Leia was dressed in black robes. In many ways, she was the polar opposite of what she had once been. A sad and ironic twist of fate, but again, who was he to talk? He was a live specimen of all that was warped and mangled, and foul, and disturbing...There were days when he loathed it. Then there were days when he felt a secret, disgusting pride.
After all, few could honestly claim that they were rotten to the core, that their genuinely evil father's hatred extended even to them, that they'd made their first kill at the tender age of eight and that they enjoyed seeing people scream and bleed. Who could proudly declare that they were treacherous by nature, that they despised those who had once loved him, that they could project dark, deadly energy from their fingertips and that their eyes sometimes turned to pits of fire?
Today he loathed it. Leia was wearing Sith robes and a lightsaber, and he felt the anger seethe inside him. What had given Vader the right to corrupt sweet, righteous, idealistic Leia? What had given him the right to replace him?
The truth was that he could not. He could not forget one he had raised from infancy, that he had bent out of shape, that he had known and possessed for his entire lifespan – he knew the story of Vader's fall.
Vader could not forget him. He could not throw the memory away. Vader could not throw him away, because he was already gone. He could not replace that which was one of a kind…could he? The answer stood in front of him in a dark cloak. He could kill her, if he tried – a lifetime of training would easily beat a couple of years.
"There's someone I would like you to meet," She says, smiling bright with false cheer.
"This is General Han Solo, my husband."
This is Captain Han Solo, of the Millennium Falcon. He normally does supply runs for us, but today he will be flying with you on the assault on the Death Star.
"Nice to meet ya, kid. Welcome to our collective suicide."
Han Solo stepped into the room. Different, but it was him. Dressed in a stiff Imperial uniform, he looked more imposing, despite the almost unnoticeable limp. He had lost his scruffiness but not his stance or expression – you could take the smuggler off Corellia…His face was different. His jaw was clenched and one eye was dead and unfocused, the pupil dilated and to one side. His other eye was hard and steely.
He threw Leia a furtive glance. What'd you bring him here for? He didn't say it, but it was the thought that counted.
"Long time no see, kid. How did you like the prison facilities?"
"You too, Han?"
"I've been in the navy before. You can switch sides at will, why not me?" His tone was one of vague derision.
"I think I preferred it in my cell."
The crisp, chilly mountain air nips at his cheeks but is still bearable. The steep, jagged relief is coated with white, snow gradually hardening to ice. Everything shimmers in the deceptive brightness of daylight. The beauty is blinding; it makes it difficult for him to make out the lithe, white-clad figure running barefoot in the snow, flame-red hair rippling behind her, streaked golden in the sun.
He wants to reach for her; he wants to touch her frosted ivory skin, to drink in the spark of her eyes – but doesn't dare attempt it for fear of her fading, a spirit on her way back to eternity. A deep-rooted pang stabs at him as he stills himself. His breath burns inside him. Likely, she is just a vision dancing in his eyes, evanescent and untouchable.
As much as he doubts, he will not risk letting her pass him by…Not again. He springs forward, after this fleeting ghost. Like a hunter, he is closing in…He can almost claw at her lacy, silken nightshirt, flapping in the wind…No, she is too fast, fleeing further.
She almost eludes him, but there is now nothing in her way – only a sharp drop. Certain death. Would she choose the fall over him? Is he so revolting? He is almost there, perhaps five metres away, when something stops him. Nothing in his mind. He simply freezes.
She looks at him and smiles knowingly, tenderly, and she beckons. Come here…stay with me. Do you not love me anymore? And what a fool he is; in senseless hope he complies, having dreamed for so long of sinking into her embrace…He comes close enough and looks down to the dazzling ground. As he looks up, he sees only a skeletal phantom, cold and decaying. Death, leering at him through dark voids.
His breath left him in a rush as he woke. Not again…Why was she always there? Why did she always leave? Why did the dead never stay dead? Why did the past always have to come back to haunt him? Alone and shrouded in darkness, he held his head and closed his eyes tightly, in a feeble attempt to banish her from his mind.
There was one day left until he would once again be Daddy's little slave, if indirectly this time. In a way, it was better to be a prisoner than a slave. A prisoner was one held against their will, stripped of their freedom, at the mercy of another being. A slave was the same entity bound in servitude. Slaves had no right to defiance.
He was different. Not a true slave, for he indulged in it, keeping it in the depths of his soul, guarding it like a treasure. Not even Darth Vader's iron fist could crush him. It could only mangle him.
It was probably because of this that he could not find the heart to care – about anything, including his fate. The life he would lead for the next few years would be one of risk and futility. If he died, he would die serving something he abhorred. He had always thought that he would go out fighting for that which he believed in. There was nothing to believe in. He was filled with what had once been hatred. Now hollow contempt. Without his hate, he was cold and naked.
He bit his lip and refocused on who he was watching. It did him no good to think too deep, for the thoughts sank into him and cut. Han was working on the Falcon – no longer the battered flying crate he had known, but plated in glossy black and bristling with state of the art weaponry. One thing that would stay the same, he thought with a morbid smile.
There was an itch at the back of his neck, and that sinking feeling…Stupid conscience. Foolish part of him, still believing in silly ideas like friendship and love. Why couldn't he be heartless, like his father? Why did he try to be?
"Han. Still tinkering away the day, I see. Didn't she say you were a General?" He refused to call her Leia. Darth, maybe. What a hypocrite he was.
"Skywalker. Vader, whatever you call yourself. Still a scheming bastard, always watching people. I'm not always on duty."
Still your newer, colder self. Depressing, but no more than anything else was. Why so jaded? Jaded…He fought the urge to split his skull on a wall, or to choke on tears. Inside, where no one could see, he was fragmenting.
"Whatever happened to Chewie?"
Han looked like he would spew sparks in his face. His mind spat curses.
"Chewie's dead."
Life never failed to further wound him. He should be used to it.
"I'm─"
"No! Don't you dare say you're sorry! If you do, I swear I'll strangle you. I admire that you still have a soul, but please have the decency not to apologize…You screwed up my life. You killed my best friend, you destroyed Leia! Yes, she's alive, but not the woman I loved. I might as well be married to Old Buckethead; she spouts the same crap he does."
Han sighed. He had never sounded this tired.
"Don't look so surprised, kid. I'm not blind. I know you try. I want to forgive you."
But I can't. Because sorry just doesn't cut it. Because you can't undo the damage. You can't bring anyone back. Because you are a loathsome creature and you can't change that.