Some warnings for dark thoughts and slavery.
Rule of Two: When Vader is given a Force-sensitive slave as a gift, he plots to use him to overthrow his Master.
As a general fact of his life, Vader did not like Tatooine. The sand got in his joints; the sun made his suit feel more like a sweltering prison than life support; the locals were always dim and uncooperative towards him.
And if he had other, more personal reasons for hating a dustball most sentient beings agreed was the planet furthest from the bright centre of the galaxy. . . no one needed to know.
No one, except the Emperor, which was why Vader was fuming right now. Palpatine knew full well how much he hated Tatooine, knew full well that he would rather he never set foot on this planet again. So why assign him the oh-so-important task of negotiating with Jabba for safe passage through Hutt Space? They would have vanquished the Hutts soon enough, wiped their stain from the galaxy, so why bother in the first place?
He knew why.
He'd failed him.
It wasn't anything in particular, but there'd been a string of Rebel attacks recently and he'd failed to punish the perpetrators. . . adequately. Some had escaped.
Some hadn't.
Palpatine, nonetheless, was severely displeased with his overall performance and was not shy about informing him so. Therefore, this.
He did not allow himself to feel relief as he strode into the heavily shadowed entrance of Jabba's palace, but it was more pleasant in there than outside.
The Hutt was waiting for him when he strode in, flanked by stormtroopers. The gaggle of bounty hunters and other filth fell silent at his appearance. Another man might have briefly wondered what he looked like to them—an angel of death, clad in black? A shadowy embodiment of the Empire that so threatened their wealth?—but he was Darth Vader. He had been Darth Vader, right hand of the Emperor, for nearly fifteen years now.
He did not care what they thought of him.
"Jabba," he thundered, crossing his arms across his chest. He knew he was standing over the trapdoor, could sense the rancor shifting beneath him, but that wasn't something he cared about either. "I am here to represent the intentions of the Emperor, and they are these: You will ally with us, allow us to pass through your space in search of the Rebels, or we will destroy you."
It was a fair ultimatum, he thought. Far fairer than Jabba deserved, or than Vader had advocated for. Saying the words even left a bad taste in his mouth.
But what irked him even more than the ultimatum itself was just how hilarious Jabba seemed to find it.
His booming laugh rang throughout the entire room. Bib Fortuna smirked to himself slightly, then made a sharp gesture with his right hand. Nothing happened.
He gestured again, even more sharply.
This time, a young boy came forward. Malnourished and beaten down, his face skeletal, he looked just about ready to collapse and never get back up again. He stood trembling next to Fortuna, face stony as the Twi'lek hissed something at him. He didn't flinch at the grip on his shoulder, despite the way the nails seemed to dig in deep enough to draw blood.
Vader narrowed his eyes at him. Something. . . something about the way the Force flickered around him. . .
"Your directness is impressive, little man, but these negotiations have yet to begin," Jabba said in Huttese, the words powerful for all their rasping.
A scuffed silver protocol droid staggered forward to translate. "The honourable Jabba—"
"I need no translation, Hutt," Vader spat. "I have stated the Empire's terms. You will accept them."
"Perhaps. You are clearly a very powerful man, Vader. And since I have no interest in making an enemy of the Empire," he waved one hand; Fortuna used his grip on the boy's shoulder to shove him forward, leaving crimson scratches embedded in his skin, "I have a gift for you."
Vader watched dispassionately as the boy kneeled before him. "I do not respond well to bribes."
"No bribes here. Simply a. . . gesture of goodwill. I have heard you are assembling a new order of Jedi such as yourself—"
His lightsaber was lit and levelled at the Hutt before he even thought about it. "I am no Jedi. Push me, and I will demonstrate it personally."
"Heh. Maybe so. But I have heard about your servants, the Inquisitors, and would like to offer one of my finest slaves as an addition. You will find him similarly. . . gifted."
Finest slaves? Vader glanced at the boy and snorted.
But they were always looking to indoctrinate new blood into the Inquisitorius, and a young boy—already a slave, beyond that—would prove easily malleable. . .
He reached out with his mind to assess whether or not the Hutt's claim was true, if he did have the Force—
And reeled in shock.
It was with great effort that he didn't move, only tilting his head as if to observe the boy. But inside, his mind was spinning. Because this boy— this boy was a powerhouse.
"Similarly gifted?" he asked aloud, somewhat dryly, in an attempt to cover up his momentary lack of composure. He had no time for political games, but as long as Jabba kept talking—he did so love the sound of his own voice—he could continue to study his. . . gift.
He was small for whatever age he was—he looked to be around eleven or twelve—and it belied the power he held. He glanced up at Vader through his raggedy blond hair, then quickly glanced down again when he noticed Vader still watching him.
"He has been known to cause. . . unusual. . . things to happen. The trader who gifted him to me said he was lucky."
"Lucky." There was no such thing as luck—perhaps one of the only true things his old Master had ever said. There was only the Force.
And the Force was certainly with this boy.
"I accept your gift," Vader said. "He will be a fine addition to the Emperor's collection."
"Good. Now the negotiations can truly begin."
The negotiations were long, and pointless, and Vader was more than done with that disgusting planet when he finally boarded the shuttle to return him to the Devastator. The stormtroopers that had accompanied him into the palace now escorted the boy to follow. He gave little resistance, weak and injured as he was, though through the Force Vader was please to feel anger spark every time a trooper accidentally jostled him. The boy was so bright, brimming with fury; he would make a marvellous Sith.
Because Vader had no interest in giving him to the Inquisitors.
He had more potential than all of them combined. If properly trained, not broken in and conditioned to bow before a poor leader, he would be unstoppable.
Not to mention, making him an Inquisitor would put him within the Emperor's reach.
Vader had tired of Palpatine's rule. It had taken years, but he was finally sick of his petty punishments, this Death Star that swallowed so many Imperial resources, constantly bowing and scraping and calling someone Master.
He had joined the Jedi to be free of slavery. He had joined the Sith to be free of the Jedi.
He would kill his Master to be free of him, as well.
His plans had been disjointed before now, parsecs from fruition. They were still no closer, but they were clearer—and despite Vader's ineptitude with foresight, he knew this boy would be important in them.
He studied him in the light of the shuttle as it ascended to the Star Destroyer waiting in orbit.
He wanted to train him as his apprentice—so he would.
But how would he go about it?
He had already begun to vet officers to support him in his coup, root out the Emperor's spies from his ship. He could viably keep the boy in his quarters, acquire some measly mat or cot for him to sleep on; it would no doubt be luxury compared to what he was used to. But. . .
How would he keep people from suspecting anything? He could not hide a person, not easily—they would require food, water, sanitation. . . The boy would inevitably be discovered.
And if he was, Palpatine might seize him. He was young now, but when older he could prove a valuable replacement for Vader as he ailed further.
So he couldn't keep his presence a secret. How, then, could he keep him close enough to train, but without anyone asking questions?
The shuttle had docked with the Devastator before he had the answer.
Few were waiting to meet him, as per his request. The captain was starting to grow accustomed to how much he hated unnecessary pomp. But one person who was standing by the ramp when it was lowered, falling into a respectful half-step behind him when he disembarked, was his aide.
"I trust your negotiations were fruitful, my lord?"
"They were." He accepted the report the man offered him and perused it noncommittally. The ship had not fallen apart in his absence; that was all he needed to know. For now, he had more pressing, important matters to think about than his aide—
He stopped walking mid-step. Half the entourage nearly crashed into him.
His aide, however, neatly side-stepped and stood, back straight, to meet his gaze. "Is something wrong, my lord?"
Vader was silent for three cycles of his respirator.
During this time, he studied the man, mind whirring. He had quarters near to Vader's, spent a great deal of time with him, naturally, and no one thought twice of it.
Someone might think twice about Lord Vader taking on an eleven-year-old boy as his aide, he supposed, but no one would dare question him. And if Palpatine himself questioned. . .
