#and of course this would emotionally devastate Vader/Anakin

[totallynotobsessedwithfandoms]

sometimes I wonder if, when Vader looked at Luke, he saw Ashoka.

because of course Luke reminded him of Padme, of course Luke reminded him of Obi-Wan, of course Luke reminded him of Shmi, but did Luke remind him of Ahsoka? of another young person he once trained? of a young girl who was sharp and quick and eager to learn? because Luke…Luke is warmth. Luke is dangerous and he is soft, and when I look at Luke I see traces of Ahsoka in him, this thread connecting them even though they hadn’t met. Luke and Ahsoka…two people who were bright, who were eager, who were determined to save the people they love, who could be reckless and whiny and stubborn and toe the line of darkness but, above all else, they were Jedi.

did Vader ever look at his son and, for once second, almost call him Snips?

[hopeforchanges]

Hi hope! not sure if you're still taking prompts, but i'm still emotionally devastated after seeing rots on the big screen. If you feel like writing even a little snippet of post ROTS content, I'll take anything. Thank you!!!! huge fan btw

hi hello - thank you so much! i was also flabbergasted by the ROTS experience, so my apologies for only now answering this ask - yes, i'm taking prompts! i love writing snippets! i was also ruminating for several days on where to take this one, post ROTS stories are my specialty lol

anyway, how about a fix-it of sorts where Palps gets sick and tired of Vader's moping and orders him to go ... ehm, let off some steam. You can only guess where it leads him -

In The End (5.9k words)

Vader kneels. Not out of reverence. Never that. It's muscle memory now, a gesture carved into him deeper than bone. The cloak pools around him, thick and black and lifeless.

The Emperor’s throne room is a cathedral of rot—grand and airless, swollen with the scent of lightning that never quite struck. Shadows drape themselves over the walls like old skin. At its center, the throne pulses like a wound that will not close.

Palpatine does not speak. Not yet. He watches.

He watches the hulk of a man—his monster, his masterpiece—breathe in and out in that awful, mechanical rhythm. A metronome ticking at the center of an abandoned song.

“You dream again.”

The voice is smoke and static.

Palpatine slithers forward. Not walking—gliding. As if the darkness parts for him. As if it has learned to obey.

“I smell it on you,” he murmurs, leaning close. “Like perfume that’s gone sour. A woman. Dead, isn’t she?”

A pause. Then, with sweet venom:

“Padmé.”

Vader’s fists tighten. Metal groans.

“There is no power in grief, Lord Vader. No wisdom in clinging to corpses. She is rot. A whisper on your tongue. A hole in your side. She is nothing.”

Vader does not move. But the Force trembles in the air around him—fractured, unstable, hungry.

“You would have been perfect,” Palpatine croons. “If not for this... infestation. This ache. You carry it like a jewel. Like it’s sacred.”

His voice turns to iron.

“But I will not have it. You are not a boy in love. You are not a husband in mourning. You are a servant.”

The silence now is thick enough to drown in. Palpatine leans closer, close enough for his breath to fog the obsidian mask.

“You will silence this part of you. You will excise it like a tumor. You will take flesh—not for love, not for comfort, but for command.”

The words slither, hot and obscene: “Go find yourself a whore.”

He tastes the word. Rolls it over his tongue like blood.

“Remind yourself you still have a body. That you were not made only to kneel. Feed your hunger. Drown the ghost.”

And then—so quiet it barely exists:

“Unless,” he purrs, “you already know whose door you’d darken.”

Something flickers. A fracture in the glass.

Palpatine’s grin widens, a fissure in a face too old for joy.

“Ah.”

He knows.

Of course he knows.

“Go,” the Emperor breathes, a hand curling back into shadow. “Indulge your wound. Let it scream. And when it breaks you, return to me stronger.”

Vader rises. Wordless.

But the air around him shifts—charged now, electric, awful with anticipation.

He turns and walks into the dark, the cape dragging behind him. And in the hollow where 

Anakin used to be, something ravenous opens its eyes.

***

The suns have just begun to fall when Obi-Wan feels it.

A disturbance—not sharp, not sudden, but slow and suffocating, like sand slipping into the lungs. It slithers through the Force like smoke under a door. Old. Familiar. His.

Obi-Wan stops walking.

He stands alone among the dunes, cloak tugged by the wind, eyes closing against the sting of the setting light. The twin suns burn his face, but it is nothing compared to the heat rising beneath his skin now. He knows this signature. He knows this shadow.

Vader.

No. Not Vader. Not fully. Not here.

Anakin. Or whatever’s left of him, stretched thin and screaming beneath the metal.

The wound has come home.

He turns back toward the cave. Luke is inside, playing with a toy pilot he found in the market. Laughing. Whole.

Obi-Wan feels the laughter like a brand.

There is no time. No time to warn Owen, no time to run. If Vader stays too long, he will sense him. No matter how deep Obi-Wan has buried the boy’s presence in the Force, it’s not perfect. It never was.

He has only one weapon left.

Himself.

***

Night falls fast in the desert. The sand glows like bone under the stars.

