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Chapter Text

Something dark coats the city in the sky. Through the setting sun, the mining facility is painted in hues of pink and yellow, but something deeper, colder, permeates Bespin in the sludgy kind of darkness Luke knows now to associate with the Sith.

Luke has progressed exponentially in his training in recent weeks, but it is during times like this that he almost wishes he stayed with Yoda a moment longer, if only to follow that darkness to the source. Only a Master of the Force could project themselves across an entire city in the way Vader does, and it would take someone equally powerful to break through the illusion– someone far more experienced than the hardly-knight blindly searching for a landing pad amongst the sea of white.

It’s odd, the lack of ships in the sky at such an hour. Such a sprawling facility is bound to be swarming with guard ships - and considering Vader’s current occupation of the city, Tie fighters, too. Luke lands his ship at the first open port and is quick to fade into the shadows of the building, scanning his surroundings warily. Something about Bespin strikes him the wrong way; never has he approached a city unannounced and landed at an open platform without alerting the notice of some citizen or another. No one on a backwater planet like this would miss out on the opportunity to swindle a foreigner out of a handful of credits for temporary parking regardless of the blatant insignia on his X-wing marking it as property of the Rebellion.

Artoo slinks into the duracrete outcropping behind him with a disconcerted whirr, and Luke silences him with a gentle hand on his domed head. Realistically, it would be smartest to leave his little droid behind, but the thought of going to face the Dark Lord of the Sith without any sort of backup terrifies him to his core. He remembers vividly how easily Vader struck Obi Wan down, the body of the great warrior melting into his cloak as if he never existed in the first place. There’s no telling what could happen to him once he leaves the relative safety of the landing pad.

Artoo beeps again, ramming his metal casing into the distracted Jedi’s knee. Luke hisses and pushes the droid away.

“Artoo, I need you to stay and guard the ship,” he decides, ignoring the shrill insults Artoo throws in return. The astromech rather aggressively moves to roll over his foot, but Luke fluidly steps to the side and punches a button on the wall, opening the door to the inside.

“I won’t be long, Artoo, I promise. If you don’t hear from me by, let’s say…” He digs out his communicator from some deep fold of his tunic and checks the time. “0400. If I’m not back by 0400, send the ship back to the Alliance and tell them to assume the worst.”

The little droid quiets for a moment, and his next string of beeps are distinctly mournful. Luke smiles and pats Artoo’s head again, more for his comfort than the droid’s, and steps inside the facility. He hesitates for a moment, and in one swift movement, smashes the communicator to bits under his boot before shutting and locking the door behind him.

Every corner he turns yields vacant white hallways, each looking the same as the last. Compared to the bustling hallways of the Rebel bases on Yavin IV or Hoth, there is something distinctly dystopian about this facility that doesn’t sit well with him. Even Tatooine, as barren as it was, had more life than this place (even if the company was slightly more unsavoury).

The sudden echo of footsteps behind him sends his heart racing, and he hastily ducks behind an outcropping just as a slew of Imperial soldiers round the corner. Four stormtroopers led by a lone officer guide a hovering metal plate down the hallway, a dozen more troopers trailing dutifully behind them. There’s a strange flash of tan amongst the white of their uniforms that Luke can hardly make out through the sea of people, and with the Force so muddled, he’s wholly incapable of reaching beyond his own range of sight to assess the anomaly from a safe distance.

The echo of footsteps fades into the distance. Luke peels himself off the wall and darts down the corridor in the opposite direction of the Imperials, using the Force to muffle his footfalls. This mission will only be a long one if he allows it to be. With any luck, he can fly underneath the radar and avoid an unsavoury entanglement with Vader, but he has to be smart.

His hallway ends at a crossroad between a narrow set of stairs and a windowless access corridor with a locked access door at the end. A quick glance down the access corridor sends a chill up his spine, and he immediately recoils, filled with a sudden sense of nausea. The walls here are stained black with blaster fire and small specks of shattered plastoid composite litter the floor like rain, though there are no bodies of fallen troops and no further sign of resistance. It’s odd, Luke thinks offhandedly; the Empire isn’t one to clean their tracks so thoroughly in the middle of a raid – especially if the city is still under siege. Who could have possibly moved the bodies, and why?

Something cold and unpleasant shivers up his spine. Is he too late? Has the Empire already taken this city?

If so, this mission has suddenly doubled in its necessity. The Empire cannot take his friends back to their fleet or rescue will become near-impossible, even for a single snubfighter piloted by one of the galaxy's most prolific pilots. The Force, no matter how strong, cannot protect Luke against the full power of the Imperial fleet. His only hope is to pray Vader hasn’t yet left Cloud City; perhaps their fight was inevitable, after all.

He descends the stairs uneasily and finds himself in a secondary access corridor. The lights here flash sporadically, exposing the flickering remains of charred access ports and severed wires. Each door he passes is battered beyond repair, access buttons slashed or shot out, and dented with signs of obvious struggle – except for one.

A single door somewhere near the centre of the corridor stands out amongst the rest. Though riddled with blaster marks and still simmering with the tell-tale faded burns of a lightsaber, the access button gives when Luke tentatively presses it, exposing a dimly lit chamber piled high with smoking machinery. He immediately stumbles, taken aback by the crushing wave of Dark Side which envelops his senses. Vader is here in this room. He cannot yet see him, cannot yet hear the terrifying rasp of the Dark Lord’s respirator, but he is here.

Yoda’s lessons help bring clarity to his fear. He sucks in a steadying breath and quiets his mind, reaching through the sea of darkness in the Force for the smallest prick of light – and yanks it into his grasp. Though small, it is enough, offering a brief respite from Vader’s stifling presence to collect his thoughts and reflect on his teachings. This is by far the most important battle he has ever fought. More is on the line now than just his life; he carries on his shoulders the entirety of the future Jedi Order with no one to take his place if he falls. This is not a battle he can afford to lose.

He steels himself and brutally shoves away his fear, clenching his blaster far too tightly in shaking hands. The door slides shut behind him.

Almost immediately, pale blue light floods the room, shifting and distorting in the fog, and hissing of the strange machinery beckons forth another plume of acrid mist into the already stale air. Amongst the vague sounds of machines at work comes a far more familiar sound, one which has his careful hold on the Force slipping as abruptly as it came.

The Dark Lord’s breaths are even and deep, never faltering, never missing a beat. He peers over the landing of a wide central staircase, red eye plates glinting strangely in the fog, and though his hands rest freely at his sides, there is no mistaking the subtly defensive way he stands. Every movement of Darth Vader is intentional, from the way his hands rest to the way his feet connect with the Earth. He is the epitome of strength, mastery, and cool confidence - everything that Luke Skywalker is not.

Luke ascends the stairs with the grace of a newborn bantha. His legs shake so horribly he nearly misses a step, only catching himself with the smallest assistance from the Force, and when he moves to holster his blaster, his fingers are almost too tight to unclench. Darth Vader appraises these movements coolly with not so much as a twitch of recognition at the young Jedi’s shortcomings, but Luke can sense his distaste.

“The Force is with you, young Skywalker, but you are not a Jedi yet,” Vader intones in a way that would come off deeply mocking if not for the flat, mechanical tone of his voice. His ghastly helmet tilts ever so slightly, the barest hint of genuine curiosity seeping into the Force. Luke pauses at the top of the stairs, leaving considerable room between himself and Vader’s hulking form. His eyes never leave the Sith’s – or, at least where he believes the Sith’s eyes would be beneath that mask of his – as he subtly unhooks the lightsaber from his belt.

The fight is over before it’s hardly begun. Luke is the first to strike – a horrible decision in hindsight - and the force of Vader’s parry almost sends him to his knees. The Sith is a powerhouse, twirling around the inexperienced strikes with a lithe unbefitting for one of his stature, and Luke finds himself quickly forced on the defensive. Yoda taught him very little about the art of sword fighting, instead focusing on the more technical aspects of the Force (lessons which Luke begrudgingly admits hold more merit than he liked to believe at the time). Luke uses what he can of the master’s teachings, but his form is messy, the lightsaber too unwieldy in his hands, his opponent far too skilled…

It's a miracle he lasts as long as he does. A well-placed kick at his ribcage knocks the wind out of his lungs as it sends him careening over the lip of the staircase and flat onto the metal catwalk beneath. He struggles to suck in air, blindly fumbling for the hilt of the sabre that had fallen from his hands, when red fills his vision.

Vader levels his lightsaber at Luke’s throat with another curious tilt to his helmet. “You do not fight like he does,” Vader notes offhandedly, and Luke fights the urge to scoff.

“Like who?” He counters, inching away as the blade twitches with annoyance. “Like Obi Wan? You didn’t give me much of an opportunity to train with him, since you killed him.”

Vader cuts him off with a mechanical growl. “But you have been trained. I want to know the name of the Master who dared teach you such filth.”

Luke sneers and sits up straighter. “Never. I suppose you’ll just have to kill me.”

Vader stands still for a moment before letting out what sounds suspiciously like a sigh of resignation. With the barest flick of his wrist, the Sith calls Luke’s fallen sabre to his hand and reactivates it, trailing his gloved hand over the ridges of the weapon. Seeing such an important heirloom held so carelessly in Vader’s hands is distinctly violating, but Luke holds his tongue, mindful of the blade currently held mere inches from one of his most vital regions.

The blade of Vader’s sabre lowers an inch, the searing heat fading into a more bearable warmth against Luke’s throat. “I will not kill you here,” he decides and allows Luke’s blade to slink back into its hilt. “The Emperor has requested I bring you to him personally. He will decide your fate.”

The bravado fades in an instant, icy shock immobilising him just long enough for Vader to reach down and yank him to his feet and, with a Force beyond that of a normal man, launch him down another chasm and onto the hard ground below. It’s swift and violent, in typical Vader fashion, and Luke’s wrist is surely broken from the fall, but he fights for his footing regardless. Evidently, his wrist isn’t his only broken bone, as he immediately crumples to the floor under the weight of his surely fractured tibia with a wail of caged despair.

He senses the shift in the Force moments before it happens, and it's all he can do to keep from screaming as his vision is abruptly encased in burning steam. He flings out his arms in one last desperate display and sets the room alight with a brilliant explosion, crushing the surrounding machinery beyond despair and sending Vader flying over the staircase. It is still far too late.

Luke spirals into the abyss.

Chapter Text

When his eyes open again it’s as if he never closed them in the first place, but the scenery around him has changed. Where he expected twisted durasteel and flashing machinery, he only finds soft grass and waterfalls all-but scraping the sky before plunging into the crystal-clear rivers below.

The brilliant surroundings catch him off guard for a moment, the breath freezing in his lungs. He’s seen water before, on Dagobah, but never anything like this. Something about these rivers feels clean, untouched by the Force, by the Sith… they feel pure in a way no other planet ever has before.

He fists his fingers in the grass, sucking in breath after breath of the freshest air he’s ever tasted as the sun warms his skin. What a beautiful world, he thinks, where the sun does not burn but instead caresses one’s skin so comfortably. He could exist in this moment forever in perfect contentment, laying on soft soil surrounded by the sounds of flowing water and leaves shivering in the wind.

“Now, young Luke, now is not the time for rest.”

Luke’s eyes shoot open on their own, yet he makes no move for his lightsaber. There’s a strange void at his side where the weapon usually rests, and his earlier fight with the Dark Lord of the Sith comes back with horrific clarity.

“I lost to Vader, didn’t I, Ben?” Obi Wan hums and runs a hand through his auburn beard, a far-off look in his eyes.

Luke sits up slowly, put-off by the figure. He supposes he should feel more surprised at Obi Wan’s appearance, considering the man was considerably old when he was murdered and hadn’t appeared so young on his ghostly visit to Dagobah. But this entire situation is raising too many questions to answer, and he feels in his gut that he doesn’t have enough time to waste it on silly questions.

Obi Wan turns to him with a sad smile. “It was an impossible battle from the start, I’ll admit.”

Luke laughs wryly, ripping a chunk of grass from the earth and crumpling it in his hands. “So that’s it? This is how it ends?”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Obi Wan lets out a long breath, his eyes fluttering closed as a cool breeze ruffles the fabric of his robes. He sits still for a long moment before speaking again. “The journey ahead will not be an easy one and the Emperor is not to be underestimated. He wants you for the same reason he wanted Vader all those years ago: for power.”

Luke frowns and lets the fragile blades of grass fall from his palms. “I’m hardly trained enough to warrant such attention. When I arrive, the Emperor is sure to kill me once he realises that I am of no use to him.” His throat clenches with unshed tears which he furiously blinks away before the Jedi Master can see them fall. “I failed, Ben.”

