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It doesn't take me long to realize that one of the guards assigned to me has a great deal of hostility where I am concerned, more than any of the others. I have to wonder if in my past life I did something to him, or his family, and now he is taking his revenge.

"Dinner time, Lord Vader," he announces as he enters my cell with a tray of food. I look at him, probing his mind for something that would explain his hatred for me. "Did you hear me?" he asks sharply. "Dinner is served. What, not fancy enough for his lordship?" he asks. He holds the tray out in front of him, and then spits on the food. He looks back at me, a malicious smile on his face. "Is that better?" he asks. I stare at him, holding myself back. I could so easily destroy him, it would be utterly effortless to reach out with the Force and crush his larynx…

"I'm not hungry," I tell him, my eyes not leaving his.

The man shrugs indifferently and drops the tray on the floor, causing the less than appetizing mess on it to splatter against the walls of the cell. "Suit yourself, Vader," he tells me.

I stand up as he turns to leave. "My name is Skywalker," I tell him. "I've told you that before. Are you deaf or just stupid?" I regret the words immediately. The man turns back to me and strikes me hard across the face with the butt of his blaster, sending me to the floor.

"I don't give a damn what you're calling yourself these days," he snaps. "It doesn't erase what you did, you bastard." He turns and leaves me now, bleeding and angry.

I slowly get up; spit out the blood that has filled my mouth as a result of his assault. I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of the prison garb I have been forced to wear, a one piece garment made from coarse blue material. It is too small, and is terribly uncomfortable. I kick the tray of slop across the floor, disgusted by the sight of it. The temptation to break out of here is overwhelming as I stand looking at the force field. They underestimate me if they think that this crude facility can hold me. There are 4 guards outside the blast door, all armed heavily. I could dispatch all of them, send a message into their feeble minds to leave, to disarm, to open the door, or just kill them where they stand….No…I must not give in to that temptation …I must resist the hatred, the Darkness that I feel trying to take control of me…hurry Luke…I can't hold out much longer…

Sleep is welcome, for it offers me at least a temporary respite from the misery of my new surroundings. The bench is hard and unyielding, and not nearly wide enough to accommodate my large frame. I wake up stiff and full of aches and pains, the bruises on my face still throbbing from the previous day. I stand up stretch, feeling my abused muscles protesting. I remember how often I would awaken during my Padawan days feeling sore after a day of rigorous training, and how Obi-Wan would tell me to exercise in order to work out the aches. It didn't make much sense to me, but it did work. Of course I was a teenager then, not a 44-year old man… Determined not to let this new problem defeat me, I get down on the floor and begin. First I do abdominal crunches; not easy in the ill fitting clothing, but I am determined to do this. Besides, what else have I to do to pass the hours? Next I do push ups, and by the time I hit 39, I am feeling much better. The strength is returning, my new limbs are remarkably fit and strong. I am just about at 50 when I hear the blast doors opening. I ignore it, and press on, expecting it is just my breakfast being delivered.

"Get up, Vader," the guard orders me. I know he is trying to anger me, trying to provoke me into doing something stupid, so I ignore him.

"I said, get up!" he barks, punctuating his words with a swift and yet hard kick to my ribs.

I fall on the floor, the pain bombarding my senses. I struggle to get up, when I feel his boot in my ribcage again.

"Are you deaf or just stupid? Get up!" he yells at me, enjoying my pain. I force myself to my feet, the pain in my ribs makes me dizzy, but I am determined not to let him win. I meet his stare, the loathing I feel for him pouring out of me. I say nothing, for it is a struggle just to keep myself on my feet at this point.

"That's much better," he says with a malevolent grin. "Now that you're up, you can clean up that mess you made over there," he says, indicating the tray from the previous night.

I look briefly at the mess, and then back at him. I will not let him demean me; if he only knew how easy it would be for me to kill him, he would not treat me this way. What makes him think I will not?

"No," I tell him. "I'm not cleaning that up. You threw it on the floor, you clean it up," I tell him. I use the Force to put the power of suggestion behind my words.

He stares at me, his face a blank for a moment or two. Then he turns and looks at the mess. I can see his mind trying to work through the problem, trying to shake free of the control I have placed on it; but he is too weak minded to do so. He activates the comlink on his wrist. "Send a maintenance droid in here with a clean up detail," he orders. I smile. A small victory, but I will take what I can.

