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Sitting in the co-pilot’s seat aboard the Lambda-class shuttle, his wrists shackled uncomfortably in front of him and his left foot tapping an anxious staccato on the floor, Luke Skywalker worried.
“Father,” he urged desperately, just like he had countless times since his capture - and, just like he’d done those countless times before, Vader remained perfectly silent. In fact, he’d barely spoken to Luke at all - eight words, to be exact, a short “The Emperor is looking forward to seeing you” announced to him somewhere during their short journey from the Imperial base where he was held to Vader’s shuttle. Luke was grateful for that, at first, for in his fear and anxiety of seeing his father so soon after Bespin he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to produce a word. Now, however, as they were getting closer and closer to the Imperial Center, and Vader had yet to acknowledge his son, Luke was growing weary.
“Father,” he repeated, more urgently this time. “Don’t do this. You can still turn back.”
But Vader didn’t respond, and Luke couldn’t say he was surprised. He didn’t know what he’d expected - that his father would change his mind and not deliver him to the Emperor? That he would, maybe, offer some words of comfort in the face of what was about to happen to him, to them both? That he would, at least, acknowledge that he was about to bring his own son before the Emperor, who would, without a doubt, kill him when he realized Luke would not turn?
Yes, Luke thought bitterly. That was exactly what he’d hoped for.
“Look at me,” he implored, then quickly added, “please.”
But Vader didn’t. He kept staring straight ahead of him, out of the viewport, hands gripping the shuttle’s controls so tight that Luke could hear the creaking of the leather glove. He hated this - hated how his father ignored him, how he so immaturely pretended that nothing was wrong, that he couldn’t even acknowledge the sheer wrongness of father capturing son.
His Uncle Owen had been like that, too. When he was angry at Luke, he wouldn’t scream, or shout, or anything of the sort. He’d just go quiet, silent; as if pretending that Luke didn’t exist would mean that his problems with Luke didn’t exist as well.
“Don’t take me to the Emperor,” he pleaded again, staring at Vader even as Vader refused to look at him. “I won’t turn to the Dark Side. If you take me before him, I’ll die. You know that.”
Still quiet. Nothing except the faint hum of the shuttle’s engines and the heavy breathing of his father’s life support.
“I’ll die,’ he repeated, naively hoping the prospect of his death would somehow prompt Vader to respond. “Is that-- is that something you really want?”
His father reached somewhere above him then, turning a knob on the overhead dashboard before flicking a few switches and returning his hand back to the steering yoke. With some amusement, Luke noticed that the action served only the purpose of an excuse to ignore his son. The knob Vader had turned was the temperature control for the passenger compartment (which was, obviously, empty, as both of them were sat in the cockpit), and the switches he’d pressed were controlling the lighting in the cargo hold (which was even more pointless, as Vader had simply toggled the switch on and then, immediately, off). Really, Luke thought, his father had to be a fucking idiot to think that Luke would be fooled by that.
This brief wave of amusement had quickly passed, though, once again leaving Luke annoyed.
And, in a bout of that irritation, he decided to use the Force to release the locking mechanism on his handcuffs, letting them fall to the floor.
That managed to get a reaction from Vader.
“Do not test my patience, boy.”
Ah, so he does speak, Luke thought. “I was trying to get your attention,” he explained, suddenly embarrassed by the childishness of his action.
“I did not wish to give you my attention,” Vader retorted; the ‘if you haven’t noticed’ went unspoken.
“You can’t just ignore me, Father. You’ve made your decision - you’re delivering me to the Emperor. At least own up to it. Ignoring me won’t help you ignore the conflict within you.”
“There is no conflict,” Vader responded quickly, automatically.
This, Luke could challenge. “Then why won’t you speak to me?”
“Because I do not need to speak to you. You are my prisoner.”
“No,” Luke shook his head. “I am your son.”
For a moment, Vader went silent; but that silence was, in itself, a response. Of course Vader had second thoughts. Of course he had reservations about delivering his son to a despot who would surely destroy him or morph him into an unrecognizable form.
After a few minutes, Luke spoke. “Come with me, Father. Just-- please, come with me. Leave the Dark behind.”
