Chapter Text
Vader was dying, wheezing out his last few breaths in the arms of his son. The Force beckoned to him now, gentle and welcoming. It was a sharp, but pleasant contrast to the usual raging inferno he felt when he reached out to it. This aspect of the Force had a cool liquidity to it that comforted and soothed him in his last moments. The old, aching weariness that had plagued him ever since Mustafar seemed so far away now. Even the thin breaths that racked his failing body were of no consequence anymore, not when the Force was subsuming all of his agony. Vader choked out a laugh, but it echoed more like a sob in the cavernous interior of the Death Star II.
Luke’s face twisted in sorrow, though Vader could hardly understand why. All he had ever done was cause pain and suffering to his son, so for his impending death to received with such anguish was unbelievable. Luke truly was his mother’s son—someone pure and good enough to mourn even the death of a Sith. That was as it should be; Padmé’s strength of will had been her greatest trait, and it was fitting that it be the thing to finally bring him back to the light, briefly as it was. Though Luke would mourn Vader’s passing, things were as they should be. Luke . . . he would be safe now, free to live out a long and prosperous life without being burdened by his father’s terrible legacy. The galaxy was a far better place without him in it, and one day Luke would understand that. The Force fluctuated again, this time with a sharp note of finality to it. A faint smile twitched at his lips in response. Vader closed his eyes, released one last rattling breath, and then became one with the Force.
What first registered was that he was warm. It was strange—he hadn’t felt anything besides a dulled, tired pain for decades now. The scorching heat of Mustafar was the last true sensation he had experienced before being placed into that hideous life-support suit. This soft warmth was practically divine bliss in comparison. He blinked slowly, a soft haze of dreaminess clouding the edges of his vision. The familiar off-white stone ceiling of his childhood bedroom met his half-lidded gaze. He nearly choked out a bitter laugh at the sight. Vader had rather expected something different to await him once he passed on. Anything else, really—just not this, not something that belonged to a childhood he had forsaken as soon as he’d been given the chance.
It was strange to see it now with adult eyes . . . How many times had he gone to sleep pretending the many depressions worn into the grain were actually the stars and planets of distant galaxies that he would one day explore? It was the fantasy of a child, discarded once he was violently thrust into the real world—one where the people he loved were brutally taken from him, one where his self-destructiveness condemned millions to die. He felt a foreign wetness form in his eyes and blinked it away. How long had it been since he had last cried? Surely not since Padmé’s death had he let go enough to feel this way . . . Hatred, regret, weariness—those had been his companions over the years—not this deep sorrow that seemed to have worked itself into his very bones. He sighed in exhaustion. Wasn’t this the kind of thing that was supposed to dissipate once he became one with the Force? He was supposed to feel complete, finally purged of the anger and despair that had plagued him his entire life. He still felt so terribly human, unable to wrest any sort of control over his emotions. But—after all the atrocities he committed over the years, why would he deserve anything like serenity? The very thought of dealing with whatever hell the Force had cooked up for him was too enormous in its scope to even bear thinking about, so he continued to lie there, lingering in that peculiar state of half-awareness where the line between dreams and reality was blurred. He had almost lulled himself back to sleep, or at least whatever passed for sleep in this strange place when a soft, long forgotten voice broke through his reverie.
“Ani, wake up—it’s time for breakfast.”
Vader jerked awake, the last vestiges of his dazed stupor fading away. Shmi—no, his mother was here? How was this possible? She had been blind to the ways of the Force, and thus would be incapable of maintaining a consciousness once she passed on. Unless . . . Had he misjudged her terribly—writing her off merely as another Force-null when she had actually been one with the Force for decades, watching him make one terrible decision after another? If so, how could she possibly speak to him with such kindness, such love if she knew what a wretched creature he had become? Vader lurched into a sitting position, the rough blankets of his pallet pooling around his waist as he moved his unexpectedly small limbs. Limbs—he had true, flesh and blood limbs! He stared at his hands in wonder, slowly curling and uncurling his palms, the movement made awkward from years spent as a quadriplegic. Incongruous with the massive robotic appendages of his suit, these were the small, fine-boned hands of a child, browned by the sun and littered with callouses more suited to handling tools and connecting wires, rather than wielding a lightsaber. They were hands he hadn’t seen in years, not since he left the sandy wasteland of Tatooine as a child. This . . . this was all wrong. He was supposed to transcend humanity and become one with the Force, not be confined to the body of a child. Was this some sort illusion meant to torment him—or, perhaps the final reflection of a dying man? Both possibilities rang out as wrong to him, which meant that this situation was something else altogether. He supposed that he would just have to go along with, well, whatever this was.
