One reviewer asked for Padmé's age, so I figured I'd just recap on everybody: Almusian is 29, Éothen is 21, Obi-Wan is 25, Siri is 23, Padmé is 20, and Vader is 18/19 depending on the time period in the story.
Fasten your seatbelts, and here we go!
Padmé hugged herself tightly. She'd been in her bedroom packing, but she'd spent the entire time restlessly pacing the room. Siri had been attacked. Siri of all people – she was the handmaiden, the inconspicuous person that everybody glossed over and never saw. How—what had led the Imperials to Siri? Who had sent that operative? It wasn't… it wasn't Vader, was it? He already knew she was a Rebel spy; why would he send an undercover agent to keep tabs on her when he was essentially doing that himself? No, it couldn't be Vader… right?
Padmé had planned on telling Obi-Wan the entire truth about Vader, but after what had happened she'd been far too frantic to say anything, and now it seemed like it was too late. Besides, if she mentioned it by this point it might make Obi-Wan want to stay, and she would not have her brother or sister-in-law risking themselves anymore because of her.
Glancing at her bed, she saw the shoto. She'd had it in her desk. Her desk. If she'd just finished the blasted thing and had been there, she could have ensured the handmaiden hadn't gotten away. Of course, then there would have been a whole series of questions that followed. Perhaps it was better that it ended up going the way it did. She was eternally grateful to Qui-Gon for being there, for saving her best friend's life.
Siri had been attacked.
Padmé shook her head, balling her fists in an attempt to stop her hands from trembling. This had gone too far. The insanity of it all was too much. She'd had enough. They'd all had enough. But what were they going to do? Siri obviously had to leave, but would her supposed guilt leak over to Obi-Wan and Padmé as well? Would the person who had sent the agent turn his or her attention to Padmé and her brother since they were Siri's immediate associates and family? Were any of them safe? Padmé didn't like the idea of simply vanishing; a part of her still hesitated, a part of her still wanted to stay on Imperial Center as long as possible… but for what purpose? If she got Salkende on her side… but shouldn't she stay to maintain the status quo? If she just disappeared after Siri was attacked it would confirm that she was with the Rebels, and with her new engagement that would place Salkende at risk… assuming the warlord agreed to the match. There was so much conjecture about who knew what and so many what if scenarios that she felt like she was suspended above a pit and was only held from the fall by a thread.
What would happen to Vader? Where was he? How would he react to all this? How could she confront him? Would she even confront him at all? Should she stay after visiting Salkende or should she just join the Alliance entirely? She didn't want to leave Vader behind – she still wanted to help him… but how could she resolve that with what she'd done, with what she was going to do?
"Padmé?"
Turning, Padmé saw Obi-Wan standing in the doorway. He had a bag slung over his shoulder, and he looked haggard. Startled, she glanced at the chronometer and realized it was evening. Obi-Wan and Siri were heading out. Her heartrate increased as she was filled with frantic energy. What if something happened and Obi-Wan and Siri were captured or worse, killed? What if by some random coincidence Vader showed up? What if that spy came back?
"Is everything set?" she asked worriedly.
Obi-Wan nodded with a tired smile. "Stay here, all right? Qui-Gon will keep you safe."
Padmé hugged him tightly. "Shouldn't Qui-Gon go with you, at least until you leave the planet?"
"Padmé, we agreed on this," Obi-Wan shook his head. "Qui-Gon stays with you, and you stay here."
She sighed, closing her eyes and allowing herself to relax in his embrace. "Be safe, Obi. Please."
"We will be, Padmé."
She shuddered, thinking about everything that had happened today. Her mind wandered to all the others the spy could have affected. "Have you still heard nothing from Al?"
Obi-Wan tensed. "No."
Padmé intensified her hold on him, burying her face in his shoulder. "I love you."
She heard Obi-Wan take a deep breath. "I love you too."
As soon as Obi-Wan pulled away, Padmé was nearly tackled by Siri. "Stay safe, Padmé, got it? Don't leave the apartment until it's time to meet up with Éothen. Obi and I will be fine. We'll see you on Salkende."
Padmé nodded, her throat tightening with emotion. She walked alongside her brother and sister-in-law until they reached the door. They would take several taxis and a very roundabout walk to get to the designated landing pad so they would ensure no one was following them. Padmé prayed to the gods that they got there safely.
The sunlight diminished from the sky as the two left. Clouds destroyed the remainder of daylight, and a cold drizzle began to descend upon the city. Padmé gazed outside, and her eyes locked with the palace. Qui-Gon approached her.
"The Force will guide Obi-Wan and Siri." he said softly, his voice laced with concern and compassion. "Do not fear for them."
Padmé nodded and smiled. "It's hard not to be worried."
"It's true, but it will do you little good," Qui-Gon replied. After a brief pause, he said, "I must meditate. Do you need anything from me at the moment?"
Padmé continued to stare at the palace and she shook her head. "No, thank you."
Qui-Gon bowed and walked towards the veranda, leaving Padmé alone. The longer she gazed at it, the worse she felt. All she could think about was where the spy was, who sent her, and how Vader played into all this. Would Obi-Wan and Siri make it safely to Salkende? Where was Al? Was he still alive? Where was Vader?
The stress swirled within her, overwhelming her. Padmé choked back sobs until they escaped her in gasps, and she buried her face in her hand, lost and alone in the chaos around her.
The cold rain made him shiver, but he wasn't certain if it was because of the weather or the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Obi-Wan glanced around warily into the darkness as the landing ramp to the ship lowered. They were in the lower levels of the city in a spaceport that was open to the elements. It was almost midnight; he and Siri had left the apartment almost six hours ago, retracing their steps, going to dead ends, taking different taxis and buses, and walking to this place. He was exhausted from the effort, but with six hours of ensuring no one was tailing them, he figured whatever was bothering him couldn't be related to himself or Siri; he and his wife had long since either bottled up or released their terror from the incident earlier today. Lt. Erwyna eyed the ship, but her hand was on a holstered blaster pistol. Siri looked at Obi-Wan.
"What is it?" she whispered.
"I have a bad feeling about this," he muttered. His head pounded and felt foggy. He couldn't think straight. He could barely see straight at this point, though whether that was due to stress and exhaustion or the dreary weather was beyond him.
"We're almost out of here," she assured him.
"Not about us," he shook his head. "It's something elsewhere… elusive…"
He was speaking in riddles that even he himself didn't understand. Siri put a hand on his shoulder. "Qui-Gon said the Dark Side is shrouding everything here. He said it's been getting so bad even he's having trouble keeping a clear head. We can't be running around chasing bad feelings."
"Let's go," the Salkenden lieutenant called from the ramp.
Obi-Wan sighed and nodded to his wife. Together the two boarded the shuttle and he watched Imperial Center disappear as the ramp closed behind him.
