Recovering from Bespin, a feverish Luke Skywalker lets slip his parentage, but what will the Alliance do with the son of Darth Vader? Their mistake proves monumental and delivers Luke into the hands of his worst nightmare. Destiny goes into an about turn where there's only one person who can save Luke from the darkside - his father. Recovering from Bespin, a feverish Luke Skywalker lets slip his parentage, but what will the Alliance do with the son of Darth Vader? Their mistake proves monumental and delivers Luke into the hands of his worst nightmare. Destiny goes into an about turn where there's only one person who can save Luke from the darkside - his father.

C h a p t e r S e v e n

Palpatine watched it try to hold the tattered skin together, fully appreciative of the sight. It glared a little blankly at him and struggled to stand. When it couldn't, when it let out a little moan in dismay, Palpatine turned his back on it and moved away giving a soft chuckle. The Skywalker child remained kneeling on the rug, face furious and red with unshed tears as one hand clutched around the wound in its left arm, the crimson shining deliciously in the firelight. Palpatine circled the boy.

"You do insist on learning in a most difficult manner," he commented, watching the child stiffen as he moved behind it where it couldn't see, where its bruised back wouldn't allow it to turn to. Blood-slicked hands slipped down from the wound when the skin became too slippery and there was a sigh of pain.

"You do not control me."

From the stiff words, Palpatine knew they were spoken through painfully clenched teeth. He snaked a hand into the mop of blonde hair, rake-thin fingers catching on sweaty tangles. "Really?"

The pressure kept it down, but Skywalker tried to stand all the same. His fingers tightened in the hair, eliciting a little yelp.

"Well?" There was no answer, only the hiss of a forced intake of breath. "You understand so little, my young apprentice. But understand this fact and things may be a little easier on you." He knew there would be no answer, no admission – yet. He removed his fingers and continued his circle, the disgust and fearing pouring off his Little Jedi and he lapped it up.

This was more fun than he had anticipated. Its blood shone like wine when shed, its tears water to the thirsty and its haunted eyes a view to the imprisoned. He beat it and it always got back up; would it never learn that he would simply knock it back down again? Again and again and again...

No, it understood. The furious face told him that. But it couldn't stop the denial that fell on its lips every time it spoke. Such will power. But then, if it was weak in spirit, what use would he have for it? He patted the furious face with his palm and it remained kneeling. Good. Perhaps it was learning after all.

"I will not turn. I will die first." The words were washed in the blood from its arm and the naïve idealism Palpatine was so enjoying destroying, piece by ripped-up little piece. And it tore so well.

"That will not be necessary," he cackled and crouched to the figure, took its bleeding arm between white fingers. The blood shone as it covered his palm, as ran his fingers over the deep tear. He saw the question pass over the boys lips, before they were set stubbornly into silence.

"I hear your thoughts. There is no need to refrain from asking."

The glare could not have contained more hatred. Then it shivered as Palpatine basked in the power that rushed up to meet the angry feelings. The Jedi mantra was repeated in its darkened mind and the child calmed. It stared back defiantly, not looking at the cut Palpatine was stroking, little shivers in its back betraying the pain.

But it didn't speak.

"It is a simple trick," Palpatine answered anyway. The child shook with rage at having its thoughts violated. In truth, there was no reason not to think it would be curious about how the Emperor had broken the skin by a mere look. He did not have to probe its mind to know that. "One you will perhaps learn, one day." It was simple matter manipulation to pull the flesh apart like that, not unlike the floating-rocks trick all Jedi learned. He sneered at the thought, contempt easily seen on his cracked features.

It inhaled sharply at the look of distaste on the Emperor's face. Looking at the defiant, weak little child he smiled. That seemed to unnerve it more than the stroking did. "Will you not allow me to show you such power?"

It struggled to stand, but its muscles refused the order, still tingling from lightning. In two weeks since beginning this 'training' Palpatine had still not tired of seeing those tendrils snake over the boys skin. He rubbed the tip of his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully, almost regretful that there were definite signs of change in the boy and such punishment might not be necessary in a few more weeks. That would indeed be a shame. Still, torture was such a familiar thing, was there nothing new to be done with the child?

"No," It hissed. "I will not turn."

There was such defiance there, unbridled emotion spilling out and making the words more damning than any action the child could have taken. Every denial only pushed it further.

"Indeed. Why not?"

The blonde head snapped upwards in surprise and the lips parted in horror. Yes, it really was quite beautiful. Beautiful, trembling and obedient. The pleasure washed through him at the sting in the voice, so misguided. "The Darkside is evil. It is everything I fight against. That is not how... how we're supposed to use the Force."

