Into the Storm

Chapter 18

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

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Leia stepped onto the busy flight deck, eyes searching the familiar flight-suits, looking for the blue amongst the orange--for Han's flash of brown hair. He was leaning on his A-Wing, clearly having some heated disagreement with the technician, helmet held loose by the straps in his hand, making Leia fear he would swing it in a roundhouse at the tech's head any minute.

She stepped round the back of the tech to catch his eye. He glanced up, then back to the tech. "And I'm sayin' it's pulling. There's a fault in the shear."

He'd been informally flying with the A-Wings for several weeks now and had settled in without a hitch, re-acquainting himself with snub-fighters reassuringly quickly, with Chewie joining the same flight group as a tech--they were, as always, inseparable. Leia wasn't quite sure whether it was his close involvement in the day-to-day survival of the Alliance now that he had no Falcon to retreat to, or whether he just couldn't go more than a few days without flying something, but it was good to see him so involved. It was good to see that heart of gold.

The thought came instantly to mind that Luke had always had such faith in him, in his good heart. Just as quickly, she pushed it away.

"I checked the shear last time she came in," the tech maintained, holding his own. Tempers were always high with the flight crews--hours were long and staff were short. "There's nothing wrong with the shear."

"Well then it's the mix. Something's making her pull. I got the stick at two o'clock just to make her fly in a straight line."

"Fine," the tech said, exasperated. "I'll pull the assembly. You wanna take another ship?"

"No, I can handle her for now. Just do it when I get back." In a fit of guilt, he added, "Give me a shout when you're ready--I'll come help, okay?"

The tech nodded, mollified, and Han patted him on the shoulder as he passed to, walk quickly up to Leia, winking. "Hey, doll. Come to give me a goodbye kiss? I could get used to that."

"The Bothans have something," Leia said uneasily, as she always was when it came to Luke.

They'd pretty much learned that the only way to deal with this was agree to disagree and mention it as little as possible, which was becoming easier and easier now, the whole disturbing incident beginning to blow over. Except not for Han. Or Chewie, she suspected, though he kept quiet.

Leia handed her reader over to Han, who glanced at it, jaw tightening. The information had come in from the Bothan spy network, which had a close working relationship with the Alliance. It listed that their own spies in the Imperial Palace had seen a document fragment to the fact that an Agent named The Wolf had been withdrawn from active service, along with a request that all files pertaining to that name were deleted. It didn't list why, or give any clue as to who he was, only that he had been recalled from service.

Han read it without comment and handed it back to her. "Fine. Gotta go."

"Han." She reached out to take his sleeve. "Tell me you're not still going."

Han frowned, half-turning. "What?"

Leia set her head on one side. "To get him out. I know you're planning something."

Han pursed his lips, but said nothing. Leia sighed. "At least wait--wait a few more weeks. See if the Bothans can turn up a DNA key."

"I can't keep waiting, Leia--I can't just keep waiting. I waited because you asked me, because you said they'd find proof. But they haven't."

"What more do--"

"That's not proof, Leia. What if this is all just some game that Palpatine's playing, huh? What if you're wrong?" There was no challenge to his voice, just genuine, heartfelt concern.

"Why would they do that, Han?" Leia asked, and he glanced down, having no answer. She sighed. "What if we're right? What if we're right, and you go back and face him?"

"Well then at least I'll know. Then I'll believe it."

"I don't think that will be much consolation when you're in an Imperial detention center. To you or to me."

His eyes lifted to her and Leia felt a flush on her cheeks at saying it out loud, but held her ground, for his sake. She knew how much he wanted to go after Luke--knew that she was the only thing which had held him back again and again...believed absolutely that she was right to do so. "Just a little longer. Please?"

He rolled his head to the side and she knew he'd wait...this time.

"I gotta go," he said, stepping up onto the A-Wing's footwell and swinging into the cramped cockpit without meeting her eyes.

Leia stepped back as the engines flared, Han's fighter the last to leave the hanger. One of these times, Leia wondered...would he just not come back?

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Mara felt an unfamiliar twinge of emotion as she entered the dark, cold cell where Skywalker lay crumpled in a heap exactly where she had left him, his shallow breath misting in the frigid air. Laying the med-kit on the floor she gestured to the detention-center guard holding a bowl of water and a cloth to enter. He looked around the empty room in confusion before turning questioning eyes to Mara.

"Lay it there," she said simply, gesturing to the floor in front of Skywalker.

Keeping a wary distance from the unconscious man, the guard laid the bowl down in careful silence before pushing it a little closer at arms-length and walking quickly from the room.

Mara scowled at him as she took out an antidote ampoule and loaded the syringe. Was he afraid of Skywalker? If he wanted someone to fear, he should look to the Emperor. Luke wouldn't... She paused mid-thought as the implications of this hit her.

Why was she defending him?

Why was this affecting her so much, despite her every barrier?

She had watched without emotion as her master had taken out his wrath like this on others. Many times. She had willingly hunted down and delivered his enemies to him, knowing that she took them, helpless and horrified, to a terrible death. The Emperor was hardly known for his mercy.

So what was different now? Why had this man crept under and around all her barriers?

Was it because he was a Jedi--because he was the first person beside the Emperor whom she could sense? Or because she could always feel those expressive blue eyes on her, always asking but never judging.

Perhaps it was empathy because he was so very alone. Because she knew that in his position, with everything ripped away, every freedom, every hope, no one would come to her aid, either.

