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1.
When Vader spots a familiar mop of blond hair emerging from under a stormtrooper helmet, he itches for nothing more than to discipline the daylights out of his impudent son. Seeing as he’s made himself at home in Kenobi’s company, doubly so. His anger has always been like this, hot and roiling, spurring him into action.
With a snarl, Vader ignites his lightsaber. Luke whips around at the sound, eyes alight with the adrenaline of battle.
After reuniting with his son in the Lars family home, Vader raised Luke on Vjun in secrecy. Few sentients knew of his existence, and even fewer were permitted near their quarters. Although Vader’s duties to the Empire often demanded his presence off-world, he returned whenever he could, for as long as he could. Luke made no attempts to shield his dissatisfaction with his absence, to put it mildly. Their bond was shot through with it.
When Luke disappeared from Bast Castle, Vader nearly tore the fortress apart searching for him. He initially suspected that the boy had been abducted by the Emperor’s forces, but eventually dismissed the thought. After all, Sidious is a gloating man; he wouldn’t wait long to dangle Anakin Skywalker’s son over his head. When Vader once again visited Tatooine a standard week later, the Lars professed their ignorance of the whole incident.
Just like that, his search came to a standstill. Luke’s parting words, an enigmatic “Father, don’t worry about me. I’ll see you soon!” scrawled on a piece of flimsi, left little in the way of clues. Even their bond had fallen dormant. Empty.
Vader was and is nothing if not determined to succeed, especially when it comes to finding his son. But Luke has stayed away of his own volition. There can be no doubt about that now.
Soon, indeed, Vader thinks spitefully. The fury that gripped him all those cycles ago swells with vengeance, imbuing his next strikes with the might of the Dark Side. Luke parries him blow for blow, muscles straining under the effort.
Vader had taught him everything he knew to hold his own in a fight, had built his lightsaber with him, nurtured him, loved him, even when he refused the Dark Side. And now, he dares, he dares! He went to such great lengths to provide the boy with a home befitting a prince, and yet he dares defy him as she once had. But unlike Padmé—the memory of Mustafar brings with it a stab of grief—Luke will live to endure his punishments and learn from his mistakes.
“Father!” Luke’s cry breaks through his manic thoughts. The boy is backed into a wall, lightsaber held in a defensive position. “Father, wait!”
Father, he says. Wait, he dares to say. Vader scoffs, the sound coming out as a burst of static. “You are coming with me, you petulant—”
Before Vader can finish, a heavy crate rams into his side. He staggers, weighed down by the bulk of his armour, and falls to one knee, bracing himself against the floor.
“Leave him, Luke!” comes a shout from the hangar. Obi-Wan. How Vader longs to tear that old, meddlesome fool limb from limb!
“But Ben, he—”
“Leave him! We have to go! Now!”
Vader pushes himself to his feet, betrayal eclipsing his vision. In the end, it brings him nothing, not even Kenobi’s corpse. He stares numbly into the void of the cosmos, at that patch of night where his son shunned his company in favour of that traitor’s. He balls his hands into fists. Then, he lets go.
His son is long gone.
Vader can never stay angry, not at Luke. It comes in short bursts, and once it abates, he’s left with an all-encompassing sense of unease that he refuses to fully unpack. Fear, most likely. Guilt, perhaps. All feelings to be harnessed and fed to the Dark Side.
The darkness shifts around him. He spins on his heels and marches towards his meditation chamber.
2.
They clash above the trenches of the Death Star.
Vader has calmed considerably since their encounter several cycles ago. Luke, too, feels more determined. More obstinate. His presence in the Force is heavy with resolve, blocking any attempt made by Vader to reach him through their bond. The boy has grown up to be quite the menace. He’s even impervious to Vader’s threats.
The Death Star is soon blown to smithereens, reduced to the scrap metal that once constituted the battle station. The explosion is so immense that the force of it sends Vader careening into space, away from where his son reconvenes with the Falcon.
Just like that, Luke slips through his father’s fingers again. And again. And again.
It’s not until Cymoon 1 that Vader finally forces another encounter with his son. The corridor is empty save for the two of them. Even now, with the Sith pressing urgently on his shields, the stubborn boy refuses to open up their bond. Fine; they can negotiate that later. This is Vader’s only chance to speak to Luke privately about all that has transpired, to persuade him to come home without leveraging the threat of punishment.
Vader had fantasized about this very moment for months in the solitude of his meditation chamber. Now, under the scrutiny of his son’s glare, he can’t quite find the words.
But Luke speaks enough for the both of them. He always does, eager to share with his father as much as he can. After months spent off-world, Vader looked forward to those moments the most. Luke would rattle excitedly about his most recent exploits—the Force abilities he’s mastered, the new droids roaming the halls, those blasted holofilms—and although Vader has never been a patient listener, he would try for his son.
This time, too, he shall be patient. Though his fingers twitch at the sight of Luke’s pale throat, he keeps his hands pinned stiffly to his side. He hasn’t even drawn his lightsaber. He’ll let his child speak his mind, and then he will shepherd him home where he truly belongs.