He could tell him the truth—part of it. Tell him the boy was mildly Force-sensitive, and that he felt a aide with the Force would be of more use to him than one without it. And if he could train the boy to shield his true potential, to continue with that deception. . .
He turned his head away and kept walking.
The stormtroopers escorted the boy to the quarters kept free for when Inquisitors accompanied Vader onboard; his aide went to his rooms for the night; Vader went to his hyperbaric chamber to solidify his plan.
Tomorrow morning, his aide might find himself slightly short of breath.
It would hardly be the first time. Being aide to Lord Vader was practically a death sentence; few had lasted more than three weeks. This one had lasted five, which was impressive, but Vader would not mourn his passing in any way.
That would be step one.
Step two was to summon the boy to his quarters.
Luke's shoulder hurt.
Bib Fortuna's fingernails had left their marks, digging so far down he bled, the cuts stinging as mercilessly as they'd been inflicted. But he didn't allow so much as a flicker of pain to cross his face when the stormtroopers took him by that shoulder—the disdainful amusement he felt from them implied it was deliberate—and pushed him onto the shuttle. He just let his anger grow.
Every time they bashed into him—also on purpose; he could tell—he let it grow more.
He could sense some cold being watching him. If he lifted his head slightly to peer forward, he was fairly sure it was the negotiator Jabba had gifted him to—Darth Vader, they'd called him.
Luke had heard stories about Lord Vader. The mystical power he wielded. If Jabba was to be believed, Luke's talent for unusualness was the same.
And despite himself, Luke hoped Vader would teach him how to use it.
He shouldn't. He should be looking for an opportunity to escape, like he always did when passed onto a new Master, until they grew angry and punished him. He always let them grow complacent after that, but mainly because there was nothing he could do.
His unusualness only enabled him to reverse stones thrown at him, keep the sand out of his face, or—on one particularly stressful occasion—toss his Master clean across the room.
He'd been quickly sold, after that.
In his untrained, helpless state, his gift was just as much inconvenience as assistance. Because of it, he'd survived where a boy taken as a slave ten years before shouldn't have; because of it, he'd been passed around like a lucky charm, to be toyed with and amused by, until he was more trouble than he was worth.
Trouble.
Luck flocked to him like flies to a carcass, but so did trouble.
His head down, a smile curled his lips. He hoped Lord Vader was ready for it.
The man in question wasn't looked at him anymore. Instead, he was staring straight ahead as they got off the shuttle into a massive hangar and strode through a corridor. But Luke could feel his attention latched onto him anyway, like the cold sludge of oil sliding down his back. He wondered what he was thinking.
A trooper kicked the back of his foot. "This way," he ordered, the mechanical tone unsympathetic and unyielding. Vader kept walking straight ahead, but Luke was led into a set of chambers a few doors down from where the Dark Lord stopped.
He blinked when he saw them.
He'd been owned by several rich Imperials before; he knew what luxury looked like. The upper elite he assumed Lord Vader belonged to were rolling in it, bought from the blood of billions of slaves. The room he was showed into was not luxury—a far cry from it.
But it had a bed. It had a wardrobe. It had a refresher.
That was more than Luke could remember having in his entire life.
The trooper shoved him inside. "A meal will be delivered to you this evening. Inquisitors' clothes are in the wardrobe. Lord Vader will send for you in the morning."
Then he left, the door hissing shut without a word of goodbye. Luke heard it lock behind him.
So. Whatever an Inquisitor was, they were still slaves. Or, at least, not allowed to leave.
Or it might just be him who wasn't considered trustworthy yet.
He didn't blame them.
But, as long as he was being left alone. . . He checked inside the wardrobe. The dark grey and black uniforms that greeted him were a welcome sight; they looked much cleaner than his current rags. Less chance of infection.
Speaking of infection. . .
He glanced down at his shoulder. It was by no means the worst injury he'd ever received—almost negligible, really—but as long as he had access to a 'fresher, he might as well clean it out.
Then, he decided, he would sleep.
After a night cycle's worth of meditation and musing on how to proceed with this sudden plan of his, Vader sent for the boy.
He could sense him as he meditated, a bright ball of spite and anger and pain in the Force that only dimmed slightly in sleep. He would be a perfect vassal of the dark side.
So Vader didn't waste any time the next morning. He entered the Inquisitors' quarters once the boy had woken, not bothering to announce his presence as the door slid open.
The boy yelped, an inordinate amount of fear flashing through him for someone Vader was fairly sure hadn't done anything.
But he had been a slave, he supposed. He was no doubt used to being punished for the slightest infractions.
Playing upon that fear would be the smartest course of action. Ignite more anger in him, more hatred, until he was consumed by it.
But Vader found himself strangely hesitant to do so.
The boy had been a slave—still was a slave. It hit a little too close to home to torment him thus.
The detonator, tucked into a compartment on his belt, was heavy.
The boy had recovered from his shock, now—instead, he stared at Vader with narrowed blue eyes.
"I am sure you have questions," Vader said to fill the silence.
"I hadn't realised I was allowed to ask them," he bit back, slightly belligerently. So that was the way he was. Vader had no doubt he'd be as obedient as ever, eventually, but first he was trying to test the waters. Get a feel for how harsh his new Master would be.
That thought also gave a nasty twist in his gut, and he made his decision.
"You can do whatever you want," he told him coolly. He reached into the compartment on his belt and tossed the detonator to him. The boy flinched, but caught it and stared in confusion. "You are no longer a slave. I will not pay for an operation to remove the transmitter from your body, but you can control where you go, so long as you carry that detonator." Jabba's minions had already confirmed that the range of the transmitter was tied to the detonator, not a particular location.
The boy frowned, studying it, then looked back up again.
With a the wariness of anyone who has lived on Tatooine, he asked, "But?"
Vader folded his arms across his chest. "But I will treat you no different than I would any other Force-sensitive." He could see the understanding cross the boy's face as he processed what Force-sensitive would mean—and how it tied to his gifts. "You are a threat if you run amok throughout the galaxy. You are a powerful Force-sensitive, one of the most powerful I've ever encountered; you can either let me train you, show you how to use the power you wield, or you will make life very, very difficult for yourself."
"You mean you'll make life difficult for me?"
"Yes."
The boy snorted. "Life has always been difficult to me."
"Have you ever had a Sith Lord hunt you through every war-torn corner of the galaxy?" Vader asked, his voice going deadly soft. "Have you ever had to navigate the worlds alone? Even without me as your enemy, I doubt you would last long before being snapped up by slavers again."
There was a moment of silent. The boy's fear coloured the Force, but he swallowed and said, "What would training with you be like?"
"It will not be easy." Vader's words were harsh; he would rather win the boy over with cold truths than pretty lies. He doubted he would believe anything pretty, anyway. "You may die from the pain of training. The dark side will give, but it takes and it takes."
He could see he had the boy's interest—or, at least, he'd won his respect with his honesty. But he seemed genuinely curious about his own ability when he asked, "And what does it give?"
"Power beyond your wildest dreams."
He snorted, and looked away, but Vader could feel his yearning through the Force. He wanted power, lusted after it.
He was tired of being powerless.
He wanted more.
"You are too powerful for the Inquisitorius. I will train you instead, as my apprentice. I expect you to be totally obedient to me, as your Master, or face my wrath, but you need not be to anyone else on the ship. When you speak on my behalf, they will obey you."
The want and the yearning increased. They began to show on the boy's face as he glanced down at the detonator in his hand and carefully, oh so carefully, turned it over. And over. And over.
Vader could sense that he was hesitant to trust him. Understandable.
But the boy was clever enough to recognise everything he said as the truth. He didn't know how to survive in the galaxy on his own, he was a child, and he was scared. Vader would make up less harsh lies if he was lying, and he wouldn't bother inflating Luke's importance just to scare him. If he left, he would be hunted down.
And he wanted to learn about this ability of his. He wanted to never be powerless again.