A thick heaviness surrounded him. He felt a snore escape his throat. His hands twitched. His eyes were sealed shut from exhaustion. There was darkness everywhere. The gentle pitter patter of the rain against the window helped him drift in and out of slumber until he shifted slightly to get more comfortable.
Ouch!
Tarkin's eyes snapped open but he didn't dare move. His neck was killing him. What had happened? Why was his neck sore? Why was he cold? Wait, why was he sitting? Shouldn't he… he thought he'd gone to bed…
Oh. That's right.
Slowly raising his head from his chest, Tarkin groaned and rubbed the back of his neck as it nearly creaked in protest. He was going to be sore for days at this point; his entire body felt stiff.
After the senate had adjourned for the day Tarkin had sought out his spy. He'd been in the med bay most of the day (and had marveled at the fact that Palpatine had also been there for almost the same amount of time – the man never showed this much concern for his apprentice), so he was eager to get a report. She had disappointed and astonished him once again, however; the woman was among Intelligence's best operatives – for her to have failed in kidnapping a mere handmaiden indicated that both she and Tarkin had miscalculated the handmaiden's capabilities… and apparently the aide's as well. The spy had informed Tarkin that the handmaiden had somehow known the attack was coming, and the aide was a skilled martial artist. There were far too many unanswered questions in all of this insanity, and Tarkin needed answers. The spy's cover was blown, so he couldn't send her back in. He had to do this through Vader. He'd send the boy to speak to Amidala as soon as he was released. They needed to act quickly before Amidala did anything in retaliation – the last thing Tarkin needed was for the senator to disappear.
With that train of thought Tarkin had gone back to the med bay only to find the boy fast asleep. Instead of waking him and discussing the matter, he decided to leave him alone; Vader had been through enough for a little while. Things would only get worse once he awoke, anyway. So Tarkin had watched him and ensured he'd rested, and then he'd eventually fallen asleep on the chair beside the boy's bed.
He nodded to himself and then moaned again. Blast his neck hurt. Rubbing it once more to ease the pain, Tarkin abruptly realized there was a silhouette of someone in dress robes standing in the dark room. Gasping, he leapt to his feet, automatically reaching for his blaster, when he recognized the emperor's face in the dim light from the window. Getting his wits about him, he immediately went down on one knee, both unnerved and annoyed. Palpatine's manners matched Vader's sometimes – that's probably where the boy got it from. Darth Vader inherited much from his master.
"Majesty," he acknowledged, his head bowed. There was a pop in his neck and he winced.
Palpatine didn't reply. Instead, his attention was focused on the Sith apprentice in the hospital bed. His yellow eyes glittered in the dim light, making Tarkin shudder and look down, despite the pain in his neck, but when he heard the rustling of robes he gazed up once more. The emperor flicked his hand, turning the lights on with the Force. Vader, who had been sleeping relatively peacefully, curled in a tight little ball like always, flinched at the sudden change. His eyes immediately opened, and in the few seconds it took him to orient himself he no doubt sensed the two other people in the room.
The man's eyes settled upon the emperor and he sat up in bed. His color was far better than before, and he didn't even wince as he sat straight. Tarkin looked at his vitals and they were steady. The rest had done him wonders, and Tarkin had little doubt he'd used the Force to augment his healing.
Vader bowed his head. "Master."
His voice was a little rough, but not too bad. He was completely composed; the nap had obviously helped him immensely. Perhaps he would be able to confront Amidala without falling apart now.
"The doctors said you can go," Palpatine said. "It's time for you to complete your mission."
Complete it? What was he talking about? Vader had already killed the Jedi and destroyed their fleet – what more did the man want?
Vader didn't move. He simply awaited his orders as usual.
"I can sense your anger," Palpatine continued, and Tarkin nearly gawked at the man. Anger? What anger? Sure, he'd always suspected it was buried deep within the young Sith, but it wasn't as if it had been surfacing lately – apart from being a little unstable, the only time Tarkin saw Vader supposedly get angry was during the interrogation with Mon Mothma. Even then that had seemed more forceful than angry; Vader hadn't gotten upset that she wasn't listening, he'd simply lost it because he was a wreck. What in the blazes was Palpatine going on about? "Feel it. Acknowledge it. Use it. The time has come to end the pain you've received. You will forge yourself from the flames of your hatred, and you will be a true Sith Lord."
Where was he going with this? Darth Vader still remained motionless as he normally would, but Tarkin's mind was buzzing with questions. What mission was he talking about? The grand moff seriously doubted it was about the Jedi, considering what had been said so far. It probably had to do with Amidala, then. Was Palpatine ordering Vader to kill the Salkenden, Éothen? Well, it would be one less headache for Tarkin, he supposed, but he needed the Sith first – he needed the man to confront Amidala and ensure she didn't escape the planet after the fantastic failure this morning.
"You are to kill Senator Amidala."
Tarkin's gaze snapped to the emperor. What?! After everything that man had done to ensure Amidala lived despite her obvious loyalties, after making Darth Vader suffer through emotional manipulation, now Palpatine finally came to his senses and wanted her killed? The man had waited too long; Amidala had already gotten to Vader. The two were partners. It seemed like the senator was the one person who could stir something inside Vader, though whether it was simply a physical attraction or something else was still a bit of a mystery to Tarkin. In either case, this wouldn't do at all… right? Vader wouldn't allow for Amidala to die. His loyalty didn't extend that far – his obsession with obedience to his master only reached as far as his own sanity could tolerate; if Palpatine ordered him to kill the one person he might actually have some sort of favorable attachment to (Tarkin would admit that his own relationship with the boy needed a bit of work before he could boast such a thing – it was the entire reason he had to deal with the tiresome roundabout manipulation), then he would refuse, right? This would be the last straw, the final order that would set the man off, the moment that would make Darth Vader prove that he was a Sith apprentice and, in true Sith fashion, would rise up against his master.
Vader was silent.
Tarkin's eyebrows skyrocketed. The man never hesitated in accepting orders. This was massive. Would he argue? Would he outright refuse? The grand moff could imagine the conflict occurring in the young man's mind, the turmoil of choosing between his loyalties. Would he remain loyal to his master or would he choose his newfound interest? If he refused, would Palpatine try to kill him? Would Vader fight back? If he did, Tarkin would be with him every step of the way; they'd be able to cover the nonsense up easily – the boy was still emotionally unstable, the drugs had yet to wear off; any number of excuses could work. Tarkin had enough grand moffs and military officials in his pocket by this point that it would work – the only other addition he needed to his group of allies was Vader.
The Sith Lord still hadn't moved! How long would this tense silence last before one of them tore it apart? How long would it take for Palpatine to realize his mistake?
