The pain was all-consuming. There was no way to escape. Not even looking forward to the end of the terror could pacify the incredible strength of the pain; there was no room for those thoughts. Oh, the pain! Where would the end be? Would it be of some miracle where life could go on afterwards or would it be just that-the end forever? No. There's got to be a way, for survival wasn't just a mere personal matter but would affect the galaxy at large. Despite the constant electrical torment, it was clear that failure was not even in the spectrum of possible courses of action to take in this situation. But the pain!

Don't focus on the pain, Luke told himself. You have to get out of this one. It's not just your neck on the line anymore. Images of Leia, Han, Chewie, and Lando flashed before his eyes, covering up the sight of the Emperor standing above him. His pasty hands extended from his cloak and hung above his hips, ready for another round of Force lightning to thrust at the young Jedi laying in pure agony before him. Luke dazed through the images of his friends to see his impending death, standing there next to the man who was responsible for Luke's very being-the most feared man in the galaxy-Darth Vader-his father.

Who was Darth Vader? It was clear to anyone that he was a man of notorious repute, but he wasn't always that way. As Master Yoda and Ben told Luke, the black-clad man standing there as a henchman to the Emperor had once been a great and powerful Jedi. What could have happened? Luke managed to wonder while being burnt to a corpse. How could a man who was once such a wonderful Jedi turn around and slaughter them all, as if they hadn't been on his side for all of those years? There's no way that the seemingly heartless monster didn't still have some of Anakin Skywalker left in him. Luke was sure that he hadn't completely succumbed to the Dark Side. So how come his plan to redeem his father had failed so tragically? He was supposed to turn against his Emperor and turn away from the evil he was pursuing in trade for the Light, for mercy, for freedom. Obi-Wan and Yoda were supposed to be wrong. Everyone was supposed to see that even in the darkest room there was a light switch, no matter paid to how hidden, that could light up the shadows and cast light over what was once strangled with pervasive shade. Anakin was supposed to come back.

"Father, please. Help me," Luke cried out in anguish. The tremendous pain was becoming almost too much to withstand, and he was becoming weaker by the second. Much more of this, Luke knew, and he'd be dead. Well, he thought, it's better than few years ago when I would've died at the hands of Tusken Raiders. And on the Death Star. And Hoth. And Bespin. Even just on Endor. This was his last fight-he accepted that. What Luke couldn't accept was the fact that his real father-Anakin Skywalker-had refused to turn his back on the Dark Side. That hurt more than any physical injury, including the loss of his right arm at the graces of this man, that ever has been inflicted on Luke.

As Luke he was beginning to slip from under his control, Luke felt the pain cease a large fraction, and everything became light, making it impossible to see anything aside from the blindingly pale light that seemed to be focused on just Luke. He felt somewhat relieved when the electrical torment slowed down graciously, but that didn't last for long-a floor suddenly appeared beneath him and he flopped onto it fairly hard. When had he gotten up from the floor of the Second Death Star?

Wait a minute, though Luke, dulled pain and skepticism dominating him. I'm not in the throne room anymore. The Force energies here are of better intentions. Then the light vanished to be replaced with darkness as Luke slipped into unconsciousness.