This story, written in January of this year, was inspired by a fantastic piece of artwork by thebixo on tumblr (which I can't link because of FFN). This idea has haunted me for a very long time, I have no idea why. I hope you enjoy, despite this being yet another depressing piece.

Many thanks to SpellCleaver for suggesting me title ideas from "Anthem for Doomed Youth" by Wilfred Owen.

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.

One moment there was light and screeching power and horrifying screams, a hand held out towards him, a boy sobbing and pleading for help.

The next there was silence.

Vader blinked, disoriented, a weight sinking in his stomach as his eyes adjusted to the loss of the blinding light. Darkness entombed the room once more, and for a second there was relief in it.

Then, through the clearing smoke, his eyes fell on the shape of the boy lying curled up next to the shaft.

The Emperor let out a long and heavy sigh. His gaze too was set on the young Jedi, a sad smile on his lips, something like pity in his eyes. The darkness around him, however, was moving in triumph and satisfaction, a sinister celebration that suffocated Vader.

Luke was still and silent.

No, Vader thought, staring at his son. No, that cannot be.

He was just unconscious. He was still alive, he must be, his heart couldn't have stopped…

"What a shame," the Emperor said. His words were quiet, so quiet after the deafening sound of Luke's agony, and Vader barely heard him over the haunting echoes in his head. "You were right, my friend. He had great potential. It grieves me that he couldn't be made to see reason."

Empty words, false words. His lie rang through the Force, so dissonant with the absolute victory he felt, the thrill of power he was still high on.

Vader saw red. Devastating rage inflamed his mind and the blood in his veins. Before he could think, a lightsabre was in his remaining hand and its green light plunged into the Emperor's guts.

He didn't get to desecrate his son's death that way, didn't get to call Vader friend after murdering his child before his eyes, didn't get to smile about it –

Vader slashed at him once, twice, thrice more, overwhelmed by horror and outrage. The Emperor's remains fell to the ground before he could raise his hands to attack, next to Luke's body, and that was already too much. Vader kicked them into the shaft.

Then he deactivated the lightsabre, and there was silence again, heavy and stifling.

Luke was still lying on the deck. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open, his face too pale in the cold starlight. He looked so very thin and small in his dark, charred outfit.

The weapon slipped from Vader's fingers, and he fell to his knees next to his son. His respirator was too loud in his ears, the only sound in the room.

Luke's own chest was motionless. He was lying on his side, his limbs slack and curled up, loosely recalling the way he had held them around his torso in a desperate attempt to protect himself from excruciating pain. His features had loosened, but not enough to get rid of his frown or the pained curl of his lips.

He didn't look asleep nor peaceful. It was all too obvious what had happened to him, the gruesome and humiliating death he'd suffered.

And yet he had been so brave until the very end.

Vader's hand hovered over him, wanting to touch him but barely daring to do so. His fingertips lightly trailed the angry black and red burns coming from his neck upside his jaw and spreading on his cheek. They brushed damp hair from his sweat-glistening forehead, then strayed to caress his cheekbones, his nose. Even his fingers bore marks of the lightning's damage.

But Luke's eyes, his brilliant blue eyes who saw him as deeply as Padmé's had, remained hopelessly closed.

A whimper escaped Vader. He bent forward and grasped his son's shoulders, holding him tight, his handless arm helplessly slung across the boy's abdomen while he brought his forehead close to Luke's in a desperate embrace. He wanted to feel his warmth, wanted to hold him and protect him like he should have done all these years.

But the prosthetics were unfeeling, his face trapped behind his mask. Luke didn't react to his display of affection, his body cooling minute after minute.

He was dead. He was dead, and it was all Vader's fault.

Lead dropped into his guts, a vice clamped around his lungs, his throat constricted painfully.

I will not turn, and you will be forced to kill me.

Vader had known it would end this way. He had known, and tried to convince himself it didn't matter, that Luke only held importance as an apprentice and a tool. He'd wanted to believe there was still a chance to turn him, even when confronted with his son's quiet assurances and his warnings of what would happen.

Luke had tried to tell him, and Vader hadn't listened. He'd led him to his death and Luke had let him, had walked into it with his head held high, hadn't turned away from his fate while his father stood by and watched him die.

He closed his eyes against the terrible images seared into his brain. Luke's screams, his spasms, his tears, his desperate calls for help, his hand reaching out taut and strained towards his father.

He hadn't even really known him, he realised as he beheld the motionless face resting upon his chestplate. His thumb gently stroked Luke's hand, as if it could bring him comfort even where he was now. He had never seen him smile, never heard him laugh, never asked him about his dreams and passions and childhood memories.

And now he would never have the chance.

This is the happiest moment of my life.

How much he had wanted this. How much he'd imagined he would love his child and wife, how happy he had thought they all would be. He hadn't let himself think of these dreams in so very long, hadn't realised a part of them still lived in a corner of his heart, revived when he had discovered Luke's existence.

Luke, his bright, spirited, reckless, Rebel son. Luke who had been only twenty-three when he died, even younger than his mother. Vader would have given him the world; instead he had taken him to slaughter.

All of it was ashes now.

He supposed he should go on; find his second child, make amends to her, continue to live for her sake and in honour of Luke's sacrifice. But he couldn't find the energy for it. He didn't want to destroy her like he had destroyed everyone else he had loved.

Nor did he want to leave his son.

He remained kneeling there, holding him close against his chest, wordless and motionless in the depths of grief. No tears came to his damaged eyes. He was too shocked still, too stupefied, unable to make sense of the terrible truth.

Luke was gone, and the world was silent.

He didn't even notice the bright explosion as everything around him burnt, too.