Into the Storm

Chapter 22

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

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Grey winter light streamed in through the tall panes of the Practice Hall, a vast, wooden-floored space which Mara herself had used for lightsaber drills in the past. It was, of course, permanently off-limits now; had been so for almost four months, Mara had heard whispered, Skywalker occupying it every day from dawn to dusk, alone unless Palpatine was there. Practicing--always practicing.

Hour after hour, day after day, week after week. Dedication bordering on obsession.

Mara walked past the six Red Guard who stood to attention outside, not sure if they were there to keep Skywalker in or keep others out. Probably the latter, she decided--there wasn't much that even six Red Guard could do to stop an armed Sith if he decided to leave.

Sith--despite what the Emperor called him in public. But even this fact was becoming familiar now so that, much as she was aware that there was something different about the now-insular Skywalker, some new twist in his tense, wired bearing which hinted at a volatile, explosive edge, she'd come to terms with his new status and standpoint. Maybe even found it intriguing...in a strictly professional, uninvolved way, of course.

She found herself fascinated to see what he would do next, waiting to see when that quicksilver temperament would erupt. But in the two weeks she'd been back, despite his apparent knife-edge disposition, he'd remained coolly detached from everything around him, herself included, so that she had no better idea of him now than the moment she'd been ushered from his quarters that first night.

And she really wanted to know.

So today was a welcome opportunity; Palpatine had ordered her to deliver a message. Yes, she could have done it by comm to his apartments or his Aides, but she now had official justification to speak to Skywalker--and she wasn't going to waste it.

With no idea what to expect she entered the hall, eyes instantly drawn to the far side of the massive hangar-sized room where, surrounded by six specialist dueling droids, Skywalker was dressed in fitted pants and an athletic shirt, both immaculate white.

"Stop program," he said quietly, deactivating his lightsaber as all the droids froze in place at the order.

Mara stepped forward, not surprised at the droids--they were generally banned in the Palace Towers, but no human could offer fast enough reflexes to challenge a Force-adept, so her master kept these here for his own use. Mara too utilized them from time to time--one at a time though, their reaction times slowed to that of a normal human. Lord Vader used them at their maximum capacity, fighting several at once. She'd seen her master do the same, but...

She frowned uneasily, burning with curiosity, frustrated that he had instantly stopped as she'd entered the room.

He turned... Now, at this distance, breathing heavily and with his growing hair in disarray, he looked very much like the man who had first arrived here long months ago, so that without even realizing it, Mara smiled easily at him.

He only frowned slightly in reply, clearly wary of her unexpected presence. Her smile fell away, but the tingle in her ribcage was not so easily removed. "The Emperor commands your presence in the State Room at five," she said simply, still walking forward, her voice echoing about the cavernous hall.

"Fine," he replied tersely, already turning back to the stationary droids.

Mara kept walking forward though, only stopping when she was within a few feet of him.

He didn't turn back and she didn't leave, the status quo remaining for long moments, in which Mara noted the deep, heavy scars on his arms and back, still new enough to show angry red.

Just as she was about to speak he turned, cutting her off. "Was there something else?"

She bit down on the desire to issue a challenge, knowing that was what he wanted--that the curt interruption was intended to push her away--and instead took a less obvious route. "Are they any good?"

His frown pulled the fine scars on his face, only visible as she'd neared him. "What?"

"The droids--are they any good?"

He took a breath in, as if counting to ten, voice level and restrained. "They suffice."

"Only six?"

He glanced back, annoyed, his expression quite unassuming and very Luke. "That's all there are left, right now."

Mara smiled, realizing that he hadn't recognized her sarcasm.

"How about a human opponent?" She unfastened her short fitted jacket, shrugging it off without waiting for an answer.

He looked at her for long moments, and again she had the distinct feeling that he was counting to ten before speaking.

"I'd say no, but clearly that's not an option," he replied dryly as she turned and walked to the armaments store at the side wall. She didn't miss his fast glance up to the lofty ceiling though--to the exact spot where the surveillance lens was hidden.

"Do you know how to use a lightsaber?" His flat voice was neither interested nor indifferent.

"I know a lot of things," Mara said without looking back.

Reaching the store, she noticed that all six practice sabers were still there, and glanced back to look at the saber in Skywalker's hand; it was his own, a live blade.