As she had left the opulent drawing room in his quarters in the Palace many weeks previously, Mara remembered hearing the Emperor tell Skywalker that she felt no compassion. The assertion which had previously seemed her master's greatest praise, the creed by which she had lived her life, now made her burn with humiliation.

But if she felt no compassion, then what was this?

The medical equipment had been removed just over a week ago, Skywalker being returned unknowing to the cold cell floor, as her master had ordered. It was eight days since he had lashed out with vindictive vengeance, driven to the act by Skywalker's actions. Since Palpatine had summoned her into the cell, to a shocking revelation.

Her eyes had widened at the sight of her master, who stood quietly brooding, his face bloody. His blood. No one had ever drawn blood on her master before. No one could ever hope to threaten him. No one. The repercussions had twisted her stomach into a tight knot as she'd scanned the room for Skywalker's body, sure that he would be dead. In the veiled shadows she made out his crumpled form, twisted awkwardly away from her, very still.

She remembered distinctly hearing her breath catch in her throat.

Lost in his thoughts, the Emperor had said nothing as she remained frozen to the spot, torn between who to go to first.

After long seconds of numb, paralyzing indecision she had started toward her master, who stirred from his reverie as she approached and gestured her away, pointing to the Jedi. Her heart in her mouth, Mara had crouched beside Luke and released in a rush of relief the breath she hadn't known that she was holding, at the realization that he was still breathing.

He was alive, but grievously wounded, his breath short and shallow, blood dripping in a viscous trail from his nose and mouth to pool in a dark stain on the cold white floor, though it was impossible to tell whether this was from internal injuries or the countless grisly lacerations hacked into bruised skin which bled profusely, appalling in their severity.

Realizing what Skywalker had done, she couldn't imagine for a second what had been going through his mind, that he would actually initiate an attack which he knew would be met with savage, merciless brutality. He was lucky to be alive.

Realization had hit her at that thought; that he hadn't expected to be--had done this intentionally.

He'd wanted the ultimate response--and had done everything in his power to provoke it.

The Emperor had walked in silence to the door, lifting his hood to hide his face as he paused without turning, his grating voice remorseless, absolutely without pity. "Have a medic treat him. Not Hallin," he said quietly, before adding pointedly, "Mara--only what is life-threatening. Nothing else."

Mara had nodded wordlessly at her master's back, a strange, cold chill tightening about her heart and making her stomach twist. Tugging for the first time at the fringes of her own ambiguous, irresolute morals as she tried to turn away from the battered, mutilated man.

Eight days, just to treat the life-threatening injuries. Four days in bacta, unconscious, three more in high-dependency, one final day to get him off the machines... Then they'd brought him back here and laid him on the floor as if all that work to put him back together simply hadn't happened. Never once woken; never even knowing he'd left the cell. Brought him back here knowing full well that he wasn't ready; that he may well be back within the week, anyway.

And when she'd crouched down beside him to give the antidote which would wake him to face his tormentor again, she'd felt...something. Felt some part of herself crumple inside at her role in this. At his knowledge of that.

At the fact that she would have to face him again...

If she felt no compassion, then what was this?

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She paused now beside Skywalker's still body, waiting a moment until the door was locked before she crouched next to him, trying not to see the bruises and the blood.

Her master had remained 'indisposed' following his explosive retribution on Skywalker, for the first time in fifteen weeks not visiting his prisoner. Whether this was because he was still too angry to return or whether it was simply to allow Skywalker the time to heal, Mara wasn't sure.

Perhaps he was contemplating his own unexpected loss of control, because he must surely have realized that the intensity of his attack had been purposely incited by the Jedi, and in her master's closely controlled and manipulated world, any being who had the ability to overturn his carefully constructed plans would be deeply unsettling.

Because everything had changed from that day on. Everything intensified, all previous rules falling by the wayside. The frequency of his visits, when her master finally returned, were stepped up to several per day. Drugged between visits, given practically no food or water, Skywalker would have no real concept of how long he'd been here, by now. No sense of day or night, of how long he was left between visits. If he was awake, it was to face Palpatine...and the guards.

Because her master had now taken to bringing a compliment of his Royal Guard to every meeting, each armed with a force pike, or similar. In fatigues rather than their usual ceremonial dress, they waited outside the cell, staring stony-faced at the regular Detention Center guards as the Emperor spoke to his captive. At the end of the discourse, sometimes before the Emperor left, sometimes after, they would be called in--more often than not when Skywalker was already lying bruised and battered senseless.

She didn't need to watch to know their purpose.

And always when the Emperor and his guards left, she was ordered to inject the SCA immediately, which would re-activate the drugs, giving them free reign in his system again. She disliked intensely having to wait in the corridor as her master held his 'discussions' with the Jedi. Their voices were always quiet, barely audible often for an hour or more, until Skywalker finally dug his heels in and did something which called down the Emperor's wrath.

Then they all heard, she and the ever-present guards. Heard him cry out, heard the Emperor throw the Force against him; heard the sickening, never-to-be-mistaken crack of the lightening searching to ground.

And when the cries died down, the Red Guards would be called into the cell.

For the first few days, it hadn't bothered the dozen or so guards who were always stationed along the corridor outside the cell. They had all expected the Jedi to be killed quite quickly, Mara knew, as their Emperor tired of torturing him. But he never tired of it; seemed to relish it a little more every day.

Now when the Emperor arrived, everyone was mute. No one made eye contact, even with each other. Everyone listened in the cold silence of the long featureless corridor, knowing...waiting.

