When Father entered my room, I was sitting on the floor meditating. We had been living together a few weeks, since he had saved me at the second Death Star. He'd managed to convince the Emperor to free me from his Force lightning, and taken me home. Granted, it was a very strange home, and if there was one thing I'd learned from him, it was that living here also indicated an extremely strange family. He spent much of his time off running missions for his master, and had forbade me to leave, but in the evenings, when he returned home, we had gloriously classical 'family time'.

Some of our favourite activities included training together, coming up with devious pranks to play against the Emperor, which he must have been taking far better than I would have expected him to, and playing simple board games. Father insisted that the last was excellent practice for developing tactics, and if tactics were really so closely related, it must have explained why he beat me at them so consistently. I hardly minded. He had revealed during those games that he had a sense of humour, that he could be anything other than dark and grim, so I loved them.

He rarely entered my room, save to comfort me from my nightmares, but I didn't question his presence with me that morning. He'd been very busy for the last several days, but he'd promised me that he'd set aside some time for me today. I supposed that his entrance must have been a start to that time, and continued meditating. If he needed me, he would undoubtedly wake me.

Behind me, there was the sudden sound of a lightsaber activating, and I assumed that this was one of his many training exercises for me, and allowed myself to drop from where I'd been hovering as I meditated, reaching for my own lightsaber. To my surprise, it wasn't there. I looked up at him, and saw that he had my lightsaber attached to his belt. I tried to use the Force to retrieve it, but he kept it firmly at his waist. I have to face you without my lightsaber? I wondered. This was a technique he had not mentioned before, but that was his usual way of introducing new skills he thought I should learn.

He swung at me, and I rolled aside, somersaulting to my feet as he lunged at me again. I threw myself upwards, catching hold of the light, trusting it to be as firmly attached as everything else in the castle. Sure enough, it barely swayed as I caught it. I looked down at my father, who stood below me, staring up at me, waiting for me to drop.

"Come down, Luke," he said, and I was about to drop from the lamp, laughing at his unusual choice in greeting, when I noted his posture. He was ready to drive me through.

Suddenly nervous, I reached out in the Force, and sensed that this was not a simple oddly selected good morning, but something much more threatening. I clung all the tighter to the lamp, "What are you doing, Father?"

Father swung his lightsaber up at me, and I tugged my leg out of the way just in time.

"Your time is over," he told me, returning to simply waiting for my strength to give out.

"My time?" I asked, clambering on top of the chandelier style light, out of the reach of his 'saber, and into a more comfortable position, "What did I do?"

"Your time here has been merely an experiment," he told me, staring up at me menacingly, "Practice. In deception."

At that, I nearly fell off the lamp, "Deception? What did you lie to me about?"

Father gave a snort, waving an arm around my room, "Everything. Your place in my home, the way I've treated you."

"You mean," I asked nervously, "That you never meant those times we laughed together? They were all just some kind of awful game?"

"My master has always been more adept in the area of deception. Taking you in behind his back, lying to you, and to him, has been excellent practice. But deceiving you has been very easy. I need someone a little more difficult to lie to. Your usefulness has passed. Come down."

I shook my head, holding on tightly to the lamp, feeling myself start to shake. Father had told me that he'd convinced the emperor to let me live, he'd told me that it had been agreed that as long as I was out of the galactic spotlight, it didn't matter if I was alive or not, so he'd taken me home, safe and alive, and promised that I had the rest of my life ahead of me, safe in my father's home.

"You've told me you love me," he said, "You've promised that you would do anything for me. Do as I say and come down here now."

I could barely remember the instance he spoke of, a foggy memory of a promise I'd made while still in shock from the Force lightning. Father had lowered me into bed, promising that I only needed rest, and that I would recover, and in sudden gratefulness, I'd promised him that I would do whatever I had to in order to repay him.

"That was different," I protested, "I thought you'd saved me. I thought you loved me. You made me some promises that night too."

This was true. That night, and almost every night since, Father had made me promises. He'd promised me that the Alliance had managed to make it away from Endor. He'd promised me that he would care for me. He'd promised again and again that he loved me.

"Merely a part of my experiment," he said, "Come down. You can't stay up there forever. You would starve. I'll be merciful, I'll make it quick."

I looked down at him, wrapping my arms around my knees, "If I come down, can I have one last thing before you kill me?"

I knew it wasn't much. His word meant so little now, and tears stung my eyes as I thought of all the promises he was breaking, the same ones that had warmed me and comforted me for the last month.

He got impatient, and swung his lightsaber up at me again, apparently unwilling to throw it in his own home, aware that I would, sooner or later, come down as he'd told me to, "I suppose. What do you want?"

I closed my eyes, holding back all of my true desires, to be held, to be reassured, to be allowed to go instead of be killed, "Please play one last board game with me," I said instead.

Father gave a burst of exasperation at my last request, "Which one."

"I have a new one," I told him, "I got it for you, because we've been living together a month today."

"Fine," he snapped, and deactivated his lightsaber.