Obi Wan’s shoulders hunch with resignation as he lets out another weathered sigh. “No, Luke. It is us who have failed you.” He pointedly ignores Luke’s questioning glance, instead fixating his eyes on the horizon. “It was irresponsible of us to place the fate of the galaxy on the shoulders of one boy, though I suppose we hoped…”

The Force suddenly hums lowly in warning, and a strange feeling begins to tug at Luke’s subconscious, growing stronger every second he attempts to divert his attention from it. Obi Wan surely senses it, too. Both of them know what this means: the metaphorical timer is ticking down, and they are running out of time before Luke awakens in the presence of the Emperor.

Obi Wan finally turns back to Luke, expression dark. “Has anyone told you what truly happened to Darth Vader?”

“I- no?” The unspoken question hangs heavily in the air, but Luke presses on without pause. “I hardly see how this is going to help me against the Emperor.”

The metaphorical temperature drop is so sudden and so startling that Luke finds himself reaching for his absent sabre on instinct. Obi Wan grasps his good arm tightly, fixating him with a withering look.

“Heed my words, young one,” he instructs gravely. “Darth Vader was much like you as a boy: reckless, driven by his heart… He was unable to let go of his loved ones even when the Code demanded it, and the Emperor knew this. It was his fatal flaw, if you will, and the Emperor will use it against you too, if you are not careful.”

The ache of his wounds begins to return in waves, the tugging at his gut growing in intensity, but Luke fights for focus through the pain.

Obi Wan continues, his words taking on a harsher edge. “The Emperor is a master manipulator with spies everywhere. Every place you’ve visited, every person you’ve ever interacted with no matter how briefly, has been meticulously catalogued to be used against you. The Emperor’s first priority is to turn you regardless of the cost, and he will stop at nothing to achieve it.”

Luke groans lowly, clutching his bad arm. So deep into the netherworlds of the Force, he cannot properly set the bone. He can only clench his teeth in agony as Obi Wan jostles the injured limb with more intensity.

“No matter what, you must not succumb, Luke, do you hear me?” A harsh shake forces their eyes to meet, though Luke can hardly see the Jedi through the haze of pained tears the

movement brings. “You are our last hope to end this war. Do not trust what the Emperor tells you, and may the Force be with you.”

Obi Wan’s last shove is more aggressive than the first, sending Luke sprawling to the ground in a disgruntled heap. But when his eyes open again, he finds the fields of grass replaced by an inky blackness even more startling than the blinding sunlight from the vision.

He fights against the void, struggling to sit up, but his limbs shake in protest and blinding pain ripples through his body from the unset fractures. A heavy weight settles itself across his shoulders, forcing his body back down to the floor. He doesn’t fight this weight, finding himself immediately out of energy and panting from exertion.

The darkness extends beyond his field of vision. His very being feels permeated, slimy, as if he’s sunk into the core of a black hole with no light at the end of the tunnel. Every tentative touch he sends out into the Force feels defiled, and he quickly shuts himself off, slamming down shields over his racing mind.

There is something familiar to this darkness, however. Hesitantly, he reaches out once more, chasing the strange presence he swears he recognises. When he finally latches onto it, he recoils in horror.

“Welcome, young Skywalker. I have been expecting you.”

A shiver wracks through his body. With shaking hands, Luke attempts to rub at his eyes, but the darkness never abates. The thought of being at the emperor’s feet with his most vital sense taken away from him makes him physically nauseous, and he shoves away from the source of the noise.

His mouth is dry when he attempts to speak. “Why can’t I see?” he asks shakily.

“Hibernation sickness,” Vader intones from somewhere behind him – Force, Luke wishes he could sift through the inky blackness to identify his exact position. “Your eyesight will return in time.”

“What do you want with me?”

He asks as if he doesn’t already know the answer.

Though he cannot see it, Luke can all but feel the emperor’s twisted grin as he regards the injured Jedi. “Patience, young Skywalker. We are here for a discussion, nothing more.”

Luke shifts into a more comfortable position, sucking in a sharp breath as he jostles his broken leg in the process. He grits through the pain, futilely training his eyes on where the emperor’s voice had come from.

“The destruction of your master was unfortunate, yet necessary,” the emperor drawls, his voice like sandpaper scraped over a too-raw sunburn. “However, it is a shame that your training was ended so soon. With more time, you may have become something great.”

A slight shifting of fabric indicates the emperor has stood up. His footfalls pad slowly but surely closer, echoey in a way that indicates at a solid sheet of metal acting as an artificial floor. Could he have been taken to one of the Imperial starships? Perhaps Vader’s personal flagship – the Executor?

He prays not.

“I don’t train for greatness,” Luke spits back, wincing as a wash of the emperor’s foul breath fans over his face.

The emperor leans over his prone form to grasp his chin with a mangled, skeletal hand. His grip strength is surprising considering his stature, and Luke finds it nearly impossible to pull away.

“No,” the emperor agrees, “but you do train for your father.”

Luke goes cold. How in the world…

“Anakin Skywalker,” he muses, finally dropping Luke’s chin. He sags back in relief. “A real poster boy for the Jedi order during the Clone Wars– quite the influential figure, that late father of yours.”

After a stagnant pause, “Shame, that his life was cut so short. He was like you, in a sense. Perhaps, if he had been given more time – more training, he would have become something far greater than the dogmatic order he served.”

Luke’s mouth hangs open. He grasps desperately at Obi Wan’s last warning to him.

Do not trust what the emperor tells you.

It’s a derisive warning, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Luke wishes he had the calm demeaner of his late master, that he could let these foul words wash over him like water without allowing them to sink home.

But he can’t. Because he left Yoda on Dagobah with nothing but an empty promise to return, scampering off into the galaxy on a whim. Because he, like his father, never got to finish the training he set out for, and for some Force-forsaken reason, the emperor knows about this.

“It is time for your training to be completed, young one,” says the emperor, his words dripping with a sympathy Luke knows to be false. “Learn of the Force in the ways your father never could. Honour his legacy with my teachings. It is your destiny.”

The claws of the emperor sink into Luke’s wildly beating heart, but he refuses to bend. The thought of failing the father he never knew is agony, but wouldn’t the Jedi hold Luke in some esteem for his resilience against the forces of evil? He holds onto this sliver hope as his mind settles, his confliction melting away into the Force he can feel lapping at his subconscious.

“I will never turn to the dark side,” he says with a conviction he wishes he truly possessed. “My father was a good man. This is not the life he died for.”

A life in prison is hardly a better outcome, but Luke holds his tongue; now is not the time for semantics.

The room goes deathly silent save for the rasping sounds of Vader’s respirator, and though he cannot see it, Luke can all but feel the emperor’s scathing gaze on him as he considers his next approach.

Luke sits up a little straighter, schooling his face into something confident. He knows he falls short.

“Time in a cell will certainly change your outlook,” the emperor decides after a moment. “Once you have come to your senses, I will look forward to completing your training. In time, you will call me master.”

Luke chokes on his angry retort as he is harshly dragged to his feet. Vader leads him blindly from the emperor, each step its own challenge as his broken leg screams in agony. If it weren’t for Vader’s heavy hold on his shoulder, he would collapse into a heap in an instant. Still, he fights against the hold of the dark lord, the damning weight of Vader’s gauntlets enough to make him sick to his stomach with unease.

It’s a small victory when a door slides shut behind them and the emperor’s presence all but vanishes from the Force. For one miraculous moment, Vader’s hand disappears from his shoulder, sending Luke sprawling forwards and into what appears to be a wall. His hands meet solid metal, the impact sending an electric shock through his damaged limbs.

The floor underneath vibrates for a moment before the apparent elevator plummets downwards, shocking the breath from his lungs. Luke clutches desperately at the wall with useless fingers, teetering dangerously as his already brittle senses are overwhelmed with new stimuli.

The hand returns. Though stifling, Luke uses Vader’s iron grip to hoist himself back onto his feet, taking care to keep the weight off his broken leg, gritting his teeth at the effort.

A new fear creeps up Luke’s spine. If he doesn’t receive medical attention soon, his leg may never heal correctly. Even with the Force on his side, he cannot continue to fight in such a condition – not unless the rebellion amputates his leg and fits him with a prosthetic, a procedure far too delicate and, more importantly, expensive, for the struggling freedom fighters to perform.

Worse, the ache is returning to Luke’s right wrist. He hadn’t had time to train at the lightsaber with both hands as Yoda had advised, and without use of his right hand, he finds himself in danger of losing his only valuable defence against the empire.

This frightens him more than the last. Such a loss would set him back months in terms of training – months the rebellion simply does not have to lose.

The elevator slows to a halt and Vader shoves him forward, dragging the limping Jedi down a series of corridors he has no hope of remembering. He attempts to track the twists and turns, count his steps, memorize the brief snippets of sound and conversations as they pass, but the pain is rising to an overwhelming extent, and he is quickly rendered into mute agony.

Eventually, they reach their final destination. With the flick of a wrist, Vader opens a new door and drags Luke in, depositing the Jedi on a cool metal slab that resembles, almost laughably, the meagre bed supplied to Leia in her time of Imperial custody. Luke collapses immediately, body aching from Vader’s brutal pace.

A few cycles of Vader’s respirator pass before the Sith takes a small step back towards the door. His Force presence reaches out to Luke’s mind, probing for an entrance, yet never pushing in.

“Stay out of my head,” Luke grumbles, the words so slurred he’s almost positive Vader didn’t understand.

Miraculously, Vader’s tendrils retreat into the black hole that is his force presence. Luke quirks a puzzled brow but doesn’t comment, too wiped for a questioning remark.

“You will remain under 24-hour supervision in this cell until you inevitably come to your senses,” Vader intones with the barest hint of smug satisfaction. “The emperor will be watching you closely, young one.”

“I won’t come to my senses,” he responds petulantly. “I will not turn.”

Vader lets out what sounds suspiciously like a sigh of resignation. “Then you will be killed, Luke. Do not let yourself be destroyed so easily.”

Luke smiles wryly. “I’ll find a way out of this mess, don’t worry. You’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

“The delusions of a child,” Vader muses, before taking another step away from the bed. “It is of no consequence. You will soon discover the truth.”

He finally exits the room and locks the door behind him, leaving Luke alone in the deafening silence of the cell.

It’s the strangest jail Luke has ever found himself locked up in. When he reaches out into the Force to feel Vader’s retreating presence, he finds his connection fuzzy, as if the cell itself is tampering with his connection to the great energy field. Had Vader done this on purpose?

It’s maddening not being able to feel for his surroundings. Obi Wan’s first lesson to him so very long ago was to see without sight, to look into the Force and find clarity. Eyes and ears can be deceiving, but the Force always rings true.

Now, Luke finds himself isolated from both senses. With a growing sense of unease, he sinks back down onto the pseudo bed, propping up his leg in a way that alleviates, if only slightly, the agonizing pain licking up and down his lower body, and settles in for the first of many long nights.

Chapter Text

When he falls into the first uneasy sleep of his captivity, Luke is only hardly surprised to find himself back in the sunlit plains, with the pleasant sound of rushing water replacing the eery stillness of the jail cell. Though blurry, his vision has finally started to return, the gentle waterfalls in the distance looking like blue smears amidst a splotchy grey sky.

Obi Wan sighs gently, and Luke feels more than sees the exhausted energy radiating from his bowed form.

“Don’t give me that,” Luke grumbles petulantly. “I’m still alive, at least.”

“The emperor doesn’t aim to kill you,” Obi Wan counters with another ragged exhale. “He will bide his time, breaking you down little by little until you become exactly what he wishes you to be.”

Luke bristles, setting his jaw. “You sound like you’ve already lost faith.”

“No, I haven’t lost faith.” He smiles wryly. “You’re like your father in that way – stubborn, to the last. But I understand the emperor, have seen his manipulations first-hand. There is scarcely a more vile, intelligent creature in the known universe than Darth Sidious.”

“Then what am I meant to do? Vader put me in a cell that tampers with the Force. It’s a miracle I can reach you here at all!”

“The energy it takes for me to manifest myself here is unsustainable, especially with Vader tampering with your connection. You will be on your own for the next few days while I gather myself.”

Luke sends every ounce of his immediate panic to the vague blur of brown he believes to be Obi Wan, ever put off by the blank wall in the Force where the man’s presence used to rest comfortably against his own. The Force flexes around him, the faintest impressions of comfort and stability slipping through the cracks of the wall separating Luke from the greater Force, before disappearing like a breath of wind.

Obi wan opts instead to rest a heavy hand on his shoulder, vaguely reminiscent of Vader’s oppressive hold, but far more familiar. Luke leans into the contact, relishing the lack of pain following the movement.

With a harsh jolt and distinctly quicker than before, his stomach lurches, the world swirling into a mess of colours and vague impressions as he is yanked back into his own body. The comforting pressure on his shoulder vanishes, and with that loss comes a blanket of pain washing over his body as he becomes aware of the frigid duralloy slab beneath him. Without the Force to dull the pain, he feels his injuries fully, from his unset limbs to the lacerations up and down his body. It’s a stark juxtaposition to the contended, blissful relief of a moment earlier.

