Closing his eyes in spite of the darkness, Darth Vader calmly exhaled into the super-oxygenated atmosphere of the hyperbaric chamber. Slowly, almost tentatively, he opened his mind to the force, bracing himself against the chaos his concussion had introduced into its fabric. While the strength of its effects was finally diminishing, they were still far from gone. Yet there was no reason for him to seek medical assistance - this was nothing he could not handle himself; he had - in fact - done so many times before.
Feeding his frustration and annoyance into the force, the dark side responded easily, eagerly. Its strength instantly penetrated his battered body, permeated every cell and fibre, both burned and healthy. It licked its way past the stumps of his legs, up his scarred spine, branched off into the damaged organs protected by an abused chest and continued along his neck into the base of his hairless skull. Scorched nerve-ends tingled strangely, sending impossible impulses. The darkness whirled through his veins, its low whispers coaxing the unthinkable from the exhausted body. They assuaged the headache, righted the vertigo, commanded the chaos back into order.
Good.
Very good.
Another deep breath. His chest rose and fell.
Rose and fell. Rose and fell.
The simple movement invaded his mind, visualized, and changed shape. Became small, labored, passive. Color bled into the image, a bloom of unhealthy shades in a sea of white. And suddenly, there were features; lips, a nose, eyes. And beyond the closed lids orbs of bright blue, his mind knew intuitively. Yet they remained closed, the body hosting them unmoving but for the artificially propelled heaving of its chest.
Artificial.
Mechanical.
Just like his father.
Within split-seconds, Vader's grasp of the dark side slipped, its power at once fleeing from his body, escaping the charcoal prison. A growled curse on his lips, he wearily - angrily even - opened his eyes to the darkness. Reconnecting with the force would be useless now, he knew, fruitless. Once thoughts of his son entered his cognition, there was no hope of banishing them until whatever had brought them about was resolved.
Unlikely, under the current circumstances.
In spite of the near complete darkness, his hand found the console controlling access to the security recordings of the flagship and hovered over it. Mere inches of enriched air separated glove from durasteel, and yet he could not bring himself to close the gap, no matter how near irresistible the pull of its possibilities. Although he was loathe to admit it, he craved the image of his son, yearned to assure himself of the boy's safety and well-being, longed to persuade his conscience that, despite his injuries, his son had not suffered any lasting damage and was recuperating. That he would, soon, once again be the boy he had picked up on that force forsaken desert world not so long ago. The one who had come to accept him and call him father, despite everything the latter was… and was not.
Yet what hope of that was there now?
After all the boy could have seen, likely had seen, what hope was there of acceptance? Of forgiveness? He wondered briefly whether any bond might be deep enough to absolve him of all he had done, whether his son would still even want to call him 'father', but quickly pushed the thought away.
Even if the boy were to come to resent him, it would be of little consequence, he decided. His son was alive, albeit injured, and that was, ultimately, all that mattered. As long as he lived, so did the father. Everything was not yet lost.
His resolve renewed, Vader inched his hand closer to the controls, closing the gap surely, steadily.
Do you really still deceive yourself with false promises of hope?
He faltered once more.
After all these years? After all you've done, all you've become?
And came to a halt.
Go on, the whispers urged, take another look. See what you have made of your son.
'It's an injury, nothing more. He will recover.'
Physically, perhaps, yes. But mentally? How much more do you think the boy can take?
'He is strong; he will not give in.'
Who says he will not want to?
'He is my son.'
Do you think he wants to be?
'…Stop.'
Don't you think he's wished for another father? A family?
'Stop.'
You know how he longs for his mother. Any child would.
'I said stop.'
What if he were to find out that you killed her?
What if he already has?
"ENOUGH!"
As the thunderous roar tore free from deep within the broken body, the dark side cackled in ecstasy, its newfound strength rattling the capsule, causing the metal to groan under the strain.
Enough? Is it, now?
Do you believe that is still your decision to make?
