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Beyond - Legends Reflections of the Past - Luke Skywalker (Angsty one-shot)

Discussion in 'Fan Fiction- Before, Saga, and Beyond' started by EmeraldJediFire, Mar 30, 2013.

  1. EmeraldJediFire

    EmeraldJediFire Jedi Master star 4

    Feb 23, 2012
    Note: This one's a bit dark because it follows canon past FOTJ series.
    Reflections of the Past
    Disclaimer I do not own Star Wars; it is the property of the Mouse.
    Luke sat up, crossing his cabin aboard the Golden Dawn, one of the larger transport ships afforded by the Galactic Alliance to shuttle the Jedi off of Coruscant. It did nothing to hide how much the Senate wanted the Jedi out of their hair, offering their assistance fervently hadn't gone unnoticed by Luke or the other Masters. He had simply shaken his head inwardly and thanked them.

    He was equal party to this change, agreeing with the Senate and Wynn Dorvan that the departure of the Jedi on Coruscant was in the best interests of the citizenry. Not to say that it didn't hurt, but Luke wasn't about to take the Senate's rebuff of the Jedi personally. All he could do was lead the Jedi as best as they could, without assistance from the GA.

    He crossed over to the full length mirror in his cabin and stood in his bare feet, examining himself.

    His skin was still pasty and grey; his cheeks slightly sunken in to match the deathly look around his eyes. He ran hand over his face and down his neck, pulling aside the fabric to reveal his chest underneath. He then reached up with his other hand and undid the tunic and let it fall open to bare his skin to his own gaze.

    He wasn't as deathly ill as he had been. In fact, he had recovered considerably. That didn't, however, dismiss his appearance.

    He ran a hand over his chest, feeling out—and seeing—the depression in his chest that was the wound from Abeloth. A blaster canon-sized hole that had punched its way through his chest. Or to be more exact, a hole that had really been caused by the dark being reaching one of her wicked tentacles inside his chest, ripping out chunks of flesh. He had surely thought he would die that day. But his beloved Mara had urged him to live, to rise—and so he had.

    His fingers skittered away from the fresh wound and landed upon the spider-like abrasions that puckered on his skin, but had healed for the most part. To call it an abrasion was to take it lightly, it was in fact, a deep burn mark caused from Force lightening received at point-blank
    range. He winced as he touched it, feeling the hot scarring beneath his hand, and relived the moment the lighting had entered his chest. His body had convulsed, the dark power playing on each and every nerve, muscle and bone. He had over-exerted himself in the Force that day, and had come to the end of his rope.

    His hand dropped down to another wound, this one plastered in the center of his chest and barely visibly because of the burn. This one was completely healed, but still held a hint of what it had been. This was the place Shimrra Jamaane's amphistaff had pierced him during the Yuzzhan Vong War; eking its deadly nectar of death into his body. Its poison should have killed him, but like with Abeloth, Luke survived. Only this scar remained as a testament to that day.

    The scar left by the wound faintly resembled a sunburst or a star gone nova. He traced his fingers along it before looking into his own eyes once more. They were the same shade of blue they always had been, if slightly duller due to his debilitation.

    His gaze fell to another scar—this one barely noticeable, but Luke knew it was there. He could make out the two faint, white lines running diagonally along his cheek under his right eye. These scars were given to him on the planes of Hoth, during an encounter with a fearsome Wampa ice creature. A meeting which left him stunned and hanging upside down, with his boots secured by ice in the creature's den.

    He sucked in a breath, momentarily stricken by the numerous wounds covering his body. He had fought and lived a long, hard life. These scars were reminders of his various battles, his own recklessness, and the duty he'd taken on as a Jedi.

    His hand fell back to the fatal wound Abeloth left in his chest, touching it gingerly. Drawing in another deep breath, he winced as a bolt of pain pierced his lung. He squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering, and drawing a hissed breath in, then releasing it. His fingers dug into the flesh above the wound.

    Bellow his palm laid the source of his pain, his lung which was still recovering. He was told he had lost a lobe when Abeloth had reached her tentacle inside. It was so strange, he reflected, he didn't feel any different except for the slight pain that throbbed from his damaged organ.
    And that only acted up once and awhile.

    Yes, he was far from healthy, but was no longer at death's door. He had lived through another hell to see his family and friends once more. Whatever path lay before him, he trusted what the Force had in mind. It had not wanted him to perish and so he hadn't.

    His destiny had not been fulfilled entirely.

    Not that he had ever been resentful with the Force for 'toying' with life nor had he ever been bitter about the destiny that had been thrust upon him. In fact, at that moment, he had been fully ready to die; reassured that he had done all he was meant to do in his lifetime.

    So, through all the lecturing that you gave me the Great Grand Master was just going to lay down and die. What happened to selfless heroics?

    Oh, right, you'd exceeded your quota.

    A bitter laugh reverberated inside his head. He looked around, searching outwardly for the dark disembodied voice.

    And what do you have to show for your heroics, your giving-nature, the Senate ousts you.
    Makes all you've worked for amount to nothing, not once, but twice.

    After the countless times you put yourself in harm's way, suffering the scars which you now bear, still they spurn you.

    Another bitter laugh.

    That's gratitude for you…

    Luke's hand dropped back to his chest, feeling the dull throb.

    Was living really worth the shame and humiliation you've been visited upon again. Were your wounds worth the price you had to pay?

    "It was," Luke retorted. "It was worth every second."

    The scars you see as a testament to your life….are they not really a representative of the shame dealt upon you by the government you so nobly protect?

    "No, this is my life." He refuted. "I chose this; I chose my scars…my aches and pains. I chose this wound..." He covered the ghastly hole. "…I chose to give myself."

    No, those are reflections of your life slowly being chipped away at again and again; a reflection of betrayal by ungrateful democracies.

    Your death is in those scars; stamped into that eviscerated flesh.

    "You're wrong." He denied stoutly.

    Oh no, Master, I'm afraid it's you that are wrong. You are wrong and delusional. You tell lies to yourself. You're simply unwilling to accept the truth of your own mortality.
    He flinched at this accusation.

    His eyes found their way to his own reflection in order to catch a glimpse of the various scars
    that marred his chest. What was it about these faded wounds that caused him so much inward reflection and reminiscence? Was it the fact that they were a part of his past; his life? Or was it simply a reflection about own mortality?

    What else could they been but that, Luke? You're a walking corpse, why can't you just admit that to yourself. Look at yourself, you look like Death already.

    He reached up to touch his cheek, his eyes locking on the scaring at his right wrist. His act of ultimate recklessness and stupidity was personified in that scar He massaged it briefly, as if he could still feel the aching pain.

    Perhaps, he considered, what I do need…is a brief rest.

    Or an eternal one…Isn't that right, Uncle Luke?

    A chill shot through him.

    "Jacen?" He whispered.

    Who else? There was a slimy tone to his voice. Who else knows death better than I?