She took two practice sabers, capable of delivering a fair jolt but nothing more, solid when impacting against another blade, but passing through any other object.

"But I don't play games with live blades," she said, walking back towards him.

"I don't play games," he replied simply, though his tone was not threatening.

She reached him, holding the plain practice hilt out in silence.

"I won't hit you," he assured.

"You might change your mind when I get a few good blows in," Mara teased easily, growing more comfortable in his presence again.

He raised an eyebrow to indicate just how unlikely he thought that was, and Mara allowed herself a subtle smile; he was in for a surprise. She was privately confident, having trained with her master since her early teens, intensively enough to hold her own against a Jedi--he had made sure of that.

Finally, reluctant and clearly operating against his better judgment but too curious to turn this down, Skywalker threw the dark, matte hilt of his own saber to the side without looking. It didn't arc, but launched smoothly away towards the wall, eventually coming to a gentle, controlled rest on the floor near the corner.

He took the practice hilt, following her to the center of the room, where she turned about to face him, lifting her hilt up to ready position and igniting the pure white blade.

He did the same, holding the blade one-handed and to the side, his manner very relaxed and casual.

Mara raised an eyebrow. "And no Force stuff--that includes flips, jumps, accelerated speed, enhancing reflexes and messing with my perceptions."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"You tell me," Mara countered. "On one?"

"You need a countdown?" He stepped in, resting his blade against her own.

She narrowed her eyes; oh, she was going to enjoy the look in his eye when she landed a blow. "Three, two, o--"

That was as far as she got. He twisted her blade up in his own, powering it to one side and making a half-lunge forward which ended with the tip of his saber an inch from her throat, her own blade batted uselessly away to one side.

"You could have let me say 'one,' " she said, mildly embarrassed but determined not to show it.

"You said 'on one'--not after it," he countered evenly, stepping back to ready position. "Again?"

Grinding her jaw, Mara gathered her concentration up and set her stance ready.

"Do you want to count down?" he invited dryly.

"Are you gonna do that move again?"

"No, I'll do something else this time."

"Fine," she said tartly. "Three, two, o--"

She had a slightly tighter hold on her saber to stop him twisting it away this time, pressing her blade to his as the countdown started. None of which helped her as he dropped the tip of his blade, using her increased pressure to allow it to slide partway down hers before pulling it free and up in a horizontal line level with his shoulders as he stepped in. The end result was Mara staring at his lightsaber sideways on and inside her guard, an inch off her chest.

Instead of submitting when she knew he could have easily pushed it home, she back-pedaled wildly, knocking his blade aside.

He was fast--he let her knock his blade back, looped it in a wide arc to gain some power and took three short, rapid steps forward, swinging in low from the same side she'd just struck, knowing that all of Mara's force to that side was already spent. The massive blow simply plowed through her defenses, taking her own blade with it so that although he stopped before he landed the blow to her side, the tip of her own saber caught her leg as it was knocked away, giving her a jolt.

"Son of a..." She walked in a quick circle on the spot, shaking her trembling leg, much to Skywalker's amusement though he was trying not to let it show on his face.

Mara narrowed her eyes as she came back round to face him. "You know, the idea of saber practice is to actually practice--as in more than just one blow."

"The idea of lightsaber practice is to learn the most efficient way to duel. The point of a duel is to remove your opponent as quickly as possible, before they remove you." There was a touch of humor in his voice, though he was trying hard to repress it.

"Fine," Mara growled through pursed lips. "This time..."

"Maybe you should try without counting."

"Maybe I should."

"Just a suggestion."

"I don't need your suggestions."

"Then maybe you should stop talking and start fighting."

"Maybe you should..." She back-pedaled as he came forward in a burst of speed, five quick blows, nothing too taxing she noticed; easing her in this time, giving her a chance. Which was actually worse than simply being beaten.

Finally seeing her first opportunity as his blade passed her own, she swung her saber in a high arc to intercept with his chin--

He jerked easily back and to the side, surprising her by grabbing her wrist and yanking it down to pull her towards him, her saber pushed to the side by the action. She collided with his shoulder, her body stopped dead by his mass--

"Don't take obvious opportunities," he whispered, holding her there. "They're probably feints."

With an indignant yell she wrenched free and brought her saber round in a wide sweep which forced Skywalker to jump back in order to bring his blade round fast enough to counter.