The door to the cell slides open. Luke blinks blearily at the dark figure that enters, reaching desperately into the Force to sense their presence. It’s like reaching out with a limb he no longer has, clutching at the wisps of the Force with phantom fingers. He heaves in a steadying breath and forces himself up, ignoring the blinding flash of pain that nearly sends him back down to the pseudo-bed.

The presence of Darth Vader should startle him more than it does. The Dark Lord stands silently at the door, unmoving, his arms crossed over his chest as a disappointed father would. A few cycles of that ghastly respirator pass before he makes another small step forward, and the door closes gently behind him.

“I assumed you were above interrogating prisoners,” Luke snarks. He swallows dryly, tasting blood, and adjusts himself to lean more comfortably against the wall.

Vader’s helmet tilts, considering. “I assumed you were aware that you were a…” the respirator cycles once, “special case.”

“You heard what I said yesterday. I will not turn.” He steels himself against the heavy gaze, but surely the shaking, bleeding, Force-isolated, wet rag of a rebel soldier doesn’t strike any particular fear in the Sith Lord.

The vocoder’s even breaths distort into the impression of a weary sigh.

“I am not the emperor,” Vader decides after a moment. “Turning you does not serve me as it serves him.”

“I- what?” Luke peers suspiciously through the red lenses of the bug-like mask, desperately seeking the gaze of the man within. Where had this shift come from? Just yesterday the man had threatened him with death should he refuse the allure of the Dark Side, and yet…

“The emperor has eyes everywhere, child, but I have disabled the cameras for just a moment. We have matters of great import to discuss.”

Luke shifts his body away from the monster as much as he can in such tight quarters, his blood-caked flight suit dragging uncomfortably across still-sluggishly bleeding wounds.

“I have nothing to discuss with you,” he returns petulantly, nose crinkling with disdain.

Vader growls out another irritated breath. “Set aside your Jedi ego for a moment, young one, and consider my proposition carefully. This war extends far beyond the ideology of the Jedi or the Sith. You may not realise it, but we seek a common goal.”

It takes all of Luke’s strength to bite back the bitter laugh bubbling to the surface. “Bantha shit,” he spits. “We are nothing alike.”

“You seek to kill the emperor.”

Luke’s brows furrow. “Obviously.”

The leather of Vader’s gloves creaks as he eases his hands out of the instinctual fists resulting from any interaction with a hard-headed spawn of Skywalker. He takes a moment to collect himself to stave off any unwarranted lashing-out, and with a wave of his hand, a second slab of duralloy slowly extends from the wall to his right. Vader slowly eases himself onto the chair, resting a heavy hand on his armoured knee, before locking that uncomfortable gaze back onto Luke’s own.

“I, too, seek to kill the emperor. It is my hope that you will aid me in this, Luke, so that we may end this war and all of its destructive conflict.”

Luke is in purgatory. Surely, he did not just hear those words leave the lips of the emperor’s right hand, the Supreme Commander of the Imperial military, the Imperial warlord whose efforts he had all but dedicated his life to fighting? This man had slaughtered thousands directly and millions more indirectly through the use of that infernal weapon of war Luke had destroyed – he had committed genocides, burnt cities to the ground, tortured and murdered Luke’s friends to his face!

This was the monster who had killed Luke’s father – the man who had been a Jedi, who had stood for all that was good in the galaxy and committed himself so wholly so his tenants that he paid the ultimate price for them.

Why now?

He must have spoken the question aloud, for Vader gives him a long-suffering look through the visor of his helmet, before casting a knowing glance at the tiny black camera perched in the corner of the cell.

“I cannot explain this now, Luke – not here, where we can be watched so easily. Later today you will be sent to my personal medical centre for treatment. I will meet you there and explain everything.”

The Sith heaves himself back to his feet, and the chair retracts back into the wall from where it had appeared. He moves to exit the cell, but Luke shoots out an arm, seized by a sudden, unexplainable desperation begging for him to keep the Sith from leaving.

“I don’t understand,” he gasps breathlessly, attempting to stand. “Please don’t leave yet. I don’t understand!”

Vader turns back only once, gently lowering Luke back to his bed. “Patience, young one. You will understand soon enough.”

He disappears into the hallway before Luke can gather the strength to rise again.

Once again isolated in maddening silence, Luke collapses against the wall, heaving steadying breaths. Vader, the vilest Sith Lord in the galaxy, has put forth an olive branch to the emperor’s most wanted rebel captive, and for the first time in years, an opportunity – a real opportunity – has opened up for the emperor’s demise.

Despite the nature of the proposition, Luke would be a damned fool not to at least consider it. Surely, the rebel command could overlook some shady deals if it meant not only the end of his capture, but the end of the Empire itself. Even more, Luke may finally receive the medical attention he is sorely lacking. Another rotation in his condition could leave him permanently damaged - or worse.

It's torture to silence the raging inferno of his thoughts as he settles into a mockery of Jedi meditation, praying that his aching body holds out until he is collected. Without the Force on his side, he hardly has it within himself to drift off into the galaxy’s quiet calm as Obi Wan had once instructed him to, but he makes the attempt anyway, if only to pass the time faster.

He has never been adept at mediation. Obi Wan, in the brief time Luke had known him, had fondly recalled his father’s own failures at meditation in his youth, claiming that Skywalkers were simply incapable of quieting their racing minds for a single moment of quiet contemplation.

The moments pass like hours. Every so often, Luke breaks the uncomfortable spell to glance up at the miniscule camera angled just right at his pseudo bed, wondering who might be watching him on the other side. Evidently, Vader is quite technologically adept to knock out an entire cell-block surveillance system for as long as he did. Luke only hopes that the ruse was enough – that the Imperial mechanics won’t look too deeply into the suspiciously timed outage and blow up the plan before it ever had the chance to hatch.

After an eternity, the door eventually slides open once more. Two black-clad death troopers, followed by a single Imperial officer – an admiral, he supposes, based on his insignia – enter the room with blasters raised. Luke does little more than blink sluggishly at them, having long since lost the energy to fight against his captors.

The admiral’s eyes rake up and down his form, assessing the damages.

“Can you walk?” he questions, voice gentle despite his somewhat stern demeanour.

Luke gathers up what strength he can and slowly rises to his feet, hissing out a pained breath as too much weight lands on his injured leg. The officer extends a helping hand, and Luke nods his thanks as he is gingerly lead from the cell, the death troopers at his heels.

“Draw as little attention to yourself as you can, Skywalker,” the officer hisses under his breath as the group ducks into an unmanned service corridor. “We are taking every precaution to keep you from the emperor’s sights, but there are eyes everywhere on this station. Vader’s protection only extends so far when the emperor becomes involved.”

“I understand,” Luke responds through gritted teeth, fighting off wave after wave of nausea as every battered muscle in his body howls with exertion. “You know, then?”

The admiral’s eyes flit about – checking for cameras, Luke supposes. He appears satisfied, because he nods, the motion jostling a particularly gnarly cut running up the length of Luke’s arm where it lies flung across the officer’s shoulders.

“I am Admiral Piett. I was made aware of this plan when Lord Vader left to retrieve you, and it is my mission to see it through to its end.”

A chill runs down the length of Luke’s spine. “He’s had this plan since before my capture? What made him so confident I would agree to his demands?”

The admiral shoots him an incredulous look. “You’re here now, aren’t you? As I understand it, Lord Vader is the master of strange and wonderful powers – the type powers I haven’t seen in years, since the Jedi were massacred. If he believes in you will join us in our fight, I have no doubt that this will come to pass.”

“You sound awfully confident in Vader. Are you sure he won’t slaughter you like all his other officers?” Luke’s mouth stretches into the mockery of a grin. “I’ve seen him slaughter Imps for less.”

Piett’s jaw tightens, but he remains steady. “My loyalties lie with Lord Vader, not the emperor. I respect his ambitions and play my part, and the galaxy is better for it.”

They reach a crossroads, and Piett guides them to the left, down an even smaller access corridor lined with steaming pipes and exposed wiring. Another immediate right spits them back out into the main hallway, empty save for the sounds of their own footsteps.

Suddenly, down the corridor echoes the plastoid echoes of stormtrooper footsteps – a single pair, maybe two. Nevertheless, Piett all-but shoves Luke into the nearest doorway with a sharp nod to their bodyguards. The footsteps halt immediately as the stormtrooper rounds the corner, armour clacking as they salute their superiors. Luke sees more than hears the brief interaction in the hallway before an abrupt, but muted, blaster shot cuts the conversation short.

The death troopers are busy dragging away the body when Piett guides Luke back out into the open. Evidently, Piett was taking the “no witnesses” business quite literally, murdering his own if it means getting Luke to his destination in secrecy. It’s truly beginning to sink in the sort of risky business that Luke has gotten himself dragged into – what would Obi Wan say if he could see him now?

The troopers are only gone for a moment before they reappear like ghosts behind the duo. Despite their heavy armour, they make no noise as they move, every action of theirs being calculated and flawlessly executed. Luke has only faced a slew of death troopers head on, but their reputations leave much to be feared; it’s almost a relief having such trained warriors acting as his own personal defence, regardless of what circumstances lead to this point.

Vader’s personal medical centre lies unassumingly at the end of the long hallway. A second pair of death troopers guard the door on either side, parting to let Admiral Piett and his stowaway through, and all four guards remain outside as the door slides shut behind them.

The room is deceptively large, lined wall-to-wall with the best medical equipment money can buy. From bacta tanks to tables lined with IVs to shelves heaping with untouched supplies, this singular room far outweighs the combined medical facilities possessed by the rebellion. In fact, Luke has never seen such an array of medical machinery in his life – not even back home in the massive Anchorhead hospital where he spent a significant portion of his youth.

Piett guides Luke to an examination table covered in a layer of chilled white paper where he gingerly sits himself down. Curtains obscure the table on three sides, and from behind the divide steps a stern-looking man massaging a thin coating of disinfectant over a pair of pristine white gloves.

“Commander Skywalker,” he greets with a pleasant nod. “If you would lie back, please.”

Luke complies with no small amount of effort, his body aching from the day’s endeavours. Immediately, the man is upon him, poking and prodding at his unset limbs and gently considering the deep lacerations just barely visible beneath his torn flight suit.

He offers Luke the barest hint of a sympathetic look before plucking a pair of scissors off the tray to his left.

“I’m afraid the clothes will have to go. I can’t work with what I can’t see.”

Too tired to fight for the wrecked outfit, Luke nods in assent and lets his eyes slip shut. The chill of the scissors against the agitated skin beneath sends an uncomfortable shiver through him, and he sends a brief prayer into the Force that Piett isn’t looking his way as the doctor strips him free of his blood-soaked clothes and undergarments before lightly covering him in a paper gown.

If anything, the fresh air against his wounds is somewhat soothing. Luke reopens his eyes as the doctor examines his broken wrist first, testing the bone underneath his fingers before passing a screen over his arm to examine its inner workings. The doctor sucks his teeth for a moment as he considers the screen, and after a particularly imploring look, he twists the screen in Luke’s direction.

“Not a bad break, by most standards,” he notes, highlighting the cracked portion of Luke’s wrist on the tablet so that Luke can see more easily. “Normally, we would place this in a cast pumped with bacta and it would fix itself over a couple of weeks – it’s safest this way, you see, to let the body take its time. But…” he fixes his gaze on the break once more, tracing it with his finger.

“But?” Luke supplies helpfully.

“But,” the doctor continues, “Lord Vader has requested that the evidence of your healing is kept under wraps as much as possible. A cast would alert too much negative attention. In this case, a full bacta soak is likely our only option.”

“A full…” Luke’s head spins, hardly able to believe his ears. The rebellion could hardly afford bacta patches, but a bacta soak? He never could have imagined such a luxury, especially at the hands of the man he hated more than life itself. Was he truly so important to warrant this kind of attention?

The doctor blatantly misinterprets Luke’s surprise for discomfort, offering him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I understand a bacta soak is not necessarily ideal, but with our time limited as it is, it should only take a few hours. Once Lord Vader arrives, I will prepare the tank.”

As if on cue, the door slides open and Vader enters, his eyes zeroing in on Luke without preamble. He approaches the bed with haste, helmet twisting as he assesses the array of cuts, bruises, and unset fractures marring Luke’s skin.

“Speak,” he commands the doctor, who moves as if electrocuted to pull up Luke’s reports.

“Two fractures,” the doctor begins. “One in his wrist, and the other in his leg. He has lacerations and bruises up and down his body, and I suspect there to be bruising on his ribs. With injuries this extensive, I would recommend no less than two or three soaks in a bacta tank – at least 3 hours apiece.”

“He will recover?” There is a note of satisfaction – even relief, following those words, that Luke hardly has the energy to decipher at the current moment.

