personnel, for a start,” He said, glancing at the lengthy, exhaustive list compiled by his aide and the impromptu network they picked up from Obi-Wan’s scattered contacts, “I’ll forward you everything – please, with discretion.”

Another word defined as another word – an ordinary keyword for seeking out clearances, but between them it meant to keep no records. They could not afford to, and Breha’s expression slipped into shadows at the signal, as reliable a confirmation as a nod. He guessed she had stepped away, and knew their time was up.

She seemed to know this tacit urgency as well, for her question held the tone of finality, “What shall we call them?”

Bail glanced at his aide, too many words tumbling through the aching wound of his heart. How to define their last hope, when they have done so much for the galaxy? Regardless of their immediate actions, he knew intrinsically that any lasting solution would only crystallize into action a long time from now.

Pursing his lips, he turned toward his queen, “Serenity.”

The Serenity Protocol, as it was now known and carried only from mouth to mouth, was assembled rapidly and in fractured splinters of a plan. The immediate needs of refugees from an active war zone were already known, and from there his team and Breha’s worked in synchronicity with the Alderaanian Royal Security Office to slip dozens into the Alderaanian system.

Who could not reach them was where the next branch bloomed, Bail making contact with other Senators of similar inclinations that he could already gauge were trustworthy with the survival of an entire culture. Mon was already a go, and much as his heart broke to witness the aftermath of Padmé’s death, the Naboo Handmaidens were immediately suspect despite their steadfast loyalties to their Queen-then-Senator. He kept their connections in reserve, his mind already humming away at the timeline he could see.

Leia dozed in his arms as often as she did Breha’s, a smokescreen they took advantage of with bitter certainty that none would accuse them of what their friends endured. Had endured. He looked upon his daughter’s peaceful visage, and found himself wistful for even the vaguest of criticism against the Jedi in the present tense, for at least it would mean they were acknowledged.

The Emperor’s censorship was brutal, with the holonet purged, reformed, and regularly scraped of any mention of his enemy. He could see the sticky webs encapsulating all whom it caught, bleeding them dry and rousing terror in the survivors.

His role in the Senate was decorative, now more so in its official capacity than it had been during the careening fall of the Republic, when its weight was a fiat bolstered by propaganda. It made his life easier, and also all the more difficult, for his image weighed more than his legislation – and that had always been the more difficult of the two tasks.

Darth Vader was a spectre that only occasionally haunted the Senate, rarer still Alderaan, and his looming presence was the same despite the mask covering the cowardly features of the man who had slaughtered his own family twice over. It was an easy thing to let his mind speak of tranquility, for he had long practice at shuttering the existential rage that someone could be granted the boon of so many beautiful things in life and throw it away in the same breath. He didn’t pretend to understand such evils, but nor did he ignore the memories of Obi-Wan’s face, shattered after every unspeakable tragedy cast upon him and yet once more rising tall enough to shelter others in his shadow.

His friend required rest, and time to grieve, and the immeasurable distance to Tatooine would grant him that. Little Luke’s bright light would heal the rest, and hopefully, one day, the Jedi would stand tall once more. It made him appreciate the safety he had felt when the Jedi upheld the mantle of responsibility, and solidified his determination to provide the same.

His office’s first stop had been Dex, through proxies to proxies, and that instilled an underground system that allowed those who wished to filter off the planet. He didn’t pretend to know the affairs of the Jedi, but their movements were a blessing, their oft-lauded skills at camaraderie and diplomacy solidifying the ties that supported the Rebellion and granted him the ease to handle the rest.

It made him consider Palpatine stupid, for the man – in all his blinding glory – could not see that his beloved empire was built upon a purposefully-crumbled foundation. The Hutts were making inroads they never could under the CIS, and more slavery ran rampant now than it did during the entirety of the Droid Wars.

That he considered the clones as well as the non-humans, in all their stamped regalia, only made his point more potent.

Still, he remembered his lessons of suffering, and consorted with medical professionals under the guise of learning how to best delegate help for the charities patroned under Alderaan’s name. His words were silvered in the senatorial petition, assessing that this was the most efficient way to secure the strength of the Empire across all of its domain, for gratitude made a system more likely to vote in Palpatine’s favour.

Not that their voting was anything more than performative at this point, but the occasional dispute kept things lively, and distracted from the ostensible futility of resisting the Emperor’s will. He was grateful, at least, that Vader’s disinclination for politics was sustained past the formation of the Empire – he wasn’t keen to listen to the rasping breath of the servant on top of the putrid words of their leader.

