Title: The Blood
Author: Deja Vu
Summary: Luke learns about the blood. Deathfic.
Rating: No language, mild violence.
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, but this story is mine.
Characters: Luke, Obi-Wan.
Author's Thanks: Thanks to Moy for taking a peek!
Author's Note: This is an experiment. It was written for a challenge on the Luke/Vader Writers mailing list.
It was krayt dragon mating season, and he'd known he shouldn't be out. They'd all known it.
But their being competitive teenagers had meant that they were unable to resist a dare once given, and their going out in the dead of night to go sandsurfing by Beggar's Canyon had meant that they were putting their lives in danger…
Luke's hatred of the nickname 'Wormie' and the incessant teasing of his friends had meant that he would do anything to go up a notch or two in his friends' eyes.
Biggs and Fixer never saw the krayt dragon coming. Luke—the third member of their party of three—had been the one doing the actual sandsurfing and had cried out as the big beast bit into his friends. Then he had jumped off his repulsorlifts and started running.
There was a rock wall with a small cave in it just ahead, and if he could just reach it—
His heart pounded in his chest like a merciless drum, and his feet felt like they were grappling with the sand for a grip. Behind him, he could hear the krayt dragon lose interest in his now dead companions, and it was soon close enough that he could feel its hot breath. Putting on an extra burst of speed, he was almost able to touch the wall with his desperate outstretched fingers—
But the great beast grabbed hold of his right arm. As if angered that his arm didn't immediately come off, it flung him against the wall he'd been running toward, and, as he hit, giant black spots started dancing in front of his eyes.
Too late.
The krayt dragon's spiked tail whipped forward as he slid down the wall, and he cried out in pain and panic as his chest was pierced. Aunt Beru Uncle Owen so sorry so sorry can't help with harvest have to do without me so sorry so sorry.
The beast seemed to be playing with him now before devouring him, but it froze as an unearthly sound reached its ears. Turning, it saw something small with a bright stick of blue light coming at it. In anger, it roared and prepared its tail, but then the stick of light was piercing its weak sinus cavity and it was screaming, dying, dead.
Blood is red, Luke thought to himself inanely. He couldn't see his blood very well—it was rather dark outside—but he could feel its wetness, and he knew it was there. He knew he was he was screaming, dying, dead. Like the krayt dragon.
No. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He wasn't screaming. He wasn't dead. But he was dying. The krayt dragon was dead. And blood is red, he reminded himself, the observation seeming somehow very important.
He could hear the bearer of the blue light come over to him with feet that crunched softly in the sand. He was slowly, gently, turned over, so that his face was no longer facing the ground. His mouth tasted salty. Because of the sand, he told himself. And the blood.
"Luke?" a quiet concerned voice asked.
Blinking, Luke was just able to make out Ben Kenobi's face in the blue light. He then closed his eyes. "Ben," he croaked.
"Luke." There was something strange in the old man's voice.
A few drops of moisture fell onto Luke's face. Was it raining? But that was nonsense; this was Tatooine. It was, wasn't it?
His mind feeling hazy, he noted sadly, "I can't help with the harvest."
"Luke, it's all right." Ben's voice sounded worried, almost strangled. "We need to get you to a medcenter."
But the fog was clearing, and in quiet seriousness that did not belong to a fourteen year-old boy, Luke said, "No. We don't. I'm dying. I can't be moved. It's too late—don't you see?"
"Luke…" It was obvious the old man felt helpless. He moved to touch Luke's chest, and a little of the pain faded away.
"It's all right—dying. It's just…I never got to be a real pilot like my father. I wanted to—to make him proud before I died." Luke frowned, a thought striking him. "Of course, he's dead, but…"
"We really need to get you to a—"
"No!" Luke said firmly. His face was pale, and he was losing a lot of blood. But still, he said, "No. It's all right. I just—could you—could you tell me about my father? I never—never met him."
Ben grabbed his hand tightly. "Your father was a great man, Luke," he said softly. "I'm sorry that I left him there…That I didn't do more to help him…Just like with you. Just like how I couldn't—couldn't help you..."
"What…what do you mean?" Luke's voice was starting to sound strained. He was fading fast.
"Anakin was my pupil. He was a great Jedi Knight—one of the best in the galaxy. But he loved too much. And, stars, I loved him too much. I was blinded; we all were…And when Palpatine turned him to evil…" But Ben hadn't meant to say that, and he shut his mouth.
"Tell me." Luke's eyes were closed, and the words were a mere whisper.
The Jedi couldn't hold back. Not now. He had to let Luke know that while he had failed him just like his father, he had never wanted to fail either of them. "We fought on the planet Mustafar. I cut off some of his limbs and left him to die. I didn't want to. I loved him like a brother—like a son…But he had killed so many Jedi. I still have nightmares about that day, about the fire engulfing his body, and I'm sorry….So sorry…"
"Vader," Luke coughed out, the epiphany hitting him as his life faded from him. "Darth Vader is my father." He opened his eyes one last time to focus them on Ben Kenobi. "Dying isn't so bad. But help my father, all right? He doesn't know about the blood." He closed his eyes, his chest moving up and down a few more times, and then he was still.
"Don't worry," the Jedi whispered to himself, a wave of bitterness passing over him, "he knows about the blood."
Ben Kenobi cradled the youth's body to his chest for a long time afterwards.