Chapter Text
Vader says nothing as he leads them out of the interrogation room and through the maze of identical hallways. There's no sound but the hum of machinery, Vader's respirator, and Leia's hitching breaths. But the Bond tells a different story.
It's a raging storm. Vader is cracking apart under a choking wave of grief and rage. His life has been upended so many times, and again he cannot escape this inevitable fate. Everything he ever thought he knew was a lie, and he is introduced to a new world, which soon turns out to be yet another bed of lies. Rinse, repeat. The curse is infinite. He can rely on nothing, not even himself.
Touching it is like stroking a hand over crackling electricity, molten hot arcs lashing like slavers' whips across their connection. The Bond cries out to him as Vader implodes under the weight of his own shattering worldview. Even if Obi-Wan had any desire to, it would be impossible to turn away. The golden, twining rope between them has only gotten stronger -- unimaginably stronger. Obi-Wan can read the feelings from Vader's mind like they're his own; their souls are practically fused, like grafted skin stitched to a wound so desperate to heal. The pain within Vader is begging for relief, and Obi-Wan is aching to provide it. But for all the peace he tries to project, Vader is stuck in a spiralling loop -- of self-recrimination, of mistrust, of directionlessness.
It's like orbiting a black hole. Nothing can be done when Vader is like this. And so, they walk on in silence.
Tala's expression grows increasingly more blank as the hallways pass and pass. "I think it's obvious our escape crew -- or anyone from the base at all, in fact -- shouldn’t find out about this," she says, eventually. "It would crush them. We can't afford that kind of drop in morale."
There's a mean, rumbling laugh. Obi-Wan realises, in horror, that it's coming from Vader, a sick little warble from his vocoder. "So you see the merit in my actions," Vader says, with a sense of unbearable smugness.
Tala seems to war with the foolish desire to snap back, test Vader's boundaries, and the more reasonable and more frustrating need to keep the situation under control. Her hands clench and unclench. She rubs her fingers together impatiently, the crinkling of the fabric of her gloves joining the uneasy ambience, and finally manages, "I see why Ben didn't tell me until it was absolutely necessary. I don't appreciate it, but I see why he did it. I have to wonder, then, why did you agree?"
"I had no time for the chaos that particular revelation would cause. Reaching Leia was my ultimate priority."
"It bothered you, though, didn't it?" Tala presses. "You don't like who you used to be, and you like the fact that other people do -- and far better than your current self, at that -- even less."
There's a flare of irritation at being interrogated, but beyond this, Vader keeps the rest of his chaotic, roiling emotions surprisingly in check. Obi-Wan wonders if his daughter's presence is the reason for that. His daughter's fear. "I do not need idolatry or camaraderie; I need obedience."
"You had obedience in the Clone Wars. More than that, you had loyalty. Respect."
Summarily dismissed. Vader's irritation is growing. "My men are loyal and show their due respect now."
Tala can't seem to stop pulling at this thread. Obi-Wan wants to beg her to be quiet, to leave Vader's already frayed patience be, before he lashes out and stains the pristine sterility of the hallways with blood and traumatises his daughter even further, but he holds his tongue. Tala is capable of handling herself, and to bow to Vader is to give him too much credit. He is still Anakin, and he is still reachable. This, he must constantly affirm to himself. He cannot lose any more hope.
"Out of fear, rather than love," she continues. Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose. There's a headache creeping in, bright stars pulsing and flaring in the corner of his eye.
"I do not need love, either," Vader says. His tone is dripping with disgust, and with incredulity. Love hasn't been a reality for him for a decade. Even now, his own daughter forsakes him. Obi-Wan is the only one in the galaxy who hasn't yet given up on him, the true essence of him, entirely. "Love does not win wars, Officer."
Tala grits her teeth. "We'll have to see about that." It seems Vader is content at having presumably won the debate, his scepticism unvoiced but readily apparent, and this buries like a needle under her skin. "You're here because you love Leia," she adds, after a moment, as if she can't help herself.
Vader tenses, goes cold. "My love for my children will not keep them safe. I will ensure no harm comes to them through other means."
"I don't want you to kill people for me," Leia says. Her voice is still weak, shaky.
