A/N: I was trying to work on my Dark Path cycle, but this happened instead.
The soft pattering of raindrops drew him from his poor attempts at meditation, streams of liquid blurring the view through the transparisteel window. For a moment, he was the small Tatooine-born child who had never before known rain, lost in the wonder of water that did not have to be wrenched from the skies drop by precious drop. His mind drifted involuntarily to that first rain shower, a lifetime ago. It was one of his early missions, on some world whose name had long since faded from memory. They had been travelling between cities when a sudden storm had caught them unprepared. The sensation of water falling on his face was one he still remembered, even now.
Without warning, he was seized by a desperate desire to feel the rain once again, to smell the indefinable scent in the air left by the water's passage. Moments of claustrophobia had plagued him for years, growing less frequent as he had adjusted to his condition, but the deep need to escape his forced confinement had overtaken him more and more often since that fateful battle in the clouds. A part of him, long thought dead, had been more fully awakened that day, the part that remembered what rain was like.
He had crossed the chamber and placed his hand on the doorlock before realizing the futility of the desire. He could not leave this room without the oppressive armor any more than he could turn back time. Going outdoors while wearing the black helmet and mask was utterly useless, as the breathing apparatus would filter every trace of the rain from his senses. He turned from the door, seized by dark despair. Escape, even for a moment, was impossible. There was no point in even wishing otherwise. As he tried to return to his reports, the rain-remembering part of him murmured softly that he had once done the impossible with astounding regularity.
Suddenly emboldened, he searched his pressurized prison for the appropriate materials. Ten minutes and considerable ingenuity later, he held a small mask and portable oxygen supply. He would not be able to leave for long, he knew, for his lungs were too weak to bear the burden of breath alone for an extended period, though even a moment of freedom would be a priceless gift. With care, he donned a lighter version of his black cloak, belting it over his dark robes, before strapping on the supply pack and checking that the mixture was set correctly. His hands shook slightly as he pulled the hood of the cloak over his pale head and arranged it to cover as much of his scarred features as possible. With as deep of a breath as he could mange, he placed the mask over his face and palmed the door open.
His destination was not far, though the slight exertion was enough to strain his unaided lungs, forcing him to stop and wait for his breathing to ease several times. The halls were deserted, which was just as well, as it would not do for his men to see him in this condition. Carefully, he pulled open a transparent door which separated him from the outside world. The small balcony overlooked an equally small garden, lush and green in the falling rain. Drops fell on the cloth of his cloak and were quickly absorbed as he took his first cautious steps outside. A light breeze tugged at dark material as he carefully lowered the hood, one hand making sure that the mask was still in place. The cool drops felt heavenly on skin unused to sensation, as gentle and soothing as he had remembered. One gloved hand still resting on smooth plastic, he made several rapid calculations and quickly reached a decision. Walking slowly to a bench near the edge, he sat down, headless of the water soaking into his robes. With trembling fingers, he eased the life-sustaining equipment away, taking a final breath of enriched and medicated oxygen.
The rain-drenched air smelled exactly as he had remembered; rich and earthy, yet clear and clean. The scent brought back a thousand memories: his Master's laughter at his awestruck face as he saw falling water for the first time, the storms of Coruscant whipping violently against the Temple walls, the walk in the rain that she had insisted he take…To his surprise, the last did not bring the stabbing pain and crushing guilt her very name always evoked. The young Jedi he had met above a world of cloud and rain proved that she had not died at his hand, the full realization staggering and liberating and agonizing in the same breathless instant. He could not have killed her directly: she must have lived long enough to bear his child. His son - Luke, he whispered to the silent garden - was so full of light and fire, a painful reminder of what he had once been, so long ago. A faint smile tugged at pale lips, a smile born of the sudden lightening of the very darkest of the burdens that he had shouldered for a lifetime.
His eyes closed, finding balance and calm for the first time in over twenty raging, angry years. He did not think any more on the past, unchangeable as it was, but simply sat in the spring rain and felt alive, felt the Force swirl in its intricate dance. The pain and sorrow and black despair of Bespin's blunt rejection were washed away on a gentle tide of falling rain, leaving him clean and renewed, his troubled mind and lonely heart at peace. For a fleeting moment, he simply was a normal person, without the chains of destiny, without the terrible shackles of self-abhorrence and guilt.
All too soon, his chest tightened, the damaged tissue unable to extract sufficient oxygen from the moist air to supply the demands of his body, little as it was. Reluctantly, he replaced the mask and hood, shivering in his dampened clothing. He rose slowly, unwilling to abandon the peace of this unexpected gift, this newfound understanding, yet knowing to remain would mean his death. With sorrow, he looked over the peaceful garden once more before opening the door and returning to the monotonous grey walls. His labored breathing worsened quickly as he made his way back to the safety of his rooms, forced to stop more and more often as knife-like pain stabbed through his chest. It was with no small relief that he reached his drab quarters.
Once within the controlled environment he shed his damp robes, replacing them with the thicker robes and unfeeling armor and black synthleather of his identity. His breathing steadied and resumed its mechanical regularity as he replaced the mask and helmet, the stale tang of medication replacing the freshness of the outside air. Even as the Tatooine child-turned-Sith Lord resumed his fearsome duties, a tiny sliver of peace remained in his darkened heart, a little freedom gained from the oppressive darkness surrounding him.
The peace, that of those who stand in a spring rain and feel its cleansing.
The freedom, that of those who have pierced dark veils of lies and found the brilliant, absolving truth.