AN: I'm still here, still alive and I have been writing; mainly small one-shots on tumblr (I'm treenahasthaal there, too) but it's been keeping me going. Life is tough for all at the moment as Covid-19 runs through the population and we have been stuck in our houses for weeks. I am also an "essential worker," in Social Care and I have been continuing to work some very long hours.

Stay Safe everyone!

This is a shorter part for the story, but I wanted folks to know that I was still writing.

Smoke

Part Three

Vader suffered the indignities of the droids removing his suit, his armour and helmet, his respirator and his prosthetics as they prepared him for immersion into the waiting Bacta tank. He suffered through the few moments of gasping for breath as he always did before they fitted the mask and ventilator that would sustain him while he soaked in the healing, viscous, substance. He suffered lying, helpless, on the table; limbless, breathless and utterly reliant on others for his life.

Suffered.

He was all pain. Limbs aching from the use of prosthetics, nerves firing hotly from working harder to move the heavy, artificial, limbs. His lungs burned in agony as oxygen was forced into them. His burn scars stretched and tugged. The skin, in places delicate and fragile, could burst and bleed with movement. Others were thick, gnarled, red keloids that hampered him. There were times he could emerge from the suit with large rips and tears if he had been particularly energetic.

Times like his duel with the Jedi Koth, the fight on Malachor, Vrogas Vas, and Bespin.

Cloud City.

There he had suffered as never before. Luke had scored a hit on his shoulder, and although the wound was painful, it was nothing compared to the tear across his back that had wept blood and fluid as a result from his fall from the Carbon Freezing platform. Both injuries had fuelled his rage, his frustration, and powered his brutal assault on his son.

However, it was not the pain of his injuries that caused him suffering.

Vader fought the thoughts, struggled against the burgeoning truth.

You grow weak, Lord Vader…

His son's horror and rejection on Bespin had shattered him. The confrontation had not gone as planned…

An understatement, my young padawan.

…Luke had proven to be as quick minded as he was quick footed; a talented, if somewhat unpractised, swordsman. He was inventive, tenacious and determined.

Much like his mother.

Need that, he does not.

Vader growled under his breath, under the clear mask, as the droids fastened the straps of the harness around his upper torso. These voices… these whispers of the past that invaded his thoughts were as troubling to him as the ghouls of Mustafar were to Luke. Teasing and tempting him with possibilities, if he would just reach out and accept them, grasp them and…

…and what? He was a creature of Darkness. A creation of Darth Sidious, sculpted from murder and death, from hatred and despair, from fear and power.

Don't do this, Anakin. You're a good person.

Vader closed his eyes against the image of his wife standing before him, pleading with him, impeaching him to come back to her. He could smell the smoke and sulphur, could feel the heat and see the orange and red light of the landing platform and although cooler, although the lights of the Carbon Freezing Chamber had been suffused with blue hues, it had reminded him of Mustafar and his son…

Her son.

…standing resolute below him, had reminded him of Padme.

Yes, he had suffered after Bespin.

A harness was fitted about him and he was lifted and placed over the filling bacta tank. The fluid gurgled and splashed as it ran into the cistern and it felt warm, soothing, as he was lowered in to bathe, to rest and recharge.

"A sedative, my Lord?" A droid offered as always.

Vader drew in a breath and, for the first time in many years, answered; "Yes."

ooOOoo

Luke had passed out in the soldier's grips in the journey from the killing hall to the detention centre. Too weary, too sore, too dehydrated to keep consciousness about him, his mind had given him a few minutes of respite before he was rudely and painfully awakened when the door of his cell squealed open and he was roughly thrown in. His eyes opened as the floor rushed him and, with no time to react, he landed hard, his face smacking onto the surface.

And all was black and quiet once more.

He woke slowly, eyes opening to the mute light of the holding cell, then sliding closed. Feeling pain in his face, feeling the heat of his unhealed burns, the throbbing from the ruined stump of his arm, the rawness of his thigh. Then feeling nothing at all. The taste of blood in his mouth, wet and metallic, the pounding of his headache, nausea in his gut and then it all went away for a while.

He did not dream.

He had lain for several moments, staring one eyed at the surface of the floor and the bottom of the cell door before he realised he was fully awake and lying in a crumpled heap with one side of his face, sore and swollen, pressed to the ground. His injured arm was trapped under his body, his left arm was lying across his back, hand resting in the hollow of the small of his back; his legs were bent and splayed.

He shivered, feeling a wave of coldness undulate through his body, he felt sweat trickle down his temple. The floor seemed undulate beneath him, the walls swayed in and back out, in and out, in and out, as though breathing and his stomach turned with the false sense of motion sickness. He closed his eye against the movement, but the darkness behind his eyelid, swirled with bright colours; reds and oranges, yellows and purples, each swooping toward him and pulling away.

He gagged, retched, his beaten body protesting painfully against every movement. He shivered again, teeth rattling with cold and still he sweated.

