Title: Phantom Pain
Author: VA-Parky
Timeframe: Ten years post-RotS
Genre: Is there such a thing as romantic angst? No? Well, it's just regular angst then. ONE-SHOT.
Characters: Darth Vader/Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala
Disclaimer: Nope, I still don't own Star Wars.
Summary: Vader marks the anniversary of Padmé's death.
Author's Notes: This is just a quick little vignette I threw together when the other one I was working on starting giving me fits. Hope you like it. Segments in italics are memories / flashbacks.
She died ten years ago today.
It is an anniversary I never wanted to exist - not only because I loved her but because it was also a matter of survival. A part of me knew I could never endure her death, not really. Though I stand here today, alive and breathing in the most technical sense, my instincts were correct. After all, the man that was Anakin Skywalker died alongside his wife that day.
I am simply what remains.
Of course, I no longer foolishly believe there is anything I can do to change my fate. But that doesn't mean this day will pass without acknowledgement. As in years past, I will immerse myself in more pain and suffering than most humans could ever know. It is a futile attempt to pay a staggering penance.
I already know it can never be enough.
I slowly take a seat in the middle of my quarters, having discarded the helmet and armor that normally protect me during my conscious hours. I am now clad only in a tunic and loose fitting pants, yet it still takes several moments to find a relatively comfortable position. Some may believe such an attempt is a waste of time - especially given the nature of the task that lays before me.
And perhaps they are right.
But I view it as a necessity - the only way to grant my weary body the deep meditation it requires to prepare for the onslaught that will follow.
The task finally complete, I take a deep breath and do the unthinkable.
I lower my shields...
...and remember what it is like to be in the presence of an angel.
Her hair is always as soft as the finest shimmersilk.
"I hope our daughter has hair like yours," I muse dreamily, running my fingers through it.
She laughs and shakes her head vehemently. "I hope for her sake that it's not as curly."
"No, it should be just like this." I tug on a lock, watching in delight as it springs back to it's curvy shape. "Perfect."
She playfully swats me away and reaches for a metallic band, layering on one after another after another. Before too long, her hair is hidden altogether and I feel a pang of sadness; the woman before me is not my wife, but a resolute Senator whose noble duty is calling.
But late that night, when we are alone, I free the strands from the clips, circlets and pins that hold them into place. The tendrils spill into my palm and I smile - not simply because I am the only one to see her like this... but because even the most delicate curl fits around my fingertips.
...and for just a moment I forget how deadly my hands can be.
My breath hisses out on a resigned sigh as the memory vanishes and the tips of my fingers begin to burn in its place. The ache soon spreads up my forearms, digging its fiery talons into shoulder blades that hunch in response. Sweat begins to bead on my brow and my jaw clenches, teeth grinding in grim anticipation.
This is only the beginning.
She loves to whisper in my ear.
There is something wonderfully intimate about the gesture - it is an action our society readily associates with husbands and wives, lovers and best friends. She teasingly calls it our own little slice of normalcy in a frantic world.
We both look forward to enjoying a few of those slices this night.
My hooded gaze watches her approach, enjoying the way her gown flows across her slim hips and swishes about her ankles. She catches my stare and shoots me a small, but impossibly seductive smile.
"Take me home," she begs, pretending to consult my chrono. Much to my chagrin - and hers - it reveals we still have several hours of forced civility before I can grant her request.
Thankfully, we are much closer to our freedom when she passes my way again. This time, it is under the guise of seeking an updated security report.
"Only a little while more and then you are all mine," she murmurs. The warmth of her lips so close to my ear has me shivering.
...and for just a moment I don't hear the dying screams of the clone soldiers.
The fire is now streaking up my neck to settle in the base of my skull. The scars that crisscross my scalp have long since healed, yet they suddenly pulse and burn as if freshly earned. I remind myself to willingly embrace the sensation, knowing it is only a small part of my punishment.
There is more to come.
She says she lives for our reunions.
She is not alone.
I hurry towards the shadows of the pillars where I can sense her waiting for me. We don't speak right away; we are too busy holding onto each other, ensuring the moment is real and not another in a series of wishful dreams. In my exuberance, I twirl her in a circle and reacquaint myself with the feeling of her embrace.
When we finally part, she rests her small hands on either side of my waist.
...and for just a moment, I don't feel the burden of the light saber on my hip.
The pain has become a vice around my midsection and my breaths shorten, beginning to come in irregular bursts. My personal med droid registers my wildly fluctuating vital signs and activates automatically. A single wave of my hand shoves it back into its charging chamber.
"Not yet," I gasp.
She always walks beside me even though it takes two of her steps to match one of my own.
"I can keep up," she teases, purposefully lengthening her strides. "There, you see?."
"Yes, but you can't walk like that all the time," I retort. "You would trip over all the hems of those fancy gowns you wear."
She grabs my arm and brings me to a halt. Side-by-side, she eyes the difference in our height, torturously running her fingertips from my thighs to my toes and back again.
"It seems I can keep up when it matters most," she murmurs. When she raises her eyes to my face, they are heavy with desire.
...and for just a moment, my legs don't weaken at the thought of what the future might bring.
I snap back to awareness as the entire lower half of my body begins to convulse. My journey is finally complete - I have reached the imaginary shores of Mustafar. Limbs I no longer possess are set ablaze, engulfed by the beauty of memories long forgotten.
I feel a sharp jab to the back of my neck and whirl around in time to see the med droid discard a long syringe. A fresh burst of rage flows through me and I reach into the Force to crush him...
...but my vision swims and I end up having to lean against its metallic frame for support. I can hear the soft whirr of its motors as it lowers me to the ground, rattling off something about amputations, heightened emotion and 'phantom pain.'
A part of me wants to laugh at the diagnosis - even as I fight the sting of tears.
"She's not a phantom," I whisper weakly, fighting my descent into oblivion. "Her name is Padmé."
...and for just a moment, I am her Anakin.
-FIN-