He turns back to me, still in a daze. "The magistrate wants to see you," he says gruffly. "I'll be back in an hour."

I nod my understanding and watch him leave. Once he is gone, I collapse onto the bench, the pain excruciating. I remember during the Clones Wars I had broken ribs more than once, and I remember what it felt like; I am sure they are broken now. Will the magistrate listen to me if I tell him about this latest cruelty? Will the bruises on my face serve as evidence of his abuse? Somehow I doubt that he will care much, given my history, given the very reason I am in this hellhole; no pity for Darth Vader, no compassion for the man who was once the terror of the galaxy. I suppose I can't be surprised by this, and try to prepare myself for the worst, which, I feel certain, is all I can expect at this point.

As promised, the guards return one hour later. All four of them enter the cell this time, no doubt expecting me to make an escape attempt while the door is open.

"Stand up," orders one of them as they approach me. I comply, watching them as they point their blasters at me. One of them binds my wrists while another attaches binders and a short, heavy chain to my ankles. They are obviously not taking any chances.

"Now move," I am told. I look down, the chain between my feet is barely 30 centimeters in length; how do they expect me to walk?

"He told you to move, Vader!" barks my nemesis, hitting me in the small of the back with the butt of his blaster rifle.

I stumble and nearly fall, but the other guards prevent my fall, and I sense their disapproval of their comrade's violent methods. "That'll do," comments one of them, frowning at him. He looks back at me. "Come on, let's go."

The guards escort me to a room on the other side of the prison. It seems to be on the other side of the galaxy, for I am in considerable pain, and I am only able to take small shuffling steps. Finally we reach it, and I am escorted into the room and before a high table. The magistrate does not look up at me; apparently I am to await his pleasure. I probe his mind, trying to determine what manner of person he is; has he already decided that I am to be executed, or is he willing to listen to the tragic events that decided my fate? He is reading the list of crimes that has been compiled against me, and it is considerable. Yet I sense in him intelligence, and a fairly open mind. Perhaps there is a chance that he will listen to my side. Perhaps there is a chance…

Finally he looks up. "Where is your council?" he asks me.

"I have none yet, your honor," I tell him. "My son is off world right now making arrangements."

He looks at me for a moment, trying to determine what his next course of action ought to be.

"So are you prepared to represent yourself at this time, Skywalker?" he asks me.

"I suppose I have no choice," I reply.

He nods, and then looks back at the list in front of him. "Very well," he says. "Anakin Skywalker, you are charged with crimes against humanity, murder in the first degree, many counts, attempted genocide, a variety of war crimes…the list is quite lengthy. Should I go on?"

I shake my head, looking down at my feet. So much blood…

"How do you plead to these crimes, Skywalker?" asks the magistrate.

I look back up at him, not even sure what to say. Did I commit those horrendous acts? Yes…but I was a different man when I did, I was not the same man that I am now, the same man I was before the Dark Side took control of me…

"How do you plead?" he asks again.

"Your honor," I begin. "I cannot deny that I committed those crimes; but I was not the man you see before you right now, I was Darth Vader, not Anakin Skywalker. I know that probably doesn't make a lot of sense to you, but…"

"It is utter nonsense," comments the magistrate calmly. "If you admit to the crimes, then your plea must be guilty."

"With mitigating circumstances." I turn around to see my son at the back of the room. The relief fills me. He looks at me, his eyes troubled.

"Mitigating circumstance?" echoes the magistrate. "Who are you?"

"I am Luke Skywalker," replies Luke, approaching the bench. "I am representing my father, Anakin Skywalker, your honor."

The magistrate nods, looking from Luke back to me. "I see," he replies. "Well is this your final plea then, Skywalker?"

I nod. "Yes," I reply. "It is your honor."

"Very well," he says. "Enter the plea into the record," he instructs the protocol droid at his side. He then looks back at me and Luke. "Your trial is scheduled for four weeks' time."

"So soon?" asks Luke.

"The people of the galaxy are anxious to see your father tried," explains the magistrate. "His trial has been moved to the top of the list. You have that long to prepare your case, young Skywalker."