Vader stands at the edge of Mos Eisley, cloaked, unmoving. He does not know why he came. Only that the heat here feels personal, like an accusation. The air tastes of his mother’s grave. Of slavery. Of failure.

Somewhere behind the mask, something weeps.

And then—he feels him.

A ripple. A break in the stillness.

He turns.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stands a few paces away, half-swallowed by shadow, cloak drawn tight around him. He looks older. Smaller. But the presence is the same. Steady. Anchored.

Vader says nothing.

Obi-Wan steps forward. One step only.

Obi-Wan nods, like he’s answering a question Vader hasn’t asked.

“Take me.”

The silence stretches. Then cracks.

“What?” Vader’s voice is gravel and fury.

“You want to feed the wound,” Obi-Wan says. “I opened it. You’re here for me, are you not?” 

The space between them tightens, like the air is bracing for impact.

“Then take me.”

It is not surrender. It is not mercy.

It is a blade turned inward.

Obi-Wan reaches up and pulls the cowl back. His face is calm, stripped of all illusion.

“I won’t fight you.” 

Vader does not move.

His breath rattles.

Obi-Wan steps closer. They are only a breath apart now. “You can have what you came for.” 

The words hang. Heavy. Holy.

Vader’s fists curl. Somewhere inside him, something howls.

“Take me,” he says again.

And this time, Vader does.

***

The chamber is beautiful.

Obscene, really.

Red silk drapes, glistening obsidian floors polished until they reflect the flame-lit sky. The bed is large enough for two, the sheets too soft, too clean. A basin carved from black stone offers fresh water. The food is rich. The air filtered.

There is no lock on the door.

There doesn’t need to be.

The Force-suppressants are subtle. A haze in the tea. A low pulse in the lights. Obi-Wan can feel their shape now—like iron bars laced through his blood. He wakes each morning with the same dull ache behind his eyes. His connection to the Force is not severed. It is quieted, strangled softly.

He cannot hear Luke.

And that terrifies him more than Vader ever could.

Vader arrives on the third day.

The doors hiss open, and the dark shape enters, cloak trailing ash behind him. The room dims. The walls seem to bend.

Obi-Wan does not rise from the divan. He has learned not to waste movements.

Vader says nothing for a long while. He only stands there, watching. Breathing.

Obi-Wan breaks the silence first.

“Come to gloat?”

The voice behind the mask is flat. Mechanical.

“Why Tatooine?”

Obi-Wan gives him a long, tired look. “Is that truly the question you wish to start with?”

“You could have hidden anywhere in the galaxy,” Vader says. “Yet you chose that desert. Why?”

Obi-Wan turns his gaze to the firelight rippling across the walls. “I chose exile.”

“Liar.”

The word lands sharp.

Vader steps closer. “You went there for a reason. Something… someone.”

Obi-Wan’s jaw tightens. “What would you know of exile?”

“I live it.”

Vader’s voice rises—not loud, but coiled, furious.

“I built this tomb myself. Every stone. Every flame. You think this is power? This is penance.”

Obi-Wan stands now. Slowly. Deliberately.

“You didn’t build it for penance. You built it to bury me in it.” 

The silence that follows is enormous.

Then—quiet, almost too soft to register:

“Did you mourn me?”

The question is raw. Wrong. It makes Obi-Wan flinch.

He tries to answer. Fails.

Vader takes another step. They are only feet apart now. The mask stares down at him, unreadable.

“You looked me in the eye,” Vader says, voice low and shaking, “and left me burning. Did you mourn?”

Obi-Wan does not retreat.

“I mourned my Anakin.”

Vader’s hands twitch. The Force around him stirs—but it does not strike.

Vader turns away. The firelight dances over the black armor.

“You’re a coward,” Obi-Wan says.

That’s the end of the conversation—for now.

The door closes behind Vader with a hiss like a dying breath.

Obi-Wan sits back down. He cannot reach the Force.

But he can still feel the wound in the room pulsing long after Vader leaves.

***

The storm outside Mustafar has turned violent. Lava crashes against obsidian cliffs like waves, and red light flickers through the slats in the high windows. It looks like the world is burning. It always does here.

Obi-Wan doesn’t look up when the door opens. He’s seated at the edge of the bed, ankles crossed, hands folded like he’s waiting for something—though not for Vader.

Vader enters in silence, but his presence hits like a scream. Heavy. Suffocating. The Force coils strangely around him tonight, rippling with too many conflicting notes—restlessness, confusion, something worse.

He speaks without preamble.

“Do you think she knew?”

Obi-Wan lifts his head. The dim firelight carves harsh shadows across his face.

“Knew what?”

“What I would become.”

Obi-Wan stares. There’s no answer to that. Not one that won’t kill them both.

Vader takes a step closer.

“Did she see it in me? Before you did?”

“I never saw it in you,” Obi-Wan says, quiet. “I only saw the boy I loved.” 

The mask tilts.

“Liar.”

Obi-Wan doesn't flinch. “Then why ask?”

Vader circles the room instead, slow, deliberate. The weight of him drags behind like a stormcloud. He’s not looking at Obi-Wan now. He’s speaking to ghosts.

“She begged me,” Vader says. “On that landing platform. She begged me to stop. I remember her hands. How small they were.”

