If he could. But he was incapable. Spots swam in front of his eyes, blocking his son's face; not angry, for the first and last time, but so confused the man took pity on him, and wished he could have been a better father for Luke. And Leia. The image of a young man with pure white hair and a woman of approximately the same age with thick long black hair swim in front of his eyes, and he felt his heart seem to burn even more.
The children in his minds eye were replaced by an image of his daughter, and his son. His son who was no keening over his death. His son who had been his son before. Both so extraordinary, so capable of greatness, but so ready shun it for the path of right. He'd never seen the potential in his last son, and had made a special point of showing himself the greatness inherent in this one.
He looked down at his astral self, now freed of his body. He was naked, stripped of all that was false and transient in the world. But his hands were different than they had always been, more careworn, caked with dirt. He looked at his arm, knowing and not knowing what he would find there. He'd been tattooed, as a child, with a number to mark him as a slave. That was still there, branding him in death as in life. But a series of numbers that had never been on his arm in life stared up at him as well--he knew they were numbers, despite knowing he'd also never seen such characters before--as if to give him a hint, to point his mind in the proper direction. He turned inward, in the way only a spirit awaiting whatever's next can. Past the blocks erected in life, to block out other lives.
The man saw a life that was nearly the mirror image of his. An oppressed youth becomes so powerful he can crush the world, but so weak, if only you find the chink in the armour. The specific memories came to him, A wife, a woman who he loved beyond compare, who was so much like Padme (don't think it, not her, not now, I hope she forgives me, will I see her?), running, horror stricken and sobbing. And a hardness in his heart, so familiar and welcome. Hardness was protection. But hardness came from death. A young child, one he'd loved so much.
Another memory jostled for position, and the man opened himself to it. A death, like this one. suicide, of a sort. Chasing that hardness, that protection, that isolation. Another death, another chance for redemption and happiness of sorts lost. His son had seemed so strong, it had been a threat to him, before, but was no longer. So strong, so convinced of his rightness. . .and now. . .so painful to think of. That he could have taken his sister with him was the ultimate revenge for the pain the boy had been through at the man's blood soaked and now arthritic hands. Every person he'd ever cared about gone, and now time for him to join them.
The man pulled out of his memories, glad that his lungs no longer burned with the lack of air. He looked at his son, so much like a son before him, but still standing, still able to fight the good fight, and not lost in the pursuit of a dream that could never be. The man nodded, and understood. This had been his second chance, his last request answered by a god he wasn't sure he believed in anymore, or at the least, one he didn't want to believe in, or couldn't. He stood, freed of his body. It was time to go.
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Peace and Love,
Panther Nesmith