Chapter 3

"The consequences of our crimes long survive their commission, and, like the ghosts of the murdered, forever haunt the steps of the malefactor"

Sir Walter Scott

I've finished my supper. I shiver with the cold as I put my empty tray into the basin of the fresher. The water has risen several inches in the half hour it took me to eat the tasteless paste that they call dinner. When I started my meal, the water was just at my ankle. Now, it's touching my calf. The temperature appears to have dropped several degrees as well, I realize, as I try to wiggle my numb toes. I can barely feel my feet. I eye the ledge where the droid places my tray critically. It looks pretty high from where I'm huddled near the fresher. I'm too numb to attempt to climb it just now, so for the moment I sit on the back of the flush and rest my numb feet on its lid.

I am wrong, I decide, as I clench my teeth to stop their shaking. I'm not going to drown; I'm going to freeze to death. I laugh, picturing the indignity of having my frozen corpse found, most likely by an indifferent storm trooper, sitting frozen to the flush. My voice sounds cracked and rusty. This stirs me slightly. If I'm going to die, which is very likely at this point, I will do it with some dignity. I will not be the brunt of anyone's joke, even in death. Prideful, I suppose, but there it is.

I reach back and unbraid my long damp hair. I had cut it all off just after the twins were born, but in the long years since then it has grown to the point where it hangs almost to my feet. I run my fingers through it, trying ineffectually to brush out the snarls and tangles. Naturally, without the aid of a brush, this takes some time. As I work on the tedious task of combing out my hair, I absently run my tongue over the thick ridge of scar tissue just below my lower lip. A memento of my last conversation with Palpatine.

Not long after the twins were born ,I was arrested. I had been trying to arrange transport on a refugee vessel. I should have known better. The troopers that arrested me wasted no time in bringing me to Palpatine. Part of me was relieved that it was not Vader, another, more perverse part, was disappointed.

I wasn't stupid. I knew why I was there. The twisted old Sithspawn wanted my babies. He already had my husband, and I would be damned if I'd let him have my children too! With this foremost in my heart, I quickly fabricated the lie. I had born a son, and he died moments after his birth. I forced myself to believe this lie, filling my mind and spirit with sorrow and pain. It was not difficult. I had plenty to spare.

I faced him resolutely, my back stiff with pride. I would not cower before him, I would not let him see me weakened. I would not.

He didn't bother with pleasantries; I was glad of that, at least. He asked me the inevitable questions, and I naturally refused to answer. This was expected on both of our parts.

I was prepared, in theory, for his attack, but theory is very rarely the same as reality. He attacked my mind, trying to batter down my shields with sheer force of will. It hurt, badly. After several agonizing minutes, he gave up on his fruitless attack. I'm a very stubborn woman, especially when it comes to those that I love.

I remember looking up at him from where I laid on the floor. He looked ruffled, and was breathing heavily, his warped face flushed bright red from his exertions. I couldn't help it, I laughed.

That was a mistake.

He lifted me to my feet with the Force and struck me across the face. For an old man, he was surprisingly strong. My head snapped back sharply, and I could taste the metallic tang of blood as it exploded behind my teeth. He ordered me to tell him of my child, and warned me if I failed to cooperate I would not enjoy the consequences. Stubborn ,and prideful to the bitter end, I glared at him, letting him see the contempt in my eyes.

"Fine," I croaked bitterly. "Fine then, if you must know, the baby died. My son died minutes after his birth." I paused, tapping into the well of sorrow deep in my soul, deliberately radiating my pain. "There, now you know, you miserable old toad. Kill me and get it over with."

He scanned me, suspicious of my capitulation. I let him. I let him read my surface feelings. It disgusted me to let him even this far into my psyche, but I would have done far worse things to ensure the safety of my children.

He seemed to be satisfied after scanning me for a few moments. He saw what I wanted him to; the aching sense of loss, the despair, and underlying it all, the bitterness and contempt I felt for him. He didn't find the lie, because everything I felt was real.

He smiled at me- a truly frightening smile,-and said, "If the child is dead, you are of no further use to me. But before you go, I believe I need to teach you a lesson in respect." I do not know what he did to me, all I know is the agony that coursed through my body was unimaginable. The scar is from where I bit through my lip, fighting the painful seizures that wracked my body. He enjoyed it; took great, perverse pleasure from watching my pain filled spasms. It disgusts me to think of it.

