Into the Storm

Chapter 20

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CHAPTER TWENTY

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Exhausted beyond all conscious denial or acceptance, Luke slipped willingly down into a state of merciful unconsciousness which freed him from cold, harsh reality, and so was unaware as others whispered into the room, hushed footsteps dragging scarlet smears across the blood-spattered floors. In the still silence they gathered about him and with infinite care lifted his inert form to carry him with quiet deliberation from the carnage.

Palpatine paused alone a moment longer, loathed to relinquish the rapture of the moment. First blood was always an enthralling, enrapturing moment--total surrender of rational reason to raw emotion, powerful and empowering. But this, the culmination of so long and desperate a struggle, the fracture point, the pivotal moment when all previous beliefs and convictions fell away, this had been...like art created--sublime. Worth every second of denied fulfillment.

The boy was the realization of everything that his father should have been; raw potential ascended. Without compromise, this time. It was at once terrifying and exhilarating, to bend such power to one's will. To control it and not have it control you--destroy you. Like taming a tornado; elemental, empowering.

Only now was he grounding after the high of his feral Jedi's spectacular fall from grace.

Finally he could move forward and train the boy in the ways of the Sith. Make him everything his father should have been--would have been, had Kenobi not cut him down.

His father...

Palpatine sighed wistfully as he finally walked from the cell, the silent little procession gone now. He walked slowly to the waiting turbolift, lost in consideration. It would be interesting to try to keep them both, father and son. To hold them both, and play them against each other until one of them finally snapped.

But Skywalker's power was too great, eclipsing all other considerations. It would require his full attention to control his Dark Jedi for some time yet, to ensure that he was brought fully to heel. Now was a dangerous time; Skywalker was more than a Jedi, but not yet a Sith, not yet deferring completely to his new Master's will.

It would surely be better to break this final link; not risk emotional complications with one for whom this had always been a flaw.

And yet...it appealed to his twisted sense of possession...

The rule had been laid down centuries past, that there would be only two Sith--Master and apprentice. But Palpatine knew himself beyond such petty restrictions, made to guide those less capable than he. He could achieve more... Had achieved so much already. And now there were no restrictions to hamper him, no Jedi to obstruct his plans, no 'Son of Suns' to hinder him, all prophetic predictions laid to rest by his own hand.

He entered his Jedi's apartments, cold from their long empty spell as he had shaped his Jedi into his Sith. He smiled at that; not quite a Sith yet, but no longer a Jedi; not for some time. Though he liked the designation--ironic now. His final revenge on those who had thought to contain him. He must, after all, call his new apprentice something, and why not this--his Feral Jedi, tamed now. Bound and brought to heel.

He entered the dark room where his Jedi lay in the huge, high bed, the reflected flickering of the firelight casting writhing shadows over his still form. Pale, bloody, bruised skin against perfect white, so still that the white linen seemed draped about him like a shroud, the opulent surroundings of carved wood and rich, dark, heavy fabrics not quite able to displace the disquieting atmosphere, as cold and silent and still as the tomb.

The Emperor's thin lips pulled back; yes, Lord Vader could be ordered to return soon. He had a very important task to provide for his Master, one only he could fulfill. He would enable Palpatine's Feral Jedi to cut this final tie himself, a conclusive test of absolute loyalty, of Palpatine's unconditional control. Proof of his Jedi's mastery over his greatest weakness.

A trial, as their kind had always tested themselves--their abilities, their allegiance, their convictions.

A duel. To the death? Perhaps. If only in intent...

He so wanted to loose this wild thing, this wolf. Wanted to see if he had tamed it enough that it would come to heel when he called.

Wanted to unleash it just to see it fight.

He would need to begin training the boy in the ways of the Sith immediately; equip him with the skills to match his power. Because power alone was not enough; that was Vader's way, to drive forward with incredible brute strength, to get the job done effectively, but with neither finesse nor élan. The blunt instrument. Incredibly powerful and infinitely more experienced than his son. A deadly combination, proving effective time and again.

Skywalker would need a great deal to counter it. But Palpatine had studied him from afar, as soon as he had learned the name of the pilot who had destroyed his Death Star with that single, impossible shot. Studied him without giving the name over to his father. First as a new enemy, then more recently--long before Vader had tried to hide his own gaping weaknesses and subtle treacheries behind his suggestion to turn the child--as a possible apprentice.