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Pulling his arm straight, careful to avoid the now-old break at his wrist, Mara hesitated for several seconds, eyes on the multiple fine needle scars where she'd injected him intravenously, searching for undamaged skin. Her heart collapsed a little more as opposing emotions raced. Somewhere, in some crushed and hidden corner of her soul which she had thought long dead, did she actually feel this was wrong? Or was it more personal than that? Was it that which scared her? Every day that distant voice got a little clearer, a little more perceptible.

She'd never really had a conscience--a set of rules yes, but nothing more--it had never been of value to her master. So perhaps the voice was not hers at all. But she heard it nonetheless, whispering at the fringes of her consciousness, leaching into her dreams at night. Not an actual voice. Not words; not like when Palpatine spoke through the Force, but there all the same. More basic, less attuned. Empathy.

She had to get away; this was becoming too confusing, too hard to control. She would ask Palpatine to give her another assignment.

But even as she thought it, Mara knew he wouldn't. If she'd had these thoughts, then her master knew; he always knew. Hadn't he asked her before if she had heard Luke; sensed him in her limited Force-perceptions? Hadn't her answer been a half-truth? She didn't hear him in the moment that her master had asked the question, so her denial had been true...in the moment. But she had heard him before, and many times after. Sensed him at the fringes of her perception; warmth, like stepping into sunlight--a tingle of affinity, both mental and physical. It drew her in, much as she tried to hold back.

Had this become a test, she wondered? Of her loyalty, her allegiance. Her master loved to test those around him.

But he had no reason to doubt her; her fealty was absolute, contact or not. She had always served him, as far back as she could remember. Resolute, she turned Skywalker's arm over, injecting instead into the vein on the back of his hand, sternly denying the urge to keep hold of it as he woke, to offer him this small comfort.

It would be unfair to give him false hope. Better he fall quickly; submit to Palpatine's will and have done. He was so close now, anyway. The man she had...what, felt empathy toward perhaps; some kind of recognition as a peer, respect for, no matter who they served.

More than that, perhaps--

It didn't matter. That man was gone now, grated away day on day by her master, twisted and distorted into what he desired.

This--all of this--was so unnecessary; Mara could have taken him directly to the Emperor's long-denied 'Behavioral Modification Center' and they could have delivered Palpatine his completely subjugated Jedi, his mind wiped clear, a blank slate. Clean, surgical, risk-free.

But that wasn't what Palpatine wanted.

He wanted to break his Jedi, mind and body. He wanted to do this himself--to achieve absolute control over him. Nothing less would do; it had become an obsession. She had never seen him quite like this before--so vindictive, so obsessed, so driven, so...

Afraid.

Mara's eyes widened at the realization; he was afraid. He was terrified of this Jedi.

Was Vader right? Was Skywalker a genuine threat to the Emperor? Were his powers equal to Palpatine's; was that why he couldn't control or predict him? Was this what terrified and fascinated her master? It would be so like him, to be unable to resist the pull of this much power. Unable to bring himself to destroy it, even knowing that it could turn on him.

This was why he had to control Skywalker so completely. More than that, even. The threat which had been held over his head for so long was now under his control, and it was everything that they had predicted. Everything that he had feared. It wasn't enough for Palpatine to control it; he had to grind it under his heel, tear it apart. Dominate it.

Skywalker made a low noise as he came round, but didn't yet move or open his eyes.

New understanding made Mara blanche as abruptly she felt such pity for him; Palpatine would stop at nothing to conquer his fear, she realized that now. He would break him...and if he couldn't break him, he would rip him to pieces trying.

Did Skywalker know this, too? Did Vader?

Had he been deserted a second time by his father?

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She watched him struggle to consciousness, rolling over onto his back and drawing his knees up before halting as his breath stilled...then slowly lowering his broken ankle, a worsening injury which they hadn't been allowed to treat. He stared straight ahead as he always did, and she knew it was in an effort to stop the room in its lazy spin; knew that it was getting a little harder every time as his reserves were being ground away.

Remaining still for a long while on the hard floor, he watched his breath mist in the cold--it was always so cold here. Carefully calculated to sap at his reserves, slow him, drag him down.

Again he made the noise, half breath, half-groan, from the back of his throat as he lay still, eyes closed again, wanting to hold the ordeal of reality at bay just a few moments longer.

Mara nudged him gently, knowing that her master would be on his way by now. "Sit up. It'll clear your head."

Slowly he uncurled, the cold floor and his injuries making his movements stiff and awkward as he sat in an awkward hunch, freshly-scarred arms wrapping about long-broken ribs. Mara backed up, avoiding his eyes, aware once again of that strange resonance, and for the first time not rejecting it. "There's water here. Wash your face."

The blood from his latest string of confrontations had dried around his wounds and Mara had assumed that her master would want him cleaned up--or perhaps it was simply because it bothered her; she was no longer sure.

She watched him turn stiffly to look at the jewel-bright, delicately enameled bowl before him, a work of art as everything in the Emperor's Palace was, an incongruous bolt of color in the faceless white of this cold, hard, empty cell. Saw him run bruised, broken fingers along its gilded edge, and knew that he was thinking the same. A slight smile brushed his features momentarily. Then he reached out and cupped his good hand into the water.

Mara suddenly realized that, not having been given drinking water for days now, he was going to take the opportunity given. "Don't drink it!" she pre-empted.