Fear, anger; curiosity, cleverness, lust for power. It was a near-perfect mix for someone to embrace the dark side.
There was only one thing missing: hate.
So Vader said, "And if you are talented enough, when the times comes that the Hutts are no longer assets to the Empire, I will allow you the task of destroying them."
The boy's hand closed around the detonator.
"Alright," he said, "I'll join you."
Vader smiled underneath the mask. The dark side seemed to revel in its victory, wrapping itself around that bright presence—and it was bright, it was blinding. He would make a powerful Sith.
Certainly powerful enough to overthrow his Master.
He tilted his head and observed him.
. . .powerful enough to overthrow him?
Perhaps.
Vader was the Chosen One. The greatest treasure of the Sith, once the most powerful Jedi. But. . . perhaps.
And perhaps he should take measures now to prevent that from happening.
Or to prevent the very real threat of the boy going to Palpatine, revealing his secrets. He was clearly smart enough to work out that if Vader considered his power worth using, the Emperor would.
On second thought, the risk of him trying to play both of them was a great threat indeed. He was young, he was whole, and most importantly, he was powerful. Palpatine would have little to no qualms about replacing Vader with him, as his Sith apprentice.
Perhaps Vader should kill him now. Annihilate that threat before it could even form.
But even as his hand drifted towards his lightsaber, his ambitions rose like a phoenix from the ashes of Mustafar and whispered that you could rule, with his help.
His hand dropped back to his side.
"So what is your name, young one?" he asked, falsely gentle. If he wanted the boy's loyalty, he would have to earn it, and that involved forming an emotional connection—at least on the boy's part.
The boy watched him, suspicious, but after a moment he admitted, "Luke."
"Luke." It wasn't a bad name. It was, even, a name she had suggested for their child all those years ago, but he shoved that thought violently aside when he felt the room begin to cool. "No last name?"
"I've been in slavery for as long as I can remember. I've never known it."
Vader was almost sympathetic—almost. Names mattered when you were a slave, especially on Tatooine; they were something no Master could ever take from you. To have never had one in the first place. . .
Names are all we have left, Ani, his mother had always said.
One day, you'll understand.
"No parents?"
"Dead."
"Have you any idea how old you are?"
"I have an idea," Luke snapped. "Fourteen, fifteen. Ish."
Vader raised the patch of skin that used to bear eyebrows. That was a far cry from the estimate he'd made, but he supposed malnourishment and abuse had taken their toll on a young slave's growth.
"I see," he said. He did see. It wasn't like he himself had any more than a vague idea of when his birthday was.
Deciding that was enough personal information to be getting on with, he clasped his hands behind his back. "Would you prefer to commence your training now, or tomorrow?" Giving the boy the choice would allow for the illusion of control, something he'd no doubt craved for years. He would not give it to the Inquisitors—did not care, in fact, whether or not the Inquisitors were loyal to him—but Luke was different.
If he played his cards right, Luke would give him the galaxy.
He wondered briefly if this was what his Master had felt when he'd first laid eyes on Anakin Skywalker all those years ago, but quickly dismissed the thought. He had more important things to worry about.
Luke was still watching him carefully.
He didn't trust him. Clever, but problematic. That cleverness could be a threat to him, or an asset.
Whether or not he convinced him he was worthy of trust would determine which.
"Tomorrow," Luke said. It was clearly a test—how much was Vader willing to give, to wait, for this?—but that response suited Vader fine. Either option would have been fine; he would never give the boy control, unless he was sure that he had control in turn.
"Very well, then," he said. "I shall return tomorrow. In the meantime, you may entertain yourself with any of the number of datapads and chips in this room," he nodded to the shelf stacked full of them, "or access the holonet. Meal will be brought to you at twelve-hundred hours and eighteen-hundred hours."
"Will I be allowed to leave?" he asked immediately.
Vader hesitated. He didn't want to restrict him—that would not help gain his loyalty—but nor did he want too many officers learning of the existence of a new 'Inquisitor' on board. News might get back to his Master, leading to questions he couldn't answer.
"You may access the training room directly opposite," he finally said. "However, for reasons I will explain to you later, your presence on this ship will remain a secret. If you are seen by anyone other than those I send to you, you will find yourself invoking my. . . displeasure."
He'd already stated his threats; this one rolled off Luke's back like water. But he nodded.
"Yes, my lord," he said. Whether the title was habitual deference, a sign of genuine growing respect, or just him adapting to the obsequience expected of him from now on, Vader didn't know. But he lowered himself to one knee as he said it, and bowed his head.
Soon, Vader thought, everyone would bow to him like that. The way he bowed to Palpatine.
He nodded once. "Good."
Then he left the room.
Luke lifted himself out of that uncomfortable kneeling position the moment Vader was gone.
His sixth sense—Force-sensitivity, had Vader called it?—told him the man had been pleased by the gesture. He didn't know why he'd done it, other than his experience of powerful men expecting the devotion of everything from the people who served them, but he supposed that so long as it softened Vader up he didn't care.
He glanced around, wondering what he was to do now. Vader had mentioned reading datapads, but that was useless. He would have to cultivate that skill later, no doubt, but until then. . .
He contemplated going back to bed, then grimaced. If training was anywhere near as physical as it sounded, sleeping wouldn't be a problem in the future. It would probably be better to try and actually get some muscle onto his bony frame.
With that, and another grimace, he punched the button to open the door—not locked, this time!—and headed to the training room.
The training began the next day, when Luke was woken violently by a cold blast of something against his mind.
He choked and bolted upright, clutching his head. That searing lance was cold—colder than anything he'd ever felt, so cold that it burned, and it was burrowing into his brain and it hurt—
Defend yourself! a voice barked. . . directly into his mind? It just made his head spin further.
He clenched his teeth together. Focused on that cold, cold lance and pushed—no, you don't get to see inside my head, that's the one thing that's mine, get out of there—
The lance vanished.
Vader strode into his room when Luke was still clutching his head. "That was good," he praised, though Luke could feel only impatience from him. "Now, get up and get into the training room."
"Yes, Master," he grumbled, and got to his feet.
The training room was much the same as it had been yesterday. No viewports, one door, but the walls were lined with racks upon racks of weapons. One of them—the very top one, well out of Luke's reach—held silver cylinders like the one Vader carried at his belt. Luke had peered up at them the previous day, wondering what they for, but quickly moved onto exploring the other weapons. It wasn't like he'd had anything else to do—he had no idea how to use any of them.
But he didn't have long to examine them today. Vader strode to the middle of the room, where he gestured for Luke to sit down on a mat on the floor.
Not seeing any point in resisting petty things like that, Luke sat.
Vader stayed standing, folding his hands behind his back and towering over him. "What do you know about the Force?"
Luke shuffled back slightly so he didn't have to crane his neck to look at the mask. "I. . . not much , my lord," he said. "I can guess that it's the reason strange things happen to me, why I can feel other people's emotions sometimes, and how you managed to invade my mind this morning."
Vader nodded once. "Good. Is that all you know?"
After a moment, Luke nodded his confirmation.
"Then I will explain what it is to you in full. It's a energy field created by all living things. Some people, including you and I, are born with the ability to manipulate it and bend it to our will. Cults of Force-sensitive beings have existed for almost as long as life itself, but the two largest, most recent ones are the Jedi and the Sith."
"I thought the Jedi were wiped out," Luke said without thinking, then bit his tongue. He knew how Masters reacted to slaves speaking out of turn; slaver or not, Vader wouldn't let that slide—
But he did.
Vader just let him speak and, when he was finished, said, "Not quite. Hunting down the remaining Jedi is the job of the Inquisitorius. They also find other Force-sensitives and either recruit them to serve the Empire, or destroy them."
He paused, as if to gauge Luke's reaction to the news, but Luke said nothing. Vader had already threatened as much.
"Who are the Sith, then?" he asked instead.