He knew what this was. He'd had a high fever as a child, had spent several days in and out of consciousness and had come to in the small Anchorhead medical centre with both his Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen sitting by his bedside. Those few days had resulted in a debt that had taken his guardians several years to pay off, and all because he had cut open his hand on the casing of a vaporator he and Owen were trying to repair and an infection had set in.

Well, he had more than a few cuts now. He giggled at that, not really knowing why he found it funny, only knowing that he would die in this place, in this dirt.

Yes, Jedi…

Fear lanced through him at the whisper, fear of whatever was in this place with him. Echoes of prisoners past? Poor unfortunates who had found themselves dying here in loneliness and pain? Or were the voices more?

More…

The word was hunger and want.

Luke shivered, grunted, closed his one eye and gritted his teeth against the resulting surge of pain.

Was this his father's plan; to deny him a quick death? To allow him to suffer in pain and torment as his life was slowly drained away by sickness and corruption?

Not your father…

Luke opened his eye, this was different. This voice was sadness, this voice was… He opened his mouth, tried to speak and croaked out. "He… llo?"

…no death, Luke.

He shuddered with cold, turned his head and pressed his hot forehead against the floor, pressing hard against the awful pounding in his brain.

Move, Luke, get up. Fight!

There was desperation in the voice, an awful fear.

Fear for him.

No… Jedi… stay down…

Another crept in, voice silky and tempting.

Lie down and join us…

Give yourself to darkness.

Jedi….

Come with to us.

Join us.

Be one of us.

He could feel them, sense them creeping in, sliding and crawling toward him. He could feel their hunger, their eagerness to have him. To keep him in this place.

There is peace in darkness. Join us.

No! Luke…

The one, lone, voice was softer, muffled in the background, pushed back by the swarming of the others.

…my child, get up!

My child?

With effort Luke forced his eye open and lifted his head. He felt the crust of blood break from the floor, he felt the swelling pulse in his face as he tried to open his other eye. He could see nothing in the cell; but he could sense them, feel them within the Force. They slithered around him, circling like carrion crows.

Luke, she spoke again. Fight!

He could feel their anger, their ire and rage. Their voices rose, shouting loudly to drown out the dissenter, the noise vibrated in the Force and pounded in Luke's head. It rose, and rose, higher and higher, louder and louder, a cacophony of noise that only grew shriller and shriller until…

Luke pushed himself up, yelling aloud from the pain and torture. "Stop it!" he screamed into the empty cell block. He shoved out with his terror, with his anger and desperation. The steel of the doors vibrated, singing darkly; hit with the power of his anguish. "Stop it!"

Silence.

Luke was on his knees, blood flowing from his nose. He swayed for a few moments, trembled, and collapsed backward. He lay still, breathing hard, blood bubbling in one nostril, staring up at the ceiling, seeing and feeling nothing as he silently mouthed one word.

"Father…"

ooOOoo

orange and red light

flickering flames

popping bubbles of boiling rock

"Anakin…"

turning

looking

searching

"Anakin…"

hot wind

hot air

a ship

her ship

the Separatives

lying dead behind him

she can't see what I've done

what I have become

"Anakin…"

turning

there she stands

"Anakin…"

her hand lowers to her belly

red and orange glow plays across her skin

shines in her eyes

"Anakin…"

her dead eyes

fingers splay across her pregnant swelling

her child

their child

is cradled within the womb

"Anakin…"

his boots ring on the platform as he runs to her

he tries to speak her name

the word won't come

he gasps as hot air surges in his chest

constricts his breathing

he reaches for her

no hand

no arm

a wretched, seared stump

he falls

looks up from hot, black ash

flames lick his flesh

she stands

above him

her belly moves, small undulating waves

the child within

Luke

"Anakin…"

Luke

"father…"

a wretched voice, a whisper

malice slices the word

son

she fades, and in her wake he sees

pale

gaunt

hunched

eyes red rimmed and sickly yellow

his son

dressed in black

the red and orange of the light lost, devoured, among the folds in his robes

sith

Luke!

his voice, his son's voice, wicked

"father…"

"Anakin…"

and she's there

beside their child

crying

tears glistening in volcanic light

his son laughs

a snap, a hum, a red blade

the son turns on the mother

blade high to strike

as his father reaches for her

a cry on his lips

"Padme!"

Vader's eyes snapped open. He flailed in horror, still reaching for his dead wife, and his prosthetic arm struck against the nearest medical droid. It staggered back, motors whining as it attempted to balance itself.

"Lie still, my Lord," a monotone, uncaring voice, stated. "You have been dreaming and are disorientated. We are almost finished reassembling you."

Reassembling.

As though he were some sort of droid.

Hot fury surged, and he grasped for it; the power that it gifted him and sent it out is all directions. All his fear, all his terror, his grief and rage…

The droids crowded around him flew backwards, scattering to strike hard against the chamber walls, the central bacta tank exploded, propelling shards of transparisteel like thrown blades to thud and crack against the black walls many embedding themselves in the structure. Red guards dropped; dead and injured. Bacta splattered the room, pooling thickly on the floor with the blood.