For the first time in many days, Luke Skywalker did not feel the slightest twinge of pain. A sensation as nostalgic as it was pleasant. He briefly considered ignoring his conscious mind and enjoying the feeling a little while longer. In the end, however, curiosity won the short battle and Luke slowly pried his eyes open. The familiar sight of clinical Imperial minimalism came as no surprise this time, and was once more accompanied by the steady beeping, whirring and flashing of a multitude of diagnostic instruments. Much more than about his surroundings, though, Luke was curious about the results of the operation - and, of course, how much they would limit him in the endless days of treatment and recuperation to come. Throwing a quick glance down his chest - bare save for what must have been dozens of bacta patches of various sizes - his eyes came to rest on the right side of his torso. There, a few inches below his armpit, a thin, transparent tube exited his ribcage through a small cut in the soft tissue between two lengths of bone. He lazily traced the catheter from the wound, down the mattress of the bed and towards the headboard where he assumed the vacuum pump would be. Turning his head further to his right, however, he eventually began to feel a small resistance, a tugging sensation around his nose and jaw. Slightly puzzled, Luke raised his left hand to his face to investigate.
Yet another tube, he noticed, this one much smaller in diameter and hooked into his nose.
Oxygen, most likely, Luke concluded with a sigh, barely able to resist the urge of tugging it out. One more thing to chain him to this bed. Then again, it probably could have been worse.
Actually, Luke corrected himself, the worst was most likely still to come. Once his father got his hands on him…
The thought of his parent instantly jolted his brain into action and alerted him to something amiss about the current situation: the lack of that measured raspy breath now so familiar it barely even registered in his mind anymore. Perhaps it was due to just that familiarity that he had not noticed its absence before. Still his heart sank a little at the realization. Of course he had expected his father to be mad at him, but he hadn't thought he would hold a grudge so deeply and for so long that it would even keep him from checking in on his own son after a medical procedure. Not when he always put such an emphasis on the importance of his well-being, showed such distaste for any injuries that befell him.
Perhaps… had his father had come to see him before he'd woken up? Perhaps he wasn't even mad at him anymore but rather too busy with everything going on down on Zolan?
Hoping to find answers to at least some of his questions, Luke glanced around the sterile room for any kind of familiar face, be it humanoid or mechanical. He was disappointed, however. Beyond his bed, a large transparisteel wall isolated him from the rest of that section of the medbay, and neither the small personal space nor the one beyond it showed any signs of activity other than that displayed on the various viewscreens and consoles.
No signs of his father.
Or Chatter.
Or R2.
Or even 2-1B, for that matter.
Luke emitted a drawn out sigh. Not even in medbay for more than a few hours, and already he was getting bored. He was of half a mind to remove the oxygen tube from his nose and see if he couldn't possibly move at least a little ways from the bed despite the short leash of the chest tube and the IV-drip feeding into his left hand. But he knew that wouldn't go over too well with any of the aforementioned, definitely restoring his father's wrath in the unlikely event it might already have dissipated.
Resting his head back into the pillow and closing his eyes, he attempted to call out to the force. Its fabric, however, remained dull and unresponsive, flickering only ever so slightly in passive reaction rather than active acknowledgement. Likely an after effect of anesthesia, Luke realized with no small amount of frustration. With even that avenue of employment taken from him, he was about to resign himself to at least trying to catch some sleep, when a soft whirring came to his ears. One he knew all too well.
Turning his head toward the entrance to his 'suite' - a section of the transparisteel wall replaced by a force field - he spied the welcome sight of 2-1B making his way toward him.
"Good Morning, Sir," he greeted his patient, datapad in hand, eyes swiveling back and forth between Luke and the monitors, "I am glad to see you awake so soon."
Luke nodded briefly, a half smile playing around his lips.
"How are you feeling? Are you experiencing any discomfort?"
Considering the questions for a short moment, Luke eventually shrugged.
"No, I'm fine, I guess. Much better than before, that's for sure."
"That was the intended outcome of the treatment so far," 2-1B acknowledged earnestly, and added, "The operation went as projected. As you can see, the chest tube was put in place and is working as expected. I also managed to reset the broken ribs which will be stabilized during the ensuing bacta immersion."
Luke couldn't hide a scowl and shudder at the mention of the syrupy substance, but decided to count himself fortunate that at least everything else seemed to be going relatively well.
2-1B, though, seemed to be mistaking the gesture for something quite different.