"I will do what must be done, regardless of whether it pleases you, Your Highness."
"I won't let you kill people for me," she amends. It's a familiar stubbornness.
Vader seems unused to having his orders questioned. It clearly chafes. "There is nothing you can do to stop me."
"We'll have to see about that," she echoes.
"You misunderstand me, child. You will live, no matter the cost. This is non-negotiable. There is no reality where this is not the case."
Leia peeks out from the protective shield of Obi-Wan's shoulder. She says nothing, only stares with knife-sharp scrutiny at Vader, at her father, with his swirling cape and imposing stature, the blood on his hands, the trail of destruction he's blazed through the galaxy, and all of a sudden it's as if none of that matters. Obi-Wan knows -- because she knows, because the Force knows -- that right then and there, she can see the heart of him, if only for a moment. Through the Force that flows in her blood and in his, the moon eclipses the darkness, and for a second the ghost of Anakin is there, reaching for her. "Why do you care?" she asks, finally. It's not reproachful; it's closer to coaxing. "You obviously don't want anything to do with anyone from your past, your old life. And I'm part of that."
"You are my daughter," Vader replies, as simple as that.
"I'm Anakin Skywalker's daughter," she corrects. "And you just told me you're not him." Vader says nothing. "Well? Which is it?"
"I am built from him," Vader tells her. "There is a difference."
Predictably, Leia will have none of it. "So, he's only part of you when it's convenient, is what you're saying."
"I have his body," Vader corrects, but his voice is still remarkably smooth, calm. "I have his blood. I have his memories. But that is all that is left of him."
"That's all?" Leia sputters. "That's everything!"
"I do not share his hopes, his ideals, or his weaknesses."
"But you'll still keep me safe? How does that make any sense?"
"I think you'll find I explained my reasoning perfectly. I have not inherited everything from Anakin Skywalker, but I admitted to inheriting some things. There are responsibilities that come with this inheritance."
Leia squirms in his arms, suddenly relentless, until nearly the half of her is craning over Obi-Wan's shoulder. "If I'm just a responsibility to you, you can forget it! I have parents already."
"You are more than that," Vader says, instantly. His tone is still perfectly composed, if a little condescending. Bizarrely, his anger actually smoothes out under the assault of questions, rather than overflows. If anything, Leia seems to have amused him. Obi-Wan's pace falters momentarily from the shock. Here is Darth Vader, Sith Lord, the Empire's bloodied executioner, its own terrible Krayt dragon, and his wrath is soothed by an angry little girl.
He shouldn't be surprised. He wouldn't be, perhaps, if he had a little more faith, a little more to go on that the rotting scraps of haunted memory Vader deigns to throw at him every now and then. He grapples at them all the same, with all the slavering, salivating eagerness of a starving stray, but the outline of his ribcage still shows under his flesh. Nothing but skin and bones.
Once, a lifetime ago, the Krayt dragon's neck had been free of Sidious' chains. And he had been fond of teaching impudent students. Ahsoka's attitude had earned her a quippy nickname and immediate fondness, instead of annoyance, of being quickly foisted onto another unsuspecting Jedi Knight. Bafflingly, Anakin had been eager to choose her.
Is that man now dead and gone? Is he truly? The answers are so close, and yet so far away, and Obi-Wan is lost and consumed in the desperate search for them. Who is Darth Vader but the bitter, burnt shell that Obi-Wan made of his greatest love, his greatest regret? How is Vader so blind to the meat that remains on the bones of Anakin Skywalker? Is it simply Obi-Wan's own delusion, his own fanciful yearning and hoping, that makes the two seem so similar? Vader may be a shadow, but he cannot accept that this means Vader is beyond the touch of the Light. He has told himself before, a shadow reflects the shape of the one who casts it. And that shape seems so familiar, so dear.
"I am only answering what you have asked, Princess."
Leia lets out a growl of frustration. That, too, is particularly familiar. "You know what I mean!" she snaps. "Don't be obtuse!"
