Hello everyone!
This is my first story here at FF.N. I've been writing fanfiction for some time and posting it on the JC forums at TFN. I decided to repost some of my vignettes here, because I'd like to receive more reviews so I can get better. English is not my first language (I'm Slovak), so any help and constructive criticism is welcome. :)
Mar :D
* * * * * * * * *
FROM HELL
* * * * * * * * *
Pain.
It is ironic how such a little word can describe the indescribable.
He thought he knew what it meant already. He thought that when his mother passed
away in his arms, and he could do nothing to stop it, he had known the ultimate
pain. And as the time went, he thought he would learn to live with his pain, to
subdue it deeply within his soul, to forget.
Until Eol Sha.
"Anakin!"
"NOOOO!"
Pain.
Only at Eol Sha he learned what that word truly meant.
And now he had every meaning of that word engraved deeply in his memory, a
permanent reminder of that fateful day.
He had wished he'd died there.
But the Dark Side had different plans for its newest servant.
Kenobi was getting weaker; he could sense it. It was only matter of minutes
before he would make a fatal mistake, one that would enable Anakin to finish it
once and for all.
He pushed forth his strength, settling into the most aggressive offensive he
could do. Opening himself completely to the Dark Side's flow, he found that his
anger and hatred were propelling his lightsaber's motion more effectively than
any saber technique he had learned as a Jedi.
As if that would suffice him now.
He swung with all his might at Kenobi's left side, but the other's blade caught
his before it could make its impact, and diverted it to the ground, leaving his
upper torso unprotected.
He realized his mistake too late, as the other's boot found his chest and sent
him flying to the ground.
Snarling, he began to get up, but would never finish the movement.
A mighty explosion rocked the ground, and a fiery crack opened between them,
sending a jet of lava high in the air.
His head spun around, searching for an escape route, his self-preservation
instinct prevailing momentarily over his lust for revenge.
But there was no escape. He had only time enough to realize he was completely
cut off, lying on the edge of a cliff.
And another explosion sent him falling down into the river of lava down below.
Only dimly he heard through the deafening roar of the raging element his
Master's call.
"Anakin!"
Time seemed to slow down as he fell. His senses went numb; he almost didn't
perceive the increasing heat.
I am going to die. And it's Kenobi's fault.
"NOOOO!"
Obi-Wan cried for him, desperately hoping there was still a chance; but he was
lost.
It was the end.
He didn't know how many days—weeks?—he had spent in darkness.
When he first came to his senses, he couldn't feel anything. Was this the
death?
No. You're still alive.
His mind was still hazy, but he could still recognize another presence near
him.
Who are you?
Silence.
What happened? Where am I?
Did the other hear him? Or was it all just his imagination before his last hour
came?
Rest. You will live.
Then his senses dissolved into darkness and he passed out again.
* * * * *
There were people around him, walking, talking in low voices. He was aware of a
soft continuous beeping sound.
He opened his eyes, but the strong light hurt him, so he closed them again.
He tried again, widening the slits between his eyelids only slowly, until his
eyes got used to the light.
He was lying in a room full of equipment and computers. He couldn't move his
head, but he could see that he was enclosed in a cylindrical transparisteel
shell and he knew he was attached to the machines as well, even though he
couldn't feel anything.
These people were trying to rip him out of the death's clutches, no matter what
the odds were.
A face appeared in front of him, a man only a few years older than him.
"Can you hear me, Anakin?" he asked, his voice sounding strangely
hollow in Anakin's ears.
His eyes drifted close in agreement.
The man half-smiled. "Can you speak?"
He struggled to open his mouth; but failed, and the slight shift of his
eyebrows was enough for the other to understand.
"Don't exert yourself. You're lucky to be alive. Rest."
Rest. The only thing he could do now. Not move, not speak; only lie here,
completely dependent of the machines and the strangers around him.
Doesn't sound like Anakin Skywalker, does it?
No. He was not Anakin Skywalker any more. He couldn't possibly think of himself
still bearing that accursed name. Anakin Skywalker had been a Jedi, a pathetic
young Padawan of an even more pathetic Master.
Kenobi.
His hatred rose in him at the thought of the man he used to call a second
father once.