With me.
“You were there when they destroyed Alderaan,” Luke says reproachfully, fingers tightening around Vader’s bicep. “You say that you and I can bring order to the galaxy, but you were there, and you did nothing.”
Vader furrows his brows at the outburst, his incredulity palpable in the Force. “Is that what this pathetic act of rebellion is about? People you’ve never met, and a planet you’ve never seen?”
They’ve hardly exchanged more than a few words, and Vader can already feel his temper rising. Luke’s righteousness is frankly ridiculous. It’s one of many traits he inherited from Padmé. While the display might’ve been endearing within the safety of their fortress, now it only serves to irritate the Dark Lord.
Luke is, like always, indifferent to his father’s foul mood. “Not just Alderaan, but Kashyyyk. Jedha. Geonosis.” He jerks his hand away, gesturing to their surrounding space. “Did you even think about the people there? The families? This war, this conflict… the Empire is vile, Father. Surely, you must see that!”
Vader does. “That is irrelevant to us.”
“You’d let the entire galaxy burn if it’s not relevant to us.”
“So be it.” It’s not what his naïve son hopes to hear, but it’s the truth.
Luke huffs petulantly, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe you, but you really don’t care. Of course you don’t. You’d rather be shackled to the Emperor—”
A snarl tears itself from Vader’s throat. “I chose the Empire because it presents a tactical advantage against Sidious, you foolish child!” He jabs a finger into Luke’s chest, almost toppling the boy backwards. “I’ve gone to great lengths for your protection. What do you wish to gain if I paint myself a defector? He will discover your existence in an instant if he bothers to pry, and I will no longer be able to guarantee your safety! What then?”
Luke stares at him in shock, not expecting to spark such outrage in his father. Good. With the boy’s composure knocked off-kilter, Vader will push his advantage and bring him home once and for all.
His respirator cycles once, twice, and he looks away. “You are all that I have, Luke,” he says. “Surely, you must see that.”
Pain flashes across Luke’s features, followed shortly by regret. “Father, I…”
Vader knows he’s seized his son’s tender heart, entwining artery and tissue around his fingers, twisting it. He relishes in Luke’s conflict and delights in his sorrow. The truth is his greatest weapon, and the Force its catalyst. Luke cannot deny his sincerity. He’s won.
Vader reaches out a beckoning hand, assured of the outcome. “Come home, my son.”
Luke stares at the proffered hand, shutting his eyes when he can no longer rescue his crumbling resolve. Tentatively, he reaches back, fingers grazing the surface of his father’s palm.
Vader’s chest aches. His suit is not designed to register such featherlight touches. The few upgrades he personally oversaw increased the range of sensory input, to be sure, but not for this. He never thought he would ever crave something he once enjoyed in abundance through their bond. And yet here he is, stitching together distant, fragmented memories into a chimera of how it must feel. Gentle. Warm. Nothing like him. Luke is nothing like him.
Luke tugs at Vader’s fingers, guiding his hand back to his side. “I know what you’re trying to do, Father. I won’t go with you. I can’t. It’s not right.” The boy dips his head, heartbroken and miserable, staring at a point between their feet. “I shouldn’t have left the way I did, and I’m sorry. But what you’ve done… You have to let me go.”
Something in Vader cracks, something he thought long buried.
“You’re coming too, aren’t you, mom?”
“It is time for you to let go.”
By the time Vader digs himself out of the hot Tatooine sands, Luke is gone.
3.
The swirling blue of hyperspace opens to reveal the lake planet of Tynna, tucked in the Expansion Region. Vader glares at it through the cockpit’s windshield, torn between reminiscence and churning contempt. With a small huff, he punches a few buttons, readying his shuttle to enter the planet’s atmosphere.
He lands in a meadow near a large, crescent-shaped lake. The grass is tall enough to reach his knees. His suit’s scanners show a smattering of wildlife living among the trees, primarily insects and other invertebrates, the majority of which made themselves scarce in the canopy. Tynna is home to the occasional sentient, most of whom reside in larger bodies of waters, and none of whom are Force-sensitive, at least not to his knowledge. He’s not aware of any Jedi or Sith settlements on-world either.
Yet somewhere beyond the dense vegetation, something—or rather, someone—is calling to him.
Vader ignites his lightsaber and marches through the thicket in the direction of the lake. The tugging in his chest grows stronger with every step he takes. The source of the call must be further still. As adept as they are at cloaking their presence, Vader will find them.
Vader clears the final bramble bush, stepping out of the forest with a grunt of irritation. He extinguishes his blade and clips the hilt to his belt. With a hand blocking the glare of the sun, he walks towards the lone tent by the water’s edge, a hideously yellow thing atop rock and gravel.
Just then, a blond head pokes out from behind the tent. Blue eyes peer over at him, freezing once they recognize the tall, imposing figure of the Dark Lord.
Vader clenches his hand into a fist, and then relaxes. Of course, Luke is the source of the call. Who else would dare reach lightyears through the cosmos to catch his attention, at risk of his ire?
