Warning; I'm so sorry. It hurt me just as much as it's gonna hurt you.

2.2k words

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Fixing Things

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Vader's POV
Cal possessed a remarkable skill, presenting a genuine challenge for me—at least to some extent. His movements were swift, reminiscent of a fleeting shadow, and his mastery of his swordsmanship never failed to impress me. Yet, despite all that, it fell short. Indeed, he posed a challenge, but it was not particularly formidable; it was merely a step above the usual encounters I faced.

I had grown weary of his games and decided to quit humoring him by playing along. As he shifted to my left, I tightened my grip on my weapon, my stance unmoving as I anticipated his next move. At last, he lunged, but in a single fluid motion, I summoned the power within me, sending his lightsaber clattering to the ground. In the blink of an eye, I seized his throat with the force, lifting him off the ground. "I'm sending you back to your family," I declared, my voice steady. "Why resist?"

To me, death felt like a release, a mercy compared to the burden of existence—I understood that all too well. I had seen the darkness that lurked in the hearts of men, the pain that drove them to madness, and I had felt the sting of betrayal and heartache myself.

In that moment, as I held him suspended in the air, I felt a strange sense of empathy come over me. I knew what it was like to be trapped in a cycle of despair, to long for an escape from suffering. I had fought my own battles, faced my own demons, and yet here I stood, about to deliver a fate that he might not be ready to accept.

In a moment of sheer desperation, Cal called for his lightsaber, hoping to summon it to his side and perhaps salvage his life. But, before he could succeed, I seized it for myself, dismissing his plea as I plunged the blade deep into his abdomen. "Enjoy this gift," I murmured, withdrawing the weapon while keeping him suspended in the air, the glow of the lightsaber casting an eerie light on his face, illuminating the pain and betrayal etched into his features.

Neither of us could have imagined this moment. Here I stand, the one who has taken his life, when once upon a time we loved each other like family.

His breath came in ragged gasps, each one a struggle against the pain that radiated from the wound. I could see the flicker of defiance in his eyes, a spark that refused to be extinguished even in the face of death. The air around us crackled with tension, the weight of our shared history hanging heavily between us.

With the last remnants of his strength, Cal reached out to touch my helmet, and I understood his silent request. I let his weapon fall to the ground, the clatter echoing in the silence of the moment, a final farewell to the bond we once shared. I then lowered him to the ground. Slowly, I removed my helmet, allowing our gazes to meet—eye to eye.

In that second, the world around us faded away. I could see the pain in his eyes, "Why did it have to be this way?" he whispered, his voice barely audible, yet it cut through the air like a blade, "What happened to you that made you come back this way?" He referred to my sudden change after returning from being missing for weeks.

Weeks, and if I recall correctly, the council made no attempts to find me. They had been preoccupied with their own agendas, their discussions echoing through the grand hallways of power while I was lost in the shadows, grappling with my own demons. I had hoped for a flicker of concern, a sign that my absence mattered, but the indifference had been palpable.

"You don't have the luxury for that discussion," I urged, aware that his life ticked away with each passing heartbeat. It would take hours to fully express the countless experiences I faced, each moment infused with a mix of physical pain and mental anguish.

The torment I endured was unimaginable. I was driven to the brink of death, my spirit crushed under the weight of cruelty. Yet, the most harrowing aspect was the relentless replay of her death in my mind, a cruel image orchestrated by the one who relished in my suffering. Each iteration of her loss was a dagger to my heart, twisting deeper with every sadistic laugh that echoed in the darkness. It was as if madness had taken hold of me, wrapping around my mind and squeezing until I could hardly breathe.

Then when she died, I died, the version of me they all wish to have back. In that moment, time seemed to freeze, and the world around me faded into a blur. I could hardly comprehend the reality of her death; it felt surreal, as if I were trapped in one of those nightmares, only this time I wasn't waking up.

That was the moment I completely unraveled. The threads of my sanity that were already loose and thin, began to fray and snap. I could feel the pieces of myself scattering like leaves caught in the wind, each one a fragment of the person I used to be.

In the absence of her laughter, her warmth, and her unwavering support, I felt like a ship adrift at sea, with no anchor to hold me steady. The madness that had taken hold of me was no longer a distant specter; it was now my constant companion, whispering dark thoughts and feeding my despair. I struggled with the state of my mind, desperately seeking a way back to the light, but each attempt only seemed to deepen my descent into darkness.

And so, I continued to unravel, thread by thread, lost in a world that felt both familiar and disgustingly foreign, haunted by the memory of a love that had once held me to reality.

"Guess I'll never know," Cal looked up at the sky, letting out a deep sigh that mixed defeat with an unexpected sense of relief. A subtle smile appeared on his lips, and in a soft voice, he expressed his farewell, saying, "My Ahsoka, I've missed you."

With his final breath, his body too faded away.

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Luke's POV
I could easily understand my father's dislike for this Devon character. Even I found myself growing increasingly annoyed as I watched him shower my mother with doting eyes and compliments, a display that was both repulsive and unsettling. "That robe looks stunning on you," he gushed for what felt like the tenth time, while I angrily stabbed my fork into my food, wishing it were him I could skewer instead.

