At Last
By: JadedofMara
I never actually saw Darth Vader.
Anakin had claimed that name when we fought, yes, but it really wasn't until after Mustafar that he became Darth Vader.
The last time I really truly saw him, he was the same as he always had been, still fighting with the blue lightsaber he and labored over so long as a Padawan, his hair still getting in his eyes when he executed a particularly difficult strike. When he flew at me with saber raised, and my arm acted of it's own accord, his eyes had yet to change. It was only when the hellfire of Mustafar wrapped it's clutches around him that he became a Sith. It was only when the red-orange fire burned away the blue of his eyes and left them seared yellow that he really became known as Darth Vader.
That must have been what happened. I don't really know. You see, I wasn't there.
I fled.
Nineteen years later, I still have never seen him. During my occasional stops at the cantina in Mos Eisley, I sit with my back to the holovid and try to block the reporterdroid's monotone from my mind. Every so often, someone will cause a stir with the ongoing rumor that Lord Vader is not even human.
"He's human," I'll say quietly, and everyone's conversation will still.
"Oh, really?" the arrogant spacer will ask, sauntering up to my solitary spot, be it at the bar or a table. "You ever seen the guy?"
I'll shake my head, not wanting to draw too much attention to 'Crazy Old Ben'.
The spacer will laugh. "Crazy old man…" he'll mutter. "It's not like anyone can tell."
I'll excuse myself, and wonder what he meant.
Now I know.
I find myself on the Death Star, this abomination of the Emperor's sick and twisted mind. Luke is not with me at the moment. Thank the Force for small favors.
Anakin is here.
He is just standing there, at the end of the hallway, a Sith-red lightsaber glowing ignited in his hand. He is staring at me.
He is encased from head to foot in black; black boots covering prosthetic legs, black gloves covering prosthetic arms. A multitude of blinking switches decorate his chest, and the horrible, raspy sound of a respirator reverberates endlessly down the corridor.
On his head, a death-mask helmet rests, the eyes opaque and the mouth nothing but the grate of a vocorder.
My forward motion slows, and stops. The tear in my heart left by Anakin's betrayal rips a little further.
Force, Anakin. What happened to us?
Anakin steps forward, his lightsaber held in the hand that is swinging casually, as though he is simply strolling in the garden. I am under no delusions, however.
I ignite my lightsaber.
"I have been waiting for you Obi-wan," he says, and and the sound of the vocorder rattles the glowpanels above us.
"We meet again at last."