The Unsleeping City
That night, he dreamt again of blood and terror.
But this time, there was more, so much more. The whole world was on fire. He dreamt of flames leaping upward to lick towers of chrome and steel that rose into an infernal sky; he dreamt of searing pain channelled in rivers of lava that coursed through his veins; he dreamt of a voice screaming hatred and loss and despair in a tightly wound agony that swirled into a place without light… and through it all, her face, beauty ravaged by pain, the fires of hell reflected in her dying eyes. Helpless, he stood alone beneath an abyssal smoke-imbued firmament while the Galaxy burned.
Anakin jerked awake, his heart thudding wildly.
In his waking hours, he still saw the fires, so bright they hurt his eyes.
Drawing a robe around himself in a now-familiar movement of utmost quiet, he sought the retreat of the exterior balcony, unwilling to disturb Padme with his most recent nocturnal premonition. The glass door slid open and he stepped outside, the night air cool against his face. Cold here. Cold enough to wash away the flames incinerating him from within. Perhaps cold enough to purge the fires of his nature. The Jedi strode swiftly over to the edge of the balcony, leaning over and watching the hum of traffic passing by far below. Anakin wondered how many storeys up they were. He remembered as a Padawan watching Obi-Wan dive headlong from Padme's window in pursuit of a probe droid and wondered if this was how he had felt. Falling. Endlessly.
He had never particularly liked the noise and sleepless energy of Coruscant, but of late it was the only thing that remotely distracted him from the interim of awful emotions churning within him. Nothing – not the strict meditations he forced himself to adhere to, the attempts to tire himself out with physical training, nor the frequent excuses to go to the Chancellor's office in the hope of discovering more answers – had succeeded in clearing his mind of the constant fear that possessed him day and night.
Anakin had never felt like this before. He did not know how to handle it, or how to control it. Somehow, it was simpler when he was in battle. Then he could channel his fear and rage and sense of injustice to one fixed purpose at the point of his lightsaber, even though the Jedi were not meant to use such emotions when fighting – in fact, were not meant to use any emotions at all. Yoda had told him to let go of that which he had been afraid to lose, but Anakin could no more let go of Padme than feel his own arm cut off without pain.
He leaned heavily against the railing, trying to suppress the violent tremors in his body. The city lights wavered and danced before him in an unseen and meaningless haze. What did it all matter, in the end? He wasn't fighting for this planet, this political agenda, or even this Republic, not anymore. He was fighting for her.
Moment by moment, time was slipping away while he stood here and did nothing. There was a solution right before him, and he hesitated to take it. It wasn't in Anakin's nature to blame himself, there had always been others he held accountable for the misfortunes and difficulties of his existence: Watto, the Jedi Council, Dooku, the politicians who had caused this war… but he couldn't blame them for this. It was him, only him.
Once again, he heard Palpatine's mellifluous voice in his head.
Anakin, there is untapped power in you beyond that of any Jedi I have ever encountered. Power that many would kill to possess. To let such potential go to waste… your power is meant to be used. Do what you like with it. There is no evil in seeking knowledge if it is for benevolent purposes.
The Chancellor's words coincided eerily with his own desires, reinforcing that urgent need for action that was pounding through his body, his arms, his legs. He had always been impulsive, acting before thinking things through in the calm and rational manner of Obi-Wan. He didn't want to wait for things to happen, he wanted to make things happen. A whirring panic constantly at the back of his brain was an unfailing reminder of the last time he had ignored the prophetic warnings in his dreams until it was too late, and the resultant gnawing guilt that he could never escape from. Guilt that he shouldn't escape from. He had power – unlimited power, Palpatine seemed to think – and the thought that there might be other forces at work that he had no control over was more than he could bear. All his life he had been a slave – to Watto, to the Jedi Council – but this was one thing he could not simply sit back and accept, he would not –
He sensed her presence before he heard the gentle rustle of silk that betrayed her approach. The conflicting sensations rose within him as they always did when she was nearby: the calm reassurance that was the characteristic signature she left on the Force, and the deep-rooted pain and passionate intensity that was his fierce, ungovernable love for her. The two could never be reconciled; an ongoing war raging beneath his skin that she was entirely ignorant of.
"Ani…" Her voice was still heavy from sleep. "What are you doing out here? I thought you were asleep."
He didn't turn around, but could sense the anxiety radiating from her diminutive frame.
"It's been so many years," he murmured absently. "But I still can't get used to the cold."
Padme shook her head slightly, joining him to look out over the ledge. The cold metallic shade of her nightgown contrasted with the warm olive hue of her skin that was deepened and enhanced by the city lights. Anakin watched transfixed the play of shadows across her features that shrouded her eyes in ambivalence. Her small hands rested on the balcony railing; the tightly curled fingers would have betrayed her tension even if his proficiency with the Force had not. He wanted to rest his hand over hers, be the comfort and reassurance they both so desperately craved, but he could not. Fear and frustration clawed in his throat, sealing off his words. What use was all his strength, all his agility, if he couldn't save her from the one thing that threatened to take her from him?
