"I am a Jedi," he so proudly (and boldly) claimed but a few months prior, tossing his lightsaber to the floor with such ease, immediate relief and clarity soothing his brain as he locked his knees in place. He assumed his own death was imminent the second he defied the wishes of the Emperor, standing tall over the beaten husk that remained of his father. The looming fear from the past few years that pervaded his being were suddenly tossed aside with the lightsaber, causing him to smile with zealous earnest, firm and ready to meet his own fate.
There were bright flashes of purple light that mixed in with blackened shadows, his muscles tensing and crying out in agony as he flailed across the room. His body reacted on instinct – though his soul prepared for his own timely departure, his physical being cried out and yearned once more to live. That pain lingered and stabbed into every vein, tightening every nerve, and forcing his bones to jerk and plead. That was to be the end; had it not been for a weakened voice beckoning to him in the back of his skull, young Skywalker was sure that would have been the end of his physical self. But there was a voice: though it was one the youth had never quite heard, he couldn't deny the sincerity in its tone, the familiarity in the pattern. It was one voice that only whispered a small phrase: "Luke, my son."
Luke called out to the voice, though he was unsure if it were aloud or through the Force, desperately pleading for him to act. "Father, please," he begged, the whispers growing slightly louder and trembling with each repetition. Despite the pain, Luke focused on that sobering voice and continued to poke and prod, believing that he could still save his father, if not himself. Darth Vader couldn't just do it for Luke – he had to do it for himself, for his family, for his son and daughter, for whomever the woman it was that he loved. Luke was sure of his own death but he wanted to give his father this one last chance.
"Help me," he screamed, though he was truly crying for his father to help himself. The purple flashes soon began to fade into the dark, his body crumpling into a battered and broken ball, weakly rocking and waiting for the end to come. The Jedi waited for that moment, sobbing through the pain, but that moment never came. Another scream broke through the smoky air, that of an old man, crying out in anger and frustration. There was a great, big light – and then there was nothing but light.
"Father!"
Luke Skywalker awoke in the fetal position, his breathing frantic and heavy, sweat dripping down his matted hair and sliding all the way to his bare chest. This wasn't the first time he had dreamed of his encounter on the Death Star – nor would it be the last, he assumed. Luke groaned as he slugged himself up from his bed and laid his face in his hands, feeling a mixture of warmth from his own genuine flesh and coldness from the robotic features of his cybernetic. That helped remind him of his own unique position as the son of Darth Vader, as well as the son of Anakin Skywalker. He purposefully refused to have skin grafted back to his cybernetic in order to remind himself of that.
"I won't make the same mistakes," he whispered to his hand, his left clasping it carefully. There was still some atrophied skin left on the replacement, slowly rotting and peeling away as time passed. Truthfully, this was both an emotional and a physical reminder, inflicting minor chronic pain as the synthetic senses and nerves wither and died. Luke thought to himself that it was a little sick – to just let himself be hurt and anguished, a bit masochistic, in some manner.
But he thought of his father and the pain he must have endured every second of every minute of every day. Not just the burdened weight of his crimes against his tortured soul, but the reliance on cheap prosthetics, his need for constant medical checkups and replacements; in the words of his former master, "more machine than man." That was the type of pain he wished to understand. Not to purposefully endure, but to appreciate, and share that experience with. Very few would be able to understand. His father had become one with The Force – freed, finally, from the bindings that held him back since birth. That made Skywalker smile, looking his hands and deep into the space that stood ahead of them. This child of the Jedi still had time left to share but someday, possibly soon or far, he would also share the experience of the afterlife with his father.
Luke stood from his bed and stretched, pacing around his room slowly and casually. The lighting was dark but he had no room to worry – there was always going to be a light, somewhere, somehow. He walked to the refresher and activated the lights, staring grimly at the reflection that looked back. A month had passed and stray whiskers began to poke out of the pores of his chin, as well as tiny pockets above his upper lip, a mixture of blond and brown that were only just barely visible to the naked eye. He remembered how jealous he was as a young teenager on Tatooine, watching his peers grow beards ever so quickly, while his refused to show. It was unsightly, of course, and covered up his dimpled chin. He reached for his shaver and began stripping his face of his most desperate childhood want.
There – bare and naked, just as he stood. He smiled at his face but noticed details hidden by those stray whiskers. There were lines and creases forming around his face, weathered cracks against the skin, his eyes glistening with the silent wisdom of experience instead of the hopeful eyes of youth. Some of that had been from the surgery after his face off against the Wampa; others, he assumed, came from his immensely stressful time where he accepted his fate as Darth Vader's son. Skywalker was only twenty-three years old, close to twenty-four, but he wondered how old he appeared to those who hadn't know him. In the past year, he felt as if he had experienced a decade of failure and success, and he was absolutely sure that his physical self showed this as well.