So he had observed Skywalker's progress through the ranks of the Rebellion long before he noted the boy's latent Force talents emerging; noted his fast mind, steady under fire, his adaptability when cornered, his focus, always keeping his eye on the end goal.

Attributes which could easily be applied to the art of the duel.

A great duelist fought like a chess master, always keeping his eye on the larger picture, on the move five steps ahead from where he was now, driving his opponent from check to check, maintaining the impetus, always pro-active, compelling his opponent to be re-active, forcing a mistake. Speed in mind and body, refinement of technique. The fine blade.

Vader had commented that their duel on Bespin had revealed the boy to be far more capable than he had expected. Knowing now that Yoda had trained him, Palpatine could well understand why; the wily old Jedi Master had always excelled at training padawans in lightsaber technique. But some things could not be taught. The boy must have some innate skills, in order to have faced down and out-maneuvered a trained Jedi-turned-Sith of Vader's ability, turning what should have been a very short and decisive victory into a near-fiasco. Probably the same focus and composure, the same mental speed and agility which made him an exemplary fighter-pilot.

Since the boy obviously had natural ability and Master Yoda had already unwittingly aided Palpatine immensely in completing his basic training, it was left only to hone that skill. To teach the boy to find his strengths and utilize them, to read another's weaknesses and exploit them. To tutor and train and instill into him the subtleties and uncompromising precision of technique which would build on his basic nature to make him exceptional.

Lord Vader had few flaws in the duel, and he disguised them well, but Palpatine was quietly confident. He did not wish to lose Vader--the idea of owning both Vader and Skywalker still held appeal--but if he must sacrifice one to control the other, then it was Vader he would surrender. His new Empire could be built with Skywalker in a way that it never could with Vader. He would be harder to control than his father, but the gains would outweigh the risks. Yes--brute force and long experience against newly-honed speed and technique. He had time enough to prepare the boy, to lay in place the skills necessary to counter Vader. To hone his fine blade. After that, well then, the boy was on his own.

And in the chess game of absolute dominion, one should be willing to surrender even major pieces in pursuit of one's final goal. His two highest-value players; would he be forced to relinquish one in order to possess the other? Already he smiled in anticipation...

If he were to sacrifice Lord Vader to secure his son's loyalty, then he should at least be entertained by the spectacle. If Skywalker couldn't defeat Vader, Palpatine had lost nothing; he still had Lord Vader...and this moment, this memory of his Jedi's magnificent, explosive, incomparable fall still fresh enough to instigate a burning burst of energized adrenaline.

And even in death, Skywalker could still serve a purpose...

As he had done when his Jedi had first arrived here, Palpatine reached out to rest his hand on the boy's forehead, to feel again that locus of power, intoxicating, potent, addictive.

And there was something else there now, disconnected and distinct, like oil on water.

Darkness imbued his Jedi's contact with the Force. A razor-sharp focus whose intensity magnified and expanded it, bringing a gratified smile to Palpatine's thin lips...which vanished abruptly as another thought occurred, coldly compelling.

He should kill him; kill him now, while he slept.

He was too powerful, too great a risk. He remembered again Skywalker's biting accusations in the cell--that it was he who prowled through Palpatine's darkest nightmare visions, he who had been the threat hanging over the Sith's head for so long, he who was Palpatine's demon in the darkness, the wolf who hunted in the shadows...and he knew it.

He should kill him. Destroy that nightmare vision once and for all.

His thoughts turned momentarily back to his own Master, Plagueis, killed in his sleep by an apprentice too powerful to contain. Palpatine rubbed a sharp nail over his thin lips as the memory turned into a cruel smile. His Master had been careless, to trust his apprentice so readily. To allow him so much free will. Overconfidence had made him blind to the possibility of betrayal. Palpatine would never make that mistake. His fallen Jedi would be closely watched, tightly controlled, any defiance ruthlessly dealt with.

Yes, he would keep the boy, let him live. The past months had been exhilarating, invigorating. The boy's raw power and his obstinate, willful refusal to obey would always make him difficult to control, but the thrill of an apprentice who had the potential to turn on him in a way that Vader never would have was in itself stimulating.

Vader simply didn't have the will to challenge his Master directly; he never had. Palpatine's hold over him, instilled in childhood, had always been too great. He may covet total power, crave it, make subtle, veiled moves against his Master in pursuit of it, but his desire and his audacity were worlds apart. He had never challenged the Emperor directly, had never faced him down, had never drawn blood as his son had, both literally and figuratively.