The doctor nods and allows the screen to flicker to black. “Fully, should he find the time to complete at least the baseline amount of time in the bacta. Shall I delete these files?”

Vader nods silently, taking a hesitant step back to grant the doctor room to complete his work. Once the system has been wiped, the man carefully props Luke’s bed up so that he can more effectively look the Sith in the eye.

“This is a lot of effort to go through for one rebel,” Luke says, eyebrows raised in questioning.

Vader shakes his head in disbelief. “You are not just any rebel, Luke Skywalker. You are a child of the Force – one of the most powerful of your time. With our combined strengths, we could defeat the emperor and end this war. I have foreseen this.”

Luke feels the gentlest of nudges in the Force. Following it to its source, he senses the barest of Vader’s ambitions, sees an image of the Dark Lord himself sat upon the emperor’s hideous throne overlooking a sea of onlookers dressed all in black, the Imperial insignia lining the streets of Coruscant on billowing red banners, before the image is clamped behind steel-lined mental walls.

His heart goes cold as he realises. “You mean to make yourself emperor when he is dead, don’t you?”

“It is the only way, Luke,” Vader responds placatingly. “I will restore order to the galaxy – order that was lost under Palpatine’s rule. You will never have to fight for your freedom again.”

Luke feels the opportunity of a lifetime slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. How could he have been so naïve? Of course, Vader would manipulate him into serving his own purposes - what else had he expected?

“You only want me for my powers, then you’ll cast me out like every other Imperial operative you grow tired of,” he growls, tears stinging at his eyes. “I will not betray the rebellion to sign my own death warrant – not for a man with such grotesque ambitions as yours.”

“Child, you don’t understand the power of the Dark Side. Betrayal is the way of the Sith. My Master has foreseen this. He does not expect, however, for you to join my side. We will catch him off balance.”

Luke clutches so hard at the edge of his gown that the paper shreds finely beneath his fingertips. “Why? Why would I ever join you when you’ve given me no reason to trust you?”

Vader goes silent for a long moment, his respirator cycling once, twice, three times. Luke opens his mouth again, to demand answers, to plead, to beg, but Vader cuts him off before he can start.

“Obi Wan never told you what happened to your father, did he?”

Luke’s vision goes red at the edges. “He told me enough. He told me you killed him.”

Vader gently sinks to one knee, helmet inclined to meet Luke’s eyes as he once again rests a heavy gauntlet on Luke’s injured shoulder.

“No, Luke,” he says gently. “I am your father.”

Chapter Text

Luke’s first instinct is anger. Blinding, seething anger.

How dare this Sith Lord so grotesquely mock his father’s death? How dare he? Luke moves before he even registers it, the pain in his limbs falling into the void as he strikes violently at the gauntlet resting like a branding iron on his shoulder. The impact sends an immediate jolt careening up his arm – was that a solid sheet of metal underneath that glove?

Luke pulls away with a hiss of near agony, cradling his arm to his chest, infuriated that the weight on his shoulder never abates. If anything, Vader’s vice-like grip only holds on tighter, more possessively.

“That’s not true,” Luke spits, fighting to turn his unbridled fury into something communicable. “That’s impossible.”

Vader’s helmet tilts curiously, and through the Force, the barest tendril of the Sith’s inky presence reaches out to grasp his own. It’s violating, heavy, tainted, nothing like the comforting squeeze through the Force Luke has come to associate with his late master. It’s painful, a perversion of all that the Force is meant to embody. It’s familiar.

Familiar?

The recognition sparks somewhere to life in his subconscious, and the very fabric of the Force seems to flex with anticipation. Luke couldn’t explain the feeling if he tried. It’s the barest sensation, the lightest of brushes against the back of his mind, as if something that had laid dormant all its life had within the confines of his soul had just breathed its first breath.

The rage abates somewhat, the coldness of uncertainty sinking into Luke’s stomach like a stone. Hesitantly, he reaches out to brush Vader’s presence, and the Force whispers to him the truth.

Father.

The universe itself explodes in colour, in meaning. That vague feeling at the back of Luke’s mind clicks into place and suddenly he feels Vader in the Force as if he had never sensed him before, the dormant familial bond reigniting so abruptly that he’s left gasping for air.

Vader is a supernova of power, his very being interwoven with the Force. Through durasteel-strong mental shields, Luke senses the vaguest impression of an unending, poisonous rage so present and all-encompassing that it seems to flow through Vader’s blood like oxygen. Vader’s very soul is eaten away by pain and guilt and sorrow, a maelstrom of emotions so powerful that even locked away in the sanctity of his own mind, Luke can still feel their presence like a physical being.

Yet, somehow, beneath all of that agony lies something light, something untouched by the dark. Luke furrows his brows and reaches out, curiously brushing against that feeling before latching on, drawing it to the surface.

Love. Despite it all, this monstrous beast of a man still has the capacity to love, and for the briefest of moments, this gentle adoration bleeds into the gently probing tendrils of Vader’s presence, wrapping around Luke like a blanket. He gapes like a fish out of water, slumping into the hold. Here, under the watchful eye of this man – this beast – that is his father, Luke feels the safest he has ever felt in his life.

“This is impossible,” he repeats breathlessly.

“Not impossible, my son.” Vader’s gratification is palpable as he runs a heavy hand through Luke’s hair before settling his palm back on Luke’s knee. “Kenobi made it his life’s work to hide you from me. Never before have I been more grateful for his shortcomings.”

Unease bleeds into the whirlwind of Luke’s emotions, and Vader subconsciously tightens his grip.

“Does the emperor know?” he asks after a long moment, dreading the answer.

Vader’s respirator cycles twice before he lets out another soft-sounding sigh. “Yes, he knows. Somehow, he had sensed your presence before I had, and I wager he’s had his sights on you for much longer than I am comfortable with.”

It’s an obvious answer, but it sets Luke’s blood on edge regardless. Pieces have begun to fall into place: Piett’s efforts to keep his movement a secret to the point that he would even kill his own officers to maintain it, Vader’s hesitation to broadcast his charge’s miraculous healing, the unorthodox manner in which he was held hostage… Leia always joked about Luke’s hard-headedness, but surely, he should have suspected something was awry far sooner than he had.

Amusement blooms over their fledgling bond.

“Evidently, that is a familial trait,” Vader muses, “but it is of no consequence. When you have healed, I will continue your instruction in the ways of the Force, and this will be remedied.”

Luke flexes his injured wrist with a wince. Was it the intention of the Sith Lord to shape his only son into the same merciless killing machine he himself was known to be? Did he wish to watch Luke fall to the dark, to lose all parts of him that he cared most for, until he was no more than a shell of his prior self?

“No, Luke.” Luke startles out of the bottomless pit of his own thoughts. Had Vader just read his mind?

There is a smile in his father’s voice as he responds. “It’s hard to avoid, my son, with how loudly you project your thoughts.”

“But if you will not train me as a Sith… surely you don’t intend to train me as a Jedi.”

“There is far more to the Force than just the Jedi and Sith, though I suspect Kenobi never mentioned as such. These dogmatic views will be forgotten with the death of the emperor.” Vader’s voice takes on a sourer edge. “The rule of the Banite Sith is a deeply rooted aspect of Palpatine’s philosophies that I will not allow to continue in his stead. All evidence of his rule is to be wiped clean from the galaxy, including his Sith lineage which he so prided.”

The room is silent for a long period, broken periodically by the ghastly rumbles of Vader’s respirator.

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say,” Luke admits after a long moment.

“Then do not speak,” Vader responds gently, removing his hand from Luke’s knee. “We will finish this later - first, you must heal.”

He gingerly helps his son to his feet, supporting his weight in attempt to keep pressure off his broken leg. Luke is half-guided half-carried to the bacta tank which had been dutifully prepped by Vader’s personal physician. He eyes it with trepidation.

Sensing his worry, Vader translates feelings of safety through their bond. It does little to soothe his fears, but the companionship is reassuring, regardless.

“It’s quite simple, my son, I promise. I must step out for a moment to confer with Admiral Piett, but I will be here when you are released.” With another reassuring squeeze to his shoulders, Vader rescinds Luke to the care of his doctor and sweeps from the room.

True to his word, the process is nearly painless. Luke allows the doctor to fit him with a breathing mask and plain, waterproof undergarments, before he is carefully hooked into the tank’s pully system and submerged beneath the freezing-cold liquid. He immediately shuts his eyes against the sensation, struggling to adjust to the use of the breath mask and the unpleasant itch of old injuries attempting to set. After a moment, however, the discomfort abates, and he finds himself comfortably suspended in the rapidly warming liquid.

With the greater Force finally returned to him, Luke allows himself to meander into a semblance of meditation. He reaches out with his feelings, attempting to pinpoint his father’s location amongst the blistering sea of terror and resignation coating his prison. The more he searches, the more his concern rises; this Imperial base is clearly much larger than Vader’s personal flagship, as Luke had expected. When he attempts to broaden himself, to feel the echo of their planet at large, he feels naught more than durasteel and the threatening hum of heavy weaponry.

With a sinking feeling, Luke returns to himself, squeezing his eyes shut against the instinct to visually reassess his surroundings. Surely this wasn’t another Imperial battle station. Was the Emperor careless enough to greenlight the construction of a secondary Death Star so soon after the destruction of the first?

He delves into the Force again, continuing his search for his father with a greater fervour. With their newborn bond, Luke finds it much easier to reach for his father’s presence, finding him some distance away with the familiar muted hum of Piett’s own Force imprint. He can sense nothing of his father’s intentions at such a distance, and a gentle prod at Piett’s mind reveals mental shielding nearly as strong as his father’s own.

Curious, that a non-Force sensitive would have such strong mental defences. Had his father taught Piett this skill to safeguard from the Emperor the knowledge of his involvement in Vader’s personal machinations? Clearly, this admiral is far more involved in this plot than Luke had ever suspected, but it still strikes him as odd; his father isn’t often known to have allies, at least in this capacity, so what exactly could this admiral be offering him to make him the exception?

His father. It’s a wonder Luke can stand to think in any capacity after such a discovery. He supposes he would be more shocked if Vader’s words didn’t hold an air of rightness to them, the likes of which Luke had never before felt. Never in his life had the Force rung with such absolute clarity – it feels like an impossibility now that he could ever have lived his life without sensing this base part of himself. That fragile thread that had once bound father and son has blossomed into something all-encompassing, so apparent that even if Luke’s attention isn’t directly on his father, he can still feel the man’s presence slotted comfortably against his own – a missing puzzle piece that has, at long last, found its place in the great array of the Force.

It’s cathartic to finally experience a semblance of rest without Obi Wan’s presence invading his subconscious, though the experience is over far too soon for him to truly enjoy the silence. At some point, Vader’s presence reappears in the medical centre, and Luke is pulled back up through the sludge until he’s suspended once again in dry, frigid air.

He shivers uncontrollably, desperately wiping bacta from his eyes, and gratefully accepts the towel someone prods in his general direction. His vision is blurry when he finally manages to wipe away a majority of the liquid from his face, but as promised, the black blur that is his father hovers protectively at his side, offering a helping hand so Luke can gingerly ease himself back onto the ground. He can still hardly stand to put an ounce of weight on his injured leg, but his father is there to carry him back over to the bed, never letting go until Luke is comfortably seated again. It's a blatant display of affection that Luke never could have expected from Vader, but one that he can’t help but appreciate all the same.

“This singular soak was only enough to completely heal the most superficial of his wounds, but it’s a start,” the doctor observes with a slight tilt to his head.

Vader’s evident displeasure is palpable through the Force, but he nods shallowly regardless. “It will have to do for now.”

“For the sake of Skywalker’s continued healing, I would advise him to return within the next few days,” the doctor continues, gently prodding at Luke’s wrist with a gloved hand. “If we wait too long, I may have to reset the bone, and it would set back the healing significantly.”

“That… may not be possible.”

The doctor’s jaw twitches. “Make it possible. Given the severity of these breaks, the consequences of waiting may turn out to be permanent.”

Luke winces, expecting quick and brutal retaliation, but Vader only sighs. The mask tilts, and Luke gets the impression that Vader is trying to meet his eyes through the red lenses.

Doctor Tharuss has worked extensively with me through the years. He is allowed some… leniency… for his continued discretion.

Luke startles. Had his father spoken those words out loud? Vader’s shoulders give a subtle sort of shake at the reaction, giving the strangest impression of a half chuckle, and Luke bites back a smile.

There is much about the Force that Kenobi did not teach you, young one. I will remedy this in time, but for now, we must work on returning you to your cell. Our window of opportunity is closing rapidly.

“But my clothes…” Luke responds out loud, ignoring the doctor’s quirked eyebrow.

“You will be supplied with standard prison garb in the meantime,” Vader responds, procuring a folded stack of grey fatigues from one of the overstuffed shelves. “Dress quickly, young one.”