"I am a Sith Lord. So is the Emperor. Where the Jedi use serenity—the light side—to achieve the bare minimum of their potential," the disgust in Vader's voice was palpable, "we use our passion and emotions. The dark side—the only way to true power. That is the side of the Force I will be teaching you."
Luke nodded. That seemed logical. Why mess around with the scraps, if you could have it all?
In his experience, you took what you could get and you didn't give anything back.
"Are the Inquisitors Sith Lords?"
"No." Luke blinked in shock, then— "The rule of two is a fundamental part of the Sith. There is only ever a Master and an apprentice. Palpatine is the Master; I am the apprentice. The Inquisitors are our servants to help hunt down surviving Jedi."
Luke frowned. Something here didn't add up.
"So," he asked, "what am I?"
Vader hesitated, then there was a flash between their minds—an image. A red beam, a blade, run through a wrinkled man who looked a lot like Emperor Palpatine. . .
Luke's eyes blew wide.
"You're my apprentice," Vader said.
Luke shook his head. "But—"
"The nature of the rule of two is that the Master teaches the apprentice, until the apprentice is powerful enough to rise up and destroy him, then take on his own apprentice. It's not unusual for the apprentice to train someone to assist them in their coup, with said trainee becoming the apprentice once they become the Master."
"You want me to overthrow the Emperor with you?" Luke said that probably a bit too loudly, but he didn't care. He shot to his feet, fists clenched. He was— He'd been a slave, yesterday! His detonator was still in his quarters! And now. . .
"Yes," Vader said, voice cold, "you were a slave." Luke forced himself not to blink at the casual reading of his mind. "And do you know whose authority has allowed slavery to flourish?" Luke didn't answer. "Palpatine's. Once I am Emperor—and I will be Emperor, with or without your help—I will abolish it entirely, the way not even the Republic managed. And, as promised, I will give you the honour of slaughtering the Hutts."
Luke went still, thinking. All the options he'd had yesterday flashed to mind. He could run, and be chased. He could stay, and be trained. Or. . .
He lifted his gazed to meet Vader's, knowing he'd sensed that thought, but considered it anyway. He could stay, be trained, and if he got cold feet he could run to the Emperor with the knowledge that Vader was plotting against him.
It was risky—there was no guarantee, especially with the Empire's brutality, that Luke wouldn't be punished severely as well. But if Vader thought he was powerful enough to use him instead of kill him, wouldn't Palpatine as well?
It was risky. But so was everything, apparently, when he was Force-sensitive.
"Alright," he said, meeting Vader's stare. Belligerent, he had always been called—and he was nothing if not belligerent now. "I'll help you in your coup, if you teach me how to use the Force."
I'll do what you want, as long as you give me power.
Vader only nodded, but Luke could sense his triumph through— through the Force.
Huh. He had a name for it.
"Then I shall begin your training now," he said, and placed a credit chip in front of him.
For a moment, Luke fought the urge to pocket it. But he just stared instead, before shooting Vader a questioning glance.
"Lift it."
Luke pinched his lips together, scrunched up his nose, and focused—
"Use your anger, your hatred. They will make you more powerful."
Luke obeyed.
Cold rushed through him. His focus sharpened to a crystal clarity; everything around him rung like a bell; a tingling rushed down his arm, through his mind, as he stretched out his hand to lift it. . .
It took a great deal of time, and effort, but by the end of the hour, it was hovering in front of him like a puppet dancing on his strings.
The boy picked things up fast. Vader had to give him that. It took him an hour to reliably levitate the credit chip, send it twirling around his head, even, and after Vader threw two more in he adapted to that quickly, keeping them all in orbit like planets around a star.
Once he was done with that, Vader summoned the three credit chips to hand, breaking the spell. The pleasure the boy radiated as he played with them was probably the happiest he'd sensed from him, but it wouldn't help him in the dark side. So he stopped it.
There was a stab of disappointment—the anger the boy was so full of—then the flare receded, and he was again looking up at Vader expectantly. Not obedient or faithful, but willing to listen.
Vader knew he'd have to keep him that way. Now that the boy had figured out what was going on. . .
He'd sensed the duplicity in him, and he knew that Luke knew he'd sensed it. It was as much a challenge as anything else: prove that he was worthy of loyalty, or Luke would betray him.
He could just end the danger now, he supposed, his hand once again drifting, as always, to the lightsaber at his belt. . .
But killing Luke felt like killing his dreams; even if he was sure he could eventually make Emperor without him, he wanted an apprentice with this much raw power under his command. And something further held him back, a whisper of the Force, something. . .
He didn't know what. But the Force had never led him astray—only people had done that—so he would trust it. He wouldn't kill him.
He would earn his loyalty instead.
And that, he thought begrudgingly, meant compromise.
"In order to keep your status as my apprentice a secret from the Emperor, it must be a secret from everyone," he said, folding his hands behind his back and beginning to stride the length of the room as he talked. "He has spies everywhere. And if he learns of your existence, he will kill you and punish me." A not-so-subtle jab at the backup plan the boy had no doubt been forming. "Which might set our plans back a few years."
Luke didn't fail to pick up the sarcasm in his voice; the corner of his lip curled up in a smirk.
Vader could respect someone who appreciated sarcasm.
"So we will keep it a secret by presenting another perfectly reasonable explanation for why you are near me all the time. You will be my aide."
There was a moment of stunned silence. Luke blinked. "Your aide?"
"Yes."
"Don't you have an aide?"
"He can be taken care of. The stormtroopers who escorted you to your room already have been."
To Luke's credit, he didn't flinch at that. Perhaps he'd worked in Imperial service before.
Instead, he worried at his bottom lip. "There's one problem with that, my lord."
"And what, exactly, is that?"
"I can't read."
Now it was Vader's turn to stand in stunned silence. "You. . . can't read?"
"No. An old woman taught me my alphabet when I was little, but I barely remember any of it." A slightly deprecating smile tugged at his mouth; Vader wasn't sure who it was deprecating towards. "I'm not sure I'll be able to reply to emails when I can't read."
"I see." It was hard to keep the anger out of his voice, despite that it was a minor thing. Irksome, messed with his plans, but. . . minor.
He could have the aide teach him, he supposed. But he knew Palpatine had spies near him—he'd been planning on dispatching this aide as fast as possible even without the discovery of this boy—and there was no guarantee the man wasn't one of them.
No, he realised with daunting horror. He would have to teach him himself.
He could teach Luke how to read, and perform the functions of an aide. The boy was smart, it might take. . . three months. Two, if he pushed it. He could kill off his current aide, go through the usual round of fodder that were his subordinates, then install Luke the moment he was ready and he had a suitable infraction to kill the previous aide for.
Two months was a long time to keep a teenage boy on his ship without his Master knowing.
But he could do it.
It was risky, but he could do it.
If anything, anyway, it was Luke's life on the line, not his. Palpatine wouldn't kill his servant for something that was expected of him. And he didn't care what happened to Luke, as long as he got into power and had a strong apprentice once he did.
He knew it wasn't that which bothered him about him.
Teaching someone to read was oddly. . . paternal. It implied care, or closeness, or. . . love.
The only child he would ever have been paternal towards died nearly fifteen years ago in its mother's womb.
If he had stopped to think about that fact that that was around how old Luke believed himself to be, it might have given him pause. But he didn't.
So instead he thought, Loyalty means compromise.
They didn't begin the reading lessons there and then. Vader was the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Fleet: he had a job to do, so he left Luke alone on the training room floor, doing his best to practice his levitation. The whole time he stood on the bridge, staring out at the stars, he mulled over the daunting prospect of what he'd have to teach him.
They began Luke's reading lessons the next day.
Vader had acquired—surreptitiously, of course—materials used by most younglings to practice writing. The standardised Imperial books would do, he decided.
And if he felt Luke bristle slightly at being compared to someone a quarter his age, well, Vader cared nothing for it. If anything it was amusing.