"It's hotter now than it ever used to be." Her tone was soft, reflective. "The city doesn't sleep anymore. Everything's burning to be used for engines of war. Some nights I look up, and I can't even see the stars."
"They're still there."
"Will they be once the fighting is over? Sometimes I try to remember what things were like before the war, and I can't."
"It won't be forever." Flimsy words: weak and vague and useless. Padme was too direct, too honest to flinch away from harsh realities.
"Even if it does end – and I can't see how – things won't ever be the same. The Galactic Senate will have to be rebuilt –"
"Why?" demanded Anakin. He looked away from her, trying to fight down the unreasonable anger that was suddenly coursing through him. It was all too much. He just wanted someone to blame, to ease his uncertainty and self-reproach. "Why do we need to rebuild the Senate? The Senate's failings are what caused this war in the first place. We should remake the Republic entirely – make a better one." His voice was low and fierce. "A Republic where there isn't injustice and slavery. A Republic where we can be together without having to keep it a secret."
Padme pulled her hands away, looking up at him sharply. "Do you really believe that?" she asked swiftly.
Anakin tried to laugh, but it was a harsh, unpleasant sound. "I don't know. Sometimes. Don't you?"
"Anakin, what you're saying… it's sedition."
Of course. Padme, ever the loyalist – except towards the one politician who deserved her allegiance. No, Palpatine she persisted in distrusting even when the Chancellor had continued to show them both nothing but kindness and support. The injustice of it swelled within his chest, but that argument had taken place between them too many times, always ending with mutual dissatisfaction and resentment on both sides, neither one of them willing to back down. Anakin's eyes darkened with anger.
"Sedition?" He stalked across to the other side of the balcony, black cloak whipping round as he turned to face her accusingly. His hands, balled into fists, trembled violently beneath the voluminous sleeves of his robe. "You – you politicians are all the same. You think you know everything, but you have no idea. You sit protected in your steel and glass towers while all around you the Galaxy burns. I've seen entire planets destroyed and stood by and done nothing because I was obeying orders; I've seen slaves like my mother forced into service because they make up the numbers and no one cares whether they live or die; I've seen armies rise, and fall, and rise again, and witnessed the stars going out. So tell me: is this the great and noble Republic you're fighting for?"
He forcefully tried to suppress the outburst of violent emotion that was always so near the surface these days. He couldn't meet her gaze, the unbearable love and concern that made it all so much harder. He knew he didn't deserve it. If she only knew… watching those planets in flames… It had been terrible, yes, and horrifying, but beneath that there had been something like a fierce rush of exultant power within him, to witness destruction so vast and indomitable. For one fleeting instant, he had felt like a god. Of course, he could never tell her that. She would hate him for it.
"Why didn't you say any of this before? You never told me…"
"You didn't need to know."
She glared at him severely. Padme was never one to back down; it was a part of what made her so powerful and arresting a figure. She was resolute; an intriguing combination of steel-like hardness and impulsive warmth that had danced in constant interplay throughout their courtship and marriage. In the Senate, the immovable coldness was always uppermost. Now however, the compassionate woman who had railed against slavery and injustice had risen to the fore. In her expression was that softness that she tried so hard to hide from the public eye.
"Anakin, if something this painful, this terrible, is eating you up inside, I need to know. It doesn't matter how much you try and shut me out. I won't be shut out. I want to help you."
He clenched his jaw. "What if it's something you can't help me with?"
Padme's head jerked up, as she cast him a quick, searching look. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. "I didn't mean anything."
Her brown curls danced in the unnatural breeze. He saw the sympathy in her eyes, but it seemed to reach him from a very great distance, like a far-off star. He couldn't quite feel it.
"I know things are awful," she said gently. "But we have to believe – believe that our baby will be born into a world where it can be safe."
Anakin felt an iron fist clench his heart. He gripped the metal railing, staring down at the war-imbued engines of Coruscant, the smoke and fire. All the way down.
Let it just be born, he thought wildly. The Republic and the Separatists can fight across the Galaxy, the whole world can burn, but she must not die.
"I think I've had enough air for one night," he muttered, starting to make his way towards the glass doors of their bedroom.
"What's wrong?"
Her words brought him up short. Anakin closed his eyes but it didn't help; he could still picture her stood behind him, etched into the Force and into his heart. He turned to face her slowly, giving him time to adjust his face to that blank, impassive look usually reserved for his encounters with the Jedi Council. "Nothing's wrong."
Padme crossed her arms, unconvinced. There was an almost elastic erectness to her upright posture that belied the exhaustion he knew she was feeling so acutely. A brief memory flashed through his head of the fierce-eyed young woman wielding a blaster gun on Geonosis, making quips about 'aggressive negotiations' even while facing seemingly inevitable death. Anakin's mouth was pulled into a thin, taut line of determination and inward resolve. No, she could not die, never, never. The very idea was unthinkable.
"Every time I mention our baby now, you shut down."
"That's not true." He waited, wondering if she would accept the lie. Her face seemed to crumple slightly, losing its stern invulnerability, and she stared at him with a painful, unguarded expression in her eyes. Somehow, it was easier to face her when she was in full Senator regalia, because this vulnerability caused his heart to collapse within his chest.
