Greetings my dear readers! I am back from the dead! And with a new chapter to boot!

Apologies for taking so long... But I do have another fic up called Guardian that I believe you guys will like!

Check it out?

Anyway... I hope you enjoy this installment of Salt!

~Talicor

And come on! Would it kill you guys to review? Seeing them reminds me that writing this stuff is worth it!

Chapter 5

Luke Skywalker awoke to blood on the floor.

And the walls.

And his… Hair?

Shaking rust-coated bangs from his eyes, he slowly sits up, blinking at the harsh light radiating from his fa— no, Vader's— cell.

I refuse to accept that monster as the man that gave me life.

But there was no denying it… Not after what he had seen…

Bitter thoughts drift through the Rebel's mind as he takes in the gory scene. Maroon splatters the floor in a wounded trail of lifeblood in the form of bizarre, three-toed footprints and sticky tufts of down, fused to the ground in congealed clumps of ichor.

What happened?!

Unsurprised, yet still disgusted and somewhat worried, Luke stood slowly.

Before him now, sits the cause of all this mess. Chips of broken light refract off the face of Death as the solid figure remains on the floor, breath rattling in the constant rhythm of existence.

"You," The Rebel hisses, clenching a fist—artificial and pale—in resentment. Within that single word, he pours all of his contempt, disgust, and heartache he could, driving it at the monster that had so thoroughly destroyed his world.

He could tell no one of their relation… Couldn't release the fracturing stress that threatened to crush his soul—for if he did.. There would be nowhere left for him.

And he knows it.

That monster lurking in the dark.

The proverbial 'skeleton' in his closet. Ever constant on the edge of his existence, the ebon skull haunts both his sleeping and waking moments.

With eyes of ice, he continues to glare at the shadow, juxtaposed almost comically by the even and stark brilliance of the light surrounding it.

A slight rippling in the Force, and the dark nebula of the Sith Lord's presence undulates with purpose, As if seething and roiling internally over something of great importance while trapped in this cage of durasteel and ideas.

"Me."

The sudden word startles the young Jedi, and he jumps at the sound, causing a dark chuckle to emanate from the Dark Lord, empty and cold.

"You think you are quite clever… Don't you, boy."

"W-What?" The Rebel now steps closer, drawn in by utter shock at being spoken to more than anything. Since the Sith's arrival, the cyborg had not so much as looked at him.

Why is he suddenly taking an interest?

Ever wary, he tightens his grip on the blaster that had replaced the once-coveted saber gifted to him by Obi-Wan Kenobi.

"Your father wanted you to have this… When you were old enough."

Back then, he'd thought the weapon as something divine and sacred… A relic of the past—but its greater value lie in the fact that it was physical evidence of Anakin Skywalker… The father he had only ever dreamed about.

That all changed on Bespin.

The shining Jedi Knight from his dreams had turned into the greatest terror. A Sith Lord cloaked in eternal darkness and reeking of the blood of those fallen by his blade… Or even his bare, mechanical hands.

And now… He found himself swallowed up in an unforgiving, unending, nightmare.

But unlike the feverish dreams that had plagued him since Vader's return, this was not so easily escaped.

This was life, not a simple, petty nighttime scare.

"You heard me," the Dark Lord rumbles, light shifting across the ebon helm, lenses remaining hooded in darkness as he faces the Rebel, and the pilot shivers at the unseen brush of the Sith's eyes.

Stifling yet another shudder, Luke meets the shaded gaze of the cyborg.

"I don't think I'm clever at all… Just terribly unlucky."

Another slight, unnerving chuckle from the ebon form, and the skull tips slightly to the side, as if parodying a curious child.

"Alas… Fate picks favorites, does it not?"

Growing tired of cryptic answers, the Rebel turns the tide of conversation with a deft motion of his hand to the trail of blood.

"What is all this? Get bored during the night?"

The cyborg stiffens slightly, his previous air of nonchalance evaporating.

"That…" He growls, gloved fist clenching with the distinctive creak of leather, "Is none of your concern."

"I think when someone wakes up to what looks like a murder scene—by their father, no less— ought to have a right to know!" Luke snaps, crossing his arms. It sickened him to think of what Vader was capable of… What he was capable of, if he wasn't careful.

I have the potential to be a monster…

Shaking away the diseased thought, he stands firmly, waiting for a response from the demon that filled the father-shaped hole in his life. Filled it with nothing but pain, confusion, and misery.

"Luke."

The soft voice is alarming in the tense silence, and he whips around to face the source.

"Leia," he lets out a shaky breath, running his hand through shaggy hair as he steps away from the cell. "Uh, what are you doing here?"

How long was she standing there?

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," she answers softly, laced with concern, setting down a bowl of soup for him on the chair against the opposite wall. "Mothma hasn't found anyone else to shift guard with you… Vader's too volatile."

Nodding solemnly, he joins her away from the cell, as if twenty feet would make a difference in whether or not Vader would hear them.

"What's all this?" She observes, motioning to the messy trail of blood and feathers, dried into a horrific rust on the smooth floor.

Taking the bowl in hand, Luke stirs it thoughtfully, glad to see something besides red and black as he watches vegetables bob pointlessly in the golden broth.

"Take a wild guess," he scoffs, finally taking a spoonful, the warmth reminding him that he was alive, when this isolation and mental ravaging had left him feeling dead. "You think the spoons would be the end of it?"

A look of disgust flits behind the Princess's eyes. There's something more though..

Guilt?

Catching her friend's studious gaze, she turns away, sighing.

"I'm starting to think this was a mistake… Letting him live, I mean…"

An ivory hand covers her face momentarily, and she looks over at the Dark Lord, ever motionless, ever lethal, sitting in his cell.

What was I thinking?

"He's done nothing but kill since being locked in here," he supplies, taking another spoonful. "I don't blame you."

"I know…" She sighs, dragging her eyes from the beast on the other side of the bars, "Something just…"

There it is again.

A hot prickle races up her spine, causing her to shiver. Following it this time though, is a web of stars descending on her vision, draping everything in glittering threads.

Stunned, she can only stare as everything shifts.

Replacing the Sith Lord was a dark nebula of power, seething and rippling with power; as if he were made of sable flames, brief specks of light playing across the darkness, like stars in the void of space.

Beside her, a brilliant form stood, a silhouette of her best friend, light and warmth pulsing throughout his frame in rhythm with his heart, but as soon as she blinks it vanishes, leaving them all once again in a dimly lit hall, surrounded by blood.