He turns.

“And then you were there. Always you.”

Obi-Wan breathes through his nose. “She was trying to save you.”

“She was trying to give me back to you.”

The words land like a slap, sudden and terrible.

Vader is still.

When he speaks again, his voice is barely a breath.

“You stole her from me.”

Obi-Wan rises, slowly. He’s thinner than he was, paler, but he’s still taller. He still carries the weight of a man who once had to carry a galaxy.

“You gave her away the moment you chose power over love.”

“That’s not what I chose!”

“You choked her.” The words are knives. “You choked her and watched her fall.” Obi-Wan’s chest is rising fast now. His eyes are glassy, furious. “You say her name like it absolves you, like it proves you once loved. But you don’t get to speak it. Not here. Not in this place you built from her ashes.”

The mask tilts again. Slowly. As if Vader is weighing something unspeakable. “You dream of her,” he says. “Just as I do.”

Obi-Wan blinks. The words hit too close.

“You see her,” Vader murmurs. “In the dark. On the edge of your mind. Sometimes she looks at you. Sometimes she looks through you. Sometimes she’s smiling. Sometimes—”

“Enough,” Obi-Wan snaps. But his voice breaks on it.

Vader steps closer. The hum of the respirator fills the space between them. Almost tender. Almost obscene.

“You kept something from me,” he says. “You’re still keeping it.”

Obi-Wan says nothing.

Vader’s gloved hand hovers near his face—he doesn’t touch. Not yet. But the intention lingers in the air, hot and choking.

“I want the truth,” he says.

Obi-Wan’s throat works around the words before they come.

“You wouldn’t recognize it if I handed it to you.”

They’re inches apart now. The room stinks of heat and memory and want.

“You were supposed to save me,” Vader whispers. “You were supposed to love me.” 

Obi-Wan sags back onto the bed. 

***

It happens on the sixth night.

A storm rages outside—ash rain and firelight rippling across the black stone. Inside the chamber, it is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses against the skull, waiting to scream.

Obi-Wan is seated, back to the door, arms folded. He has learned the rhythm of Vader’s visits—never at the same hour, never with warning. They arrive like heart attacks. Sudden. Inevitable.

But tonight… something is wrong.

The Force shudders like something drowning.

The door opens.

But Vader doesn’t speak.

He stands in the entryway, unmoving. Breathing in that mechanical rhythm—two counts in, one out. Over and over. But tonight, it’s off. Rushed. Uneven.

Obi-Wan turns.

Vader is trembling.

Just slightly. Just enough.

“Is this where you kill me?” Obi-Wan asks. The question is dry. Tired.

Obi-Wan stands. Slowly.

There is something feral in Vader’s posture now. Not rage. Not control. Something between confession and collapse.

“I see her every time I close my eyes,” he says. “But she never touches me.”

He turns, mask facing the window, the fire outside casting him in silhouette.

“She’s cold now. Even in dreams.”

Obi-Wan takes a breath. “And what do you want me to do about that?”

Vader’s head lowers.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know what I want.”

Then his hand rises.

To his helmet.

Obi-Wan tenses. “Don’t.”

But Vader is already pulling at the seals.

Hiss. Release. Breath gone sharp.

The mask disengages with a gasp of pressure.

And beneath it—

Not a monster.

Just him.

Ravaged. Burned. The skin a ruin of scars and fire-warped flesh. Eyes bloodshot and too bright. Lips cracked, jaw trembling.

He looks older than he should. Younger than he feels.

Obi-Wan doesn’t look away.

Vader—Anakin—searches his face like a man looking for a knife to fall on.

“I thought this would make you feel something,” he says. “Pity. Rage. Anything.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t move.

“I buried you,” he says. “Whoever this is—he’s not mine.”

Anakin closes his eyes.

And for the first time, he sways.

“I wanted you to stop me,” he says. “That day. I waited for it.”

Obi-Wan steps forward. Close now. Too close.

“I did,” he says. “You just wouldn’t come.”

The words land like fire.

Anakin turns away, head bowed, breath catching in his throat. There is no mask to filter it now. It sounds human. Ugly. Real.

He sinks to his knees.

Not in surrender.

In failure.

And Obi-Wan watches. Silent.

Because if he touches him, even once, he will forgive him.

And that cannot happen.

Not yet.

***

He doesn’t put the mask back on.

It sits on the table like a severed head, mouth open in a permanent scream. The room is dim, the fire low. Vader—Anakin—kneels still, but no longer with reverence. He’s resting, if such a thing is possible in this body, arms braced against his knees, head lowered.

Obi-Wan stands frozen, unsure when he moved closer.

There’s nothing left to call this but madness.

Anakin’s breath rasps unevenly. Real breath. Labored. Struggling.

Obi-Wan could leave. Now. He could run.

But instead, he reaches out.

Just two fingers. Just to touch the edge of the man’s jaw.

The skin is rough—melted in places, taut in others. He expects it to be cold, but it isn’t. It’s hot. Burning. A fever under ruined flesh.

Anakin doesn’t look up.

He leans into the touch.

Just slightly.

The contact sears them both.

“You hate me,” Anakin says.

