On MyKnees

"Wonderful the mind of a child is." –Master Yoda

Un-betaed, I'm warning you! And I'm sorry this took so long, and that it's so short, but I got a virus. And then I got a writers block—but not for the next chapter! I just wanted to get this out now.

Chapter Three

" …you were like a brother to me."

The words faded away, and Luke couldn't quite grasp on to their meaning, but he knew he was angry. So, so very angry. It burned inside him hot and deep and it consumed him, the fury had to be unleashed.

"Don't try it."

The fury built inside him impossibly more so, it was bubbling and roaring at the very pit of himself. And from his own lips spilled words he couldn't understand. " …die!"

Everything was hot, the air was hard to breathe. It kept filtering through his lungs, making him want to choke, making him want to wheeze and cough. At the same time his legs were moving, leaping and running and sliding, shifting and pacing. His arms moved accordingly to the movements of his feet—block, strike, parry. His vision was filled with a fiery orange glow obscured every few minutes with a wave of dark ash, before it blew away almost lazily into rising steam. His feet shifted again, as though on its own accord, firm footing, and then a leap. Suddenly there was pain—no agony, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to crunch and crumble away, the heat and the bright orange light became blinding and unbearable in their intensity.

And then there was screaming, tons and tons of screaming that ripped from his throat, making it feel scratchy and raw. No one heard him, there was no help for him, there was never going to be any relief from this searing soul shattering agony… His body was shaking violently, he could feel it along with another voice shouting in his ear.

"Gfersh!"

His eyes flew open wide in panic as the voice finally registered, and the shaking of his shoulders promptly ceased. He exhaled sharply, his brain still on haywire and his body full of adrenaline. His sight swam blearily in the dim light until they focused on a face looming over him.

"Jactna," the mean faced Rodian sneered down at him. He gave Luke a final shove before he moved away, mumbling under his breath what Luke was sure was some kind of profanity. He just lay wherever he was for a moment, processing. He felt kind of dazed and very unsure who and where he was. He felt tired, very tired, but he also felt tight and tense, as though he was expecting an attack at any second. But clearly there was no danger if he was sleeping. He forced himself to relax, to loosen the muscles in his arms and legs, to slow down his ragged breathing. That was… a very confusing and rather frightening dream. And it had to be a dream because he saw no fierce orange lights eminating intense heat, he could breathe fine now, he couldn't smell anything burning, and the only voices he heard were soft hushed mumblings. He did feel pain however. He wrenched himself upwards into a sitting position from where he had been laying in a corner on the floor. His eyes immediantly zoomed onto the source of his discomfort, where he stared for a moment in bewildered fascination—his left hand. Wrapped around it was a dirty piece of cloth which obscured his view from what was obviously a serious injury if the pain was any indicator. The pain didn't seem to bother him for some reason, didn't seem to reach him. It was as if he was looking and feeling from another person's point of view, even though it made no sense. He began mindlessly unwrapping the strip of dirty cloth, figuring that he might as well see the damage and get rid of this cloth—it couldn't possibly be helping, it might even infect him. He winced when he got to the final layer which he ripped off in his haste. The cloth came away with several pieces of his skin, or what should have been skin. He made his fingers uncurl themselves (which was very challenging, as if they had been frozen that way for a while,) and his stomach plummeted to his toes. It was… ghastly. In the middle of his palm was a circle of burned marred flesh. The skin was puckered and swollen into tight pus filled blisters, flaming red with bits and pieces hanging on by mere threads. It looked bad, really bad, and it was even worse when he tried to flex his hand. The inside of his palm felt like melted gushy goo, and it freaked him out. He turned his palm over, and sure enough the exact same sight on both sides of his hand. Big red blistering circle. It hurt to move it in any way, which was not a good thing—he needed his hand! He was struck again by the dream. It was fire, fire fire it had managed to burn him. The thought was so surreal, how did it burn him? Suddenly upon looking at it, memories came rushing back to him. And he came to the horrible conclusion that he deserved this.

