Disclaimer:
None of this is mine, it all belongs to Lucas
Timeline:
Just before the final scene of the Empire Strikes Back
I Won't
Be Him.
I'm
alone now.
Alone,
except for the faint sounds of the 21B droid that is always on duty.
Alone,
except for my thoughts...and memories.
I was a
fool, a fool to think I was ready, to think I could face him and win, to make
that blithe promise to my Masters, that I'd return. And yet, and yet there is a
tiny voice whispering to me from the depths of my mind; a voice which, when I
listen to it never fails to give me good advice; and when I go against it, I
usually fall. Hard. It's grown stronger lately, louder, more difficult to
ignore. It's become easier to trust it. But now... now, how can I trust it?
Because what it's telling me is that... this is 'right.' That all this... is
meant to be happening.
And
that what HE told me... was true. It wasn't whispering then. It was screaming.
And though I was trying to deny it, though all through that pain filled, drug
hazed journey on the Falcon I was screaming denials at myself, my heart, and
that little voice, was telling me it was true. And I had accepted it. Even
before we had made the jump to Hyperspace, I had accepted it. He had called to
me, his presence suddenly vividly clear to me in the Force and I had answered
him. I had called him 'Father.' And with that simple word, a piece of my soul
had died. The part of it reserved for the Brave Pilot, the Courageous Jedi
Knight, everything I had ever thought my Father was, had been torn away from
me.
Since
Ben's words in his simple hut on Tatooine, those had been to staple, unchanging
forces in my life. No matter what happened, what changed with Leia, Han, the
entire Alliance and my Rogue Squadron, that was always the same. My desire to
'be' my Father, to become someone that that great man could have been proud of,
and my hatred for his murderer, Darth Vader, the Emperor's right-hand man. Now,
suddenly, they were the same. They were the same!
I could
feel a hysterical laugh threatening to spill out of my mouth and forced it
down.
They
were the same, and I was so confused! Vader, my father, had taken so much more
from me then my hand. He had stripped away everything I had with a few words,
left me floundering, helpless, without any firm point to cling to, my purpose
cut out from under my feet. Then, he had offered me a new one. Join him. Join
him; throw down the Emperor, rule the Galaxy as Father and Son. And, Force help
me, I was tempted. For one split second I saw it, me, with my Father, powers I
could only dream of at my fingertips. The Emperor, the evil being responsible
for so much suffering, dead at our feet... Then it was gone. Gone, and Force I
was glad, though a treacherous part of me wished for it back. I chose death
then, death over what he offered me and I cannot regret that choice. I truly
wished to die then, longed for the silence and peace of death more then I
wanted to continue living.
Luck-
or the Force- saved me. And, clinging to that weathervane, the only thing
preventing me from falling to be crushed by the turbulent atmosphere of the gas
giant Bespin, I found I did want to live. I was more open, I think, to the
Force in that moment then I have ever been before. And it guided me to call out
to Leia, to know she would here me.
I
remember falling from the vane, not able to hold on a moment longer even if
help had not arrived. And seeing Leia in the corridor, clinging to her like the
lifeline she was. She saved me, then. Taught me that Vader hadn't taken
everything from me. I still had her. I didn't realise it until later. Then, my
Father's dark presence looming so close... I was sunk in despair.
I stare
up at the ceiling tiles above me. I can just make out their outlines in the dim
light. I've been in many med bays in the three years I've been in the Alliance,
I seem to have a knack for getting wounded. This time, though, my wound
couldn't be healed by a simple swim in the bacta tank. Neither of them could.
My
hand- or where my hand was- throbs unceasingly underneath the painkillers,
banishing all possibility of sleep. They had offered me sleep pills, but I
refused. I daren't sleep. I'm afraid I'll dream. Sleeping pills always increase
the possibility of nightmares. I have to choke down another laugh. Who would
ever have thought that a simple farm boy would someday know, from experience,
that sleeping pills increase the possibilities of nightmares? Well, Ben, for
one.
I
swallow. Ben. That thought hurts, even against the others. Ben lied to me,
didn't tell me the truth about my Father. And what if he did? The voice
whispered in my mind. What would you have done then? I shift uncomfortably, not
wanting to pursue that line of thought. The movement causes the stump to rush
against the sheets, and I let out a gasp as the pain flared.
My
Hand.
The
medics wanted to know what had caused the wound, such a clean cut. They told me
I was lucky, that it had been cauterised, preventing additional blood loss and
infection. A danger, when Leia had had only meagre medical supplies in the
Falcon to treat me with. Leia. She had told me what happened to Han, though
only after many evasions. I feel wave of guilt crash into me. Han, shipped of
to Jabba the Hutt like so much meat because Vader, my Father, had wanted to
test out the carbonating system before using it on me. I knew that something
had happened between them and strangely I couldn't find any jealously in me.
Not surprising, I think wryly.
The
medics know what took my hand. A lightsaber. I had to tell them, and it was an
easy conclusion for them to draw that it was Vader I fought, and Vader who took
my hand. They were very good, not betraying there excitement around me, but I
could sense it, could catch their thoughts, that I had fought a lightsaber
battle with the Dark Lord of the Sith, the one who wiped out the Jedi, and
survived. I'm willing to bet that by the time I get out of here, the whole
fleet will know. I'm not looking forward to that.
The
medics say I should get a prosthetic hand. A prosthetic. A piece of machinery
clamped onto the end of my arm. Every time I think of it I flash to Vader.
Machine and man, most of his flesh replaced by prosthetics. I have been going
over every moment in my life, scrutinising every detail, every thought, action
and word I ever had. Looking for any similarities to him, for any indication
that I am his...that I'm his son.
There.
I said it. Or at least thought it. I can't tell anyone. I'm afraid to. Afraid
to see disgust and revulsion in Leia's eyes, afraid to loose the Alliances
trust, all the friendships I have forged. Afraid that I will be summarily
executed. Because they would be afraid that I would be like him. That I would
be him. But that's what I'm afraid of too.
I
glance down at my stump. If I agree, surgery will begin tomorrow. If I agree...
Suddenly,
I realise. I am afraid to become like him... and that puts me one step on the
path to being him. Fear leads to anger, Anger leads to Hate, and Hate leads to
the Dark Side.
It is a
feeling of release. You love him, I tell myself, and you love your Father,
Anakin Skywalker, and the Great Jedi he was. So love him, remember him as that,
as he was before he fell. I stare down at my stump. It is not the machinery
that makes him what he is. I feel myself smile, the first one since Bespin as a
remember one of Yoda's teachings.
'Luminous
Beings are we, not these crude creatures of matter.'
What
happened to my body... it didn't matter. It was my soul, my mind that was what
mattered.
"I
will love my Father," I murmur softly to myself, a promise, a solemn vow.
"I will make Anakin Skywalker proud of me and I won't be Darth Vader,
though they are the same."
'And
maybe,' I whisper to myself in the silence of my mind, almost afraid to speak
it allowed, 'maybe, I will redeem him.'
_