Yes, he had owned a trained attack dog for too long, Palpatine realized. It was powerful and it was pitiless, but it always came to heel. Now he had a wolf--unbroken, unpredictable and craving to run.

Would it ever walk to heel as its father had?

Again Palpatine wavered, indecisive in the face of this genuine threat... But how could one destroy such compelling power, fascinating in its indomitable defiance?

Wildly volatile though--difficult to contain under pressure. And still in ascendancy, only just finding its way, the path being carefully meted out by Palpatine. Was he teaching his executioner, as Darth Plagueis had?

But it was so incredibly alive--provocative, mesmerizing, potent.

Greater risk for greater gain.

And such gains; he had sensed that earlier, as his Feral Jedi had called the stormy Darkness to him, had first truly used it and not allowed it to use him. The air itself had crackled with power, raw and raging. A new current in the Darkness, feral and unchecked, opening a new portal. Power had come rushing through and Palpatine had bathed in its reflected glory, had felt himself renewed and invigorated by the dynamic inrush, felt his own barren soul nourished and gratified, his own lust for power momentarily satiated by proximity to this distinct new consciousness.

Power which would soon be equal to his own, backed by that driving, singular will.

Power which was a real threat.

Again Palpatine hesitated, indecisive...

But he did not want to destroy that which he had invested so much in creating. He was well aware that his desire to possess may be influencing his decision, but he was prepared to kill him if he had to. The boy was simply too powerful to risk any insubordination.

That, Palpatine had learned from his own Master's very costly mistake. It had, after all, been Palpatine who had taken a steel assassin's blade to the throat of Darth Plagueis. Silent steel rather than a lightsaber, whose distinctive sound would have given its victim a moment's warning. He had identified the most suitable tool for the job, unbound by the ingrained tradition of a lifelong formal education in the Force.

The fact that Skywalker too had been trained only in adulthood rather than from birth had gained him a similarly unexpected advantage in that he did not rely too completely on the Force, instead applying that quick, adaptive mind to think his way around a situation.

Yes, Skywalker too would use stealth, rather than brute force. Would use any and every weapon at his disposal, which gave him an unpredictable edge in any conflict. The Emperor smiled, almost affectionately; in this they were very much alike. He stared down at the boy, who lay absolutely still mind and body, lost in the void between unconsciousness and exhaustion.

"Rest, Dark Jedi. Tomorrow is the start of a new life." Using the Force, he pushed the boy into deeper sleep.

And this time, his Jedi did not fight back.

Taking his hand away only reluctantly, Palpatine's eye was drawn to two dark droplets of blood by the boy's head, perfect circles of scarlet against the snow white linen, drawing him in, hypnotic...

The vision took him, unfurling like a silent explosion, ripping reality aside...

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He saw the black wolf in the night, the feral creature which had haunted his visions for two long decades, whispering through the darkness, wild and capricious. In a flurry of shadows it was gone, as it always was, and he stared at the empty stillness...

He turned, uncertain, the silence profound.

Knelt before him in mute stillness was his fallen Jedi, eyes turned down in submissive defeat, a dark, heavy cloak of dense black fur draped about him, absorbing all light.

The wolf in the night... Pull the leash too tight and he will bite.

The Jedi stood, and the confining sable cloak he wore slipping from his shoulders to reveal scarlet slices slashed deep into his arm, dripping dark drops from his fingers as he wordlessly held out his hand.

Palpatine's eyes were drawn inexorably down to the lightsaber in his Jedi's hand, smeared blood red, the color of anger and passion and betrayal...

Vader's saber--would the boy ultimately turn on his father?

Why did he give the saber to Palpatine?

-Take it- His feral Jedi said, though his lips did not move.

Palpatine looked again to the lightsaber as perfect scarlet droplets seeped over the inactive hilt, pooling on the floor at Palpatine's feet, soaking a stain into the trailing hem of his cloak...

Liquid life, rich and viscous.

Liquid death, weeping ruby tears.

Death...

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The vision collapsed into itself, dragging the air from Palpatine's lungs, and he was standing again in the still silence of the shadowed room, staring at the twin droplets of blood.

He remained motionless for some time, contemplating the vision.

