Owen Lars, though not a particularly learned man, had a great understanding of the world around him. He understood that he was born free on a planet built and made livable on the backs of slaves. He understood that, while his family didn't have much, they had far more than many. He had a wife who he loved dearly, who loved him back, and he had a boy who, though not his own son or truly his blood, was still his to raise and defend. He had suffered some—everyone in this galaxy suffered at some point or another, by someone else's hands or through their own wrongdoing—but overall life had been kinder to him than it had been to many so he strove to be content.
Aspects of his life weren't easy. He'd be grateful if the vaporators collected less sand or if the jawas he infrequently traded with offered fairer prices. He'd be relieved if Luke outgrew his tendency to climb the nearest, tallest thing—be that a cliff face in Beggar's Canyon, the outside of a sandcrawler, or their humble homestead—and he'd be pleased if Obi-Wan decided to drop his pursuit of the boy. He would have been happy to not have to bury his father, to not have had to inherit the farm so young. He would have been proud to welcome the man who he might have called brother to his home. But some things weren't meant to be. Anakin had fled just as soon as his mother was buried, and Owen heard little of the man until an infant was being pressed into his arms.
He must be kept hidden, Obi-Wan had warned, seeming far older than his years. Owen hadn't paid much heed to how Obi-Wan looked, because the boy in his arms was sleeping so peacefully despite the sand carried on the wind, despite the strange sway of Obi-Wan's mount. The boy—Luke, named by his mother, the girl that had been with Anakin when his mother had been buried—hardly shifted in his sleep as Owen's arms had claimed him and Owen's heart had swelled. He and Beru had been unable to have a child of their own, but now, overtaking the tragedy of his brother's end, Owen had a son.
All the hope and content understanding Owen had in the world fled at the sight of the dark figure approaching. Despite the figure approaching without a single trooper as back up, Owen understood that that was neither foolish nor overambitious of the devil that appeared before him. Lord Vader, the Emperor's Fist, had made several impressions since the birth of the Empire—all of them ranging from poor to near-genocidal—and ice speared Owen's heart as the world shifted below his feet and still understood.
Darth Vader was here, mere days after the Inquisitors. Something had happened, something had changed, and now it was over. He had finally scared Obi-Wan away, insisting that the old jedi had killed enough Skywalkers. Beru, still in Anchorhead for supplies, might be spared but there was no hope for him. Owen was to die, and Luke, inside the homestead, would be found and captured. Horror came quickly, blooming and pooling like lead in his stomach, and Owen found his knees weak long before Vader reached out a hand.
"Where are they?" Pressure seized around Owen's throat. Not constricting, not choking—not yet—but the promise of violence was clear. Owen was going to die here, by the hands of this monstrous thing that hunted his boy. Still, a word snagged his attention. They. Did Vader seek out Obi-Wan as well?
Is that why Obi-Wan left? The question rose up, unbidden and poisonous as Owen considered it. Did the old man flee in advance of Vader's arrival, unable or unwilling to face the enforcer? Did he leave Owen to face this unsurmountable foe? Did he abandon Luke? After all this time, claiming to protect the boy, asking to help, did the old jedi show his true colors?
No, Owen swore to himself as the pressure increased, his heartrate rushing as his entire body screamed at him to get away from the threat.
"Who?" The returning question was petulant at best, but there was no reason to hope of rescue, of assistance. The pressure on his throat intensified again, now beginning to lift him up and Owen's feet began to scrabble for purchase against the packed sand of the ground, his toes grazing the road just barely as the blank mask seemed to stare mercilessly into his very soul. Choking, ragged breaths were the only sound he could make as his hands went futilely to his throat, his body desperate for relief that it couldn't bring.
Luke.
Pain bloomed in his mind, sparking quickly beneath his temples before ripping deeper and out and a cry tore from Owen's throat as the dark lord tore through the moisture farmer's essentially defenseless mind. Pain and regret and impotent anger were laced through it all, but Owen knew the exact moment that Vader found the information he sought because the pressure against his throat weakened before it returned with a horrible vengeance, lifting him clear off his feet. Tears burned in Owen's eyes but that pain was easy to ignore as ragged coughs ripped their way from his throat. Everything hurt, everything burned.
"The boy." The sound was a strange and modulated hiss, hardly even a voice, but the anger and impatience was clear as Vader, with an abrupt wave of his hand, brought Owen's face closer to the mask. The attack on his mind pressed its advantage again and Owen's vision swam as darkness crept.
In the light of Tatooine's twin suns, blackness took over and Owen felt cold. He thought of Beru, of the boy he'd never see grown, and then he thought no more.