His father angles his mask away to discuss quietly with the doctor as Luke struggles to redress. It’s a slow and halting process, interspersed with flashes of glaring pain that the bacta still hasn’t quite managed to fix, but the threat of Palpatine’s retribution has opened up a deep pit of anxiety in his stomach, and he hurries on, ignoring the pain. When he’s finished, Vader is quick to gather him up and shove him towards the door without a word, and they set off towards the cell block at an uncomfortably fast pace that has Luke wheezing to keep up with.

Piett falls into step with them halfway through their journey, which Vader acknowledges with a shallow nod. The handoff is seamless; after a gentle squeeze of Luke’s shoulder, Vader veers left down an intersecting hallway and disappears into the distance, while Piett continues to usher Luke on through a series of access tunnels and dimly lit, unmanned corridors. They arrive at the cellblocks rapidly and in silence, and Piett hovers outside the door while Luke situates himself back on his pathetic excuse for a bed with a pointed nod at the security camera in the corner. Almost on cue, a miniscule red light begins to flash just underneath its bulbous lens.

“I do hope we find you in a more cooperative mood tomorrow, Skywalker, or my men will be forced to use more… unsavoury methods to extract what we are looking for,” Piett sneers.

Luke schools his face into what he hopes passes for disgruntled exhaustion, curling into himself to disguise the greater evidence of his healed wounds from the camera’s view. “I apologize, admiral, but I’m afraid you will be disappointed.”

Piett nods, satisfied. With another pointed look, he mouths ‘tomorrow’, and the door slides shut behind him, effectively sealing Luke back in his Force-resistant bubble.

Luke falls back against the bed and lets out the pained breath he had been holding, lightly massaging his aching leg. He’d been put through hell the last two days, having to walk so far with his ankle in such a bad condition; it would be a miracle, even with the good doctor’s interventions, if he wasn’t left with lasting pain in the joint. He considers for a moment delving into a pointed Force meditation in hopes that he could urge the ankle into healing faster, but with the cell’s constricting properties, he doubts he’d be able to get far. Besides, Force healing had never been a strength of his.

With another heavy sigh, he repositions himself more comfortably and situates himself for yet another unbearable wait until Piett comes to recollect him tomorrow. If it weren’t for Palpatine’s incessant demands that made to keep Vader in his sights, or if it weren’t for that Force forsaken camera perched inconspicuously in the corner of his cell, Luke might know more about his situation, but as it stands, he knows nothing. The stress is beginning to wear at his nerves.

Through the black hole in the Force that is his cell, the barest wisp of his father seeps through in response to his perceived agitation. It’s hardly more than an impression, as gentle as a breath on the wind, but it’s a comfort, nonetheless. Luke clutches onto the impression as it rapidly slips through his metaphysical fingers.

What a hypocrite he is, he thinks with a scoff. Just hours ago, he hated Vader with every fibre of his being, childishly imaging a future where he would one day kill the Sith lord for the murder of his father and his mentor. Now, however, he’s not quite so sure.

Force, Obi Wan is going to kill him.

Chapter Text

When Obi Wan fails to appear that night, Luke finds himself, for the first time, genuinely grappling with the tug of the Dark Side at his spirit.

Bitter claws of anger rake through his heart at the thought of the old Jedi’s betrayal. How could Obi Wan have kept such a major secret from him all this time? What sort of man would send a son to kill his own father?

Obi Wan knows as well as anyone the type of hardships Luke had faced growing up in the sands of Tatooine. His aunt and uncle were never abusive, but Owen was stern and controlling and Beru was distant, yet gentle about it. They feared him and feared for him in equal measures, terrified of what he could become if he fell into the wrong hands. Luke’s dreams of one day meeting his father had no doubt scared them half to death, considering what Luke’s father would do to them should he somehow discover Luke’s identity.

They kept his head down and forced him to work, hoping they could curb his adventurous appetite and mould him into one of them – into yet another grizzled, dream-dead son of the sand. They prayed it would be enough.

It was never enough. No matter how hard they tried, it would never be enough.

Obi Wan had been tasked to protect him – to keep him from his father; he can see this now. Clearly, the Jedi had failed, having lead Luke away from the relative safety of his home planet and into the gaping jaws of the war between the rebellion and the empire. What in the galaxy had the Jedi been thinking? If Obi Wan was meant to be his protector, why would he send him directly into the metaphorical Sarlacc pit? What could the old bat possibly stand to gain from such a fruitless endeavour?

Luke huffs out an irritated sigh and rolls over onto his side.

He drifts off to sleep uneasily, still clumsily reaching out through the Force for Obi Wan’s presence. It’s an impossible gambit, he knows; the cell is too limiting for him to truly reach beyond the physical to where Obi Wan lies in wait, and with his spirit so plagued with the Dark Side, the light is far harder to reach than he would like. Still, as his eyes begin to flutter shut, he never lets go of that dim connection, allowing its vague presence to sooth him enough to slip away.

Yoda would know how to combat this weakness. Yoda would sit with Luke on the bank of the slimy river that wound around his hut and meditate with him until the darkness receded, gently blanketing Luke’s presence with his own. It was an exercise they practiced often, especially in the early days when Luke’s annoyance at his slow progress boiled over to the point of anger.
The Jedi Master was a like a cool, still ocean in the Force – calm and unassuming at first, but with an impossible volume of power hiding beneath the glimmering surface of his being. It is of this visage that Luke dreams, of shifting waves beneath twin setting suns that paint the water a rainbow of warm hues.

Luke’s sleep is blissfully painless and healing, yet shallow. More than once, he wakes up to the grating sound of plasteel boots marching across the grated floor outside as troops perform their hourly inspections of the high security ward. Even more frequently, he is startled awake as orders are barked across a loudspeaker in the hallway. From its unbearable loudness, Luke can only guess that it’s welded to the wall just outside his cell door. Half asleep, he makes an honest attempt to interpret the Imperial jargon, hoping to glean some useful information from the officer’s announcements, but each startling interruption is brief and riddled with names and locations he has no hope of remembering when he wakes up again. Eventually, he tunes out the announcements altogether, and manages to get in a few hours of sleep before he is rudely jostled from his bed.

Before his eyes have even opened, Luke’s first instinct is to fight back against his attacker. His uninjured arm shoots out and lands heavily on the man’s shoulder, striking his plasteel pauldrons at a bone-jostling velocity. Luke winces and draws his hand back, blinking blearily at the Stormtrooper that quickly slaps a pair of cuffs on his wrists and drags him to the floor.

The trooper is flanked by two other soldiers, the other two standing cautiously at the door with their hands on their weapons. The first yanks him again, clearly in an effort to get him to stand, but with his foot in as bad a shape as it is, walking is an impossible effort. Eventually, the trooper huffs in indignation and gestures for the other two to help him up.

“Rebel scum,” one of them spits as they hoist him in the air, caring little for the still-healing injuries littering his body.

“Hey!” Luke fights back against the oppressive hold. Tears rise to his eyes as the second trooper tugs at his broken wrist, each movement sending fire up and down his arm. “Kriff, let me go!”

“You’ve got an audience with the big man, little killer,” the first sneers. “After he’s done with you, these’ll feel like nothing.”

With a sardonic chuckle that twists and distorts underneath his helmet, the trooper lands a solid kick at Luke’s shin. He screams, writhing against his restraints, but the troopers hold fast. All of that careful work in the bacta tank is undone in a moment; Luke feels the moment the bone snaps again, leaving him once again lame and at the mercy of his captors.

“I hope you weren’t expecting those to get better,” the second mocks.

Luke’s vision swims with red. The words slip through gritted teeth almost without thought. “I don’t need my limbs to choke you dead. Try that again – I dare you.”

The trio quiets, clearly put-off by his rapid change in demeanour. Evidently, they take his threat to be serious enough, and the two carrying him make no further efforts to reopen his recently healed wounds.

Luke pants from exertion, nearly high off the exultation of finally taking a semblance of power over his captors. It’s a heady feeling, the dark power swirling at his fingertips. It’s almost second nature to reach through the Force and caress the area underneath the Stormtroopers’ helmets where their spine is the weakest. It would be so, laughably easy to twist his fingers and send their heads flying.

With no cajoling Jedi masters hovering over his shoulder, it takes him longer than normal to come back to himself. Yet, when he does, none of the usual aversion rises from his dangerously close brush with darkness. It would be easy to blame the overwhelming negative energy of the Imperial station for his lack of restraint, but the more that he thinks about it… Luke is getting an uneasy feeling that this situation is somewhat familiar. How many times has he witnessed Vader do the same thing in the past – snap the neck of an impertinent officer with less than a thought, all for nothing more than a perceived inconvenience?

This is far more than a simple inconvenience, Luke thinks. Haven’t these Stormtroopers kept him captive in a cell for days on end now, withheld food and water from him and paraded around in the middle of the night to keep him from sleeping? Hadn’t they just ripped him from his bed, cuffed his wrists, and snapped his ankle underneath their boot to a chorus of laughter?

In truth, the galaxy would be better if he snuffed out their sorry existences right here and now.

Force, Luke really is his father’s son. It’s an addicting thought, the Dark Side provides, to become like Vader. He can almost picture it now – himself standing triumphantly over the bodies of these monsters, stealing their weapons, and fleeing the station in a blaze of glory with nothing more than a twitch of his fingers.

Luke roughly shakes himself from the thought, forcing the poisonous whispers to fade to the background. Luke will not allow himself to fall victim to the Dark Side’s influence. Though he has temporarily sided with Vader - his father, the Dark Side taunts - Luke will not allow himself to forget who he really is.

Luke is a Jedi, like his father before him… even if his father no longer believes it himself.

The trio drags Luke an indiscernible amount of time. After a few minutes, the agonizing pain of his ruined ankle dragging across the floor sends Luke careening into unconsciousness, only broken by occasional spots of wakefulness when their pace slows, and he’s given a brief moment of respite.

Eventually, he blinks blurrily awake, sensing somehow that they’ve reached their destination. The world swims gradually into focus to a cacophony of yelling between the leading trooper and – Piett? The admiral is red-faced in anger as he shoves an accusing finger at the trooper’s chest, his body positioned resolutely in the doorway to the hanger bay.

“Who authorized this transfer?” he demands. “The prisoner is to be contained here, emperor’s orders.”

“It was the emperor that ordered the transfer,” the trooper barks back, swatting away the finger like an irritating fly. “He is to be taken to Coruscant. This base is not secure enough for such a high priority prisoner while it is still under construction.”

Piett’s jaw tightens. Almost imperceptibly, his hand begins inching downwards to the pistol strapped to his thigh.

“The prisoner will not be taken to Coruscant,” he decides after a long moment.

“Is that a threat, admiral?” the trooper asks with a tilt to his head. Sensing an unspoken signal, the others unceremoniously drop Luke to raise their own weapons. He tumbles to the floor in a heap, gasping in a pained breath as the immediate agony nearly launches him back into unconsciousness.

“No, trooper. It’s an order.” Piett raises his own pistol, levelling it at the lead trooper’s armoured chest. “As the ranking officer on this station, I demand that you return the prisoner to his cell. Failure to comply will be considered treason.”

The trooper pauses for a moment, regarding silently the gun levelled at his chest.

“I don’t think this is the route you want to take, admiral,” he warns. “The emperor will hear about this.”

Piett smirks, eyes narrowing at something over the trooper’s shoulder. “No, I do not believe he will.”

All at once, with a crack that echoes down the hallway, the three troopers collapse to the floor.

“Thank you, my lord.” Piett sighs and reholsters his gun, rolling out his shoulders. “Perfect timing, as always.”

Vader nods and steps over the bodies to gingerly crouch next to his son. Through the Force, inky tendrils rove up and down Luke’s body, soothing the worst of his hurts and assessing his newer injuries. Vader makes a displeased sound as he reaches Luke’s ankle, gently prodding with his massive gauntlet at the fresh break.

“Why in the galaxy would the emperor have him transferred to Coruscant? This doesn’t even remotely follow protocol,” Piett murmurs sullenly. “I thought we would’ve had more time…”

“Unfortunately, admiral, this display was likely just a message.” His father shakes his head and gently hefts Luke into his arms, soothing his son through the Force as the movement jostles his ankle. “He wants us to know that he knows. For now, however, he remains more curious than incensed, or else he likely wouldn’t have been so merciful.”

“Fortunate,” the admiral snarks irritably. “On the bright side… I suppose we no longer need such discretion when moving him around the station.”

“No, we do not. I will have him moved closer to my personal quarters. His healing must commence quickly if our plan has any hope of surviving.”

“I will begin the preparations.” Piett bows and hurries from the scene, speaking quietly into his com all the way.

Once he vanishes into the distance, Vader turns his head down to gaze at his son. “I am sorry for all of this, Luke. This… is not how it was meant to go. He was not meant to know so soon.”

Luke’s brow furrows. “But he was meant to know?”