“Father, you came,” Luke breathes. He rounds the tent, a boyish grin brightening his features.
“My son,” Vader rumbles, basking in the warmth of his smile.
You are mine. You belong with me— to me.
Luke preens at Vader’s acknowledgement, and the light of his Force signature comes into crystal clarity. His shields are impeccable. It’s as much a source of irritation as it is a source of pride. Vader reaches a dark tendril to prod at the barrier, and Luke reciprocates with a nudge of his own.
Not yet.
Vader begrudgingly withdraws. He hooks his thumbs into his belt and looks, really looks, at his son.
It’s been almost an entire year. The passage of time is reflected in Luke’s youthful face, though the changes are minute. The tension at the corner of his eyes, a furrowing of the brow set slightly lower than usual. In the absence of Vader’s service droids, his hair has grown past his ears. Paired with his crisp, grey rebel fatigues, he seems more… mature.
Vader tries not to let the changes bother him, but he can’t deny that he’s missed a few significant developments in his son’s life. Again.
When Vader isn’t pursuing his son in a dogfight, he spends his time glutting himself on reports about the rebel pilot named Luke Lars, produced by his spies and bounty hunters. He hoards every grainy holo they turned in to his possession: Luke in the canteen, Luke at the shooting range, Luke climbing out of his X-Wing… Yes, it is perfectly normal for the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Navy to be so preoccupied with the pilot who destroyed the Death Star. Even the Emperor approves of his diligence.
As much as the holos have temporarily sated Vader’s longing, finally seeing Luke in person is something else entirely.
“Come home,” he wants to say. “Those rebels are beneath your notice.”
“Why are we here?” he asks instead.
“I wanted to see you,” Luke answers. He’s always so earnest. “I’ve missed you.”
Vader inclines his helmet, struggling to speak around the knot in his throat. His son has missed him, and yet… “You do not intend to return to me,” he observes flatly.
Luke shakes his head. “No. Not yet.”
Vader regards Luke from behind red-tinted lenses. “I see,” is his gruff response. He can’t help the bitterness in his tone.
If Luke feels any offence, he doesn’t let it show. “I want to try something,” he says. “Leia calls it ‘setting explicit boundaries,’ I think. Indulge me, Father?” Vader doesn’t like the sound of that. At his silence, Luke continues, “You won’t ask me to go with you, and I won’t run away. We can meet here once a month, maybe sooner, maybe later. We’ll just… hang out, I guess?”
Oh, Vader definitely doesn’t like the sound of that. He’ll have to wait an entire month just to see his own son? Utterly preposterous! How can this ever be enough?
It can’t be. It can’t.
Vader is a Sith, a dragon draped in skin and wire, taking and taking until Luke has nothing left to give. Insatiable. Avarice crowns his long list of sins. He needs more than fanciful promises and sweet nothings, but his son will surely deny him again. And again. And again.
The thought of crushing Luke’s legs and dragging his broken body back to his shuttle suddenly crosses Vader’s mind. Distracted as Luke is right now, it would be so easy to catch him unawares, wrapping the Force around his frail body, and squeezing until his son is secure in his clutches once more.
A shiver of satisfaction runs down his spine. It would be so easy.
“So?” Luke gives him a hopeful half-smile. “What do you think?”
The Dark Lord flexes his fingers. He shouldn’t—he won’t, lest he make a critical blunder just when his son is finally seeking his accord. For the first time, he’s grateful that the bond between them lies dormant.
And so, Vader capitulates. “Once a month is acceptable, if you are otherwise preoccupied.”
“Thank you, Father!” The boy seems thrilled. More than thrilled. He straightens out his fatigues, flattening his hands excitedly along the waistline of his pants. “There are so many things I want us to do, I don’t even know where to start. Do you have any preferences?”
Preferences.
Vader prefers that Luke return to Vjun this instant, but he doesn’t have the luxury of an obedient son, so he settles for whatever inane hobbies Luke picked up in the company of his terrorist friends.
4.
Fortunately, most of Luke’s hobbies are still familiar. The laughing, tinkering, and pointless, mundane chatter about starships—all these once-ordinary things are now imbued with nostalgia. Even those soapy holofilms have become tolerable. With Luke’s head resting on his shoulder, Vader dares say they’re enjoyable.
Sometimes, they do more than sit around Luke’s holoprojector. Sometimes, Luke will ask Vader to go fishing, or insect watching, or the variety of other leisure activities one can do anywhere but Vjun. What Luke can possibly find stimulating about doing nothing, Vader has no idea. The boy seems more than happy to simply watch the ripples in the water if he can do so with his father.
Today, Luke joins him in his meditation chamber. He’s sprawled across the small, circular space, knapsack tucked under his arm and ankle brushing Vader’s knee. He drags in a slow breath, relishing the oxygenated air.
“I’ve missed this,” Luke says at last.
Vader squints at the blotches of brown and pink that comprise his son’s face. “This narrow pod?”
“Seeing you.”
