Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars. (Yes, that's it, I'm boring.)
Deconstruction of a Dream
This weapon is your life, Anakin. Do try to hold on to it.
The image came to Lord Vader's head unbidden; one of the last things Anakin Skywalker had seen. Obi-Wan...the fool, Kenobi, bent and clutched at Anakin's lightsaber lying uselessly on the banks of a molten river. Even with its special design, the handle built to remain cool; the metal must have been hot, heated by the furious intensity of the duel that had left them both sweat-soaked and gasping on a world where oxygen only fueled the flame.
And had left him nothing but a pitiful torso, now one of the machines he had fought to destroy for three years. What would Grievous have said, if he could see Vader now?
Vader sank into his meditation, the lightsaber components spread out before him. Diatium power cell. Shroud emitter. The length adjust gears. Parts of the diagnostic system. Force save any soul who tried to interrupt him…
His first saber had taken him what seemed forever to construct. He had been young, impatient, and rushed the process. Although the blade looked good, it had never felt right. The design was almost too simple for him; he longed for something more complex, more elegant, but his impatience led him to a cleaner design. Anakin felt a brief flicker of sadness when the blade had been lost, but not much more than that.
His second saber had been better, elegant and almost breathtaking, the brilliance of the ice-blue blade still haunted his dreams.
No. Not dreams. Lord Vader didn't dream anymore.
It, too, had been lost—shattered in a Geonosian plant.
This weapon is your life.
Obi-Wan had always been there to save his lightsaber, though. Even during the business on Cato-Neimoidia…
Vader found it slightly ironic that the man who had so often counseled him to hang on to his saber had been the one to finally take it away. Kenobi…had taken the last symbol of his status as a Jedi.
Old fool.
"I shall build you a new lightsaber, my apprentice," the Emperor said. Vader—no, Skywalker—refused. He would build his own blade; one he would not lose, one that would be the final brick he placed on Skywalker's tomb. One that would replace the blade that was stained with the blood of hundreds of Jedi…
It isn't over yet. There will be more.
Vader stared down at the machine before him, nearly complete.
He had, at first, shied away at the thought of constructing his own crystals. It involved too much fire, too much flame and nightmare.
He hated fire. Fire had destroyed him. Destroyed what he loved.
Padme…
Padme, consumed by the dragon's furious breath; immolated by the demons he was unable to control.
The Emperor had again offered to get the crystals for him. Sith crystals had to be handcrafted, they were unnatural, would not form on any planet. Skywalker had again refused.
Vader stared into the flames as his crystals formed. Three, three for the ones he had loved. No. Three for what he had almost had—and destroyed. Padme. Anakin. His child.
Anakin had been so sure the baby would be a girl. He would name her Shmi…
The fire turned blood red—a future echo of the color of his new blade. The flames flickered the faces of those in the Jedi Temple, faces that reflected in his mask.
Shaak Ti. Cin Drallig. Garen Muln. Mousey. Whie. Skywalker…
Master Skywalker, there are so many of them. What are we going to do?
Vader shook his head; clenched his mechanical fists. They were fools. All of them.
I hate them.
Back in his chambers, Vader burned the past away, let the flames that had eaten him devour a naïve, stupid nine year old, and a childish Jedi Padawan. The fire consumed it all—Tatooine, Zonama Sekot, Naboo, Geonosis, Hypori, Praesitlyn. His room at the Jedi Temple, his mother's slave hovel, the tent she died in, his stepfather's garage…gone now. The dragon within him had done its work.
With a familiar snap-hiss, Anakin Skywalker was finally consumed, destroyed, by a blade of blood-red flame.