He had left her. He had left a poor frightened two year old child in the clutches of the Empire, and by now she was surely dead. All because of him. He could have done something, he knew he could have, but he hadn't. Instead he had run off and left her. Surely he could have endured being shocked in order to help her. He could have done anything, thrown something to get her released, he could have fought, he could have said he was a Force user too, that would have gotten their attention away from her for a moment, if nothing else. Instead of doing any of these things he had ran away because he was a wimp and couldn't handle being shocked for five minutes. And now there was a dead child somewhere, all because of Luke Skywalker. He forced his injured hand into a tight fist, welcoming the pain and feeling disgusted with himself. He sat that way loathing everything about life at the moment, until the ship gave a small lurch, and Luke could tell from the sound of the engines that they were about to exit hyperspace. Which meant he would be at his final destination very, very soon.

He got clumsily to his feet, still thinking about fire and little girls, hoping to find some kind of window. How had the Rodian known to wake him up anyway? Come to think of it, who had decided to wrap up his hand? It was a nice gesture, if not exactly sanitary. Luke was disappointed to discover there were no windows. This meant he would have no idea, none, on where he might be living for Force knows how long. He supposed he would find out eventually. And all he could do now was wonder, and try not to think too hard about what he would be doing. Or how final everything now felt. He had a sinking feeling that he was in deep bantha poodoo, and it was starting to register that he was most likely never getting out of it. His life would never go back to its original simplicity. No more baking with Aunt Beru. No more tinkering with droids and vaporators with Uncle Owen. No more mindless playing in the sands in front of his house, or with his toys in his room. No more Force lessons and interesting conversations with Obi Wan. No more space pilots with Biggs Darklighter. No more school. There would be no warm suns and cool blankets, no gentle caresses or anyone to care. He was utterly, completely alone. It all hit him, all the things he hadn't allowed himself to think about before now, it was all flooding his mind, crushing his chest and blocking his throat. He felt the incredible urge to cry and throw a tantrum. And much to his horror he felt wetness trailing down his cheeks.

He curled up on the floor into a ball, knees tucked to his chest with both injured and normal hands clutched into a tight fist. He bit down on his lower lip in an attempt to be quiet, in a vain attempt not to show the other children how he was currently losing it. His chest was rising and falling in jerky spasms, gasps and shudders, the tears kept coming along with the turmoil of his emotions, and he was powerless to stop it. It dimly crossed his mind that he needed to get himself together, they would be getting off the ship soon and were expected to be waiting in an orderly line so they could be neatly chained together and lead away. But that thought was fleeting at best. Maybe he would die, and it really wouldn't matter. He couldn't imagine what he was going to be forced to do when he got off—if he got off—but it could only at the very least be similar to working at Jabba's palace. Luke did not want to admit it, he didn't want the dawning comprehension of his predicament that he had always known but never let in—He was a slave. A slave with a chip who could be controlled, who had no rights. He didn't feel like a person, he didn't feel like he was seven. He couldn't fathom why this was all happening to him. Dreams of fire and getting burned. The guilt of not saving someone. The terror for himself. It was overwhelming. It seems that someone didn't want Luke to suffer more than necessary—even though he didn't show it very well—because Luke could feel the Rodian toeing his ribs and snarling at him. Luke was pretty certain he wanted him to get up and cooperate. When Luke refused to move he heard another loud "Gfersh!" He was then roughly grabbed around the shoulders and clumsily hauled upwards. The alien refused to look at him as he pushed Luke into the general direction of the other children who were already in a line. These children also looked away, but not before Luke glimpsed looks of pity and similar despair through his tears. He gave one last quiet shuddering gasp as he stumbled into line, frantically wiping at his face with the front of his ratty shirt. Still his pajama shirt. He wondered if he would get different clothes. He decided he really didn't care.

The very first thing Luke thought about Kessel was… glum. It was a chunk of rock, a kriffing asteroid. There were hills and mountains of rocks and caves everywhere, but little—next to no oxygen. The skies were gray and overcast, it's one sun was a sickly white glow, and the days were 26 standard hours, after that there would be only pitch blackness. It was cold, no freezing, constantly, all the time. The only reason any life could be sustained here was thanks to the oxygen generators that were placed strategically everywhere. There were still places you couldn't go without a special thermol suit—something Luke was going to be very familiar with. And why, if you might ask, does anyone think it's worth oxygen machines to live in this fabulous place?