The corner of Vader’s lips quirk in a facsimile of a smile. “I am not a pretty sight, Luke.” It had taken him years to grow accustomed to his son’s gaze on his skin, and it wasn’t without a torrent of shame. His scars are too numerous, too gnarly.
“Nonsense,” Luke replies coyly. “I think you look great for your age.”
Vader huffs at that, reaching over to ruffle Luke’s hair. Despite all the death and destruction he’s wrought upon the galaxy—whether indifferently or with glee—the Force had decided to bless him with the most loving, affectionate child. Disregarding his running away from home and joining an insurrection, anyway. Not that Vader has any right to judge.
Suddenly, Luke straightens, pulling his bag into his lap. “You’ll be pleased to hear that Ben— Obi-Wan passed away. Before he could, he gave me something,” he says, too casually to not raise Vader’s suspicions. After a bit of rummaging, Luke withdraws a narrow, silver object, floating it to Vader wordlessly. The man’s eyes widen with recognition as soon as his fingers close around the hilt.
His old lightsaber.
Even after all this time, the shard of kyber sheathed within still sings to him. Discordant notes. A funeral hymn.
“What is the meaning of this?” Vader’s displeasure is written all over his face. He need not hide it from his son.
It seems Luke has come somewhat prepared for his ire. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” he admits, trying for a placating tone, “but I thought you’d appreciate the honesty, if not the discretion.”
“The discretion,” Vader echoes dryly. “I suppose Kenobi’s demise is welcome news. Strange that I have not felt it.” He turns to the lightsaber in his hand, assessing the familiar balance and shape of the hilt. It had served him well. Even at the Temple. “Why have you kept this? You have your own lightsaber.” The one we built together.
Luke crosses his arms defensively at his father’s sharp words. “It’s a memento. It makes me feel closer to you when we’re lightyears apart.”
Feel closer, he says, as though their separation wasn’t his fault! Vader grits his teeth, knowing better than to pressure Luke to open their bond. “…I see,” he finally grounds out. Surely, the boy has already discerned his rising anger. He tosses the hilt into Luke’s lap, ignoring his indignant squawk of surprise.“Then it is yours to do with as you please.”
“Thank you,” Luke murmurs, not sounding nearly as upset as Vader secretly—cruelly, coldly, vindictively—expects. Luke is absolutely magnificent when he’s furious, but such bouts of fury are few and far in between, and rarely ever over something petty. He has his mother’s temperament. Vader supposes it’s for the best; they wouldn’t be here otherwise.
Luke tucks the lightsaber into his bag, only to withdraw a second item, this one a dark shade of teal. It, too, feels imbued with the Force. “This is for you. I thought it was only fair.”
Once again, the object is passed into Vader’s hands. Once again, he recognizes it immediately. A holocron.
“Ben left instructions on how to make these.” Luke rubs the back of his neck nervously. “The Jedi of old used them to store their teachings, though I suppose you’d know all about it. This one,” Luke clears his throat, “it contains my personal travel journal. It’s nothing particularly sensitive; mostly planets with bases that your troops have already attacked. I hope you like it.”
Vader’s eyes flick between Luke and his gift. The small, cubic device is well-constructed, but Luke has always been somewhat of an engineering marvel. If the rest of Bast Castle wasn’t forbidden without Vader’s supervision, the boy would’ve “fixed” all of his service droids before his fifteenth birthday. It therefore comes as no surprise that he’s now created a holocron all on his own, only to use it like a common datachip. His son is as predictable as he is perplexing.
Perhaps he was too harsh after all.
The wrath that Luke’s transgressions set ablaze is swiftly and surely quashed by the Dark Lord’s awful need to covet anything and everything Luke Skywalker. He cradles the gift, unsure how to communicate the sudden lightness in his chest or the ecstasy coursing through his veins. In the end, he settles on a quiet, “Thank you, my son.”
The tension drains from Luke’s posture, and he heaves a small sigh of relief. “I’m so happy—”
A sharp beep interrupts Luke mid-sentence, followed by another, and another, and another. He fumbles for the breast pocket of his fatigues and pulls out his comlink. After thumbing a few buttons, the device falls silent.
Vader inclines his head, expression unreadable.
“It’s a distress signal from Leia,” Luke explains, worry creasing his brows. “I’m sorry, Father. I have to go.”
Vader watches wordlessly as Luke slings his bag over his shoulder. Then, the boy is leaning forward, one hand braced against his thigh, the other cradling his cheek. He presses his lips to Vader’s forehead, soft and gentle and so, so warm.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Vader lets him go. He feels Luke’s warmth on his skin long after the boy has left Tynna.
Once the holocron is stowed safely in his master quarters, Vader makes his way down the ramp. He stands alone in the small, moonlit meadow, lake to his back, cape fluttering in the cool breeze. The skies are clear tonight. For once, the insects cease their infernal racket.
Even this blasted planet has forsaken him.
Vader’s prostheses tremble with ill-concealed rage, the oppressive energy of the Dark Side bubbling out from between gritted teeth. Years of hurt and frustration return with renewed fervour, stoked by the memory of Luke’s kiss, warm against his scarred flesh. Vader craves his affection. It’s everything he’s ever wanted: innocent, simple, benign.