Tarkin tensed every muscle in his body, awaiting some kind of reaction from one of the Sith in the room. He was suddenly grateful he was armed. Blast it all, this came so suddenly – he'd been expecting a lot more time to plan out this confrontation.
Vader slowly stood, keeping his eyes toward the ground. He bowed again and left.
The heaviness of the room vanished, and Tarkin could breathe again. Was that action an acknowledgement of the order or was it simply Vader's way of ignoring it and getting out without a fuss? He didn't dare follow the apprentice; this the man had to do on his own. He would let the decision be made without him. A plan was already formulating in his mind that would ensure he was the victor in either scenario. He had much work to do.
Tarkin waited for Palpatine to depart, and then he hastily left the med bay.
Padmé glanced at her chronometer once more. It was almost two in the morning, but she still felt restless. There was no way she'd be sleeping tonight. Qui-Gon had received a signal from Erwyna stating that they had left Imperial Center safely, so at least Obi-Wan and Siri were alright. But what about Almusian? Siri had said they hadn't heard from the man in over a day – could that spy have gotten to him? He was the one getting Kelathik serum for Siri, right? And he was tracking an Intelligence agent – was he missing because he failed his mission or because the spy found him? There were so many unanswered questions, so many unresolved issues that it made her head spin.
She couldn't handle this – she wouldn't tolerate leaving him behind if something was wrong. She had to be certain. Al had to be found; she wouldn't abandon him on pure conjecture alone. She wouldn't do that to anybody, but he was also vital to both the Alliance and her family.
She walked to the veranda. Qui-Gon had said he would be meditating there, but considering the time she wasn't sure if he'd still be awake. Nevertheless, she found him sitting on the floor of the veranda, his eyes closed in concentration. His face was placid, and he seemed unaware of her presence. She was about to clear her throat in acknowledgement when he opened his eyes and smiled at her. She would be unnerved that he knew she was there, but she'd gotten used to that with Vader.
Vader. Her heart stung at the thought of him, and she quickly shoved it down; now wasn't the time to think about that. Not yet. "Qui-Gon, I need your help."
"What's the matter?" he asked, standing.
"It's a friend of mine," she explained. "A fellow Rebel. He's missing."
"Almusian?" Qui-Gon asked. When Padmé looked at him in surprise, he said, "Obi-Wan explained the situation to me. He gave me Brek's frequency so I could continue to try and contact him."
"Any luck?" she questioned.
Qui-Gon sighed and shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
Padmé felt her heart sink, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to release nervous energy. "We can't… surely there's something we can do. Can't we search for him?"
Qui-Gon crossed his arms. His eyes sparkled, and though he still looked serene, his bearing was stern as well. "Your safety is at risk, senator. It's best you remain here under my protection. It's too dangerous to wander the streets."
She bit her lip. She was not giving up on Al. Padmé tried a different avenue, amending her suggestion. "Fine. It's too dangerous for me. But you could look for him."
"My mission is to protect you," he told her. "Not to do search and rescue."
"The Jedi are supposed to protect those in need," Padmé argued, growing slightly annoyed. "I'm not in need right now; it's two in the morning and there's been no activity since over twelve hours ago, and that was an attack on Siri, not me. Al, on the other hand, is on a mission that only he can accomplish and might have been attacked by that fake handmaiden. We have no clue where he is or if he's hurt. His mission is vital, and you and I are the only people who can help him. I promise I'll stay in the apartment, but please, you have to look for him."
The Jedi was silent, debating the matter. He didn't look too happy. Padmé insisted, "You're his only hope, Qui-Gon. You can't abandon him."
There was silence for a few tense seconds, and then Qui-Gon sighed heavily. "This isn't a good idea."
"I'm armed and I'm not going anywhere," Padmé tried to assure him. "No one has attacked me at all the entire time we've been in trouble. I'll be leaving in four hours. It'll be fine. Al's the one who's unprotected."
Again the Jedi sighed, but he closed his eyes and nodded before looking at her firmly. "I'll go, but I'll only search for two hours. Keep your comlink accessible at all times."
Padmé bowed. "Thank you. I will."
Qui-Gon hesitated a moment and then quickly strode past her. Padmé breathed a sigh of relief; Vader had no reason to sabotage anything pertaining to Al (unless he himself had sent the handmaiden), so he wouldn't interfere with this mission. The Jedi would surely succeed, then, right? She didn't know much about Jedi apart from the stories, but supposedly they were the greatest at essentially everything relating to war – fighting, rescuing, protecting, planning, everything. Al was in good hands now that a Jedi Master was searching for him.
A Jedi Master. It was strange to think she had a Jedi looking after her. Why hadn't Bail mentioned him before? There'd never been any situation as desperate as now, obviously, but… well, she supposed it would have done little help to have known the fact earlier. Besides, it was obvious that the Jedi, even those who were strong enough to survive the purges, weren't omnipotent – Vader had surely proven that.
Padmé sighed tiredly and walked to her bedroom. The shoto was still sitting there, the final piece lying beside it. Staring at it tempted her to just finish it already, but it still represented something to her. It was the last memento of her relationship with Vader. Was her time with the Sith really over? Did she have no chance of seeing him again? She'd yet to figure out whether she'd return after the issue of her engagement was settled, but… she wasn't sure she could face him after this. She felt like he at least deserved it, though; they both needed closure. But blast it all, she didn't want closure – they were just finally reaching new levels in their time together, and she'd promised him honesty, and… what a mess.
If that idiot hadn't killed the Jedi this wouldn't have happened, but she shook her head even as she thought that. It wasn't his fault. He'd been brainwashed – this was all Palpatine's fault. Vader just needed some help.
Picking up the final piece and the shoto, she glanced at the location where it needed to go. According to the readout it would activate and work just fine if she fit the last bit in there. She recalled that earlier today (technically yesterday by now) she'd thought of the weapon as a symbol of her transformation, but was there really any transformation that had occurred? She'd always dedicated her life to peace and justice – why was it suddenly so different now? Because she had to choose between Vader and Éothen? Éothen was a sweet and honorable man who cared deeply for his family, who had a passion for life, who held the key to helping the Alliance. Darth Vader was an emotionally repressed man, someone who might or might not ever learn to live like a Human being and get a moral code. He lived by Palpatine's bidding. He brought nothing but trouble, nothing but danger, destruction, and death. But on Naboo he'd been so much more; why couldn't they just be back at Varykino?
Honestly, between the two men there wasn't even a competition. It had nothing to do with Éothen or Vader; it was all about the Alliance and the Empire. Padmé would freely admit now that she was in love with Darth Vader, but she also knew that if she had to choose between him and the Alliance, she'd always choose the Alliance. Always.
Dammit, why couldn't the two just be the same thing?!
