Contrast: one thing that is strikingly dissimilar to another
It was loud here. Between the turbulent winds that raced and clashed in the upper levels of the city and the Force screaming in protest, he could hardly make out the sounds coming from the half-dead man propped against the window pane.
Barely, just barely, the last bit of his hoarse cackle reached his ears. At that point it was more of a gurgle, a compromise between a struggle to breath and a victorious chuckle. The Sith Lord turned his hideous features towards him and attempted a grin. A failure considering that his face had been horribly twisted, stretched, and shoved back together again by the unyielding, chaotic energy of his own lightning being turned against him.
The man responsible for such a horrid change was currently dozens of stories below and hundreds of yards away in a broken, mangled pile somewhere, never to move again.
Dead. Mace Windu was dead.
Anakin seemed to just now realize what exactly had happened in the last few minutes. He almost gagged.
The twisted lump of flesh sitting on the edge of what would be a rather dizzying fall grunted in protest and struggled to his feet. Anakin watched him steady himself and then start towards him, seeming to ooze across the floor like blue milk that had thickened and gone bad. Only this monster had never been remotely good in the first place.
Anakin watched him and he did nothing. He couldn't make himself move. The immense guilt of what he'd just done glued his feet in place and all he could do was drop backwards and sit, not even feeling the weight of his Jedi robes settle and pull on his shoulders.
Padme. She's in danger. I need him...
Yes. He needed this man, this Sith, this monster. This black hole of stifling, rotting darkness. He needed him and he hated himself for that.
Was this love? What he'd just done? She wouldn't have wanted me to...
Outwardly, he was a mess. Anyone could have seen the conflicting emotions, even heard them in the things he was muttering to himself. In the end, he bowed his head and submitted to the darkness pulling at him. He submitted in hopes that she wouldn't suffer and die. I need him... I need him...
Was this love?
"Rise, Lord Vader."
He rose and composed himself, seemingly confident that he had made the right decision.
On the inside, he wept.
~~OOO~~
It was quiet here. Between the dimly lit area he was standing in and the eerily blank presence of the Force, he was sure that even the man currently staring at him through half-lidded, sickly yellow eyes could hear his thoughts as clearly as if he'd spoken them.
"Goooood..." he'd wheezed, gurgled, spit out, whatever it was that ancient thing did.
He'd heard him, though. The Force had rumbled ominously, warning him of what he already knew. That this monster was evil in its purest form, and that its manipulating, deceiving words were not to be heard, or even considered.
Unfortunately, Luke felt himself already being pulled at. The Sith was playing a game that he was very, very good at and had been the victor of for many years. A game his father had played and lost.
Luke stared at the man sprawled on the cold, unyielding surface, close to what would surely be a fatal fall. He was a pile of black synthetic armor weave and wires, some of which were sparking and frayed. The result of the blow that had ended the final duel.
And it would be the final duel. The end of it all.
"Take your father's place," the dark one hissed. "Fulfill your destiny."
Power. He would have so much, did have so much. He had just defeated his own father, rumored to be the most powerful wielder of the Force the galaxy had ever seen.
His father...
The wires sparked continuously, drawing his attention towards what was left of the appendage. His eyes flitted to his own prosthetic, over the smooth, flexible material of the glove that covered it. For a brief moment, he wondered how his father had lost that arm to begin with, how he'd ended up more machine than man.
But he knew the answer already, and it surely hadn't been as a powerful Sith Lord, second in command over the entire galaxy.
No. He had been defeated by the light. Crippled forever, never to be whole again.
Until now. Luke could make him whole.
His fist clenched as he turned around and flicked his wrist, sending the lightsaber flying. "Never," he declared through gritted teeth. "I will never turn to the dark side."
Then he knew nothing for the next minute, for the spasms of his muscles caused by the overwhelming jolts of the electrical currents running through him were too painful for him to even think.
I'm going to die. This is the end...
It stopped. There was a brilliant flash of light and then everything was silent again. Outwardly, his face betrayed his disbelief. His father was propped against the railing, dark suit smoking and melting in places where it had been thoroughly scorched.
He's going to die.
There was no way he was going to live through that. No way. All he could do was share in his last few moments, talk with him, actually be with him for the first time...
And the last time. Sometimes, life was cruel.
"I've got to save you," he stated, desperate for a chance to really know his father. Surely there was something he could do.
He's going to die.
"You already... have..."
No, the Force whispered, a calm, soothing presence that he knew was light. He's going to live.
Outwardly, he watched his father breathe his last breath, felt him go limp in his arms, watched him leave this life forever. His face betrayed none of what he was truly feeling. Sadness, despair, heartache, and in the middle of it all, overwhelming joy. Relief.
Outwardly, there was nothing.
On the inside, he wept. He wept for them both.
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