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The boy was shaking badly when he’d arrived; that was the first thing Vader noticed. He looked feeble, his weak body wrecked by constant, uncontrollable shivers that seemed to be too exerting for the state he was already in.
Had it not been for the shivers, Vader would have assumed the boy was dead.
It was his skin - pale and clammy, marred with cold sweat. His clothes, drenched with that same perspiration and sticking to his body. His chest, labourously rising as the boy desperately tried to draw in a breath. His face, almost red from the blood dripping from his broken nose and split lips, black from the lightning burns that he had undoubtedly sustained.
He looked dead.
“Do not worry, my friend,” he heard a voice from somewhere at the back of the Throne Room. Dark and gravelly, falsely honeyed; it was the Emperor. “He is not dead.”
Vader didn’t respond; even if not for his fear, the words would have gotten stuck in his throat. It was hard to believe the Emperor’s words when confronted with a sight like that - a trembling body more similar to a corpse than what was his child.
He waited in silence; it was the Emperor who always had the first word.
“You’re more patient than I would have imagined,” his master chuckled, a fake smile stretching his lips. “Go on, Lord Vader. Take him. I shall not require his presence until tomorrow.”
Uncertain whether he was relieved or terrified, Vader nodded. “Yes, my master.”
He walked up to the boy’s still form, still trembling on the cold floor of the Throne Room; he didn’t seem to be aware of Vader’s presence yet. Reaching down, the Dark Lord grabbed at the youth’s frail form, intent on lifting him up and hosting him into his arms. The boy was limp in his grasp; his head lolled back the moment it left the ground. He did not resist Vader’s hold.
There was a brief pause as the Dark Lord struggled to get his arms under the youth’s knees, trying to support the boy’s back at the same time. He had almost lifted the boy into his arms when the Emperor’s voice stopped him.
“Oh, I’m certain there is no need for that, Lord Vader,” he said, stepping towards them. “Our young Jedi is capable of walking by himself. Isn’t that right, my apprentice?”
Those heavy, blood-crusted lids cracked open, revealing the boy’s feverish eyes. “...y-yes… mas...ter…”
A shiver passed through Vader’s form; it was the first time he had heard his son call the Emperor such. Even after weeks of torture, the boy was still not close to breaking, and yet it seemed that the pain was finally becoming too much.
This wasn’t what he’d expected when he’d first brought his son before his master, and he knew this wasn’t what his son had expected as well. The boy was sure he would die - he’d readied himself for it ever since his father turned him in to the Emperor, after his son had surrendered on Endor. Neither of them expected this outcome, those months of torture that the young Jedi was enduring now. Vader hadn’t known what the price of his actions would be back then; he didn’t know that for bringing his son to the Emperor, he would have to see the child in agony every day.
His son was in pain, and Vader hated himself for being too scared to save him.
The Emperor’s eyes were staring at him intently; Vader knew what he was expected to do. Slowly, dreading every movement, he let his son down. Immediately, the boy’s knees buckled - he would have fallen if it weren’t for his father’s strong hold around his arms. The youth whimpered as his feet touched the ground, undoubtedly racking pain throughout his whole body.
It was clear he wasn’t walking anywhere.
It was why Vader hated himself even more when he’d quietly whispered, “Come.”
They walked slowly - or maybe walked wasn’t the right word. Vader was practically carrying his son, and yet the boy was forced to remain upright. There was no chance he’d be able to take a step by himself - it was obvious to the Emperor as much as it was to Vader. No, this wasn’t done because his master believed Luke could walk; this was done to humiliate Luke and cause him pain, and to show his father that even he couldn’t lessen Luke’s pain.
The boy’s head had lolled against Vader’s shoulder at some point, leaving wet, bloodied stains on the black armor. His ghostly breath left a mist on his helmet; Vader could swear he felt how cold it was even through the thick mask.
Once they reached the elevator, they came to a halt; immediately, Luke sagged in his father’s arms. He was breathing laboriously now, wheezing from the strain he’d induced. Impatiently, Vader pressed the elevator button and steadied his grip around his son.
Then, the elevator arrived, and he walked inside, Luke’s limp form still in his arms.
The Emperor’s gaze followed them up until the elevator doors closed and father and son were left alone.
Vader wasted no time once the door closed. Immediately, he hoisted the boy into his arms, holding the frail form close to his chest. His son’s eyes closed with a sigh; he was relieved at no longer having to walk. Then, those vacant blue eyes opened, and the boy’s bloodied lips stretched in what looked like a pained smile.
“...h...hi..” he whispered, looking right into the lenses of his father’s mask.
Vader hated this.
He hated how his son still forgave him, how his son was still happy to see him even after everything Vader had done. It was because of him that Luke was tortured every day, and still it seemed as if the boy… loved him, as if he was glad for the little protection his father could give him.
He slid up the hand that he was holding around the boy’s shoulders to caress his cold cheek. “I’m here,” he told him, hating the way he knew the relief the boy would feel at those words.
That pained smile only grew larger; the precious little head leaned towards the palm of Vader’s hand.
