Happy belated birthday to my friend Talicor!
A dark sentinel watched the stars go by. The lush planet around him couldn't compare, never grabbing the sentinel's attention for even a moment. Even when moss began to grow upon the ebony armor he wore, the man within paid it no mind. If you could call him a man.
He had a name once, a purpose, a master. He was feared, long ago, a war machine that seemed to be invincible. While time could not touch him, the sentinel knew better, he was mortal, though you wouldn't know it. It was only the grotesque mixture of machine that kept the man alive, if you could call it life. The scientists -'doctor' was too good a title- who put him in his suit dabbled in inhuman Sith alchemy techniques. Techniques they didn't understand, just threw in as if the sheer amount would produce a result. All he got out of the deal was fire, never ending pain running through his body. He tuned it out, eventually. Even the greatest pain dulls when you experience it all the time. Throughout it all, his mind survived, he was strong like that, a man who prided himself on his will.
That will died eons ago. A young man, barely older than a boy, had tried to save him. He remembered that, sometimes. But the boy was naive, his grasp of the Force tenuous. The boy assumed he was dead, and in some archaic form of honor, burned him on a pyre. But he was still alive, conscious, though unable to move, to say a single word that would halt what was about to come.
The heat couldn't destroy metal, but it turned flesh to ash. At the end, nothing human remained. That should have ended it, should have ended him. But it didn't, the machines grew, filling the gaps, supplying the needs. He was entirely machine now, yet somehow alive. It was only here, on what he assumed to be his deathbed, that the true extent of Sith magic made itself known. Any wound, any cut, slice, burn, or blast, would be healed in minutes. He didn't understand where his suit got the material to repair itself, but it repaired itself anyway.
Something changed in him, some part of himself burned away permanently that day, and he never got it back. Not that he cared, he didn't realize he had lost parts of himself. Time lost meaning, he went to a far away planet, out of the reach and influence of galactic politics. The Force was strong here, a flux of Light and Dark. Life was here, in all forms, a dense green planet that was more swamp than dry ground. Someone small had built a hut here, but that didn't concern him, shelter isn't a priority when you don't need it to survive.
He sat, he waited. For what he didn't know. Life, humanity, had become a stranger, a distant curiosity to be studied. He didn't know how long it had been, how much time had passed, until intelligent things arrived. Odd, fleshy, weak things that came in a flimsy metal craft. They invaded his senses, their loud minds practically shouting to him. He didn't want them, their intrusion, their noise.
Killing the first was so easy, the lightest touch of the Force to a sensitive part of the body, and the flow of life stopped. He had a weapon, once, a blade he used to augment himself. That blade was long lost, rusted away to nothingness in the foliage. But the Force didn't rust, didn't decay. The second little thing felt fear, and he felt the things fear. It felt good.
The thing's pure emotion was like a drug, an elixir that revived him. Reaching into the things mind, he ripped out its language, violently learning the information required to reenter the universe. A war was being fought, a bloody struggle between those that called the galaxy home and those that wished to conquer. Planets, even whole systems, were the front lines, hotspots of war that were filled with troops from either side. He didn't care about sides, he only wanted to kill, to taste more sweet emotions.
Really, the things disappointed him. This war had supposedly been going on for three lifetimes of the things, yet as soon as he began to feed, the war stopped shortly afterwards, armies no longer met on the battlefield, ships and weapons of war were dismantled. No one would fight any longer, not with armies of flesh and blood. There wasn't anyone left, and some part of his mind forbade him from feasting on those who were not soldiers. Some part of him refused the vulnerable planets so tantalizingly close.
He understood why, eventually. The lives he had taken revived him, cleared his mind, fixed his memories. He knew his name, his rank, and his reputation. The name of Vader was lost among those that now lived in the galaxy, but his reputation remained, a dark sentinel that brutally destroyed any who fought on the battlefield. For all the suffering he had caused, Vader was glad some small change had been effected on the galaxy. The lives of young men were no longer wasted on war, but that didn't mean war no longer took place.