The petulant complaints roll off Vader without so much as a moment's pause. Disrespect that would leave Stormtroopers in smoking husks on the ground, choking on their own blood and entrails, and it's completely ignored. "You must learn to ask the right questions if you wish for any success in the Senate, Princess."
Leia hesitates at this. "You're right," she says, eventually, much more quietly. The dragon in her is curling up and going back to sleep. "But it doesn't matter anyway. You wouldn't answer them if I asked." She turns her face back into Obi-Wan's neck, the fabric of his uniform bunching where her fingers are curling into fists, and says nothing more.
Cells pass. He can't see into most of them, but he can hear wailing. Where there are windows, there are also terrified, gaunt faces and pounding fists. He wants to turn to them, to offer solace, but what can he say that doesn't ring hollow? What can he give them but empty words? In this world without the Jedi, he'd sound like nothing more than some rambling, lunatic priest. A strange zealot, too caught up in his mysticisms to realise he's long since become a relic of the past. Arcane. Antique. Out of touch. "Hark! Have hope, for the Force is with you." It's a laughable thought. All the Jedi's preachings have wrought is a galaxy in ruin.
Perhaps there was never any worth in them at all. He runs metaphorical fingers through the twining Bond as it floats innocuously in his mental landscape. He couldn't have ever conceived of something like this, before. He wouldn't even have believed it to be real if it weren't now a fundamental, foundational tenet of his new reality. Did they ever truly know anything of the Force at all? What has been kept from them?
Was the knowledge simply lost to time, or was it deliberately erased?
Everything he once believed in crumbled under Palpatine's scheming. To topple so easily… He's beginning to suspect the pillars of the Jedi Order must've been slowly weakening for quite some time.
Could that, perhaps, have been by design?
Another haggard, sickly face appears in another window, twisted ghoulishly in another silent scream. But the soundproofing is irrelevant; any soldier must learn to read lips, to catch orders over the sounds of the battlefield. And Obi-Wan was forged the perfect soldier. Loyal, obedient. Mindless.
"Let me out! Please! Please, let me out! Help me!" He wants to look away. He can't. "Don't leave me here! Don't leave me here again!"
His eyes stay locked on theirs for every departing footstep. He watches the hope die in them, the panic that claws its way through, all-consuming, to replace it.
Vader walks on, as if he's blind to it. The Force whimpers like a kicked dog, each prisoner aching with the unrelenting, searing touch of despair, and Vader can't see it at all.
He swallows bile. His throat clicks. He wants to hiss with pain. He wants relief, but no amount of saliva will soothe the burn of his own stomach acid crawling up his oesophagus, every part of him trying to escape.
The next pair of eyes he meets are so filled with hatred, his step nearly falters. He feels the prisoner's simmering, bitter rage as it seeps from the cell. He feels the way this miserable creature has been drip-fed the distilled essence of it, building over time, inching ever closer to the precipice where it will inevitably overflow. At the touch of his mind through the Force, Obi-Wan wants to recoil. This stranger, this nameless captive in a line of countless nameless captives, is hollow, left with nothing inside but his hatred. What past Obi-Wan once could've seen in him has been entirely obscured by it. A shell of a man. Another wraith. As Vader passes like a shadow in front of his cell, he begins to mouth one word on repeat, an uneasy, frenzied chant. Vader's name, over and over. Nothing more.
Vader does pause at this. He turns, briefly, the empty eyes of his helmet glancing, indecipherable, at the rueful picture the stranger paints, chittering and seething in his cell, this violent madman. The vocoder transmits only Vader's steady breaths, in and out, in and out, but the Bond shudders a little in delight. It's too vague -- and Obi-Wan too sick -- to discern. Pride at the fruits of his labour, possibly.
Or, perhaps, the contentment borne of validation. A pleased resonance, from one kindred spirit to another. Butcher to butcher. Madman to madman. Wraith to wraith.
The hallways of cells eventually open up into dark, cavernous rooms. The soundless cries don't fade with the distance. Instead, they distort into something emptier. A dull, pulsing, bone-deep pain like a drumbeat, rather than the burning, screaming agony at the surface. Somehow, it's worse here, faced with the confirmation that the rot extends to the very core of this hellish nightmare. Just another thing in his life that's gone far past the point of no return.