His. All his.
They could have this. He should have this.
But he doesn’t. Maybe he never will.
Vader gasps for air, gloves clawing at his throat. The thought fractures something fragile inside him. The fear and anxiety he keeps tightly locked smashes through the cage of his anger, spilling their guts into the clearing.
Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. No, power. No, suffering. Power—suffering—power.
Power.
He’s long ago accepted that Luke will never accept the rule of the Empire. Fine; Luke’s opinions can be corrected after they destroy Sidious. But he’s even gone out of his way to entertain the boy’s “boundaries” for two whole years, understanding full well that these monthly meetings will eventually become untenable. Has he not played along with this charade like the dutiful father that he is? His son will rather spurn his company than leave his pathetic rebel friends. Is this how he’s repaid for his efforts?
They must die. All of them.
The realization—the solution—comes unbidden into his mind. It sends a rush of pleasure through his body.
Yes; he can already see it, clear as day. A rebel base bereft of activity. The princess and the smuggler crushed to the floor, gasping around mouthfuls of blood, their forms lit by Vader’s red lightsaber. Insects, the lot of them. They do not deserve a merciful death.
As Vader raises his hand—to expunge their organs, to tear out their spines—Luke barrels through the doorway. “Father!” he cries, spirit ground into tephra, “Father, please!” And Vader will be there, will always be there, holding him in his embrace, petting his hair, so loving.
His lone pier in a sea of anguish.
Mine. All mine.
Not yet.
Tendrils of the Dark Side rush wildly forth, searching for an outlet. Vader clenches his fist to reign in the darkness, to bend it to his will. Then, he lets go.
Control.
He opens his eyes. The meadow is as it was, grass and flowers swaying in the night breeze, unmarred by his fantasies.
5.
“We have a new enemy: the young rebel who destroyed the Death Star. I have no doubt that this boy is the offspring of Anakin Skywalker.”
“How is that possible?”
“Search your feelings, Lord Vader. You will know it to be true.”
Vader watches impassively as Solo is lifted from the carbon-freezing chamber, preserved in stasis, as good as dead. The commotion resumes the moment Fett leaves with his cargo, but Vader tunes them all out. He reaches for that shimmering bond threading through the Force. It pulses to life, entwined in his dark Force signature, hesitant, questioning.
Three years of silence, broken with a tremor. But it is too early yet to celebrate.
He turns around when Luke’s Force presence brightens, no longer a timid bystander in the back of his mind. The boy is wearing grey battle fatigues, much like that fateful day on Tynna two years ago. Vader supposes that’s to be expected; Luke could only take so much with him before he razed Echo Base to the ground, furious that his son was nowhere to be found.
The memory makes Luke flinch. He clutches the hilt of his lightsaber in a white-knuckled grip and walks to the base of the chamber’s stairs.
His father inclines his head. “You are early.”
His son shivers at the deep baritone, unsure whether he should be alarmed or relieved. He must feel Vader’s satisfaction as clearly as Vader can glean his worry. There are no secrets between them— can be no secrets—not like this, not when their bond is as it should be. Open; porous.
“You—” Luke’s footsteps stop abruptly when he spots his friends, held at blasterpoint by two troopers. The Wookie lets out a miserable roar. Leia, too, is a mess of panic and fear, her confidence having fallen away the moment his son walked into his trap. Finally, Luke’s gaze settles back on Vader’s helmet, imploring. “Why…?”
“Why do you think?”
Luke purses his lips, mind racing, evaluating possibility after possibility until he lands on a memory. An unfamiliar wing of his father’s star destroyer; a hooded figure upon the holoprojector, speaking in a low, venomous croak: “Yes, he would be a great asset…”
“Palpatine,” Luke whispers. “He knows, doesn’t he?”
Vader’s lips quirk humourlessly. “The Emperor knows much.” After all he’s done—the lies, the calculated risks, the cover-ups—it still wasn’t enough. Somehow, even whilst eluding Vader’s grasp, Sidious found him; plucked him like spoiled fruit from the branches of the Force even when his own father couldn’t. The irony. It will only be a matter of time before he discovers the depths of Vader’s own treachery. Exhumes it.
Luke gives him a thoughtful look. “So he put you up to this.”
“He need not put me up to anything, least of all to collect you. This would have happened with or without his intervention.”
His son furrows his brows, confusion projecting loudly through their bond. You wanted this?
I wanted you, and here you are. It is as I had foreseen. After all, you are mine.
Luke studies him quietly, neither returning nor shrinking from the tendrils of darkness curling possessively around him. Vader senses his ambivalence, his reluctance to accept his father’s covetous love and equal yearning for his affection. And yet, he refuses to give in. When has his son become like this—like a Jedi? So calm, and so composed; so unlike his father, always sick with fury?
After a long moment, Luke nods his head. “Here I am,” he agrees. “Tell your men to stand down, and then we can talk.”
Vader scoffs. “We will do no such thing. You are coming with me.”