Technology, its dark advances turned to corruption. Missions to disrupt power, to steal monies, to alter elections. This was no enemy he could fight, no physical things he could turn his wrath upon. The leaders of the various factions and empires in the galaxy were shadows, silhouettes that gave orders anonymously.
So he sat. He waited. Dagobah remained, somehow, surviving the creation and destruction of the stars. Beings came to him, eventually, begging for the services of the dark sentinel. But his mind was changed, his morals set. No longer would Vader alter the destinies of those that truly called the galaxy home. No longer would he kill for pleasure. Time couldn't hold meaning over him anymore, not like the lesser beings who wished for the power they perceived he had. There was no power left within the ebony armor, only agony. Vader allowed himself a moment of humor when the things came to visit. Little minds in little bodies offering what they assumed to be great wealth. Ships for an entity that could traverse the stars, soldiers for a sentinel that could destroy systems, women for a husk that no longer cared about physical pleasure, rich garments for a machine that wore no clothing but his own armor, bits of metal and crystal for someone who had no need of wealth. All this was offered to him, time and time again.
There was never just one set of specks, one set of beings that came and begged for dark power. These specks were always replaced by another set, conquerors who were always later conquered themselves. It was a lie really, time was painfully obvious to him, the weight of his deeds painfully obvious in every moment of time. He was tired really, Vader often wondered why he had been preserved, why he was forced to remain alive when all others faded away.
What does one do when everything that matters is stripped away? Vader didn't know, he could only watch and wait. The Force was a powerful ally, but a silent one. Throughout the ages, as empire after empire rose and collapsed, he watched. He watched the birth of stars. He watched the depravity of corrupt rulers. He watched children carried off to war, tossed in cheap armor and handed cheaper weapons, fodder to absorb fire for the more important men, the ones in shiny uniforms with medals pinned on either side. It didn't mean anything to him, not anymore.
Vader marked the passage of time by empires. Every time a new regime took control, a new set of specks came to beg him for his aid. Sometimes the specks left shortly after, called to protect their empire from the group that would replace them. Sometimes the specks grew old, begging for his power with softer and softer voices, until finally the voices fell silent for good.
"WHY?!" Vader would shout to the Force, a vicious scream that could be felt even by those that couldn't manipulate the Force for themselves.
Find the Jedi, find the Sith.
A thought, a feeling, a response. The Force responded! It finally replied! A simple request, with no sharp order behind it. It was the suggestion of a friend, not the demand of a tyrant. A simple task really, the eons had not been kind to Force sensitive individuals, there were always fewer left. In fact, as Vader searched harder, there were none left at all. Not a single person with the power to even cause the lightest touch of wind, the barest minimum of lift.
He understood now, he understood his purpose, his mission. The Force needed servants, beings that would tap into the Force's great power, and listen to the Force's call. Vader felt no more response, but he understood that if people that could touch the Force returned, he could finally rest. A simple matter, Vader carefully prepared his greatest achievement, an incredible blast of self that would touch every being in the galaxy, choosing those that were worthy, and ignoring those that were not. A blast of power, so strong and so refined that the use of it would destroy him. That didn't matter, Vader no longer cared for the physical plane, it wasn't his home anymore.
With careful preparation, Vader completed his task in a few short centuries. Those that were alive at the time said that the Haunted Planet glowed like a beacon, before vanishing entirely. Throughout the galaxy, beings awoke with strange new powers. It wasn't long before sects formed, and knowledge grew with training. They didn't call themselves Jedi or Sith, but they were Force users, sentinels that would watch over the galaxy.
000
Vader woke up, dismayed to find he still retained his physical body. The insistent buzz of life still registered on his ears, and his eyes showed him the vibrant landscape of Dagobah. An intruder stood before him, an ancient man, hair pure white. Power emanated off of the man, and Vader understood.
"You are the Force." Vader said, his voice shocking himself, a broken raspy tone, faint from disuse.
"No longer, you are now the Force." The man replied.
He felt it, the gentle tug of millions of beings, each attached to him personally. He could feel every piece, every cog in a great machine, his great machine. The old man disintegrated, the fractured pieces flowing into Vader, fusing to his armor. The entity that was once Vader finally rested, and the Force lived once more.