Well. This is the first time I have written fanfiction in about a year... wow. If I have any loyal readers left, I will be astonished, honestly. I have a little bit of trepidation about posting this, but here goes nothing anyways. I really, really do intend to finish this one, and to update it again. Thank you so much, if there is anyone left! I really, really missed this fandom, and writing in it.

Chapter Four – Padmé

Lord Vader has left the room, has left me alone. He swept away from here, into some other hidden chamber. I watched him leave with astonished confusion, not daring to move, to even breathe. There was something vaguely poetic about the way he moved, an indescribable air of tension radiating from his clenched fists, his steadily marching boots. The air of power he exudes does not diminish when he is at home, I note mechanically.

I am not sure whether to feel relief or terror at his exit, and end up feeling nothing but blankness.

Welcome home, he said. He had looked so inhuman, so machine-like, so incredibly terrifying. And he, he had laid his mask on my hand, had knelt at my feet like a supplicant. The images flashed through my mind quickly, half-real, glimpsed impressions.

A thick, deep sense of wonder rises up in me, and I know I am on the verge of hysterical, sobbing laughter.

He had whisked me through Coruscant, had walked me into the Imperial Suite, as if I was a queen or an officer or anything else than a forgotten, impoverished lowlife. I didn't look at him, didn't want to. His purposes had seemed so impenetrable, so nefarious. I was at a loss to know what he wanted with me. Me, starving, hungry, desperate, on-the-edge-of death me.

I had heard stories about him, had heard snatches and rumors and whispers not quelled by his legend. I heard obscure, obscene things.

So it was that when he had came to me, his presence cutting a knife through the destitute levels of Imperial City, I thought he had come to kill me, or use me for some other, even more twisted purpose.

I remind myself cautiously that I still don't know what he wants from me.

His questions had been inlaid with an intimacy that astonished and horrified me. There were no inflections in his voice, but the way he had asked them had seemed tender, like a small child begging for a mother's approval. I didn't know how to answer him, didn't know if I could even speak. His angry accusations had been sudden, provoked by my confused and wary silence.

He had slammed me into the wall with a sudden viciousness. His cruelty had been of little surprise to me, really. Still, I couldn't help the indrawn breath I took, the tears. I was still weak, still afraid, still hoping to live.

I said the only thing I could, the truth, not knowing whether I would lose my life or keep it.

And he had collapsed, had collapsed at my feet. His sudden, incredible vulnerability was... impossible. It was like he had broken some essential, codified law of the universe by falling, falling to me. This Lord, this Right Hand of the Empire, this force of unimaginable strength, exhibiting weakness...

Realizing that this meant I would live, I had fallen in on myself, panting with relief and sudden, powerful joy. My hands had clutched my belly, smoothing and re-smoothing the coarse material of my frock in a desperate attempt at comfort.

He had crawled towards me, like an animal, and laid his head into my palm. Strange, desperate noises were coming from the mask. They sounded like weeping and broken, half-uttered sentences.

Something had moved, deep within me, in a place I hadn't known existed. It wasn't either pity or a sense of self-preservation, or even astonishment... it was deeper than that, richer. Remembering the feeling, I close my eyes, lips parting, trying to pin it down. It had supplanted my hunger, my fear, everything else. It was only a flutter, a mere twitch, like an eyelid blinking, a sixth sense awakening. But it had been so...

I remember the moment passing, and him suddenly stiffening. Fear had returned to me, coursing through my bloodstream in waves. A new, vibrant desire had returned to me to live, to live. I wondered, holding my breath, if he would kill me for witnessing – whatever the hell it was I had just witnessed.

And then he had uttered that inscrutable, vague sentence; Welcome home.

And stalked off.

The words had seemed full of menacing promise, and I am still trying to interpret them, now that my trembling has ceased. Welcome home?! To his home? This place, gleaming with richness and artificial beauty?

And me? Me?