I looked down at him for a moment before swinging myself down from the light, landing lightly on my bed before bouncing off the other side, gathering the game. I held it out to him, but he merely sneered at me, refusing to take it. Shivering, and feeling immensely lonely at the refusal of the only gift I could give him, I held it close against myself, leading him down the stairs to the kitchen we always played in.

Next to the table sat a stack of board games, each of which he'd beaten me at, and I realized sadly that he'd beaten me at far more than those few silly games. He'd taken my heart, my soul, from my chest, caging them both as I imagined that I was free, and I hadn't realized he'd done it, until it was too late to retrieve them.

He took his seat at the table, the same one he always took, and I followed suit, carefully removing the plastic wrap from the box, putting it on the table, and opening it. Inside sat a board, some cards, a pair of dice, a sheet of instructions, and a little bag containing tiny plastic playing pieces.

I unfolded the board, setting it in between us, placing the cards on their marked squares. Unfolding the instructions, I read them aloud until Father snatched them from my hands, skimmed them, and threw them back at me. I read them in silence.

I opened the bag full of playing pieces, selecting the blue one, just as I had every game since the first day, when Father had told me that he didn't care which colour he used, just as I had every day of my life, since the day my aunt had passed it to me, telling me that it matched my eyes. As he had every game, Father took the piece closest to him, which today happened to be red. He put the piece at the start of the board, and I moved to follow suit before looking at the blue piece. It felt wrong in my hand. I looked up at Father's mask, but he seemed to already be focused on thinking of a strategy. I surreptitiously returned it to the little bag, taking out the black one instead, thinking how much better it suited my mood. I placed it on the board, and, as every game since the very first, Father, the winner, moved first.

We made it half way around the board before Father said anything, robbing the games of their usual fun, the way we turned them into verbal battles as well, poking fun at one another so casually. I missed it, realizing it had been a part of why this had been the only thing I could think of to beg for, because I'd wanted to be happy one last time.

"This game is ludicrously complicated, and completely a matter of chance. There is no educational value at all," he told me condescendingly.

"The salesman said it got easier with time," I said, trying to defend myself, "He said once we got the hang of it, it would be as easy as any other. I assumed the complexity meant that there would be more complicated tactics required."

Father merely glared at me, and I realized what I'd said.

"I'm sorry," I muttered.

He merely moved his piece.

I felt awful. He ignored all attempts at conversation, going so far as to slap me for one of the usual jokes. It was just as well, really. I couldn't think of anything to say, any way to make light of what he was doing to me. We played in silence, and as the game continued, I became glad we weren't speaking, because I was certain that if I tried to, I would cry.

Once, he moved my piece by accident, and all I could do was put it back where it belonged, and show him his own piece, forcing speech, "I didn't take the blue one today."

He still didn't speak, merely moving his own piece instead, but I felt some small element of hope form in my heart. He knew, even if not consciously, that any piece that wasn't blue was his. He knew. He knew my habit of taking that very specific piece. I clung to the thought while we finished the game. When we were done, I felt no better. As he had every day before, he began to clean up the playing area.

"Go to your room," he told me, and I stood, carefully slipping the little black playing piece into my sleeve, praying he wouldn't notice it was gone. I climbed the stairs slowly, glancing back down several times, wincing inwardly at the thought that I would not descend them alive, the realization that we would never play another board game at the little round table in the kitchen.

Opening the door to my bedroom, I gazed around. A number of datapads littered the desk, a couple on the floor beside my bed as well, where I had put them when I'd finished reading for the night. The bed itself was unmade, most of the blankets in a pile at the foot, where I'd thrown them when I awoke. The holovision was on, a game cartridge sitting on the floor beside it, the case nearby. Laundry was scattered about the room. My eyes were drawn to what rested atop my dresser. It was a stuffed animal, a gift from my father shortly after I'd arrived. He'd allowed me to decorate my room however I liked, but he must have taken note of the games I'd purchased, because it was a strange being from one of them. He'd given it to me for my twenty second birthday, and from the moment I'd awoken to find it in my arms, I'd wondered how his dignity had survived the purchase of such a childish toy.

I walked over to it, picking it up by its arms, and looked into the dead, plastic eyes. They stared right back, unblinking, blank, questioning. What did you do wrong? Why doesn't he love you? What could you have possibly done that he doesn't love you?

I felt tears stinging my eyes again, and carefully hugged the stuffed animal. I imagined that it had been a real gift from my father, not a tiny part in his cruel game. Pressing my face into the short plush fur of its head, I breathed deeply, wanting to detect a trace of my father's scent, but there was nothing to be found. Of course there was nothing to be found. I only knew that scent from the all-too-few times he'd hugged me, when I'd been able to press my face right against his shoulder, and it lurked just behind the smells of leather, metal, and plastic.

I put the stuffed animal down and looked around my room again. I walked to the holovision, and gathered the cartridge and the case, gently restoring it to its little snap-in slot, and putting it atop the tidy stack of similar cases. I turned the device itself off. The laundry took only a few minutes to transport to the laundry chute, but it was longer than I had to spare. Hurriedly, I went to the desk, sorting the datapads back into the drawers, calling the ones by my bed to myself with the Force. Then I walked to my bed, and made it as neatly as I knew how. Another glance about my room showed a much neater scene, but as I turned back to the bed, I heard my father's boots on the steps.