“Not until we talk.”
Vader closes his eyes. Even now, Luke will defy him. But he had anticipated this reaction, had he not? His son will not return to his side without the coercion of violence; their rendezvous on Tynna is evidence enough. All those tender moments, their well-worn back-and-forth by that opalescent lake—they amount to nothing in the end. Nothing.
He clenches his fists, resentment swelling in his gut. This friction between them can never be mollified by words.
Control.
“It is of no concern to me whether you come home of your own volition or thoroughly beaten.” Vader’s tone is colder than any he’s taken with Luke in the past. He relishes in the boy’s mounting apprehension, the inexorable dread chilling his core. “If you insist on being difficult, then fine. You will see reason soon enough.”
With a snap-hiss, Vader ignites his lightsaber. Luke mirrors him, his blade casting a verdant glow across the durasteel floor. There’s a resolute set to his jaw, much like on Cymoon 1.
Strike. Parry. Strike.
Despite his rejection of the Dark Side, the boy has always been an excellent student, a true prodigy of the Force as is his birthright. His son holds his ground in the defensive, and he holds it well. Their years apart have not erased from his mind his father’s numerous lessons. After all, Luke is his; no false masters can change that.
Sheets of metal snap loose from nearby machinery, thrust through the chamber’s floor grates with the Force. With a startled yelp, Luke leaps out of the way, only to be slammed to the ground by a heavy rod, knocking the wind out of him.
“Is this your idea of corporal punishment?” the boy grits out, pushing himself to his feet. “Throwing things at me and seeing what sticks? What—” Luke cuts himself off mid-sentence, ducking to the ground when the Dark Lord hurls his sabre into the pipes by his head. Tibanna gas spills onto the platform, the noxious fumes making him cough into his fist. “Really?!”
Vader seizes Luke’s arm in an iron grip, pulling him out of the mist. “Would you rather I take you over my knee?”
“Just stop and talk to me!” Luke shouts. The boy’s frustration crests, and Vader can practically taste the energy of the Dark Side crackling beneath his fingers. Then, to his confusion, it ebbs into sorrow. Guilt. Small and vulnerable.
Don’t hate me. Please.
He falters.
“Get away from him!”
Vader snarls, head whipping to face the source of Leia’s voice. How did she— Calrissian. The man had dispatched his troopers during the scuffle. Now, he has his blaster trained on Vader’s helmet, his other arm shielding the two rebels behind his back.
Credit where it’s due, Calrissian is certainly brave. Brave, but very, very foolish.
“No—Stop!” His son had felt the shift in the Force; the murderous rage to which Vader is so well-accustomed flaring to life. He tugs at his wrist to stay his hand, even as Calrissian claws uselessly at his neck, his blaster clattering by the princess’s feet. “They have nothing to do with this!”
“They have nothing to do with this?” Vader echoes, incredulous. “You will risk your life for their pathetic hides, shirking your responsibilities and disobeying me…” Calrissian writhes in his grip, eyes wide and terrified, gasping for air. “You chose these traitors over your own flesh and blood—yet you believe they have nothing to do with this?”
A small, pained noise emits from the back of Luke’s throat. “I… I’m not…”
Satisfaction curls in Vader’s chest, raw and bitter. Luke can never deny the truth. This moment, this is the culmination of his obstinacy, the consequences of his betrayal. Vader loves it, the casual cruelty, the sheer power he holds over his sweet, errant son. Another lesson to be etched into the boy’s foolish mind. The truth is his greatest weapon, and the Force its catalyst.
Kill them all, a voice whispers, a voice Vader remembers all too well. A voice he recognizes as his own. Punish him. Break him. Make him pay. Make him see that he has no one else but you. He’s yours. All yours.
Luke’s eyes widen, and those incessant fingers are back, this time on his shoulder, shaking him. “Please, Father! I’ll come with you; you don’t have to do this!”
Insects, the lot of them. They do not deserve a merciful death.
Vader’s fingers close into a fist—
Suddenly, he’s thrown across the chamber’s platform. His concentration snaps, and Calrissian drops like a heavy sack, hacking and coughing all the while.
Distantly, he hears Luke shouting for his friends to leave. The princess’s protests fade into the distance. Rescued, again.
Once the shock passes, Vader pulls himself to his full height, fury twisting his scars. How dare he. Luke has defied him again. And again. And again. With a jerk of his wrist, Vader summons his lightsaber to his hand, bearing his weapon down in a violent, splitting arc. Their blades cross in a smattering of red and green sparks. Luke grunts from the impact of the blow, but he stands his ground, pushing Vader back towards the edge of the chamber’s platform.
Such power, Vader thinks hungrily. He can feel it, the anguish behind Luke’s swings, the perfect conduit for the Dark Side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to power.
Through the haze of the battle, he hears Luke’s choked cry. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
“Anakin, you’re breaking my heart!”
He hesitates, and the moment of distraction is enough. Luke’s next swing strikes true, searing the pallid flesh of his arm. The boy freezes in shock, eyes wide with horror, lightsaber falling between his trembling fingers. “Father, I—”
Vader sees red: the red of Mustafar, of the fire licking his skin—With a sharp jerk, he brings his blade through Luke’s wrist, splitting flesh and bone.