Vader tore himself up, stumbled forward on heavy legs much like he had on that first day when the prosthetics, and the grief, were new to him.

Helmetless, maskless, lungs heaving for air, he gasped, "Padme..." before sinking to his knees; felled by the lack of oxygen.

ooOOoo

With eyes closed Luke lay still, too exhausted to move. The shivering had stopped. The sweat had dried. His thirst was rampant now, mouth and throat dry, lips sore from useless licking. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, his breathing almost as rapid; quick little gasps of parched air.

He was too hot.

Suns must be high…

He needed to move, he needed to get up, he needed to get home.

Uncle Owen will throw a fit!

He lay still.

He tried to swallow and choked on nothing; dry coughing racking his body.

Soon, Jedi…. Soon.

Soon. Soon would be good.

Forcing his eyes open, he stared up at the muted light above him. His head turned with dizziness, the lights twisting and dancing above him. Sleepily he closed his eyes again. He knew what this was. You learned about dehydration early on Tatooine. Water was life and Luke could not remember when he last had a drink.

He was burning with fever; he knew infection was loosed upon his body. He was dying… and he didn't care, although he knew he should.

One of us.

They were back, slithering and hissing around him.

Come, Jedi.

Join us.

Soon.

Was she with them? That one sweet voice that had begged him to fight?

Reach for us.

No. She was silent.

Gone.

Only darkness can save you.

Reach…

Reach.

For what?

Reach out, Jedi.

A touch, a hand, freezing cold on his hot skin.

Luke didn't flinch from it, didn't react, didn't pull away even as others crowded around him in hungry anticipation.

Reach, Jedi.

Come with us…

And he was surrounded with a deep blue grey, small white and red lights winking up and down the enormous shaft that stretched for kilometres above and below him. The winds around him blew coldly, beating against his already battered body as he clutched desperately at the piping with one hand, fighting to keep upright, fighting to keep his mind focused and body from falling.

Horror, sheer, unadulterated horror shattered through him, tearing the denial from deep within. "No! No! That's not true! That's impossible."

The remains of his right arm crested in pain, throbbing, even as he pressed it against his body.

"Search your feelings you know it to be true!"

The truth was before him. Stark and brutal and still he railed against it. "No! No!"

"Luke," the black beast before him used his name, his first name. It sounded possessive, it sounded like a father come to take his son. "You do not yet realise your importance; you have only begun to discover your power. You can destroy the Emperor; he has foreseen this. It is your destiny. Join me, and we can rule the Galaxy as father and son!" It was a growl, it was…

… he looked around. He looked around for a way out. He looked down and suddenly he knew what to do. He knew what was expected of him. Luke lifted his head, his eyes finding his father's mask, knowing the man within was seeing him. Triumph bloomed within…

Watch me, father.

"Come with me, it is the only way," the gloved hand reached out, fingers stretching toward him.

The only way….

Take it!

Come, Jedi.

Yes, come. Come with us.

Take it, and be one of us…

One of us.

Within the tiny cell, lying loose limbed on the dirt, beaten and dying, Luke's arm flopped onto the floor, hand open, fingers twitching, looking for connection.

He found it.

Another hand took his.

ooOOoo

A Princess of a dead world woke in her bed during ships night; torn from sleep with a feeling that something significant had just happened, something that would change everything.

She lay still, listening to the throb of the hyperspace engines and stared into the darkness of her lonely cabin, feeling unsettled and grieved. The weight of her losses…

Han.

Luke.

…settled heavy upon her and she turned onto her side and wept into her pillow.

ooOOoo

An Emperor stopped mid stride and held up a thin gnarled finger to silence his adviser. He turned away, looking out of the nearest window to the cityscape where night was falling and lights began to dot the growing darkness.

Something had happened. Something of consequence and the Force resonated, vibrated, sang, with the turn of events.

"Contact Mustafar," he barked to his lackeys, his mind turning inward, his vile spirit reaching outward. "I want an update on young Skywalker."

ooOOoo

A small Jedi Master stood outside his hut in the pouring rain, his walking stick drawing lazy circles in the mud. He could feel his death step nearer, could feel the strength of his body failing. Each day brought the inevitable closer; may the Force grant him more time to finish his task.

He lifted his head and allowed the water to run over his skin as he opened himself to the Force.

"Master," a voice came to him. A voice heavy with question.

"Felt it I did," he told Obi-Wan, "Nexus, there is, within the Force."

"We have lost him."

Yoda closed his eyes, reaching as far into the Force as he dared lest he be felt and discovered by another. "Perhaps," he agreed, "or perhaps found him, he did."

"Master," Obi-Wan said from beside him, although the air remained empty of true substance. "I don't understand."

The Jedi chuckled and opened his eyes. "One with the Force you are, Obi-Wan. Wise and learned you are, and yet, eludes you the answer does."

"And you have the answer, Master?"

Yoda shook his head, staring off into the jungle. "No, questions only. Strong this nexus is, Obi-Wan, the intent unclear, hidden within smoke."

ooOOoo

to be continued...