Chapter Text
He was a maelstrom. Mountains of waves colliding with great crashes. Flashing bolts of red light followed by the roaring clapping of thunder. A red twilight. He was the storm of judgement, the fist of wrath. He left no one alive in his wake. But like all storms, there must come a calm, an ending. The storm inside him stilled, and he became aware of the world around him. Rocks cracking as it splashed into a river of molten fire. Sulphur and smoke – the stench nearly overwhelming. He coughed; his lungs burned from the smoke. He tasted the salt of his sweat and angry tears. Then heat, torturous heat far greater than midday on Tatooine. He opened his eyes. He saw the smoldering ruins of that station in Mustafar and the fiery waves crashing against the cliffs. In his mind’s eye, he saw the trail he left behind on Coruscant. The Jedi strewn in the Temple’s halls alongside clones. They had put a valiant front in the end. But the slash of his saber had struck it down. Children, eyes once wide in wonder, now wide in death. Flesh burning from his lightsaber and the blaster bolts. Screams echoed in the Force. Flashbacks of a camp on that cursed desert planet. In his rage then, no one was left alive. In his rage now, no one survived.
He recalled his last fight, anger boiling over fueling his strikes. He nearly died several times over. He nearly killed the man who had been brother several times over. The dance was a familiar one, one burned into his muscles, but it was fueled with intention. Intentions that were never there in previous times. In that last moment, he stood in that makeshift raft in the river of rage while his brother stood on a shore blackened by grief. He was not going to let him get away. He would have leaped, somersaulting over his traitorous brother and struck him down. But none of that happened. He found himself temporarily frozen. His now enemy raised his saber, blue blazing so bright it almost appeared white. It streaked towards him, searing across his chest. But the saber suddenly flickered off, and the Jedi was pulled away. He collapsed on the black shores as pain tore through him. Like the Sith lightning from the Sith Lord who severed his right hand and forearm.
And now, he lay here alone, still needing someone, still wanting someone to save him. He was once a hero, the hero with no fear. But even a hero is allowed a hero? He was supposed to bring balance, but he never was balanced in the first place. Ironic, wasn’t it? Maybe it was through imbalance he was supposed to…No, whatever might have been will not be. It cannot be now. A black shuttle landed, and he sensed the twisted presence of his mentor, now master, approach. From one enslavement to another. There was no one to save him, no one to rescue him, no hero. He was on his own now (and he always has been).
In the following weeks, in secrecy away from the prying eyes of his new master and his new subordinates, he reflected. In solitude, he knelt on a cold floor. Meditation was never easy for him, and it still was not. He never started with the Force in its cold darkness or meditate on his anger and hate. He refused to use the method that anchored Skywalker. Instead, he began a litany of names. The clones who had died. Men of the 501st. Then, the ghosts of his past came to haunt him.
First his angel arrived, startled eyes staring at him. Tears fell down her face. You’re breaking my heart, she cried. He saw what he did to her. He searched the Force for her presence. There was nothing but the echo of her last words to him. Ever since he was freed from Tatooine, she was his guiding angel as he strove to become more than just a slave boy. She was a boy’s dream, and that was all she was meant to be. He made them into something they should not have been. His love was poisonous for both of them. Something inside of him snapped, like a book after the final page. His childhood was over, and it had been over for a long time.
Next came his former master. His brother. Grief shining in his eyes before being masked by grim determination. Memories of what they were once replayed. Their adventures, the banter, that blasted beard. But then he’d hear his master’s voice. Reproof, warnings, criticism. Yes, he loved him for some things, but he absolutely abhorred how Kenobi made him feel so many times. Belittled. Powerless. Alone. Utterly alone. No apologies. Yes, he hated Kenobi for that.
But then his padawan’s ghost chased away his growing fury. Her bright colors, her snippy responses, her courageous spirit. She was more than a padawan, bigger than the whole sky, the whole galaxy. Sisterly, but not quite. His best friend. The one who understood him like no other, including his master turned brother turned enemy. He searched the Force for her presence, that familiar warm current in his ocean. Her melody. There was nothing but flickers of light. Notes scattered to the wind of the Force. Notes of the past. Nothing of the future. Only darkness where her light once shone. Their bond was grey as a corpse, cold as death. Like glass shattering, his heart broke. He screamed, Why? until there there was nothing but his grief (He knew why.) His voice sounded eerily like the Son’s cry.