The thrill of having swung a blow swift enough to make him think brought a grin to her face as she stepped back, moving slowly around him.

"You're half a step too close," he said, grinning now, completely caught up in the game.

"Not for m--"

He launched forward, saber held high for a heavy downward blow, but when Mara moved to counter he changed the angle of the swing, swiveling his hilt in the heel of his hand to bring it in almost horizontally at neck height. It took every bit of Mara's skill to move fast enough to counter--and even as she did so, she saw her error.

Unable to do otherwise, she caught his blade at the base of her own, pushing out and down. Skywalker nimbly stepped back, his weight on the same foot as he twisted three-sixty and roundhoused his own blade down to her ankles, the move given momentum by Mara's own defense.

She made a jump back but wasn't nearly fast enough to counter, all her weight too firmly planted against his first attack.

He stopped an inch before her ankle, the blade tip-down, hilt-up. She glanced up as he tilted his head in a 'told you so' gesture, rare laugh-lines forming at the corners of his eyes.

Letting out another infuriated yell she drove forward, landing several fast, light blows, sidestepping to find the advantage as Skywalker matched her move for move.

Finally he twisted swiftly to the side of a heavy downward blow, stepping in towards her rather than away and grabbing at the top of her arm to haul her bodily to him again.

"And don't be goaded into letting your emotions rule your actions," he whispered lightly, close enough that his breath rustled her russet hair. "Don't lash out blindly just because you're angry."

"You're Sith--isn't that what you do?!" She instantly regretted it.

His face changed, all humor immediately gone to be replaced once more by that distant calm. The insular, emotionless shield that she saw whenever Palpatine was near.

Releasing her, he stepped back and deactivated the saber.

"Skywalker," she began...

"Congratulations, Mara...you landed a blow." He turned and walked away without looking back.

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Luke stood in the still silence of the empty Throne Room, the cavernous space devoid of its usual chaotic throngs, the hour too early for Court to commence. What had drawn him here he couldn't say, only that it had been just that--a draw; a whisper at the edges of his thoughts that had built steadily in the months since his release from the cell, scratching at the back of his mind with ever-growing need.

He'd crossed the assembly halls of Outer Court without a sideways glance as the crowds subtly parted before him, whispers of curiosity from questing beings with envious minds. He didn't slow, didn't look--they merged to a dirty stain in his awareness, not worth the effort of unraveling.

The crimson-clad guards who barred the way to all simply stepped aside as he neared the lofty double-doors, pikes pulled upright as they stood to straight attention. He walked through unchallenged--not that they could have stopped him anyway. But the fight would have been satisfying; a burst of energy after too long in the stagnant torpor of this cloying place; a crypt to house those whose morals were dead, a monument to self-serving greed.

The doors skimmed closed behind him, the bustle of the power-hungry and the deceitful and the scheming reduced again to a background murmur which fed the shadows and the darkness.

And then there was this--this single tone, this faded whisper. His eyes traced the yawning space. Ashen lines of reedy light traced out from high, thin slits set into the far wall, barely reaching past the end of the dais. He walked the length of the vast hall without a sound, immersed in the silence which infused and enthralled, willing to be led, searching for the source of that singular timbre...

and stopped as his feet touched the outer ring of the stone half-circle set into the floor before the dais.

This stone was old, a complete circle whose one half lay embedded into the throne room floor, its other half embedded into the raised dais with the Emperor's throne resting upon it. Pale buff cream with scrolled indigo blue inlays and a dark russet red centre, it was set apart from the rest of the opulent chamber by its quiet grace, clearly older, reclaimed from a hidden past and re-laid here, presumably at his Master's command. He stared, transfixed, turning to the Force for guidance...

A flash-image, inverted and insubstantial, of a circular room with lofty views across the Coruscant cityscape; of a ring of chairs, equally spaced, all facing inwards. The stone was a complete circle here, not split and divided, daylight infusing the room and reflecting back off the pale marble...

The same pale marble... Luke frowned, searching to re-induce the image, but it was gone--and still that tone at the edge of his thoughts, in some way linked to but separate from the inlaid floor.