When my father lavished affection on her, it felt effortless and natural, a comfort that didn't get on my nerves. But this? This made me want to gouge my eyes out and lose the ability to hear. It simply felt...wrong. I don't know how else to describe it.

"Thank you," she replied with a smile, returning to her breakfast, appearing flattered yet utterly disinterested. My father, unfortunately, was absent, likely unaware of the scene unfolding before me. For once, I found myself wishing he would materialize out of thin air, as he often did.

As I lifted my fork, ready to savor the meal before me, a sudden, familiar pain gripped my chest, causing me to hesitate. The fork nearly slipped from my fingers. "Are you alright?" My mother's pulled me from my thoughts, her gaze filled with worry.

No.

"I'm fine," I replied, forcing a smile that felt more like a mask than a genuine expression. Deep down, I recognized that ache all too well—"Just a bit of heartburn," I added, clearing my throat as I fought back the tears threatening to spill.

Uncle Cal. It had to be him. I could feel his absence like a gaping hole inside of me.

"From oatmeal?" Devon chimed in, his tone teasing.

"Shut up, Devon," I retorted, my irritation flaring as I returned to my plate, though the food held no appeal. What else could I do? It was painfully clear he was gone, and all I could cling to was the hope that if I just kept moving forward, everything might somehow return to how it all should be. It had to. I needed it to.

Even with that thought lingering in my mind, the pain remained unrelenting. My fingers tightened around the fork's handle, and I let my gaze fall to the table, the wood grain blurring in my vision. "Luke, you're crying. What's wrong?" My mother's voice, soft and laced with concern, broke through the haze. She spoke in a hushed tone, a protective whisper meant only for the three of us at this table—a gesture for which I silently expressed my gratitude.

I wanted to respond, but the pain of grief lodged in my throat threatened to erupt, and I feared I would shatter under the agony of losing the last person who mattered in my life.

"It's just heartburn, man. No need to cry about it," Devon chimed in, his words cutting through the air like a knife.

In that instant, without fully grasping my actions, I lost control.

I sprang to my feet, my voice booming, "Shut up!" The force of my shout sent shockwaves through the room, tables lifting and shooting across the floor, sending everyone in the room tumbling, including my mother. The exact table we were just having breakfast in hurtled towards her just as she hit the floor, about to strike her, but my father appeared just in time, her guardian angel, halting the table before it could reach her.

He cast a quick glance at her, ensuring she was unharmed, before his gaze shifted to me. In an instant, the table he had been holding was hurled in my direction, only to split apart at the last moment, narrowly avoiding me as it crashed to the ground on either side. It was a calculated move on his part; he had toyed with me as a response to me nearly hitting her, using just enough force to shatter it at the final second, sparing me from any impact.

The wanting in his actions and eyes were undeniably clear: if I was to bring her any harm, he would be there to hurt me right back and very easily too. Ironic.

Before I fully grasped that he was approaching, he was already standing in-front of me. He seized my wrists, and it dawned on me that my hands were trembling. "Calm down," he instructed.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, "I didn't intend to—"

He raised a finger to hush me, then pointed toward the door. "Follow me."

There was no room for argument, and the thought of remaining in that room, under the watchful eye of so many scrutinizing gazes, was unbearable. I complied, trailing behind him through a maze of corridors, an uncomfortable silence enveloping us.

After a few moments, I realized he was leading me to his quarters, and confusion washed over me, though I held my questions at bay. Once inside, he shut the door firmly and, with a flick of his wrist, summoned a chair from the corner, gesturing for me to take a seat. He settled into a chair beside a cluttered workbench, littered with droid components and various unfamiliar objects.

"What are we doing here?" I finally asked, my gaze fixed on him as he handed me an item I couldn't identify.

"Fixing things," he replied matter-of-factly, placing a tool in my palm. "Something clearly has you upset, very upset." He sighed, emphasizing his point. "So, you're going to sit here, unwind, and help me with a few projects. It's more therapeutic than you might expect and healthier than destroying entire rooms."

"I—" I glanced down at the object in my hand, "I'm not really a fixer, Anakin. I can barely mend a broken buckle on my shoe."

He turned to face me, having rummaged through his tools. "That's why I'm going to teach you. Now, be quiet and watch what I do."

I observed him for a brief moment, weighing my options before I chose to disregard his command and spoke up, "I'm guessing you've lost your temper like that before?"

A smile flickered across his face, though his gaze remained fixed on the ground. "More times than I can count. Now, seriously, be quiet and pay attention, because if I have to correct another one of your blunders today, I'll take your lightsaber and—"

"Understood." I cut in, not needing him to elaborate. Despite the lingering pain that coursed through me, a small smile crept onto my lips.

"Oh, and before I forget," he said, finally meeting my eyes, "if you ever put my padawan in the line of your reckless temper again, I'll make sure you regret it."

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