If this shoto really represented her loyalty to the Alliance, then it was truly an irony that she had received it from Darth Vader. It made her heart hurt so much she thought she'd just drop dead right there.
Padmé squeezed the hilt and slipped the final piece into place. Holding the weapon reverently, she looked at the activation switch. Vader's lightsaber hadn't been too loud whenever it activated, so she doubted she'd upset any of the neighbors… but would it even work? She'd followed the manual, but she didn't claim to be a mechanic.
Padmé flipped the switch. In a heartbeat the hilt recoiled softly against her as a red blade emitted. It was shorter than Vader's lightsaber, just as he'd said it would be. The hilt grew warmer as she held it longer, but the heat shield she'd installed was doing its job. Padmé marveled at the blade, surprised she'd managed to put it together and proud that she'd succeeded. She'd built this through Vader's guidance. They'd created this blade together.
Deactivating it, Padmé held it close to her as if it were the most precious possession she had. Honestly, it basically was; it was her last reminder of their time together on Naboo, her one physical memento that would always be with her. It was Vader's gift to her.
She placed it in a box and locked it. She had her blaster in case any Imperial showed up, and she wasn't well versed in using a shoto just yet. She briefly wondered if she could tell Obi-Wan and Siri about it. Maybe, but certainly not anytime soon.
Strolling aimlessly back to the living room, she looked out the large windows that led to the balcony. It was too chilly to stand outside, but the rain had at least stopped so she could see a good distance off. The palace shone brightly in the darkness, multiple lights and spotlights around it.
She walked slowly towards the window, mesmerized by the sight of the building. She used to disdain that place so much. For the most part she still did, but now that she looked at it she thought of Vader. Most buildings on Imperial Center were strikingly tall and had curved roofs, and the palace exemplified this – its base structure was a long rectangle with banners waving from the top, but three large circular spires rose a few hundred floors beyond it. The center one was the largest and had the presentation balcony where the emperor would occasionally show up to be seen by the people in the plaza far below. That was no doubt that the throne room was there as well. Many hallways connected the spires, and buttresses were used for both support and decoration.
Padmé couldn't tear her eyes from the palace. What part of the building did he live in? One of the towers? Where was he now? Was he thinking of her as much as she was thinking of him? What would become of them?
The world around her vanished, and though she was looking at the palace, she saw beyond it. She saw her days with Vader on Naboo, she saw her uncertain future… she saw everything. And then she looked away.
The senatorial apartments at 500 Republica stood tall among other skyscrapers in the city skyline. The penthouse suite had many amenities that made it more vulnerable, including its open den and veranda. It was impossible to tell from this distance whether the lights were on in the den, but it made little difference. Padmé would be awake shortly, no matter what she was doing now. She was there, she was in that apartment.
It was all open. Easy for attack. All it would take would be a starfighter. Maybe even just level the entire building. But no. This had to be subtle. He knew that. He'd have to face her. He needed to face her.
Who was Éothen? Why had she gone to him? What had happened in his absence? She'd said they would be completely honest with each other upon his return. Had that changed? Or would she freely admit that she'd betrayed him?
Traitor. Turncoat. Liar. The words had never held significance to him. They only implied that the aforementioned person wasn't an ally, wasn't trustworthy, but it was all subjective. Some would view him as a traitor for killing Imperials, but he always did it under Master's instructions. Everything he did was under Master's instructions.
Master. Padmé. The governor. He knew. He knew they were all pulling him in different directions, tearing him apart. He wasn't a person, but that didn't mean he was an idiot.
The governor was always there for him, always helping him, guiding him, ensuring he survived. The man served his purpose. He would always rely on Tarkin for help. Always. But what was the governor hiding? When he was younger the governor used to question his actions, ask why he would do something or what his opinion was about Master's orders. He was always testing him. What was he testing him for? It couldn't be anything good. The governor was a trustworthy man, an ally. If, by his own words, he had to trust someone to like them, then he liked the governor. But that didn't mean Tarkin wouldn't try something. Nevertheless, he still blindly followed him, he allowed him to lead him forward with his eyes willingly shut. Whenever life overwhelmed him, whenever his duties grew murky and confusing, whenever there was a doubt in his mind, the governor always guided him back to a path. Not necessarily the right path, but at least something that would allow him to get his bearings. Tarkin had never let him down.
Padmé, though… what was she? She wasn't Human; no normal person could do this to him. She used to just be a target. Nothing more. She was his mark. He had to siphon all the information out of her like blood from a vein. But when she started looking at him differently, with that sparkle in her eyes and that warmth that scorched his soul, with that attitude that he wasn't some object, wasn't some enemy, wasn't some threat… he hadn't known what to do. All he'd known was this strange sensation that if she left he'd be empty and cold again. He didn't… that wasn't… it couldn't be healthy. He needed her. She was strong. Resilient. Determined. She would be a perfect ally. What better than to turn an enemy into a friend? That had initially been his plan. Initially.
When had it changed? When had she gone from target to partner to… something more? When had just seeing her brought such overwhelming sensations to him, when had she started to plague his thoughts even after his mission had ended? When had her poisonous words about what he was started to make sense?
He was a means to an end. Nothing more. Nothing more.
He'd tried to tell her. Force, he'd tried so hard. She kept saying stupid words, things that made no logical sense at all. And he kept repelling them, preventing them from reaching him. They couldn't reach him. He wouldn't allow it. His sole purpose was to serve Master. She wouldn't have him think of anything else. He wouldn't. He wouldn't.
Love. It was such a terrible thing. It was a disease – it tore through the body, ripped the mind to shreds, left the user a driveling fool. It destroyed one's spirit. It destroyed everything. Master hated it. He thought it was pathetic, weak. He couldn't feel love. He had no use for it. None. None.
Why did anyone love? Why did anyone feel anything? Why couldn't they all be like him? Why couldn't they just serve Master? The galaxy would be far simpler. He would be too. He felt empty all the time. He felt cold all the time. He felt nothing. He was nothing.
"Why?"
Why did she ask that? No one had ever asked him why he thought what he did, simply what he thought. The governor had never trespassed his privacy of mind. Why did she? Even Master didn't do that – he couldn't. He wouldn't let Master see his weakness.
He shook his head. I have no weakness.
He figured she had a right to know, though. After everything they'd been through… after he'd been so close to viewing her as more special than anything in the universe… but it wasn't enough. She wasn't enough. Only Master was. He was created to serve Master, anyway, not to train her.
Training. Images of their time on Naboo flashed through his memory. He closed his eyes, eliminating the sight of her apartment from his mind, purging his thoughts of the villa, of the games, the laughter, the silliness, the absurdity of her mannerisms and ideas. He wiped her smile from his mind, but that searing warmth that she exuded remained in him. It made his stomach churn. It made the world spin. It made him sick with fever, with tremors, with something that he didn't know how to define anymore.