Luke felt that amusement. It just kindled his anger further, the way Vader was teaching him to do.
He had only vague memories of his mother tracing the letters in the sand, then Obi-Wan tracing the letters on paper, so he just had Luke do that: trace the letters over and over, until he'd nearly gone mad. Aurek, Besh, Cresh. Aurek, Besh, Cresh. Aurek, Besh, Cresh.
He had him recite them out loud as well, the sounds each letter made, in Basic and other languages that shared that alphabet.
Then he opened the children's books he'd brought and made Luke read to him from them.
He stumbled through them, sounding out each letter before he strung them together.
"Thesh, Esk—THE—Mern, Osk, Thesh, Esk, Resh—MOTHER—LOVES—HER—CHILDREN?" He frowned, then couldn't conceal the delight on his face at Vader's nod of approval. "MY—FATHER—LOVES—" His face fell instantly, biting his lip. "'My father loves me.'"
Vader had only taught him the basics for how to shield so far, so through the Force his longing was stark—a punch to the gut.
Vader. . . didn't sympathise. But he understood.
He'd grown up a slave as well; he'd never known his father. But he'd had his mother, and she'd been enough. This boy—this boy, the same age as what his child would have been—had no one.
He hated him.
His rage roared in his chest; something shattered, something had fallen off the shelf of his study. Luke glanced up at him in alarm, but he wasn't staring at him, he was staring through him, to where his child should be, not this upstart, his child, who should've been his apprentice, who he would have ruled the galaxy with—
But his child was dead.
Padmé was dead.
Vader was alone.
He had no child to rule with—instead he had a Master, and this slave boy to get rid of him with.
That was the truth of things. That had been the truth of things for twenty years, and it was time Vader accepted it.
"Keep reading," he said tightly.
Luke blinked harshly—how dare he, he had no right to cry, at least he was alive—and continued, "PAL— PALPA— Palpatine," he realised. "'Palpatine loves us all.'"
He shot Vader a look. "Did you mean for this book—"
"No. Keep reading." But even Vader found himself amused at the utter ridiculousness of that statement. Of course, he understood that his Master's propaganda and persuasive techniques permeated every walk of life, that the young and malleable needed to be moulded into the Emperor's image, but this. . .
He shook his head, and listened to Luke as he struggled through the rest of the sentences.
Within two months, Vader had gone through three aides and decided Luke was ready to take their place.
He told the boy so after a particularly tense sparring match. Once he'd started to build up some muscle, Luke had taken to lightsaber duelling like a fish to water. He was small, he was fast, and he was used to running from people who he knew would hurt him. It made him very hard to hit.
Luke wasn't thrilled at the concept that he'd soon be doubling his tasks—he'd started to enjoy perusing the datapads in his room, and improve his reading skills like that—but he didn't object. He was sensible enough not to.
Instead, he just lowered himself to one knee, as he did every time he was given an order, and said, "Yes, Master."
Vader was pleased with his progress. It may be months or years yet before the boy was fully ready to take on Palpatine, but it was certainly a promising start.
Whatever promise Luke showed as a Sith apprentice, he lacked as an aide.
He was adequate—if he wasn't, things would start to look very suspicious very quickly—but barely. It took him far longer to read simple correspondences than would be expected, and while he was brutally organised in how he did his jobs, carrying each of them out methodically and on time, he was slow.
It was not bad, per se. Vader reminded himself of that every time he got the urge to forsake all his plans and strangle him there and then, that strange nudge from the Force the only thing holding him back. It was not bad, and it could and would get better.
But they were expected to visit Coruscant soon.
Luke shielding was excellent. But they were expected to visit the Emperor, and Vader wasn't sure how well he would hold up against that.
Uncertainty or no uncertainty, they arrived on Coruscant the day before the fifteenth Empire Day.
Vader had been ordered to report directly to his Master the moment he arrived, so that was what he did. As he stood in Palpatine's presence for the first time in months, he tried to conceal his nerves. If he discovered Vader's plans. . .
The first hint that something was wrong came from the fact that Palpatine dismissed the Royal Guards when he kneeled. They always stood watch whenever Palpatine debriefed him; their absence was. . . suspicious.
But Vader kept his head low despite the prickling along the back of his neck, and finished his report.
When he did, Palpatine was quiet for a moment.
"All seems well, my apprentice," he said finally. "But I fear you are omitting something."
Vader stiffened. "Master. . .?"
"You have said nothing of the aide you have had for several months now."
"He is an aide," Vader said, slightly sharper than necessary. He had never been skilled at deceit. "He is irrelevant."
Palpatine sighed. "My friend," he asked, "did you really think I would not come to know of the apprentice you are training in secret?"
If it hadn't been regulated, Vader's breathing would have stopped.
Everything slowed, and sharpened. He could sense the black hole that was Palpatine before him; Luke's shadowy flicker, waiting for him outside the throne room, was behind. And he was there between them.
"Relax, Lord Vader, I bear you no ill will."
Vader did not relax.
He lifted himself out of the kneeling position to stand, just in time to feel Palpatine's oily mental fingers reach out to caress his shields. He slammed them back into place before he could steal much, but Palpatine saw enough.
"You feel he is too powerful to be given to the Inquisitorius," the Emperor said, leaning back in his throne.
Vader said nothing.
"My friend, I gave you command over their training for a reason. I trust your judgement. If you feel the boy would reach greater heights under more. . . personal tutelage from you or myself, I shall respect that. By all means, train the boy. A personal operative without the markings of an Inquisitor may come in useful for us."
Vader's shock may have rung the Force like a bell, because his Master laughed.
"I allowed Dooku to train Ventress, did I not? And she had a great many uses, until Dooku failed to eliminate her on my order." His gnarled hands tightened on the armrests as he leaned forward, and said in a softer voice, "So I will allow this, but when I order the boy dead, you will kill him without hesitation, and you will not fail." He sat back again. "Are we understood, Lord Vader?"
Vader bowed his head. "It is understood, my Master."
"Good." He waved a hand. "Shall we invite your young apprentice in, then? I would meet with him myself, and see what power has the Chosen One so excited."
Breathe in, breathe out. The rasp of his respirator was monotonous—soothing—as he said, "Of course, my Master."
The order was given; moments later the doors to the throne room opened to admit Luke. He looked very, very small against the grandeur of the Imperial Palace.
His steps faltered slightly when he caught sight of the Emperor, and felt that oily presence latch onto him like mud unable to be shaken off, but he kept walking. Up and up, until he stood at the base of the stairs and knelt. The way he knelt when Vader gave him orders—elbow resting on his leg, head down, eyes closed.
"My child," Palpatine greeted, intensely but not unkindly. "You are the young man Vader has been training these past few months?"
Luke flinched at the unexpected question and his mind instinctively sought his bond with Vader for confirmation. But he found none, Vader had closed his mind off, so he swallowed and made his own judgement of the situation. "Yes, Your Majesty." He didn't volunteer any further information than that. Nor did his lift his head.
"And how have you found his teachings?"
Once again, Luke swallowed, and once again, he addressed the ground when he said, "He is a harsh Master" —and indeed, many of Luke's bruises and scars attested to the fact that he did not take failure lightly— "but one worthy of serving."
The words rang true.
There was a pang in Vader's chest. Earning the boy's loyalty had always been the goal—constant compromise, teaching the boy to read, forcing himself to let the minor infractions slide and only punish him for the severe ones, resolving to be, no matter the cost, better than whatever slave master he'd had before—but he hadn't realised it had been working.
Palpatine was clearly surprised as well—and irritated, if the curl of his lips was enough to go on; it would be harder to directly force the boy to do his bidding if he was only loyal to Vader—but he covered it up with a smooth, "And I trust you will serve him well?"
Luke's smiled slightly as he said, "Yes, Your Majesty."
Palpatine had nothing to say to that. Instead, he just waved a hand sharply, almost irritable— "Good. And," he added, sickly sweet, "you shall serve your Emperor with him?"