Obi-Wan doesn’t answer.

“You should,” Anakin continues. “You should hate me for what I did. For what I became.”

Obi-Wan’s hand drops.

“I do.”

A beat.

“And I miss you,” he says. Quietly. Like a sin.

Anakin’s hands clench. His breath stutters.

“I remember your hands,” he says, low, shaky. “They used to steady me. On the cliff paths. On the gunship. In the Temple.”

Obi-Wan swallows.

“I remember your voice,” he says. “In the dark. After missions. In my dreams.”

Anakin rises. Slowly. Like a creature remembering it has legs.

They’re too close again. Always too close.

His eyes are wild—half-destroyed, but blazing with something old. Something that used to smile. Something that used to laugh.

“Do you dream of me now?” he asks.

Obi-Wan’s mouth twitches. Not quite a frown. Not quite a reply.“Do you want me to beg?” he asks. “Would that make it easier?”

“No,” Obi-Wan says. “It would make it worse.”

Obi-Wan shouldn’t be touching him.

He knows that. Knows it the way a man knows not to stand on the edge of a cliff in the rain, knows it like a priest knows not to speak the name of the dead too often.

But his hand is already moving. His fingers already brush Anakin’s cheek—if it can still be called a cheek. The skin there is ruined, brittle at the edge, soft in the middle. It feels wrong. And it feels familiar.

He thinks: There was a time I held your face like this and it meant something holy.

Anakin leans into it. The way a fevered man leans toward cold water.

And Obi-Wan hates himself for the sound that escapes his throat—small, broken, unguarded. It's not a sound for this room. It's a sound for temple courtyards, for shared laughter, for soft mornings with no war.

He jerks his hand back.

He tells himself it’s resistance.

He knows it’s not.

Anakin's eyes—still too bright, still too his—look up at him like a curse. “You hate me.”

Obi-Wan wants to laugh. I hate everything about you, he wants to say. The way you breathe. The way you made me love you. The way you survived just to haunt me.

But what comes out is: “I do.”

And he means it. And he doesn’t.

The truth lives somewhere in the ache between those words. Somewhere in the space between this breath and the next, where Anakin moves—slowly, stupidly, like he believes he still has a right to reach—and presses their foreheads together.

Their skin touches.

Not armor. Not masks. Skin.

Obi-Wan forgets how to breathe.

He thinks of Geonosis. Of Coruscant. Of long nights where Anakin fell asleep mid-sentence on the couch in his quarters, one boot off, the other still on, and Obi-Wan would curse and cover him with his own cloak and pretend it didn’t mean anything.

It meant everything.

And now—

Now here they are.

“I miss you,” Obi-Wan says.

He doesn’t mean to say it. It tastes like betrayal on his tongue. But he can’t stop it.

Anakin shudders.

And then his mouth is on him, rough and wild and desperate, and Obi-Wan kisses back like he’s punishing both of them.

He tells himself this is strategy.

That if he gives Anakin what he wants, he won’t look for what’s hidden.

That if he lets the beast feed, the boy will sleep.

He tells himself this as he strips away layers of fabric, as his hand slides across skin that shouldn't feel like home, as Anakin trembles beneath him like something starved.

He thinks: This isn’t love.

But he doesn’t stop.

He thinks: This is for Luke.

But the truth is—buried somewhere deep, under every lie and silence—

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire cursed life.

***

He hasn’t moved in thirty-four minutes.

The chrono clicks overhead—mechanical, precise, unaffected.

Unlike him.

He’s lying on his back in the ruined sheets, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it might open up and consume him. He’s still breathing without the mask, lungs dragging in filtered air inside this pressurized echo he created,  exhaling in a stuttered rhythm that feels too human. Weak. Unregulated. Mortal.

He hates it.

He wants it.

He hasn’t dared look at Obi-Wan.

Not since it happened. Not since Obi-Wan touched him like he still belonged to something. Not since Obi-Wan whispered his name into his mouth like a sin, like a secret, like a last rite.

He thinks: This should have been a weapon.

It wasn’t. It was a confession.

And now he is cracked wide open—scarred skin, rotting soul, grief  strapped to his back—and the only thing worse than Obi-Wan’s silence is imagining what he’s thinking.

Pity, maybe.

Or worse.

Hope.

The firelight outside pulses like a warning. Mustafar has always known how to scream. Tonight, it’s whispering.

Obi-Wan is seated in the corner chair, wrapped in the discarded blanket like he’s trying to shield himself from what just happened. He looks like the aftermath of a war. He is.

Anakin wants to speak. Wants to say a million things - Do you see me now? Did I hurt you? Do you still love me? Would you have stayed, if I'd begged?

He says none of it.

Because the moment his voice leaves his mouth without the helmet, it's no longer Lord Vader’s. It’s Anakin’s. And Anakin Skywalker is a dead man.

He can’t afford to speak like him.

So instead, he moves.

Slowly.

Silently.

The respirator is on the table. The mask—his face, his armor, his prison—is beside it. He lifts it in both hands, and for a moment, it feels like a funeral shroud.

He thinks: If I put this back on, I won’t come back out.

He thinks: Good.

