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Empire day. The day Vader hated the most, even after all these years. Year after year his Master forced him to sit through the week-long celebrations on Coruscant. Oh, how he loathed it. No matter how steeped in the Dark Side he was, the Jedi’s memories always invaded his mind on this cursed day. The celebrations were yet just another twist in raw wounds, and this particular Empire day was even worse. As he stood overlooking the fiery plains and cliffs of Mustafar from the vantage of his fortress, Vader’s mind was consumed by Bespin. Of standing, frozen, as a bruised and battered boy with blond hair looked at him and let himself fall into oblivion. In a flash, the boy’s face was replaced by a woman’s, with bleeding gashes and livid bruises on her face. And then a younger woman, an expression of horror and fear as she clutched her throat and gasped for air.
Vader closed his eyes and jerked his mind’s eye against the useless, pathetic thoughts of a man long dead. He was a Lord of the Sith. He was above such sentimental nonsense, especially the sentimental nonsense of a fool.
He sensed Vanée approach.
“Milord?”
Vader didn’t turn. “Speak.”
“You have received a package, milord.”
Vader frowned under his mask. A package? He did not receive packages.
“From whom? The Emperor?”
“No, milord. It seems to be from an anonymous source.”
Vader’s interest was piqued. An assassination attempt, perhaps? The idea stirred his wrath, and he fed the cold fire, nurtured it until the anticipation of a challenge, of tracking down and punishing those who would dare attack him, drove him to investigate that mysterious package.
Vanée had left it in one of the hangars. It was a large crate, large enough to fit a man inside. There was a presence inside, in fact. It seemed to belong to something asleep. Vader’s eyes narrowed. He ignited his lightsaber and raised his other hand. The lid of the crate tore off and crashed into to floor, skidding a few metres. Vader was about to drag the being out with the Force and demand an explanation when the sleeping presence stirred and expanded in the Force, stretching and unfolding into a mind as bright and warm as stars and as intimately familiar to Vader as his own.
Speechless, Vader slowly took a step nearer the crate and peered down. The inside had been padded and furnished like a very small cabin. Wrapped in a blanket and blinking sleepy eyes up at him was Luke Skywalker.
His son.
“Hello, Father,” the young Jedi murmured.
Vader stared.
It was not often something could faze him, or even take him by surprise. And yet—
“I couldn’t find any traces of your birthday,” Luke said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “So I thought I’ll mail myself to you for mine instead.”
If Vader could, he would have rubbed his own eyes. As it was, he slowly reached out and touched Luke’s cheek. The boy’s apprehension briefly flared in the Force before he understood.
Vader’s fingers made contact.
Luke’s eyes met his.
“My son,” Vader said.