His eyes were drawn to the faceted magnificence of the Sunburst Throne on the dais before him, reminded in some distant way of Tatooine's twin suns. It had always been connected to Palpatine; had always been the seat from which he had ruled. Luke had seen holos of it in school as a boy; vaguely remembered that it was a priceless artifact, ancient and sacrosanct, shrouded in mystery.

The throne was massive, a single piece of beaten metal of incredible workmanship. A huge circular sun formed the backrest surrounded by flares and sunbursts, the surfaces of which were heavily beaten and etched to reflect even the dull shadows of dying daylight about it in a complex array of tiny refractions across floors and walls.

Before it stood a low footstool, intricately worked from a similar rose-gold precious metal, a deeply-engraved representation of the galaxy rendered in midnight blue enamel and set with precious stones--the galaxy beneath Palpatine's feet, whenever he sat on the throne. Despite its obvious value, it held Luke's attention for only the moment it took to realize that it was not original to the throne; it was an inanimate object, instantly dismissed. The throne... In the heavy, stagnant stillness, the throne resonated a silent tone which echoed all the way down to his soul.

Drawn forward, he walked the steps of the dais and around the throne--at a distance; he felt no desire to go any closer--and saw that the massive etched sun to the front was mirrored in a second beaten panel to the rear, the lowest sunbursts resting on the pale marble floor as feet, the two connected back to back, a perfect match, though the complex etchings on each surface bore only passing resemblance. He'd never once looked at it before; never cared, Palpatine's unyielding aura overwhelming its ghostly presence within the Force.

Slowing, he retreated to the shadows behind the massive throne to stand in rapt fascination, noticing subtle inscriptions carved in fine, broken letters of some archaic language he didn't recognize about the edges of the sun itself, before the metal spread into irregular twists of individual flares. As he stared mesmerized, he fell to an almost trance-like state, watching the last slim rays of shuttered sunlight catch across the carved words, the only sound in the profoundly still silence that of his own heartbeat, loud in his ears...

The voice from the shadows made him jump, twisting him about, every muscle tensing as his hand twitched automatically to the lightsaber at his belt.

"Planning...or simply coveting?" Palpatine stepped forward from the inky shadows, yellow eyes shining--and Luke realized the room was dark; that somehow, it had fallen to night as he'd stood, transfixed.

He forced himself calm; sketched a shallow bow as the emotion drained from his face and his sense behind already-entrenched shields. "Neither, Master. Just studying a piece of history."

The Emperor stepped forward, his heavy black gown absorbing the wan light as if the shadows came with him. One pallid hand reached out to trail possessively across the edge of the throne, broken fingernails scratching audibly in the still silence.

"Studying what, exactly?"

Luke hesitated, glancing back to the carved throne. "Reading the inscriptions."

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Palpatine frowned, eyes tracing the point at which his Jedi's attention had been held. Originally dubbed the Seat of Prophesy by the Jedi, the hallowed artifact long held by them and coveted by the Sith, had been claimed by Palpatine from its centuries-old resting place in the destroyed Jedi Temple on Coruscant, and renamed the Sunburst Throne. The hidden scripture's words, set within the carvings, were a jealously guarded secret in a language so old that it was the last surviving example. Over decades and centuries Jedi scholars had devoted years towards its translation, with many variations and permutations documented and carefully considered...then hidden away, their portentous words for the eyes of the Masters alone.

"A prophesy," Palpatine allowed enigmatically, watching the boy closely. It was said that in the prophesy carved into the massive sunburst was the key to a power capable of changing the course of the galaxy, the means to channel the Force without limits.

His fallen Jedi turned, eyes tracking right to left as he read the words: "Son of Suns."

Palpatine's chin lifted a fraction, eyes narrowing as his fingers tightened possessively onto his throne. A cryptic message in an ancient, enigmatic language; there was no way the boy could know...

And yet-- "Read it aloud."

Frowning, Skywalker turned back to the throne. "Which one?"

Palpatine's lips twitched a smile. "How many do you see?"

The boy's eyes stayed on the throne, scanning its surface. "Several--or just one. Different pieces of the same puzzle."

"Read it aloud," Palpatine repeated, voice tighter now.