Luke nods, looking up at me. "We'll be ready," he tells us both. I smile at him, grateful and relieved to have him on my side once again.

"Guards, escort Skywalker back to his cell," the magistrate instructs as he stands up to leave.

"Let's go," says the guard standing behind me. I turn around, slowly of course because of the chain between my feet. Luke notices my labored movements, and frowns.

"What's wrong, Father?" he asks me. "Your face is bruised, what's been going on?"

I look at him, and then at the sadistic guard who seems content to keep his distance for the time being. No doubt he is being careful not to let the magistrate know of his abusive treatment of me. But Luke is not fooled so easily.

"The accommodations have been something less than comfortable," I tell him.

Luke frowns, knowing I am not telling him everything.

"Let's go," says the guard, giving me a shove with his hand. Luke falls into step beside me.

"Is that really necessary?" he asks, indicating the binders on my ankles.

"Your father is a very dangerous man," replies the guard beside me without looking at Luke. "We can't take any chances that he'll try to escape."

"I can promise you that he won't do anything so foolish," says Luke. "I give you my word."

The guard raises his eyebrows and exchanges a look with his comrades. "And you're not biased at all, are you Skywalker?" he asks. The other guards chuckle.

"I am a Jedi Knight," replies Luke. "If I give you my word, then you can count on it."

"You're also the son of Darth Vader," retorts one of the guards. "That sort of makes your word less than reliable."

Luke says nothing in return, seeing, as I have already, that these men are closed minded where I am concerned. There is no point in trying to convince them of anything; the magistrate is another matter.

I am relieved when we finally get back to my cell. I sit down on the hard bench, exhausted and aching. Luke watches me as the guards remove my restraints.

"You have half an hour, Skywalker," the guard tells him. "No more. Understood?"

Luke nods, and the guards leave us.

"You're in pain," observes Luke with a frown. "Have they been abusing you?"

I look up at my son, seeing how concerned he is for my well being. It touches me.

"Not all of them," I say, rubbing my wrists. "Just one, the bearded one. He has a deep hatred of me. I sense that I did something to him in the past."

Luke nods. "That's possible," he concurs. "But that doesn't give him the right to abuse you. What has he done? Do you need to see a medical droid?"

I shake my head. "I'm alright, Luke. Believe me, pain and I are well acquainted."

Luke frowns. "Did you tell the magistrate about this?"

I smile. "Do you really think he'd give a damn, Luke? After the list of crimes he read, a few kicks in the ribs are pretty insignificant."

"Still…" Luke says, not happy with my seeming lack of concern.

"Did you talk to Leia?" I ask, changing the subject.

Luke sits down beside me. "Yes, I did. She was upset to hear that you'd been arrested."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. "Really?" I reply. "That surprises me. So my theory was wrong? She wasn't behind this?"

Luke doesn't reply immediately, and I sense he is uneasy with what he has to tell me. "Well, not directly, no."

I frown. "What does that mean?"

"She…you know she is involved with Han Solo, right?"

I nod. "I rather had that impression," I reply.

"Well, she told him about you, that you, that is, that Darth Vader, is our father. He didn't take the news too well I guess, and, well, he…"

"He made sure that I was arrested," I finish his sentence. "That's it, isn't it? He is behind this."

Luke sighs. "I think so," he replies softly. "I'm sorry, Father. Han is a good man, really he is; he's saved my life more than once, and truly loves Leia. I think he just reacted too quickly. You and he have a long history, don't forget."

"I haven't forgotten, Luke," I say, standing up. My back is aching, and I stretch to try to alleviate the pain. "So that's it," I say, starting to pace up and down the small cell. "Well, I'm happy it wasn't Leia. I'm glad that I was wrong about that."

Luke follows me with his eyes. "So am I," he replies. "She is pretty upset, Father; I think she's starting to soften where you're concerned."

I stop my pacing and look at him. "You think so?" I ask hopefully.

Luke nods, and I don't sense any duplicity in him. "She could really help you, Father," he says. "She's a pretty influential person."

"I know she is," I comment as I recommence my pacing. "I only hope it will be enough. I appreciate all that you're doing, Luke. I know you're not comfortable with all this; it means a lot to me that you're willing to try to defend me."