This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
Luke crumples to the ground, clutching at the black and blistered stump of his wrist, looking up at him through tears and sweat-matted hair. He reaches out, fingers splayed, a plea on his lips: “Father… Please…”
This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
Vader stands there numbly, shaken by what he’s done. Every cell in his body screams for him to move, to cradle his son in his arms, apologize, anything—but he can’t. His limbs are heavy as lead. Even his wretched lungs are struggling to keep up with the cycles of his respirator, crushed by the weight of his self-loathing and disgust.
He did this to him, just as he had done to her. No wonder they all leave him in the end. They should. He never learns. Why does he never learn?
This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
Luke’s hand drops. He slumps onto his side, trying to quiet his heavy, broken sobs, before finally pushing himself to his feet. Vader watches him fumble for his fallen lightsaber. Then, he’s gone.
This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
+1
Blades of grass brush against Vader’s knees as he hikes down the well-trodden path to the lake. He stops at the edge of the forest to take in the rustling of the leaves, craning his head to peer into the cosmos. The night is nearing its end. He had waited long before giving in to his reminiscences, but nevertheless he came. After all, the planet is a graveyard; there’s nothing left for him but memories.
A moment later, he marches on.
His lightsaber bathes the trees in a crimson glow. As he approaches the other end of the thicket, he spots firelight flittering between the trees. With a frown, he pushes himself out of the undergrowth, stepping onto the rocky bank.
There, in its usual spot, is Luke’s yellow tent and a few scattered crates, lit by an array of strategically placed glowrods. Some feet away is a log and a makeshift fire pit. The boy himself is crouched by the kindling, a torch in one hand and a long stick in another. He whips around at the crunch of Vader’s boots, his expression one of relief.
Vader stares, utterly dumbfounded.
“I was starting to worry you weren’t coming,” Luke says, smiling as though his father hadn’t cut off his hand in their last encounter, as though said father wasn’t standing still as a statue at the edge of his camp. “Here.” He tosses his torch in Vader’s direction. “I can’t for the life of me figure out how to use this thing. Help me out?”
Vader catches the torch with the Force, holding it up against the moonlight. It’s a common welding torch, the sort meant for ship repairs. In fact, Vader is quite certain that this particular tool travelled here all the way from Vjun. The boy had taken precious few things with him in his haste to leave the fortress, ship repair tools occupying the bulk of the list. And now, he’s pretending as though he’s never seen one in his life.
Confusion stirs in Vader’s mind. Why is Luke here? Why isn’t he running, or shouting, or the myriad of other things someone in his position should do? After all, Vader had slaughtered his comrades, would’ve slaughtered his closest friends had he not been interrupted, and cut off his hand—all in the span of a single month.
But Luke doesn’t run. Instead, he reaches behind one of the crates, dragging a portable conservator out by the fire pit. He opens the device to reveal a rack of fish, no doubt from his exploits earlier in the day. After some careful thought, he pulls out a freshly gutted trout, skewering it mouth-first on his stick.
Vader’s eyes linger on Luke’s prosthetic, compelled to look by his unshakable guilt. See what you’ve done? He clenches his fingers around his son’s welding torch. The least he can do is what he’s asked.
They sit side by side on the log. Within minutes, embers form in the dry kindling, gradually stoked into a steady flame. Luke twirls his skewer absentmindedly, staring at a point across the lake. Once in a while, he pulls the fish from the fire, prodding at it with the tip of his finger. He brightens when the flesh finally gives.
“Hope you don’t mind if I eat,” Luke says, throwing his father a sideways glance. At the man’s wordless grunt, he digs in.
Vader watches him eat in silence, his hands resting stiffly in his lap. He aches terribly to reach over to wipe the juices from Luke’s chin and chide him for displaying manners unbefitting someone of his station. He wants to take it all back, but he can’t. To watch is a privilege, not an entitlement. Vader had lost that right when he failed in his duty as a father to his only son.
Luke glances up, as though sensing Vader’s thoughts. He can’t, not when Vader’s shields are thicker than the metal lining the Executor’s hull. “How’s the shoulder?” the boy asks casually. “Is it still bothering you?”
Vader grimaces. “That is the least of your concerns, young one.”
For a moment, Luke seems shocked that Vader had spoken at all. Then, he sighs, shaking his head fondly despite his father’s disparagement. “Can’t I worry about you from time to time? I hurt you pretty bad.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Hm.” Luke doesn’t sound convinced. He disposes the remains of his meal behind a crate and settles back into the spot beside his father. A heavy silence falls between them, one that worms deeper under Vader’s skin with each second that passes.
It’s a long time before his son speaks again.
“I don’t have any illusions about who you are, Father. Even if you act like I do.”
Luke’s words carry a strange sense of finality. All of a sudden, Vader wishes he hadn’t come to this Force-forsaken planet.