He paused momentarily then cupped his hand again.

"Don't; it has antiseptics in it."

He paused again, seemed to weigh this up, then clearly decided he really didn't care. How did she know all this, Mara wondered? Now that she had finally allowed contact, could she hear him as completely as she could the Emperor?

"I'll get you some water to drink. Just wash with..."

He turned slightly. When?

Had he said that, or just thought it? His head was turned down, so she couldn't see his lips. She pulled her comlink from her belt. "Get some water for him." She hesitated, then added, "I'll take responsibility."

She crouched before him to take the immaculate white cloth and hand it to him. This was the closest she had been to him for some time; she'd purposely avoided it. Now, face to face, she couldn't understand why she had so dreaded this.

His expression remained so open, as completely without judgment as it had always had been; he knew this was not of her doing. Still, she looked away from those searching blue eyes, rimmed now with dark bruises, and pushed the cloth into his grip. It looked impossibly pristine in his bruised and bloody hand.

He watched her for a few seconds longer, then passed the cloth to his artificial right hand and dipped it into the water, lifting it to his face. He made contact with an open, angry wound below his eye and pulled away, flinching. Pausing, he glanced momentarily at the dirt and blood which sullied the cloth, before speaking without looking up. "Could I have a mirror?"

This close to him, Mara sensed...she looked away, trying to break contact.

He was strangely, morbidly curious, she knew--not about the injuries, but about himself. With the pointed absence of a mirror even in his apartment, he hadn't seen his reflection in so long he couldn't quite remember what Luke Skywalker looked like. Couldn't remember what he felt like. Had the unnerving feeling that if he looked in a mirror, he would see a stranger.

Again her heart went out to him, so completely alone, knowing that there was no end to this...

"No," she said quickly, guilty at the refusal but knowing that her master would never allow such a humanizing thing when he had worked so hard to objectify Luke; divorce him from his own sense of identity.

Leaning closer, she reached out and took the cloth from him, rinsing it again in the water before reaching out to wipe his face as gently as she could. He winced but didn't pull back. The feel of another human being reaching out to him, touching his face without intimidation or malice, was wonderful to him. She knew that absolutely.

"What am I going to do?" he asked in a low voice, his eyes closed as she worked.

Mara froze at the question. "What?"

"With the mirror--what am I going to do with it?"

She relaxed slightly, relieved, momentarily afraid that he had been asking a much bigger question.

His face didn't change, but she heard the momentary lightness in his voice. "How exactly am I going to make good my escape with a mirror, short of it having a lightsaber welded to it?"

Mara smiled, rinsing the cloth again to continue, the water shot through with red. "Well, it just so happens that the only one I have is just like that."

He smiled just slightly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Thank you."

"For what?"

He didn't answer. He didn't need to; they both knew exactly what he was thanking her for.

Mara turned away, more confused than ever. She wouldn't do this; she wouldn't give him false hope. "It makes no difference. He'll still break you."

"I know." There was utter desolation in those words, spoken so quietly.

Hearing it, Mara almost offered that Palpatine was afraid, but bit it back; no false hope. "Then just give him what he wants. Do as he asks."

He shook his head. "That's not enough."

She knew it was true. Palpatine had to destroy him completely, take him to pieces and rebuild him. Nothing less would suffice.

They remained still in the blanketing silence of the freezing room, the mist of their breath intermingling. She had no idea what to say, but realized that even this didn't matter; he didn't need her to speak--they both knew that any solace offered would be a lie anyway. She needed only to be there--that was comfort enough in this moment. She glanced up at him.

Hunched forward to ease the pain in his ribs, hooded, bruised eyes staring at the floor, blood on his skin, in his clothes, in his hair, he looked like he was already beaten.

Perhaps he was.

Her heart ached; burned in her chest. She couldn't do this--it was just too hard. She wanted to turn and run from the cell, never to come back, never to have to deal with this churning mass of emotions. But she couldn't move. She was anchored to him somehow, hearing his pain and his despair as clearly as she heard the Emperor's confident superiority. But while that connection had always been sharp and invasive, the grate of steel against steel, this felt so comfortable and natural and sincere.

And soon it would be gone; the momentary whisper of a hint of a possibility, ripped violently away from her. It was too cruel. Palpatine would bask in its irony.

Would she know? Would she sense the moment when his soul shattered?

She couldn't do this; she couldn't stay and watch him fall, tumble away into Darkness. But she couldn't help him. She couldn't help him. She couldn't go against her master. The conflict made her eyes well with tears and she blinked them away, angry at herself for being so torn.

"I can't," she managed to whisper, rising quickly, wishing to put some distance between them. She walked hastily to the door without looking back, palming the comm for exit, wishing the guards were quicker. Sensing all the while his quiet, resigned acceptance.

Even now he didn't judge her.

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Luke didn't look up as she left; couldn't bring himself to watch as his last anchor to humanity fled, torn by conflicting emotions and divided loyalties, pushing through the half-open door in her haste to be gone.

Moved by compassion, he didn't have the heart to stop her.

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Mara walked briskly down the corridor, eyes blurred with unshed tears; confusion, anxiety, disquiet...connection? Glancing up, she started in surprise to see Palpatine standing at the far end of the corridor, twelve Royal Guard standing to straight attention nearby. The dense black of his heavy robes stood in stark contrast to the featureless white walls.

Absolutely still, in an almost meditative state, he oozed power, dark and brooding.

