He was deceived by a lie. We all were.
Her heartbeat was fluttering in the unyielding prison of her ribs. The deepening crimson sky of Coruscant was vibrant with life, hundreds of soaring lights visible in the bustling Coruscanti cityscape which greeted her aching eyes.
She stared at nothing.
A cold breeze teased the stray wisps of hair at her nape. The Temple wasn't glowing with auburn flames anymore. It didn't have to be, for the image had forever been burned into her memory.
Padmé, Anakin has turned to the dark side.
A shuddering gasp whispered across the balcony, the only sign of life from the woman who stood at its edge. She inhaled again deeply. Then again.
I have seen security holograms of him...
She tried in vain to stop the memory, the audio of her trusted friend's voice playing on repeat in her mind.
...killing younglings.
She bit her lip with fierce determination; not to stifle a cry, but in an attempt to retain some small fraction of her sanity. It wasn't enough. The pressure behind her eyes exploded painfully.
Wracking sobs shook her small frame as she let loose an explosion of emotion that would have appalled her yesterday. Yesterday. Before this nightmare. When she had cried in a manner similar to this, but for the countless Jedi in the Temple that she'd thought had betrayed the Republic.
She had believed a lie.
The hot tears would have cooled quickly, if they weren't rapidly joined by more. Her hands fluttered helplessly over her head in an attempt to regain some small fraction of her integrity. It wasn't enough. She was wheezing now, with panic unrivaled by any she had ever felt.
"Mistress Amidala!"
If the voice was human, she might have made an effort to compose herself. It wasn't and she didn't. Mechanical steps shuffled behind her. Before C-3PO could offer some placating assurance of how he was certain Master Ani would make it back alive, how her husband had never failed to keep his word before, how everything was quite alright when it so obviously wasn't, she was running past him.
The air of their apartment seemed stiflingly warm in comparison to the chill she had fled. Her scalp stung, the elaborate coiffure atop her head pulling tightly. The heavy dress she'd worn in an attempt to spare her procreant body some modesty itched against her skin.
The Republic was falling.
It had already fallen.
The hope of an entire galaxy was quivering on the precipice of devastation, and all that she had fought to protect was being ripped from her grasp. Oddly, however, the scale of that loss of hope didn't compare with the travesty of her personal one.
It was immeasurably selfish, but at that moment, Padmé Amidala Naberrie Skywalker wasn't grieving the corruption of a galaxy. She was grieving the corruption of a man with whom she had toiled to make that galaxy a safer place. Or at least, she should have been...for right now all she could feel was shock.
The door to the refresher automatically slid shut behind her with a distinctive click. Her thoughts were racing too quickly to properly grasp hold of any one of them.
You're wrong! How could you even say something like that?
Trembling fingertips pressed to her eyes, containing the hot spill of moisture. She had to think.
Not Anakin. He couldn't.
He wouldn't.
The Anakin she knew, her tender lover and a brash champion of kindness for the weak, would never-
A displeased movement resounded through her stomach, a miniature elbow or knee shifting harshly within to display their baby's opinion of that line of thought. She smoothed her hands over the front of her gown, as if she could soothe the young one through the thick material despite her emotions skyrocketing in the most unsoothing manner imaginable.
Do you know where he is now?
With a small cry, Padmé tore at the pins and combs holding heavy coils of hair to her scalp. It tumbled down around her shoulders in unruly disarray, but her fingers were too occupied with the dress to make any effort to smooth her curls. Her breath came in small pants.
It was impossible. Obi-Wan, a man she had known over a decade, a man to whom she would entrust her very life, had delivered information that simply could not compute with her emotional databank. The result was disbelief tempered with fear, the dread that it was true (what reason would the Jedi Master have to lie to her?) mixing with dark whispers of memory from the past. Of intuition she had tried desperately to ignore.
