"Fear is the path to the Dark Side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."
- Yoda
His first memory is of fear.
No, not fear. Terror. All encompassing, overwhelming terror, the kind that sent obscene amounts of adrenaline rushing through his veins yet somehow managed to paralyze him at the same time, that washed over his body like a tidal wave and slithered through his blood like a snake, making him want to shiver and weep and scream and run.
That is his first memory.
He isn't sure how old he was when he first felt that nerve shattering terror, though he remembers the pounding blaze of the two suns shining down on his back, and the way the air twisted and blurred with the intense heat and the loud, ear splitting cries of the two Sand People as they advanced on him with their Gaffi Sticks raised high, and the sound of his blood rushing through his veins and the feel of the sweat on his skin and the bile rising in his throat and his mind's loud, desperate plea for his body to just do something to save himself—
And then, in an instant, everything was quiet, and Luke Skywalker was left staring numbly at two dead bodies.
It felt as though his mind had been ripped out and destroyed, then put back together again and given back to him, only better, and as a result he could now feel everything and everyone in the galaxy like he was intimately connected to it, like he was the galaxy.
A electric sensation thrummed through his body, invigorating him, making him feel like he'd never felt before. His senses were on edge; he could almost feel every single grain of sand on his skin; smell the fresh death in the air; hear his aunt's frantic calling of his name back at the farm—
And there was more, more he could feel, more he knew, more he sensed. And even though he didn't know how he knew, he just was so sure he could feel all of these emotions and feelings and thoughts not his own, like the big, dark man who was thinking about his dead wife, even though he didn't want to, or the little girl who wondered what an 'assassin' was, and was sure it wasn't a good thing, or—
And then everything went back to normal, leaving him breathing heavily and disoriented, and feeling like a vital part of himself had been ripped away.
Luke Skywalker collapsed on the sand, mentally exhausted. He stared blankly at the dead Tusken Raiders, and tried to figure out what, exactly, he'd done to kill them, and why he didn't care. Killing things was bad, whether they be bad things or good things . . .
But, he was empty. Hollow. That amazing, electrifying feeling was gone, and that was all that mattered.
Maybe that was why he didn't care he'd killed something, even though it was wrong.
With that thought, Luke's eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped over, the strain of the day finally taking its toll.
Luke wouldn't be discovered for another two days, and the healers would be amazed that he had survived for so long without water, and shelter, and food. They proclaimed it a miracle, while Owen and Beru Lars just smiled nervously.
Luke, however, didn't care about his incredible survival. All he cared about were those feelings.
He had to experience it again. He had to.
His next memory is of anger.
No, not just anger. Rage. Overpowering, vicious rage that sliced its way through his body, savagely ripping away at the inside of his mind, fraying his thoughts and blurring his hearing and tainting his sight red.
That is his second memory.
Unlike with his first, he remembers how old he was, though in contrast, everything else except for Uncle Owen's words faded away into the back of his perception, even Beru's uneasy voice telling her husband that he should just stop talking.
"—nothing but no good—" continued Owen, his opinion on Anakin Skywalker abundantly clear.
Luke stood before him, his hands clenching and unclenching, his face flushed, his eyes narrow and sparking and his lips pressed into a thin line. Rage boiled through his veins in place of blood, transforming his insides into one, big mess of chaos and fury and energy, and he could almost feel the anger, as if it was speaking to him, begging to be set loose, to be set free, so it could show Owen just what he thought of his opinion—
"—Sithspawn!"
Luke let go.
It was like a floodgate had been opened in his mind. The rage came pouring out of his body and into reality, twisting and transforming into something else, something with substance yet without any composition at all, something that could serve him and make his deepest, darkest desires come to life, and make him so much better then everyone and everything—
Cups shattered, furniture rattled, the sand that was a fixture in any Tatooine home began to swirl and blow and dance before his very eyes, while Owen looked on in horror, and Luke somehow knew that he was terrified he would be next, that he'd end up like those dead Sand People three years earlier, just like Luke also knew that somewhere, an old man was mourning his fallen, disfigured apprentice, and that that apprentice was currently consumed with loathing for his manipulative Master, and that that Master was, right now, pleased with his assassin, who in turn was relieved that her first mission had succeeded, because the price of failure was death—
Owen flew across the room, violently slamming into the far wall and sliding to the floor. Beru screamed, and Luke fed from her fear.
It was like an elixir, one that only increased that wonderful, electric feeling that thrummed through his body and made him feel more alive than he had ever felt before, except for that one time so long ago when he'd been utterly afraid and had killed, which had felt so much like this—
And then, the feeling was gone.
