As the turbolift to the throne room ascended, Luke could feel the dark side of the Force pulsing through the thick metal of the Death Star, as if the heart of the station itself was composed of the darkness, and its metal frame were veins its essence could bleed through. In the low light of the lift, he clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to get warmth to circulate through his gloved hands. The unnatural cold here was similar to the cold of the cave on Dagobah--but where the cave’s darkness was an inescapable shroud slowly trying to smother him, the Death Star’s was a force of nature; a storm of unimaginable depth and ferocity, overpowering him into submission.

It seemed determined to snuff out the heat at the core of his body, digging at the seams of his pores and drilling its way through flesh and bone. A reflexive shiver began to rattle in his right wrist, climbing its way up his arm. Catching his breath and closing his eyes, Luke gripped the base of his right hand with his left, attempting to calm the tremor through sheer force of will. He could hear Engg’s voice reminding him that freedom begins and ends with control of the mind, and that fear was eager to be its master. He allowed himself to accept the fear of what was to come wash over him: he accepted his loss, his death, his failure--he saw himself bend to the dark side, surrender to everything he’d sworn to defeat, and then… he let it go.

When he opened his eyes, the tremor was gone and the lift had stopped.

Luke didn’t move at first, though he had staved his fears of defeat off, he couldn’t help but hesitate at the presence he felt just beyond him. The power of it all. Obi-wan had warned him of what his old apprentice had become, but feeling it for the first time, Luke started to wonder if Obi-wan knew the full extent of who and what he now was. Luke doubted it.

The doors slid open as he took a step forward. The slick black flooring and coloration of the room contrasted greatly with the all white plating covering the rest of the Death Star’s innards. There was a grandiose walkway separating Luke and a moderately steep platform with a large throne atop, facing away from him towards a large transparent window showing hundreds of clusters of stars set against their own distance in space. As he crossed the suspended bridge which accounted for much of the expanse, he glanced to his sides, little more than a meter of walkway on either side of him and low railing that came to his waist kept him from what seemed to be a fall into the bowels of the Death Star.

Luke reached the steps of the raised platform, half expecting the throne to turn towards him or to hear a voice of warning or threat, but there was nothing. Even the darkness that permeated the room seemed to dissipate as he neared it, the power of the dark side had vanished and the invisible dread lifted off his chest. Each step up the stairs gave a quiet echo that lasted no more than a half-second, all the while he kept himself on guard--the disappearance of the darkness he’d felt had made him more wary than its omnipresence.

As he took the last step until he was on level with the throne, he wondered if maybe he should draw his lightsaber and strike down whoever was before him before they had a chance to acknowledge him. The thought was fleeting, but the idea of stopping a threat to the galaxy so simply and easily was strangely alluring--whoever sat there, no matter who it was, if they were this powerful and in control of something as evil as the True Empire and Death Star, would it be so wrong to just cut them down? He wondered if Engg or Han would’ve hesitated, if Leia…

Luke’s mind grew foggy as the thought of his sister crept into his concentration. He gave himself another moment to breathe, refocusing his eyes on the sleek metal floor leading to the tall throne, but then he realized, none of the room was black at all--in fact, most everything he had perceived as the color was simply an ominous dark blue. How had I mistaken that? Luke thought to himself before seeing his answer.

Ever so slowly, the pale yellow-pink of a desert world drifted from the corners of the throne room’s large viewport.

Tatooine…

Even with the size of the viewport, Tatooine seemed intent on swallowing it all. Luke imagined from the distance they were at that he could make out the sparse idleings of spaceports and communities, the burgandy scars of canyon ridges. He imagined he could even make out the slice of existence Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru called their own in the yellowed plains of wind and sand. And then, he felt it.

Biggs…

Before Luke could stop himself, he had already stepped past the throne, his mind a million lightyears away. He placed his hand against the glass and reached out with the Force--he needed to confirm it, he needed to know for certain that it was him.

All it took was a slight push, and the all too familiar sense of his old friend hit him harder than he’d expected. Luke let out a shuddering gasp as he took a step back, removing his helmet, and cradling it in the nook of his right arm. He wiped his eyes as his matted blond hair stuck to his forehead. He couldn’t believe that after all this time, after all the pain and trials and suffering, Biggs had made it, he’d survived and he was here and he was home. He was in the one place Luke never thought he could return to, the one place he would’ve never thought to look.

And, finally, Luke could tell him everything; about the Jedi, about the Rebellion, about Engg and the Force, about himself… about how he’d survived every day by hoping and knowing one day they’d be together again, even if just for a moment. Luke let himself, for once, after years of believing the Empire would take everything and everyone he loved if he wasn’t strong enough to stop it, be weak. The tears fell and the laughter that only fated coincidence could bring rang out from him, but Luke knew that even in his joy--there were no coincidences--the Force had brought him here, aboard the Death Star, and to Tatooine, and to Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, and to Biggs for a reason.

And as he felt the building pressure of that familiar and terrible storm against his back, Luke turned and steadied himself to confront the danger Obi-wan and Yoda had worked so hard to prepare him to defeat.

Darth Vader’s saturated yellow eyes bore into the young Jedi’s, and Luke felt a sickness in his stomach so raw it was all he could do to not keel over. “Welcome home, Luke… Skywalker.”