In the darkest depths of his being he listened to Padmé's every word. He hung onto what she said as if it were his lifeline. In the darkest depths of his being, where even he didn't venture, he believed her. Because he knew… he knew she was right. But he'd lie to himself. He always had. Most days he believed it, most days he forgot about that darkness within him, most days he forgot the threat that it presented. Whenever he walked he could forget it. That's what those walks were for. They always looked peaceful on the outside, but inside he had a massive war between himself and his inner weakness, his inner enemy, like a dragon that was eating him from the inside out. Those moments were just him; nothing external mattered, nothing else existed. They were just him. He'd tried to tell her, but she hadn't understood. She never would. No one would. They didn't need to. He wasn't important enough that they should try to figure him out.
He hadn't walked in days. The poison from that dragon's fangs was seeping into him, she was seeping into him. His sanity was crumbling. He stood as still as a statue, trying to stop the onslaught of whatever it was that he knew he wasn't supposed to feel.
"Why?"
Why? Why what? Why did he think—know he was nothing more than a tool for Master? Because he was, dammit. That's why. He was created to be Master's special weapon, his apprentice, his everything. Whenever Master needed something done, he'd do it.
No one taught him that fact. He'd learned it himself. Why else would he have been raised the way he was? Why else would Master mold him through lightsaber wounds and lightning like a weapon was forged from the flame? Why else would the governor only view him for his usefulness? Why else would he have come from someone whose life was snuffed out as soon as she'd done her job, as soon as he'd been born?
He was a means to an end. When his usefulness ended, he'd join his mother. But he didn't think about that – why would he? It was pointless to muse on such matters. The only thing he had to think about was Master's bidding. It was safer that way. It was better that way. Life made sense that way.
So why was he letting his mind wander like this? He should have done the job long ago; he should be finished by now.
The job. His mission.
Kill Senator Amidala.
Kill Padmé. Kill her. That's all he had to do. He just had to kill her. He'd killed thousands of people, maybe even more than that; he didn't know. He never kept count. This mission was easy. He'd seen her fight, he'd taught her a few tricks.
He'd tried to warn her. Damn it all, he'd tried to warn her – he'd told her, he'd told her. This conclusion was inevitable. It always had been. He'd lied to himself so much on Naboo, he'd told himself everything would work out, that she'd somehow survive. It had almost come true – when the governor had suggested she could be a gift for Master, when she'd said they'd be completely honest with each other, he'd almost been so irrational as to hope that she was right, that they'd somehow still be able to be together, that she'd live through the chaos. But now… she'd made her choice. She chose the Rebel Alliance. She chose.
Éothen would die a painful death someday. He was sure Master wanted the man dead for something; why else would he keep imagining different ways of murdering him? Yes, Éothen would die someday. That disgusting waste of flesh and organs would be a rotting corpse, assuming he was even allowed the dignity of having his body in any sort of recognizable manner by the time he was finished with him. What had he said that had convinced Padmé? What had he done differently? Was it just because he was somehow connected to the Alliance? And he had to be connected to the Alliance – that was the only reason Padmé did anything. She'd even manipulated him for the Alliance. It was no wonder people hated politicians so much – to violate someone as much as she had was something even he wasn't sure he could do… or maybe he needed to do it now; he needed to see her crumbled to pieces like he was.
Kill Padmé. He had to kill her. Master ordered it. It had always been inevitable. But he… he…
You don't want to do it.
His eyes opened with a jolt. 500 Republica immediately came back into focus. That poison from inside him, the dragon he always fought day in and out during his walks had awoken. Well he wouldn't let it win; even if Padmé echoed its words, it didn't matter. She didn't matter. He didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Only Master.
"Why?"
He shook his head violently, turning away from the window. He knew why! Storming to his bed he snatched his lightsaber and then froze. She'd held this weapon. Her scent was still on it, her presence in the Force lazily dripped from it like a perfume. He'd cleaned it rigorously, and he scoffed just thinking about it – he may have wiped away her DNA, but her Force signature was still there. No amount of cleaning would remove that. He didn't know why he'd thought it would – as soon as he'd finished in the prison he'd torn the weapon to shreds. He couldn't stand looking at it knowing that she'd held it. Everything about her destabilized him, everything about her was proof that the dragon could win, that it could somehow get outside of him and infect others. She'd even tried to interfere with his daily fight against it!
He hadn't walked in days.
He shook his head and threw the lightsaber fiercely. It clanged loudly as it slammed into the wall. He couldn't use that. He'd use a blaster; the Rebels would know the true reason for her death, but the rest of the galaxy wouldn't. If he used a blaster, they could pin the blame on the Rebels. It would swing popular opinion towards the Empire. He knew that. He wasn't an idiot. He knew why Master wanted this done.
Utilize your anger.
Anger? What was anger? What was anything? Why did Master want him to use emotions, to allow himself to feel? He couldn't do that. No, no, he couldn't do that. But he couldn't disobey Master. The conflict was tearing him to pieces, and the dragon was just laughing at him. He wanted to scream. Master said he could feel the anger, but he couldn't feel anything. Master didn't know anything!
He closed his eyes, trying to ground himself. He was a means to an end. Nothing more. He shouldn't be having this conflict.
But the entire premise of his mission was to use something that a weapon wouldn't feel!
If he dared… he couldn't, no, no, no, he refused to feel. Couldn't. He couldn't feel.
Stop lying to yourself, the dragon whispered. You feel everything.
He drew his breath in sharply, falling to his knees as the onslaught hit him. His mind was bombarded by different sensations, by that same searing heat, but also by such pain and anguish and he couldn't stand it!
No! he argued, burying his face in his hands as he curled up on the floor, ignoring the pain from his wounds. He felt nothing. In a heartbeat it was all gone again, the more he focused on killing that dragon, the more he kept repeating his daily mantra, the calmer he became. Gasping for air, he rose once more.
Blaster. He needed a blaster.
Walking erratically towards his nightstand, he sifted through a few drawers. None of them held what he needed; he always used his lightsaber, so he'd never owned a blaster. Idiot. Why wouldn't you own one? It's not like Master wouldn't expect you to use one for something.
Sighing, he exited his quarters. Maybe the governor would have one he could borrow.
He glanced at the turbolift but opted for the stairs instead. He didn't have time to do his usual stroll, but he could at least get some energy out while fulfilling this mission.
Mission. This was nothing more than a mission.
He reached Tarkin's quarters. The Force was knotted up here like a rung out cloth. The governor was up to something. It didn't matter. It had nothing to do with his mission. He knocked at the door, but after receiving no response, he hacked the lock and entered without permission. The entrance area was dark, as was the rest of the room. The governor was probably asleep.