The man who stole everything from him; his mother, his wife, his dreams, his
life.
The man whom he would pursue until his last day.
The man for whom he had returned from Hell to have his revenge upon.
* * * * *
He tried to remember what happened to him. That part of his memory was a gray
haze, as if the Force mercifully wanted to spare him the pain.
But he didn't care any more. He wanted to know.
Withdrawing into himself, he plunged into his own mind, searching for memories,
for images, for feelings.
He wasn't prepared for what he was about to see.
He finally reached the side.
The side of the cliff, into which he bumped and tried to cling to, slowed his
fall, caused him to half-fall, half-slide into the river of molten rock below.
An inhuman howl escaped his throat as he plunged in the lava. The burning of
his skin and flesh was beyond any torture imaginable. His hair was gone in a
single flare of flame. He realized he couldn't breathe any more.
I am going to die.
To die being burnt alive. The image of living Hell. And he was right there in
the middle of it.
No.
In a last strain of his strength, he reached out with what was left of his left
arm to grab the steady shore. He was losing his sight; the world around him
became blurred, but he kept going, trying desperately to ignore the throbbing
pain that pulsated through his body to the last nerve ending.
Out. You must get out.
Centimeter by centimeter he moved towards that piece of a solid ground, the
remnants of his muscles moving only by the sheer force of his will. He
stretched his right arm to help himself in the effort, only to find it gone;
the artificial limb melted in the lava, being most likely damaged even before
that during the fall.
At last, with a superhuman exertion he pushed himself up and out of the lava.
He lay motionless on a small island of ground in the midst of a fiery ocean,
his burnt lungs still gasping for air, full of suffocating fume and the stench
of his own body.
He couldn't hold on any more. His once proud and strong spirit crumbled to
dust.
This is death.
And then the darkness took him.
If he had any tears left, he would cry. But he couldn't; the lacrimal glands
were damaged beyond any help.
Which was probably good anyway. He wouldn't need tears any more.
Knowing no other way to relieve his feelings, he let his hatred flow out as a
massive river, plunging wholly into the Dark Side. The pain of the memory eased
a little, leaving his mind clear.
And he resolved to fight.
He had been forced into a corner, like a hunted animal, finally trapped. He had
nothing left, no friends, no family, nothing. There was no way back, only
forward.
He would fight; fight with all might for the life he deserved, for everything
he was worth of… for revenge.
Yes. Only in revenge he would find his uttermost satisfaction.
I don't care how long it will take, how long will I be forced to lay here as
a useless rag before I'm able to live on my own again—they will pay for what
they did to me.
Sooner or later, everyone will pay.
* * * * *
Time went on. He couldn't count days or weeks, his time being measured only by
indeterminable periods of unconsciousness and equally indeterminable periods
when he was at his senses.
He was slowly getting better. At one point he found he could move his head
around a little, though he still couldn't talk. A strange feeling in his throat
and chest told him—as one of the medics confirmed him later—that his burnt
lungs were fitted with a respirator to help him breathe.
He was now floating in the bacta tank. They couldn't risk the full bacta bath
during the early stages of his recovery, fearing how his now extremely
sensitive body would react to it. They had applied bacta patches on the most
critical areas until he was ready for the full bath.
He now knew what was left of him. He had tried to bend his neck to look at his
own body, and saw that only his left arm and upper torso were saved. All else
was either gone already, or damaged so badly they had to amputate it anyway.
And even the remainder of his body was badly scarred and burnt almost black.
He probably should have felt shocked, disgusted, refusing to believe it.
But somehow, that discovery neither surprised nor shocked him. Somehow, he had
expected it all along.
* * * * *
Anakin.
The voice in his head called him back into consciousness. He felt the same
presence he had felt before; the one who told him he would live.
His eyes slowly opened. The lights in the room were dimmed, and he realized he
was no longer in the bacta tank. He lay instead on a bed of some sort, attached
to the machines like before, but the transparisteel shell around him was gone.
He looked around the room as much as the machinery surrounding him allowed. The
medics were gone and the room was empty, save for a cloaked figure standing in
the shadows.
Who are you?