Too late. You're always too late.
Leia's asleep in his arms. She twitches fitfully, plagued even in dreams by the Dark infection eating away at every last shred of hope left clinging to life in the Mustafar system. He strokes a hand over her soft, messy hair, an almost compulsive instinct to soothe and protect. He knows it will have no effect, and yet he tries anyway. It doesn’t feel like Jedi nobility, hope in the face of dire odds. It just feels like desperation. He’s not special, in this, no shining pillar of Light. His are just more hands scrabbling at the bars of their cage, fruitlessly banging until bloodied and lame.
"I'm keeping her under," Vader says, when Obi-Wan's fingers tangle the strands of her hair in another pass through her failing braids. "It would be best to spare her the sight of this."
Apprehension pools cold and slick in the pit of his stomach. "Of what?"
"The upcoming hall is the quickest, quietest way back to the docking bay," Vader continues. "It's likely to be deserted, as only I come here with any regularity."
"And why is that?"
"They lack the temperament for it."
There's judgement there, hidden in the artificial baritone. Obi-Wan shudders to think of what could be worse than this -- something so terrible as to scare away those as cold and unfeeling as the Imperial prison guard. "A hall to what?"
"You will see."
Apprehension turns to dread. "And the Inquisitorius? Does this nameless hall we're about to see frighten even them?"
"No," Vader concedes. "But they stay away all the same. It represents the standard they are measured against. The record of my continued success. What serves to reliably inspire me is simply a grim reminder to them, given how often they fall short of expectations." The tone suggests an old grudge. "A shame. They have the potential for it, make no mistake; I hand-picked most of them myself. And still, they continue to disappoint me."
"You hand-picked your legion in the Clone Wars. To great effect, in fact," Obi-Wan offers, mildly. "What's changed?"
"I am not him," Vader snaps.
"Ah, forgive me," Obi-Wan demures. "So, his team was successful, but yours was not."
Vader cants his head towards Tala, who baulks. "Has she given you the idea to test me, Obi-Wan?" he asks, just as mild. "I can assure you, this idea is a poor one."
“My apologies, as always, Darth. Don’t blame her. You know my habit of pushing too far.”
“You should not be so smug,” Vader intones, lecturing. “You have accomplished nothing. I have accomplished everything. This is what you will see soon enough.”
With that ominous statement, he wanders off. Obi-Wan trails behind him, hands still resting on Leia's back, rising and falling with her soft breaths. He meets Tala's eyes, tentatively. She looks at him with some horrible mix of dread and pity. His gaze darts away.
He does not meet her eyes again.
The hall comes into view after the next turn, an unexpected monument on the other end of what could be any other unassuming corner in this sprawling, monotonous wasteland. He blinks, and from one second to the next, nothing turns into everything. A sight so wretched, so great and terrible, that it takes a slow, trembling second to register the vast, endless horror of it all.
His eyes are sighted, transmitting the right signals, but it's as if his brain simply refuses to accept them, to name them. It bucks and thrashes under the weight, but they're death throes. It's too soon before he can no longer pretend he's unable to see the atrocity before him.
Rows and rows of corpses, suspended in tanks embedded in the walls from floor to ceiling. They stretch hundreds of feet into the shadows, a twisted display halfway between a museum exhibit and a cellblock. Each body is intact, pristine, protected from the ever-encroaching hand of rot by the cryogenic preservation chambers serving as their coffins. Each face is warped in fear and agony, in screaming and cowering. It's a perpetual indignity, to be trapped forever in the exact moment of death like flies in amber. Hung in mockery, like trophies, like a collection of taxidermy heads mounted on a hunter's wall. The bloody war medals of a decorated officer.
So many different faces, so many different stories. And every pitiful creature here -- every man, woman, and child -- is linked by one thing. Slaughtered for one singular, solitary trait. One he shares, one he's been proud of since he was first taken to the creche as a wailing babe.
They're all Jedi.
Vader's inspiration. It's not an archive, it's a tomb.
A family tomb.
His family's tomb.
His, but not Vader's. Not Vader's, and not Anakin's, not anymore.
Perhaps they never had been.