Chapter Text
Luke woke up in the middle of the night, disoriented and in pain. There was a dull throbbing in his limbs, and he felt as if someone had stuffed his mouth and throat with thick ash. He coughed against it, gasping for air, but everything was sticky and painful, unable to pass through his damaged throat.
The image before his eyes was blurry, but Luke could still make out the black, polished walls, the elegant furniture, and the soft bed he was lying on. There was light bleeding through a large viewport to his right; dully, Luke shifted his gaze, regarding the image behind the glass. His eyes barely noticed it, though, barely made out the shapes outside. There were stars behind the viewport, but the boy didn’t see them - didn’t see anything, not even the greatest start of them all.
The Death Star.
His brain fuzzy and his sight still blurry, he tried to get up, tried to move away from the bed. He was disoriented and in pain, unaware of what had happened and unaware of what was yet to come. His mouth felt dry and Luke wished he could just have a little bit of water, a little bit of liquid to quench his thirst.
Numbly, he stood up and groaned as a wave of nausea immediately passed through him. In one moment, his knees buckled and he fell down, vomiting as his hands touched the ground.
For a few seconds, he simply regarded the poodle of bile before him, trying to understand what was happening. There was a blur of thoughts in his brain, a useless collection of memories with no connection between them. All he knew that something terrible had happened, and that he was thirsty and hurt, and his throat was raw and dry from screaming, because something was wrong, because he had been…
...tortured.
He had been tortured by the Emperor.
And his father had just stood by, watching. His father did not save him.
A single tear fell past his temple as his heart clenched with an unbearable feeling of abandonment. He knew this could happen, he was prepared to save his father or die, but to actually live through it…
…to actually be rejected, even in death, by his own sire...
…was too much, was…
No.
He would not dwell on it - he couldn’t. Somehow, he was still alive, and he still had the chance to escape and rejoin the Alliance. His father could not be turned - he understood that now - but there were still people he could help, and he just had to escape…
Another wave of nausea passed through him; again, he gagged. He knew he desperately needed water - his dehydrated brain was practically begging him to drink - but there was nothing to quench his thirst in his sight.
Unless…
Looking up from the poodle of bile, his eyes skimmed around the walls, immediately noticing a pair of transparent, dark doors.
The refresher.
Water.
Painfully, he got up, trying to keep his body upright. Everything was agonizing, but what hurt more than anything was the lack of water, and he needed to get it, he needed to get it now…
He walked slowly, stumbling, gasping heavily as exertion shook his lungs. His body was drenched in sweat and blood; his skin smelled of burnt flesh. His limbs felt heavy and paralyzed, and all touch felt dull and faint. He vaguely paid attention to the questions in his mind.
What had happened?
Why had he lived, why was he allowed to live?
Why was the Death Star still there, why had the rebels failed?
Why did his father leave him to die?
He didn’t know the answers to those questions; didn’t know anything that would explain his survival. What mattered now was only water, only the thing that could save him now.
But the heaviness in his body was growing, and the pain was becoming more and more strong, and it was so hard to hold on—
But the doors were almost there, almost within the reach of his arm—
He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe now, everything hurt so much—
You’ve been electrocuted , he thought. Your flesh had been burned. Your wounds are infected.
You’re going to die.
Stumbling, he pushed the refresher’s door, immediately looking at the sink before him.
There was pain in his body, but the water was so close—
Just a couple of steps more—
Almost there—
Ahhh!
His knees buckled and he collapsed, head banging against the bathroom floor. A voiceless scream was ripped from his throat, leaving his lungs spamming in pain. His body curled as he tried to control the trembling in his muscles, but there was nothing that could stop the cold tremors passing through him and the furious twitching of his arms. There was a strange sound around him - something that resembled airless gasps - and dully, he realized that it was him who was struggling to breathe.
Not long now…
No, no, he needed to get up--
He had to go, he had to fight--
He was going to die--
A violent tremor passed through his body and again; he cried out. His chest was on fire, and he felt as if he was being burned alive. It was excruciating, the worst pain he’d ever felt, and he wished someone would just make it stop--
His bruised lips moved, trying to speak, trying to call out…-
Father!
...but no words left his mouth.
He needed to get up.