“Unfortunately, it was inevitable. We had hoped you would be healed by then. Trained.”

“Yeah, well, life doesn’t always go how you want it to.” He sighs and shifts to curl around his father’s chestplate more comfortably. “This isn’t what I expected to happen when I went to Bespin.”

Vader begins to walk back from the hanger, tracing a familiar route back towards his medbay. He is quiet for a long moment, save for the cycling of his respirator.

“You thought you would save your friends,” he supplies.

“And that we would fight,” Luke finishes for him. “I thought I would win.”

“A bold notion.” Vader’s chest shakes somewhat, as if he is barely supressing laughter at the thought. “At that time, it was an impossibility, I am sorry to say.”

Luke smothers his smile against his father’s chest. “Yeah, I guess.”

Vader quiets again for a much longer period. Luke prods at him through the Force, sensing a strange amount of unease coming from his father.

“What is it?” he asks, face falling with concern.

Vader hesitates, and the Force churns around him. “Are you… disappointed with recent events?”

He tilts his head curiously. “Am I mad that I’m here? With you?”

His father doesn’t respond.

Luke hums thoughtfully. “When you first captured me, I was terrified. I thought you were going to kill me or turn me or torture me.” He gives his father a sideways glance. “You don’t exactly have the best track record with prisoners.”

“I won’t apologize for that,” Vader responds gruffly.

“And I don’t expect you to. Once you told me about your plan, I was more confused than anything. I thought you wanted to use me for my powers so you could take the throne from Palpatine. It… wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been used by people for my abilities.”

Concern filters across their bond. “The rebellion?” his father asks quietly.

Luke prickles, instinctually rising to defend himself. “They’re desperate.”

“That’s no excuse.”

Luke holds up a quieting hand. “Regardless, I agreed to it… somewhat.”

Vader’s Force presence darkens even more. “I don’t want you to feel used like that. Not again. Not ever.”

“But while the emperor lives, that’s a promise you can’t make.”

Vader uses the Force to open the door to the medbay and steps inside, allowing it to slide shut behind them. He gingerly sets Luke down on the examination table and places his hands on his hips.

“This is why you must heal,” he says, a distinct note of desperation rising beneath the evenness of the vocoder. “Only when you are at your full strength will we stand a chance. You must help me, my son. It is the only way.”

“I will never become a Sith,” Luke warns.

“Stubborn boy.” The Sith shakes his head fondly. “I do not wish you to fall to the dark either. I was blinded before, but I see now; that is not your path.”

Luke pretends to consider the offer, but truly the decision had been made days ago when he had first sensed that miniscule spark of light beneath the hard exterior of his father’s psyche. Obi Wan had lied; the man could still be saved.

Perhaps, with the emperor out of the picture, so could the rest of the galaxy.

Chapter Text

The next few days pass with a suspicious amount of ease. True to his word, Vader sets Luke up in the quarters adjacent to his own; like the rest of the station, they are relatively new, slate grey and stiff, yet surprisingly comfortable. Luke’s bedroom is on the small side, but the bed itself is a far cry from the metal slab he had called home for the past few days, so he can hardly complain. He is even allotted a small living room and kitchen, as well as a private fresher and an exterior door that locks from the inside. Small victories, he thinks wryly.

Luke can’t remember the last time he’d had such a vast amount of space to himself. On their last few bases, he had been paired up with at least one or two bunkmates at a time, all squished in a dormitory half the size of his current fresher. This was useful on planets like Hoth, of course, when shared body heat was a precious commodity, but on bases like Yavin or Dantooine, which Luke had once visited with his squadron on a reconnaissance mission, the closeness quickly became stifling.

He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself now in this new, unfamiliar space. More often than not, he finds himself pacing the quarters wall to wall, limping along on a pair of crutches, and ignoring the burn in his wrecked ankle from suspending it for so long. In the brief moments that he manages to calm his mind enough to sit still, he delves into the Force in a semblance of meditation. Vader doesn’t offer him much in the way of entertainment either, save for a handful of flimsis containing empire-approved literature, and a tablet with access to a single, highly politicized news source.

Luke rifles through the pile of media on his coffee table with a small pout, tossing his father an incredulous look over his shoulder. “You expect me to occupy myself with this? This is propaganda, father, and you know it.”

The word has begun to come easier to him in recent days, and it brings Vader no small amount of pleasure to hear it fall from his son’s lips, if his errant and unabashed strings of joy through the Force bond are any indication. After Luke’s vehement denials of their relation in the beginning, the Force had made a suspicious effort to prove Vader’s words as truth. Luke can feel it in the Force now - the knowledge that Vader is indeed his father - as clearly as he can feel the clothes on his back or the grip of his sabre beneath his palm.

And the more the pair interacts, the more Luke begins to see the many glaring similarities between them. It’s a wonder he had never noticed them before. They share the same wry sense of humour, and the same quiet laughter, the same love for mechanics and flying - if given the opportunity, Luke has no doubt they could hold a conversation about power convertors or dampers for hours.

Vader sighs gently through the vocoder, and Luke bites back a grin. Another similarity father and son seem to share – the same dogged stubbornness.

“Media isn’t propaganda simply because it is approved by the empire, Luke,” he grouses. “Besides, if our coup succeeds and we take control of the empire, I expect for you to have a basic understanding of how it all functions.”

Luke’s mouth falls open. “I understand how it all works! I did finish my schooling, you know.”

“You completed your education on Tatooine, young one,” Vader amends dryly. “I once lived on that desolate dust ball, my son, and I highly doubt the schools have managed to achieve complete reform in the time that I was away.”

Luke scoffs. “What, are you going to have me study textbooks in my free time now?”

It is hardly an activity befitting of an almost-Jedi knight and rebel commander, Luke thinks with barely suppressed irritation.

Vader considers the question for a beat too long, and Luke’s face reddens. “Are you serious?”

“I see no negative side to this arrangement,” Vader retorts. “It would not be a complete repeat of your education, in any case. I could arrange for you to meet with a tutor-“

“No.” Luke shoots up from the couch, swaying unsteadily before stubbornly righting himself. “I agreed to work with you to defeat the emperor, not to go back to school. Besides, I’ll hardly be here long enough to complete my education, anyway.”

He clamps his mouth shut as Vader’s ire spikes dangerously in the Force. Shoving down his own annoyance, Luke forces himself to suck in a deep breath, then another, until the blood is no longer rushing in his ears.

“Would you drop this if I agreed to the stupid textbooks?” he offers meekly.

Vader concedes with a gentle incline of his helmet and a warm brush of affection through the Force. “I appreciate your understanding.”

A week ago, Luke couldn’t have imagined those words coming from the Sith Lord’s mouth, but now, they only stand to send his heart fluttering with fondness. Such an easy familiarity exists between the pair, that in his quieter moments, Luke privately wonders whether he could have continued surviving without it.

“I’ll have Piett send for some,” he continues, wrenching Luke out of his spiral. “I will leave your courses up to his judgement.”

At this, Luke lets slip a small smile. “You’re just trying to save your hide if I end up hating them.”

Vader nudges him again through the Force, this time more playfully. “Perhaps. Until then, I believe you have been called in for another bacta soak.”

Luke supresses his groan but doesn’t bother locking away his disgust. It is a process he has come to hate as he progresses further into his treatment. At first, the feeling of the bacta healing his superficial cuts and bruises was itchy, yet satisfying; now, the feeling of the medical gel attempting to guide his bones back into formation is nothing short of agonizing. Not even meditation could take away such a pain.

“You are making incredible progress, Luke. Soon enough, you will no longer require the treatment.”

“Yeah, well, it’s going to be a pain in the meantime,” he huffs, leaning against his crutch for support as he slowly makes his way from his quarters into the dimly lit hallway outside. It’s a familiar route at this point, but Vader takes the lead without care, guiding his son through the corridors with sure, even steps.

“I am not unfamiliar with the sensation,” Vader offers. “In the early days of my…” he hesitates, “condition, I spent a majority of my time in a tank.”

Luke bites his lip, humming lowly in sympathy. “Obi Wan must have done a number on you.”

At this, Vader’s helmet tilts. The Force cools, though not with anger; through their bond, his father’s presence is merely curious, if somewhat saddened. “He told you this?”

“No.” Luke’s brows furrow uneasily at the realisation, delving through his memories for the conversation that would have sparked that knowledge. “I don’t… I don’t know how I know that.”

His father’s curiosity surges. “Do you often receive visions from the Force?”

“Visions, no. Ghosts on the other hand…” Luke huffs out a chuckle and scrubs his free hand across his face.

Vader hums, though it escapes his vocoder far more akin to a displeased growl. “Obi Wan,” he supplies bitterly.

“He’s not exactly happy that I’m here,” Luke says as they reach the medbay. The door slides open just long enough for the duo to shuffle inside before shutting with an airy whirr. “I haven’t seen him in days, if it’s any consolation.”

“The old man can’t cease his meddling even in death.” The Sith scoffs. “It figures. When you regain your strength, I wager he will appear once more. You would be wise not to listen to his lies.”

Luke frowns as he situates himself onto the paper-covered medical bed, legs dangling. “He doesn’t have all that much faith in me. He thinks I’ll Fall.”

Vader’s respirator cycles for a long moment.

“I do not believe he doubts your abilities,” his father counters after the pregnant pause. “He doubts me. My abilities. He thinks I will force your hand just as the emperor once forced mine.”

The admission brings a conflicting mess of feelings to Luke’s heart – warmth at Vader’s subtle praise, yet a shock of coldness at the implication that this life his father is living, if it could even be called that at this point, is not one he lives of his own volition. Not that it even remotely excuses the pain he has caused Luke and his friends - Force, no; Luke scoffs to think that anyone would dare to forgive Vader for his misdeeds regardless of their cause. It only presses upon him the gravity of their situation. To Luke, and most of the rebellion, Vader is undoubtably the most powerful man in existence. To think that another man still has the ability to manipulate the actions of such a force of nature…

Vader places a heavy hand on Luke’s shoulder, jolting him again from his thoughts. “Do not think about it right now, my son. There will be a time for planning, and a time for action, but only after you are healed. Focus your energy on where it belongs – on the present.”

Luke sighs and leans back, the paper crinkling underneath him. “My other master often told me the same thing,” he grumbles. “He said I’m impatient. I can never focus on where I am, what I’m doing…”

“The life of a Jedi is often hectic and everchanging. It would serve you well to learn how to ground yourself in the present.”

Luke quirks a brow, pointedly ignoring the fact that Darth Vader, dread lord of the Sith, had just inadvertently agreed with master Yoda’s teachings. “Is meditation not enough?”

Vader huffs out a sardonic chuckle. “I was never the best at meditation in my youth. Your other master can attest to that. There are other ways to ground oneself, as you will soon discover.”

Luke thinks for a long moment, lightly swinging his feet. Perhaps he hadn’t been as subtle about Yoda’s identity as he’d thought. “Like flying?” he offers, vainly attempting to distract from his error.

Luke can feel Vader’s smile under the mask, his pride radiating out like a physical thing. “Like flying. I am… pleased that you take after me in that regard.”

Luke beams, mouth opening to respond, just as the door to the medbay slides open and Doctor Tharuss slips inside. The man nods stiffly at Vader, but his mouth breaks into a much more pleasant grin at the sight of the man’s son.

“How are we feeling today, young Skywalker?” he asks, picking up a clipboard and scribbling something down on the top page. “Any lingering pain in the wrist?”

Luke twists his wrist experimentally. It remains stiff and somewhat sore, but the worst of the injury has been dealt with; unlike his ankle, it had never even required a cast. ‘A lucky break’, the doctor had called it.

“It’s alright,” he lands on, letting his hand fall to the bed. “Sore, but not bad.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Tharuss says, noting Luke’s response. “With any luck, it’ll be back to normal at the end of this soak. That ankle on the other hand…”

Luke winces. “Please say it won’t take much longer.” The pain is one thing; Luke can cope with a few hours of agony if it means expediting the healing of the fracture from a couple months to less than a week. But being forced to stew in unbearable anticipation, unable to anything but lay in bed and heal… Force, he’ll go crazy.

Tharuss taps his pen against his chin, before gesturing for Luke to lay back. “I’ll take another scan for you. I should be able to give you a rough estimate.”

Luke settles down on his back, and the doctor passes the screen up and down his leg a few times, analysing the angles with little grunts and nods. At one point, he sets the screen down on the bedside table and begins pressing at the break, gently and methodically. At Luke’s every wince, he pulls his hands away apologetically, before finally straightening.

“Lord Vader was correct. You are healing remarkably quickly.” He shakes his head disbelievingly. “Indulge me one last time if you would, young Skywalker. I will let you off with one final bacta soak if you promise to wrap your ankle for another week and avoid any and all strenuous activity.”