He searched the living room first. Using the Force he poked and prodded, feeling out for where the governor spent the most time. Anything that didn't resemble a weapon was immediately glossed over as he sifted through the man's private belongings. Finally he stumbled upon a blaster pistol, but it was specialized; probably some gift. That wouldn't do. He'd need something far more generic for the autopsy – Rebels didn't carry specialized weapons.
Eventually he wandered into the governor's room. The man's cool presence soothed the flaming heat inside of him, and he stopped, taking a deep breath and drinking it in. Then he walked to the man's nightstand. Tarkin was unaware, too deeply asleep to notice the movement in his bedchamber. After searching a few drawers, he finally found a standard issue blaster. He took it and left, examining it as he walked.
A year or two ago he'd gone to the shooting range with multiple long ranged weapons to test their capabilities and how to handle them. He recalled how to hold this blaster and what the recoil would be, as well as the damage it could cause at close range.
The turbolift was inevitable now. Entering it reluctantly, he pressed for one of the floors that held a private hangar. Now there was nothing to do but sit and wait. As the lift sped to its destination, he did his best to ignore the millions of sensations he was receiving from the Force. He wasn't sure if Master ever felt them; Master was always so composed. He'd tried to emulate that, but sometimes, especially during his walks, the Force would drown him like he was in a torrential river. Thinking of his duty to Master always grounded him, but when he didn't have much to do he couldn't focus at all. It's why he always tinkered or sparred in his spare time. Then he'd be prepared for anything, and it would just shut the stupid dragon and the Force up for a little while. Every day was a battle. Every day was a victory. Master had said life was war, anyway. Peace was a lie.
He tentatively prodded the Force to see where Master was. He didn't know why he was doing that; he never did that. He didn't care where Master was unless Master wanted him. Otherwise, it wasn't pertinent. Nothing he was thinking about right now was pertinent. Besides, he didn't need to feel out for Master; he always carried the man's presence in the back of his mind like a security blanket. They had a training bond, after all.
The lift finally reached the desired floor and he walked swiftly, growing more focused as he went. This mission was simple. He'd killed people before. He could do this. He would do this.
He found a suitable speeder that would blend in with the traffic. It didn't bear any palace markings. It would suffice for the job. Clambering in, he froze once he was situated in the driver's seat.
He was going to kill Padmé. He couldn't kill Padmé. He had to kill Padmé. He trembled and his breath came out in gasps. Maybe he could somehow die before he started the engine. Maybe his usefulness was at an end. He couldn't do this mission. He had to do this mission.
He eyed the blaster temptingly. If he couldn't serve Master, he was worthless; nothing worthless deserved to live. He should just shoot himself. The sudden idea took root, and he was filled with energy. Yes, yes, that would handle the matter entirely – it was obvious he was faulty anyway; he'd failed to get adequate information from Padmé, he'd failed to defeat the Jedi unharmed, he'd failed, he'd failed, he was nothing but a failure. Why was it that no matter how hard he tried he could never satisfy Master? That's all he wanted to do – he just wanted to please Master.
He shook his head, blinking in surprise. He didn't have wants or desires. Shut up!
He grabbed the blaster fiercely. He placed it to his temple. He sat there, panting, waiting to just pull the trigger and get it over with. This would be a good thing, this would help Master; it was better to die than to be a constant disappointment.
Padmé will still die.
The blaster fell out of his numb fingers. He couldn't win. He was useless both alive and dead. He couldn't win.
The mission. Just focus on the mission. He had to do the mission.
Starting the engine, he slowly flew the speeder out of the hangar. The rain had begun once more, and it was nearly pouring now. He flew slowly, debating the matter further. He shouldn't be debating. There was no debate.
500 Republica stood defiantly before him the entire flight. It grew bigger as he approached it. The veranda for the penthouse apartment tempted him. Its extended landing pad jutted out in a challenge. Do it. Kill her.
He knew the specs of the apartment, having studied it an hour ago; the veranda had an invisible shield that would fry anything going through it so long as it was activated. He picked up a device he'd pieced together that was designed to short out such defense systems. He could easily just land here. There were no security cameras in the apartment; only in the lift leading to it. It would be better to go this way. Safer. Faster. Activating the device, he saw a brief flash that indicated the energy shield had deteriorated, and he landed the speeder on the pad.
Then he sat there, breathing. Panting. Dying.
The apartment reeked of her. Her life presence passed his defenses like water through a sieve. In the Force people always had different sounds, scents, sensations, feelings to them, and hers had never bothered him until their time on Naboo. It was strong as duracrete, but it smelled of roses, and it sounded like a gentle babbling brook. Most of all, though, it was warm. When she was enraged her presence would surge like a waterfall, when she was sad it would be a muted spring, when she was happy it was radiant, when they were together it was right.
Nothing about this was right.
He felt her. She was coming. She'd heard him land. So she was still awake.
Something felt off. He had a few seconds before she'd arrive, and he quickly gave himself the usual calming mantra and choked down any distractions. Then he reached out into the Force, filling the apartment with his consciousness. She was the only person there, but there were echoes of other people. Some were seeped into the building like they were part of it: imprints, left behind by those who spent innumerable hours there. There were two: one, steady and strong like a rock, clearer than even Padmé's, filled with sureness and light; the other, fiery, loud, sturdy, and searing hot. A handful of other signatures registered in his mind, but he didn't have time to study them before Padmé finally appeared in the veranda entrance.
His breath caught.
She was wearing burgundy trousers, brown boots, and a light brown undershirt with a black collar that was noticeable under a navy blue vest. It was a Naboo pilot's outfit, he realized. She was planning on leaving. She was leaving.
She looked at the speeder confusedly and with some concern. Her hand slowly slipped to her side where a holster was strapped to her leg. It was best to avoid a firefight, so he exited the speeder.
As soon as she saw him her mouth slipped open slightly and her eyes widened. Through the Force his mind was pounded by different sensations that he couldn't identify, and they were making him dizzy and making concentration ridiculously difficult.
"Lord Vader?" she whispered. The hand that had been reaching for a blaster was now relaxed. She gazed at him in astonishment.
His knees went weak. Her voice made his heartrate rise. She seemed to glow amidst the darkness. He shook his head. That was silly. This was all ridiculous. He had to focus. He had a job to do. But the more he looked at her, the less he felt like he could do it.
She was still staring at him. Her brown eyes, the same eyes that haunted him, were looking him over from head to toe. He straightened his knees and took a step towards her, but the veranda shifted as if the entire building were swaying. He stopped and closed his eyes, trying to steady his vitals. He had a job to do. He had a job to do. He had a job to do.
"What… what are you doing here?" she asked, her voice still barely audible.
She was scared. He could see it in her eyes. He could sense it. He wasn't the best at identifying emotions, but he'd been sure to expose himself to so many people and scenarios when he was younger that he would know what they felt like in the Force. After all, he himself couldn't feel them.
