The shadow took hold of her and the figure re-aggregated, faceless and legion once more. The mask, empty, was offered out once more to Luke, like some ritual bowl he was expected to spill his blood into.
Leia's hands trembled around the blaster pistol. "Don't," she warned, though she couldn't understand where her anxiousness was coming from.
With the Force swirling around all of them, it was downright intoxicating. Luke had to take a deep breath before his eyes focused on the mask in front of him. With serene patience, the Revanchist waited. And Luke lifted up his hands.
"Don't - don't!" Leia's voice went shrill in inexplicable terror. "I - I still outrank you! Don't you dare, that's an order!"
It was too late: the mask was already in his hands, and with one bold deliberate movement, he put it on. The shadows rushed to engulf him, and he staggered up, momentarily struggling before the blackness bound him tightly. He swayed to one side, then another, before finally falling back onto the ground. The shadows settled into something tangible: folds of dark cloth, arrayed in light battle armor. The mask was set in a hood where it finally seemed at home. And Leia could not see the blue of Luke's eyes.
After a long moment, the figure raised his head, squinting through the mask. The voice was Luke's, yet not Luke's at all: he spoke with a certain heavy accent, a remnant of the fact that he last spoke Basic thousands of years ago. Dizzy and confused, he murmured: "...Bastila?"
Two weeks later, Leia leaned in to catch Mon Mothma's ear.
"I know you asked me to give my opinion in all of this, but it's been..." Leia gulped solidly. "Interesting. Very interesting."
"The first question is whether Luke Skywalker is fit for duty, of course."
"Well. Yes. The problem is, I don't think he's Luke Skywalker anymore."
"I didn't think you were given to superstition," Mon Mothma said worriedly.
"Exactly," Leia said, putting a hand to her forehead. "I wouldn't even be entertaining the thought, but... well, you've spoken with him. Admiral Ackbar's been deeply impressed by his strategy and planning. He's become a rallying point for the troops, morale's never been higher - I don't know if it's even worth questioning who he is, when that's happening. But I've told you about how he went in to Jabba's palace and came out with Han - not a single shot fired, nobody even hurt. It was... amazing. And then the krayt dragon! I sent a holovid along..."
"I remember. I thought it was only mad kath hounds and Coruscantians that marched in the noon-day sun." Mon Mothma moved over to her desk before pouring out a drink for them both - cold herbal tea, kept in an elegant carafe. "Yet there he was, in black, striding across the desert. You see why I am a bit worried for his sake..."
"Please. There is no need to worry." A cheerful voice came from the doorway: Luke, or rather Revan, was there. He bowed at them both. "I merely wished to leave a token of thanks for Luke when I leave. A krayt dragon pearl is a valuable find, and will greatly improve his lightsaber." His face, behind the mask, was inscrutable as usual. But his manner was gentle and kind in a way that put them all at ease, especially when he gestured widely with his hands. "I do not intend on staying, so please, do not trouble yourselves." The odd, ancient accent made his voice have a unique lilt, oddly distinct from Luke's, yet so similar. "I will aid the Rebellion as much as I can, of course, with battle plans and resources."
A few other officials filtered into Mon Mothma's office as Revan continued speaking. "There are some things that only Skywalker can manage to do. Only he can face his father and ultimately bring redemption."
Mon Mothma's eyebrows knit in confusion. "Who would this be, exactly...?"
"Lord Vader, of course," Revan informed them cheerfully. As jaws dropped around the room, it seemed to take a moment for him to realize what was happening. "Oh... he hadn't informed you, I suppose?"
"No," Mon Mothma said, sounding quite flustered. "He hadn't."
"Oh." Revan's head dropped lightly, and he paused, looking exceptionally guilty. "Oh dear. You will have to inform him, when I'm gone, that I am terribly sorry about being such an awful houseguest..."
Vader's breathing slid in and out of him involuntarily, a steady cadence, the ticking of a metronome. Things had not gone as expected. Not at all. Vader had started dreading the name Revan out of reflex. Perhaps if he meditated, he could clear his mind of this cloudy obfuscation, and get back to the important business... the Empire, the Rebellion - and his son.
His mind had nearly drained away clean when a voice spoke, off to the side of his chair. "Vader."
The voice was familiar, and it made him jump and turn his head. A figure was there, hands clasped behind him, politely waiting for someone to take notice. The mask was eerie and familiar - of Mandalorian design - bold black and red. Revan. But the voice, save for the accent, was Luke's - it was his son's.
The figure held up a hand. "I am not here to settle your son's business, Lord Vader. Hold your breath and stay your hand." With patient, measured steps, Revan moved into full view, staring Vader down. "I've warned you once before, I believe. You remember my words?"
Vader's fists clenched on the armrests. "I do. Your advice is as useless now as it was before," he snarled.
"Refusing to see truth does not make it useless." Revan raised a hand again. "I have little time to argue, but there is still time for you. Instead of drowning in self-pity, take the help that is being offered you. Pride has held you back for far too long."
"Pride has nothing to do with it!"
"It has everything to do with it," Revan said, though his tone was mournful and understanding instead of chastising. "Your son will be meeting with you soon, Vader. All I ask is that you be ready for him."
"You have no place to demand anything of me," Vader snapped.
"And yet I do, as life does." Revan bowed at the waist, but as he straightened, the robes seemed to unravel. Cloth spun back into shadow, melting like liquid tar. The mask was the last to go, hitting the floor with a metallic clang and spinning like a penny, vertical than increasingly flat with each stroke before coming to a rest. The air aboard the Executor was normally dead still, but the Force pushed through a breeze, and the mask seemed to dissolve into grit, flying up into the air like grains of sand.
Many lightyears away, Luke Skywalker sat bolt upright, gasping. Immediately Leia greeted him with a hug: he was finally back home, as himself, and no-one else.
