The rest was a burning, feverish haze. He saw very little, be it because of the shattering agony or the inky dark loathing dripping across his eyes. He lived in an everlasting, nightmarish present as he dragged himself, half-conscious, to her shuttle.
It hurts to think her name. It once sounded, to his ears, like a soft, pale flame, warm and silky. Now it is bitter, so becoming of its meaning. Bitter on his tongue as he whispers it over and over. She will not hear him.
He pictures her body, smooth and slender, fragile, forgotten; he watches her skin turn ashen, then mottled grey. He watches her cheeks hollow out, watches her flesh turn black - she is just a rotting carcass. Who could love such a thing? He feels her icy, clammy fingers on his cheek…
-:-
When he woke up, most of the damage was gone, though it had been a while since he had felt this sore. Somehow, absent-mindedly, he had gotten back to her shuttle and slapped it on autopilot, destination anywhere away from the Empire's dark heart. He had promptly slipped into a healing trance, he remembered. Where was he now?
Now that the mist on his eyes had lifted, the world came crashing down with a vengeance. He sat in the cockpit and stared at the exposed wires of his arm. They gleamed –silver-white and looked razor-sharp, clicking as he flexed, sparking at irregular intervals. He felt the irrational urge to rip them out and dig them into his flesh.
"I hate you too, Father."
He could deny it, but it would only bury everything deeper. It was an unwritten law of physics that all things hidden could not remain so. Damned truth. Lies were convenient. Lies were freedom, beauty and love. They were like roses. Like roses, they had thorns. And why did they, like roses, have to be so short-lived?
Sith-hells, it kriffing hurt. All he could hear was a whirlpool of resounding words, echoing, mind spinning, flickering like a broken holo. The tight feeling was again crawling up his throat, threatening to turn into a sob.
But it did not. He never cried. It was an utter waste of energy. Grown men did not cry, and darksiders certainly did not. Vader did not, and would not, even if someone could see what lay beneath the mask.
The cry was not ripped from his throat, his eyes did not sting and his sight did not blur. He did not tense up like a steel cord. He did not shiver. And then, he did not collapse onto the control panel and break all over again.
He knew whose fault it was. None other than his own, He was the one who had so spitefully turned traitor. Damn the stupid Rebellion; his foolish, naive rebellion. Damn his darkness. Damn his father, his nonexistent father who disappeared. Damn Han and Leia and their insipid love. Damn his fellow pilots with the dull eyes and their distrust, and their unspoken, unconscious animosity. Damn her memory; damn her pale corpse...Death to everyone,
-:-
On the other side of the galaxy, the Alliance fleet floated with quiet grace, like shards in suspended animation…What has broken? All around, there was the sprawling shadow of space, frosted with pinpoints of light, silent as an eerie winter night. A sleek white craft blinked into existence. Then it opened fire, and the shards resumed their fall.
-:-
"You win. I'm just calling to get you off my rear end," He says as he picks up the commlink. Correction: to warn you of my impending doom and thus get you off my arse forever. He dials the numbers and waits – one…two…three….Perhaps she is away; just as well for him. He is about to switch is off, but…
Too late.
" Viell here."
"Renn, it's me."
"Oh, you. Of course, I am an expert at voice recognition."
"You should know my voice after three years. Didn't think I would call back, did you?"
"No, I figured you were too deep into your sulk. As for three years, you spent half the time glaring at me. Not that it worked."
"Obviously."
"So, is this a social call or are you taking up my offer?"
"Neither. I am letting you know that I will be away again…To keep you from flooding my message box, you know. And I do not need a keeper."
"Really? Because I was under the impression that you do need someone to make sure you don't do anything…rash."
"You mean make sure I don't kill myself or anyone else?"
"Exactly."
"Well, you need not worry. I think my next assignment will just about do me in. Which is actually why I'm calling. You will likely not see much of me anymore. I guess it's an early goodbye."
"Ever the optimist. I know all about what you did, remember? You're quite resourceful – I am certain that you will survive."
'Now who's the optimist? But before I go - If I fail to come back, tell Lord Vader…tell him I love him. Don't miss me."
"I will." Said with a smile. It was a promise.
"That's too bad for you. Goodbye, then."
"Not goodbye. See you later."
-:-
The world around him is a blur of faded grays and blues; all is murky. The eerie silence of the water engulf him. Clothing and hair floating around him, leaden and vaporous, he propels himself further into the darkening, glacial depths. Breathing is not a problem; he is equipped with an aquata breather. The pressure is another matter . He cannot tolerate much more; he can feel the inky fluid crushing him – if he keeps it up, breathing will never be a problem again.
The entrance should be somewhere near. Even with the glowrod, he can see very little. He resorts to running his hands over the slime-covered, seaweed-infested stone wall. It is only with the use of the Force that he manages to locate the control panel. After he depresses a button, a portion of the wall slides out of view to reveal a dark, dank entrance, by no means cavernous; barely large enough for him, a relatively small man, to stand up in.
Nevertheless, he reseals the entrance, obviously meant for the owners of this installation. He wishes he had his lightsaber; it would sure provide better lighting. He does not know the exact purpose of this facility – it is a laboratory and it belongs to Black Sun, but this is all he knows. He also knows that he must destroy it.
One should think that they would give him a more constructive task, but the truth is that they do not expect him to reform. Why not put him to use? He mutters a few curses under his breath and pulls out a stack of wet explosives – waterproof, thankfully. He doesn't think much for the next half hour or so as he darts around the passageways with manic speed, placing them strategically. They should easily blow the place.
He sets the timer for fifteen minutes – it should be enough time for him to get out but insufficient for anyone to catch on. Silly as it is, he finds something comical about stepping into a turbolift – it should not be so easy for him to waltz out of here…But he shrugs and is on his way.
It is a disturbing experience, to stand in the small, enclosed space and wait, knowing that should anything go wring, he will undoubtedly meet his demise. He pictures himself drowning in a storm of fire, feeling, for a split second, his flesh tear itself apart from the inside out, and everything blinking out of existence. He does not want to die.