He hears Obi-Wan shift. Feels the eyes on his back. Feels the memory of those same hands on his chest, on his hips, on his face—gentle, even in their rage.

It is intolerable.

He snaps the respirator into place. The hiss is surgical. Absolute.

The mask follows.

It seals shut with a sound like a door closing on something buried alive.

The chamber floods with the hum of Vader again. The breath. The weight. The silence.

He turns.

Obi-Wan’s eyes are unreadable.

Vader says nothing. The mask has no expression. It never has.

But behind it, he’s screaming.

He walks to the door.

Each step peels him further away from the man in the bed. From the moment. From the truth.

He leaves without a word.

Because if he says anything, he won’t stop.

And if he doesn’t stop—

He’ll never wear the mask again.

***

The door seals shut behind him, and Obi-Wan is alone again.

He doesn’t move. Not for a long while.

The air is still heavy with the scent of smoke and sweat, the ruin of heat between them. His mouth tastes like metal. His chest aches—not from strain, but from the effort of holding something in. A scream, maybe. A name. A memory.

His body is sore, and not from violence.

He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, as if it can erase what his skin remembers.

For a moment, he lets himself close his eyes.

And in the dark behind them, he sees the boy again. Anakin. Nineteen and bright-eyed, balancing a tray of tea with too much confidence and too little grace. Laughing about something asinine, something small. Something safe.

That version is gone.

Burned out of the universe. 

And yet—

He had looked at him tonight.

Through the mask. Through the ruin. Through whatever machine Palpatine has welded him into.

And Obi-Wan had seen him.

And he had touched him.

He lets out a breath, slow and shaking.

It wasn't a victory. It wasn’t even mercy. It was a mistake.

And now he can feel the consequences between his legs.

He rises, bare feet touching cold obsidian.

The room is too clean. Too silent. He looks at the table where the respirator sat. Where the mask had lain, inert, open-mouthed. Like something waiting to scream.

He didn’t have to put it back on, Obi-Wan thinks.

But he did.

That’s what keeps circling in his chest. Not the act. Not the heat. But the silence after. The fact that Vader—Anakin—had left without saying a word. No anger. No shame. Not even a warning.

That’s what frightens him.

Because for the first time since Mustafar, Obi-Wan feels it:

He doesn’t know what Vader will do next.

He has always known. Always felt the patterns in him—the burn of obsession, the leash of the Emperor, the shame that drives every strike.

But now?

Now, there’s something else.

Something unspoken. Something brewing beneath the mask.

Obi-Wan moves to the window. Lava boils far below, painting his face in gold and red. It should feel like a cage.

It doesn’t.

It feels like a countdown.

He grips the sill.

And thinks: He’s planning something.

Not to hurt me. Not yet.

But to have me. To keep me. Not as a prisoner. Not as bait.

But as proof.

Proof that the past isn't gone.

And that means—

Luke is no longer safe.

[irinapaleolog]

Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker has a number of extremely divisive elements - but arguably its biggest mistake was mishandling Kylo Ren's redemption.

The Skywalker Saga concluded with Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker - but amid several divisive elements, the botched redemption of Kylo Ren was arguably the film's most egregious. Abrams previously helmed the opening installment, Star Wars: The Force Awakens. He then passed the torch ahead of the follow-up, Star Wars: The Last Jedi. In the wake of that middle chapter's highly divisive reception, however, Abrams seemed like the perfect choice to steer the franchise back on course.

Unfortunately, the film was widely panned by critics - making The Rise of Skywalker the lowest rated Star Wars film on Rotten Tomatoes. The response from fans also proved extremely mixed. While some praised how the film seemed to retcon some of The Last Jedi's creative decisions, others lamented its desire to cling so strongly to the past. That desire even resulted in the surprising return of Emperor Palpatine - despite the fact that Lucas himself stated that Palpatine died in his original trilogy.

Played by Adam Driver, Kylo Ren made his debut in The Force Awakens. Ostensibly serving the function in the sequel trilogy as Darth Vader did in the original films, Kylo initially served as the primary antagonist in the service of a tyrannical overlord. It soon emerged, however, that there was more to Kylo than met the eye. First, it was revealed that he was actually Ben Solo, the son of original trilogy heroes Han Solo and Princess Leia. As such, it was widely expected, as with Vader before him, that Kylo Ren wouldn't remain a villain for the entirety of the new trilogy. That belief was only exacerbated by the events of The Last Jedi -  when new facets of his character were unveiled and he actively turned against Supreme Leader Snoke. Despite that, things remained firmly up in the air whether or not Kylo Ren would (or should) turn back to the light. Unfortunately, now that debate has been finally put to rest, the way with which it was handled has been met with understandable backlash.

Why Kylo Ren Had To Be Redeemed

As was famously offered in Rogue One: A Star Wars Story, rebellions are built on hope. Equal to that is the fact that Star Wars is built on the fight between good and evil. That's true for the intergalactic scale of The Rebellion or The Resistance versus The Empire or The First Order. It's just as true for the internal struggles of individual characters. It's widely established that from the moment their powers are awakened, force-sensitive people are often pulled between the light and the dark. It's a struggle that both manifests in and often exacerbated by a struggle between the two. Most recently, that conflict was embodied by Kylo Ren in the final three chapters of The Skywalker Saga.