The unreality of this all sweeps over me now in a tepid wave, and all I can do is fall onto the cold stone floor of his entryway, laughing. I finally give full reign to my hysterics, cackling desperately, slumped at the juncture between wall and floor.

Just an hour ago, I was wondering if I would even survive another day. I had been too poor, too despairing to even whore myself out on the streets. My eyes had been glazed over with indifference, a casual apathy to whether I lived or died. The atmosphere had seeped into my flesh, into my very soul, and I was barely even human, drifting.

And now I am sitting here in Darth Vader's living room, laughing myself to death after he had practically prostrated himself at my feet.

I let loose a last few, desperate giggles, wiping my eyes slowly. Some part of me wonders if I simply finally took up drugs, and am merely high in some kind of bizarre hallucination.

A small robot comes towards me, silently and efficiently hovering at my eye level.

It is little more than a sphere, meant for more practicality than aesthetic value. Its cover is black and glossy, a shining, well-oiled gear in the Imperial machine. It is fairly large, a foot at least in diameter. A view-screen reflects my appearance back, and I stare at it detachedly.

God, I look a mess.

A smoothly mechanical, female voice comes from the machine.

"Lord Vader had ordered you to come with me, mistress."

I note with a twang of discomfort that the voice patterns are similar to mine.

And, for the first time, I begin to think, really think about his reactions to me.

It's fairly obvious that he had known me before the accident, likely years earlier. I can't remember how long I've been hovering on Coruscant, barely alive, little more than a shadow. It's likely more than three, no, four years.

I'd often wondered about my life before my memory loss, before the accident that had destroyed my future. I had awakened in a Coruscant alley, with no recollection of how I had gotten there or why. I had been almost completely stripped naked, left with only a small, corded necklace hanging around my neck. It was a carefully, delicately carved sliver of Japor. I didn't remember who had given it to me, or when. I had only thought of it as precious, as valuable in some intangible way.

I had kept it, had treasured it, have it even still.

Getting to my feet, I reach down into the crudely sewn pockets and touch it lightly. The surface is smooth to the touch, and makes me feel indescribably relaxed. I begin to follow the machine, trying not to gawp at the elegant finery of Vader's home as the robot leads me through myriad hallways and corridors. It feels like I am intruding on a mausoleum of hollow, hushed stone. I have the sensation that the only inhabitants here are Vader and I, and whatever mechanical servants he may own. Every footfall echoes, and this apartment suddenly seems infinitely vast, as if it could continue for miles.

I wonder briefly what my relationship had been to him before. I remember the intimate way he had spoken to me, searching for some kind of approval. I touch my palm, remembering the smooth coolness of his helmet settling there. Biting my lip, I wonder suddenly, inevitably, if I had been his mistress, companion to the Dark Lord.

The thought fills me with immediate, helpless revulsion, and I shudder.

There is something within me that shirks away from him, from his power, his image, the atrocities he committed, still commits. It is strange that I feel this way, after living on the streets for so long, after seeing all matter of horrible, strange things. But thinking about him, thinking about the deaths and subjugations at his hand, I feel nothing but a strong, thick, core of moral outrage. For him, existing as he is, for everything that he's done.

It is a part of me left over from before, and something I still don't understand.

I never believed, as some did, that he was inhuman. The stories were widely spread about what kind of creature he could be, what lay beneath the mask. I was too caught up in worrying about my own survival to care or even notice.

Could a creature as awe-striking, as terribly, horribly powerful and frightening as Vader possibly care for someone? Could he, I, before, have...

The vulnerability he showed to me, the sudden anger and despair he revealed come flooding back to me. I want to tremble more, now, want to deny the reality of this with all my being, but I suddenly cannot. The truth rings in my ears, powerfully and undeniably. I feel weak and sickened with this new, horrible knowledge. I pause, stopping in the middle of a hallway, horrified, breathless.

Darth Vader and I were once lovers, and, despite everything, he wants me still, wants me even now.