An annoyed growl left the vocoder; Vader’s attention had shifted back to the viewport before him, back to maneuvering the ship’s controls and steering yoke. “And why would I do that?” He asked, not looking at Luke. “I have power. I have control. The Dark side gives me strength beyond measure. It gives me the power the Jedi could only dream of. There is nothing the Ligh can offer me that I want.”
Somewhere in the distance, a faint outline of Coursucant slowly appeared like a sun coming from behind a cloud. They were getting close; Luke’s stomach clenched with anxiety at that realization.
“What about peace?” He tried. “What about happiness? Don’t you want that, Father?”
Vader laughed - or at least Luke assumed that that’s what the strange, spurting sound leaving the vocoder was. “Happiness,” he scorned, and there was now a dangerous undertone to his voice. “There is no happiness in the Light, my son. Your precious Jedi order had made sure of that.”
But Luke had never been a part of the Order - what he’d known of it were only scraps and stories that Obi-Wan and Yoda had told him - so he could neither agree with nor argue against Vader’s words. He was, after all, nothing but a wanna-be Jedi, first taught by Obi-Wan who had left him too soon, and then by Yoda, whom Luke had left too soon in turn. There was no Jedi Order to find sanctuary in, no place he could go to to find the answers to the questions he so desperately craved. He’d started his training so late… His values and morals were already formed, not so easily influenced by the Jedi creed his Masters had taught him. Luke’s idea of what a Jedi was was largely his own invention - a blend of stories and legends, of sacred texts he’d managed to find and writings on old Temple walls that he’d visited, of lessons taught by his Masters and the precepts they’d taught him. Most of all, though, his Jedi-ness was directed by his own intuition - an innate belief of what was right and wrong, and what he believed he should do.
So no, maybe Luke had no place telling his father about what the Jedi had and had not done - Vader’s knowledge on that matter was, most likely, much greater than his son’s. And yet, Luke believed in his cause. He believed in the Light side; he knew that his father's misery would never leave him as long as he served the Dark. So he said:
“The Light is balance, Father. It is acceptance of your feelings, no matter what they are. That is the peace the Light Side offers; that is the happiness.”
For a few moments, Vader didn’t respond. Instead, he just stared at Luke wordlessly, his right hand reaching for the hyperdrive controls. He turned them off; they were not flying anymore.
Which only meant one thing:
His father was about to make a point.
Luke tensed, the hand on his lap clenching into a fist. This was a battle of wills; one he wasn’t sure he’d prepared himself for.
Then, Vader spoke:
“That’s rich coming from you, my son.”
That took Luke aback. “What?”
Something akin to a laugh left the vocoder, and Luke felt his insides twist into knots in response. “I did not take you for a fool, boy, but now I see I must have been wrong. The Jedi have failed you; they have not saved you from your suffering. And yet now, you dare claim that only the Jedi doctrine can save me?”
“What?” Luke asked again, dumbly. “What… What do you mean?”
Another laugh, more scornful this time, filled with mocking and pity instead of amusement.
“Luke,” Vader told him. “You are unhappy.”
NO!
His mind protested the words even before he fully processed them. It was instinctive, almost a reflex, to deny the absurdity of this claim, to reject it before he consciously considered it, least it became the truth--
--because it was true; every night, he thought about how lonely and afraid he was, thought about what he should be and what he wasn’t, and he’d lay awake for hours, wishing that he’d never left Tatooine, that he’d never joined the Rebellion or the Jedi, that he’d spend his whole life as a moisture farmer, oblivious to the truth of his parentage, the truth of who he really was--
--and every night he’d hate himself, angry at how ungrateful he was, angry at his own weakness, his inability to find happiness in his life when he really had everything--
“No--” he whispered, taking a step back, shaking his head, wanting to shake those thoughts away. Please don’t talk about it, he thought, please don’t remind me of what I already know--
But Vader pressed on. “You’re lonely. Your Rebellion admires you, but they do not really see you. You’re different from them; they don’t see you as a person. You’re a myth, a legend, their savior… but not a friend. Not a person.”
No, it wasn’t true--
“Stop it--”
“The princess, the smuggler - they are your closest friends, aren’t they? But they are closer to each other than they are to you. You had left to complete your training; you’ve worked hard to become the hero your rebellion needs. And what did they do while you were away?”
“Please, stop…”
It didn’t matter, it didn’t matter-- Han and Leia were happy together, he was happy for them---
“They fell in love.”