He got on his hands and knees, his body heavy, his muscles stuck--
There was a moment of hope, a moment of euphoric relief as he lifted his torso off the ground; sweat ran down the clammy skin of his face as he heavily breathed out. It was working, he was going to get up, he was going to run--
And then his knees buckled once again, and the world went black.
***
Bring me Skywalker , his master had said mere minutes ago as he kneeled before him like an obedient slave . There had been disgust in his own voice as he had grunt out ‘yes, master’, the words tasting like bile.
Bring me Skywalker.
Was Luke nothing more than a tool? An object to be controlled or killed?
Bring me Skywalker.
Yes, he was. The Emperor had proved that much when he had tortured the boy almost to death , murdering the child right before his father’s eyes.
And then he had let him go, and somehow that was even worse, because it meant there wouldn’t be an end to the boy’s torment, no death to save him from what was to come.
In truth, Vader couldn’t remember what had happened then; his memories were twisted and foggy, his mind unable to reconstruct the events that had brought so much pain to his child. He could vaguely recall the battle, the terrible screams of the torture, and his inability to save the boy who he should have loved. He remembered the pleas, the trembling hand reaching for him, and the begging in his son’s voice. He remembered the way he had curled on the floor when he was given a brief respite, only to be struck again and promised a painful death. He remembered the way the screams had weakened, the breathing went slow and shallow, the way the convulsions had turned into barely visible twitches. He could vaguely recall the moment his master had withdrawn the lighting, the way his son had laid motionless on the floor. “He had learned his lesson,” Palpatine had said, before adding “Guards, take him away.” He remembered numbly watching red-robed figures approach them and lift his son; the boy had been limp in their grasp, unconscious as they had taken him by his shoulders and carried him away.
And still, Vader had stood.
He had not moved.
The Emperor had been speaking to him then, but he couldn’t remember much of that either. There had been an ingenuine concern and then impatient demands, and he had been led out of the Throne Room and flown away from the Death Star. His hand had been replaced and his life-support system had been fixed, but he hadn’t registered it, hadn’t noticed that anything had happened ever since the boy had been struck by lightning and crumbled to the ground.
But some time had passed. He remembered better now.
Bring me Skywalker.
It’s been three days since their fight.
The rebels had lost.
The Death Star had not been blown. The Empire had remained.
And Luke, his son, his tortured son , had been kept in the quarters on a Star Destroyer at the Emperor’s request. The boy was not a mere prisoner, but a slave to the Dark, a poor child that didn’t know what was yet to come.
His son had not yet regained consciousness, but when he did, he would wake up to a nightmare.
And then he would turn, or he would die.
Bring me Skywalker.
So it was time.
He walked to Luke’s quarters, feeling him awake, dreading their first encounter after the battle. What would he say - how could he say anything after he had refused to help his son, after he had left him to die?
He reached the boy’s room and waved a hand, opening the heavy doors. The space was elegantly-furnished, and yet there was an odd smell hanging in the air, a terrible odor of sweat, burnt flesh, and…
...bile.
A spark of concern appeared in his mind but he squashed it, instead quickly walking forward and approaching the bed his son had been left on. He leaned over it, reaching out with his hand to wake the boy up, only to realize that it was empty.
His son wasn’t there.
His son wasn’t in the room.
“Luke?” He asked.
The boy didn’t answer him. The air was heavy with silence as he looked around the quarters, trying to locate his son. The boy couldn’t have escaped - it was impossible, especially in his weakened state—
“...nhh..agh..”
The sound was quiet - so quiet that Vader would not have heard it if not for the advanced sound detectors his suit had. It was coming from the bathroom and immediately, he headed in its direction, already knowing what he would see and yet refusing that very thought.
And yet, as he reached the door, he realized
that he
was right.
His son lay on the floor, his knees curled up so close to his trembling body that they were almost touching his chin. His arms were pressed against his chest, bruised fists clutching weakly at the material of his black suit. There was sweat soaking his charred clothes; the boy’s pale forehead was marked with the same beads of perspiration as well. He was utterly silent, save for the faint sound of his labored, erratic breaths, his lungs spasming upon inhaling the dry air. Although his eyes were open, the boy did not look at Vader when he had entered the room - instead, his gaze was fixed on the floor beneath his cheek, his hot breath leaving misty stains on the black tiles.