The sand stopped dancing, the furniture ceased rattling, and the shattered pieces of the cups and plates and lamps and bowls fell to the ground.
Luke fell down as well, as it seemed his legs could no longer hold him up, not without that amazing, enthralling Feeling that both ripped him apart and held him together at the same time, that served him and that he served, that was million contradictions yet made so, so much sense—
"Oh my gods, Owen," moaned Beru through her tears. She stared at the crumpled, groaning form of her husband for a split second before laboriously helping him to his feet, even as he made pained noises deep in his throat.
Supporting him with her arms, they stumbled towards the door. Beru paused at the threshold, ordering him to "Stay here!" though Luke didn't hear her through the thudding in his ears.
After Owen and Beru were long gone, Luke finally found the energy to open his eyes, and found himself staring into his own yellow irises in a shard of broken glass.
His next memory is of hate.
Though, it wasn't just hate. It was loathing. Thick, heavy loathing that slowly seeped into his body, setting his teeth on edge and making his pupils into thin slits. Unlike fear, and anger, which came so quickly, lancing through him like a hundred thousand needles and making his heart pound and his blood rush in his ears, loathing was almost calm, in a sense. It came quietly, sneaking up on him in degrees until his head was pounding with it, and every fiber of his being resonated with that single feeling.
That is his third memory.
It had been months since that wonderful day were he realized that he wasn't quite normal, and that he had such amazing, enticing power just at his fingertips. Owen barely spoke to him since his return from the medical center, and he didn't need to be special to sense Beru's fear.
He might've cared, once. He might've loved them, once. But now, all he cared about was The Power.
The Power, as he had named it that day, was indescribable. It was good and bad, heavy and light, beautiful and ugly - and when it thrummed through his veins, nothing else mattered. He owned the galaxy, then. He was invincible, and so utterly alive . . .
But, it had gone away. That day in the homestead, as he laid in the middle of the total destruction, he watched as his eyes slowly faded from yellow to blue, and felt The Power drain from his body.
He'd been trying ever since to get it back, but it was proving impossible.
And slowly, he came to loathe that fact, to loathe himself. Every single time he attempted to regain The Power, to move something or shatter something or kill something, it didn't work.
And with each attempt, his loathing grew, blending together his anger at failing and his complete fear of never again using The Power until, after one particularly disheartening attempt to levitate a power converter, something inside him snapped.
Screaming wildly in frustration, he kicked the power converter across the garage, not even taking pleasure in the sound of it slamming into the wall. It wasn't enough to sate his rage, and his terror and his loathing—
The converter flew upwards until it collided with the ceiling, then fell down to the sandy floor, then sped back up.
Luke narrowed his eyes, focusing all of his caustic emotions onto that single piece of metal, directing them to destroy it, to rip it to shreds, to take the evidence of his failure from his sight.
The power converter began to twist and writhe in midair, the metal making pained noises as it bent at unnatural angles.
Luke felt the beautiful Power begin to thrum through his body, bringing with it a rush of utterly indescribable, incomprehensible sensations that flooded through his blood, took the place of his blood, making him feel like some sort of higher being that knew everything, that could do anything he wished with no repercussions—
You can, a thousand voices hissed, and the words pounded with amazing, mind blowing power.
The power converter shattered into pieces, and Luke Skywalker smiled.
His forth memory is of aggression.
It was, unlike his other emotions, simple aggression. It had been fueled by anger, of course, and hate and embarrassment and insult, and it was, much like rage and fear, swift and brutal, sending adrenaline rushing through his blood and making his face flush and his yellow eyes glint with malice.
Fixer, however, didn't stop.
"You are such a freak!" he shouted, and the rest of the children on the sandy playground laughed mockingly. "I mean, Force, what's with those eyes?!"
The Power pounded in his veins, and its oily voice whispered dark words which created images of the pain and torment and hell he could inflict on the puny, ignorant person standing before him.
"Your parents didn't even want you!"
Luke smiled slowly, and red flecks began to appear throughout his eyes. The Power spoke of pain and suffering, but he had decided differently.
"—abandoned you with—"
Fix stopped abruptly, his sentence ending in a choke. His body stiffened, and his hands flew to his neck and began groping for the invisible force which was cutting off his air supply.
The other children stopped laughing after a moment, and some, like Biggs, turned panicked eyes to Luke.
Luke tilted his head to the side, a sadistic, cruel smile stretching his lips. His eyes shone with amusement as the bully before him collapsed to the ground, lifeless.