Breha was integral to their mission, a bastion of grace that withstood the storm of political intrigue and interrogation lobbed at her by the Emperor’s battalions of warmongers. It kept the hope alive, at least in the Core Worlds, and he cherished every holo of her face despite the attempted smears to her character. She was Alderaan, and Alderaan stood behind her.

Between the two of them, in guised official messages and the rare times for bedroom whispers, they coordinated on promoting Alderaan as a spear-point to mercy missions, working between the knife-point angles of Palpatine’s machinations with a grace they both worked themselves sleepless for. Leia gave them an excuse for Bail to return home more often, and the many Alderaanian holidays their calendar boasted kept Breha’s religious aspect alive – it gave them numerous opportunities to export their culture under the guise of profit and a need to recuperate from the war which no one could name.

He contented himself with the letters snuck into his pockets by a chain of aides, affection written in every loop and curve of ink. They kept his heart kindled when his eyes drooped with weariness, knowing they were drops of honey meant only for him, kept separate even from their provocative rebellion.

To send letters back and forth to his wife was an exercise in creativity, one that merited joy in even the most shadowed of days. It helped him find reasons to bring Leia on board, an expressive teenager eager to make a difference in a world she recognized as fundamentally unfair. To seal these correspondences to his queen with a kiss upon their daughter’s forehead always brought a smile to his face, one that couldn’t be demurred through casual events.

It made Vader jealous, an oozing rage that proved impotent despite the casual terrors snuck into their household under the guise of diplomatic visits. The man never stayed for long, too scorned by the family he could never have and yet remained ignorant of, which between him and Breha they found an agreeable compromise.

Leia was bright – Leia was their future, and their hope. She learned the mores of her heritage, the rites and traditions that would make her, one day, a queen. She learned, also, the twists of words and what they meant, how to tell when the cloak-and-dagger affairs were more literal.

Their precocious child would carry them past the Emperor’s reach, and reminded him that what happened to the Jedi could well happen to the others – no people were safe, particularly when the evil had sown and cemented itself so far into society.

With Leia they practiced. At first, love letters between her parents – an innocuous mission that would deliver few pains to her if caught by the looming enforcers of Palpatine’s will. Once she had mastered those particular basics, she could traverse into more dangerous waters, always under her parents’ eyes.

As Bail’s aide had dryly told him, Leia had become their brand ambassador; her very presence was an advertisement for the gentle luxuries of Alderaan, her generosity, quick wit, and compassion for the needy was encapsulated on the mercy missions they assigned her to. It allowed them to funnel away reminders of Alderaan’s history, physical copies that paralleled the uptick in holonet media sourced from their culture.

He had seen what happened to the Jedi, how swiftly they were erased. Should those selfsame horrors visit Alderaan, Breha agreed that their daughter would never be alone – never, ever without Alderaan in the ways that mattered.

When the final hours drew closer, drawing a comb through his wife’s waterfall of hair, he smiled at Breha in the mirror over the top of her shoulder.

“Do you think she’ll be alright?” He asked, accepting the pin she passed to him, Breha’s hair curling around his fingers easily as he put a lock up in an elegant twist.

She spared a glance for the emergency beacon blinking urgently on the vanity’s table, already knowing that it was a fervent message for the sight they already knew existed outside their window. Their intelligence was accurate, if a little under-timed – as with all fields, what is sown must be reaped.

The last message they had received was that, while Leia had not safely arrived to Obi-Wan Kenobi, her message had, and the old Jedi himself had confirmed he was already making headway to pull up all the loose threads he had been handed. It was, if nothing else, a stirring of faith that eased the burdens on their hearts – Obi-Wan would see that their children were delivered into safety, and accomplish the impossible as a matter of course.

Breha leaned against him, a comfort she took that had been made casual over the decades of their marriage. It made it difficult to finish her hairstyle, but he wrapped his arms around her anyway, eyes closing to the familiar, glowing light of her pulmonodes.

“I think she will,” She responded, fond and likely remembering all the daring escapes Leia had made with the grace of a flitting sparrow. Her hands were warm over his, a thumb stroking over the ridges of his knuckles as he pressed a kiss to her cheek, “I think she’ll make Alderaan proud.”

It was warmer, a sign that made their minds echo in dread at the logistics, but they sighed in unison. Nothing for it, Bail accepted, a lesson learned so long ago when he first witnessed the tragedy that befell the Temple.

“She’s already made us proud,” He mused, delighting in Breha’s laugh.

Breha tugged his arms tighter around her, jewelry glittering in the bright, bright light, “Immensely so.”