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Luke glanced to his Master, drawn by the brooding tone of his gravelly voice, before his gaze turned back to the etched hieroglyphs. For a second they seemed alien again; unreadable... But just as it had done earlier, as he stared at the faceted rose-gold carvings, an insular acuity came over him, resonating through the Force--and words swam effortlessly up into his consciousness, stanza appearing unbidden; forming complete. His eyes traced the curve of the scribings as he translated without effort, words transmuted with a clarity and a significance which called to him--

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"This is the way of things, the will of the Force;

Everything crumbles;

Intentions and empires, Councils and kinships.

Aspiration to ambition to atrophy.

Desire to domination to dust.

Only the will of the Force remains.

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Beginnings are bought at the cost of an end,

New Hope given life when all else is lost.

From darkness comes light; from destruction salvation;

Son of suns, the Force given form.

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That which is fallen will rise to dominion,

That which is riven will heal the rift.

That which is tainted transcends every limit

The one who will falter will balance the way..."

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Luke paused, insular and pensive as he read the last,

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"It is shadows whose edge define the light

At the brink of the dawn and the darkness."

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At the brink... Palpatine tipped his head, ochre eyes sharp and shrewd. "And where do you stand, my wolf?"

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Luke turned to his Master, aware of the play of his thoughts. But he was far too familiar with Palpatine's word games now, to give ground. The smallest of smiles touched the corners of his lips as he offered both abstract and literal answer, looking down to his black-booted feet. "I stand right here, Master--behind the throne."

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"Lord Vader, we've received a communiqué from the Palace--the Emperor commands that you attend a private audience with him following your arrival ceremony tomorrow."

It was Admiral Piett, one of the few officers which Vader trusted...so far.

It was a constant, subtle battle between himself and his Master, as Palpatine carefully placed spies in the senior staff of his Star Destroyer, and Vader constantly found reasons to rid himself of them--permanently.

"Thank you, Admiral," Vader boomed, his annoyance sounding out loud and clear.

Piett bowed carefully and made a hasty retreat, leaving Vader to gaze out of the wide viewport of the Executor's bridge, considering his options.

If he was being allowed to return to Imperial Center, then it was because his son was subdued to some extent. But Vader knew that anyway; Palpatine wasn't the only one with a network of spies. There was, it was whispered, a new presence in Court, always close to the Emperor, always silent, always reclusive. Only Palpatine spoke to him, possessive and watchful, with anyone who attempted to approach him pointedly discouraged. And the boy spoke to no one, detached and distant. He never came from his apartments unless it was to answer the Emperor's command, being seen only in the Throne Room or on his way to the Practice Halls, where he went daily, accompanied to and from both places by four Red Guard, though they were more to discourage interested parties than to control the enigmatic stranger, his sources guessed. There was an edge to him though, Vader's spies reported--a hint of something unstable beneath that insular disposition.

Interestingly, his spies had no name--no idea who the stranger was, extensive though their contacts were.

Vader hadn't bothered to tell them that he knew; better to see what they were fed by the Palace rumor-mill. But he knew the truth--and he thought he knew why the Emperor wanted him back. His new Sith would soon need a test--as Palpatine had once tested Anakin. Turned him on Count Dooku, his previous ally, to rid himself of the complications inherent in having two acolytes serving the same Master.

He remembered with faultless, morbid clarity, holding the sabers crossed at Dooku's throat.

Remembered Palpatine's hissing goad to kill him.

Remembered the bewildered betrayal on Dooku's face.

Vader had always believed absolutely that when he died it would be for his own reasons, not to serve his Master's cold ambitions. Had always sworn that he would never give Palpatine the luxury of such an easy escape. That if his Master wanted to rid himself of Vader, then he would have to face him personally.

Yet he was still returning like a trained dog to his Master's side.

Not because he wanted to face Palpatine...but because he had to see his son again. No matter what, he had to see him.

For what, he didn't know--or rather, he chose not to examine too closely.

He had no idea how much Palpatine had twisted the boy's mind, but he knew that at any point in their stormy association, had Vader put a lightsaber into his son's hand, the boy would surely have struck out against him. It would be no stretch at all for Palpatine to push that emotion into action.

In more lucid moments Vader knew that Palpatine would not simply exchange his loyal vassal's life for a new Sith--or rather, he believed such. But he knew his Master well; knew his confidence and his convictions, knew that he would believe himself beyond the restrictions placed on the Sith in centuries past dictating that there could be only two Sith, Master and apprentice. Which was why he had risked taking the boy to Palpatine in the first place. After two decades of servitude, he knew the Emperor well enough to be willing to take this chance; that Palpatine too would be tempted by the boy's potential. That he'd seek to control him, enticed far more by the lure of raw power than he was shackled by ancient rules and archaic warnings.

