It was a strange sort of ghost story, haunting and terrible, but not the sort of thing that scared little children in their beds at night, it wasn't that sort of ghost at all. It didn't hurt people, or wail in the night, or cause mysterious disappearances, it just cried quietly to itself, and haunted the memories of all who saw it until the day they died. Or at least, that was what he had been told.
Tomas Piett put no weight in ghost stories; he was a grown man, an imperial officer, and such things were beneath him. So, when he was assigned as a bridge officer to Lord Vader's flag ship, it was not the supposed ghost that turned his throat dry; no, he was slightly more concerned with the mortality rate amongst Vader's bridge officers. But really, it hadn't been so bad. He saw Vader every day, of course, but never had he said a word to the young lieutenant lurking beneath his imposing notice in the right wing crew pit. And Piett rather liked it that way.
The first time he heard the ghost mentioned on Vader's ship he had been aboard not quite a year. The man was a superior officer of all things, and Piett entertained a rather disapproving scowl when he drew near enough in the mess hall to hear the white faced and shaking man describe seeing the ghost , staring at him as Vader's cloke swept aside to reveal him. Piett remembered the darkness of sweat against the collar of his gray uniform as he lay choking out the last moments of his life at Vader's feet. Apparently, Lord Vader was not fond of the ghost either.
Piett was working a late shift, and as was typical around that time of night, the entire ship had a quiet, empty sort of feel to it, even on the bridge. It was the nearness of the breathing that first alerted him to the sort-of man behind him. Vader's breathing had become something Piett was accustomed to, working on the bridge, sucking recycled air above him, sometimes accompanied by the deep thrum of his voice. But, he realized at that moment, it was suddenly different, louder, much louder. So Piett did as he had been trained to do even in terrifying situations such as the one he found himself in. He sprang to his feet beside his chair, back parade ground strait and his flat hand held at the correct angle to his eyebrow.
Piett always carried a holo of his girl Palana from back home. Mostly because he'd promised her, and considering he did want to marry her eventually he figured he might as well start keeping his promises to her early, get into the habit and everything. Unfortunately, he had never considered a situation in which her holo would somehow slip from his pocket just as he had been approached for the first (and, he was thinking at the moment, most likely last) time in his life. His face drained of all color as the small, flat image drifted to the ground at their feet. Before he could even consider whether it would be better to bend quickly to retrieve it spouting apologies all the way down, or pretend he hadn't noticed and stay as he was, the holo had floated seemingly of its own volition into Vader's black-clad hand. He tried to force a swallow past his dry throat as Vader examined the image.
"Who is she lieutenant?" the monster asked.
"My girl, sir." Piett croaked.
"Fiancé?" Piett was too frightened at that point to truly recognize the oddity of the conversation.
"Not yet, sir."
"Will she be?"
"I hope so." Piett said.
Vader continued to study the holo quietly for a moment, then: "She is lovely."
"Yes sir." Piett agreed, not quite able to keep all vestiges of enthusiasm from his voice as he thought of Palana's dark brown curls and matching eyes, her short, petite frame. And for an instant Piett could have sworn he heard Vader murmur, "Her hair was a bit darker." To himself.
"At ease, lieutenant." The deep voice seemed to sigh. He sounded almost tired, weary, and maybe even, (it was a horribly unprofessional thought) lonely.
The ghost stood at Vader's feet, just barely behind him, the sweep of that black cloke seeming to seek to shroud him possessively. He was a boy, a young boy no older then ten, certainly. Fair haired in worn clothes with the sort of big, beautiful blue eyes that would make a mother smile with pride. He was crying, and as Piett watched, he reached out his hands, palms up and reaching through Vader's shadow. In the harsh lighting the blood pooled on them, dripped through his fingers. But it was not that which would forever haunt Tomas Piett, it was rather the look in those beautiful eyes as he starred right back at him. He was heartbroken, shattered, and pleading, pleading for something Piett thought just could be salvation. It sparked something in the Imperial officer, a long forgotten compassion which wormed its way through Carida's conditioning and drew his hands out towards that heartbroken little boy. For a moment there was a glint of almost-hope in his eyes.
"Lieutenant?" Piett's gaze shifted form the boy back to Vader as muffled, industrious noise trickled back into his ears. He stared at the nightmare before him, blinking in confusion. "Is there a problem?" He looked back to Vader's feet, but the boy was gone.
"What?" he whispered.
"Lieutenant?" snapped Vader, harsher this time, warning. Embarrassed, Piett realized his hands were still hanging there between them, reaching for the ghost.
"I'm sorry milord, I—" And he stopped, because beneath the darkness that was Lord Vader, he could have sworn he saw a glint of blue eyes.
And for the first time in many, many years the heart of a person reached out in compassion to a monster with blue eyes and blood on his hands.