As established in Star Wars: The Force Awakens, the warrior formerly known as Ben Solo was desperately trying to dedicate himself to The Dark Side. Despite that, he repeatedly felt such a pull to The Light as to cause him deep emotional pain. His efforts to finally vanquish any goodness within him saw him murder his own father. While that might seem like enough to condemn Kylo Ren forever, he was repeatedly shown to be struggling to reconcile who he wants to be with who he actually is. Those feelings were exemplified with his inability to similarly kill his mother and through his connection to Rey in Star Wars: The Last Jedi. Not to mention the tragic aspects of his encounter with Luke Skywalker seen in flashbacks. As such, he was humanized to such a degree that the redemption of Kylo Ren had to be inevitable, no matter how far he fell in the interim.

Obviously, the moral decay of a once good man can make for an enthralling journey - as evidenced by the journey of Walter White on Breaking Bad. Even Vince Gilligan's modern classic had Walter end his life in a heroic act. Returning to Albuquerque, he decided to save the life of Jesse Pinkman as he took murderous vengeance on Jack and the neo-Nazi gang that stole his empire. Even if Walt hadn't, however, it makes no real difference. After all, Breaking Bad is not Star Wars. Though both featured divisive installments directed, coincidentally, by Rian Johnson, the latter is a much more family-orientated affair. As such, the struggle (whether broad or internal) will always inevitably end with good winning out over evil. That being said, while Kylo Ren ultimately achieving some manner of redemption was always going to be the case, the method through which Abrams and co-writer writer Chris Terrio pursued this end was almost certainly the wrong one.

Why Redemption Through Sacrifice Worked For Darth Vader

Darth Vader previously achieved redemption through sacrifice in George Lucas' original Star Wars trilogy. Having returned to the light and brought balance to the force, his destiny had been fully achieved. As such, there was nowhere left, really, for the character to go. Except to become one with The Force and reconnect with what loved ones he still could.

It also made sense given the fact that, in the wake of Lucas' prequel Star Wars trilogy, Anakin's body was irreparably damaged. Burnt, scarred, and crippled beyond measure, there was no true coming back from it. The best Anakin had been afforded was the chance to cling desperately to life via the aforementioned armor. As such, though there might have been away for him to continue his journey, he would be forever tied to the image that had come to be feared throughout the galaxy. In the wake of his heroic deed, Darth Vader had given himself the opportunity to die as a good man, removing his mask (and life support) to see Luke with his own eyes, so he took it willingly. That fact was emphasized by the later visual retcon of him returning to the visage of Anakin Skywalker (Hayden Christensen), implying that his soul, if not his body, had been restored.

Why Repeating The Same Idea Was Wrong For Kylo Ren

Abrams is known for trafficking heavily in nostalgia, to varying degrees of success. As such, for the Star Wars sequel trilogy, he borrowed heavily from Lucas' original films and various elements of the extended canon. That decision has largely provoked a mixed reaction from fans and even Lucas himself taking issue with The Force Awakens. Arguably, the most poorly received recycling of past arcs would be in relation to Kylo Ren's redemption. As evidenced by the ongoing "Save Ben Solo" social media campaign, many took issue with the decision to kill the character off towards the end of Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker.

After being healed by Rey, spiritually as well as physically, he returned the favor by bringing her back from seeming death. Unfortunately, the act ended up costing the newly restored Ben Solo his own life. It certainly made for a dramatic moment to which Driver customarily gave his all. However, it also felt like something of a narrative shortcut and very much a missed opportunity. After all, Ben Solo was fighting fit - having previously bested the Knights of Ren in their entirety and even survived a seemingly fatal fall. Unlike Vader, it felt as though Ben Solo still had much more to offer to the galaxy far, far away.

Redemption through sacrifice has become a common trope for a reason - and carries great impact if and when it's used effectively. In the case of Ben Solo, however, it felt entirely too easy. It's not clear just how widely known Kylo Ren's true identity is. In any case, whether recognized or not, the sight of a redeemed Ben Solo living on to actively atone for his past mistakes and heinous actions would have arguably have been even more impactful. The conceit of Ben Solo actively seeking to undo the devastation he caused and restore the legacy that his family actively tried to put in place would have been likely more meaningful and emotionally resonant. Even more than that, it could have been something altogether inspiring - to not only see that even villains can sometimes change their ways but offer a more constructive way of achieving that.

Keeping Ben Solo Alive Would've Improved Rise Of Skywalker's Ending

The ripple effect of keeping Ben Solo alive would have been substantial. In actual fact, it could have had the added bonus of improving The Rise of Skywalker's final sequence. Many have questioned why Ben Solo's force ghost wasn't present in the closing moments of the film. In truth, Ben Solo's force ghost was never planned for any portion of the movie. While that is assuredly a shame, it's arguably a larger missed opportunity to not have an alive and somewhat well Ben Solo there. For starters, it makes very little sense for Rey to venture to Tatooine beyond Abrams wanting to bring both Rey's own personal journey and the entire Skywalker saga full circle. The inclusion of Ben Solo could have actually have not only offset the flaws but also would have served to make the moment more emotionally impactful.