All of a sudden, the urge to do something became overwhelming. It was no longer a matter of loyalty to the Republic or loyalty to her husband; her frazzled brain had indefinitely delayed that choice earlier in the afternoon by refusing to assist in Anakin's arrest.
"I must find him, Padmé."
The Senator's mind had blanked. A shiver had run down her spine at the emphasis placed on the word must. The ghost of a cold kiss had brushed against her lips as she recalled the last time she had seen Anakin, his hands gently framing the sides of her head.
Her gaze had snapped to that of her friend, rife with mute panic.
"You're going to kill him, aren't you?"
Silence had been confirmation.
"I can't."
She couldn't betray Anakin like that. Breath had come laboriously as she dismissed the raging confusion battling for her soul. Obi-Wan had said nothing. He understood.
Stripping the cumbersome fabric from her body, Padmé pushed it past her hips and stepped from the discarded circle on the floor. Cool air rushed around the remaining silk shift cloaking her body, bringing goose bumps. She didn't bother rubbing her arms to ward off the chill.
If Obi-Wan was truthful, then the threat to Anakin's life wasn't fleeting. The Council—what was left of it—would keep sending Jedi to assassinate the rogue Sith until-
Sith?
The thought made her face contort again. The darkness and Anakin were mutually exclusive.
They had to be.
She couldn't reconcile the thought of him choosing such a path willingly, regardless of the growing shadow of suspicion she'd felt at his behavior lately. It had to be false and there had to be a reason it was true, simultaneously.
Padmé paid no heed to the contradiction of her thoughts, nor to the fact that she was the furthest parsec from reasonable at the moment. She had to do something. Anything. She had to find him.
She had to know.
The need to look into his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, and hear the truth was overpowering. Just what she would do if Obi-Wan was right, she couldn't contemplate. She left the refresher on unsteady legs, lightheaded from an overconsumption of oxygen. Limbs refused to calm their shaking, and why was she so cold...?
The chill permeated her skin now, and Padmé tried to ignore it in earnest. There were far more important things holding her attention. As she perused her shelf hastily for something wearable, a familiar voice cut into her incessant inner dialogue.
"Ah, there you are, Mistress! Is there anything I could get you? A soothing cup of tea, perhaps? I'm so terribly sorry I didn't-"
"No thank you, Threepio," she cut in breathlessly.
Clutching a tailored tunic and loose leggings that looked serviceable, she turned to give him a tight glance. There was no point in attempting to smile—she felt as if her face would shatter if she did.
The protocol droid's shiny head tilted to one side in a gesture that could only be described as sympathetic, but she raised a silencing hand.
"There is something you could do for me, however. Contact Captain Typho. Ready my starship and set the coordinates for- no...wait, nevermind. Just hire a landing pad and bring the ship to 500 Republica. I'll meet you there shortly."
3PO didn't move.
"Oh, dear. Mistress, I'm afraid Master Ani gave me specific instructions not to let you vacate the premises for any reason. I would like to follow your wishes, but I simply cannot dis-"
"Did he?" Her voice broke. Slender fingers clenched around the fabric they held. A gasping, choking laugh forced itself from her throat, even as a hand shot to her mouth in horror to stifle the dry sobs. She was going insane. "Of course he did."
"Yes, Mistress. He said th-"
"Threepio," Padmé interrupted again. All trace of the maniacal outburst had fled her face, leaving only wan determination in its wake. "Please. Anakin didn't plan for this kind of emergency. I must go. Ready my ship at once."
The golden droid was clearly disapproving, but he nodded once and left her room with steps a little less fluid than usual.
As the door slid shut behind him, she turned to face the pale light coming through the blinders. The dying oranges and reds of sunset were fading into the deepening black of night, forever balanced by utility lights from far too many souls.
The bed was neatly made. Anakin hadn't stayed last night, and so she hadn't so much as sat on the mattress that reminded her so strongly of his presence. Not when she might never see him again and the mere thought was more than she could handle. Perhaps sleep deprivation was to blame for her hysteria...