Why was she scared? Was it because of his presence? Was it because she knew the inevitable had finally arrived? Was it because she didn't want to face him?
Just looking at her made his insides squirm. He broke out into a cold sweat, and in an instant he realized he should have already finished the job by now. His window of opportunity was fading fast; she'd grow suspicious after a while. She may even reach for her blaster. After all, she was an enemy; why wouldn't she attack him?
"Milord?" she prompted.
What did she want him to say? What should he say? That he was there to kill her? That probably wouldn't end well. He shouldn't speak at all – he should just finish her off now.
The blaster was in the speeder. He almost whirled around to grab it—he couldn't believe he'd left it in there—but he stopped himself; she would definitely panic if he did that. Again, he didn't want a firefight. This had to be quick and clean. Just a quick and clean kill. Padmé. He just had to kill Padmé. A quick shot to the head would do it. Or the chest. Any of the vital areas. He couldn't shoot her gut—he was living proof that someone could survive an abdominal wound. It had to be her head or chest.
She was still waiting for him to speak. He shouldn't speak. She always won when it came to words. Tonight he had to win. He shouldn't speak. He shouldn't.
"Padmé."
Shavit!
She smiled and leaned against the entranceway, and he knew he'd lost. Her smile was small, broken, and sad. She looked like how he felt. No—he didn't feel anything. Blast it, he knew he shouldn't have opened his kriffing mouth. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. No, no, not those again. He didn't know what to do with those.
It didn't matter; he wasn't here to console her or do whatever it was people did to make other people feel better. He was here to kill her.
"It's… it's so good to see you," she choked out. "Gods, it's good to see you."
No, no, please, no, Force no, don't cry, don't be happy to see me.
"Did you just get back?"
Get back? Get back from what? The Jedi. He'd told her was going on a mission, but he hadn't told her what since he didn't trust her. Good move; Force only knows what she would have done if he'd been honest.
He shook his head. No, he didn't just get back. He'd been dealing with his injuries from his own idiocy. He'd been dealing with the shame of leaning on Master for help when he was supposed to be the strong one that Master could always depend upon. He'd been receiving orders to kill her.
His target was right in front of him. If he wasn't going to use a blaster then he should use something else. Focus. There were plenty of vital spots. He could just use the Force to choke her. No, that wouldn't do; internal strangulation would obviously point to him unless he somehow blamed a Jedi since they were popping up out of nowhere.
He felt sick.
"Milord?"
There was that tone, that tone that always baffled him. She used it when she started acting soft and concerned and strange. She used it when she pretended to care about him. He probably looked a little woozy—Force knew he felt like crap.
He shook his head again. He couldn't feel anything.
She took a hesitant step towards him. No, that only made it worse—stay back. He stepped away from her, but he bumped into one of the pillars. He suddenly felt trapped. She took another step towards him.
"I'm…" she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm happy to see you, but this is really unexpected. It's almost three in the morning. What are you doing here?"
Tell her.
He nearly gasped. What?! No, he wouldn't tell her! He slammed down his mental shields so hard half the galaxy probably could have felt it. He shoved the voice out of his mind, he would kill that dragon, he would—she represented it. She was that dragon, she was the poison that was tearing him apart.
"I…" he didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he could even say anything. He wasn't supposed to be saying anything. Why had he opened his mouth in the first place?!
She walked closer to him. No, no, get away. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"
He started breathing erratically. He couldn't think straight. He couldn't see straight. He couldn't do this. He couldn't.
"Why?" he suddenly asked, and he didn't know why he'd said it. No, shut up, finish the mission.
Padmé blinked, confused. "Why what?"
He almost laughed. Now she knew how he felt. Then he almost screamed. He couldn't feel anything. You feel nothing, shavit, stop thinking otherwise!
"You promised honesty." Blast it all, couldn't he just shut his mouth? But no, he couldn't—this was tearing out of him like an activated blade form its hilt. He couldn't stop the words, and everything suddenly hurt so much he almost blacked out. "You said we'd be completely honest with each other when I got back."
Padmé paused. The pain intensified, but something else roared inside of him as well, and he felt his eyes harden. He took a step towards her, eating up her fear. "So why did you choose the Alliance?"
She was still as a statue for a moment, her eyes showing fear, but then she looked desperate and upset and hurt and he couldn't keep glaring at her. She shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears once more. "Vader, I… I can't live with the Empire the way it is. Why can't you see that what's happening in the galaxy is wrong? Why can't you see that I… I want to be with you, but I can't… I can't obey Palpatine. I can't. He's wrong. He's sick, cruel, evil… he's a dictator and I… Vader, I can't be an Imperial!"
See? She was the enemy. Traitor. Mark. Prey. He had to kill her. This only confirmed it. He had to do his job. Master told him to do it. He had to obey Master. So why wasn't he doing something?!
"But… that doesn't mean I don't want to be with you," she managed to say with a quivering voice. "I love you."
His heart stopped. What? He… he didn't hear that correctly, right? She… she loved him?
She'd lied about that once. She'd suggested on Naboo that she'd loved him. He'd spat in her face for it; it was a weakness. He'd believed her deception, and she'd quickly turned the tables on him. So this was a lie too, right? But no, he could sense her sincerity, and suddenly he didn't have the same reaction he'd had all those weeks ago.
No, no, no, no—he felt it, he felt his defenses crumbling, he felt the dragon roaring and tearing through his mind, his heart, his soul. He couldn't stop the pain, he couldn't stop anything. He leaned against the pillar, winded, and nearly slid down to the floor. Why was she telling him this now when he had to kill her and—and—no, he couldn't do this, he couldn't!
Padmé noticed his distress and rushed over to him. He pressed himself further into the pillar to avoid her touch, to make sure she didn't tear down that last defense, but she placed her hands on his arms and he fell apart. He nearly collapsed on her as he was overwhelmed by so many different sensations that he knew he wasn't supposed to have, so many sensations that he didn't even recognize.
She slipped to the ground with him, pulling him into a hug. She squeezed him so tightly he could barely breathe, but it… it felt so good, and he knew he wasn't supposed to feel anything, and he wanted to scream so much. He tensed every muscle in his body, he tried to fight whatever was bursting from within him, and he kept repeating in his mind that he was a means to an end, that he couldn't feel anything, but every time he did he kept hearing her words in his mind.
"I'm sorry," she whispered as she held him. "I'm so, so sorry, Vader. I love you. I love you so much. But I can't be an Imperial. I can't."
He closed his eyes. He couldn't breathe. Everything was tingling and hurting and tearing him to pieces. He pushed her away, gasping. She was denying everything that he was. She was saying she couldn't obey Master. His entire existence revolved around obeying Master.