Luke lets out a relieved breath. He’d half expected his father’s platitudes about his healing to be empty comforts.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Luke says with a wince as Vader guides him off the bed. “I’ll take you up on that.”

He undresses quickly, allowing his father to fit the beathing mask to his face. The process runs far smoother now than it did at the beginning. His father is always gentle when fitting Luke with the breathing apparatus, his fingers light as they secure the straps around his ears and chin and adjust the tightness so it doesn’t pinch. He sends Luke a questioning nudge through the Force, and Luke takes a tentative first breath through the machine.

It fits perfectly, as it always does. Vader is nothing if not thorough.

He accepts help stepping into the tank and sinks into the bacta. The gel is cool, but not uncomfortably so; regardless, his body is wracked lightly with shivers until the bacta adjusts to his body temperature. His mind takes longer to settle.

As per usual, Vader hovers outside the tank, his presence slotted comfortably against Luke’s own until he settles into light meditation. During the first few sessions, he had been forced to leave the room for one reason or another, called out by Piett or another one of his admirals for course confirmations or documents to sign or some other manner of pointless drivel. Vader’s annoyance had quickly mounted at the distractions, and he had delegated those responsibilities to Piett during the duration of Luke’s treatments.

Last session, huh? Luke projects, mouth curving into a smile under the mouthpiece.

So it seems His father confirms, pleased. Soon, we will be able to progress in your training.

Luke wilts somewhat, and the gel shifts around him. I will not be in… good shape. Not after a break this long. And with my wrist-

We will take it slowly. There is no use in injuring you so soon after you have recovered.

His smile widens. I look forward to it, then.

Thinking about training with his father had once filled Luke with dread, but it’s a small comfort to know he won’t attempt to force his son to the dark side in the process. His father’s ambitions to turn him had died with his allegiance to the emperor, it seems.

There is still the question of what in the galaxy this will make him and his father when it all ends. They will not be Jedi, surely; though Luke will always attempt to pull his father back into the light with him, he doubts Vader would ever dare to return to the order he so hated. And with both Luke and his father determined to keep him from the dark, he doubts his father will remain a Sith, either.

Obi Wan would likely have an idea, Luke thinks offhandedly, before shuddering and pushing the thought away. Truthfully, he dreads the moment when Obi Wan gathers the strength to return. The Jedi Master hadn’t exactly been happy with him last they spoke. His presence was tainted with dejection and disappointment, as if he already considered Luke lost. Such little faith for the boy he had dedicated years to protecting; did he truly believe Luke would abandon all he stood for just because his father returned to his life?

Vader nudges him again, and Luke is made belatedly aware of the pain slowly licking up his leg from the site of his injury.

Focus, his father chides. The Jedi were known for delving into healing trances in instances like these. I never excelled in it, but you are far more level-headed than I was at your age. I do not doubt you will succeed.

I’ve been trying to meditate all this time, but I haven’t found much success, Luke admits.

It is difficult to focus through the pain enough to meditate at all – harder still to meditate deeply enough to reach a healing state. Perhaps if he was healing others, it would be achievable, but himself…

I will assist you this time. Now focus, Luke.

Not quite understanding how exactly Vader intends to help but trusting his intentions implicitly (what a world, he thinks again), Luke attempts to quiet his mind once more. His father’s presence slinks closer to his own, wrapping around him like a heavy blanket. Under his father’s comforting hold, Luke feels the pain begin to dim, floating out to the edge of his subconscious to where it’s no longer overwhelming. He sucks in a deep, regulated breath through the breathing apparatus and lets the physical world slide away.

Vader’s hold on his presence shifts, guiding him through the nothingness until he’s hovering just outside himself. Luke senses his injured limb through the Force like a beacon. It’s far less damaged than it was when he fought Vader; the bone has begun to knit back together, gaining strength and stability with the assistance of the bacta’s healing properties. But it’s not enough – not quite.

Most Force healing involves direct contact with the wound, Vader intones softly, voice reverberating through the nothingness. When submerged in bacta, however, this is unnecessary.

Vader gently guides Luke closer to the source of his hurt. The young Jedi places his metaphorical hands over the wound and begins to gingerly pour his life essence into it. The relief is immediate, a cool balm over the enraged throbbing of his joint as it attempts to guide itself back into the correct position. With the relief comes a sense of bone-deep exhaustion, however; he struggles to maintain the connection, but after only a short moment, it slips away from him.

Force healing involves the transfer of one’s own vitality into the wound they are attempting to heal. It will take you time to build stamina with this skill. Vader nudges him somewhat playfully through the Force, and there is a doting smile on his face as he continues. I expect you to practice this diligently over the coming week, young one.

Luke pulls away from the Force, centring himself back in his body. Vader retreats somewhat, but the smothering blanket of his presence remains wrapped comfortingly around his son’s body, shielding him from the worst of his pain.

I suspect this is something you’ve had to do often, Luke projects mournfully. You seem quite familiar with it.

It is a Jedi’s skill, Vader simply replies.

The rest of Luke’s treatment passes in relative silence. Vader paces around the room every so often, murmuring so quietly to the doctor that Luke can’t make it out through the glass. Piett enters the room once, passes on a datapad to Vader, and then ducks out with a light bow. Luke senses this all with a detached contentment, satisfied to remain in his own little bubble as the world passes on around him.

Eventually, Luke is jostled from his musings as he is pulled up from the bacta tank and gingerly eased back onto solid ground. As per usual, Vader helps to wipe the sludge from his eyes with a towel before wrapping his son’s shoulders, letting Luke complete the job himself.

“It feels good to have that over with,” Luke says with a sigh once he has settled back into his clothes.

“How is the pain?” Tharuss asks, poking gingerly at the ankle with a gloved finger. “Better than before?”

“Loads better. I can hardly feel it at all.” He lets out a long, pleased breath. “What a relief.”

A sudden jolt from his father has his head snapping to the side with concern. Outwardly, Vader remains as composed as ever, his hands loosely draped across the leather of his belt as he observes the proceedings. On the inside, however, Luke feels a brief flash of pure and utter self-loathing before his father’s durasteel-thick mental walls slam back up, shutting him out from the emotion.

“What is it, father?” he asks quietly, nudging at those walls with an inquiring little hum. “Are you alright?”

Luke can feel his father’s gaze linger on the doctor for a long moment before he wrenches his eyes away, focusing back on his son. He remains silent, as if searching for words that will not come, and Luke’s heart drops despite himself.

“What is it?” he asks again.

“I…” Vader’s respirator cycles once, twice, before he continues. “I simply find it unfortunate that our duel caused such injuries for you. That I hadn’t been more cautious.”

Luke’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s hardly your fault. I’m the one who fell into the pit.”

“I could have denied my master’s orders,” his father says sullenly, self-deprecation rolling off him in waves. “He demanded that I capture you by any means - living, preferably, though it was not a requirement. I could have safely frozen you the moment you entered the chamber, but I was curious. I wanted to see how far you’d come since we last met.”

Vader’s helmet turns down. “It would not be the first time I have injured a prospective pupil of mine in such a way. Sith consider pain to be an excellent motivator.”

“It could have been worse,” Luke reminds him with a stern set to his mouth. “I knew what I was getting myself into when I sought you out. Whatever injuries I sustained were the consequences of my own actions.”

“You are not a mere pupil of mine, Luke,” Vader growls. “You are my son.”

Luke lets out a long-suffering sigh and locks his gaze on his father’s red eye plates. “I have long forgiven you for my injuries, father, and you know it. Besides, they’re as good as healed by now, all thanks to your medical intervention.” He tilts his head. “You remember I am technically a prisoner, right? I’m not obligated medical treatment in any form, especially not treatment as extensive as this.”

“To think I would dare to leave you in such a poor state-“ His father cuts himself off, anger spiking in the Force. His belt creaks beneath the force of his clenched gauntlets, and from the corner of the room, Doctor Tharuss lets out a panicked gulp.

“It’s what the emperor would have wanted, and you denied him,” Luke continues, softer. “That’s as good as a death sentence for you.”

Vader’s anger vanishes in a heartbeat, replaced by a loaded silence.

“Why’d you do it?” Luke finally asks, worrying the hem of his shirt sleeve between shaking fingers.

“I will not let him have you too.” Vader’s answer is immediate. Absolute.

The very Force rattles with the truth of the promise. Vader will not allow the emperor to enslave his son as he had once enslaved him – not while Vader yet lives. Rapid images pass across Luke’s mind – a chestnut haired woman in regal clothing with a smile like the sun, an old woman with sad, tired eyes gazing across a desert of sand, a young Togruta woman with a pair of dazzling green lightsabers… all lost, abandoned to the past.

And then Luke sees himself. Bright, young, loving, zealous – a perfect combination of the cool collectedness of his mother and the burning passion of his father. Vader sees the future in the eyes of his son. For once, he has something worth fighting for.

The upcoming battle will be bloody and difficult, a war of the Force as much as a war of politics, but finally, finally, a flicker of hope sparks to life in Vader’s chest.

I will not let him have you too.

Chapter Text

The next day, Luke awakens to a surprising lack of pain at the site of his injury. He hobbles from bed with suspiciously little effort, testing his weight on his injured ankle in delicate increments. It continues to ache dully, pulsing in time with his heart, but the wrappings hold firm, and he manages his first ever circuit around his quarters without his crutches.

Without notice, his apparent glee slips through his mental shields and rockets across their bond, prompting a curious nudge from his father.

You are awfully chipper this morning, my son, Vader intones. Luke gets the barest sensation of his father heaving himself to his feet, before his presence begins the lengthy trek from his offices back to Luke’s quarters.

I feel better than yesterday. Much better, Luke responds with a grin, flexing his ankle once more, just for the sake of its blissfully painless movement.

Well enough to begin training?

It’s sore, but I’ll manage. Luke rolls his eyes despite knowing full well that his father can’t see it. I can’t stand another second in this room anyway - I’ve seen enough Imperial propaganda films this week to last me a life time.

Vader halfheartedly scolds his son for the comment, but his pleasure at Luke’s progress filters across the bond anyway, his warm joy blanketing Luke’s presence like a physical thing. Luke tugs that feeling close to him.

There is a long-cold breakfast already laid out on his dining table when Luke leaves his bedroom, which he begins to pick at as he awaits his father’s arrival. Food on the second Death Star is surprisingly delicious and varied for a glorified war machine; his main course consists of a lightly seasoned slab of a tender, savoury meat, alongside a healthy serving of eggs scrambled in a fiery red sauce and a side of buttered bread. Back in the rebellion, Luke would be lucky to get a breakfast ration at all. If one was available, it was more likely than not a meagre portion of watered-down oats or half of a stale ration bar.

He is just beginning to cut into the meat when the door slides open and Vader steps inside. He greets his father with a shallow dip of his head before lifting the meat to his nose and inhaling deeply, trying to place the meat or its pungent array of spices, but coming up short.

“It’s veal,” his father answers his unspoken question. “High in proteins, and necessary for your continued healing.”

Luke takes a bite, practically melting back into his chair at the mouth-watering flavour. “I’ve never had veal. How in the world did you get it shipped all the way out here?”

“You forget the scope of the empire’s influence,” his father chides. “While you are here with me, you will be denied no luxury.”

“I’m not exactly the luxurious type, father,” Luke counters with a chuckle. “You grew up on Tatooine – surely you understand.”

Vader hums in agreement. Aunt Beru had once taken him to the childhood home of his father. It was quite the trek from the moisture farm, nearly a whole day’s travel across the Jundland Wastes to the Mos Espa slave quarter. It was one of the few times Luke had ever bothered to venture to Tatooine’s second largest city; it wasn’t exactly known for its cleanliness or safety, after all.

Mos Espa was large for a Tatooine town, but dirty and cramped all the same. The streets were loud and crowded, populated by strange smells and even stranger people. Many off-worlders preferred Mos Espa’s space ports to Mos Eisley’s for its lower outward population of smugglers and thieves, and they walked the city’s bustling streets with a certain air of disdain about them, wrapped head to toe in brightly coloured clothing and foreign jewellery. The rest of Mos Espa’s inhabitants were clothed in shades of tan and grey, and they walked with their weathered heads down and backs bent against the raging heat.

The crowds dwindled somewhat closer to the slave quarter. The air here was heavier – solemn, almost. The hovels allotted to slaves and their families were stacked atop each other haphazardly, like block towers built by the bumbling hands of a child, but despite their poor architecture, they were clean. Meticulously so.

“The people that live here possess little, but they are proud of that which they do possess,” Beru told him soberly. “Your father lived here as a child, as did your grandmother.”

Luke’s eyes were drawn to the entrance of one such house. Its shuttered windows were tightly sealed to ward off the heat, and the metal rattled pitifully with each choking breath of air blown in from the dunes beyond the quarter. Its door was painted red, but the colour had begun to chip, grated away by Tatooine’s harsh sands. Atop the chipped red paint was a newer symbol: a large, white sun.