"Do you feel cold, Sir? I could raise the room temperature, or alternatively provide extra covers."
After a moment of confusion, Luke realized the misunderstanding and gave a small chuckle.
"No no, I'm fine, really." And more to himself than anyone else, he added after a moment, muttering, "Although I could do with some company…"
The droid seemed to catch the words, however, and, cocking its head slightly, was about to answer when, realizing what he had said, Luke blushed and quickly amended: "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, it's just…"
"No offense taken, Sir. Notwithstanding, I cannot allow your visitors in just yet. You will need to remain in isolation for a few more hours to avoid infection and ensure the pump and tube are performing well."
Of course, to his dismay, Luke's ears picked up the words 'isolation' and 'few more hours', but at the same time they also registered 'your visitors' – and the curiosity that expression raised easily outweighed the previous negativity.
"You're saying someone's here to see me?"
"Yes," the droid answered. "The Lieutenant-Commander who brought you in, as well as a quite excited astromech unit. The latter is very persistent and, when I ordered him to remain outside, became very… vulgar."
Luke couldn't help but laugh.
"That sounds like R2, alright."
So much had happened in the past few days since he had left the flagship that it felt like he hadn't seen his rotund companion in lifetimes. And he only just then noticed how much he had missed him.
All the same there was something nagging at him. Bugging him.
Still no word of his father.
"So it is safe to assume there will be no lasting effects from his injuries." Palpatine summarized Piett's detailed report on the recent events surrounding his Second-in-Command and his son. Folding his hands in his lap, he watched the bluish holo nod in affirmation.
"Yes, Mylord. The boy is well on the way to complete convalescence."
"Very good. He has been informed of the Declaration, then?"
The Admiral paused for the shortest moment, possibly considering the wording of his answer.
"Not to my knowledge, Mylord." He opted finally. "The boy is still in isolation and not allowed to receive visitors. As for Lord Vader, he is personally overseeing matters planetside."
Palpatine perked up at that small piece of information and leaned forward ever so slightly.
"So Lord Vader has not spoken to his son yet?"
"No, Mylord, not to my knowledge."
Interesting…
"How very unusual. I had assumed Lord Vader would be more concerned about the boy."
A falling out between father and son, then? A conflict born from the heat of battle?
The small figure of the Admiral straightened as if to use its posture as support in his defense of his superior.
"Lord Vader is quite invested in discovering the identity of the one who contracted the Clawdites to attack him and Master Luke. Perhaps someone else should inform the boy? I believe he has grown attached to a Lieutenant-Commander from the 501st."
Palpatine raised his hand in objection.
"That will not be necessary. I am sure Lord Vader wants to resolve the matter himself and will do so once the opportunity arises."
Again the holo nodded.
"Of course, Mylord."
"For now, I want you to continue observing the situation and inform me about any new developments." And after another brief nod of acknowledgement, Palpatine added: "You have proven reliable so far, Admiral. Do not make me revoke that evaluation."
Before Piett could even attempt to answer, he cut the transmission, returning the gloom of twilight into his unlit office. Leaning back in his chair, his eyes lost focus, looking only inwards now, disregarding the material world.
The fabric of the Dark Side was tumultuous, and although it continued to heed his command almost instantaneously, it would not allow him to gain full insight. The future was still in motion, undecided, as it had been ever since the boy had been introduced into its workings.
A challenge, of course, but a welcome one, after decades of effortless orchestration. Here was a true test to his strengths, and apparently one even more trying and unpredictable than his father had been.
Well, the greater the challenge, the greater the gain.
"Please, I must insist that you exercise appropriate caution!" The measured voice of 2-1B contradicted the urgency of the message and was followed, almost immediately, by a squeal, clatter and another voice, this one decidedly human, and as amused as it was surprised.
"Woah, slow down there, little guy!"
Luke's head jolted up as far as the oxygen tube would allow and a large grin began to spread across his face.
"R2!" He exclaimed excitedly as the cylindrical astromech bolted into the medical suite and just barely came to a halt before the bed. "Aw, I missed you too, buddy! I'd give you a hug if I could." Instead, he reached down with his right hand and gently patted the small silver and blue dome. Finally assured of his master's wellbeing, R2 - though obviously enjoying the attention he was being given - began emitting a cascade of hectic, and quite likely accusatory, beeps and whistles.
