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Luke wondered, sometimes, when it had all gone wrong.
Maybe he shouldn't have killed the Emperor. Maybe he should have let the lightning hit his father, and short out his suit, leaving him for dead. Maybe then he and his father could have worked together to kill him, and his father would have died in the Light.
Instead, Darth Vader remained.
Maybe, Luke would have escaped from the second Death Star, instead of being taken off in chains, nothing more than Vader’s prisoner.
It had been many long years since then, though, and Luke had just about given up on ‘maybe’s. It's not like they had ever done him any good, after all. It had just left him bruised and battered, eyes bled yellow with pain and suffering and torture.
He had tried, once, to count the scars that littered his body. He had passed out halfway through, having forgotten about his concussion and the fact that he hadn't slept in well over a day.
He was faintly glad that Vader had other things to do, what with leading his new Empire, and thus couldn't come “visit” him all that often on this barren, lifeless rock of a planet – it might have been a moon, actually – that he had dumped Luke on.
Sometimes he would think back to better times, his youth with his aunt and uncle, playing Dejarik with Chewie, drawing up plans with Han and Leia, but the happiness always bled back into grief and despair. He always just ended up crying.
His eyes always seemed to feel red and sore these days. His throat had a constant ache, both from the tears and from relying, by necessity, mostly on the dark side just to not die. There wasn't much food and water out in an abandoned wasteland, after all.
He had very little shelter, just a duracrete shack that was small enough that he could reach out and touch both sides at once, if he tried. The dust was the worst. It was fine, much more so than the rocky grit that covered Tatooine, and it tended to coat one's being like paint, staining skin red. The shack had no windows, but the entryway had no door to block out either the dust or the ceaseless harsh rays from the star it orbited. The planet, if it was one, was seemingly constant in its facing of the star.
He would often find himself curled up in on himself in the deepest bits of the shack, the only part with shade, his scrap of a cloak pulled up to cover his nose and mouth so he didn't have to taste quite as much of that damn dust. The red rust color made him gag sometimes, and the taste, like blood, didn't help.
There was no way to keep it out. Sometimes the taste would have him feeling as though he could hear Vader's voice, even when the man wasn't there. The stench of blood remained.
He had thought, once, that he had felt his sister in the Force. Maybe he had, maybe he hadn't. He still didn't know. The Force presence he had felt had shied away almost violently from the feel of a dark presence, and he had tried not to take it personally. He would have done the same, if he could.
He. Who was he, again?
He had a father, who had put him through hell. He had had an aunt and uncle, who had died. He had a sister, hopefully still alive, but he didn't know for sure. It seemed unlikely, most days.
He used to like playing games with… “Ch” something. He would talk to… something– someone… it started with an “R”… in binary, but he found that sometimes he could barely remember how to speak it.
He wondered when Vader would be back.
The man was cruel, bloodthirsty and lacking empathy, but he was his only company.
He wondered how long it had been since Vader had been back here. If it had been years. If it had been hours. If it had been days.
There was no real way to mark down days, the duracrete walls were too hard to carve into, and the terrain outside too unforgiving to endure for longer than a few minutes. Or was it days?
Anyways, even if he could, this planet – or was it a moon? Or maybe just the inside of a ship designed to torture him into going insane – had no distinguishable day/night cycle, so there was no way to tell. It was just a constant harsh red light beaming down.
There was no day. There was no light. There was no Force. There was no emotion. There was no night. There was no—. There was nothing. There wasn't anything, not anything besides from him.
What was his name again?
He could have sworn he had one, at some point at least.
There was… something, before. Something more than just… this.
He used to be a person. He used to be someone. There used to be a before, an after. There used to be things such as time, and… and light. There used to be more. He used to be more.
Had he ever had a name? Had he ever been given one? Was there ever anything other than this wasteland?
No, this was it. This was his life, his everything. This was how it was, and it would never change.
…
When was the last time he had seen Vader?