Luke knew, then, that this was the childhood home of his father. He had known it ever since he first laid eyes on it.

“I don’t know if I could ever get used to living like this,” Luke admits, shaking himself from the memory.

“In time, you will,” Vader counters with a soft shake of his head. “Your blood alone puts you in line for the Imperial throne, given that I am the emperor’s successor. When we defeat him, you will become the Empire’s prince.”

Luke’s brows crease. “I already told you. I will not side with you just to crown another emperor. I am fighting for this conflict to end, not to see it lengthened from the inside.”

Vader huffs but drops the topic. “We will adjust our course of action down the line, if it becomes necessary,” he concedes. “In the meantime, you will need to regain your strength.”

He reaches down to his belt and removes a metallic object from the deep folds of his cape, before tossing it to his son. Luke’s eyes widen at the object in his lap. His lightsaber!

“You’re trusting me with a weapon?” he asks incredulously, smoothing over the hilt’s familiar surface with shaking fingers.

“I trust that our goals align closely enough that you will not attempt a daring escape,” his father snarks, crossing his arms. “Must I remind you that you are on an Imperial battle station surrounded by thousands of my best troops?”

“Yeah, yeah, point taken,” Luke sighs. “This is the best opportunity we’ve had in years to take down the Empire from the top down – I would be a fool to throw it away.”

He chooses to ignore the incessant, disappointed visage of Obi Wan at the back of his subconscious.

“You are correct in that assessment,” Vader responds dryly. “I am keeping the Emperor at bay temporarily. As long as he does not bring up the transfer attempt, I will not discuss it either; for now, we remain somewhat at a stalemate.”

“How much time does that give us?”

His father ponders the question for a moment, his respirator the only sound in the quiet living space. “It is hard to say for certain,” he decides. “The Force is always in motion; there is no telling when he will begin to push the matter. Until then, we will act as if nothing has changed. Let him believe himself to be the mastermind."

“Then we’ll have to play up the lie in the meantime,” Luke concludes, a sly grin splitting his face in two.

His father projects his clear amusement across the bond. “That will not be difficult for you, young one, I am sure. Kick and scream in the halls if you wish. Feign escape attempts. Trash your quarters, even. I’ll leave the artistry to you, but I ask that you make it convincing.”

“What about Piett? And the death troopers?” Luke is struck, suddenly, but the sheer number of unknowns this new situation presents. “How many people did you tell of this plan, father?”

“I have limited knowledge of this plot to Admiral Piett, Doctor Tharuss, and a singular guard unit of my most trusted troopers, who have been solely tasked with your safekeeping while in Imperial custody.”

It is a kind gesture, especially considering the man it came from, and it eases some of the tension on Luke’s shoulders. The emperor’s last kidnapping attempt had come far too close to succeeding. Hopefully, the added guard and occasional access to a familiar weapon would lessen that future risk.

“I’ll feel safer on this station once I’m better at using this.” Luke gestures forlornly to his saber, mouth tugged down at the corners. “I never got much formal training with it before my injury.”

“And that is where your master failed.” Luke’s mouth falls open to defend against the criticism, but Vader holds up a halting hand. “The Jedi are pacifistic by nature, Luke. They believe solely in the guiding power of the Force’s will, and that, through understanding the great mystery of the universe, they will achieve balance.”

He scoffs, and it leaves the vocoder like a dog’s growl, all low and gravelly. “Balance. I certainly do not believe in such a thing, and neither does the Emperor. Yoda’s teachings will not help you here.”

Luke slumps further into his chair.

“Do not take that as a criticism of yourself as a learner, Luke,” his father amends at Luke’s dejected look. “In this era, one cannot get by without understanding the art of combat. Wars cannot be fought with words, like the Jedi once presumed.”

“That’s an awfully pessimistic view of the galaxy,” Luke murmurs.

Vader’s cape shifts with a light shrug. “I never claimed to be an optimist. Now, come. Let us begin your training before Piett drags me off to more beurocratic drivel.”

Luke abandons the rest of his breakfast at the table, bookmarking that conversation for later. As he has come to discover, his father has the most infuriating habit of delving into a deep conversation before abandoning the topic and never mentioning it again. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d discussed philosophy only for Vader to walk away before Luke could put in his two cents.

Clearly, his father is not used to double-sided conversation. Luke wonders offhandedly if Vader has a single relationship outside of his son and the emperor, before shaking his head and tucking that thought away; no, absolutely not.

For the sake of keeping up appearances, Vader snatches back Luke’s lightsaber and tucks it under his cloak, before binding his son’s hands and dragging him out into the hallway. Rather than turning left towards the medical bay, they turn right. Luke counts the doors as they pass; by the time they exit the hallway into a broader common area, they’ve passed eleven empty guest quarters and nearly two dozen storage closets, security offices, or communal living spaces – all devoid of life. He also doesn’t fail to notice the assortment of security cameras and recording devices spread evenly up and down the hallway, all of which have been damaged beyond recognition or disconnected from their ports.

Evidently, being the Empire’s second in command comes with a certain allotment of privacy. Either that, or the Death Star’s officers are too frightened of Vader to come and fix the damages themselves.

True to his word, Luke puts on an outward appearance of disobedience. He tugs at the restraints, shooting Vader dirty looks and mumbling threateningly every time the Sith tugs him forward. When they stop for an elevator, he makes a great show of inspecting his surroundings, memorizing their route, and making heavy, uncomfortable eye contact with every officer or trooper that passes. In all honesty, it’s actually quite a bit of fun to play up the part of the insolent rebel, especially knowing that at the end of the day, he will face exactly zero consequences for his actions.

Vader recognizes this immediately, and projects his resignation across the bond, not having expected Luke to take to the part with so much gusto. In response, Luke yanks a control box off the wall with the Force and launches it at his father’s head, firing off a rapid string of Huttese all the while. Vader deflects the projectile easily, and without speaking, drags Luke nearly off his feet before depositing him in the elevator. The door shuts silently behind them.

Having fun? Vader snarks, flicking Luke on the back of the head with the Force.

Can you tell? Luke pointedly turns away from the camera in the corner to hide his growing smirk. This is the most entertained I’ve been since I arrived, he responds slyly.

Vader gives the equivalent of a weary sigh through the Force, rolling out his heavy shoulders to relieve the tension caused by his son’s antics. You remind me of myself at your age.

Luke tilts his head. I can’t tell if that’s a good or a bad thing.

His father deigns not to respond.

They take the elevator up for a dreadfully long time before getting out on a floor Luke can only describe as “half finished”. Open panelling lines the walls, crisscrossed with colourful wires and metal tubing. Down an intersecting hallway, the ceiling lights flicker rhythmically.

The room they end up in is in no less of a tragic state. It clearly used to be a rec room, with red paint marking the floors where scrimmages would have been held, abandoned shelving units and equipment storage carts pushed into dusty corners, and half-dispatched training dummies scattered haphazardly about in varying stages of disintegration. Like the rest of the floor, the walls and ceiling unfinished, and the ceiling lights flicker dully every few seconds.

“We will have a… more sufficient training salle once we return to the Executor,” Vader promises as he undoes the clasps on Luke’s binders, sounding uncharacteristically sheepish. “There is no security system on this portion of the station as of yet, hence why we will be using it for the time being.

“I’m not complaining,” Luke assures him. “It’s a change in scenery, if anything.”

Vader nods and reaches down to his belt, unhooking Luke’s lightsaber and placing it gently in his son’s waiting hands. “We will begin with your katas,” he instructs, immediately diving into business.

Luke levels him with a blank look.

His father is silent for a long moment before his anger returns with a vengeance, brilliant and scalding in its intensity. “Please tell me you were instructed on the most basic form of lightsaber combat before your masters sent you to face me.”

Luke chews on his bottom lip. “If it helps, I ran off without their permission.”

Vader’s gauntlets creak. “It does not.”

His father takes a long moment to compose himself. His emotions are a maelstrom in the Force – rage at Luke’s masters for sending him out into the galaxy so defenceless, confusion at just how in the galaxy Luke had managed to hold his own for so long without any proper guidance, and yet a flickering sense of excitement that he would be the first and only one to instruct his son in such an art. Eventually, his anger festers and slips beneath his shields, and he gestures for Luke to step closer.

“You will not have time to learn all of the forms before our confrontation,” Vader begins, voice somewhat clipped in his annoyance. “I will instruct you in my preferred form first.”

With guiding hands, he positions Luke into a basic defensive position, his dominant leg shifted slightly backward for stability, and his lightsaber tilted upwards. Luke experiments for a moment, shifting his weight between his feet and levelling his blade at different angles, feeling for his point of stability. After a moment, he glances up at his father in confusion.

“This doesn’t feel like your style,” he admits, shifting back into his initial position. “I’ve never seen you on the defensive like this.”

“The emperor of a different nature than those you have seen me vanquish thus far, Luke,” Vader reminds him. “He is unpredictable and powerful. It will be difficult to get close to him, and it is unlikely either of us will directly engage him in lightsaber combat.”

“So, what we’re waiting for is a good opportunity?” Luke guesses, slightly scandalized. “That’s our play?”

“The emperor is formidable, but not infallible. He has grown overconfident. Now focus.” Luke grunts, but relents as his father nudges his arms back up to the proper angle, releasing his irritations into the Force.

Vader eases him through the basic motions of his form, circling his son with a watchful eye and corrective hands. Despite the gravity of the situation, something about the movements is strangely calming, putting Luke in an almost meditative headspace as he blocks and jabs and twirls about the training floor.

Luke begins to understand his father’s preference for the form the more he practices. The classical style of the form, which Vader teaches rather than his personal modified style, is a delicate balance of defence and offence, focusing on quick parries and devastating overhead blows. It’s quick and precise, physically exerting, but strangely satisfying. He falls into the movements like water flowing over rocks, and the Force sings in his ear all the while.

Eventually, his father joins in, and they begin a light sparring. He moves slowly, exaggerating his movements enough that Luke has enough time to attempt the moves his father had previously demonstrated. When he doesn’t quite hit the mark, Vader pauses to position him correctly, firmly explaining his shortcomings before repeating the movement so that Luke can respond correctly. It’s slow moving and extremely taxing, but by the end of their session, they’ve worked up to a speed just a notch below that of genuine combat.

“Good,” Vader praises as Luke blocks a particularly sneaky upwards slash, which he immediately translates into a powerful overhead attack. It’s blocked easily by Vader’s blade, which whips up so quickly Luke almost can’t track it, but the praise glows warmly in Luke’s chest all the same.

“You are quite adept at mimicry,” his father notes, cutting downwards and sidestepping Luke’s immediate counterattack. He twirls his blade lazily as Luke hops backwards, catching his breath.

“Always have been,” Luke responds breathlessly. “You’re hard to copy, though. I couldn’t perform your moves like you do.”

“No, you could not,” Vader agrees. “You are much too small in stature. My power comes from my strength – from my size. You will need to be more creative.”

To demonstrate, he charges his son, slashing downwards and colliding with Luke’s blade so hard his teeth rattle. Luke growls and shoves the blade away, holding it above his head for a moment before raining down a series of blows, targeting shoulders and then knees and then back up again, all in a whirlwind so quickly that he almost doesn’t believe it himself. For the first time today, Vader goes on the defensive, meeting Luke’s blows easily but retreating a step backwards, and then two.

He only allows it for a moment longer. Luke tires quickly, and at his first slip up, Vader bats away his blade and sends his son sprawling, the end of his crimson bream levelled with his son’s neck. They stay in that position for a long while, Luke heaving and sweating pitifully, and his father watching on impassively. Eventually, Vader’s blade retracts, and he holds out a hand, helping Luke to his feet.

“That is what you should strive to achieve always,” Vader rumbles, his heavy hand remaining on Luke’s shoulder even after he’s steady. “There is balance in combat. Focus on your passion, but do not let it overwhelm you. Show restraint and mercy to your opponent, but do not hesitate to strike. Let the Force be your guide.”

Luke quirks an amused eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t believe in balance.”

Vader’s hand falls away, his presence suddenly coloured by something pensive. “There is none for me, my son. Not anymore. But I did vow not to let you fall to the dark – at least, not until it is a choice you aren’t forced to make under duress.”

“I won’t turn,” Luke promises with a conviction he wishes he still felt.

“It is not a choice you must make at this moment,” his father appeases, the hand returning comfortingly to his son’s shoulder. “Much still hangs in the balance. The future is not set.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Vader’s helmet tilts curiously as Luke passes back his lightsaber.

“I believe we will succeed,” Luke says, eyes blazing. “We are strong together – strong enough to defeat him. I am sure of this.”

Vader hums, eyes tracing the familiar saber in his palm before returning it languidly to his belt. “I will trust your judgement, then, young one.”

If Luke is smiling as Vader reattaches the cuffs on his wrists, his father doesn’t mention it.