"He's really chewing you out, huh?"
Looking up in surprise, Luke almost failed to recognize the familiar figure in front of him due to the unusual clothing it wore.
"Chatter!"
The trooper who had used R2's stormy entrance to slip in quietly was not only out of his signature white plastoid armor but also not wearing any standard issue uniform Luke could identify. Dark blue pants, a plain gray shirt with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and worn combat boots; he'd call it casual wear, if such a thing even existed aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer.
"What? You seem surprised." The older man commented on the younger one's expression.
"Well, I barely recognized you!" Luke retorted, gesturing at the outfit, at the same time noticing the splinted wrist. "How's your hand?"
A smirk on his lips, Chatter shook his head in disbelief.
"Always worrying about others first, huh? I'm good. Good as new in a couple of days. How 'bout you? Tried to check yourself out yet?"
Luke gave a playful scowl in response, absent-mindedly wondering just how much Chatter and the other troopers knew about his… exploits, but deciding it might be better not to dwell on the thought. If only for the sake of his own dignity.
"I feel fine," he admitted, "just wish I had a bit more room to move around. At least I can finally have company." He added, conciliatory.
"Glad to be of service." Chatter gave a mock bow, his face a mask of seriousness.
Luke rolled his eyes at the performance but soon turned serious again.
"No really, I'm glad you're here - yes, you too, of course, R2," he added, laughing, in response to a particularly offended sounding string of hoots, "I mean, you don't have to look after me anymore now that we're back on the ship. You're free to do whatever you want."
Chatter responded with a strange look Luke found hard to place.
"Well, and I came here."
Yes, here he was. That trooper whom he'd met only days before. Who had absolutely no obligation to come to see him now that his duties were fulfilled. Who probably had other things to worry about than his commanding officer's unlucky offspring.
And yet here he was.
Apparently, it wasn't difficult for Chatter to interpret the silence, and he gave a short sigh before speaking.
"I'm sure your father has good reasons for not being here right now, Luke."
"Yeah, he probably does…"
"He did come by earlier, when you were still out."
Luke perked up at this.
"He did?"
"Yeah. He wasn't in the best of moods though. Just stormed out on me after he saw you."
Now it was Luke's turn to sigh. So his father was mad at him.
"He always gets like that when something happens to me. Always mad."
Chatter regarded him curiously, a look that was lost on the boy.
"Give him time, Luke. He'll come around. This can't be easy for him either."
Luke hummed in response.
"I'm not sure it's that simple… but I'll wait." He shrugged. "It's not like I'm going anywhere."
His hurried steps slowed as he neared the intersection and eventually came to a complete stop, his indecision commanding his actions. Or rather lack thereof.
A right would, within a few minutes, take him to the main medbay where, as he had been informed, his son was awake and out of isolation, ready to receive his first visitors. Under other circumstances, Vader would not have wasted a single moment in hesitation, yet it was just that instinct which caused him to halt, to falter.
The father in him, long buried, kept caged and hidden from those around him - even himself at times-, ached to turn right and finally lay his eyes on his son. The father needed nothing more than to ascertain himself of his boy's safety. But the father was also anxious, scared. He feared that his connection to his son had been irreparably damaged, and looking into those pale blue eyes filled with hatred and accusation would make what had only been speculation and worry immediate reality. It might put an end to everything.
Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, however, should not have been compromised by such contemplations. He should have put the fulfillment of his goals above everything else, regardless of their effects on any persons involved. He should have been indifferent to the possibility of the boy's hatred; to the Sith Lord, he was a means to an end, nothing more. He should not have longed to see the boy, might only have done so to confirm that his plans would not been impeded.
For nearly two decades, he had had no attachments to speak of, nothing to fuel him except rage and regret. He'd had nothing to lose, and as such nothing to hold him back, to restrain him. And yet Darth Vader was no longer fortunate enough to be able to claim such detachedness.
And it was all for the boy.
His son.
He had changed everything.
And it was in his hands to destroy it all.