Luke blinked. A trickle of surprise, the first Vader had felt from him, trickled through his shields.
"I serve my Lord Vader," he told him. "Naturally, I serve the Empire with him."
I serve the Empire.
Not Emperor.
Anger crackled through the Force, fast as lightning, before it was promptly reigned in again.
And then Palpatine laughed.
He was still laughing, low, under his breath, when he got to his feet and gripped his cane, limping down the stairs to stand directly before Luke.
He placed a hand on his shoulder. "Rise, young. . .?"
The boy supplied, "Luke, Your Majesty."
"Luke." Palpatine reached for his chin as Luke stood. The boy didn't resist as his face was turned left and right, examined from all angles under the Emperor's narrowed gaze. "Have you no last name?"
"No, Your Majesty. I—" He swallowed. "I was a slave for most of my life, before I was given to Lord Vader. I don't know my family."
Palpatine dropped his hand from Luke's chin, and ran it possessively across the front of his uniform. Luke stiffened in discomfort, but didn't dare tell him to stop. "A slave? That is a pity." His hand ran over the breast pocket, where Luke kept his code cylinders, and plucked on item out of it. "Is this your detonator?"
Luke took a deep breath, seemingly fighting to stay calm, then nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Is the transmitter still active?"
Vader balked at the question; Luke pinched his lips together. But he nodded stiffly again. "Yes, Your Majesty. I— I haven't had the chance to have the operation to remove it." Haven't dared, in case the records might look suspicious and you went snooping.
"I see. You had better get on with that." Palpatine rolled the detonator in his hand, then flicked off the safety catch. Luke tensed, but didn't move—didn't dare while Palpatine's finger hovered over the button, millimetres away from ending his life in a storm of fire and blood—
Palpatine's eyes were fixed on Luke's every twitch, but in the Force Vader could sense his attention on him. He forced himself to stay still.
Calm.
No reaction at all to Palpatine's murder of the apprentice he'd put such work into.
Palpatine's word is law, he chanted in his mind, for his master's benefit. If he chooses to end Luke's life here and now, I will respect it. That is the way it is meant to be.
After an age, Palpatine's thumb slid off the button.
There was no audible sigh of relief from Luke, but his shoulders sagged as the Emperor flicked the safety back on.
"Good," Palpatine said, and reached for his chin again after he'd tucked the detonator back into his pocket. "You are clever, child, and very powerful. You will serve me well." The slightest emphasis was put on the last sentence, so there was no confusion with what he wanted from Luke.
Every person in this galaxy belongs to me, boy, and you are no exception.
Luke took the hint. He bowed at the waist and said, "Thank you, master."
Vader didn't need the Force to know that Palpatine was pleased.
"Now," the Emperor said, settling back onto his throne, "go. I know you are a very busy man, Lord Vader—" A simpering smile. "—I shall not keep you for long."
Vader bowed. "Thank you, my Master," he said, then took Luke's shoulder and guided them both out.
They walked several corridors before they found an empty one. Vader paused there, turning Luke to face him. He scanned the boy with his eyes and with the Force. He felt. . . stunned, by everything, but nonetheless whole.
"You did well," Vader said softly.
Luke blinked. He opened his mouth to ask a question Vader couldn't answer, then closed it again. "Thank you, my lord," he said finally, thankfully, and they kept walking.
Because Vader had no idea what to say. He didn't know how to articulate the freezing terror that still stopped his heart in his chest in spite of the pacemakers, nor the burning in his lungs so unlike the fires of Mustafar.
Loyalty meant compromise.
Compromise, meant—occasional—kindness.
He didn't know when that kindness had become care.
Emperor Palpatine watched his apprentice guide the boy out of his throne room, then summoned his guards back in the moment he sensed they were away.
"I have two tasks for you," he commanded as the leader knelt before him. "There is information I need to know. Firstly, install spies on the Devastator with express orders to do nothing except ensure that Lord Vader's aide has no major operations, until I specify otherwise." He paused until the man nodded. "Secondly. . ."
Palpatine trailed off, still staring after Vader and that boy—that boy, who burned the Force when he moved and looked far too much like a queen and a slave for his liking. . .
"Find me that child's name."
The trip back to the Devastator was silent and tense. Upon landing, even the news that the blueprints of the newest TIE Advanced had been delivered to him for his perusal did little to calm his frayed nerves. If it had been anyone else delivering the message he would have thrown them against the wall.
But it was Luke delivering the message, frowning at his datapad which had seemingly received hundreds of messages during their short audience with the Emperor. And it was hard to miss the ounce of longing in his voice as he relayed the news, something Vader chose to latch onto instead of pondering his master's implicit threats for hours on end.
"You are. . . interested in ships?" he asked him.
Luke jerked his head up from reading the next email, and nodded. "Yeah, I— mechanics and flying," he explained, turning pink, "were what I was best at, on Tatooine. Sometimes Jabba or Fortuna would make me fly the ship if they wanted to go anywhere, 'cause I have fast reactions so wouldn't go down after an assassination attempt. . ." He trailed off, and swallowed. "Why?"
Why, indeed? Vader didn't know.
Compromise to kindness to care.
"You conducted yourself admirably in the Emperor's presence," he said. "Would you like to examine the blueprints with me?"
Luke wasn't sure when it had started, but he was enjoying Vader's company.
He realised it when he was sitting opposite the man at his desk, the positions they'd taken so often for his reading lessons. Only now he was putting those lessons to use in a setting where he actually wanted to use them, and he noticed—
He was comfortable.
He didn't know if he was happy. That feeling was as foreign to him as the snows of Hoth, or the lilt of a parent's lullaby. But he didn't hate sitting in here, with Vader, talking about something the man was clearly passionate about. He enjoyed it, even.
The night cycle had long since begun. The blue of the holo stretched eerily across Vader's mask, the cold of his presence nipping at his heels, but Luke was used to it.
This, here and now, was familiar. It wasn't familiar the way pain was—it was familiar like the suns: hot, reliably so, and when they set he knew they would rise again.
He must have drifted off at some point while Vader was speaking, because he jerked awake to the sight of the man staring right at him.
"It is nearing the middle of the night cycle," he said, almost. . . hesitantly? "You should sleep, young one—until I can find another aide to replace you, you have many busy days."
"You're replacing me?" He tried to inject some hurt into the question, but he yawned halfway through and he didn't think it was very effective.
"Now the Emperor knows of your existence, there is no point in pretending. And I am under the impression you might appreciate the extra time to practice your abilities."
"That would be nice," he mused tiredly.
With a wave of his hand, Vader shut off the display of the blueprints. "So sleep, now. If you are so interested in mechanical blueprints, I shall have some datapads on them installed in your rooms."
Luke's heart leapt at the thought of it, though he was slightly confused where it was coming from. Vader had seemed. . . softer. . . towards him recently; his behaviour outside of the throne room was a prime example of that.
But he shook off the thought. He was too tired to be psychoanalysing his boss.
"Alright," he said, then clambered out of the chair and headed back to his rooms.
Sure enough, the next morning, a stack of a dozen datapads was sitting innocuously on his bedside table.
And when Luke requested tools so he could work on some machines himself, Vader didn't think twice about giving them to him.
It was a few days later that Vader decided to consult his chief medical officer on a matter of utmost importance.
He commed him straight from his office, not bothering to go down and inquire in person. He didn't want to draw too much attention to this.
The hologram flickered, then resolved itself into a blue facsimile of a man who was most certainly not his chief medical officer.
"Who," Vader snapped, nerves frayed already and this wasn't helping— "are you?"
The man—human, pale-skinned, frowning—gave a perfunctory bow then explained, "The old chief became suddenly ill on his shore leave, and died. I'm the new chief."
"I see." He didn't have time for this. "My aide requires surgery which will no doubt be invasive. When would your medical staff be able to perform such a surgery?"