The Power sang with pleasure at his vengeance as Luke calmly stepped over his victim's body and walked back into the school building.
His fifth memory is of suffering.
No, not simply 'suffering'. That couldn't accurately describe the agony that lanced through him every second of every day, shredding him to tatters and making him just want to scream and claw and attack and lash out.
It had been almost twenty years since he had discovered The Power, and it had taken its toll. His eyes were permanently a sickly yellow, and his skin was rapidly losing color, turning into a sallow gray. His lips had thinned and his nails brittled, and Luke somehow knew that it was only the beginning of his decay.
But, he didn't care about that. His skin could rot, for all it mattered to him.
No, no . . . what he cared about was The Power, and his lack of it.
When he'd been simply an idiot child on that ball of sand, he'd thought he'd mastered it. He'd thought he was The Power.
But, as it turned out, he'd barely even scratched the surface.
And it was complete and utter agony to know that fact, to know that there was more and that, for some reason he didn't have it, even when he so desperately craved it, needed it.
So, here he sat, in a pathetic little cantina on Nar Shaddaa, a deathstick in between his fingers and a spice-laced drink on the table in front of him.
The drugs and the alcohol helped to dull the pain, but nothing could truly take it away, other than more.
He needed more.
Yet, he couldn't harness that superior power.
Luke shook his head in disgust and took another long draw from his deathstick, slowly exhaling the repulsive smoke. Vaguely, he became aware of the sudden silence in the cantina, but he could care less.
That was, until his deathstick was pulled from his fingers by an invisible force.
Luke growled and spun around in his chair, lashing out with The Power at whatever had disrupted his smoking.
His attack, however, was thrown off.
Even in his intoxicated haze, Luke came to notice a deep, mechanical breathing that permeated throughout the room.
He smirked, too far gone to care that he had attempted to murder the second in command of the Empire. "Lord Vader," he slurred. "Fancy meeting you in a place like this."
Vader held the deathstick up for a moment before throwing it to the ground and crushing it under his boot. "Intoxicants such as those are very dangerous."
"So?" asked Luke, shrugging. "They help."
"Help with what, young one?"
Luke bristled at the term, but was too drunk to think of a proper comeback. "Help to numb me."
"Why do you need to be numbed?"
"'Cause," he muttered. "'Cause I don't have enough of The Power."
Vader was silent for a moment, and then a loud laugh boomed from the mask. "So young and already so addicted to the Dark Side. Amazing, Skywalker."
"How do you know my name?" Luke demanded.
"I know much about you, young Luke. Everything, you might say."
Luke got the impression that Vader was smiling behind the mask.
"We have important things to speak about."
His last memory is of satisfaction.
It had been almost a hundred years since that day in the desert of Tatooine when he was attacked by Sand People and discovered what he had so ignorantly called 'The Power'.
To think he had once thought he knew all of what there was to know.
If his father's lessons taught him anything, it is that the Force is endless, infinite, unpredictable. No one person can ever understand the Great Mystery, no matter how strong in the Force they are.
However, he discovered that there was much more to 'The Power' than he could have ever dreamed. The Sith Teachings were on a whole level above anything he could have ever done previously, before his father found him. They fed his hunger for the Dark Side and fueled it at the same time, making him crave more and more knowledge.
Palpatine eventually became a small nuisance, instead of a major problem. His father was the same.
And now, decades later, Emperor Luke Skywalker, Dark Lord of the Sith, sat on his throne, old and decayed, with haunting yellow eyes and gray skin. His rule had been prosperous, as had his life.
Though, everything must eventually end, as is the way of things.
He'd watched his wife, his Empress, his Mara, die only a few short months ago, and he had mourned her more than he had ever mourned anything. She was the only thing that could compare to the Dark Side in his heart, and despite the Jedi's views on the Sith, he had loved her.
But, even that tragedy couldn't detract from his utter satisfaction.
He had achieved what he had wanted ever since that moment on Tatooine, as the heat beat down on his shoulders and his blood thrummed with the seductive whispers of a power he didn't understand or comprehend.
He had mastered the Dark Side.
Slowly, his heart stopped beating, and Luke Skywalker slumped over on his throne, a small smile on his face.
Author's Note: I have no idea where this dark, twisted story came from. So don't ask me. I think I'm just in a dark mood . . .
Oh well. I tried to write something good, I'm not sure if I have. I just know I had some fun doing it.
Thanks for reading!
-snarryvader81 (aka Anna)