That wasn't even the most gruesome of the physical scars. Only those closest to him were aware of how he got the pale purple lines that decorated his skin, but there were painfully obvious to anyone who cared. They were signs of his torture by the Emperor – blemishes that branded him an enemy of evil. Luke wore those scars with pride. He eyed his naked figure and fingered the lines delicately, starting right at his chest and waving down to his groin and exploding around his thighs. Not only were those scars a symbol of his survival against the greatest bastion of evil the galaxy had ever faced, they were also another reminder of the sacrifice needed to save the soul of his father.
Luke was a changed man, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. He couldn't deny that. But he was proud of those changes, the scars he endured and wore ever so plainly, for they shaped him into the man he became. The Jedi Knight, while struggling nightmares of torments, could rest easily knowing that he saved someone everyone considered destroyed, and had a helping hand in reclaiming balance. Luke smiled to himself as he stared at his face, at his prosthetic hand, at his body, and felt joy and comfort in the obstacles he overcame.
"Hey, kid-"
The boisterous voice of Han Solo erupted from the hallway, the door to his chambers sliding open instantaneously and barely giving Luke enough time to grab something to protect his modesty. He reached for a folded pair of white briefs that sat folded at the sink, letting out an exhale as he struggled to recompose himself. It was curious, he thought, how he could endure a torturous meeting with the most sinister being in the universe, risk life and death, but still care so much about such needs. Luke crossed his arms and sat on the sink, smiling sheepishly as his friend stared at him puzzled.
"Didn't mean to intrude, Mr. Jedi, I didn't know you were spending the day lounging around in your underclothes."
"Only when friends show up unannounced," Luke joked, walking back to the middle of his chambers and reaching to the dresser for a pair of tan pants and a black tee-shirt. He saw Han gaze at the pink and purple lines that traced his torso – the two had never spoken about it intimately, though he was sure that Leia brought him up to speed. There was a different air between the two men in the time Han had been frozen. The Jedi felt a new sense of respect from his friend, a curious shift in their dynamic, which made Han appreciate his presence and survival all the more.
The three of them bore scars. Leia's were the most hidden, bundled underneath her tight robes and battlefield gear, only daring to be shown when she was at her most intimate. Han struggled the most outwardly following his torture at Cloud City and his year-long hibernation, still trying to understand the shift in his relationships and everything that had transpired in his short time away from them. They all understood – they valued each other's privacy and the way they dealt with such things. Some took more time than others; some, like Luke, embraced them as they came.
"I didn't mean to interrupt whatever you were doing," Han whispered, eyeing out of his peripheral vision the lines that danced across Luke's back before he finally finished dressing. "It's just such a good day, kid, and I wanted to make sure you were involved. That you knew before everyone else did. You aren't just Leia's brother – you're my greatest friend in this entire damned galaxy."
Han went over to Luke and slugged his arm around Luke's neck. He detected the slight smell of ale and liquor out of his friend's breath, making Luke smile as he was sure his best friend was in the best of possible spirits. "You didn't interrupt anything, Han," Luke said, patting him on the back. Han's eyes lit up as his lips curled into an incredibly infectious smile.
"Good, good."
Luke nodded awkwardly as Han stood there, mouth agape, trying to put to words whatever was on his mind.
"What did you want to tell me?"
"It's, uh, it's Leia," Han stated firmly, trying his hardest to be serious. But whatever stupor, drunken or not, had taken hold of him refused to let go ever slightly, a joyous laugh bellying out from his chest. "Well, actually, it's me and her. It's kind of you, too. Skywalker-Solo, sorta thing. I asked Leia to make sure it was okay if I told you. She's gonna invite everyone later; Mon, Chewie, Lando, the droids, Wedge, and many others. It's such a great time, kid."
Luke slugged his way out of Han's grasp and put his hands on Han's shoulders, trying to shake some sobriety into him. "That's great that you're overjoyed, Han, but you kind of have to tell me what it is that will make everything such a good time." Han beamed and pulled Luke close, whispering carefully into his ear, the words so carefully spilling out from his mouth.
"You're gonna be an Uncle, kid."
Luke stood still, his eyes wide, nodding slowly until his own overjoyed smile crept on to his face. His sister and best friend were going to have a child – he was going to be an Uncle. The line that his father started would continue, there was another Organa, another Solo, and another Skywalker. Luke wrapped his arms around his friend and laughed into his shoulder, Han's excitement quickly bleeding over and being absorbed by the Jedi Knight.
He wondered if his father, the looming being that looked down from The Force, could sense his first grandchild slowly preparing for their arrival into this beautiful family. Luke's scars burned feverishly as he embraced his friend, ever so eager to share this child the knowledge he'd learned throughout these past few years, a chance to do things right for their family and for the memory of this child's grandfather.