Almost hesitantly, Vader opened himself to the force, concealing himself in its blinding fabric. All too easily he spied his son's signature standing out against all else, impossible to ignore. It was as radiant and strong as ever, inviting and gentle.
Forgiving.
Loving.
Vader dwelt in its presence for a moment, unnoticed.
Wistfully, he savored the innocent laugh erupting from it.
Enjoy it while you still can, the insidious whispers suggested, echoing from the dark. Once he notices you, sees you, it will all be over. Everything.
Vader's hands balled into fists as he willed the voices to stop, tried to banish them from his mind. But the dark side was strong, its murmurs persistent. Having secured their foothold over the course of nearly twenty years, they were not so easily banished now.
Then again, why wait? Go. See him. No use drawing out the inevitable. End it, now.
A low rumble escaping from his throat, Darth Vader set into motion with a sure step.
Straight ahead.
Leia's fingers stalled on the computer's controls. Her eyes scanned the lines appearing on the screen again and again, jumping from the end right back to the beginning in hopes that their content had changed in the split-second she hadn't looked. It never did, of course.
Emitting a sound somewhere between a sigh and a dry chuckle, she shook her head in disbelief. This was ridiculous. Preposterous!
"Han, you need to see this!" she called in the direction of the cockpit.
Her summons was soon followed by an easy "Sure thing, Princess" and the clatter of boots on durasteel. Within seconds, Solo rounded the corner and came to halt with his hand braced against the wall. He studied her face for the briefest of moments and scowled.
"What is it?"
"See for yourself." She retorted, gesturing at the screen in front of her.
The smuggler sauntered over to the Princess and, leaning on the backrest of her chair, peered ahead and scanned the screen.
"The Alliance for the Restoration of the Republic…" he began reading aloud, then threw a quizzical glance at Leia. She motioned for him to continue, then crossed her arms in front of her chest. "The Alliance for the Restoration of the Republic hereby declares Lieutenant Luke Skywalker a traitor to its cause for defection to the Galactic Empire. He is henceforth stripped of rank and title, as well as all duties and rights resulting from the same. His punishment is to be decided upon his apprehension."
Just as Leia had before, Han returned to the beginning of the declaration, taking in its words once more, silently this time.
After a quiet moment, he turned from the screen and ran a hand across his face.
"Well, I knew this was coming, but seeing it is a whole different story…"
Leia found it hard to contain her exasperation. Her head ached, her throat constricted in pent up frustration.
"What were they thinking?'Defection to the Galactic Empire'?" Her voice rose with each word, her anger mounting. "'Punishment to be decided upon apprehension?' They've lost their minds! All of them!"
Small hands balled into fists; it was all she could do to keep from smashing them down on the console - and, considering the state of the Falcon, probably punching a hole right through the outer hull.
"Calm down, Princess." Han tried and leaned back against the wall casually. "You know, at least they won't be going after him. And it's not like they'd stand a chance against Vader personally."
Leia snorted.
"You really know how to cheer somebody up."
The smuggler sighed and, crossing his arms, looked at her earnestly.
"Look, we knew this was coming – it's why we're here. We couldn't prevent it, but we can still set it right. We'll get the kid back."
The Princess huffed indignantly. Sure, she could see his point; it made sense, as much as she hated to admit it. But this was not about logic. It was about the betraying of trusts.
Hers.
Luke's.
This wasn't fair to any of them.
"I just still can't believe they'd think Luke… After all he's done for them, for us!" She was at a loss of words. No expression was strong enough, none quite right to describe what was going on inside of her. An exasperated groan tore free from her throat instead.
Han smirked at her inability to express herself, almost amused by the display of raw emotion.
"Go ahead, Princess, blow off some steam if you have to; just don't destroy my ship."
Leia threw him a warning look, all the while aware that it wasn't the smuggler she was truly angry with.
"You wouldn't have a punching bag, by any chance?"
For about the hundredth time that evening, Luke sighed in frustration. Every square inch of his skin was itchy, and only the tiniest part of it due to his injuries and operation. Although the lights in medbay had been dimmed in accordance with the time of day to allow the patients to settle down and prepare themselves for the night, the Executor was still bustling with activity. Luke could feel it in every single cell of his body. The fabric of the force was ripe with energy, seemed on the verge of overflowing, even. Thousands of minds busied themselves with even more thoughts, together ran through a spectrum of emotions they, individually, would never be able to experience.