The answer is glitterstim.

For the next five years of his life, Luke was going to find out more about Glitterstim than he ever wanted to know. Glitterstim was some kind of raw crystalline material that came in thin sharp grains of sticky sand. It could come in various colors, and types, depending on which spider you got the Ryll from. But Ryll was something rare and more special—most of your average spice is just Glitterstim. And what, may you ask, is Glitterstim? Glitterstim is this illegal substance (made of the fine crystals, which are produced by the spiders,) that can be used for increased brain activity, insight, and euphoria. So why do they not destroy the planet that is useless and possesses something like illegal drugs? Because the rare version—Glitterryll—can make miracles happen. Mentally and physically, apparently. It's not all illegal—it can be used for medicine and foods. But Luke felt his life was centered more around the illegal, unjust part of it all. It was a drug that fucked with your head, that's all he knew.

Oh, and hahaha!—Did he forget to mention? All of this spice and Glitteryll is mined up by prisoners. By slaves. The people who had to wear oxygen suits in the mines. The person who was in danger of getting their life energy sucked away or caved in on. The people who get no food, and cruel treatment. And he was going to be in the middle of it—the kriffing, kriffing middle—

Luke Skywalker felt he had the right to say "Kriff," repeatedly.

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It felt like there was a ball of lead in his stomach, and it was clawing at him from the inside out. It was a terrible burning and itching sensation that always filled him with dread. He couldn't get rid of it, and the more he thought about it the worst it got. The fear. The fear of being afraid, the fear of what he could become. Fear of the rage and lack of control. Fear of losing everything. He didn't understand it, he didn't know why he couldn't control his emotions, he knew why he was afraid, but he didn't know why it was affecting him so much. Or maybe he did know. No one could possibly understand how he was feeling, how desperate he was, how it ate at him every day, every hour and every minute.

Every second.

"Anakin, let out all emotions into the Force. There is peace, there is only the Force."

He was suppose to be able to let it go, to sink away and immerse himself, he was suppose to be able to be calm, to be centered. To wash away, to put his life and faith into the flowing waves and tides of tranquility and knowledge. He tried, oh how he tried. He took deep breaths, he relaxed his body, he focused. But there was always, always that feeling that nagged and gnawed. He knew the Force. He could direct it, he could use it to do seemingly impossible things.

But did the Force know him?

"In doing so, the Force will give you calm and alleviate all fears and all doubts. You will exist in the moment, and you will know exactly what to do."

Doubts? Well he had a lot of those. And frankly Master, I don't really believe this is working. Is my doubt a sign of lack of faith, and is that why this doesn't work for me, Master? Why doesn't it work for me? The Force can do anything. Except this one thing—and it's the one thing I need most. I need the knowledge, I need to know what to do, how to fix… Everything, how to fix everything. And I'm suppose to know, I have to know, I'm The Chosen One, the Hero With No Fear.

No fear.

No fear…

And it made him frusterated, angry. And that was what possibly scared him the most. The anger. It scared him because the anger felt good, it felt like control. But it wasn't, it couldn't possibly be, because anger was darkness. How was he suppose to win this war, how was he suppose to protect Padme, if he couldn't control himself?

Padme…

His heart ached every time he thought of her. How beautiful she was. How her smile warmed him, how her skin was creamy and soft, how her hair smelled so sweet, and her voice sounded so musical. His entire being changed when around her. He felt so strongly for her, he would break. She was his everything, his entire life. He would do anything with her, for her. That scared him too. Because he would shatter, break into irreparable tiny pieces without her—he could not dare lose her.

He couldn't lose her, so he wouldn't. He would have to do something, anything soon. He didn't know if he could bear seeing another woman he loved die. He didn't know if he could wait through his anxiety any longer—what if he did something really stupid in his seemingly forced distress? Palpatine would help him, at the very least there was someone who could help him. Palpatine always seemed to make things better somehow, his head was always so much more clear after he saw the good Supreme Chancelor.

What if he did something really stupid…

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A/N: I hope you guys can see the Xs, like for a page break. This net can be really uncooperative sometimes. But ah, tell me what you think!

Love your feedback, it makes me write faster!

P.S the good stuff begins next chapter, in my opinion. The real story.