I reach across the table and grab the recording device, covering the lens with a finger and shutting it off.
"What did you say?"
"I just wanted to say something to my daughters—please, I didn't mean to—"
"No, what were their names?"
"Padme and Sola."
"No—no—you're making this up—you—"
She looks up at me defiantly. "Why would I make that up? I have two daughters, Padme and Sola, and I love them."
"Shut up. Oh, you're lying, you must be, you can't be telling the truth—Padme's parents are supposed to be with Luke—but maybe I'm over thinking this—those are probably common names and—oh—if you are—Padme's going to kill me—"
I pace back and forth, clawing at the black metal suit.
"You have no daughters," I hiss, my voice low and deadly.
She frowns, confused. "I do. Sola and Padme—"
"You have no daughters!" I shriek, loosing control. I pick some book off the counter and hurl it at the ground in front of her feet.
"I don't have any daughters!" she amends quickly, hugging the child closer, "I promise, I don't have any daughters! Don't hurt us."
I relax. She doesn't have any daughters. How could she be Padme's mother if she doesn't have any daughters?
Except what if Padme sees it? She hasn't heard what I have. She doesn't know. She might still think these are her parents.
"If I ever hear you so much as say those names again—I promise, you will regret it. From this point on, if you have ever had any child beyond—this—you don't anymore."
"I understand," she says softly, looking at the small boy in her arms.
These can't be Padme's parents, they can't, they can't.
The woman sits across from me and begins feeding the infant with a trembling hand. I study her face carefully. I met Padme's parents once, several years ago when I was still a padawan. This doesn't look anything like the woman I remember.
My breathing slowly resumes its normal rate as I convince myself I must be mistaken. Maybe this woman does have children named Padme and Sola, but she isn't Padme's mother.
She can't be.
Because, if by some freak chance she was, Padme would fall away from me like leaves from an autumn tree.
I think I realize something about myself, now. It isn't enough to save people. It isn't enough knowing that Padme's alive, or the twins, or Obi-wan, if I don't have them with me.
I can't bear thinking that all the deaths in the Jedi temple, the children who traipse through my dreams and laugh at me in waking, were for naught. I don't think I can take it if it turns out I've become Vader just to loose it anyway.
And so, you see, it is necessary that this woman is not Padme's mother. For the Republic. For the Republic it is necessary. And so, quietly, hushed, I accept it. For the mangled corpse of the Republic.
The edges of my mouth turn up in a relaxed smile. I will have my family. I will have the Republic. Everything will be fine in the end. It will.
I am brought out of my relaxing trance by a yell and a scraping noise from upstairs and a sudden upsurge in the thick undercurrents presence in the Force since all the Jedi died. The woman jumps abruptly up from where she was feeding the baby from a balloon like container filled with blue milk, and begins to shout very rapidly, in what I assume is Nubian, before placing the infant on the table and scampering towards the narrow doorway. I storm after her, grasping at my connection to the Force to pull at her, slow her down. But the Force seems resistant to my attempts to manipulate it.
Maybe it has too much Master Windu in it.
Even so, it takes me less than three long strides to grab the woman by the neck. I wrench her around. "I thought I warned you—" I hiss, feeling on the brink of hysteria, "I don't want to kill you."
"My husband!" she wails, tears dripping from her eyes, "I must see him—my dear Ruwee—oh, Ruwee, you said you would wait for me—Ruwee—oh—Oplaass cuplea, oplaass derint baathssir—Culpea, Culpea, derint—" she slips into a long string of unintelligible Nubian.
By this time I've released my grip on her neck, but she, huddled in a heap of cloth and flesh on the floor, seems not to notice.
The desperation in her voice is enough to frighten me, too. If this were Padme's mother—which it isn't—I would want her to be allowed to go see her husband, make sure he's okay.
"Go," I urge, prodding her with he Force, which seems much more compliant to this course of action.
"I will go," she says monotonously, grabbing a railing and hauling herself up the stairs, me close on her heels.
She stops outside the door and waits patiently for me to work the lock and slide it open. The only evidence of her breakdown is shaking hands and a terrified Force presence.
We open the door. The woman takes one look at the sight we are greeted with, screams, and falls on the floor, sobbing hysterically. "Ruwee, Ruwee," she moans, crawling towards him, "Oh, derint Ruwee—"
The man is lying on the ground with a shattered vase beside him and blood pooling around his wrists.
I roughly push her aside. This can't be happening—why didn't I consider that they might commit suicide rather than help the Empire? Oh, Force—if these are Padme's parents, they have to be okay, they have to, they have to.
I reach out though the Force and search for any life signature still remaining. I get a faint trace, but it's falling out of him with every heartbeat, as the midichlorians are pushed from his body.
"Get some sheets," I command, pulling the man's wrists above his head. Maybe elevating them will help. I reach out into the Force, hardly noticing the vague trembling undercurrents as I brush through the fog until I arrive where I need to be. Stop hurting yourself, I command his body desperately, hoping that the remnants of all those that I pushed into becoming the Force for those of us still living would listen and help me. I need you to heal yourself. You weren't supposed to be like this. The skin is supposed to be whole.
The wounds close up slightly as the woman hurries back into the alcove, tripping over what appears to be every linen sheet on the planet. I tie them tightly around his arms just below the cuts. I have to keep him in there. Just in case.
It doesn't look like things are working out. His breathing slows. His heart rate decreases.
I stand back and impassively watch as the woman prays to some god to help her.
And then—everything stops—
Time stops. His heart stops slowing.
His breathing stops decreasing.
But it doesn't speed back up either.
"Please, let him get help—let me call someone—he needs help—" the woman—my mother-in-law?—pleads, on her hands and knees, her husband's head cradled in her lap. "Let me call for help, let me, he will die—Oh, my Ruwee…"
He seems to have slipped into a coma. He's lost so much blood I know he can't survive long without a blood transfusion.
But if I let her call for help, she would have to tell them where we were. And then nothing could stop them from sending a small army over here to kill me.
"I can't," I say, hardening my heart against her pleas.
"We have children! You wouldn't want my son to grow up without a father!"
"No, I wouldn't," I agree. "But either your husband will get well without outside help—or…or…"
The alternative makes me physically ill. I've become as evil as Palpatine. I am the monster I've been trying not to be.
"Please," she whispers and is silent.
DUN DUN DUN….
That was your semi-weekly update from Padfoot Reincarnated, the least consistent updater on the web.
I am on a roll today though, so look back in about seven hours, when I have my next turn on the family computer, for another update.
Will Anakin reveal himself to the authorities and be captured? Or will he let Ruwee die? And who are these people anyway? Is Anakin being self delusional? And what will Obi-wan and Padme have o say about this? Tune in next time for another episode of Take Me Home, Brother, by Padfoot Reincarnated.
Approximately 5-8 more chapters.
Reviewers…well. Please continue being your awesome selves, you guys are the best.
I have Episode III on DVD now, and I've watched it approx. a million times. Crying every single time, naturally.
I still don't own Star Wars.
Auf wiedersehen.