Many of them, though, Luke noticed, were directed toward him. There was a palpable tension, which, even though created by beings blind and deaf to the force, penetrated and permeated its fabric, soaking it in anxiety and nervousness. Which did absolutely nothing to relieve his itch.
Of course he had tried asking Chatter, 2-1B and even R2 about what was going on onboard, but neither of them would answer him. Whether it was because they didn't want to or couldn't, he wasn't able to tell. Reading droids was near impossible, and Chatter was pretty good at shielding himself - likely a side effect of working under his father for so long.
Tapping into random minds hadn't been very effective either – the painkillers kept disrupting his concentration.
That left him with only one avenue left to pursue. It might not prove to be the most pleasant one, but, then again, how long could the man stay mad at him?
Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes to aid his concentration and narrow his focus, Luke once more sought out the force and felt it respond eagerly. In this manner, establishing the contact he wanted was an easy task.
'Father?'
He called out into the force and immediately perceived a reaction. The older man's signature flared momentarily, almost warily.
He called out again, waiting for the opening of the bond from the other side, yet felt the hesitation.
Luke expelled a sigh, allowing it to spill into the bond and reach his father.
'Alright, I know you're mad at me… I'm sorry.'
A wave of surprise and confusion crashed over him and finally, he heard the voice he had been trying to conjure, although the answer was not quite what he had expected.
'What?'
He really was going to make him spell it out, wasn't he? Another sigh.
'I know you're mad at me because I got myself in trouble again… and because I got injured. Look, I'm sorry, really. I didn't mean to…'
The other voice cut him off. And with it came such a conflicting amalgam of emotions of overwhelming strength that Luke couldn't even hope to try and identify all of them. There were tension and nervousness, mostly, but also something positive. Hope? Relief? He really couldn't be sure.
'I am not mad at…', the voice stopped and eventually corrected itself. 'Well, perhaps I am.'
'That's why you haven't come by to see me yet, isn't it? As some kind of punishment?'
Their bond was silent for a moment, entirely still, while his father contemplated his answer.
'I have been busy,' he opted, 'Matters on Zolan are more complicated than we anticipated.'
In other words, Luke thought, yes, it was punishment. He was almost disappointed that his father seemed to feel the need to lie to him. However, he decided not to dwell on it; other things were more important now.
'Yeah, I can feel a lot of tension on board.' He began innocently enough. 'Everybody seems nervous. And… it seems connected to me, somehow. Do you have any idea what's going on?'
The ensuing hesitation was answer enough.
'I tried asking everybody, but they wouldn't answer. You know what it is, don't you?'
More hesitation. Wariness swept through their bond, only serving to convince Luke that he was on the right track, that there was something important going on.
'Now is not the time.'
Luke groaned in frustration.
'Now's as good a time as any. Please, father…'
He could almost hear the sigh of defeat. His father began slowly, as if already regretting his words.
'Do you remember what happened before we left for Zolan? What we talked about before…'
'Before our fight?… You mean that news report…?'
'Yes.' He paused, quite likely pondering how to best break the news. 'While we were still on the planet, a reaction to that footage was made public. By the Rebel Alliance.'
Luke's heart sank at the last words. He knew precisely what had happened; he'd expected it, of course, but that didn't make it any easier.
No longer Luke Skywalker, former farmboy turned Rebel pilot, but Luke Skywalker, son of Darth Vader.
No longer Luke Skywalker, Red Five, hero of the Battle of Yavin, but Luke Skywalker, deserter.
'They declared me a traitor.' He stated simply.
Traitor.
'Yes.'
Luke acknowledged the confirmation with a mental nod, yet still couldn't help the sinking feeling in his chest. He was also dimly aware that there was more his father wasn't telling him, that there were details he probably wouldn't like. But for once, he agreed that now wasn't the right time.
'It… It was bound to happen…' He tried putting up a strong front, a brave face, knowing he was failing miserably. 'What do we do?'
For once, his father reacted almost instantly.
'You need not concern yourself with that. An official statement is being prepared and will be made public soon.'
