I don't own Star Wars. Same as always.
I look down on my suffering son, covered in burns, his soul, which I see clearest, marred with scars of the Dark Side. He is in a tent, with his worried Padawan pacing outside. She has put him in a healing trance, a meager one - but the best any Jedi could do.
If I had a body, I would squeeze my eyes shut and feel tears run down my cheeks. I remember so clearly and painfully the times when I forced myself to turn away from his suffering, the times when he has called me to help him, and I did not. All those times, I told myself, it was so he could fulfill the prophecy.
I cannot turn away now. He is dying, his once-bright light now a flickering spark.
I take the form of an older man inside the tent, but eight feet tall. My face bears a light of fatherliness, my arms strong to carry my son to salvation. I kneel down next to the prone, unnaturally still form. I know that he is a restless sleeper, and even when he is not dreaming, he is - what do mortals say? - a sprawler and a twitcher. His Padawan knows this too. It breaks her heart to see her brother lying so straight and still. Like he is already in death's grip.
Her fears will be unfounded. This I make sure of as I pick up my son, as I should have done when Dooku cut off his arm. As I should have done when he was mauled by a gundark. As I should have done the first time anyone hurt him.
His burns start to heal just from being touched by me. He involuntary whimpers, and, in his drug- and Jedi-induced sleep, he curls his body towards my core. Towards his father. Towards life.
I close my eyes and let ourselves into the passageways between all.
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