The man swallowed, suddenly tense, and said, "My lord, we would have to know what the surgery is for, first—"
"To remove a transmitter from somewhere inside him," Vader said impatiently. "I recognise that you will need a scanner to do so, but I'm sure one can be acquired."
The chief medical officer had paled significantly. "My lord," he said, "if memory serves, your aide is severely malnourished, is he not?"
Vader paused. "Yes." It had been months since he'd left Jabba's tender care and started to put on weight, but he supposed it took more than a few months to undo a lifetime of harm. "What of it?"
"There may be. . . complications. . . with the surgery, especially with one as dangerous as this. Unless he's at full health it could be potentially fatal." Vader was silent for long enough that he rushed on, "Of course, if my lord thinks it's worth the risk—"
"No." The word surprised him just as much as it did the officer. "It is not." A pause. "How long would you recommend before attempting it?"
"Another year at minimum, my lord, but I can't say for sure."
Vader detected no falsehoods in the man. If he was lying, he was very good at it; if he wasn't. . .
And what reason would he have to lie?
"Very well," he said finally. He could go to Jabba and request he deactivate the transmitter, he supposed, but every fibre of his being rebelled against that. He would not show weakness.
So conceded with, "I will check back with you about it in a year. Dismissed."
"Yes, my lord." The holo winked out.
Vader felt the brush of a familiar Force presence at the door and glanced up. Luke stood there carefully, hand on the lightsaber at his belt.
"Master?" he asked. "Are you ready for sparring?"
Vader looked at him. It was odd to think—had always been odd, even when he was a little boy and had it himself—there was a bomb inside him, just waiting to go off.
"My lord?"
Vader jerked his head up. "Yes," he said. "I'm coming."
Six months passed after that, almost relaxing in their monotony. Luke was dismissed as Vader's aide, but remained at his side as his 'apprentice', as little as anyone aboard the Devastator understood what that meant. He did little else but train with Vader, then practice while Vader was working, although it wasn't uncommon for him to follow the Dark Lord like a shadow around the ship, his black uniform making him nearly indistinguishable from the man's cape.
It was, Vader assured him, highly useful for him to get to understand how a warship worked. Especially since Vader would need someone to take over his duties once he assumed the throne, and Luke was a likely candidate for the job.
Luke wasn't opposed to that idea, he didn't dislike the running of the ship, the fear and awe and respect in people's faces—the fear and awe and respect and power that he'd never had before—but he much preferred training.
He much preferred panting as he darted around the room, the dark side cold and tingling and a constant presence at the back of his mind as he dodged and blocked lightsaber swing after lightsaber swing, the red blade humming in his hands. . .
Because at any other moment, the power eluded him.
He was angry, of course—he was always angry—but he burned with it. He didn't freeze like Vader did, stuck in one moment of fury and using it to see the world in warped shades of red and grey. He was angry at a person and it was hot; hating them was cold, colder than a knife sliding between his ribs, but it wasn't a mindset. Not the way Vader's was. He hated Tatooine; he hated slavers; he hated the Emperor for all his threats and manipulations.
But he didn't hate the desert. He didn't hate the slaves. He didn't hate his Master, for all that he knelt and grovelled at the Emperor's feet.
Hating one thing didn't mean he hated the world.
It made him weak.
So he preferred the burn of the lightsaber and the strain on his muscles, because that was when he felt powerful. He could win a fight, he could draw on those emotions actively, but not passively. Unless he focused, he just touched. . . the Force.
He knew Vader was disappointed with him. That made him angrier, made the flames burn higher and brighter.
But when they burned out, there was nothing left behind but ashes.
Luke was not ready to face the Emperor.
The thought nagged at Vader all the way on the shuttle ride down to Coruscant. Luke sat in the seat next to him, staring out at the ecumenopolis with a grim, hard gaze. His eyes were blue, as blue as the skies on Tatooine. Vader had never seen them flash yellow.
The boy's grip on the dark side was tenuous at best. Palpatine would no doubt sense it—and Vader worried what he would do about it. Order he train him harsher, until he hated everyone and everything, including Vader? Take him for himself to train? Or worse—kill Luke there and then, for being too weak?
Vader didn't know, and he was afraid.
He didn't know why he was afraid—a Sith Lord? Worrying?—but he was. He hadn't put this much work into the boy only to fall here—
No.
That wasn't it.
But he didn't want to think about the twist in his gut, so he turned his thoughts away from fear and joined his apprentice in studying the cityscape they descended towards.
They landed. They got out. They walked through the corridors, still not speaking, until they stood before the throne room doors and waited to enter.
There was a light touch against his mind. Vader—thinking it was his master—instinctively tightened his shields, but no. It was Luke.
He let him in.
It'll be alright, you know.
The boy was, to all appearances, staring straight ahead with a faint furrow between his brows, but Vader could feel his compassion through the Force.
He almost snorted. Compassion. No wonder the boy was so weak.
But he couldn't stop himself from responding to the reassurance with a mental tap—not an agreement, not a disagreement. Just an acknowledgement.
The throne room doors opened.
Vader strode forward, Luke automatically falling into that respectful half-step just behind him. Palpatine watched them from the throne as they approached.
This time, he didn't dismiss the guards.
It was normal, Vader tried to tell himself as he slid to one knee. At his right hand, Luke did the same. It was normal for the guards to stay as he was debriefed. This was perfectly—
He finished his report slightly more curtly than intended, and tensed as he waited to be punished for it. But Palpatine barely seemed to be listening to him.
Instead, his narrowed eyes were fixed on Luke.
"Fascinating," he said, almost dryly. "Now tell me, Lord Vader: how goes your apprentice's training?"
Vader sensed Luke stiffen beside him, and knew he had to choose his words carefully.
"Not without its setbacks, Master," he said, and it was true, "but nonetheless proceeding quickly." Faster than one could expect, certainly—the boy worked himself to the bone, and was extremely talented on top of that. He did well, despite all his. . . inadequacies.
Palpatine blinked slowly. "Really," he drawled, Vader tensing further with every syllable, "because all I sense is weakness."
Luke flinched. Vader had the urge to rise to his feet, to argue—but he could sense that was what Palpatine was inciting him to do. He kept kneeling, and said, "Weakness can be eradicated, Master. In time, Luke will—"
"I did not say it was in the boy."
Vader heard the tiniest intake of breath from Luke, but he was too focused on processing what Palpatine's was saying. "Master—"
Pain splintered through his body, his suit, his mind. It lasted a moment, the violet crackling fading away as quickly as it had come, but once his vision cleared again Palpatine was standing before him, a sneer on his face.
Vader took one, careful breath through a spluttering respirator. That charge hadn't been enough to damage his life support, only enough to interfere with it, temporarily.
That didn't stop him from insisting fiercely, "There is no weakness in me."
"But there is." Palpatine rested a hand on his shoulder. "You have grown attached to this boy, Lord Vader—do not deny it, I can see it in your soul. And his." He smiled sickeningly, with a mocking glance thrown at Luke. The boy still knelt, but he was shaking. The Force screamed of fear. "If it is any consolation, the boy cares for you, too."
He reached out; Vader's lightsaber was tugged off his belt and into his grip. He pressed it into Vader's hand. "I want you to kill him."
Vader did stand then—he shot to his feet, and took several steps back. For all that Palpatine wasn't a tall man, he suddenly seemed to tower over him.
Every line of Luke's body was pulled taut.
Vader's hand tightened around the lightsaber. "Master—"
"I do not allow weakness in my servants. Kill him."
"I am not weak!"
"Then prove it," Palpatine challenged. "Kill him."
Another heartbeat.
"I grow tired of asking this, Lord Vader."
Still, Vader didn't move.
That flash of pain again—the floor collided with his knees, lightsaber rolling away from him, and he clutched his head against the agony the lightning inflicted.
"You are the Jedi's Chosen One, Lord Vader"—another blast—"I"—pain—"expected"—pain—"better!"
