Chapter 23 – Free
Padmé stood in the hallway, looking through the glass. Anakin was on the other side. He was being tended to by medical droids.
Perhaps it was ironic. She was the one on the outside looking in while he was the one who could no longer be recognized.
Padmé averted her gaze. She couldn't bear to look at him. At what had become of him. Because of Kenobi. Because of Palpatine.
Because of her.
The irony folded in on itself. Padmé was on the other side of the glass, but she was still in that cell. She was still trapped. And instead of the Ysalamir looming over her, it was Palpatine keeping her in check. But he couldn't stop her now. Short of having her arrested, that is. But if he was going to do that, he would have done it already. Padmé would have her chance.
At what, exactly? What was it that she was about to do?
In a sense, it was selfless. Her husband was dying. She would sacrifice herself so that he might live.
But at the same time, it was entirely selfish. She was trapped, and this was her way out. It wasn't as if the prospect of death appealed to her; she was not suicidal, but she was desperate, hopeless, and so very tired.
Her whole life had been shaped by a lie. So much so that Padmé never was able to learn who she was as a person. Or more accurately, she had never been given a chance to be a person. Palpatine had not let her. He had molded her into this thing. A woman deeply flawed, erratic, and dangerous. A monster and a coward.
Yes, she hated herself.
No, she did not wish to die.
"Padmé?"
She did not turn toward the voice. That familiar, loving voice.
"Sola."
Her sister came to her side, wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
"I'm so sorry."
Padmé shook her head.
"He can't die, Sola. I won't let him."
Sola's grip tightened on Padmé's shoulder. She pulled her into her body, and Padmé rested her head on her sister's collarbone.
"I know what you're thinking," Sola said. "And you're wrong."
Despite everything, Padmé laughed. Sort of. It sounded like a wheeze, or more aptly, a last gasp.
"You think this is your fault," Sola said. "It's not. You had no choice but to tell Kenobi where he had gone. You had to think of your children."
Padmé hummed in response.
"Padmé, are you listening to me? There's nothing else you could have done."
Padmé closed her eyes. "Oh Sola, you have no idea. There's so much else I could have done. So much else I could have been."
She felt Sola shaking her head. "No, Padmé –"
"I wish I could have been your sister. Your real sister."
Sola was silent.
"I wish I could have been our parent's daughter. I wish I could have been an aunt to your girls. I wish I could have been Anakin's wife, my children's mother."
"You are all those things," Sola said.
"No," Padmé said. "I am not. I am a lie."
Padmé could sense Sola's fight. It made her smile – weakly, sadly. She used to have that spirit, that hope. That naivete. It was gone now. Extinguished. Burned away.
"I'm going to save him, Sola."
She opened her eyes and pulled away from her sister's embrace.
"How?" Sola asked.
"There is a technique through the Force," Padmé explained, "where one can transfer their life energy to another."
She could tell that Sola did not understand.
"It means that I give my life to save his."
"No," Sola said at once. "You can't."
"I can. And I will."
"Think about what you are saying," Sola said, her voice pitched with desperation. "You'd be leaving your children without a mother!"
"Should I leave them without a father instead?" Padmé asked.
"Yes!" Sola said at once. "Don't be noble, Padmé. You don't have to do this."
"I do," Padmé said. "I have no other choice."
"That's not true!"
Padmé looked back through the glass. Anakin was mercifully unconscious, his scarred flesh wrapped in layers upon layers of gauze.
"I've had so many chances in the past," Padmé said. "So many opportunities. And every time I made the wrong choice." Every time, she had chosen Palpatine. Just like he had wanted. "This is my last chance, Sola. This is the last choice that I have to make. And I won't make the wrong one this time."
"But you are making the wrong choice," Sola said. "You'll be throwing your life away."
"I would condemn myself to a worse fate if I choose to let my husband die."
"How can you say that? You would be alive!"
"I would be living a half-life, at best." Padmé felt a grim satisfaction at finally being able to articulate this to someone. "Don't you see, Sola? I'm not a real person. Celine Naberrie never existed. She was taken away by a terrible man who strung a collar around her neck and made her his pet."
"You don't belong to him," Sola said. "Not anymore."
"But I do. I always will. Unless I do this." She took her sister's hands into her own. "Please, Sola, understand why I'm doing this. I'm trying to do one good thing with my life."
"You have done good," Sola said.