He could still remember their last battle, vicious and deadly. His son had been so powerful, so skilled, so brave; he would have beaten Vader had he not thrown his lightsaber away. This fine, brave warrior who had beaten him, now reduced to a mere boy shaking in his father’s arms.
“Rest, my son…” he told him, hoping the boy would listen, hoping the boy would rest. “It is over.”
Over for now.
That little head nodded, and then the boy’s consciousness left him; for the first time in months, Vader felt relieved at that. There was no pain in unconsciousness, no memories or knowledge of what was about to come. In unconsciousness, there was only peace.
And his son needed peace so much.
The boy had woken some time later, right when Vader had been laying him on the sleeping platform in his small cell. He was wrapped in Vader’s cape; the Dark Lord had hoped it would give his son at least a bit of warmth he so desperately needed.
“...fa...ther…” he whispered, his eyes barely visible through the cracked eyelids.
“Hush, my son. I’m here.”
“...I’m...cold,” he managed to croak out, voice still hoarse from the screams that had undoubtedly been wrung from here during the torture.
But there was no blanket in the cell - only the cape Vader had already used. There was nothing else to do.
Resigned, guilty, he said, “I know.”
And then, not wanting to see his son shivering from the freezing temperature, he sat on the sleeping platform and pulled the youth’s upper body onto his thighs.
“Whe..when…?” the boy croaked out, then paused; Vader knew what he had been about to ask though.
When would Palpatine want to see him again.
And Vader knew Luke already knew his son knew the answer to that question - there was never a day of respite for his son. And yet, the Dark Lord was reluctant to say it out loud.
“Later,” he told the boy eventually. “But you’re safe for now.”
And then, wanting to reassure his son further, wanting him to know he was safe, he added, “I will keep you safe. You need water - I will bring you some. I need to look at the... damage, too; I’ll alleviate your pain as much as I can. You’ll be--” he stopped, hoping what he was about to say was true. “You’ll be alright.”
He brushed some hair from the fevered forehead. “Do you feel like you can sit up?”
The boy nodded. “...yeah..”
Slowly, Vader pulled the boy up, helping him sit. He leaned the boy’s torso against his own chest, letting his head fall against his shoulder plates. There were water bottles in the cell - the water was fresh, meant to sustain the prisoner’s life. With the use of the Force, Vader called one of them to the palm of his hand and opened the container. Then, he placed it to Luke’s cracked lips, watching as the boy struggled to drink the life-giving liquid.
There was choking, there were coughs, there were water droplets falling down the boy’s chin, but eventually, he managed to empty the bottle.
“Thank you,” he whispered once he was finished; with relief, Vader noted his voice sounded less hoarse now.
Vader didn’t respond - there was nothing Luke should have thanked him for.
This was all wrong. Feeding his son as if he were a mere child? That could have been the reality had his son been three years old and they had lived with Padme on Naboo as a family, had he never turned to the Dark Side. Then, he would have been a dotting father and there would be nothing wrong about that. But this? Holding a water bottle to the lips of his twenty-three-year-old son who was too weak to drink by himself because he had been tortured for the past few months?
Luke had looked like he was dead, but it was Vader who should have died for what he had done.
“...’m tired…” the boy slurred at some point, his body sagging against Vader. “...I want to rest now...”
“Soon,” Vader told him, something painful once again seizing his heart. “I need to look at your injuries first.”
There was a flash of dismay in Luke’s eyes, though it quickly turned to understanding. Painfully, grabbing his father’s arm for support, his son turned around, now with his back facing his father. Then, slowly, he raised his arms up.
It was their ritual by now. Every time Vader was summoned by the Emperor to take his son back to his cell, he’d tend to Luke’s injuries. The boy would turn around, letting his father take his tunic off, and then would lean forward, letting the Dark Lord examine his back. It was that part that would usually get the most injured; Luke didn’t know what it looked like, but from what his father had said, it was all purple and black from the scars that marred the skin.
Growing up on Tatooine, he’d never seen a storm as a child, but he’d always been taught to fear one. Water was a powerful thing on his planet, and the very concept of water falling from the sky scared its inhabitants. For years, his Aunt would tell him stories of great, dangerous storms, of terrible rain and lightning. He’d always feared the latter, feared the way it looked like, the way he knew being struck by it could kill him in an instant.
He would have never guessed as a child that his skin would be marked with lightning scars.
For the past few months, Luke had refused to look at his skin; he was too scared to see the lightning pattern on his own body. Somehow, it was the scars that hurt him more than the torture itself - the fact that the Emperor could permanently mark his body with his presence is what terrified him.
He felt disgusted with himself.
Once, he’d even tried to rip his flesh apart, had dug his nails into the lightning wounds and tried to break the skin, to make it look less like lightning. It was at the very beginning of his imprisonment, back where it was still hard to accept his new reality, back when he was still trying to fight against the Emperor’s influence. He could still remember his father coming to his cell after Palpatine had summoned Luke and Vader had come to retrieve him, could still remember the burst of anger he felt from the Dark Lord.