Would the boy kill his father then? Was that an unalterable, immutable event? Why would he hand over Vader's saber? Had Palpatine asked him to do the deed? Was it proof that he had complied?

What had he seen--a possible future, or a warning knell?

Either way, it was no vast surprise--the price of holding great power was a greater risk, a greater effort to control it, greater vigilance. He was comfortable with this; he even looked forward to it. A game of high stakes--the only kind worthy of his attention.

If it was a warning, it would become clear in time. Forewarned was forearmed, and gifted with the enlightenment of this vision, he now had the knowledge to shape its reality.

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Luke dragged himself back from the void slowly, knowing absolutely that everything had changed. Not just himself--everything. Nothing could be the same ever again.

Reality seeped in, demanding attention, but he left it be and lay deathly still, eyes shut, muddy brown light filtering through closed lids.

All around him Darkness swirled, every surface composed of it, every object imbued with it. But this was no longer the wolf howling in the pitch of night--instead it cowered and whimpered, awaiting command. He knew the power it wielded though, the power it had so readily relinquished. Knew what it was capable of...what he was capable of.

Was it this realization which had tilted everything?

No--something else brooded; something preordained pushed inexorably onward like the cogs of a lock falling into place. He listened within, attuned every fiber of his being to this deep stillness... He could sense it, ancient and primal, like the galaxy breathing--like life itself.

All things changed, evolved--this was the nature of life. To be alive was to be in a state of transformation. Mutation. This driving power dragged ever onward and he was powerless against its mass, inertia created at the dawn of time, like trying to stop the galaxy revolving.

Everything was changing. Nothing could escape. Nothing remained untouched. Not even the Force, neither Light nor Darkness.

The Darkness imbued him now. It was a part of him. He was part of it, closely attuned. It buzzed in the air like atoms colliding, potent, persuasive. Incredible, unlimited power searching to ground, desiring to be used, offering without judgment, without device.

It waited, expectant.

He neither summoned nor rejected it, but listened instead to the sound of his own breathing, light and shallow. To the wind which gusted a gale outside, hurling sheets of hail against the thick panes of the windows. Above that, he could hear a fire crackling in the hearth and above that, murmured whispers close by, perhaps in the room, perhaps not.

He remained absolutely still in body and soul, strangely detached in the face of his own downfall, all emotions gone, as if he had suffered so much torment for so long that there was simply nothing left to give--no regret, no shame, neither disappointment nor contrition.

Yes, he had turned on them, but...what had they expected? He couldn't say that they didn't deserve their fate. He'd hated them--hated his own weakness, puerile conscience binding his hands when he knew he could have stopped them at any time. Palpatine had been right--it had been in his blood for so long, held in check. It was inevitable that he would have lashed out eventually; it was just a matter of when--and how.

He couldn't even feel guilt, his actions so far beyond such finite, limited emotions that they simply defied reaction. There was nothing of equal significance that he could possibly feel...so he felt nothing at all.

He recognized distantly that some vital part of himself had shut down, unable to deal with the enormity of his actions. Fallen silent leaving only a glacial emptiness in its place, possessed of a stillness like the pitch of night, the loss too deep to even begin to contemplate. But even this knowledge didn't concern him, viewed as it was from a detached perspective, as if he were standing outside of himself watching some surreal dream unfold, untouched by its events, wrapped about by an empty, resigned acceptance, distant and disconnected.

Should he feel bitter? Angry that all this had been taken, dissected with faultless surgical precision, slice by painful slice, flawless in its execution? It had been a ruthless and pitiless mutilation, every rip and tear slashing deeper, bleeding him dry until all that was left was the empty shell of a distant memory, dry as the desert dust.

Nothing was left. Nothing at all. He couldn't even bring himself to try to remember what he'd lost; to say--to even think--his own name, he realized.

He was at once appallingly empty and absolutely calm.

And in some strange way relieved; it was over now. It was finally over. The fact that he was still alive was...unexpected, unwanted. But it was over--he recognized that.

Was this acceptance...surrender? He had thought it would be bitter and grinding, barbed and biting, his soul ripped from his body. But in truth, he felt nothing at all. Absolutely nothing.

Only tiredness--a profound, bone-deep exhaustion from the bottom of his soul. The dull, cramping ache of a beaten body at the very edge of its endurance--and that strangely welcome now, his only constant, his only way to be sure that he was alive at all.