"Like what?"
"You've done good for me. For our mother. We love you, Padmé. We need you. Your children need you."
Padmé did not want to argue with her. Because she knew that if she did, she would succumb. She would be weak. Now was the time for strength and resolve. She was committed, and she would not let anyone, not even her sister, stand in her way.
Standing up on her toes, for her sister was much taller than her, Padmé kissed Sola's forehead. "I love you too. Thank you. For everything."
Pulling away, Padmé did not look back. Sola called after her, but she tuned her out. The door to the operating room slid open, and Padmé, like a ghost, drifted inside.
"Leave us," she said to the medical droids hovering by Anakin's bedside.
"But ma'am –" one began to say.
"I will not repeat myself," Padmé interrupted.
She could practically see the gears turning as the droids looked at each other. "Yes, ma'am," they finally determined. They floated away, and Padmé made her way to the bed.
"Anakin," she said.
What else was there to say? I'm sorry? She thought of Ahsoka, to whom she had apologized that strange night after the Empire had been declared. It had been a hollow thing to say then, it would be even more so now. I'm sorry. For what? For lying to you? For manipulating you? For causing you so much pain?
There was no way to make everything right. This final act was the best she could do.
She sat on the bed.
Through the Force, she could sense Anakin, but only barely. He was so very weak. Could he sense her? Did he know she was here?
"I'm doing this for you," she told him.
For you.
And for me.
Selfless.
Selfish.
Even at the very end, she was torn in two, the hypocrite, the liar. She thought of Palpatine, looming over her like always, casting a massive shadow.
Padmé placed her hand on Anakin's shin. At once she winced. His pain came flooding into her, as if by osmosis. He was burning. Padmé had to act quickly.
She stood. She felt rather nauseous all of a sudden. Her head pounded and her ears rang. Her heart hammered in her chest, as if it were trying to escape its own cage and burst free.
Padmé extended two trembling hands. They rested atop Anakin's chest. The pain was almost overwhelming. Her legs were hollow and she had to lean into him to stay upright. Red hot flames lapped in front of her vision and a scorching sensation seared her palms and surged up her arms into her brain.
She did not retreat, however. She leaned further into Anakin, her hands pushing into his sternum. And as she did, she was dissociated from her own self. The pain was too immense. She became one with it. She and Anakin were together in this horrific crucible.
They were together. Despite the agony, she felt a semblance of comfort to be with him. Here at the end, with him, the man who had shown her that she could be loved and that she could love others in return. She owed everything to him. And so she would give him everything.
She felt it happening. The transfer. Her life feeding into his. The pain lessened now, dulling, her senses turning numb. She was fading, and he was growing stronger. His presence grew larger, stronger. The pain became a distant echo. The flames were extinguished and the heat abated. The world around her darkened into a collage of blacks and blues. Along the horizon, far, far away, she saw a rippling surface. Soft sands, gentle waves. A smell of salt, a gust of wind. She just had to reach for it.
And she was free.
Δ Δ Δ
Except she was not. Or at least not fully. There was something holding her back. Literally. A strong something. It held onto her, refusing to let go. What could it be? Padmé felt strangely apathetic at this point; she no longer had the requisite sense of self to object. It was not an uncomfortable sensation, surely, but one way or another she knew she ought to escape it.
She tried, but was unable. Whatever it was, it had hold of her quite firmly. It was reeling her in. She had half a thought to struggle, but much like a fish at the end of a hook, she had little say in the matter. The distant shores became even more distant until they slipped away beneath the horizon. Padmé felt herself dragged upward, as if she were flying. The odd sensation became more obviously discernible as a pressure around her wrist. It clamped to her like a vise. Now she struggled more strenuously. She thrashed and pulled. The pressure on her wrist suddenly lessened…
She gasped. Air filled her lungs and her sight exploded in bright white light. Sensation erupted across her body – biting, churning, burning – yet not entirely unpleasant. She was in shock, not pain, as if she had just woke from a long, peaceful slumber. Or perhaps a coma was more apposite.
Her vision slowly began to return. Shadowy figures coalesced in front of her. To her right was the edge of a bed, or so she thought. There was a person lying there. Strange sounds were coming from that direction, a sort of panting. The person's chest heaved.
Padmé began to feel more distinctly now. There was something cool against the exposed flesh of her neck. Below her, the surface was hard and uncomfortable. She was on the floor, slouched against a wall. Padmé blinked her eyes into focus. The fuzziness in her head began to clear. She remembered who she was. She remembered who it was in the bed.
