Whumptober No. 22 PICK YOUR POISON
Toxic | Withdrawal | Allergic Reaction

The equipment you need for your ascent is minimal, but important, nonetheless, and somewhat difficult to come by. You must have a body: a body that is, at least mostly, your own, and which you can by and large command.

(You don't need to climb anywhere, Father, you're already here. You're in your hyperbaric chamber, not the bottom of a cliff; I don't know what you're looking for, but—)

You must have a dead Master. A living one is acceptable, but any climb is more difficult when the only rope you have access to is one tying you to a rock infinitely heavier than you can bear to carry, dangling far in the darkness below. That rope is not one you can untie or break—not easily, and not without disrupting your own climb, until you fall off the cliff face and plummet back into the darkness yourself. It is too easy to become unbalanced with a living Master. To use an outdated metaphor of the type that my wife's novels used to favour: with a living Master, you have too many anchors loose to sail for the shore.

(Oh. I'm proud that you managed to mention her.)

Finally, you must have another rope. One by which to ascend. The sun itself is infinitely far away for you, but someone else—someone you trust—has already made that difficult climb. You should be infinitely proud of them. And you should know that you are not worthy of the help they offer you, you are not worthy of even a ray of their sunlight now that they have occupied the sun, but they will give it to you if they foolishly care enough to help.

(If you're really stuck in this mental landscape, the war imagery may not be ideal. It's not an occupation, it's a way of living. It's an embrace.)

The beginning of your ascent will be the most difficult. This is the part at which you must kill your Master, or you will never make it very far. If the sun is insistent on helping you, there will be an inexorable pull upwards, as they try to convince you to climb, knowing that it is not easy. But if you do not cut away your anchor, or you accidentally begin to climb before you do, you will be pulled off the cliff face. You will nearly pull the sun into the darkness with you.

He tried so hard. He failed. I killed him. But for months afterwards I remained trapped in his darkness, unable to edge any further towards the light.

(It's natural that you weren't feeling up to it, Father. Endor was a stressful time, and he groomed you from a child…)

It is hard to climb towards the sun when you are held in a white box, caged by other stars, including the binary one that your sun orbits. But it is worth meditating, after you have killed your Master, to prepare for the climb. It has been a useful experience. Only three cells have been destroyed since I was first taken into custody by the Rebellion.

(They understand your situation. I know you don't like lies, so I won't pretend they were happy with it, but they don't hate you for that specifically. You're not in that cell anymore, and you're not in a ravine.)

When you think you are ready, you are wrong. You will never be ready. But you must begin the climb one day, nonetheless, or your sun will burn out trying to make you.

(…this is helping, isn't it?)

Light is a difficult thing when you have spent a lifetime in darkness. Your eyes will be scalded at the sight of it. Your skin will tan then burn under its harsh, direct rays. Once you have left the darkness, there is no hiding from the truth of what you have done. But you cannot turn back.

You must not turn back.

I must not turn back.

The darkness is safe. It will ease your fears, your horrors, your burdens. Withdrawal from it is painful, because you crave the lies it tells you. But they are nothing but lies.

Nothing you did was good. Nothing you did was justified. You have been a monster for your sun's entire lifespan. And this is not something you can hide from, if you want to stop being a monster for the rest of your sun's life.

The higher you climb, the weaker you become. Darkness gives you strength—in certainty, in fearlessness, in apathy. And the higher you climb on any cliff, the more gravitational potential energy is acting upon you. But you must not allow yourself to fall. You fell once. You sacrificed your body, and that was still the least of the losses you suffered.

(Alright. As far as a report goes, this is an unusual one, but I'm proud of you, Father. You know that? I know that Ahsoka and Ben are as well.)

You can see the stars above you. You will never reach them. Certainly, it is unlikely you will ever reach your own sun, though it helps you so much, and reaches down to give you its hand. But you will never stop trying.

That is my promise to you, Luke. I may falter. I may unbalance myself. But I will not allow myself to fall again. I will never stop trying. One day, I will reach you.

(I'm right here, Father.)

(I'm right here.)

We both know that that is not what I meant.