No. 31 A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL
Comfort | Bedside Vigil | "You can rest now."

And here we come to the last day of Whumptober! It's been so fun to do this challenge all month and explore the theme eldritch Skywalkers. Which applies to this fic too! Resurrection and undead people has been a major theme all month, and who am I to break the pattern now?

The main inspiration for this was S1E6 of the X-Files, "Shadows". That one really had Luke & Vader vibes when I watched it, and it was fun turning it into this fic :D

Hope you've enjoyed this month, and hope you enjoy this one!


The moment Luke rolled aside the stone from the cave entrance, he sensed the reverberations it sent through the whole structure. Artoo whistled nervously beside him.

"It'll be alright," Luke soothed. "It's fine, just a little spooky."

Artoo replied that Luke was going to get them both crushed.

"That's what you said about working with Doctor Aphra down in those mines," he chuckled, lifting his lightsaber as a glowrod as they edged farther down the cave tunnel. "We got some pretty good Jedi stuff out of that, didn't we? Those texts—"

Sure, if Luke was happy getting literally stabbed in the back by a terrible archaeologist in order to acquire them.

"She's a very good archaeologist, she's just a terrible ally."

That didn't mean they had to ally with her several times, just to get a silly Jedi artefact. Nor did they have to go into this creepy looking cave right now.

Luke snorted. "You don't have to, that's true. You can stay with the ship if you're scared."

He was not scared—

"But I heard that one of the oldest surviving Jedi libraries is on this planet, in this cave system, and I'm going to find it."

Luke was worse than his father.

Luke paused, swallowing. "Am I?" he asked. "Was he stupidly reckless as well?"

Artoo paused, not responding. He just chirped sadly after a minute.

It didn't matter. Luke didn't need an answer—he could ask his father the next time he saw him, even if, judging by Ben's frequency of appearances, that could be years away. He'd got that impression that it took a ridiculous amount of focus and strength to manifest physically in the living world, one that his father probably wouldn't have gathered in this year since Endor, but…

He had so many questions. About him, about his sister, about his mother. About Artoo! And… he just missed him. He had never had a father before. Sometimes in the last few months he'd thought he recognised a flicker of his presence, but then it was gone.

"Let's go," he said, pushing it out of his mind. He needed to focus, if he was going into a mysterious cave system just with Artoo for backup. He couldn't let himself be distracted. "I'll push aside that rock as well, and we can get going."

Artoo made a doubtful noise. Luke rolled his eyes and shoved the rock out of the way with the Force.

The ceiling rumbled. Luke jerked back, snapping his gaze to stare up at it, but too late: it collapse, boulders the size of his astromech tumbling towards him, accompanied by their smaller colleagues. He threw up his hands, tried to draw on the Force, but there was no time—

The rocks stopped just before they flattened him, hovering in mid-air.

Luke opened his eyes and lowered his hands. With a flick of his mind, he deposited the rocks to the ground, out of the way so that Artoo could trundle through. He hadn't thought he'd be fast enough to catch those. He wasn't sure it had been him. But it must—and this had happened a few times in the last few months. More than a few. He'd just trained his instincts more thoroughly than even he had realised.

The Force was always there. It always protected him.

"See? We're fine." He dusted himself off, ignoring Artoo's sceptical warble. "Let's find that library."


The cave system ran deep, but thankfully it didn't get too small in places; he could walk, stooped over, and Artoo could roll along beside him bleeping random anecdotes about when he'd gone on a mission and things had gone wrong. Luke hadn't thought that droids could be programmed to have an imagination as vivid as Artoo's. "You know that if everyone had starved to death in a cave system ten years ago, you wouldn't have escaped to tell me about it, right?"

Artoo responded that of course everyone didn't include the droids. The droids were the smart ones who hadn't gone into the caves in the first place.

"And yet you know what happened to them," Luke teased, swinging his lightsaber around when they came to what looked like another dead-end. "Strange. And also strange that you still you followed me in."

Of course. Luke would definitely die without direct supervision.

"I appreciate your faith."

Good, because Artoo didn't believe in many people's cosmic abilities to have things go wrong for them and still survive, but Luke and his father were two of the most resilient people he had met.

Luke paused. "Thanks," he said, then busied himself even more thoroughly with examining the dead end. Definitely dead. "We might have to turn around again."

Hadn't Luke said that he sensed the right way was this way or some silly Jedi nonsense?