The still air was warm against his skin, the surface he lay on soft and yielding. It was so long since he had lain on anything but the cold, hard floor that this felt unnatural and uncomfortable. He knew the thought should fill him with outrage, but it didn't. It was just a fact, insignificant in the greater scheme of things.

The warmth lulled him so that he wanted nothing more than to follow its lure into the empty comfort of sleep, but Darkness swirled like the sky before a storm, particles charging, a susurration of energy searching to ground...and he knew what this was, though he had never sensed it as such before.

The whisper of heavy cloth on the hard floor still had the power to send a pang of trepidation through his body, jaw tightening, heart drumming against dark memories.

Light footsteps became silent over deep rugs as they drew nearer and he knew that he was being watched now, though he felt no particular need to open his eyes. He had all the information he needed without resorting to such crude senses. So he remained as he was, allowing the Force to act about him, receiving the information passively without acting upon it or enhancing it further. For a long time as he lay still, the figure remained beside him, studying him, aware that he was awake.

Eventually, reluctantly obeying the knowledge that it was expected of him, he opened his eyes, dry and gritty, so that he had to blink several times against fatigue.

"Dress him." Palpatine's gravelly voice was harsh and hard, cold as the grave--exactly as he remembered.

The Emperor turned and walked from the room, cloak dragging over heavy rugs which padded cold marble.

He lay for several seconds longer, still desperate for sleep, for the vacant void which numbed both mind and body. But it would only delay the inevitable, and bitter experience had taught him how pointless that was, so he rolled painfully onto his side and sat upright on the edge of the high bed, aching muscles mewling their objection as he glanced about the room for the first time, recognizing it now.

His bedroom. In his quarters, in the Imperial Palace. His own personal gulag.

At least before, his prison had been the size of this cavernous room. Now it wrapped itself tightly about his mind, stifling his thoughts, with space for neither absolution nor hope--but then he deserved no better.

It had been richly refurnished with muted, dour fabrics and heavy, ornate furniture, huge paintings on the walls, the colors darkest grays and royal blues. Even this subdued pallet seemed incredibly intense after so long in that blank white cell, color the ultimate luxury.

A huge fire was set in the grate for the first time that he could remember, blacking the stone behind and blasting out heat against his bare skin, baking the air dry and lifeless.

He took all this in through distant, listless eyes. It was unimportant.

Three dark-robed acolytes had remained in the room, looking expectantly at him.

"Leave," he ordered simply, his voice low and broken, his throat too long without water.

They bowed and backed up several steps before turning away, pausing to bow again deferentially before closing the doors silently behind them, despite the Emperor's order.

He'd expected no less, having seen their thoughts so easily; they feared that which they could not comprehend, seeking to appease and curry favor, serving darkness in any form, be it intimidation or oppression, power or persecution. Let the Emperor rail against them; they were of little consequence, below his consideration.

He rose to stand upright and the world swam momentarily before he clutched at the Darkness to steady himself. It answered immediately, an inrush of strength to failing muscles, containing their knife-sharp spasms. The pain didn't leave him, but it no longer mattered.

He limped awkwardly down the ornate mosaic corridor to the dark marble 'fresher and washed, fingers catching over raised scars, noting that his wounds had been sutured, broken bones knitted. Even this didn't touch him, offering neither relief nor reassurance; they could be broken again.

He knew that from experience too.

The clothes in his dressing room were rich and heavy, opulent yet refined, midnight blue and raven black. By the time he had dressed, he'd forgotten what they looked like. There was no mirror here...but then he didn't care to see his own reflection anymore; was uncertain that he would even recognize it.

He walked to the tall carved double-doors at the far side of the bedroom, which swung open without visible aid as he neared them. Through the cavernous withdrawing room without a single glance; through the echoing emptiness of the dark hall beyond, whose tall doors were open to him for the first time now, and out into the main corridor which he had only once before seen.

Without looking about himself, he walked its length to a receiving room close to the entrance, whose tall carved doors were open in anticipation. Glancing briefly to the main entrance and the Palace beyond, he turned away and entered the room whose high, vaulted ceilings flickered as shadows danced in the fluid firelight.

The Emperor stood before a bank of tall, narrow windows, his back to the room, staring out into the implacable fury of the night storm beyond. He stirred and turned just slightly, expectant.

Walking the length of the hall toward the Emperor, Luke Skywalker stepped down onto one knee before his Master, head bent, eyes to the floor.

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To be continued...

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