Coruscant boasted some of the most extensive art museums to be found in the galaxy, as every sentient race across the known worlds wanted the culture and importance of their homeworld to be respected and revered. Vader hadn't spent overmuch time in them, save for Empire-sponsored social events that he was forced to attend for the Emperor's amusement, but Skywalker had once spent hours roaming halls of frescos and statues, of portraits and prints. Obi-Wan had taken him to the establishment early in their training days, so that Skywalker could get a better grasp, however shallow, of the many cultures that lived peaceably within the Republic. It was difficult to wrap his head around at the time as he truly grappled with the number of worlds that attempted something so difficult and delicate as peace, and had only helped served the groundwork for the thoughts that true peace and cooperation between so many different entities was impossible without a central voice—a central leader.
Vader's mind echoed with that ancient memory now, every muscle and circuit frozen as he strove to make sense of it all. Every thought he'd stolen from Owen flooded, screaming for attention as he wandered the halls of the museum, and the museum was ruined with it as the stolen thoughts destroyed and battled to replace Vader's own thoughts and preconceptions. There were frescos of Owen's daily life tending to the farm scattered among pained impressionistic paintings of torment and training at Palpatine's side, statues of Beru's smiling face beside twisted black rock gleaming red-hot with Mustafar's fire, and half-forgotten images of Shmi Skywalker hanging proudly beside stills of a small boy's smiling face.
Luke. There were whole wings of the boy in the ruined palace of Vader's mind, masterworks dedicated to the celebration of the small boy Owen had raised faithfully, fulling believing that the boy's father was dead. And Anakin Skywalker was dead, but Vader was not. Vader was—
A father. The boy's name—Luke—was known to him. It was the name Padmé had wanted to given their son. Anakin had argued, swearing on everything but the Force itself that their child would have been a girl—Leia—and now Vader reaffirmed that Anakin had been young and foolish. Of course it had been a boy. Padmé was right, as she always was.
Hope flared, hot and sharp, but Vader tempered it carefully as he began to regain his mental equilibrium, acknowledging and moving past the assimilated and stolen thoughts from Owen—from his brother.
Brother.
The word prickled uncomfortably in Vader's throat as he fully reasserted control over himself. Owen's form was crumpled towards the side of the road, dropped carelessly once Vader had stolen the memories and thoughts that would at last reveal the mystery of the Force sensitive. Anakin had known the man briefly, so briefly that Vader hadn't truly recognized him as the same young man who'd shaken his hand and offered honest condolences for their shared, lost mother. That uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling rose up again as Vader carefully reached towards the Force only to confirm that the man was dead. How, Vader was uncertain—suffocated, or perhaps his heart gave out, or even a stroke from the brutal mental assault—but Owen Lars was gone.
Astonishment stole its way into his turbulent emotions as he recognized that uncomfortable, tight feeling in his chest as regret. His brother, dead at his hand. This man, who'd raised his son with love and warmth, dead. Just like their mother.
A snarl escaped Vader then. The man was inconsequential, he determined quickly. Lars had stolen Vader's son from him, kept him hidden and ignorant. The moisture farmer didn't deserve any consideration from Vader, and his death had been much quicker and less painful than many of the men that had wronged Vader. Vader pushed thoughts of the broken body from his mind and turned his eyes to the homestead. He knew that reaching out with the Force would reward him with the presence of his son—powerful, just like his father—but he hesitated. Luke's presence had been so bright, burning in its purity. There was no room in the Empire for a Force sensitive with that sort of talent, and when the Emperor discovered the boy, he'd insist that he be trained, broken, or killed. Given the Emperor's attitude towards his former apprentices, Vader wouldn't be surprised if Sidious insisted on a combination of all three.
No. Anger was typical, but the fierce and protective edge of it was not. Vader's brief hesitation lengthened into a thoughtful pause as he considered it with something like wonder. Yes, he decided. He'd defend his son, at any cost, from what the Emperor would insist. The boy wouldn't be able to stay hidden for long, not with a Force presence like that, but Vader could ensure that the boy's presence was less questionable to the Sith master when Luke was revealed. Vader would train the boy in the Force himself, away from Coruscant and Sidious and all the Inquisitors they could impose upon him with.
Inquisitors. The name was like ice in his veins. Was it already too late? They had abandoned the planet without leaving any official report. What if they had found the boy, and learned of his parentage? Was the Grand Inquisitor meeting with Sidious, even now, to discuss his findings?
That protective rage was back, and it revived Vader's frozen feet. He strode forward, stepping over Lars' body without a second thought and towards the homestead, allowing the vaguest tendrils of the Force to reach out and guide him towards his son.
Posted 13:48, 9.27.22