"I did sense that, but…" He lowered his lightsaber. "I still sense that. I don't know—"

The blaster shot caught him off-guard. He spun around, flinching, but it stopped two inches in front of his nose, the blue rings wobbling in the air. Staring, he could peer through it, the light tinting everything periwinkle, as a figure in a long, shadowy robe jumped out of the wall—a secret passage?—levelled their blaster and fired again.

This one stopped as well. And the second. And the third. They hovered like stars for three, two, one seconds—then they all released at once. Luke ducked; they shattered against the dead end behind him. His lightsaber lit and spun into guard position, deflecting the barrage of stun bolts into the floor, the walls, the ceiling, back at the figure firing at him. He stepped forwards, getting into it, letting the rhythm of the Force guide his movements.

His attacker backed away. They stank of darkness in the Force, like artificial rot, but they weren't Force-sensitive at all; he couldn't trace where that darkness came from. They retreated from him slowly, irritably at first, then he closed the distance between them with a fury of green fire and they were backing away much more desperately, their blaster pumping a continuous stream of blue—

He hit them with their own stun bolt. They crumpled to the floor. Before he could deactivate his lightsaber, two more shadowy figures leapt out of the walls. One of them fired more stun bolts at him; he deflected it. The other dived at him but was pulled up short. He barely had the space of mind to spare for them, it wasn't him doing it, but an invisible force flung them back. They cracked their head on the wall.

Luke flung out his hand. The last figure's blaster flew into it; he pointed it at them, deactivating his lightsaber. "What is this?" he demanded. "What do you want?"

The figure fell to their knees. "You, Skywalker," they spat. Luke frowned.

"What—"

A stun blast shattered through his back.

His knees hit the ground. Gasping, he reached for the blaster, his lightsaber, tried to spin around. On trembling legs, he turned to see the dead end he had been puzzling over slide open, to admit another figure, this one in dark robes lined with gold. They pointed their blaster down at him.

Luke lifted his. It was too late. They sent another ring through his skull; his head bounced against the hard floor, and then there was nothing.


When he woke up he was bound to an altar, and his right hand was missing.

"What—" He yanked at the binder holding him there, but it held firm. When he tried to reach for the Force, it was… fractured… and slipped out of his fingers, burning like molten glass. He gritted his teeth and tried again. Every time he did, his chest squeezed until he thought his heart would crumple like aluminium foil. He panted for breath.

The altar he was handcuffed to was such a smooth black stone that it couldn't be stone at all. He reached out to run his flesh fingers along it, gasping at the cold pinch in his chest. It was obsidian. The surface was so bitingly cold that it seemed to suck the warmth from his skin, his flesh, his blood, dragging it away from his core. He yanked his hand away, but only after several long seconds of trying. The moment he thought about it, something stilled his arm, and he couldn't make himself do it until he overcame that.

He pushed himself upright, staggering to his feet. It took some of the strain off his arm: the altar was shaped like a birdbath, with a sink at its top, where the other end of his cuff looped into the side and held firm. He leaned on it for a moment, before gasping and instantly regretting it. The cold sucked at the space between his ribs, teeth leaving indents in the bone. He pushed off with his right hand and tried not to look at the red, angry stump there.

"What is this?" he snapped. Then he said it again, louder. "Hey! What the hell is this?"

"A resurrection, Skywalker." He spun around, as best he could with his hand still chained, and saw that figure with the gold-lined robes standing there, flanked by others. How many of these people were there?

"A resurrection? Whose?" Luke yanked at the chain. "Where's my hand? Where's Artoo?"

A shrill shriek answered that question. He glanced around: they had trussed up Artoo in the corner of this wide cavern, nestled between two off-white stalagmites. They formed the crude bars of a cage, keeping him in.

"Who are you?" Luke asked, calming himself down. Staying calm had helped best with the Ewoks. But with the Ewoks, he had had the Force, and here every time he touched it, it seemed to drain away from him.

"TK-578," the leader replied.

"You're a stormtrooper?"

"Was a stormtrooper," he snarled. He stepped closer, drawing a knife from his dark robes. "We all were. Vader was our god."

Luke blinked. "Oh?" What did his father have to do with this?

"He protected us when no one else did. Now, he is dead, and the Empire has fallen. No one protects us. No one protects the galaxy—no one spreads law and order to where it is needed."