After all, Tattooine is where the Skywalker saga began, with both Anakin and then Luke venturing away from the planet to pursue their respective destinies. As such, having the last actual member of the Skywalker lineage willingly returning there would have had a kind of thematic poetry. That is especially true if it was where Ben Solo chose to begin a more active pursuit of redemption - be that training new Jedi or something else. Even the idea that Rey was the Skywalker destined to rise, as per the film's title, carries more weight with Ben's presence. By him choosing to forgo it until he's earned it and Rey opting to take it on as her own in the wake of defeating Palpatine, it serves to more aptly conclude Rey and Ben's Force Dyad connection without simply retreading past arcs.

In terms of the dynamic between Rey and Ben, there is, of course, a vocal section of fans that wanted them to end up together. Keeping Ben Solo alive in this context would have appeased those both for and against such a relationship. It would have allowed the eventual outcome to remain ambiguous, with them not officially together but the door left open for fans to endlessly speculate regarding their future. It also would have given at least one of the Skywalker bloodline something more than a miserable, ill-fated life. More importantly, however, it would have allowed Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker to venture in a bold, new direction without sacrificing any of the franchise's core concepts.

[nitrateglow]

Thoughts on The Last Jedi (spoilers under the “keep reading” line)

I originally wanted to just make a small list of things I liked and did not like about this movie, but I’ve come to realize my feelings are a bit more complicated than I expected. I don’t hate it, nor do I think it is the worst film in the series; however, I am baffled by the arguments that it’s somehow a clever deconstruction of the Hollywood blockbuster formula or finding new ground for SW. If anything, I found it an aimless, poorly paced retread of familiar tropes and ideas with only a few interesting elements to save it from being mediocre.

I’ll start with what I considered all-around good: the acting is excellent across the board. Every actor is game, doing their best and even elevating the material at times. It was a bittersweet experience to see the late Carrie Fisher here and even with her limited screen-time, she brings a great deal of dignity and spunk to the princess/general we know and love. Mark Hamill gives one of his best performances as Luke, communicating worlds of pain and regret with his eyes alone. While he isn’t one of the greatest actors of all time outside of the voice-acting world, he is incredibly effective here. Thankfully, Oscar Isaac gets more to do this time around. And everyone else is on the whole fine, even great at times. I was also impressed with the visuals and editing, which are often breathtaking, especially on the big screen. The casino planet was pretty rad too; I can so see the rich and powerful hanging out in such a place. And—everything else is extremely mixed for me.

This movie reminds me of Attack of the Clones in that it is all over the place tonally. I am all for genre hybrids or movies that can touch on several emotional shades at once, but it is a hard thing to do and this movie isn’t up to that. One minute it’s dead serious and in the grand epic mode, then the next we’re dealing with broad comedy more appropriate for a Marvel film. That juxtaposition felt awkward in the prequels and it feels awkward here.

For all the critics’ talk of this movie breaking new ground, I remained frustrated by the same old rehash of lines and themes from the OT. There’s still the good versus evil, the empire chasing rebels Everything is also rushed beyond belief, which seems like a weird conclusion to draw about a 2 ½ hour movie. Rose is barely developed, despite her potential to be a great character (her romantic feelings for Finn are woefully half-baked; I would say the only thing that even makes you believe she was into him was her slight bout of hero worship in her initial scene with him). Finn doesn’t evolve beyond what he was in TFA. Rey doesn’t change, despite the challenges posed to her ideas about the Force by both Luke and Kylo. Her training with Luke, if you can even call it that, is basically nothing, even less than the crash course Luke got from Yoda in Empire. We’re led to believe Luke has some great development, but that’s yet another thing that has little payoff.

Overall, I am torn on Luke Skywalker’s characterization. On one hand, I believe he would become disillusioned with the Jedi after he lost his nephew to the Dark Side—however, do I believe he would stay on that island after hearing one of his oldest friends was MURDERED by the former student he feels he failed? I’m sorry, I don’t. I know people change as they get older and I know enough cranky old people to see how life can beat you down and make you emotionally exhausted. But the thing about Luke is that he’s stubborn and contrarian; when Yoda and Obi-wan told him to give up on Vader (a Sith who committed WAY worse sins on a much grander scale than Kylo-Ren ever did), he went with his hunch that his father could be redeemed, even though he had only his gut instinct as evidence to go on. I have a hard time believing he wouldn’t try to right the wrong he did to his nephew. Him retreating from the conflict feels as false as the strong-minded and very active Padme losing the will to live at the end of Revenge of the Sith. His death sits even less well with me, since I feel the character had more to do and should have been more active in trying to aid the Resistance and train Rey.