He pulled back, and sneered, "Anakin Skywalker was stronger than you."
"I killed Skywalker!"
"Yet he is clearly not—dead!" His vision blacked out completely for a moment. Then it was back, and Palpatine was sneering at him still. "Your reluctance to dissever yourself from his son is proof enough of that!"
Everything stopped.
This time, it wasn't because of the lightning.
Vader tilted his head up to stare the man in the eye, not bothering to mask his shock.
He said, "Son?"
Palpatine took a step back. "You didn't know?" he asked, glancing between him and Luke. The boy had finally lifted himself from his kneeling position—when had he done that? While Vader was being tortured?—and he didn't seem quite able to comprehend anything that was going on.
Palpatine cackled.
"You didn't know?" There was a barely restrained glee to his voice. "Lord Vader didn't think, when he received a Force-sensitive teenage slave who looked like his past self and his wife, to check on his background?"
"What," Vader ground out, the threat in every word, "are you talking about."
Palpatine's yellow eyes caught his gaze and wouldn't let him look away as he said, "Oh, it was difficult to track him, I assure you. Slaves so rarely leave lasting traces. But if you had done so yourself, you might have found that a certain Luke Skywalker was kidnapped by slavers aged just two years old from a moisture farm on Tatooine, and sold to a master on the other side of the galaxy."
He turned his gaze back on Luke, who stood gobsmacked. "Anakin Skywalker's son. A father born a slave and made free on Tatooine, only to have a son born free made a slave on Tatooine." His lip curled. "It is. . . poetic."
He summoned Vader's lightsaber again and held it out. "Now kill him."
Vader looked from the lightsaber, to Luke, to his master. Why? he implored, half to himself.
But Palpatine caught the question and hissed, Because you are mine, Lord Vader. I trained you, I made you. Anakin Skywalker is dead, along with his wife, and his child should be too.
You are mine, and you will do as I say.
Vader stared at his lightsaber. He had built it himself, piece by piece, but nothing seemed more alien to him in that moment. When Palpatine pressed it into his hand, he ran his thumb over every ridge, every dip, until it found the activation button.
Then he switched it on, and shoved it forward.
His master was two feet away—easy reach of the lightsaber—if only he was fast enough—
He wasn't.
Palpatine took a sharp step back and blasted him, hard, and this time the Force Lightning brought him to his knees. He was wheezing badly—that had done some damage, but he didn't think it was fatal.
So he wasn't going to let that stop him—
The thrum of Force pikes had whirred to life the moment he'd lit his saber; now they winked out, along with the lives of their wielders in the Force. A surge of rage echoed in their wake.
Vader idly called his lightsaber to hand, turning to look.
Palpatine laughed.
Luke was standing with his eyes shut, hand outstretched, face strained. He was shaking.
"Good, boy," Palpatine praised. "Use your aggressive feelings."
Luke turned on him, eyes sparking yellow, and reached out a hand—
—only for that hand to fly to his neck the next moment.
No, not his neck, Vader realised with growing horror. His breast pocket, but it was too late, because—
The detonator landed in Palpatine's hand.
The man wasted no time in flicking off the safety and placing his thumb on the button.
Vader's lightsaber hissed to life.
Palpatine laughed again. "Stand down, Lord Vader," he ordered. "I believe you know what my threat is."
Vader stared at him, then at Luke.
His lightsaber clattered to the floor.
"Good," Palpatine praised. His gaze was fixed on Luke, and it was. . . hungry. It flicked to the dead guards, necks twisted at odd angles, then back again, and Vader knew what he was thinking. "You have great potential in the dark side, boy. If I cannot have one Skywalker, I will have the other."
Vader took a step forward. "Master—"
Stand down, Lord Vader.
Palpatine's finger twitched. Vader stilled.
"Then again," Palpatine mused, "perhaps you're not worth the risk."
And then he pressed the button.
There was a bright flash, a boyish shout and the cold touch of the Force seizing him and throwing him back, away from the blast, and then—
He woke up on the floor, someone calling for him.
"Master? Master!"
That someone was also tapping the side of his mask, prodding his arm. "My lord? Lord Vader?"
He couldn't quite compute what was going on. His life support was going crazy trying to compute itself—something was definitely wrong, but it didn't seem fatal. Small miracle.
But he couldn't think. . .
The person prodding him paused. Took a deep breath.
Then. . .
"Father?"
Vader blinked.
Father?
What—
Everything rushed back.
He sat up suddenly, his helmet colliding with someone's chin; they jerked back with a yelp. That yelp—Father—
Vader turned to see Luke rubbing his face, anxiety clouding his features.
He frowned at him.
"My lord?" he asked, and Vader felt an odd loss at the familiar title in place of the other, familial title— "Are you alright?"
"I. . ." He lifted his hands. They hurt, but they were working. The same with his legs. "I believe so. But you—"
He seized the front of his uniform, inspecting him closely. "How did you survive?"
Luke didn't shake off the grip—rather, he gripped Vader's hands with his own. "What do you mean?"
"The detonator—the transmitter—"
"I. . ." For some reason, Luke looked bashful. "You know I asked for those tools, a while back? Well, after studying as many blueprints as I could find, I decided to take a risk and disable the detonator, even if I couldn't disable the transmitter still inside me."
"That's. . ." Vader shook his head. "Foolish child." The sheer insanity of that, the risks—even if he'd managed to get hold of correct plans, if it had gone wrong. . . "Then what was that explosion?"
"While I was at it, I also rigged the detonator to blow when someone pushed the button." He definitely looked sheepish now. "I figured, after the first meeting with the Emperor, that it might come to this."
"You were right." Insanely stupid, but right. "How did you get it to be so powerful?" The detonator was tiny; the explosion had been massive.
"The explosion. . . wasn't actually that big. I just threw you out the way of it and you hit your head. Palpatine. . ." He grimaced. "See for yourself."
Vader lifted his head. He could see a black-clothed body that might well be his dead master, but he couldn't see in detail from here.
"Help me up," he instructed. Luke obliged. He slung an arm round his shoulders and they staggered forwards for a few steps before Vader found his feet again.
When he neared his master, it was with something like awe.
Palpatine's face was contorted in fury, even in death. The shrapnel from the tiny detonator had punched through his chest like a ship through hyperspace, and his robes were wet with blood. He was unmoving.
When Vader looked at Luke, his gaze was on the throne.
The empty throne.
Vader took one step forwards. Then another. Then another.
Until, dreamlike, he settled into his master's seat.
It was the highest point in the room. From here, he could see everything—the view out the windows, the corpses of the guards. . . and his son kneeling at his feet.
As if Luke felt his gaze on him, he said, eyes on the ground, "The Empire is yours, Master."
Master. Again, it wasn't the title he wanted to hear.
So he stood, and walked towards the kneeling boy. Resting a hand on his shoulder, he said, "Rise, my son." He did. Vader tilted his chin up to meet his eye. "This Empire is ours."
Two would rule this galaxy.
The rule of two.
Luke was silent for a moment, then— "You are Anakin Skywalker?"
"I was, once."
"So—" He swallowed. "So, I am Luke Skywalker?"
For a moment, he was tempted to say no, you are a Vader, but then he remembered his mother's voice. His mother's name. Names are all we have left, Ani.
One day, you'll understand.
"Yes," he said. "You're a person, and your name is Luke Skywalker."
Luke let out a breath. The brightest smile Vader had ever seen split his face. "I have a name," he said, "I have a name."
He threw himself at Vader.
Vader caught him just in time to hug him. He bowed his head over his shoulder and tried not to cry.
After a moment, Luke drew back. "What—" He shook his head, laughing shakily. "What next?"
"We undo Palpatine's evil, I assume."
He didn't breathe a word of it, but Luke seemed to pick up on his plan nonetheless. His head jerked up, his smile shifted to something sharper, and Vader felt the dark side thicken.
"I believe I offered you revenge on the Hutts?"