Sometime during my torture, I lost consciousness, and when I awoke I was bound hand and foot, sitting in a transport shuttle. I don't know how I came to be there, or where they took me. I don't know anything.

When I finished combing my hair I was going to braid it again, but the small measure of warmth the curtain of hair gives me causes me to reconsider. Instead, I just braid two sections at the top to keep it out of my face. Bracing myself, I dip my hands into the frigid water and use it to scrub my face and hands. There is not much I can do about the dress. Standard prison issue white, made of some rough, sturdy material that doesn't stain or soil easily. Well, at least I'll be clean, and somewhat presentable, whatever good that will do me. Oddly enough, it does, in some small way, bolster my courage. Perhaps it's just the small act of doing something, anything.

I wiggle my toes. I can sort of feel them again, though they still feel stiff and clumsy. Slipping carefully off of my perch on the flush, I gasp as the icy water comes up to my knees. I wish it wasn't so dark, and that I could see clearly. Instead, all I see are shadows. I bite my lip and force my numb legs sluggishly forward, toward the small haven offered by my dinner ledge. I have to get up there, I must. There is no room for doubt.

I loop the long wet skirt of my dress into my collar. My numb fingers make me clumsy, so it takes a few tries. Stretching, I reach for the ledge. It's just about level with the top of my head. I'm short; I make no excuses for it. Hooking my numb fingers around a rough outcropping, I try to pull myself up. I manage to get my foot braced on a small rock that sticks out from the main wall, and pushing off of that, I just manage to get my abdomen over the edge. Suddenly, the rock beneath my foot is gone, and I feel myself slipping. My knee scrapes down the rough stone, and my abdomen slams hard into the sharp corner of the ledge. With a loud splash, I fall backwards into the water.

I just lay there for a moment, stunned and gasping for air. After what feels like hours, and in truth was probably only minutes, I manage to struggle up. My whole body is numb, except for the sharp aching throb of my shin and the stabbing pain in my abdomen. Instinctively, I look down, though in the dark this is a pointless endeavor. I can see nothing. I nearly fall back down, as I pull myself to my feet. My leg will barely support my weight. I painfully hobble back to the flush, which is mostly pointless at this point, as the water now covers the lid. Still, it's a place to regroup.

As I run my fingers over the sore spot on my abdomen, I can feel a tear in the fabric, and something surprisingly warm and sticky on my fingers. I know what it is. I'm bleeding. I resist the urge to scream in pain and frustration as I tear a thin strip of material from my dress and bind my wound. Tears sting my eyes, but I will not give in to them. I have to be strong, I can't go out a sniveling, frightened, coward. I will not give them the satisfaction. Who 'them' is, I'm not quite sure, but I'm still determined that they shall have no satisfaction from me.

I wonder-Have I gone mad? Thrilling thought. I can't help but laugh at the irony. I'm sitting in a freezing pit of water, on a partially submerged flush, bleeding, wondering if I'm crazy. Hmpf, that's the least of my problems.

I eye the ledge again suspiciously, or at least where I assume the ledge would be if I could see it clearly.

Resignedly, I move toward it once more, favoring my right leg and holding my hand over my abdomen. The shelf has become both my nemesis and my salvation. For me, being as stubborn as I am, it means that there is no acceptable alternative but that I manage to haul myself up onto it.

By pushing my feet against the wall, and bracing myself against the other wall, I manage to haul my top half up onto the edge. After which, it is only a matter of rolling up onto my side and squirming until I have my legs up too.

I'm panting, out of breath. It feels as though my lungs will burst, and the wound in my abdomen has been opened up more by my exertions. The pain from it is excruciating. Grunting, I pull myself into a sitting position, clutching my knees to my chest, as I resist the urge to cough. This position offers the dual benefits of warmth and of putting pressure on my wound. I nearly cry out as a rough bout of coughing racks my body, leaving me wheezing for air.

Closing my eyes once more, I begin to pray. Not that I will be saved, but that my children will grow up safe and happy and that whatever remains of Anakin will be redeemed some day. And that my death will be quick, and relatively painless.

I'm not afraid to die. Honestly? It's been a long time since I've truly been alive.