“Ani, is something wrong?” Shmi asked, worry clear in her voice.
Vader started, having become lost to his thoughts. He then twisted to face her and hungrily drank in the sight of her worried face. She was just as he remembered—a woman with kind eyes and a resilient air to her. Even though she was prematurely aged by the sun and hard work, she exuded an inner beauty that was rarely matched. Force, he had missed her. It was so easy to forget just how much he yearned for her when it had been decades since her death. Now though, it hit him all at once and he was unsurprised to find himself crying again for the second time that day. Shmi rushed towards him and tucked his small body under her chin, allowing him to bawl his eyes out into her shirt. She stroked his hair gently and murmured softly under her breath until his chest-shaking sobs subsided.
“Oh, Ani what happened? Did you have another nightmare?”
He nodded into her chest. She seemed to understand that he didn’t want to talk about it, and continued her ministrations in silence. Vader could have remained there for hours, luxuriating in her comforting embrace, but eventually Shmi pulled away. There was a sad gleam in her eyes as she spoke. “We have to leave for Watto’s now, so you’ll have to eat your breakfast on the way there. But tonight I’ll make you some Zucca fruit pastry, okay?”
Vader nodded dumbly and disentangled himself from her embrace. As he stood up, he was suddenly struck by a strange sense of vertigo—he had forgotten what it was like to be so fragile, so diminutive. It was disconcerting; he was used to a much larger and heavier frame, so even the simplest of movements was awkward. He followed Shmi out of the room on unsteady legs (he was still becoming accustomed to the fact that he had actual legs!) and delighted in eating the solid fruit that she handed him as they left for Watto’s. After decades spent ingesting only nutritional liquids, it was positively heavenly. As they walked, the suns of Tatooine blazed like twin furnaces overhead, imbuing him with a dearly missed warmth. How could he ever have despised this as a child? The light kissed his face like an old lover, and he basked in the warmth like a contented cat. Even the sand he once so abhorred seemed tolerable now. It could be that he was looking at them through the rose-tinted glasses of an old man, or that he’d associated these conditions with the miserable life of a slave. Either way, he appreciated them now more than ever.
The dingy exterior of Watto’s shop soon greeted them, and Vader’s good mood dropped precipitously as Watto entered his line of sight. The Toydarian was hovering behind the counter with an annoyed expression on his face.
“Late! You’re late! What am I supposed to do without my slaves? What if a customer needed something fixed? I would have to turn them away and lose money! What use to me is a slave who doesn’t work? What good does that do for me? This means punishment—for now, you get no rations, but next time I might think twice about the usefulness of a female past birthing age who can’t even arrive on time. Maybe Gardulla would like to have you again, Shmi—Ack!” Watto’s raspy voice broke off as Vader instinctively raised his hand for a Force-choke. How dare this vile creature talk to his mother like that? Like she was nothing more than something to be owned and discarded when her usefulness ran out, like she was worth less than the very dirt beneath their feet, like she was a . . . slave. It finally dawned on him then, the situation that he now found himself in. He—Darth Vader, was a slave. He had an owner, a master who he was meant to take orders from and come to heel for. The Force vibrated in tandem with his growing rage, absorbing and reflecting it in a familiar cycle of blistering hatred. His eyes burned with power, flashing the deep orange of a Sith. Vader rasped out a laugh. Well, this at least, can be rectified easily. He jerked his hand sideways, and Watto’s head was separated from his bloated body with a spray of violet blood. His headless torso was dropped unceremoniously onto the ground. Shmi screamed from behind him. He turned, eyes fading back to blue as he released his hold on the Force. Her lined face was slack with terror and liberally spattered with Watto’s blood. He didn’t know what to say that could possibly alleviate the shocked horror of seeing her precious son decapitate someone in front of her, but he knew that he had to give her some type of justification for what he’d done.
“My dreams have shown me that I possess a great and terrible gift. I won’t stand for this subjugation anymore, not when I have the ability to remedy it. I will free all the slaves of Tatooine, or I will die trying.” Vader spat, growing more agitated with each word. Yes . . . this was what he had been called here to do. He could feel the Force feverishly agreeing with him, ardent in its assent. Whether or not this was truly the past didn’t matter—he would purge the filth from this world either way. Perhaps this crusade would end up being his redemption.