The laughter that came from Palpatine was the first true mirth he had expressed in a very long while. He stood, voice crackling and bounding back to him off stone walls. The child shivered uncertainly.

"Young fool! You still don't understand." He stood and turned, the cape snapping at the boys face. He felt familiar emotions rip through that small, slight body. Fear, loneliness, confusion. That played into his hands wonderfully and he manipulated them with all the skill of decades worth of mastery of the Sith ways. The child never even saw the trap.

"...what?"

Yes, indeed it was changing. Only a few days ago it would have let him punish it before uttering those words. "The Force is a tool. Nothing more," he said. He flushed the robes out as he sat in the chair. The boy remained kneeling, confusion on its tired face.

"That's... not true. It's too natural, too old. It's... too alive to be used as a tool. You can't-"

It was almost gaining in confidence. He slapped it back down.

"Fool. Listen to what you say. You protest because you believe it is ethereal, some God-like entity." He leaned closer to the child and drew it towards him with a stirring of the Force. It crawled, obedient. Trembling and obedient and beautiful. "You would describe sentience where there is no such thing. The Force is the energy field from all life, but is not itself alive. And being natural makes it above our sentient demands? Fool!"

He snatched a handful of the black tunic and drew Skywalker closer, the blood on its arm smudging the pale skin. It whimpered in pain before returning to a defiant and... yes, interested expression.

"The Force is no more alive than is fire and it is just as 'natural'." One gnarled hand indicated the flames in the fireplace, the other stroking the child's cheek, emphasising each word in little rhythmic caresses that shattered its resolve. Such a simple trick this. Touch rendered it incapable of defiance, left it open to disgust and fear. It worked wonderfully. The blue eyes widened and stared transfixed at the Emperor's hand. He brought its attention back to him with a squeeze of his fingertips. "It is a creation of the living but we don't claim it to actually live, think, act!" The claws of his fingernails tightened. "The Jedi were fools and were consumed by the fire they revered but refused to use. They didn't tame it and it took control. They watched, listened, passively observing so much that they never noticed it enclose and destroy them. Fools, just as you are."

It was struggling for words, eyes wide with fear. Its gaze flickered to the large hearth, then back to Palpatine, and he saw understanding blossom there. But it was not spoken.

"But... the Darkside-"

"As you know it, it is nothing more than a Jedi horror story." He shook his head, eyes shining. "The Force must be used, there is no other way."

The child shook its head furiously and Palpatine shoved it backwards from him to sprawl on the floor. Confusion and macabre understanding were shaken from its face hurriedly. "No. The Jedi use it, but they use it for the good. They use the lightside. You are the Darkside, and that is nothing more than pure evil."

Palpatine stood in a swirl of angry robes. He stalked forwards and the child began to claw uncertainly backwards away from the Emperor, defiance crumbling.

"The Force does not care how we use it – it is not capable of caring. Does the fire care what you burn and what you warm? There is no discrimination there – it is power, pure and simple. It only relishes being used at all." He crouched over the figure. "What matters, if something must, is who uses it."

The little, weak thing shook its head frantically, trying to block out the words that so went against what its teachers had told it. It licked dry lips uncertainly. Before it could speak he placed two fingers over its mouth, knowing this would shatter its concentration.

"And you, Luke Skywalker, are nothing but darkness."

It blanched and the light seemed to fade a little from around him, sconces flickering.

"No."

Oh, but the word was so uncertain, so scared. He grabbed the back of its neck with spindly sharp hands and wrenched it backwards until sick yellow met terrified blue. "Yes. You; who kills indiscriminately, who murders millions on the Death Star. You, my little Jedi murderer were born for the Darkside," he spat.

"No..."

It was a wail and the eyes closed as feelings of anger and disgust poured through the small frame. And loneliness - so alone. Little abandoned, unloved Jedi. Little, misguided, betrayed Jedi. The feelings were unstoppable, everything it had stood for kicked out beneath its feet. Palpatine's hand closed tighter as he invaded the fragile, shattering mind and he delighted in what he felt being voiced there.

Friends, family; loved ones and those he hated too; all were destroyed. None of them cared. None came for him. All gave him pain and he delivered it back tenfold. Because he was born for the Darkside.

It sobbed briefly and then the eyes snapped open in panic. It felt it. It felt that power – he could see it clearly in those seared eyes.

It blinked and in that second, in that single eye-blink the sconces winked out, the fire in the hearth coughed, exploded, died, and the ancient glass on paintings and light fittings burst into small, wicked shards and rained down in a hard storm. Dark energy poured, delicious and warm, over both of them and it cried, it cried out so hard and loud but it did nothing to stop it.