He didn't like having been forced to gamble on such, but his son's stubborn refusal of an alliance in Cloud City had forced his hand. If Vader could have turned the boy alone then he would have done so, but such was not his forte. It required the kind of subtle contrivances and scheming manipulations which Vader prided himself on not possessing--and which the Emperor held in abundance.

He'd known, of course, that Palpatine would attempt to prize the boy away from him--had expected no less from the wily old man--but he also knew there was a resonance between himself and his son. And Luke surely felt it too, no matter what he said out loud.

That Palpatine had sent Vader away had been unexpected. He had relied on being there throughout his son's conversion in order to maintain that connection. But even if his Master did think to force a fight, then Vader was confident of his own abilities; he had beaten the boy once. He would have no qualms about bringing the same force to bear again. Though perhaps not quite as vehemently. He had not intended to allow the duel at Bespin to escalate to that degree; had not intended to lose control so completely. Nor had he intended to injure the boy again when he was recaptured onboard the smuggler's ship. But then self-restraint and Darkness were hardly synonymous, and the boy seemed to have some innate ability to get under Vader's skin so completely that all intentions were lost beneath a swell of frustrated enmity.

How he did so with such unerring ease was a mystery--perhaps because they were so similar or, more disturbingly, perhaps because for the first time in memory, Vader actually gave a damn about what someone thought...

That consideration whispered at him for long moments as he resolutely ignored it, dismissing it as irrelevant.

As far as Vader was concerned, the answer to his own inability to maintain any self-control in the presence of his son was obvious; Luke should stop antagonizing him. The boy needed discipline. The notion of Vader himself exercising anything more than the most crucial self-restraint in these confrontations was plainly ludicrous--especially now. Because he knew Luke's potential; that much was crystal clear.

He knew what the boy was capable of, when given a little judicious inducement. Very likely, so did Palpatine...but Vader would make it his mission to ensure that when it came down to a choice, Luke's loyalties would reside with his father. To do that he needed free access to his son, and at present any contact was strictly on Palpatine's terms. But that could be enough. Enough to shepherd the boy, to subtly direct and guide him. Ostensibly to his Master's requirements...privately, to his own.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, some small atom of doubt wormed its way through Vader's thoughts--at how ironic it would be if the boy should now turn on him. If the weapon he had sought to use against his Master, was the weapon that his Master used to destroy Vader himself.

That he would be extinguished by that to which he had given life.

That he should still crave forgiveness from the youth who wished to kill him.

But such fleeting qualms were easily ignored in the face of greater motives. Something resonated now, and it was reducing all of Vader's carefully-laid plans to insignificance. Something deep within... Because this was his son. His son. His flesh and blood. Instinctive connections, no matter how hard they had both tried to deny them. No matter how the Emperor tried to rip and sever them, no matter what he had whispered and twisted.

All of Vader's previous intentions were falling away before this simple fact and everything--everything--was re-focusing about it. Confusing and frustrating and unwelcome as this was.

Everything was changing; every foundation, every belief, every conviction was being tested by his son's very existence.

He'd wanted to convert the boy for the power he embodied, for the opportunity he represented. Before he had seen his son there had been no question, no shadow of doubt as to his role in Vader's greater plan; either he served Vader's purpose or he was removed.

Now... all that Vader knew for sure was that he could have killed the boy on Bespin and freed himself of a complication. And Luke--Luke could have pulled the trigger and killed his father when Vader had given him the chance onboard the Millennium Falcon. Should have done so, knowing the alternative, knowing that Vader could control him.

But neither had the stomach for it.

No matter what else happened, that would remain; Vader believed it absolutely. Because he knew what he felt. Let Palpatine do his worst; let him try any treachery to turn the boy against him or himself against the boy. Vader had the greater hold; a deeper resonance.

It was the most natural, ingrained compulsion in the galaxy, beyond all conscious choice or manipulations. It was involuntary and instinctive, and no matter what he planned and how far he ran it always kept pace, because it was within him; it ran with the blood through his veins. This was his son...

And that he could not deny.

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To be continued...

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