Did he know? Did he know what had just happened? Had he waited here, using the Force to eavesdrop, to be sure that Mara wouldn't fail him?

That was a cruel test. She strode toward him, emboldened by indignation, taking a breath to speak--

He motioned slightly with his hand, a strangely distracting movement which broke Mara's train of thought, enabling him to speak first. "I have a task for your special talents, Mara. You should leave today. Go and make ready; I will speak with you later."

Then he was gone without looking back, his thoughts clearly on Skywalker. Mara was left alone in the empty corridor, wondering whether the test had truly been for her, or whether she had been a pawn in a larger game--a final twist of the knife in his captive Jedi; one further opportunity to clarify how utterly alone he was here.

A cold shiver ran down her spine, which she blamed on the frigid air of these levels, far below ground. It occurred to her momentarily to wonder whether, if she had been anywhere other than in the Emperor's Palace, she might have let Skywalker go back there; might have closed her eyes, turned away and whispered, 'Run!'.

She walked quickly down the corridor, eager to be gone. It made no difference if she stayed any more. Soon, perhaps today, the Jedi would be gone too; if not in body, then certainly in mind and soul. She should let him go--he was, in truth, already lost. He just wouldn't admit it. But her master would change that, as he changed everything else to suit his desires.

How had she ever thought anything could come of this? What had she thought could possibly happen?

Her master was right--compassion was a crippling weakness.

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Luke sat quietly on the floor as the Emperor entered the gloomy room, his powerful presence in the Force in direct contrast to his wizened frame. As he passed, his heavy black robes caught against Luke's face momentarily, enveloping him in their suffocating blackness, like being submerged in deep water. Lost in a darkness all his own, he didn't react.

Maybe he just didn't care anymore.

He ached so much that it had become impossible to separate out any individual injury. They blurred into one single pain so intense that simply to move induced a spasm which sliced through his whole body, so severe that it blotted out any reaction, freezing him to tense stillness as he waited out the blinding burst.

In a strange way, the beatings no longer hurt--or rather, they hurt like hell, but the pain was already so great that it could no longer be exceeded, save for the actual moment that it was inflicted. And he had learned...learned that pain could be, if not ignored, then in some way tolerated. That he could function to some extent around it. And if not, then it was possible to simply exist, and wait.

Exist--the distant memory surfaced, of his father telling him that sometimes this was the greatest victory of all; simply to exist. At the time he had dismissed it--now...he understood. Understood what a triumph it could be, simply to keep sane for one more day.

His head ached from trying to concentrate, trying to keep track from hour to hour, simply trying to mark the passage of time.

Or was it the drugs, which kept him subdued but offered no rest? He vaguely remembered thinking that long ago; that Palpatine had a drug, that it was self-replicating, working despite Luke bringing the Force to bear on it. Was that right? He didn't care anymore. He didn't care what Palpatine thought of that fact.

Was that important?

He looked at the old man, at the goading, self-congratulating smile on his lips and in his spiteful yellow eyes, and knew that Palpatine was listening to his thoughts. Was that important?

He no longer cared.

He didn't care that he sat hunched on the floor, his back against the wall...how ironic...

It had been important once, he knew. It had seemed so important then that he held out. Now, he couldn't remember why.

Now he just sat slumped on the floor because it didn't matter.

Then get up. Stand up. Fight back.

There was a mental pause as he pulled together the concentration to think about gathering aching, trembling, starving, battered muscles to stand. But he didn't--what was the point? He would only be knocked down again.

He thought of an eternity like this, in this cell, with only Palpatine's goading manipulations pushing him ever downward, grating away his faltering resolve....

He had expected a quick end; to say no, and be killed. Not this--isolated and disarmed, Palpatine nipping and slicing away at him, barbed and bitter, ruthless and relentless, day after day after day.

Death of a thousand cuts.

The dull hiss of the heavy door releasing interrupted his train of thought as a guard entered the room. Surprised at the presence of the Emperor, the man bowed deeply--and Luke saw what was in his hand.

Glancing away immediately, eyes to the ground, Luke knew it was probably too late--the Sith doubtless already knew. He knew everything else--why should this be any different?

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It crossed Palpatine's mind to wonder why he had been disturbed by the guard--then a split-second burst of emotion from his Jedi, instantly quashed, brushed a thin, cruel smile of realization across his lips, as he saw a new opportunity to test just how much control he could now exercise over the boy's waning resolve.

"Set it down here," Palpatine said easily as he walked to the chair that had been placed for him and settled, watching his Jedi closely, unable to keep the delight of anticipation from his voice.

The boy stared at the floor before him, making a conscious effort not to look up.

The guard crouched to set the glass down on the floor at Palpatine's foot, then lifted the stopper from the metal flask to pour water into it. A pure, clear note sounded as the water hit and swirled around.

The boy glanced momentarily, unable to stop himself, then looked quickly down again as the guard rose and turned, lifting the heavy metal water bowl from the floor nearby, and bowing again before he left.

Palpatine said nothing for a long time, savoring the desperate desire which raged through the boy in sharp contrast to the calm, controlled mask of his expression.

He had thought to underline Mara's abandonment, but this was far better This was an opportunity to see not only what resistance the boy still had left, but also how much he had begun to listen to his new Master. What he would accept without dispute, and what he still had the presence of mind to question.

So he waited, watching, letting the silence hang heavy, giving his Jedi time to realize the game afoot. When he was quite sure that he knew, he began...

"Are you thirsty, Jedi?"