“Are you completely reckless?!” His father had shouted at him, reaching him in two big steps. Luke had shaken his head; tears had been streaming down his face just like the blood streaming down his torso.
“I’m sorry,” he had sobbed, avoiding his father’s gaze. He could feel the gloved hands grasp his own arms and pull them away from his chest making sure he wouldn’t be able to rip at his scars again.
He shook harder. “I couldn’t look at them anymore…”
Something in Vader softened at that; Luke was pretty sure it was the moment Vader realized how wrong he was in bringing Luke to the Emperor when he had first surrendered on Endor.
It was also the moment Luke had truly forgiven his father for everything he’d done.
“It’s alright,” his father soothed, letting go of Luke’s arms; immediately, the boy drew them around his torso. “...I know this hurts. I wish I could free you.”
“Do you?” Luke whispered, crying. He knew he was acting like a little child, but he couldn’t help it; he guessed pain did that to people.
“I do, my son. I was wrong in bringing you here.”
I wish I could free you but I don’t know how.
From that time on, his father had cared for his injuries after every time the Emperor would torture him. Luke felt safe knowing his father was doing that, knowing he didn’t have to look at his wounds himself.
He felt no hate at his father; only deep sadness. He knew the man wished to free him, but didn’t know how. Knew his father was too deep in the clutches of the Dark Side to save his own son.
But Palpatine had made a mistake. When he’d first started subjecting Luke to his torture, his goal was to turn the boy through pain. The boy wouldn’t give in, but Palpatine had been blinded by his foolish confidence that his desired outcome would eventually come. His obsession with turning Luke had caused him to miss what was right in front of him, something that even a fool would know.
A father cannot stand by simply watching someone torture his son.
So as Palpatine kept brutalizing Luke, Vader grew more and more weary, more and more agonized. And while the Emperor was focused on turning the youth, he’d failed to notice Vader turning back to the Light Side.
In the end, Palpatine had lost.
Both Skywalker would not be his, with Luke lost to his fast-approaching death, and Vader turned against the Emperor for the pain he had caused his child.
Then, the Emperor would have no allies; it was the only thing keeping Luke going.
He knew that in the end, his death wouldn’t have been for naught.
Vader cared for him; somehow, this was the greatest comfort Luke had ever experienced in his life.
This time, too, his father tended to him, lifting his torn tunic over his head to look at the scars on his back. His gloved hand brushed over the angry red marks, causing Luke to hiss painfully as they touched a particularly painful spot.
His father stayed silent, but his anger was clear in the Force; it agonized him to see his son mutilated such.
There was a quiet splash as Vader poured some of the water on a piece he had torn from his cape earlier; it was the only thing he could do to clean his son’s wounds. With a sigh, he brought the cloth to the boy’s back, and slowly started washing the blood off.
His son stayed silent.
It was a bizarre experience for both of them. For Vader - to be a father - and for Luke - to be a son.
Bloodied and injured as it already was, the boy’s back was almost impossible to clean up. It was a mess of torn tissue and raw, painful wounds, of burns still oozing fluid and causing parts of his skin to fall off. There was nothing Vader and his futile piece of wet cloth could do to fix it.
The boy knew it too, and yet he sat quietly throughout the whole ordeal, allowing his father the only thing he could to surpass his feelings of guilt - at least to try to care for his son.
When it was done, Vader helped his son back into his torn tunic.
“You need new clothes,” he noted dully, regarding the bloodied fabric that seemed to take away even more of Luke’s warmth.
A small huff escaped his son’s lips. “There… there are m-many other things...that I need. I c-can… do… without n-new clothes.”
And again, that bloodied smile was back on his face.
Vader wished he could stop smiling when death was just waiting to take him away.
“...he’s... foolish…” Luke said when Vader stayed silent, not responding to his son’s previous words.
“Who, my son?” the Dark Lord asked, though he already knew the answer.
“...y-your...Emperor…” he responded, smiling to himself. “...just call him...m-master...and he...relents…”
“He wants power.”
“...he wants… a slave…”
The words felt like a shot to his heart.
“You are no slave, my son. No matter what the Emperor says.”
“...b-better...if he believes it…”
The boy’s voice suddenly broke off as a coughing fit passed through him; Vader lightly supported his head as it did.
“You should rest, my son,” he told him finally.
“Will you... s-stay?”
And Vader knew he was not allowed to; knew he wasn’t supposed to be here with Luke in the first place. But for the first time in few months, he didn’t care.
There were many things his son was, but he was not a slave.
And maybe he didn’t know how to save Luke, but it didn’t matter. As a father, it was his duty to try anyway. He couldn’t watch his son in pain any longer, couldn’t spend another day tending to Luke after he was tortured by his master. He was not strong enough to beat the Emperor, but he would have to.
His son would not be a slave.
But that could wait. For now, he had to stay and watch as his son slept.
If he failed, he would never have the chance to protect him again.
So he stayed with the boy, singing him the lullaby he’d learned when he was but a child.
The only lullaby not sung by slaves.