I summoned the stuffed animal to my hand, placing it between the pillows on my bed, and quickly took off my shirt, folding it, and putting it on my bed before sitting down beside it. Father stepped in, lightsaber in hand, but not yet lit. He seemed surprised to see my room so much cleaner, and more surprised still that I was sitting on my bed, not giving any appearance of wanting to run.

He circled my room once before coming to face me, and I watched his every motion. As his helmet turned to take in the cleaned desk, I couldn't help but wonder. Do you genuinely hate me so much? He tugged open one of the drawers, and looked in, making a sound of disbelief when he saw that I'd tidied those too. As he noted the tidied holovision area, I sighed. He seemed so human to me when he did this, expressing curiosity as to how the room I'd lived it was maintained, and as he finally came to stand in front of me, I sensed his gaze flick to the stuffed animal between my pillows.

"Do you wish to tuck yourself in?"

At first, I thought, Father had tucked me in every night. No matter how bad a day he'd had, or how much trouble he'd had trying to catch my friends and my sister, he'd always come up and made sure I was comfortable. Even when I'd gone to bed before he'd returned home, he'd reliably come up to check on me before going to bed himself, pulling the blankets more tightly around me, petting my head, wishing me a good night.

I shook my head, "I don't want any damage to this place. I want it to stay like it was while I lived here," I wanted to continue, to tell him that I wanted it to stay the happy, unblemished place it had been for me, but he was already shrugging.

"Suit yourself."

He didn't move immediately. He stood before me, holding his lightsaber, and staring down at me. I met his gaze, returned it, and reached out in the Force, groping for his presence, but he hid it from me. I tried harder, wanting in, wanting to be with him in that so much more special way, but he threw me back. I was still staring up at his mask, wondering for the billionth time what he looked like behind it. As if moving in a trance, he pressed the lightsaber's activation plate to my chest, just above my heart. His gaze was on the lightsaber, but I stared up at him hungrily, wishing I could see his face, his true physical being, before I died.

He'd been turned into nothing more than a playing piece, I thought, a huge black playing piece, used by the emperor, manipulated, and now he was rebelling himself. He was trying to regain his humanity, his free will, by learning to free himself of the emperor. By learning to lie. To deceive. And practicing on me. I felt the little black playing piece I'd stolen earlier fall back into my hands. As he was the emperor's pawn, I had been his. But unlike the emperor, he had a certain claim to me. He was my father, and I owed him my life, and every happy moment I'd ever experienced. Every smile, every laugh, every friend… it was his right, almost, to decree when my life would end.

I wanted to hold him, to apologize for not having been harder to deceive, more of a challenge, so he could learn more from me. I wanted to press my face against his shoulder again, and smell that tiny hint of humanity. I wanted him to accept me in the Force, and hold me close in that respect as I died.

His thumb shook against the activation plate, but I kept staring up at his mask. Somewhere under that, there was a person, a person who had been my father, and could he have deceived me so well if he didn't feel something? Some hint of parental love? No one had ever been able to simply lie to me, they'd had to twist the truth, as Ben had. Somewhere under his cruel, dark exterior, did he love me?

Suddenly, Father turned away, casting one hand out, nearly slapping me again, but instead summoning the teddy he'd given me for my birthday before stuffing it into my arms.

"I can't do it," he said, and his voice was contorted further than usual with his emotion, "No one has believed in me like that since… since your mother."

I put the stuffed animal down, and stood, walking towards him, "Father?" I asked, frightened, but hopeful. The lightsaber fell to the floor with a clatter, and I took the now-empty hand, clinging to it tightly, "Father?"

He pulled away from me, taking my place on the bed. I started to move towards him again, but he made a strange, strangled sound, and raised one hand to his helmet, pulling it off, putting it on the bed beside him. I stared at him, confused at what I was seeing. His nose, his eyes, his cheeks…

"There's nothing wrong with you," I said, confused.

He gave a harsh, sobbing laugh, "I wouldn't say that. But, physically… your presence here. It's been healing me."

"So that's why you waited this long to kill me," I said in amazement, "I was healing you."

"And now that you'd finished, I selfishly thought it would be best to kill you," he confirmed. I reached for his hand again, sitting down beside him, but with another sob, he pulled me up onto his lap, holding me against himself and crying in earnest now.

I looked up at him, too amazed, too confused, to share in his tears. After a long pause in which he sobbed into my hair, I carefully put my arms around his neck and pulled myself up to rest my chin against his shoulder. He rubbed my back, his hands running over my shoulder blades repeatedly, then he pulled me away from himself, and gently stroked my cheek.

"You're bruising," he told me, "I'm so sorry."

I brushed his hand away, "It's all right. You were stressed."

He hugged me tightly again, and gave another laugh, "It's not all right!" he said, "It's not at all right! Only you could tell me that it's all right."

I smiled, and tried to joke to lighten the mood, "Maybe that's why you love me so much."

At my words, he released me, putting me back on the bed, "I do love you, Luke. I love you more than I've loved anyone since Padmé."

I snuggled up against him, "I love you too, Father."