Kylo-Ren is more interesting this time around, more conflicted and morally ambiguous. His temptation to turn to the Light mixed with his savagery is great. His interactions with Rey, which are simultaneously uneasy and charged with sexual tension, are fascinating. And yet, like so much else in this movie, it all goes nowhere. I still have no clue why Kylo is drawn to the Dark Side. With Anakin, it was an outgrowth of growing up as a powerless slave and losing those he loved to war and violence, which makes it clear why the idea of a fascist dictatorship would appeal to him. For Palpatine, it was because he was a greedy psychopath. But Kylo? I have no idea what he feels he’s getting on an emotional level from the Dark Side. What do Snoke and the Dark Side promise him that makes turning evil so tempting? He didn’t hate his parents, however lacking he felt they were. Luke was hard on him, though we learn that’s because the kid was already turning to the Dark Side. So where does it all originate? I have no clue and I think, yeah, it’s not unreasonable for me to understand what motivates one of the major villains of this new trilogy. Because otherwise, it is hard for me to be fully invested in him as a character.

In fact, the whole First Order are just disappointing villains, a second-rate empire. I have no idea how they were able to come to power, not only because it’s never brought up in either this film or TFA, but because these guys are about as competent as the Three Stooges. Hux is a punchline subjected to “yo mamma” jokes and proving himself utterly useless time and again. Phasma is pretty much like Boba Fett: she looks cool and fights well, only to get killed off without ceremony. Snoke is a dumber Voldemort, built up as this clever, evil genius only to be proven even worse at underestimating his employees and enemies than Palpatine! I was never a fan of the character to begin with, finding him bland, but here, he just shows up, cackles evilly, then dies in a rather comical manner. How did he come to power? It has to be more than just his powers; even Palpatine was a politician and he preyed on the Clone Wars’ devastation to convince people to make him Emperor. But Snoke? Nothing.

The pacing was also a huge issue for me. Now, I normally dig slow pacing—but this was excruciating, probably because I felt like the story was going nowhere much of the time. Finn and Rose are wasted, given nothing but a McGuffin side-quest. Every time we cut to them, I just lost so much interest. As for the political “subtext” (if you can call an explicitly socio-political monologue subtext) in the Finn and Rose sub-story, I’ll just say I agree with critic Tim Brayton on the matter:

And this plotline feeds right into the absolutely unforgivably terrible subplot, which is the adventures of Finn (John Boyega) the cowardly ex-storm trooper, and Rose (Kelly Marie Tran), the class-conscious engineer, who go on a fetch quest that is every bit as pointless as the whole matter of the military nonsense, only even worse, because it hinges on terrible comedy, bad CGI, and a spectacularly horrible moment when Johnson stops the film in its tracks to provide a ruthlessly on-the-nose lesson about economic inequality and the military-industrial complex, and I hate this all the more for the film's message in this moment being one I passionately agree with - if something has to be artless and awful, better that it not take down a cause I hold dear as part of the collateral damage. And it really is awful; the worst thing in the movie, despite the best intentions of various film critics to defend it (I am sorry, but "has politics I like" is not all it takes to make a movie good. If all you want is for a film to spit your ideology back at you, and it doesn't matter if this is done with any grace or artistry at all, congratulations: you are a Stalinist. I like politics in movies - I love politics in movies - but not every political filmmaker is Sergei Eisenstein, and they should damn well not be treated like they are).

I have no problem with this political/social angle being there; hell, I love the idea of the Rose character and the theme of inspiring the downtrodden (the idea of legends and the power of storytelling really appealed to me, and I loved that last scene with the kids re-enacting the OT story in the stables), but like so much else they feel underwritten and clumsily implemented. It doesn’t help that this side plot feels oddly disconnected from everything else and is far less interesting than Poe or Rey’s stories. And once again, I feel like it accomplished nothing whatsoever, much like the majority of this story.

Now, people might argue the main theme of this movie is about failure and how we must learn from it, thus making this side-plot appropriate. The thing is, I don’t think anyone besides Poe learned much of anything from their mistakes or failures, let alone Finn and Rose. According to writer/director Rian Johnson, one of the big inspirations for this film was the 1964 classic Three Outlaw Samurai, a movie in which the titular heroes become disillusioned with the samurai code and the corruption of the culture in which they live. Concepts such as honor and loyalty become muddied. TLJ is clearly trying to weave a similar theme, with Kylo, Luke, and Ghost!Yoda calling for a new age in which the Jedi and Sith are no more. The problem? Kylo still embraces much of the Sith ideology as much as he claims he’s let go of it (okay, yeah, Abrams claimed he wasn’t a Sith, but that seems more like an in-name only affair given the dynamic between Kylo and Snoke), and Luke, for all his “the Jedi gotta go” lip service, ends his life by triumphantly claiming, “I will not be the last Jedi,” implying he’s passing the torch to Rey. So much for questioning the past.

At the end of the day, the movie left me frustrated and hollow. I’m not very excited to see where they take the story next, because it’s clear they’re going with same-old, same-old, only with vague motivations and no sense of direction. I don’t get what the big point of this new trilogy is. The OT is at its heart about Luke coming of age as a Jedi Knight and redeeming his father. The PT is a tragedy about the fall of both a man and a democracy. The sequels though? I have no clue. I don’t think they go far enough in their attempts to challenge our ideas about the Force or the Jedi, or good and evil. It’s the same old rebels versus tyrants fight, only this time around the villains are more inept than usual and the good guys, for all their failures, don’t appear to learn much of anything.