"I can't promise you anything, Father," he tells me. "But I'll do everything I can to see that you get a fair trial. I'm hoping that I will have Leia's help. I'm going to need it I think," he finishes softly.

The sound of the blast doors opening is heard.

"Half an hour already?" Luke says, standing up. "That doesn't seem possible."

A guard enters, one of the four who escorted me to the magistrate. He reactivates the door behind him and approaches us. I sense apprehension in him, as though he is trying to hide something...but not from us.

"I noticed that you were in a fair bit of pain back there, Skywalker," he says. "What happened?"

"He's been injured by one of your comrades," Luke tells him before I have a chance to say anything. "I think the magistrate should be told about this."

The guard frowns. "What happened? Do you need medical assistance?"

I frown, puzzled and suspicious of the young man's concern. "He kicked me," I tell him. "In the ribs, twice."

The guard nods. "And your face? You've got bruises. Was that him too?"

"Yes," I reply. "Why are you so concerned? No one else around here gives a damn about me."

The young man's face flushes, and he looks nervous for a moment. "Well, it's because of my wife, actually."

"Your wife?" asks Luke. "What does she have to do with my father's case?"

"Well, when I told her that Anakin Skywalker was one of the prisoners I had been assigned to, she told me that she had met you when she was a young girl, at her grandparents' house. You had been a friend of her aunt, I believe," relates the guard. "She told me that you played with her and her sister, that you were very kind to them both. She had a hard time believing that you were being charged with such a serious list of crimes."

I am silent as I listen to his story. I cannot imagine who he is talking about at first, and then it strikes me.

"The aunt that you refer to," I speak at last. "Was her name Padmé Naberrie?" I ask him.

To my astonishment, he nods. "Yes, that was her! She died about 20 years back, Pooja, my wife, told me. But I guess you know that, if you knew her."

"Padmé was my wife," I say quietly, my eyes cast down.

"Your wife?" exclaims the guard. "I…I had no idea!"

"It was a well kept secret," I explain. "I was a Jedi Knight; I wasn't supposed to marry, so we had to keep it a secret, even from Padmé's family."

The guard is amazed, and turns to Luke. "So...you must be Pooja's cousin then?" he asks.

Luke nods. "Yeah, I suppose I am," he says with a hint of a smile. "Padmé was my mother."

The guard shakes his head in amazement, and then looks back at me. "This is unbelievable," he says. "I…if they find out that there is a family connection between us, then they will take me off this detail. And so long as Kal is around, I think you need someone on your side."

"What is his problem with me?" I ask. "Did I do something to him in the past?"

"You killed his brother," he tells me. "He was a captain in the Imperial Fleet, Lorth Needa. Does that name sound familiar to you?"

Apology accepted, Captain Needa…. I nod. "Yes, yes it does," I tell him. "I had the feeling that there was something. No wonder he hates me so much," I say quietly.

"But that doesn't make it right for him to abuse you, not while you are an unarmed prisoner," retorts Luke. "Can't something be done about that?"

"Well, I can get you some medical care, if you think it's needed," replies the guard. "But that's about all I can do right now."

"That's a start," replies Luke, looking up at me. "Your ribs are broken, Father," he tells me matter-of-factly. "You need to have them looked at."

I nod; knowing to argue with Luke would be pointless. "Very well," I tell him.

"I'll send a medical droid over right away," replies the young man and then turns to leave.

"Wait," I call after him. "What is your name?"

He turns back to us. "Darvin," he replies. "Len Darvin."

"Well Len Darvin," I reply. "I am grateful for your help."

He gives me a slight smile. "Given what I've just learned," he tells me. "I wouldn't feel right if I didn't at least try."

I nod in understanding as he deactivates the shield for the medical droid that has arrived. The droid sets about repairing the cracked ribs that have given me more discomfort than I am willing to admit to my son.

"I'm afraid you'll have to leave now," Darvin tells Luke. "I'm not supposed to let visitors stay longer than half an hour at a time."

"Of course," replies Luke. He looks back at me. "I'll be back first thing in the morning, Father," he tells me. "Get some sleep; you look like you could use some."

"I won't deny that," I tell him. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

"You will," replies Luke. "Take care, Father."