What he had started, he now must finish, down to the last dregs of the bitter cup. A cup he prepared for himself. Ever since Mustafar, his respiration system has been wrecked. He could barely breathe on his own. While there were more effective treatments, he was only given a respirator built into a black suit. He donned the mask, the cape, the suit. A prison. He hid his broken heart, his lost soul, behind this form of the bringer of fury and pain. He trained, learning the powers of dark side from his new master. He was a slave once more, but this time there were no hopeful dreams of freedom. The punishments that Darth Sidious gave him was nothing like the dreams of his past mistakes. Regret. Regret was a far greater punisher than Darth Sidious. He had a lot to pine about, a lot to live without. He may be known to the galaxy by the name of Darth Vader. A name that was chosen for him. But if he had a choice, he would have chosen the name of Sorg. A name that encompassed his grief, sorrow, and regrets. A name that represented what he brought upon the universe – grief for the slain, sorrow for the galaxy, regrets for choosing apathy.
The inquisitor program was initiated barely a month after the rise of the Empire. He was put in charge of the training of these new dark-side users. While some might have showed some promise, he barely taught them anything other than the fundamentals. It wasn't like they had a whole list of children who could be trained to chase the remnants of the Jedi. It wasn't like they'd be facing highly skilled Jedi. Order 66 took care of that. These new inquisitors feared him for more than just the raw power he exuded, his short temper, and harsh methods. He was a living nightmare to behold. As he walked, they’d see his cape flowing, shadows elongating and spreading into leathery wings. The steady breathing modulator heralded his presence, wrecking fear in the hearts of friends and foe alike. And if that was not enough, he designed his helmet to be even more imposing. From the back, it appeared almost hood-like. From the front, the mask part was uncannily similar to the wide mouth of a gargoyle. The eyes were slightly bulbous, yet appearing to be set wide. The visual of a creature from the worst of nightmares.
He sometimes used lightning on them, drawing on his utter frustration with their incompetence. It was not the rumored bright purple of Darth Sidious. It was crimson - blood red framed in white. They never saw Darth Vader outside of his black suit. If they did, they would have seen ashy grey skin and eyes glinting red, black swirling inside. His scars, old and new, healed into angry red lines. His angular features were sharper and harder. They would not have seen any hair, for he had shaved it off. He looked nothing like who he used to be.
Eighteen standard months after the establishment of the Empire, he received a report of a wreckage on an unnamed moon. Apparently, the Empire decided to track down all remaining Republic cruisers to strip for the new Empire ships. The crew identified this particular cruiser as the Tribunal. He had personal interest, and he had to see it for himself. He knew who was on it. He, when he was once Anakin Skywalker, had trained the one who led that company. When he landed, snow covered the entire surface. Troopers murmured in the background; their helmets disguised their true voices.
He ignored the troopers and followed the echoes of a song. He spotted something in the snow, a streak of bright orange with white marks. A cracked helmet with her markings. The echoes were the loudest here. He reached out, calling the shadowy song to come closer. Then he knelt in the snow. The cold seeped through his gloves as he dug for something. Then his fingers wrapped around a cylindrical object. A lightsaber. He recognized Anakin’s touch on them. Recognized the faint sound of a stormy ocean mingled with the calls of seagulls. It lay in his hand, cold, so cold. Deathly cold. He turned the blade on, and it crackled coldly. Blue. A stony of reminder that everything he touched became sick with sadness.
And he wished it was green. He finally breathed the truth to himself – she was the one he had truly loved, and he was intimately complicit in her death. Another regret to add to his long list. The cry of a bird, convor by the looks of it, reached his ears. He watched it soar in freedom. At least she was free now, free from this wretched life. He turned the saber off and paced back to his ship. He had seen enough here.
There was no hope, no hero, no rescuer for him, but he could not help but cling to this last remnant of her. He reached inside of himself, searching for that bond he once had. It was still cold, cold as death. When he returned to the rebuilt stronghold in Mustafar, he cast the lightsaber’s casing into the rivers of fire, for the casing was a remnant of Skywalker. As for the crystals, he did not touch them. Did not even expose his anger, pain, and wrath to it. Yet it bled on its own. When he examined it, he felt a deeply set sorrow, the sounds, and the sights that she experienced during that fateful day. There was no anger, no malice, just pure grief that the crystal chose to absorb. He could use it for the new saber he must now wield, but it felt wrong. For the things he had already done, and the things he will have to do. He will not subject her crystal to his own pain, for it was pained enough. Instead, he took his own crystal and poured his guilt and regrets into it until it also bled. (He saved his hate and rage for another crystal). He set the two of them together. In death at least, Anakin Skywalker and Ahsoka Tano might remain together. Darth Vader (Sorg, in private) was all that remained - born in anger and rashness, raised in guilt and regrets.