Padmé shut her grief-swollen eyes and twisted away. Duty and love; she couldn't choose between the two. She shouldn't have to. Her career as a politician of Naboo flashed before her eyes, as well as the mental image of Supreme Chancellor—Emperor, she reminded herself dully—Palpatine rising up in his arena of treachery, usurping the right of the people to instate his own power on the vulnerable. Then came Obi-Wan's face.
And the utterly paradoxical words, Anakin has turned to the dark side.
Not if she could find him he hadn't. Not if she could hold him. Not if he could tell her it was all a lie. There was a beckoning sort of safety in denial.
Her eyes flew open, a new imitation of courage pulsing through her veins for the first time that dreadful day. Right. There was work to do.
She tossed the change of clothing to the bed and reached for the bottom of her slip. With 3PO as her co-pilot, they could reach Mustafar in less than-
A sickly wave of vertigo washed over Padmé.
It cloyed in her throat, stirring her stomach with merciless stealth. She knew the feeling well, or else she might've fooled herself about whether she really needed to go to the fresher until the instant the sensations became unbearable. She didn't, and before ten seconds had passed she was slumped over the durasteel commode with a pallid grimace. The nausea didn't recede.
It doubled, writhing and roiling in the cramped space of her digestive system until Padmé succumbed with a disgusted groan and retched into the metal bowl uncontrollably. She was aware of a vague sense of surprise as she did so; her pregnancy had so far been relatively uneventful, lacking the myriad physical problems she'd heard were common from friends and the HoloNet alike. Morning sickness had faded by her second trimester.
Impatiently, she took shallow breaths as she willed the nauseating discomfort to subside.
A petulant kick resounded through her belly. The smooth space between her brows creased in confusion. The baby was moving more in the space of an hour than he had throughout the previous week. Considering the cramped space her little one was contending with—she was due in under two months—that observation was certainly not normal.
Padmé wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, swallowing against another wave.
Only when she was certain it had passed did she unclench her fist. Thighs shaking with effort, she eased upwards, clutching the sink's edge to pull herself to her feet.
She couldn't make it out of the refresher before whirling back to the commode with abrupt indignity. At this point she was fiercely regretting every sip of water she'd allowed 3PO to cajole her into taking that day.
Few feelings in the galaxy could be considered worse than the total subjugation of vomiting, she thought miserably, even if the heaves were dry.
The taut muscles of her stomach were quaking with fatigue when at last she dropped her sweaty face to a forearm propped against cold, sanitary metal.
"Please," she gasped thickly, cradling her heavily rounded stomach with her other hand and rubbing circles over it in a vain attempt to stop all movement contributing to the sickness. "I know. I do, but let Mama rest a moment. Please. I can't- I have to go and-"
She broke off the mumbled plea with an exhausted moan and lay still for an indeterminate amount of time, head swimming.
Too soon, her lashes lifted.
Mechanical steps were sounding through the hallway, signalling the return of her loyal droid. Padmé pulled away from her undignified position quickly, too quickly, stumbling to her feet despite her enervated body's vicious protest.
All she wanted to do was collapse in a dark, warm room, but not now. She wasn't about to give anyone another reason to prevent her mission.
Yet suddenly, it seemed inevitable. Stars showered her vision as the blood rushed from her head. The last thought Padmé had before blacking out was that perhaps she ought to have eaten something after Obi-Wan had left earlier that afternoon, after all.
Two standard hours later, in the shifting shadows of nightfall, a vigilant Jedi Master turned a watchful gaze from the gleaming Nubian vessel of a certain Senator and crept back to his own jet.
He had been wrong about his friend, and though his superior in the Order would doubtlessly be disappointed at his failure to locate his own apprentice today, Obi-Wan could not help but release a long sigh of relief.
Senator Amidala wasn't going to attempt to locate Anakin—Darth Vader.
A current of shimmering abatement whispered through the fathomless depth of the Force that disaster had been averted...for now.