He walked up to the boy slowly, unsurely, almost afraid that his presence alone could further harm his son. Then, carefully, he lowered himself to one knee, extending his arm and putting a careful hand on the young man’s shoulder. The boy flinched underneath his touch - his feverish brain was still terrified, still fearing his father after their last encounter. Immediately, Vader gripped his arm tighter in what was meant to be a reassuring squeeze.
“It’s alright,” he soothed, although there was cold fear gripping his heart. Gently, he lowered his hand, putting it underneath Luke’s right shoulder - the one pressed firmly against the ground. His son’s breathing hitched, but still, no words left his mouth, and Vader dully observed that his empty gaze did not move from the floor.
“Luke,” he tried, more urgent this time. His son was limp in his arms, allowing Vader to touch him even though there had been nothing but lightsabers crossed between them mere days ago. “You need to get up.”
Gently but firmly, he grasped his son’s left shoulder with his free hand and lifted the boy’s torso off the ground. Luke’s breathing hitched as his father pulled him up into a sitting position, and his head fell limply against the Dark Lord’s knees. His arms flailed as they blindly looked for support, eventually finding Vader’s thighs; the boy wrapped his trembling arms around them and leaned heavily against his armored legs, exhaling air with a trembling sigh. Vader put a steadying hand on the young man’s back before moving his hands under Luke’s armpits, slowly pulling his son up. The boy’s legs shook as he put weight on them, and the Dark Lord curled his arms around his son even tighter, trying to offer him enough support to stand up.
“Good,” he praised as Luke eventually managed to remain on his feet, though his knees were still buckling and his body was leaning heavily against Vader’s armored bulk. “We will walk to your bed now.”
There was a slight nod against his shoulder, and then the boy put one foot forward, clutching at Vader’s arms with all his strength. Slowly, agonizingly slowly , they managed to exit the bathroom, all the while Luke was relying on his father to support his weight.
Finally, they reached the boy’s bed, and Vader helped his son to lie down, slowly lowering him on the mattress. Luke’s head fell to the side, his body exhausted after the short walk. His chest was heaving with effort, and there was strain in his disoriented eyes. Vader stood above him for a few moments, simply regarding the pained expression on his face, before his eyes moved down to look at the burns on Luke’s hands.
There must have been extensive damage left by the lightning, the Dark Lord realized as he took in the scarred tissue covering his son’s palms. With dread, he looked at the boy’s chest, taking in the charred jacket and ash covering the black fabric. How did his skin look underneath those clothes? Was it also burned, covered in angry dark lines marking the lightning's path? Vader’s own body had borne such scars; though he hadn’t been exposed to Count Dooku’s dark powers much, the electricity the Sith had used against him during their first fight had immediately left painful marks. Those scars, although they had quickly become faint, served as a reminder for the rest of his-- Anakin’s life. He’d learned the hard way to always think before he acted, and the pain from that brief electric shock had been forever etched in his mind.
But his son hadn’t been that lucky - his son had been exposed to the terrible force of the lightning for far longer than Vader had anyone seen withstand it before. He could still remember his child pained screams, the hoarse pleas as Luke begged his father to save his life.
And Vader had just stood there, not moving, not helping, not doing anything to aid his child. Instead, he’d allowed his son’s torment, allowed the boy to experience the worst pain the Sith had ever felt in his life.
The pain of being burned alive.
Slowly, he leaned over Luke’s injured body, his gloved hands fumbling with the front of his jacket. Beneath him, the boy shuddered, his pained blue eyes finally looking up.
“...father…” he whispered, his voice raspy and damaged. There were tears in his eyes, and Vader couldn’t tell if they were a result of pain or his confusion and turmoil. He reached out with one hand and cupped his son’s cheek, allowing the boy to rest against it as his head lolled.
“I need to see the damage,” he explained, slowly pulling the upper part of the jacket down, revealing the skin underneath.
Horror filled his eyes at the sight. The boy’s chest was raw and swollen, covered in extensive burns and white blisters. There was fluid oozing from the wounds, mixing with sweat and flowing down his skin in lazy trails. Parts of his tissue were charred and peeling off, covering his bloodied chest like flakes of white snow. There were lines on his skin, sharp and ashen-black, forming a lightning pattern on his body and spreading across his skin like a dark web.