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Left unconscious save in Palpatine's presence, without food or water for many days, Luke knew he was on the edge. Food he could do without, but water he needed desperately in his present state, his cramping muscles and spinning head a constant reminder of just how critical he was.

The Emperor let the silence stretch out as Luke stared resolutely at the floor, when every fiber of his being was focused on the glass of water as he rocked forwards and backwards a few times almost imperceptibly, his jaw clenched shut.

"If you are thirsty, then take the water," Palpatine offered, almost gently.

Luke tried so hard, but was unable to stop his gaze from pulling slowly, reluctantly, back to the water, though he didn't move. Instead he just watched in silence as condensation ran down the outside of the glass to pool at its base, shimmering in the harsh lights. Watched as tiny reflections which darted about the water's rippling surface slowly stilled, magnifying refracted pools of light onto the floor about it. Watched as the last small bubbles of air clinging to the inside of the glass floated dizzily to the surface. He was absolutely, painfully aware of how parched his mouth was, of the cracks in his lips, of his throat so dry that it hurt simply to talk. His whole body was attuned to the water in that glass, crying out for the relief which was right there in front of him.

For several seconds he sat still, dizzy with indecision.

He had to drink; he had to have water. He was shaking from dehydration, his muscles cramped, his head throbbed. He was long past thirst, and a life in the desert had taught him what that meant.

He needed water.

But he hesitated, knowing that there would be a cost, as there was with everything now, waiting to see what the Emperor wanted.

Slowly, deliberately, the glass slid towards him, singing with vibration over the scuffed, white floor.

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Using the Force, Palpatine slid the glass to a halt at a central point between them and waited, relishing the struggle taking place before him.

Three times his Jedi's fingers twitched as he nearly reached out for the glass but stopped himself before finally, hesitantly, knowing he was being played but knowing also that he couldn't do otherwise, he reached forward. Palpatine smiled, gratified. "But understand that if you do, there will be a price."

The boy paused without looking up, a weary, wary expression on his face.

"What price?" His hoarse voice was low and quiet and resigned.

Palpatine offered nothing more, but instead rose and walked slowly round to the back of his Jedi, immeasurably pleased that the boy was not outraged or angry or even surprised that Palpatine had stopped him. Nor did he even think to question the fact that he had stopped, or that there would be a price associated with this most basic human necessity. He wished only to know the cost.

He crouched down behind the boy, and was rewarded by feeling his body tense as he rested his hands to the grazed, open wounds on the boy's shoulders and leaned in close to whisper, "Kneel."

So close to him, in direct physical contact, Palpatine felt the shock of outrage ripple through him, a heady burst of rage and revulsion.

Skywalker made to turn, but Palpatine took his head from behind in both hands, forcing him to turn back to the glass. "Look! Don't lose sight of what you want--what you need to survive. What you want is everything; how you get it is nothing. I ask such a small thing. The only thing which is stopping you is your own arrogant pride. Such a--"

"NO!" Skywalker twisted free by pulling forward, so weak that he had to catch his weight with the flats of his bruised hands against the floor, wrenching his broken arm back as it made contact, making him yell out.

"Yes," Palpatine sneered, rising to walk away from the hunched man. "This is so much more dignified."

The boy stayed down, his head hung low, one hand to the floor, his injured arm clutched to him, chest heaving.

Palpatine sat again, his black cloak billowing out about him. "Look at yourself. You're no more than an empty shell. A few ragged memories of the man you were. You're nothing."

Still the boy did not raise his head, did not deny the words thrown against him. Palpatine leaned forward and bit out the accusation again with absolute malice, "You're nothing."

"Then kill me." The voice was very small, barbed by thirst, barely a whisper.

Palpatine laughed maliciously and leaned back again, his composure reinstated. "I told you, I will never do that. No matter what I do to you, I will always rebuild you and do it again...and again. You belong to me."

"Then give me the water."

"You may have it. You have only to kneel."

His Jedi looked again at the water; Palpatine reached out with the Force and made the glass shake just slightly, to clarify that he would simply overturn it if the boy reached for it without his permission, and his Jedi looked down again, to the side, to his battered hands, anywhere but at the glass. And Palpatine knew that he was completely lost. "This fight is over, my friend." He reached out with the Force to brush the boy's mind so benignly. "You know it as well as I do. Let it go; do as I ask."

The boy shook his head slowly but didn't look up. He was so close now, so close to surrender. Palpatine could feel his despair, his desolation, his desperation. It drew him in, intoxicating, like a drug. "Why is this so hard? It's nothing; only you and I are here. Whether you sit or kneel, there is no difference, the only difference is in your mind."

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"No! No different! Only different in your mind." The voice of his old Master saying those same words with such scorn floated into Luke's head. Had they really been spoken to him? It seemed so long ago...another lifetime. He struggled to remember his old Master's name...but it was gone, lost to him now.

As if reading his thoughts, Palpatine pushed on, his voice so benevolent. "The reluctance you feel is the relic from an old life...a life which is irrevocably gone now, and you know it. Are you sure it was ever your own, or were you fighting someone else's battle? Fighting their battles, when they have abandoned you to fight yours, alone."

A breath escaped him, more than a sigh but less than a moan, and Palpatine leaned forward, enraptured, grinning in anticipation as Luke wavered at the very brink.

Was it so terrible to kneel?

Yes.