-----

Vader could feel the multitude of emotions running through the Jedi as he made his way towards him. Blotting out the presence of the other interlopers aboard the Death Star, Vader could clearly make out the distinct aura Skywalker had about him. He was a true Jedi, there was no doubt of that, but he was a Skywalker as well, and the burden that came with its power was not something easily escaped. Whether the Jedi would run towards or from it, the Sith was eager to see.

As Skywalker reached the steps, Vader prepared to turn and speak, but, before he could move, a soft hand caressed his cheek, tracing the outline of his eyes and holding him. He wanted to breathe, but his breath was caught in his chest by a knot of painful and aching recognition.

“Padme…,” he let out silently. The phantasmal figure of Anakin Skywalker’s wife stood before him, a smile touching the corners of her lips.

“Ani,” the voice defeated him as it always did. “What are you doing here?”

Vader resisted the urge to speak back to the vision. As much as abstention hurt, he wouldn’t submit to the pitfall of insanity by humoring it with conversation. He’d just… watch and listen.

“Tatooine; it’s a shame the Republic couldn’t do more to protect people from the Hutts.” The Republic, Vader thought with disgust, a distant and broken system that lacked the power to rule. “If it weren’t for the chaos of the Clone Wars and the Separatist movement, I can only think of what good we could have done for those people who need the Republic the most.”

Padme’s eyes were locked on Vader’s, but the Sith could see in their translucent form that they carried the same distant look she had whenever she felt conflicted. So many times in Vader’s past life, Anakin Skywalker would wait on the balcony of the senator’s room, and when she’d arrive, he’d embrace her, pulling her close and kissing her with the passion of weeks and months of forced distance and a lifetime of loving in secrecy.

She’d kiss him back, and for a moment they’d stay there, trapped in a small moment amidst a billion larger ones in Coruscant’s bustling topography. The setting sunlight of late evening offering an opalescent glow of reflective brilliance on the grand skyrise. Anakin would always love to see those bits of cool light glimmer in the warm brown of his wife’s eyes.

“Ani,” she’d breathe out against his lips, and the Jedi Knight would know the pains of reality were about to divide them once more. “The Chancellor, he’s denying all humanitarian aid to every neutral world harmed by the war--it’s as if he’s punishing them for not joining the Republic.”

“Well, shouldn’t they be?” Anakin responded matter-of-factly. “The Chancellor only has a duty to support those worlds under the Republic’s jurisdiction, and he has a lot of those to worry about. If they won’t join and help stop the Separatists, then it’s on them.”

“It’s not that simple,” she pulled away, and Anakin felt the tangles of politics slipping between them yet again. “The Republic has a duty to provide stability and aid to the galaxy. Those neutral systems who have no part in this war, they shouldn’t be left to fend for themselves just because we’ve destabilized trade routes and balance for everyone else. They’re innocent but still they’ll starve or suffer because the Republic sees their lives and their pain as nonessential. How is that fair?”

“Hey, last I checked the Separatist’s were the ones who messed this up for everyone, not us.” Skywalker crossed his arms defensively, as passionate as his wife was about politics, it was her life after all, he wasn’t going to let her demean the good Chancellor Palpatine had done to better the mess he was dealing with.

Padme turned from him and placed her hands on the golden balcony railing, her eyes, already looking past Anakin, now turned away and seemingly impossible to ever reach. She let out a frustrated sigh.

“We all play a role in this war, Ani. And we’re all responsible for any suffering that comes from it. Every escalation, blockade, invasion, assassination, coup, warzone--it’s all on all of us. I can’t just push that blame onto someone else and absolve myself. I wish I had the power to believe one person like Dooku could manipulate all of this and put on some galaxy wide war, but that’s not the truth. We’re all guilty.”

There was silence.

“I just wish… people cared more. I don’t think they do much nowadays.”

Anakin came behind her and she let him wrap his arms around her in a tight embrace. He pulled her closer and closer, squeezing her with so much force she started to laugh.

“I care,” he said, his words pressed tenderly against the back of her head. “I care about you, and the Republic, and all those people you want to help.”

“What about the Separatists?” Padme asked, Anakin could imagine the glint of challenge and playfulness in her eyes.

“I’m working on that still,” he laughed, turning her around, and seeing he was mistaken. Her eyes held none of the brightness he thought he’d see. There was only… defeat.

Anakin pulled her head into his chest and held her there. His heart hurt so much for her, she had so much love and hope for the galaxy, for everyone in it, and all it ever did was let her down. It seemed as if life was intent on getting worse rather than better, stepping on every single one of her accomplishments towards peace. Every aid mission was undone by another world attacked, every life rescued was another lost to violence, every hope was replaced by another harsh reality that war had no mercy for believers and idealists.

As he held her, he vowed to create a galaxy where the hope she believed in could survive. He promised to do everything in his power to protect her so they could see that beautiful future together. A future where the innocent are allowed to be innocent, where good triumphs over evil, where the powerful can’t hurt the powerless.

It was all so foolish.

Vader’s disgust with the weak imaginings and longings of his past self wrenched him back to the Death Star, and all that was left of the moment was the only piece of Padme and the dead Jedi’s future that remained: their son.