Luke swallowed. "The Imperial Remnant—"

"Do not jest. They have forsaken us. They care only for petty power, not the men under their command."

"I know a lot of leaders like that," Luke said, commiserating, but his mind was whirring. From what he'd heard, Vader hadn't exactly cared for the men under his command, either. But maybe that was just officers… "I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do—"

"We need Lord Vader back. You killed him, but that need not be permanent. You have the same magical abilities; we can drain you to reanimate him." A pause. "Are you afraid, Skywalker?" The tone was mocking. "Your tears betray you."

Luke chuckled wetly, bitterly. "Oh, they're not tears of fear." For one moment, he let himself wish his father was still alive as well. It was a beautiful lie to indulge in. They had never had a conversation that wasn't overshadowed by violence. "I wish I could bring him back too, you know."

The lead cultist stilled. "You mock us—" he began.

"I don't. I wish it hadn't ended like that."

"He is almost with us!" the leader shouted, rather than listen to their enemy sound human. "We can feel his presence! The cold that followed him everywhere! We have sacrificed dozens of Force sensitives already on that altar, and you will be the last and most powerful. There is no Jedi library here. We spread that rumour to lead you here!"

Luke's mouth dropped open.

That was why his search for Jedi students kept running dry?

These bastards kept slaughtering them?

"How many people have you killed?" he demanded. "How many have you sacrificed in this stupid quest—"

"It has been months of work, Skywalker, and it will not be in vain. Vader will return to protect the galaxy—to protect us." The leader waved his hand sharply. "Bring the armour!"

What?

But there was no denying what it was that they pulled out and assembled on the opposite side of the altar from Luke. He stared at it: grey and ashen, twisted and burnt, but certainly recognisable. They had taken his father's remains from where he'd burned and buried them on Endor. They had dragged them here for this horror show, disturbing his rest, they had—

"What have you done?"

"We," the leader said grandly, "have brought about the galaxy's salvation." He toyed with the knife of black glass he had pulled out of his robes and held it out to one of his acolytes. "Add his blood to the bowl."

Luke stared at the knife, then back to his father's remains. Artoo was shrieking. "You're going to cut my throat?" he asked, forcing himself not to shriek as well.

"You are the Jedi who killed him. He is almost with us now. It is fitting that yours should be the greatest and final sacrifice." The leader smiled as his acolyte approached Luke. "Do not fear. It will not be the throat. You will die far more slowly than that."

The acolyte grabbed Luke's left hand, his grip cold as Hoth, and raised the knife. But before he could slice down, he started choking.

Luke stared, horrified. "What is this?" he asked, reaching towards him. He stumbled back, grasping for his throat, dropping the knife to the floor. He fell to his knees. "I'm not doing that—"

"He is here!"

The leader whirled around, searching the air as if he could see him. Luke couldn't deny it; he could feel his father's presence here, now, as well—cold, familiar, comforting despite those two strikes against it. He wanted to weep.

His father was the one choking him to protect Luke.

His father had been the one—

"Already!" As the acolyte choked out his last breath and fell to the floor, dead, the leader pressed his hand to his chest. "TR-662 clearly displeased him, as so many of those arrogant officers did. He was the one of us highest in line for promotion to officer."

What the hell? What the actual—

"TX-308, pick up the knife and finish the job."

Luke didn't have time to react, and apparently neither did his father, when TX-308 stepped forwards, seized his hand, and slashed it open. Blood splattered the bowl on the altar.

Immediately, Luke fell to his knees, gasping for air. His heart pounded faster and faster. A suction pump fastened over his chest and wrenched, something streaming out of him until his muscles screamed, bending away from the force of it. He fell to his knees again, the chain around his hand pulling taut, yanking. A few ruby droplets of blood scattered outside of the bowl, across his face, across the floor.

Vader's burned and twisted armour began to twitch.

"It's working!" one of the acolyte hissed, only to be abruptly silenced by their leader's gesture. The armour kept twitching, trembling, like lightning was shooting through it all over again, the Emperor making Vader dance to his tune. The durasteel limbs—and stars, Luke hated that they'd dug those up, even if they were intent on bringing his father back couldn't they give him a better suit—and his mask and his chest box shuddered, rising. It was like someone had picked them up.

It was like someone was reassembling themselves.