Bile rose in Vader’s throat as his hand hovered above the boy’s chest, suddenly unsure what to do. The boy looked… almost dead - his body resembled that of a slaughtered man, almost as if an animal had ripped his flesh apart and left him to die. His burns were infected, disease spreading through him with an agonizing speed, and for the first time in many years, the Dark Lord felt helpless and unable to form any coherent thought to help the boy.
A sudden sob interrupted his train of thought and Vader looked down sharply, noticing his Luke's face was scrunched up in a silent cry.
“...cold…” the boy whispered, his eyes staring at the Dark Lord with a pleading look.
The boy was shivering, Vader noticed, his raw skin now exposed to the cool air.
He needed to act. He needed to act fast.
"I need to remove the jacket," he informed his son. Something reassembling a grimace appeared on the boy's face at that, and Vader couldn't tell whether it was due to pain or the very idea that his father would do something as… parental as that.
But then, the boy nodded, and a soft look of resignation replaced the grimace on his face. Gently, Vader put a hand underneath Luke's back and helped him into a sitting position.
"...ahh.." his son gasped halfway up and Vader froze, unable to decide what to do. The boy's face was twisted in pain; it became apparent very quickly that he was trying to hold back a scream.
"...I'm...fine…" he got out eventually, voice hoarse and strained. Tears of effort leaked from his eyes; underneath, however, was a look of determination.
Vader grasped Luke's jacket and pulled it up, working it over the boy's wounded arms. His son hissed but didn't otherwise react, allowing his father to help him. Then, gently, he lowered the boy back on the bed, trying to ignore the now perfectly visible burns and blisters.
He strode to the refresher, almost automatically grabbing a towel and wetting it with cool water, before returning to the bed his son lay on.
"Stay still," he instructed. Again, the boy nodded; his pained eyes observed him dully, not moving as his father pressed the cool cloth against the burns. The fabric was cold against his skin and slowly, the boy relaxed, focusing on its soothing effect.
They stayed like this for several minutes. Slowly, Luke’s breathing slowed, muscles relaxed, drops of sweat stopped sliding down his forehead. The boy’s eyes were open for the whole time, but he did not look at Vader once - instead, his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere above him, somewhere on the ceiling, and remained unmoving, unblinking.
Then, finally, his eyes fluttered close. There was a quiet sigh, and then the blonde head lolled, resting softly against the pillow.
Luke fell unconscious.
Vader looked at him - he looked at him for a very long time. First, he took in the boyish features - the small nose, the parted lips, the soft cleft in the chin. But, although Luke’s face looked young, his appearance was not one of a healthy child. There were bruises on his skin - lacerations, burns, and cuts - and sweat was covering his soft features. Slowly, gently, Vader brushed a damp strand of hair aside, before resting his gloved hand on the young man’s forehead, feeling the feverish skin underneath.
He’d allowed this.
He’d allowed this to be done.
There was no mercy for him - no salvation for the pain he had caused. He had hurt many, killed many, but most importantly, he had failed to protect those whom he had loved.
And Luke?
Had he ever loved him?
Had he ever loved him the way he loved those who he had killed in the past?
Yes.
He had.
He knew that now.
He’d been denying it ever since Luke surrendered to him on Endor. Or no, no , it was even earlier than that. Ever since he had seen the boy in the carbonite chamber, since he had looked at his son’s face for the first time, ever since he had cut off the boy’s hand - he had denied that love. He had told himself, again and again, that he did not care - that he did not love . Attachments were a weakness - he had learned that lesson as a Jedi, and he had learned it well.
And yet, the Jedi had been wrong.
Just like the Sith had.
Again, he looked at Luke’s sleeping face; mesmerized, he marveled at the beauty of the boy who was his son, the boy who was his flesh and blood. The lightning marks were still on his chest - still painful, still reminding Luke of his father’s love .
The boy didn’t deserve him.
And yet, he had no choice. There was nothing he could do - nothing but accept that his father was a monster.
Except the boy had done it - had accepted Vader as his sire - but there had always been hope in those bright blue eyes.
The boy had been hopeful that he would bring his father back.
And, not for the first time, the boy had been right. Suddenly, Vader felt the urge to tell him, the urge to make his son proud.
So, leaning over the injured body, extending a gloved hand and cupping the boy’s pale cheek, he whispered as quietly as the vocoder would allow him:
“It’s alright, my son. I’m… here. I’m back”