Disclaimer: no owning. Not no and not ever. But maybe George Lucas could give me rights to the OTs if I asked nicely?

The Abyss

On clear moments, when gazing at the stars, he thought there used to so much be more than this burning rage consuming his heart and mind. Yes, Vader knew, hissing through his armor. Once there used to be so much more than his depthless pit of hate.

But he had grown to become a good friend of hate. Every fiber of Vader, and every ounce of him knew of the hate. Yet, he still didn’t know, not as well as he was supposed to at least. And that was his biggest shame and grandest defeat. He couldn’t hate forever even, if he knew it his only salvation and savior. Therefore, he practiced and clung to his hate.

For what else there remained was already out of his reach. He had lost and been robbed from all: his home, his teacher, and his friends.

It was surprisingly easy to hate them: Ben, Qui Gong, the pompous Jedis, and the politicians who allowed it all to escalate. Vader fisted his palm, staring at the space and the grey, wedged forms of the starships drifting pass his sight.

Jedis he had ridded of, but the politicians still remained with the world they had helped him and his master to create. He inhaled loudly, the anger flaring again in his heart. In the end, the politicians also created Vader and his master.

And look at us now, Vader snorted. For what was his Emperor but a crippled old man who sat on his throne, guarding jealously all he had achieved. And what was Vader? A crippled man, who won nothing and lost all.

The disparity was so striking it made him woozy. Most of the time Vader also hated him. His master. The Emperor.

He took a long, hissing breath. Yes, hating was easy. And it was good. It made him strong. It saved him from his life.

He gazed into the stars, his burning rage fading again. And grudgingly he confessed to himself the truth.

It was easier to hate than to realize he was afraid of those distant dreams and feelings swaying back to light, emerging from the edge of his mind. It was so much easier to hate than to admit what he tried to conceal from himself.

When the burning rage subdued and was replaced by the nagging ache and longing, there remained but one truth. The one robbing him of the most prized item, his children and wife, his future and his life, was himself. It was Vader he hated the most, since with his own hand he, himself, had ruined his life, and robbed him of his dreams.

And Vader sighed, knowing that the abyss he stared into, was not the abyss of the space, but his mind -- and his heart.