Meanwhile, Palpatine could concentrate on Skywalker. On the subtle war of words and wills which would begin today. On the web he would weave about the boy, pulling him in ever further with contradictions and insinuations...though in this instance they were hardly needed. Skywalker's own twisted, shattered life was desolate enough; realization of his coldly calculating betrayal by the Jedi he had so willingly trusted would surely be feeling like a knife in his heart right now.
Because that was the truth, the actual, wonderful, glorious, ironic truth. Palpatine had been given this Jedi. He had been handed it on a plate, with the key to opening the path down into its own dark shadows so considerately provided by Kenobi. Because Kenobi had lied to it; had committed the greatest sin possible in knowingly depriving a stolen child of its father, and then compounded that sin by lying not only about the boy's lineage, but just as importantly about his own involvement, in his efforts to control the boy.
Did he really believe he could keep a truth like that hidden?
Oh, the boy would still resist; he would still fight, Palpatine knew. But it would be a reflex action, the final fragments of a shattered life. A pale shadow of the unassailable conviction which would have built his resistance had he not sustained this gaping wound of Kenobi's making. Now, when they finally faced each other, his Jedi would carry within him a terrible, destructive flaw, too great to even begin to process yet--and Palpatine would give him no time to do so, no moment's grace to come to terms with the chaos of confusion. Right now he would be desperately lost. Loss of faith in those he trusted, loss of identity in the face of cold reality, loss of certitude, questioning his belief in his own ability to withstand the Darkness.
So this was Palpatine's task when they finally faced; to use what Kenobi had so considerately provided. To search out more weakness, any flaw which could be exploited. To gently, infinitesimally, begin to nudge his Jedi's perspective away from where it stood now, towards Darkness. To steal those final fragments of hope now, whilst the boy was still willing to listen, then to rip away by any means his last vestiges of control and see what the boy would do; whether he truly had his father's blood in his veins.
And that was the gamble; to push too hard too soon would only alienate when Palpatine needed to maintain an open dialogue between them; establish a precedent that would remain, no matter what.
But he also had to fix the rules of their future relationship from the outset; that he was the Master, invincible and unassailable. That any divergence from Palpatine's rules, no matter how small, would be swiftly and violently curtailed.
No warnings, no degrees of response.
He was the Master and his word was absolute.
Such complex contradictions to weave into these first meetings of minds, a careful line to be tread. But this had always been Palpatine's forte, to subjugate and dominate, to manipulate to his advantage and break those around him to his will, instinctively knowing what would be required to dissect the mind within.
Breaking a mind was easy of course, and so amusing, to push another to the brink again and again, physically and mentally. To see just how many times one could do that before the mind within snapped. The challenge now, however, was to do so in such a way that it could be rebuilt. Reshaped to Palpatine's purpose. He had never had the opportunity to do this with its father--not like this, all plays out in the open, intent and counter, consequences clear, nothing hidden.
This was the art of the game. And this he would enjoy.
He entered its quarters, heavily-guarded again now, aware of its presence just two locked rooms away, knowing in that same instant that it was aware of his. It was slow though; still recovering from surgery and drugs, woken only a short time earlier and not yet having been allowed to leave that single room. But it hadn't reacted at this restriction--hadn't struggled or objected--perhaps because it knew it wasn't capable yet. Maybe it realized that Palpatine was near...or was this in recognition of its surroundings, which were hardly contentious?
Perhaps it simply acknowledged the inevitable.
His awareness of it dimmed as it raised mental barriers in defense, and he smiled, amused; as if they would make a difference. But let it feel safe...for now.
.
.
.
.
Sitting quietly in a chair by the inches-thick window, dressed in the only clothes they had left for him, Luke gazed out watching the evening light wane into the night, lost in thought, his left hand rubbing absently at his forehead to ease the pressure there.
He was dressed in black, a color he seldom wore. A fitted, stand-collared shirt of smooth, refined cortal linen whose buttons were formed from tiny, hand-woven vinesilk knots, the braided loops which fastened them made of the same decorative cord which looped in finely-stitched, intricate patterns about the front of the shirt. He'd left several open, hot and claustrophobic despite the grand proportions of the room, so that the intricately topstitched high collar hung loose, the fine fabric cool against his skin. The trousers too were black, flawlessly tailored, their fabric heavier and closely woven. Even the boots, of a soft supple hide he didn't recognize, were perfectly fitted, handmade to the highest quality and subtly stitched, black-on-black.
He felt deeply, uncomfortably out of place in them. Awkward and self-conscious, aware that the shirt alone probably cost more than Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen had earned in a year on Tatooine. Lost in their darkness, a pale shadow smothered and swallowed up by their casual opulence. Was this too mind games, as the room doubtless was? Designed to set him ill-at-ease, make him feel out of his depth. Or was it all simply to illustrate what was on offer.
What would the Sith do when Luke refused, he wondered.
He knew Palpatine was Sith--knew it without doubt, now. It had always been whispered within Intelligence circles; had been an open secret for years. And now, here, aware in a way he had never been before...he knew.
Something...resided here. It brooded in the dead of night and the bright light of day, its intensity overriding all else. Not like Vader; that was a massive locus in the Force, a hulking knot of Dark intent too great to ignore. This shadow writhed and twisted, defying quantification, at once massive and intangible and infinitely dangerous. It enclosed and enveloped, like a pressure change, like the still before the storm.
What should he do? What could he do?
He had no idea...absolutely no idea.
--Ben...--
Luke reached out with his senses, but only Darkness answered, smug and self-satisfied, completely confident. Completely alien. He had no experience of this, no idea how to combat it. And it was everywhere here, blanketing everything in that dense, impenetrable fog, isolating and limiting and subtly hindering. To withstand it--just that, just to hold it at bay--took every ounce of applied concentration. His abilities seemed strangely muted here, contact with the Force hard to maintain as it swirled away from him, lost in a vast sea of Darkness which pushed ever inwards, a perpetual pressure looking for any weakness, any ingress.
Consideration of this constant, grinding weight made him rub at his temples again, though it did nothing to ease the pressure, his focus pulled taut as he strained to hold against it. And still the storm grew nearer...
--What do I do? --
Luke pulled his hand away, still trembling with weakness. What should I do?
More than anything else, his thoughts were with his friends now. Realization of Vader's words--that they were a weakness--hammered home. His heart burned in his chest at that fear. Fear that the Emperor would use them...fear that it would work.
How could it not?