The next morning came unexpectedly. No, it was not morning – the chrono read 1207; he had fallen asleep from exhaustion past 1700 the day before after a very brief conversation with the unbearable shrink who pretended to care. He would have preferred honest cruelty to her sickly-sweet words, sticky with the sugar coating.
After a quick shower, he opened the wardrobe to find something half-decent to wear – anything but yesterday's sweaty, rumpled clothes would do. Apparently no one had burned his old attire…
"Shavit."
He brushed the single scarlet hair off the otherwise solid black fabric and tried to banish it from his mind.
-:-
The trip home had been uneventful; neither of them had said a word. She had flown the ship; he had sat and stared at a wall. Coruscant was beautiful, a sphere of dark marble engraved with lines of fire. He had to admit that he had missed it. It really was something, to possess such a place, though he had never appreciated.
He had only realized how (superficially) well-off he had been after he had willingly chosen to lose it all and had seen the Alliances appalling lack of resources – it had been all dingy cabins, battered spacecraft, torn clothes and inhospitable temperatures, but there had been a warmth he could not find anywhere else. Even if he was a little further from the flame.
They did not enter the atmosphere; Executor was waiting for them in orbit…He did not need to look up to know who was there to meet them as they docked in the private bay, one he did not know had existed. The telltale metallic breaths had always been enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.
It is sickening how she slithers over to Vader and takes her place at his side, impassive, outright telling him, I am not with you. How twisted it is that her loyalty belongs to one who threatened her loved ones – no, don't wince, he'll see – and not to one who would have sold his soul for her.
"Skywalker. I see that my methods of persuasion have proven to be effective. Jade here says that you have been most cooperative. I trust you will keep up this pattern..."
"Blackmail, Emperor Vader? I was unaware that you could sink so low. So what is it that you want from me? Why am I here?"
"Why are you here?" Always so cryptic. What sly motif has he come up with this time?
"Because you coerced Mara into bringing me here. Because you supposedly want me back. You could have asked. I would have already had an answer."
"How so?"
"We both know that what I did was an open declaration of treason. The answer is no, and I, for one, am not so easily bent to one's will."
"Then I am certain that I can convince you with some more drastic measures. You will either join me or be destroyed."
"I am not afraid of death." Said with a smile.
"Very well. You will either join me, or Jade will die."
She does not say that she would rather die than see him at Vader's side once again. She does not say that it is not worth it. She does not tell him to fight him, nor does she tell him that he knows what he has to do. She does not smile knowingly. In fact, she is silent as the dead.
He knows what he is, and what he is not. He is a murderer. He is a liar. He is a traitor. He is two-faced; he is depraved, he is foul-tempered and full of hate, but he is not weak-minded. He is not a coward, He is no sycophant, and he is certainly no slave.
It comes down to two choices. Not three, not four. No alternate route. No back doors, no windows. Strong/weak. Death/life. Dark/darker.
I can't help what I feel…
Should he be selfish or cruel?
He'll never hurt me.
He says nothing.
"Very well."
Snap-hiss. It plunges into her back; the Sith Lord drives it through her heart. Her emerald eyes are wide with an infinite distance stare as she gasps and falls to her knees. A fine line of blood trickles past her lips and rolls down her chin. She opens her mouth, but her voice is gone.
Sorry, she mouths. Sorry I couldn't love you. You did the right thing, even if I am the one to die. Even if it hurts.These thoughts are left unspoken.
And she crumples, pale as snow, and her eyes are like ice when they roll back into her forehead. Her lips are like bruised petals, and her hair spills across the metal grating like molten lava.
He lets out a long, trembling breath and pretends to be a stone. He feels something in his chest splinter; he feels the shards cutting, burning. His soul is bleeding. He feels the darkness rising, pounding in his veins, obscuring his vision. He blinks and does not realize that his eyes have turned to fire.
He ignites his blade, intense, searing red, like rage unleashed. In a storm of wrath, he throws himself at his enemy. In a moment, the weapon is at the other's throat.
It should have severed his head, but did not. In a fraction of a second, his opponent had lit his own blade, and so begins the duel – their 'sabres clashing, shedding light, as if shedding blood. He is still on the offensive; his strikes are long and twist unpredictably, but Vader's defenses are of steel. They are in an open space; there is nothing for him to use to his advantage. Mercifully, the bay is empty; should he be bested, he will still be able to make an escape.
The enemy tires of their game; he now takes the offensive, driving him back. The blows are merciless, they land viciously and are almost too heavy to be repelled. He has forgotten how skilled the other is. His palms are sweaty, and this does nothing for his grip; this makes it all too easy for the enemy to send his weapon flying. He is left defenseless…No, never defenseless.
He springs forward and out, narrowly escaping a lightning-quick slash of the blade, summoning his own weapon. As the Sith turns, he attempts a powerful, sweeping strike, one that should have been a clean cut across the legs. His blow is almost redirected into his face. Vader almost, almost snarls.
The enemy is a whirlwind of destructive energy. In his rage, the Sith slashes furiously, at anything and everything. His single blade could have been a dozen. It grazes his arm, exposing wires, opening an old wound, and the old, bitter loathing does nothing to protect him.
One failure precedes another - he feels a streak of fire ignite on his thigh; a mist falls over his eyes; something sharp pierces his shoulder and the floor lurches upward, he feels its impact on his skull. For a moment, the mist shivers green, then clears, All he can see is the pain and black boots.
"Pathetic. It appears that you have weakened since I last saw you."
"And you have grown more ruthless. You should kill me now,"
"No. You will get out of my sight and drag yourself back to whatever hole you hide in…"
He almost turns away, but then, as an afterthought,
"Disgusting. You are no son of mine."
Only then does he turn his back on him.