He turned quickly away, aware that he was dropping into this melancholy state simply as a reaction to his father's visit, glancing about the featureless grey walls of the room - he never bothered to add any kind of human touch to his surroundings here; what was the point? It was in reality little more than a prison. Carefully disguised of course- Palpatine awarded his precious 'Jedi' the illusion of freedom but they both knew the truth... in this at least.
But there were other secrets; greater lies... Luke had, after all, learned at the feet of a master. Learned to conceal, walls within walls, to twist the truth just enough to serve his own ends. To apreciate the irony of every lesson learned.
Because the freedoms his Master so judiciously doled out when he had awarded his Jedi command of the Core System's Fleet, enabling Luke to escape the stifling restrictions of Palace life on Coruscant and his Master's close presence, were in truth granted on the strength of a lie. A lie committed three years earlier and reinforced many, many times since that fateful duel between his father and himself. A lie that Luke was more than happy to have his Master believe; he could assume whatever he wanted as long as it bought Luke the freedom he craved...
Only it was never quite that. Palpatine never let his prized 'Wolf' run completely free. He simply awarded a longer chain. And even that would be snatched back in an instant if Palpatine knew the truth; what freedoms Luke was allowed were based on Palpatine's belief that he controlled his new Sith absolutely - and in many ways he did, Luke acknowledged that fact. But one of the cornerstones of that belief was his Master's conviction that Luke had stayed the lightsaber blow that would have killed his father because of Palpatine's direct command; that his order had overridden Luke's one driving desire.
The truth - and Luke had learned long ago to hide such things from his Master's searching mind - the real truth was that Palpatine's shouts and orders as that duel came to its explosive conclusion had affected Luke not one whit. If he had wanted to kill Vader he would have done so, and faced the consequences. It had, after all, been his intention when he initiated the duel.
But something else had stayed his hand that day- some hidden spark, some muted cry. He hadn't killed his father because in that moment...he couldn't. Despite everything he believed he'd thought, everything he thought still...he couldn't bring himself to land that blow.
Was he weak? Yes, and he hated himself for it. But then he hated himself for so many things- this was simply one more, lost in the crowd and easy to ignore. He didn't think about them anymore. It was too hard and they were too many.
Palpatine believed him fearless because he would answer any challenge, take any risk, throw himself against any enemy without hesitation.
"My Feral Jedi," his Master called him so indulgently, as if this were a commendation rather than a curse- "My Wild Wolf."
In truth all he craved was a quick death. The chains his Master had so diligently wrapped about his precious Jedi, mind and soul both, precluded any easier option. But if he was too bound to do the job himself, then others were queuing up for the privilege, and though his Master had taught him well, Luke had to believe that there was someone out there who was faster or more committed than himself.
And eventually, he would face them.
He had no illusions- they were too close to hope, and that was long lost.
Chapter 3
CHAPTER TWO
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Leia leaned in, studying the image closely, Mon Mothma and General Madine doing the same.
Taken secretly from a distance with no sound, hand-held and compressed to smuggle it out, the grainy 2-D image showed three Lambda-class shuttles settling to a smooth landing, twelve of the Empire's new Interatmosperic TIE fighters overflying in tight formation as they did so. From the first two shuttles, full squads of stormtroopers marched in perfect unison- the 701st Leia recognised, from the dark blue pauldren on their shoulders. They formed two wide double-lines at the entrance ramp of the third shuttle, Neimoidia's official representatives shuffling nervously as the ramp lowered.
A man walked down, long cloak billowing in the fierce wind, high collar turned up. Following him were the same two humans who accompanied him everywhere- a tall, wide built man with dark hair and olive skin and a lithe, slim redhead with the kind of athletic frame and bearing that suggested a lifetime of training, her eyes everywhere, always tensed for action.
The cloaked man strode forward confidently, completely at ease, indisputably in command.
Leia frowned, squinting at the image of the man she had known so well- and not at all.
"Were our people out?" she asked, eyes still on the screen.
"Yes." Mothma assured, voice uneasy, "He'll work it out though; he always does."
"It doesn't really matter- it's too late now." Madine said. "Everything's underway. They only need stall him for a few more weeks."
Leia turned on him, "And the Neimoidians?"
He looked away, contrite.
"They'll pay the price for helping us when this all kicks off." Leia said, frustrated, turning back to the image.
"And how long do you think they will stall a Sith?" Mon asked absently, eyes on the image.
"There's no-one left there who was involved - he can't pull from them what they don't know." Madine murmured, thoughts as ever on the greater mission.
The cloaked man stood before the Neimoidians, who all bowed nervously - with good reason, Leia knew. She frowned in scrutiny as he waved one hand in dismissal or refusal, cutting them off, speaking briefly to the assembled dignitaries and planetary representatives before walking through them, forcing them to step aside submissively, heads down, body language apprehensive and anxious; whatever he had said, it had panicked them.
He walked from the landing platform without looking back, stormtroopers filing in behind him. At its edge he paused, turning his head to the side, waiting for the slim redhead to catch up. She did so, raising on the balls of her feet as she was little more than shoulder-high to him. He spoke, gesturing with his hand... pointing directly into the long-distance lens filming him. He kept his gaze on it for a few seconds more, the redhead pulling a comm from her belt and glancing up.
Obviously realising that his cover was blown, the agent who was filming stood to make a hasty retreat, the view of the landing field shaking wildly and twisting to its side, giving a fleeting image of the camouflaged hide he'd been in, incoming fighters visible in a momentary glimpse of the sky.
"They bombed the bluff he was on, but our agent managed to get out." Mon Mothma reached down to reverse the image as she spoke, rocking it forward again to play out from the moment The Commander had stalked through the assembled dignitaries, making them back away deferentially.
Leia frowned in scrutiny, eyes on... whoever he was; certainly not the name he had once used here; Luke Skywalker's past trailed into nothing when the Bothans had tried to track it back three years earlier, just months after he'd inexplicably shown up in Cloud City. He was looking up the lens again now, giving Leia the unnerving feeling that he was staring straight at her. "He's so...."
"Different." Mon Mothma finished at last, watching the soundless recording, the image enhanced and the shake stabilised to give it clarity. This was as close as they got to him now- as close as anyone got to him. "Changed. Or perhaps not at all - perhaps this was always his true self."