'So it'll be official then. Everybody will know who I am… that I'm your son.'
Again Luke felt wariness entering the bond from his father's side
'Yes. Assumptions will be confirmed. There will be many dangers ahead. We will need to be cautious.'
The official declaration would be a significant event, Luke knew, but for him, it was just one more step on the path he had chosen. There was no turning back anymore. There was no longer even anywhere to return to. All ties had been severed, from both sides. It wouldn't change his mind, though. This was what he had to do. Where he had to be. With his father. With Anakin Skywalker.
This birthed a thought in his mind.
'I won't have to change my name, will I? I am a Skywalker…'
He felt another strange surge from his father - if hard pressed, he might have called it nostalgia, wistfulness.
'I suppose we could work something out.'
There was more silence, and for a moment, Luke almost believed that his father had severed the connection and once more withdrawn into himself. Yet a flicker of curiosity evidenced the older man's presence.
'Tomorrow, they're gonna try and remove the chest tube. See if my lung stays expanded by itself. If it all works out, it's two to three days of bacta immersion after that.'
Luke wasn't entirely sure why he was telling his father this. After all, he quite likely received regular reports from medbay on the progress of the treatment and thus was well aware of the state of his son's health and the schedule of his therapy at all times. Perhaps it was out of the urge to finally see him. Sure, communicating through the force was nothing to scoff at, but actually seeing him, being in his presence, having him close by… He couldn't really put it into words.
'I see.'
The unspoken question, "Will you be there?" hung in their bond, silent, yet at the same time deafening.
'I will… stop by… if my duties allow.'
With everything else that was going on, that small admission, however hesitant it may be, was more than welcome.
'That'd be great.'
'Sleep, then. Save your strength. There will be time to talk later.'
Before Luke could respond, he felt his father withdraw from their bond, closing the channel of communication and leaving him silence.
Luke sighed. There was so much more he would have liked to ask, so much more he needed to talk about, but apparently it would have to wait for another time.
On the bright side, at least the itch was a little better now.
With the flip of a switch, the cerulean tunnel drew into endless white streaks which eventually shrank into individual pinpricks of light gathering around a large yellow orb in their midst. The orange sphere flickered hazily against the velvety emptiness of space, a testament to the harsh, hostile conditions within its atmosphere. Crowned by a halo of vermillion dust, it sat silently, patiently, like the monarch of a long forgotten kingdom, its former glory now nothing more than a memory suffocated by heat, burned away by merciless twin suns.
"Ugh, I never liked this place." Han scowled. "Too much dust, too much heat… Too many Imperials, these days."
Next to him, Chewbacca growled approvingly.
"Good thing we're not here on vacation then." Leia commented mockingly from her seat behind Solo, and immediately earned herself a smirk in reply.
"Just say the word…"
The Princess rolled her eyes to the soundtrack of the Wookiee's guffaw.
"You know, you could stand to be a little more serious sometimes."
Han shrugged.
"Just trying to lighten the mood. Things will get more than serious enough once we're planetside. I don't know if you've ever been on Tatooine, but it's not exactly a nice place."
"Don't worry, I've been to many places that weren't nice." She emphasized the last word in annoyance.
The smuggler shot her a strange look.
"Yeah, somehow I don't doubt that." And after a short silence, he added: "So… you marked the coordinates on the map?"
"Of course," she answered matter-of-factly. "Both the Lars homestead and the nearby settlements. Considering what Luke said happened there, we might not find much, but it's as good a place to start as any."
"True." Han agreed, following her gaze past the canopy of the cockpit and to the dustball hanging in space before them. "But don't worry, Princess, we'll find something."
"I will now deactivate the vacuum pump. Please let me know if you experience any discomfort or otherwise unusual sensations."
Luke only peripherally processed the droid's instructions and nodded in affirmation. His eyes again wandered over to the entrance, hovering for a moment on the unmoving doors. He'd said he would try to be here. His father couldn't still be that mad, could he? At least that wasn't the impression Luke had gotten during their short conversation the night before.
A beeping tore him from his thoughts and brought him back to the present. The pump had ceased its rhythmic moving, its measured clicking a constant companion during the past few days. 2-1B studied the monitors before addressing his patient.