Yes, they did, and it hurt him, it really did. To see Han kiss Leia, to see the way she looked at him, so much like he had looked at her when they’d first met…
“You’ve tried to explain it to yourself. You told yourself it had to be this way - that you were a Jedi, and the gift of the Force was a blessing as much as it was a curse. That you had obligations to its will.”
“I haven’t--”
“You haven’t? I remember otherwise, my son.”
“No…”
“Yes. I’ve heard you. I’ve heard your thoughts. I’ve heard you cry, heard you doubt yourself and the path you had chosen. The burden of a Jedi is a great burden to carry - even more so when there is no Jedi order. Kenobi is dead - he cannot guide you. Everything you need to learn, you will need to learn alone. You cannot deny it, my son. You are lonely.”
No he wasn’t he wasn’t he wasn’t he wasn’t--
Something salty touched the corner of his mouth. A tear. Was he crying?
“Only with the Dark can you fight your suffering. Only in the Dark will you truly belong.”
“That’s not true-”
He nearly cried those words out, anger slowly replacing his hurt. How dare his father do this to him, how dare he say all those things?
“Your thoughts betray you, Luke. You know my words are true.”
“No-”
“Still no? Still, you continue to deny the truth? Then perhaps you are even more foolish than I’ve thought.”
“No!” He yelled, rage coloring his words.
“Ahh, so I was right. You feel angry. Perhaps we are not so different after all--”
“NO!”
His anger, his pain, erupted like a volcano, and he threw them at Vader, engulfing his father in his hurt. His rage and abandonment all resurfaced, exploded from the place in his mind where he’d tried to hide them for so long. It was as if his body was no longer his own, as if he had become an entity built entirely from his lifelong suffering.
“You know why I’m suffering?” He spat, pointing an accusatory finger at the Dark Lord. “Because of you! I’m lonely because you took everything from me!”
The words tasted like venom in his mouth, venom that needed to be spat out.
“You left me! I had no one because of you! You abandoned me, you were never there for me as a child!”
And suddenly it was Vader who was on the defense. “I didn’t know of your existence, boy-”
But Luke was tired of hearing excuses. “No! It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter! Because now you tell me I’m lonely, now you tell me that the only way to stop hurting is to join you. But why would I do that? I am lonely because you were never my father, because I never knew you!”
“Do not presume--”
But Luke wouldn’t be interrupted. “And you know what’s the worst part? That everyone who ever cared about me, everyone whom I’ve ever loved, I’ve lost because you took them away! My aunt and uncle who raised me? Dead, killed by your men! Ben, who promised to teach me? Dead, killed by you! Han, Leia - you lured them into Cloud City, trapped them and tortured them, and then froze Han in carbonite. You took him away from me, took her away from me!”
“That’s enough, Luke.”
“You took everything away from me, and now you want me to join you? After you destroyed my life, and then suddenly showed up, twenty years too late, and told me you’re my father?”
“Enough.”
“It wasn’t enough, was it? Leaving me wasn’t enough.” He was crying in earnest now, tears of rage sliding down his cheeks. He sounded furious, hysteric; his lips stretched with each scream like an ugly wound across his face. “You had to take everything I’ve ever loved from me as well.”
“Enough.”
“And you know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was you who took my mother away from me.”
It happened fast. The gloved fist shot to his face, connecting with his cheek in a powerful blow. It was so fast Luke barely registered the movement; he only realized he’d been slapped when pain erupted in his face and he felt his nose crack with a sickening noise. A river of blood gushed from his nose, his lips, and he staggered backwards, swayed and fell to the floor. All air was knocked out from his lungs, and he coughed, choking on the blood.
He wasn’t given any time to get back up. His father leaned over him, his mask inches from Luke’s fear-stricken face. He reached with his gloved hand once again, and Luke recoiled in fear, but was stopped when Vader grabbed a fistful of his shirt.
“Never,” he hissed, his voice promising death,“say that again.”
Throat frantically working in an attempt to hold back a gasp of fear, Luke stared into his father’s masked eyes. Every hint of a civilized, at least semi-controlled conversation that they seemed to be having so far evaporated in an instant. He was terrified to the core; it felt like if he as much as breathed, his father would kill him in his rage.