The mask came last. The clumsy assemblage of Vader's metal limbs, armour, suit, and the last remaining scraps of his cape stood up. They weren't attached: the limbs were only the bottom of his legs and arms, but the Force held them where they should be; he moved as deliberately and inexorably as he had in life as he bent down, placed his mask where his head should be, and the helmet slotted neatly over the top.

When he turned his blank gaze on Luke, there were no eyes behind it. Nothing. Only the dark gaze of the Emperor's Fist.

Every moment trailed power, energy, life from Luke to him. He thought the Sith ghosts of the galaxy must be grinning.

The leader stepped forwards, shaking, and knelt. In his hands, he held his offering. "Your sabre of light, my lord."

Luke wanted to cry. He had buried that. He had buried all of this.

Vader turned his mask away from Luke, the motion too smooth to be his father, and looked down at his kneeling apostle. "What… is this?" he asked. His voice didn't boom; they hadn't been able to salvage the vocoder, it seemed. "What have you done?"

"Your empire is in shambles, my lord. We knew that you were our only hope. Now that you have been freed of the shackles of death Skywalker bestowed upon you, we can retake the galaxy from the scourge of Rebel scum." He waved sharply, and all the other acolytes knelt. "We are at your command. The Imperial Remnant would bow before you, once they knew you still lived. You can take back your sabre and strike down the last Jedi, returning order to the galaxy!"

All he had to do was pick up the lightsaber.

Was this Luke's father? He couldn't tell. He knew nothing of how resurrection worked, but these were no Force adepts, no experts, and he did know there were far too many Sith ghosts out there for comfort—he and Aphra had run into quite a few. Any of them would be thrilled to be given a new body, thrilled to extinguish the Jedi, thrilled to seize the remains of an empire and make it their own.

Vader took the lightsaber in his charred, twisted metal hand, and Luke bowed his head in defeat. His vision was beginning to go dark, dark red. His head spun. He blinked several times, then gave up and closed his eyes.

"That is not what I meant," he said.

"We are at your command, my lord. Anything you wish to know, we will tell you."

The snap-hiss of a lightsaber yanked Luke's head up again, just in time to see Vader stand there, lit by the crimson light, looming over his lead apostle. The light caught on the gold of the leader's robes. In the shadows of Luke's poor sight, it looked exactly what the leader wanted it to be: an apostle swearing fealty to their god.

"What have you done," Vader asked, and now his voice was booming, "to my son?"

"My lord?" The leader looked up, looked from Vader to where he was staring at Luke—Luke, bent over double on the altar, wheezing his last breaths, too weak to stand.

Vader slashed his lightsaber through his torso. It landed on the ground with a wet thunk.

The acolytes started screaming, but Vader had no time for dramatics, for once. He stalked forwards and beheaded them, one by one. It was over in less than a minute.

"Luke."

Luke's vision was still unclear, but that was because he was crying properly, now. "Father," he croaked.

Vader severed his binders, deactivated his lightsaber, and rested a ruined hand on his head, the gesture too gentle to be from anyone but him. "Luke," he said again.

"It was you—the whole time, you—" He hiccupped. Strength was fleeing him, but he needed to say— he needed to say—"They brought you back months ago. You've been forced to waste your energy manifesting like this. And you spent it to hang around protecting me."

Vader's thumb stroked Luke's sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes. "Where else would I be?"

"I miss you."

"You have never known me."

"I have missed you every day of my life."

"And I am here," his father replied. "I always will be. Even when I do not have the strength to tell you that in words."

"I've missed you," Luke said again, then choked. His heartbeat was growing agonisingly slow.

Vader looked like he almost drew back, but couldn't bring himself to let go of Luke. "You know that I must leave."

Luke was dying. Of course Vader couldn't stay without consequences. But for one stupid moment, Luke considered it worth it for these precious moments.

They never had managed to have a conversation without war or death hanging over their heads. This time was no different.

"I will see you again soon, Luke," Vader promised. "This is not a goodbye."

It felt like one.

"You can rest now," Luke said. "I'm sorry they disturbed you. You can rest now." He sucked in a shaking breath… and smiled. "I'll be alright."

Vader rested his hand on Luke's cheek, and then he was gone. His armour collapsed into pieces. His mask bounced across the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

Life flooded back into Luke, crystal clear and intense as his first time touching snow crystals on Hoth. He could not stand up. He lay there at the foot of the altar, his own blood dripping from its bowl, listening to Artoo's mournful beeps, and tried to find the strength to handle losing his father all over again.