"Now please take a few deep breaths."
Luke complied, sucking in the air greedily, albeit with a hint of hesitation, always expecting the familiar stinging sensation to return, forcing his breathing to become shallow and labored once more.
"Are you experiencing any pain or trouble breathing?"
"No, I don't think so." Luke answer truthfully.
"Very well. The treatment seems to have been effective so far. The lung is still fully expanded, oxygen levels are well within normal limits. I believe we can now remove the tube and move on to the next step in your treatment."
Again Luke threw a glance toward the entrance. Still no sign of his father, he realized with a sigh.
Well, at least Chatter and R2 had come to support him. Not allowed in the medical suite itself, they stood behind the large pane of transparisteel and observed the proceedings. On the droid's positive diagnosis, the trooper - still off-puttingly clad in casual wear - gave him an encouraging smile and a thumbs up. Luke returned the former, although he was sure his was much more crooked, less sincere. Of course he was glad that, for once, things were going according to plan, an end for his imprisonment finally in sight. But he couldn't push away the disappointment clawing its way into his brain and chest. He'd really thought he'd be here.
Luke barely heard 2-1B's instructions and explanations, his mind occupied with other matters.
He could feel his father's presence close. Very close. And yet…
He'd really thought…
Minutes passed, but still his legs would not obey him. They would not cross the threshold, would not carry him any closer to his destination. Passing officers were staring at him, he was dimly aware, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His mind was focused on one thing, and one thing only: the boy being treated beyond these very doors. The boy whom he had avoided for days, fearing that he had come to loathe him. The boy who had taken him completely by surprise the night before when he had muttered an apology into their force bond.
Vader was aware that he should be feeling relief, that he should rejoice in his son's continued trust and support.
And he knew he should repay it in kind.
He should be in there.
And yet…
The simple reminder of what awaited him inside medbay had stalled his steps. Again and again the image returned to his mind's eye: the scrawny, pale body, covered in bruises, unconscious in its bed, tethered to machines breathing for him. The scene wouldn't leave him, the parallels too obvious to be simply disregarded.
The dark side called to him like it had countless times in the past two decades. The whispers were strong and suggestive, undermining his resolve with little effort.
Yet for once, he pushed them aside. Summoning every last ounce of determination, he commanded his body to move, willed it into motion. And finally, slow steps carried him forward.
The sliding doors opened noiselessly and admitted him into the sterility of the medbay. Although an initial observation of his surroundings failed to locate his son, the boy's signature stood out brightly and led him on his way past the medical suites into the section reserved for prolonged bacta treatments.
Upon his entrance, a young man to the left of the door snapped to attention, saluting with a brisk "Sir.". Chatter, Vader realized, the Lieutenant-Commander who had been watching over his son ever since their arrival on Zolan. He made a mental note for later consideration. Next to him stood the boy's astromech unit.
'Father!' He suddenly perceived through the force and his eyes were directed further into the room. It took all his strength and determination to remain in the room and not flee from the scene that was unfolding. Next to a perpendicular bacta tank stood his son, clad in nothing but white shorts. His arms and chest were fitted with the harness which would allow him to remain upright while submerged in the healing fluid. In his hands he held a breathing mask received from the medical droid to his left.
Vader was aware that he had not yet answered his son, however, it took all of his concentration to calm his breathing and drive back the pinpricks dancing before his eyes. The familiarity of the scene was, unfortunately, not lost on him. Watching the boy, his own shoulders felt the chafing pull of the harness, supporting a shape that was barely more than torso and head. The sorry memory of a body incomplete for most of its existence. Helpless by itself. Incapable of even surviving.
'Father, are you alright?'
It seemed his son had felt his distress, and the blue eyes now scanned him, full of concern.
'I… It seems I am late.'
A warm wave of energy radiated through their bond and pushed a smile onto the boy's face.
'Don't worry about that. You're here now.'
Vader was almost taken aback by the easy acceptance he received. After everything, his son did not seem to bear him the smallest of grudges. He had been avoided, neglected, left alone for days, and still he forgave so easily. So completely.
No, this boy was not him.
He was more. So much more.
The man he should have been, but never became.
And much more still.