It was pitiful, shameful how he couldn’t resist his father’s terrifying appearance. He’d thought he’d grown stronger, more at peace, more in control. He’d thought he was no longer afraid; he’d been wrong.
He wasn’t afraid. He was terrified.
The last time he’d faced Vader, he hadn’t been that afraid. Yes, he’d known what Vader was capable of, had known what happened to those who confronted him. But-- he hadn’t lived through it. He hadn’t known what it felt like, to scramble away from Vader, to shake in fear in hope of avoiding the deadly heat of his ruby blade. He hadn’t known what it was like to feel a lightsaber slice through his wrist and reduce him to a vulnerable, whining boy awaiting the fatal blow.
The gloved fist rose again, preparing for a second blow - and immediately, Luke cowered to the side, throwing his arms up in an attempt to protect his face.
The hit never came. Instead, Luke heard his father let out a snarl, full of disgust and hate.
“Pathetic,” he said, the ice in his voice freezing Luke’s heart. It shouldn’t have mattered; his father’s approval shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. “Too weak to fight back. Is that what the Jedi had taught you?”
Lowering his arms, Luke peeked at his father. His vision was a bit blurry now, his head pounding from the blow he’d received.
“No,” he grunted out, hating the shakiness in his voice. “They taught me control.”
That earned him another blow.
He didn’t even know what he’d said wrong this time. It wasn’t like he had much time to think about it, though - all his thoughts had shattered into nothingness the moment his skull smashed against the floor.
“Control?” Vader asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “You call that previous outburst of yours control?”
“At least I don’t cut people’s hands off when they don’t do what I want!”
The moment the words left his lips, he instantly regretted them.
He didn’t even know why he’d said it - if his goal had been to show that he had control over his emotions, then his outburst had just proved the opposite. His comment had been angry - bratty, even - and far from the words of a wise Jedi Luke strived to be.
It wasn’t this that made Luke regret his words, though; it was the absolute storm of anger that had suddenly filled the Force. Or-- no. Not anger.
Because Vader wasn’t simply angry.
He was enraged.
“Do you,” he seethed, leaning over Luke who still lay sprawled on the floor, “believe that I do not have control?”
Luke scrambled backward. It would offer him no protection against his father’s rage, he knew that. And yet, with his instincts screaming at him and terror freezing his heart, he fought for every inch of space that he could put between them, desperately backpedaling across the floor.
“Do you believe,” his father continued,“that you, a weak, foolish child, somehow possess greater control than me?”
“No--” Luke stuttered, heart sinking as his hands and back hit the bulkhead behind; there was nowhere to escape now.
“Foolish boy,” Vader growled. “You wish to see control?”
Luke shook his head desperately, but it was already too late. His father’s mind had been made up now.
“Then I will show you control.”
It happened quickly.
Gloved hands shot towards his neck before he could even react, five, claw-like digits closing around his throat and slamming his head back into the floor. Luke’s vision whitened as Vader straddled him, using his weight to pin him against the floor. His chest screamed with agony; there were no words to describe the absolute crushing strength that was now pressing upon him. He was sprawled, pinned like a bug; even his eyelids felt too paralyzed to blink, now staring into the deathly mask inches above his face.
But he didn’t really feel the hands around his neck, not yet. His panicked mind could only focus on one thing at a time, and with his entire body now screaming with the agony of his father’s weight on top of him, he was still blissfully unaware of the much more imminent threat that was upon him.
It didn’t last long, though.
Because as Luke started into the eye plates of his father’s mask, body twisting pitifully to avoid the deadly weight, he allowed himself to let out one little sound of fear; a gasp.
And that’s when he realized.
He could not gasp.
He couldn’t, because there was no air in his lungs, and when he tried to draw in a breath, no oxygen would get past his throat, and then he felt that awful pressure around his throat and those five fingers clamped down his neck like a noose and it hurt so much and--
--and Force, his father was choking him--
“This,” Vader said, his voice utterly calm, “is control.”
Luke shook violently. He was writhing in earnest now, his instincts taking over as his brain screamed for oxygen. His body twisted from side to side, feet scuffing against the floor - but there was no escape from the deadly grip, the murderous pressure on his throat.