"Are you – are you having second thoughts?"
"No!" There was no denying the sincerity in his vehement denial.
She slid a hand through his arm, looking up at him with confusion, Padme, who was always so certain about everything. "Why do I feel like you're slipping away from me?"
"I'm not," he said firmly. He stared at the swirling gold lights reflected in her brown eyes and felt himself falling ever deeper, eddying, drowning. "What I'm doing – it's because I love you and can't bear to live without you."
"Are you still having those dreams?" she asked abruptly.
He shrugged evasively, arm tensing in hers. "Sometimes."
"Anakin, if that's the reason you've been so distant lately…" Her eyebrows contracted in a delicate frown, and then smoothed out. "Sometimes, a dream is just a dream."
"I know that," he said. He wondered or a moment how she couldn't be as worried as he was, how the fear wasn't eating her up inside… then he realised. Padme had grown up with attempts on her life. Dreams were not as real to her as Blaster Guns or cloaked assassins or poisoned darts. She didn't share the Jedi conviction in the Force being able to communicate itself to the unconscious body. She had always been practical minded. If she couldn't see and touch a thing, it wasn't there. Anakin, on the other hand, could watch towers shatter into ruins and explosions of agonising light and feel nothing. Yet the thought of losing Padme made him want to thrust his hand into a fire.
She had moved away towards the glass doors, her profile a dark line against the metallic grey backdrop of the city. Her mass of curls was highlighted by the lights of passing traffic, her copper-hued skin backlit by the buildings opposite. Anakin felt caught, reeling between the twin desires of commandeering the nearest Speeder and tracking down Palpatine to gain more than hinted suggestions or subtle insinuations or merely taking the couple of steps forward that would enable him to run his fingers lightly over the bare, smooth skin of his wife's exposed shoulders.
The surge of animalistic desire must have flared within his eyes, as Padme visibly caught her breath. Combined with the electric and sulphur – the hot, heavy, city scents of Coruscant – Anakin could taste something else, a familiar dark and spicy tang that he could never tire of…
Desire. Desire for him. Padme's mouth curved into a half-shy, half-knowing smile that tugged at every clamouring nerve within his body, drawing him irresistibly towards her, aware only of that never-ending hunger that only she could assuage. It still seemed incredible that the stern, resolute and straight-laced Senator Amidala could be looking at him so intently, her brown orbs darkening in such a way that even her closest advisors had never seen. Anakin's eyes followed the movement of her slender fingers pulling at a stray curl in an unconscious gesture that set his blood afire.
"Come back to bed," she said softly. "Let's try and forget all this for just one night, and make the most of the time we have together."
A sudden thought – like a flash of lightning – shot through his brain, startling in its lucid clarity.
"Wait," he said. "Let's just leave."
She stopped. Blinked. Stared at him uncomprehendingly. "What?"
"I mean it," Anakin continued, in a rush of impulsive fervour. This was the solution to it all: the uncertainty, the divided loyalties, the constant deception. This was it. A chance. His eyes were aglow with rekindled energy, the sheer desperation and desire to be doing something spilling into his hasty words. "Can't we just find a ship and leave, go to Naboo, or somewhere beyond the Outer Rim where no one could find us. You could have the baby, and –"
The impetuous idea that had leapt upon him so suddenly dwindled into nothingness as she continued to look at him sadly. Her serious brown eyes softened and she gave a small sigh. "Anakin, you know that's impossible. We have duties that keep us here, and I know you couldn't live with abandoning Obi-Wan and our friends to fight alone. The Galaxy needs both of us to end this war. Besides, we couldn't leave, even if we wished to. You're a Jedi, and I have my commitments to the Senate –"
His fist smote the railing, a dull pulse of pain throbbing through the flesh of his authentic hand. "I don't care. I'm just – I'm tired of it – all of it – the war, the Council… I don't know who to trust any more…"
"I know you're tired." Her soothing voice didn't soothe him in the least. "That's why you're talking like this. You're overworked, Ani. You put far too much pressure on yourself."
Anakin didn't answer. This wasn't merely a fleeting impulse, or exhaustion talking. Nobody had actually asked what would happen if they lost this war, and sometimes, he thought it couldn't be worse than this endless uncertainty. Surely nothing could be worse than this inter-Galactic darkness, the interludes of blood and tedious waiting, the inhabitants of Coruscant looking up to him as though he were some kind of hero instead of an overly impulsive Jedi who didn't give a damn about politics, or any of it, who cared only for a certain Senator who would be shocked to know how he really felt about this war.
But of course, he couldn't say that.
Anakin released a shaky breath, drawing upon the calming exercises Obi-Wan had had such trouble instilling in him. He unfurled his hands, and noted with a kind of dispassionate relief that they had stopped shaking so violently. The stormy blue of his eyes had faded to calm sapphire when he could finally bring himself to speak. "You're right, of course." His words lacked the arrogant surety he normally conveyed. Maybe because he knew she wasn't right at all. And she would see that, soon enough.
He just prayed it wouldn't be too late when she did.