"Anakin," she croaked.
With a colossal effort, Padmé pushed herself up off the ground. Her legs were impossibly stiff.
How was this possible? How was she alive? Had she failed? But as she got closer – with small, unconfident steps – she could see that Anakin's flesh, once scarred beyond recognition, was remarkably clear. Seized with emotion, Padmé compelled her reluctant limbs to carry her to the bed. Her knees hit the frame and she fell forward rather inelegantly with her head colliding into Anakin's chest. Her fingers grasped and clawed at Anakin's skin, marveling at its smoothness. His limbs were still gone, sliced away by Kenobi's lightsaber, but other than that, Anakin was perfectly healthy. Even the convulsions began to recede at Padmé's touch. He was calming. The turbulence of earlier was gone.
"How?" Padmé said, her cheek flat against his abdomen. "How are we both alive?"
Anakin had no answer. He was still unconscious. But from behind her, another voice spoke. It was a tortured voice, strained and sibilant.
"I hate you."
Padmé went very still. Anakin's slow heartbeat sounded loud in her ear. She wished to hear it, and it alone, but the voice spoke again, with the same vicious message.
"I hate you."
She turned her head. There she saw him, a heap in the corner, his head sagged forward. She pushed herself up from the bed and away from Anakin. With deliberate caution, she stepped toward him. The tips of her fingers felt terribly cold.
"Master," she said.
Palpatine raised his head. The look in his eyes was a mixture of terrible pain and unbridled contempt.
"See what has become of me, Padmé?" he said. "Because of you."
Padmé kneeled by his side. "You saved me?" she said. "You saved us?"
Palpatine grabbed her wrist. She did not flinch. His grip was weak. She knew it was because he was dying.
"You gave me no choice," he said.
"You had a choice," Padmé said. "You had every choice in the world."
But Palpatine was shaking his head. "You do not understand," he said. "I am not the man I was meant to be. I am not the man my master trained me to become."
Padmé did not know what to say, and so she said nothing.
"What did I teach you? To be ruthless. Merciless. To put yourself first, your ambition over everything else." Palpatine made a sardonic sound. "You are not like that."
"No," Padmé said, not because she believed it, but because she wished it to be true. Did that not describe her perfectly? Her eyes drifted to the bed. To Anakin. Perhaps not. She had put him first. Or at least she had tried.
"You are better than that," Palpatine said. "And apparently, so am I."
"Better?" Padmé said.
"Weaker," Palpatine spat.
"Stronger," Padmé countered. "Truer."
Palpatine's face, twisted with contempt, turned softer. A sigh escaped his white lips.
"I cared too much about you," he said. It was as if he were ashamed to admit it. He refused to look her in the eye. "I could not let you die."
"And so you saved me," Padmé said. "You transferred your life to me as I transferred mine to Anakin."
"Yes," Palpatine said. "I hate that I did it. I hate that I had to do it."
Tears stung her eyes at this vicious remark. It was such a horrible thing to say. But he was such a horrible man. A horrible man who had done a wonderful thing. To such people, that which was wonderful is horrible, and that which was horrible is wonderful. It is a sad, contorted view of the world. It was so sad that here, in his final moments, having done such a selfless act, Palpatine could only think of himself and his own bitterness.
"I was so close. I had it in my clutches, Padmé. Everything we had ever planned for. The Jedi destroyed, an Empire created. And it's all gone now because of you. Because I couldn't bear to see you gone."
"Because you loved me," Padmé said softly.
Palpatine's face turned violent once more. "No," he snapped. "I hate you."
Padmé placed a hand on his cheek. "For you, they are one and the same," she said. And I feel sorry for you.
Palpatine stared at her.
"I loved you too," she told him.
Padmé did not know if he heard her. Or even if he had, that he would understand what it meant. His eyes turned glassy and his jaw slackened.
"Padmé," he said.
That was all he could say. Padmé felt the last of his life slip away, augmenting her own.
Palpatine was no more. Her master was gone.
Author's Note: Apologies for taking so absurdly long (3 months?) to update. I don't really have an excuse. But the story is almost over. Next chapter should be the last (or maybe penultimate... not sure yet). Thank you to everyone who has been so patient with me and to all those who have made it to this point in the story.