Oh but he wanted the water. He needed the water. Palpatine was right, nobody cared. Why was he fighting when nobody cared? It was such a small thing, to kneel. It was nothing, not anymore. He was nothing, so how could it matter? Just kneel and take the water--what does it matter?

Because if you do this now, you hand control of your life over to him. Forever. If he knows he can beat you once, he'll do it again and again and again. You know that.

He licked dry lips with dry tongue.

But he needed the water. The room was spinning now and he knew it wasn't just the drugs. He'd grown up in the desert; he knew what systematic dehydration was. He needed the water.

And it was right there...right there!

If you do this, you've given him control. No matter what happens, no matter where you go, you will never truly leave this cell.

You will never leave this cell.

Luke was vaguely aware that he was rocking slightly, so torn by conflicting emotions was he, so desperate to act, to make a choice.

Choose!

Take the water. It's right there. Right there!

Kneel and drink the water... what does it matter? You'll kneel eventually--you know that now--you know it's the truth.

Kneel, and you'll walk out of this cell tonight.

He glanced up at the Emperor and saw...

Saw the cold black soul behind those cruel yellow eyes. Saw his gratification, his rapture at Luke's struggle, his anticipation of dominion.

Outrage and resentment and frustration crystallized into cold fury. With a suddenness that was startling, Luke reached out through the Force and launched the glass with fierce violence against the wall, shattering it to tiny shards which exploded back in an outburst of water and sharp crystal shards.

The Emperor half-rose, the blind fury of denial in his eyes and Luke was, for once, almost on his feet, incensed, as the lightning shocked toward him.

For the first time, he absorbed the blast: channeled it and pushed it back so that it crackled towards the Emperor, grounding on the lightning still being thrown towards him, tendrils sparking, spears burning back through Palpatine's defenses to sear cloth and skin as both men were pushed apart by the fury of opposing forces, feet sliding over smooth ground.

But his shock at doing this broke Luke's focus, so that when Palpatine drew more power to himself and threw it forward again it hit with brutal intensity, lancing Luke backwards, searing away any thought of resistance.

He was unconscious before he hit the ground, which did nothing to stay Palpatine's wrath.

.

When his Red Guards finally opened the door, the Emperor was still fuming. He turned to the nearest, cold fury in his eyes. "My Jedi wants water. Douse him in it, then drug him."

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Luke was shocked back to consciousness by freezing water hitting his face and body with a physical force like a blow, in sufficient quantity to push him backwards. He pulled a stunned breath in, too shocked to even cry out. Someone grabbed his arm from behind and a sharp pain pierced the muscle, making him jerk away, curling up in anticipation of another beating.

But as suddenly as it had begun, the assault ended and the guards were gone, the door locking behind them with its familiar double-thud and hermetic hiss.

For several seconds Luke could only breathe, the intensity of the ice-cold water in the frigid cell freezing his mind...but slowly the throbbing pain in his arm began to take precedence and he brought his hand up to his shoulder. With a deep sting that made him jump, he touched metal, and gingerly teased out the needle which had broken in his arm, dropping the tip into the water which pooled about him on the floor, his hand trembling with shock and cold.

Doused head to toe with freezing water, his body temperature dropping rapidly, he was already beginning to shiver uncontrollably. He crawled from the pooled water to the corner of the cell, arms about himself. It was only when he noticed the shards of glass that his numb mind realized Palpatine's sick irony...

He had wanted water.

It occurred to him in that bleak moment to wonder if there was a piece of glass large enough to inflict damage, but the knowledge that Palpatine would not allow his Jedi a self- inflicted escape turned his head away; he would only pay for the defiance.

Another shiver wracked his body and he huddled tighter, the grey mist of the drugs darkening his vision as they began to drag him down. He knew he was too cold, knew that he shouldn't sleep--to do so now, like this, would sap what few resources his body had left. But the darkness closed in, and he was too drained to fight.

The cool white of the cell--walls, floor and ceiling--dragged his drugged mind back to memories of Hoth, of the snow falling in blinding flurries, making his vision darken against it. His breath was beginning to mist in front of him as he shivered.

Don't sleep.

His mind began to drift, remembering Hoth, remembering Han giving him Corellian brandy to ward off the cold. He realized his eyes were closed and snapped them open.

Don't sleep.

He remembered Han saying that to him when he'd found Luke in the snow: 'Don't sleep, Luke. Fight it.'

His teeth were chattering...they were actually chattering! He laughed out loud, the noise turning to vapor as it left his mouth.

Time slowed...his head lolled forward, trembling muscles dropping loose, limbs too heavy to support now. Two perfect circles of scarlet dropped to the floor before him as blood dripped from his face, seeming to appear from nowhere in his fading vision. He gazed, transfixed.

Another shiver wracked through him.

Don't sleep...

Don't...

An image unfurled, intensity pushing back at the dim fog of the drugs as it blossomed outwards in absolute silence like a flower opening, smooth and graceful:

.

.

.

...

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Two marks, perfect circles of deep scarlet...

Blood on snow. His blood--long ago... Wounds freezing long before they scabbed...

Frigid white changing to warm red, staining the crisp clean drifts.

His blood

His life...everything was fading

Hazing into the icy blue of snow in darkness.

Only those ruby red circles remained...

The snow flurried and turned to sand and dust; a whipwind in the desert, scarlet suns setting over the heat-rippled horizon.

Tatooine--dense, bone-deep warmth, the sand itself oozing heat in the balmy dusk.

Twin suns setting, blazing a waning trail through pallid skies, writhing in their own heat haze.