“Every day, I see you out there in the battlefield, on casualty reports… I know you enjoy the carnage.” The boy plucks absentmindedly at the threads of his fatigues. “Did you know that we have an entire training course just for you? All those people I’ve come to know, friends and comrades—you killed them like they’re nothing. Irrelevant. And when they are relevant, you’re after them with a vengeance, as though even knowing me is a personal sleight against you.”
“Obi-Wan told me stories about you from time to time. He talked like you were dead.” Luke sighs, biting his lip, evaluating his next words. “The day before I first left for Tynna, he told me about Mother. It was so hard pretending like I didn’t know.” He blinks rapidly, looking away, fingers trembling in his lap. “Like my own father didn’t choke my mother. She would’ve still been here if you weren’t… well, you. So, no, I don’t have any illusions about you.”
“Luke…” It hurts having Luke laying his mistakes bare for the world to see, but it’s the undeniable truth. He’s failed his son before he was even born. A blight on his own family.
But Luke is shaking his head. He reaches out with his right hand, the hand that Vader took in a fit of rage.
“Sometimes, I wonder how you can possibly be the same man who’d yell at me to clean my room. But you are. You came to Tynna month after month. Hell, you didn’t even ask to negotiate the deal, even though you wanted nothing more than to lock me up and throw away the key. You tried, for my sake. I know you did.”
You tried, he says, as though Vader had done more than show the slightest bit of restraint. If only his naïve son knew the dark corners of his mind as intimately as he claimed, then he wouldn’t be so trusting. Perhaps he wouldn’t have come back at all. That thought terrifies Vader as much as it puts him at ease: if only his son had known…
But he does know. Thoughts became actions in the end.
Luke’s palm rests against Vader’s chest, above his heart. A smile breaks across his features. His presence in the Force pulses with the same youthful optimism. “This is what I’m fighting for,” he says.
Vader sucks in a shuddering breath, pulling away. “Luke, I’m not—” he protests, but his son is moving with him, leaning closer.
“Save your breath, Father. You’re free to think whatever you want, but I’m not giving up on you.” Then, Luke reaches for his hand, synthskin cradling morose leather, holding him with a gentleness that he does not deserve. “I love you, you know.” He speaks like he knows his father can be helped, like it’s the absolute truth.
Vader’s chest constricts painfully. Who filled his head with such foolishness?
The words taste like ash. He chokes on them. Why did he think that? After all that the boy has been put through by his hand, does he really have nothing more to offer than scorn and condescension? Why must he always cast everything into ruin? He needs to be better than this; he owes his son at least that much.
Still, he’s at a loss for words. So he nods. So he says nothing.
Not yet.
Stygian skies blossom with colour, the blue, wispy clouds blotching the lake’s crystal waters. Crickets and cicadas resume their chatter, rousing the world with a morning serenade. They sit by the fire, taking it all in, and Vader understands at once why Luke had chosen this spot for their rendezvous. Here, there is no war. Here, all is as it should be.
They watch the first rays of sunlight shimmer through the distant trees.
“When it’s all over, I want you to come with me,” Luke says, blue eyes glimmering with the rosy amber of dawn. “Leave the Empire. We’ll have no need of it anyway.”
“I… cannot promise that, my son,” Vader admits. Leaving the Empire had never been an option. He simply doesn’t know how.
“I know I’m asking a lot. You’ve been in the Empire’s service from the start. I understand how much it means to you.”
“Then you understand why I cannot leave.”
“You don’t have to decide right now, but think about it. We can visit other planets and see all that the galaxy has to offer, run away where we’ll never be found. Start over.” The wind catches in Luke’s hair, tousling it. “We’ll work something out. It’ll be the two of us, like always.”
Like always.
For Luke, perhaps. The first eight years of his life were spent desperately yearning for his estranged father, and when they finally found each other, Luke knew no before. But Vader is ensnared by his past, encumbered by its weight around his neck, drowns in it, resents it, resents them: friends, colleagues, mother, wife… For so long has he been fraught with fear. His solitude might as well be his own design.
But Luke has come back to him, hasn’t he? Even when he shouldn’t. Despite everything, his son loves him, all worn and weathered and so, so cruel.
He looks across the spotless lake and imagines Varykino. She was happy then, gowned in silks and wreathed in gardenias, so unlike the fierce, heartbroken woman he saw on Mustafar pleading for him to leave it all behind. Luke has inherited her patience, her generosity, and her devotion. His actions are animated by the same weaknesses.
Luke is still looking at him with the same expectant half-smile. “Please, Father? Think about it?”
Vader dwells on the weight of Luke’s hand in his own, so thin and fragile, so much like hers. But she’s gone. He remains. Vader doesn’t deserve his kindness, and yet he clings to it all the same. A drowning man clinging to breath has nothing left to lose.
No fresh start can scrub away decades of wrongs, but he can still put his old Skywalker stubbornness to work. He wants to do better. For Luke. He will—he must—even if he doesn’t know how. He cannot make the same mistakes again.
Their bond thrums with anticipation. Vader reaches back. Just this once, he dares to hope.