Denial: "What-if" for The Trial of Darth Vader

On the Millennium Falcon: Day 1

Deviations from the original fanfiction:

-Anakin can hear, but barely.

-Anakin can only see loose shapes.

-Sgt. Sal has a similar appearance to Luke. (This is important later in the story.)

The Millennium Falcon raced through hyperspace, fleeing from the Sith planet of Korriban. With nowhere to go, Han Solo, after agreement from his two companions (and acceptance from one), decided to return to the Alliance. The trip from Korriban back to Coruscant, where the Alliance were still located, would take five days.

Han wiped fresh tears from his face as he left the pilot seat. He... he couldn't look at her lifeless body; the body of his wife- his wife, whom had he just wedded not long ago.

Chewie wrapped his furry arms around Han, offering sincere condolence to his friend, who had, again, broken down into choked sobs.

In the main hold, Anakin stared blankly at his opposite wall as he cradled Luke in his arms. Tears were drying up on his mangled face; he wasn't crying anymore, simply drowning in a sea of denial. Reaching down, he squeezed his son's hand, muttering to himself that Luke was just asleep, that his son was simply tired, though his voice crackled with grief and disbelief. His eyes were terribly hollow, for it seemed as if his very soul had been sucked out and ejected into space. He brought Luke closer, wrapping the limp body in his warmth, holding his deceased child as if he were an infant.

He gazed upon Luke with kind, adoring yet immensely sad eyes, dotingly tracing circles around his son's face with his single hand. Luke's eyelids were slipped shut, while one of his limp arms was next to Anakin's abdomen, almost as if he were clutching the fabric of Anakin's jacket.

He- he heard a noise... was- was that a moan? It was distant, but- but- it- it must be... It must be Luke! Anakin jerked up as if he had suddenly snapped out of a trance and stared at his son's graceful features, praying that there was movement. The young man's face was peaceful, albeit lifeless. For a split second, Anakin's addled brain was convinced that Luke was having a bad dream.

"Shh... it's okay, Luke... nightmares are okay... Father's right here, Father will protect you... Shh... it's okay... you're safe..."

He slowly bent down and pressed his lips to Luke's greasy, grime-covered forehead. Once more, he brings his son's limp body closer, lifting his son's head and letting it rest against his father's chest. Anakin smiled at his son's mop of blonde hair, cuddled the young, cold cheeks against his own ruined, grey-mottled-with-pink skin, and with a raspy voice, began to gently hum a lullaby. He ran his hand through his son's hair, combing the strands with his spindly mechanical fingers. Murmurs of useless comfort escaped his lips, a slight smile of sadness sprouting on his face.

Anakin's eyes traced down to his son's bloodied, severely mutilated legs. The red blood had darkened and dried, leaving hardened trickles running down paled skin. Anakin's eyes flashed with hurt as he frantically caressed his son's head with a shaking hand. With a croaking, devastated voice, he asked his son,

"Oh, my precious Luke... Tell me, is your leg hurting a lot?"

He received no response and, consequently, chose to speak no further. The only sounds left in the Falcon were the harsh, rasping breaths coming from his own self, and the soft swishing of the fabric of Han's vest as Chewie moved to a different position and wrapped his furry arms around Han's shoulders.

For just a second, Anakin could swear he heard a sob. He looked down at the tiny, huddled form in his arms, hoping his little boy would wake up.

Luke looked the same as he had for the past three hours.