People, places, memories as warm as the pale sand...

Were they his at all? So long ago...

His past, his future, his whole life was fading with the setting suns...

Falling into Darkness...

... ... ... ...

...

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After failing to coerce Skywalker to kneel yesterday, Palpatine returned quite literally with a vengeance and brought him to his knees by force, no longer in the mood to play games.

On entering the cell, before his painfully weak Jedi had even begun struggling upright, he threw a lance of bright white power at him, hurling him back and making him cry out in shock.

Two Red Guards dragged him to the center of the cell, hauling him upright then kicking at the backs of his knees to force him to a kneeling position, holding him there with his arms twisted behind his back as Palpatine crouched before him, the boy shouting out in frustrated resentment and bare pain.

Palpatine took his blood-spiked hair and yanked his head up, holding him still against his weak struggle as he looked into those wild, stormy ice-blue eyes, full of indignant outrage.

"You should kneel before your Master."

"You are not my Master!" He yelled, but the words were broken, made hoarse by frailty and his parched throat.

"Then get up," Palpatine goaded, and the boy let out an animal sound part fury, part frustration, and utterly lost.

"Let him go," Palpatine said at last, rising and turning away as his Jedi wrenched free of them, not looking back until they were gone, the door secured behind them.

Skywalker had remained on his knees, collapsing back to sit on his bare heel, his broken ankle twisted awkwardly to the side to protect it, one hand clutched tightly to him, the other to the cold white floor, stained by dark smears of long-dry blood.

For a moment Palpatine thought he had learned his lesson, but the slump in the boy's shoulders and the fact that he used his hand to keep his swaying body upright hinted that he was simply incapable of doing anything more in this moment.

He circled his Jedi, careful to remain out of his reach should he lash out like a wounded animal, aware now that he could do that, that he was balanced this close to the edge...

The revelation had shocked them both yesterday: Skywalker's ability to repel the lightening--to turn it back on its source. But the reminder of his power only drove Palpatine's vindictive, obsessive need to dominate. He knew he was gambling with his very life; this was why he had to control his Jedi so completely. He pushed and goaded him towards the Darkness, knowing that in the moment he succumbed, the boy would hold unequalled power. Power which could so easily be turned on his new Master.

This was always the way with the Dark Side--personal experience had taught Palpatine this, a lesson hard-learned by his own Master. But now, with Skywalker, the risk was tenfold, because his power would be absolute.

As his father should have been but never was; incredible potential dwindled and diminished by a debilitated body.

Not so his child--what power to hold, to direct and channel as Palpatine saw fit. The very thought made him dizzy with anticipation, the wild, enervating fear in his own black heart pushing him on to control completely, mind and soul.

Yes, fear; it was a long time since he had felt fear. But here, before this being who crackled and pulsed with power, he tasted the acid tang in the back of his throat again and it made him feel alive. And the more he feared, the more he felt the driving desire to own that which inspired it.

He could sense the power building like a pressure keg within his Jedi, screaming for release now.

Just a little further; push him just a little harder.

He crouched again to lift his Jedi's chin, face bloody and bruised, breath shallow and broken. "Where are your reserves, my friend? Where is that iron will, now?"

The boy was silent, numb with exhaustion.

"Have you nothing left to give? Is this the sum of all your convictions? How easily those principles crumble."

Still the boy was silent; didn't even pull away when Palpatine released him to reach out and run pale fingers through his dark, blood-matted hair as his head dropped forward.

He sensed the boy flounder in wretched despair for long seconds before that obstinate, intractable will lifted his sagging head. But Palpatine only smiled at him, yellow teeth against grey skin.

"The end is in sight. Just a little longer," he promised, very sure. Again he raked long fingers through his Jedi's hair, nails to scalp, fingers closing, holding him tight. "Do you sense it? Shall we move forward?"

He leaned in close to whisper against the boy's grazed, bleeding skin. "Now is the true test, my friend...because I have not even begun to break you. I have not even begun to tear you apart. Your worst nightmare that howls in the dead of night is nothing. What happens here, in this room, will make it pale; wither by comparison. And there is no waking--there is no respite. I have not shown you a fraction of the power which I will turn on you. What I am willing to do to set you free. Don't give in yet, Jedi--the fight is just begun."

He held against the boy's sagging head. "What do you fear, Jedi? What do you see in the dark when your demons come?"

The boy's chest heaved as he summoned the strength to speak. It took long seconds, but when he did, he was unmoved, raising a scuffed and scarred face as his split lip curled into a snarl.

"Have you finished?" he spat it out, resentment giving him voice, coloring words and thoughts alike.

Palpatine stared in malevolent silence, yellow eyes glowing.

Skywalker's own eyes narrowed, cold as ice, voice broken and weak but invested with a power and conviction which held Palpatine captive. "I know...I know what you'll do. And I know why.

"Because I see you too--I see you. I know what you see--your demon in the dark. It's hunted you and it's haunted you since you first gained power and it stalks you still. Everything that you've done has been to contain it and control it--everything. You've spent a lifetime building walls within walls to protect yourself from it. You've wasted decades raising those defenses to try to make yourself completely impregnable...but there's one tiny spark of doubt in your mind and it burns through your soul, and in the dead of night it howls in the darkness. Because nothing could stop it--nothing. Not even you. I know what you see in the darkness because it burns when you look in my eyes. I know what you see in the dark when your demon comes...

"I know that it's me."

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To be continued...

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