Palpatine laughed in something that might have been triumph, but felt more like delight.

* * * *

Leia set the make-shift mirror to one side, lit by a small glow lamp. She studied the reflection only briefly, not willing to see the tired eyes or weary, sand-bitten skin. In the small bunk aboard the Falcon the light was dark but it was enough to work by. She reached up uncertainly and undid the clasp to her hair, tangles of plaits falling to her shoulders. Splaying her fingers, she ran her hands through them until her long chestnut hair laying in a curtain around her.

A curtain she could no longer hide behind like a spoilt Alderaani Princess, or an Imperial Senator, or an Alliance Leader.

No; she was just Leia now. Leia Organa, no title, no rank, no fixed abode. She nearly laughed at that last mocking thought; the man who was at least in part responsible for that little fact only a bulkhead away. Yes, Leia Organa, as much a nobody as Luke Skywalker had been, had just made a pact with the devil. Or rather, the devil's henchman.

And if she had to do this, if she had to strip off the Princess and the Senator and follow this man, then here was another symbol to abandon.

She lifted the little scissors to her fingers and let out a shivering breath. Her Aunts would murder her if they knew... but her Aunts were another part of a distant past. She took her hair between her fingers, to a length just beneath her jaw line, and snipped. The tearing sound, its symbolism, was not lost on her, and she forced the tears back down for a more honourable use. It was only hair. She continued.

After several minutes, her long, rich hair lay across the bunk seat and she set the scissors down. In the mirror, the woman who looked back at her with a sharp little bob and a defiant set to her jaw was anything but the grieving Princess. She looked deep into those eyes and hoped she found herself soon.

"Princess?" The door swiped open.

"I'm ready."

* * * *

They covered him in a black cloak and cowl, probably not wanting to 'scare' the Palace servants. He accepted it gratefully, not wanting to scare himself. When he and his escort reached his quarters in a quiet little funeral procession the doors whisked shut behind him and he stood in the entranceway, not seeing.

There was no sense of time in this quiet, dreadful place. He did not know how long it had been before he'd felt those dark stirrings, but they followed Palpatine's creeping fingers and laughed when he pleaded with him to stop. The taste of disgust and terror was utterly familiar to him now, as was the broken tearing of his soul every time Palpatine stroked his cheek, touched his lips, whispered of more if he didn't obey.

All he wanted now was respite, but he knew his disturbed thoughts would plague him through the cold night. He had nothing. That had been difficult to accept, and more difficult to voice, kneeling before the man who wanted to be called 'Master'. He had nothing, but how he pleaded, begged, craved for something of his old life. For friendship, for love, for something other than the wretched old man whose pet he had become.

How he wished that Vader was his father, because no father would allow a son to go through this.

He needed someone to save him, and there was no one. Not even his enemy, anymore. Only Palpatine and... stars help him but he was beginning to listen to the old man. It was a curious feeling, watching as you fell, unable to stop it and strangely detached.

And every time he found the focus to try and stop, Palpatine rendered him incapable with fear, pain, lust. Anything to break his little toy and start gluing it back together into his macabre little vision.

The black material of the cloak weighed heavy and he stumbled forwards towards the windows. He kept the drapes shut now. At first, placed in this little cage, he had sat staring at the snow and mountains for long hours between his 'sessions' with Palpatine, unable to sleep for the dreams that came to him. In time, he had learnt that it only hurt him more to be so close to something he might never have again, millimetres from his hands but light-years from his future. Now, the dark red curtains blocked out the hope he longed for, shut out the light.
Because it just hurt too much, and this was easier than dealing with the pain.

The pain of loss. The pain of betrayal. The pain of rejection and confusion. It made his legs crumble and he sat down heavily on the floor, completely spent. What had he done? What had he felt? That power... that was the Darkside and it had torn him apart. He had called out for anyone – his father; Leia; Han; anyone – to help. No one did. It fed off his fear and anger. It loved his disgust as surely as the Emperor did. His need for rescue made it stronger... but when that need was gone, who would he be? Not Luke Skywalker. Not anymore. Maybe he really had died on that shuttle.

He looked down at the blood on his arm, grey in the unlit room. The skin was clear and unmarked, the deep ugly gash neatly healed. By the Darkside. By Palpatine's soft strokes. How was that possible? Didn't Yoda say the Darkside was destructive? Then how could it heal? Who was lying..?

He balled his fists and thrust them into his eyes to push back angry tears of despair. He would not turn...

... but that dark power had felt so good.

"No...." The moan was less loud than he would have liked; less insistent. "Leia... what's happening to me?"

Only howling of blizzard winds answered him and he buried himself deeper in the cloak.