He hadn't been here in a while, and he was never really one to wait patiently for anything. He had always stormed off after a few days – hours? Minutes? Years? – with a yell about how he would see the benefits of the dark side eventually, that he would someday join Vader on his throne.
The man had been so pleased when his eyes had turned yellow, but the sickening satisfaction had faded when Luke had refused him once more.
Luke.
Luke…
Luke!
That was his name! He had a name! He was no longer nameless. He was glad. He could almost feel something smile at him through the Force.
A tight feeling eased in his chest, and he let his limbs stretch out slightly from where they had been trapped, pulled tight against his chest.
They ached with strain and disuse, and the feeling had Luke breathing in deeply for the first time in several minutes.
Years.
Hours.
Days?
It was probably one of those.
A growing hum filled his ears, making its way around the sand to be heard, though the vibrations could be felt through his entire body.
The harsh red of the star outside of the shack brightened until like could no longer hold his eyes open, and the inescapable heat seemed to melt his flesh from his bones from his body.
Maybe this was it, the end of it all.
Maybe he would see his sister again, after it was all done.
Maybe.
Maybe he was dead now.
-
The next time Luke was conscious, the red was gone. The sand was gone. That cursed planet was no longer his reality, his home. It was no longer, and neither was he.
Instead, as far as his tired eyes could see was a field of green. Grass filled meadows dotted with colorful blooms.
Luke opened his mouth to try to speak, but all that came out was a breathy huff, his dry mouth and disused voice protesting at the thought of use.
He stumbled to his feet, swaying heavily with dehydration and fatigue. His muscles, sore from lack of movement, could barely hold him upright.
He moved forwards, falling and barely catching himself more than actually walking.
This could not be real.
It was not real. Merely a nice dream to usher him into his endless eternity in the Force.
He could feel grass in between his toes.
He could smell flowers, could taste their sweet scent on his tongue.
This was not real.
He was going to wake up any minute and Vader would be there, ready and waiting with some new weapon to test out on him, to try and torture him into allegiance.
Finally, Luke's muscles gave out and he fell to the ground, his body now pressed into the plush turf beneath him. Despite what he knew must be true, his senses said that this was real, that this was no cruel dream.
His eyes filled with tears that he could not afford to lose, tongue already glued to the top of his mouth from the lack of moisture. Sobs shook his body as the shock slowly faded and reality set in. This was real. It had to be, or else he was going to lose his mind, and he would no longer be able to regain it.
As if sensing his mood, the thick storm clouds coating the sky split open, and rain began to pour.
A laugh bubbled out of Luke, and he turned with effort until he lay resting on his back, tears mixing with the rain and washing the dust from his face and body. His clothes were beyond repair, shredded rags stained a bloody red-brown, clinging to his body through sheer willpower alone.
Vibrations echoed through the ground beneath his spine, like the footsteps of an army all in sync. Luke didn't move, shoulders and chest shaking with sobs. He wasn't sure if he was laughing or crying, but either way, he would not move.
Closer and closer the footsteps came, until, when they were right upon him, they stopped.
There was rustling as the army shifted, parting to make way for one man to come forward.
Luke let out a keening cry at the light-filled presence that moved towards him, and he couldn't help but reach out on shaky limbs, weak as a newborn Alderaanian deer, towards the presence.
The steps came closer still, and rested, kneeling, at his side.
Luke pried his eyes open and tilted his head, trying to catch even a glimpse of whoever it was that had such a strong presence in the Force.
The man at his side – human or close, dark skin, smooth, hairless scalp, Jedi robes – flinched back at the sight of his eyes, and Luke shut them tight again, curling away from the man.
The gentle press of skin against Luke's cheek had him gasping for air, leaning desperately into it even as it felt like too much. Nausea rose in his throat, like he had gorged himself on food and drink after too long of starvation.
“Oh, child,” the man spoke, his voice gentle and deep. “What have they done to you?”
Luke could only cry.