starcrossed-sky:

No one calls him Luke. Even if they would, if they could, he wouldn’t let them. Luke is nothing but a memory, burnt away, and he’s just the leftovers.

There is no funeral. With the memories left behind, he replaces his replacement - only a handful of people in the world knew his replica enough to care, he thought, but it suddenly seems like an overwhelming number. From the villagers of Engeve to the Emperor of Malkuth, every person looks at him and grieves. Sometimes it’s anger, sometimes it’s tears; on his mother it’s a painful smile, because at least one of her sons came back to her.

He should be glad to have his life back. But it’s not his, not any more, and now he knows how it feels to be the thief.