“I could crush you right here, right now,” Vader continued, unmoved by his son’s desperate gasps for air.“I could snap your neck before you as much as begged me to stop and I could--”
But Luke didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, the sound drowned by the high-pitched ringing filling his ears. His father’s voice was now muffled and strangely distorted; he guessed his brain no longer had the capacity to process sounds. It-- It hurt. He felt as if someone had grabbed his brain and squeezed, squirting out all air, all thoughts, and his very existence.
Dark spots filled his vision and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. Was he losing consciousness, or was he dying? He didn’t know.
He didn’t know which one he preferred, either.
Was this who his father was? A man who would go as far as killing his own son just to prove his point?
He gasped as the pressure on his throat eased for a moment, allowing him a breath. He gulped it down desperately, greedily; the tasteless oxygen was suddenly the sweetest thing he’d ever felt.
“--s-stop--” he wheezed out desperately, then belittled himself for wasting the oxygen he’d just inhaled on a useless plea. “--let--let go--”
But that deathly grip only tightened again in response.
He didn’t know how long it lasted. It could have been seconds; it could have been months. Time lost all meaning as he lay beneath his father, gasping for air like a fish washed ashore. There were no thoughts left in his brain, no dreams or desires or even the need to survive--
And then he saw it.
It was a flash, really. A quick glimpse of his own reflection in his father’s eyeplates that his eyes accidentally caught. An image of himself, sprawled on his back and terrified, pressed against the floor. Blood draining from his face, his lips turning blue and mouthing useless pleas, and he couldn’t help but think--
But know, for now he felt it clearly in the Force--
That this was how his mother had died. That she too had looked into the eyes of Darth Vader as he slowly squeezed her life away.
Oh, mom…
He did not fight the tears that spilled down his cheeks - was this the second time he cried in front of his father today? He was going to die anyway; there was no pride left for him to save. But, the thought of his mother - his mom, choked to death by a person she’d loved--
Grief and empathy flooded him, his heart breaking at the thought of what his mother had felt. At least he, Luke, knew what Vader was capable of; being killed by his own father was not… desirable, but it was an eventuality that, ever since Bespin, he knew he had to prepare himself for. But his mother? He didn’t know anything about her - Force, he didn’t even know her name - but through the Force, he knew how she’d felt. She’d trusted Vader - not only that, but she’d loved him - and the heartbreak she felt when he’d choked her… The Force was practically bleeding with the memory of her pain.
The fear he felt now was the fear that she had felt.
And so Luke broke down.
Choked cries, muffled sobs escaped his lips as he wept, his throat still constricted by his father’s hand and his lungs still spasming for air.
Mom--
Oh, Mom--
Was this how you died?
Did he kill you?
Were you afraid?
Slowly, his cries became louder, stronger; Vader’s hand was no longer on his throat. Luke didn’t realize it, though; he was in too much pain to really notice what was going on. He never saw his father suddenly becoming aware of what he was doing, seeing the tears on his son’s cheeks and hearing his cries. He would never know that at that moment, Vader had felt disgust for himself that he hadn’t felt for years; that he was now kneeling a few meters away, staring loathingly at his own hand.
My son… what have I done…
But Luke never felt his father’s regret, never heard the shame in those words.
Later, Vader would try to apologize. He’d try to hold Luke - stiffly, awkwardly - and Luke would squirm away, partly angry and partly afraid. Vader would tell him, again and again, that he’d regretted what he’d done; Luke would feel the sincerity of those words, would feel the guilt and self-loathing, but he’d refuse to be comforted or to be touched.
He would barely register Vader’s apologies; his mind would be stuck on only one thought, one, terrifying thought, playing on an infinite loop that he couldn’t get out of. Did you kill her? He’d think, again and again. Did you kill my mother? Did you kill her?
And eventually, he’d open his mouth, ready to ask that question, ready to face the consequences that it might bring. Did you kill her, he was about to ask, did you kill her?
But when he finally spoke, he found that it was a different question that left his lips.
“Did you love her?”
And to that, Vader replied immediately.
“With all my heart.”
Luke nodded. “Then I need you to tell me about her. I need you to tell me everything - who she was and… and what you did to her. You need to. You owe me that.”
And Vader - the all-powerful, fearsome Vader, now sitting slumped, on his knees, his entire form reeking of guilt - nodded. “I will.”
And he did.