The stranger moved to stand next to his bed and removed the hood that hid his
face.
Palpatine.
I should have known.
A smile played on Palpatine's lips. "No doubt you should. But I forgive
you your ignorance."
And how have I earned that grace?
"You're still alive."
Point.
A short chuckle escaped Palpatine's lips. "But you realize it is not only
your stubbornness that prevented you from becoming one with the Force."
A wave of infinite gratitude swept over him. Of course. How could he forget—it
was to this man that he was indebted.
"Indeed, my young apprentice. I had my soldiers search you out on Eol Sha
and bring you here. I was determined to keep you alive, no matter what the
cost. The Empire's best medics were summoned here, the latest technology in the
field of medicine at their disposal. All this to save you."
His throat tightened from emotion.
Why?
Palpatine's eyes gleamed. "I had the Chosen One on my side. I would not
let my favorite apprentice die."
It was true. Only Palpatine did anything to help him. It was Palpatine who
saved his life, when he had nothing, when everyone else had abandoned him.
Moreover, Palpatine had never lied to him.
What would you have of me, Master?
A smile, satisfaction flickering in the Sith's sense. "Serve me well, my
young apprentice, and I will give you what you always longed for."
Power.
Control.
Revenge.
Yes.
* * * * *
The day had finally come.
Palpatine had visited him on regular basis, listening intently to the medics'
report on Anakin's health. It would take some time, they said, to find the best
way to fit Anakin with a life support that would enable him live
an—almost—normal life. His missing legs and the right arm were replaced by
prosthetics, but apparently the biggest problem were his lungs and eyes. He was
unable to breathe by himself any more; he required a respirator to breathe for
him. They had spent months developing the right thing for him.
And now the day had come when he would become a new person.
They fitted him with a synth-leather suit with an integrated thermal regulator,
to help his damaged skin keep his body temperature steady. For his lungs they
had produced a special respirator, controlled by a panel fixed to his chest. To
protect his scarred head and, most importantly, his eyes, they gave him a black
mask-like helmet to shield his sensitive eyes from the strong light of the
surrounding world.
When he first put on his new armor, he was stunned. The prosthetics were almost
perfect, reacting even to the slightest twitch of a nerve. He felt he could
finally breathe deeply, the new respirator being so powerful.
He was perfect.
It took him only a few days to get wholly comfortable with the suit. Naturally,
he would have to go through a complicated cleansing procedure daily from now
on, in order to prevent any possible infection—but the feeling of being finally
independent as a person was overwhelming.
On the fifth day, Palpatine summoned him to his throne room.
As he was leaving the medcenter, he noticed a mirror on one of the walls. He
hesitated, but finally his curiosity prevailed and he stepped closer to it.
This is me…
A black-clad figure in a skull-like mask looked back at him. This was not the
man he used to be. It was something totally different…
A perfect image of a Sith.
More a machine than a man.
So be it.
With a swirl of his long black cape he turned and walked away, leaving the last
memory of Anakin Skywalker behind.
* * * * *
Thousands of thoughts flew through his mind as he walked across the room
towards Palpatine's throne. Anxiety. Excitement. Gratitude. Devotion. Pride.
Pride.
He knelt before his Master.
"My young apprentice," Palpatine greeted him.
"My Master."
Was that really his voice?
It struck him suddenly that this was the first time he actually spoke since Eol
Sha. The sound of it seemed unnatural to him; a deep, rumbling voice, strangely
distorted by the mask's vocoder.
"You have proved yourself worthy of the Dark Side, my apprentice,"
Palpatine began solemnly. "You have learned that, for a Sith, only power
matters. You have learned to use your anger and hatred as your allies, and to
open yourself fully to the Dark Side of the Force."
He paused.
"Are you willing to serve me and to learn from me the ways of the Dark
Side?"
"Yes, my Master."
"Do you wholly condemn your old self, the man who you were before?"
And how gladly.
"Yes, my Master."
Palpatine leaned back in his throne, his sense showing the ultimate
satisfaction and contempt.
"Then rise, Lord Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, and be proud to bear that
title."
At last.
It has come.
At last we will have revenge.
* * * * * *
THE END
* * * * * *