But she loved him. What was he supposed to say to that? What was he supposed to do?
Be honest in return.
Her touch, her look, her scent, her presence… it unlocked him. It broke free the dams, it released the dragon, it let all his secrets spill forth. He couldn't deny it. He couldn't stop it. He felt everything. He felt it. He pulled her towards him and kissed her. The first time they'd done so he hadn't known what to do, how to stop her, why he was reacting to it in such a manner. But now he understood. Now he acknowledged it. Now he reveled in it. She was startled at first, but then he felt her drink him in, and he did so in return. He wanted to stay like this forever, but some urgent need to speak made him pull away long enough for them to just breathe but still be close enough to touch.
Be honest with her.
"I love you too," he panted, and as he looked at her face, her beautiful face, he almost fell apart. In that moment, he captured her appearance so he could forever hold it in his mind. This was destabilizing. This was insane. This was amazing. This was hell.
This was wrong.
His hand slipped down along her side until it reached her thigh. She moved towards him in response, desire in her eyes, but he was reaching for something else. He'd be honest with her. He'd tell her something he'd never told anyone. He'd reveal his weakness. It was his reason for living. It was his reason for being what he was. It was everything.
"I love you," he repeated. She had to hear those words. She had to know he said them. But then he added the weakness that defined him, the weakness that he would never admit to anyone, the weakness that drove him to continue. "But I loved him first."
His fingers tightened around her blaster, and he pulled the trigger.
A loud sound emitted, breaking the moment, and Padmé recoiled from the hit, gasping. She stared at him in horror and shock, and then her gaze lowered to her abdomen. It was bleeding already, but most of the blood had been cauterized. Smoke emitted from the wound. He smelled it, and he couldn't stand it. He stood as she crumpled to the ground, coughing. The red life giving liquid escaped her lips.
He took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. He had to focus. The mission was over. It was all over.
He felt sick.
Slowly walking away from her, he kept his eyes on his speeder. He refused to look back. He'd told her. He felt like he'd released the disease. But at the same time this was a victory, right? The dragon had poisoned her. He simply kept it in check as usual. But it felt different. He felt changed. He'd never… he'd never be the same again.
He didn't know which was worse—that he'd told her or that he'd shot her. She wouldn't understand what he'd said. She wouldn't. He felt all the emptier for it. She deserved to know. It was the least he could do. But he'd already told her enough. He'd told her everything she'd needed to know. He'd said he loved her. So long as she died knowing that… it was fine.
Nothing was fine.
But it was true. He did love him first. He would always love Master. After all, he was his father.
Love. Such a disease, such a weakness, such a beauty, such a curse. He didn't want to feel love. So he told himself over and over he was Master's tool, he was his means to an end, and as he flew back to the palace, he slipped back into his carefully organized lie and convinced himself that he was nothing. The dragon recoiled within him and fell asleep, and he was Darth Vader again. Whatever else he was remained with Padmé, slowly dying on that veranda.
"Today we mourn the loss of one of the brightest jewels in the galaxy."
A long procession of darkly clad people followed an open coffin. The streets of Theed were packed with mourners.
"Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo is being laid rest today after being brutally murdered by Rebel dissidents."
Flanking the coffin were the deceased's two handmaidens. They wore black robes with large hoods hiding their faces. One trembled with tears. The other trembled with rage.
"Her body was found by one of her faithful handmaidens in the early morning hours of last Natunda."
Immediately behind the coffin was the deceased's family. Her father, Ruwee, walked somberly, his eyes downcast. His face was lined and he looked like he'd aged a decade over the past few days. Jobal, the deceased's mother, walked beside him, silently crying and dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Behind the parents were their remaining younglings, Sola and Obi-Wan. Sola walked with her husband and held her little daughter, Ryoo, by the hand. Her other hand was tightly squeezing her husband's as she bit her lip to prevent the sobs from escaping. Obi-Wan looked stoic, strong, and empty all at once. His eyes were fixed upon his sister's body. Distinguished guests walked behind the family: the current Queen of Naboo, many nobles, and even the senator from the Tsograda Sector was there along with a few of his attendants, including a Togruta male.
"She will be remembered as the young, beautiful, and intelligent senator who was loved by so many."
As was tradition on Naboo, her body was cremated. The ceremony took place in the Funeral Temple on the edge of the city. Her ashes were tossed into the river that flowed under the bridge connecting the Funeral Temple to the Livet Tower. One by one, the mourners left the bridge. First the nobles, then the queen, then the Tsograda delegates except for one, and then her sister and parents. Only a Togruta, a Human, a handmaiden, and the deceased's brother remained. They said nothing. They simply watched the water continue to fall over the cliff side. Eventually, the Togruta closed his eyes, sighed heavily, bowed to the fallen, and departed. The Human eyed the two remaining mourners, but he too left after closing his eyes and releasing the loss. But the brother and the handmaiden remained. They didn't speak. They didn't move. They didn't cry, or show any emotion. They simply held each other's hand and watched, their hearts nothing more than a pile of ash.
He stood quietly as the aides attended to him, tying a sash, adjusting part of his cloak, placing the circlet on his head, or brushing dust off his shoulder. His face was neutral, as it almost always was when he wasn't on political assignment. Shadows covered his eyes, making them glow brightly with an intensity that could pierce into someone's soul, and yet these same eyes wouldn't care what they saw either way. He held himself erect, with as much dignity as his station required, but while it seemed like nothing more than the most casual gesture to him, as if he always held himself in such a manner, something about it seemed false.
Of course it was false. But today he didn't look like the strong, stoic, and resilient Shmi Skywalker as she was being prepared for her last audience with the emperor. Today, Tarkin didn't know what Darth Vader looked like.
He hadn't seen the man since Palpatine had tasked him with finishing Amidala off, and that had been almost a week ago. Vader had vanished, and though Tarkin had been concerned, the emperor didn't seem to care. But now that today was the day of the funeral, and it was playing all over HoloNet, the emperor requested an audience.
Once the aides finished he looked himself over in the mirror for exactly two minutes as he always did. Then he turned and headed for the door. Tarkin walked two steps behind him as protocol dictated.
They were silent as they headed to the throne room. Officers saluted and servants bowed as he passed them, but he paid them no mind. Once they reached the throne room, the Red Guard immediately let them inside and announced their presence to the emperor.
"Darth Vader and Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin, sire."
Vader stopped where he was supposed to, and Tarkin did so as well. The grand moff genuflected, awaiting his orders.
Silence filled the room.
Slightly confused, Tarkin glanced up to see why the emperor was suddenly mute. Instead, he saw Darth Vader still standing. The man was supposed to be on one knee. What was he doing? Tarkin looked at the emperor. Palpatine didn't seem surprised or angry. Instead, he looked… intrigued. He didn't move. Nobody moved.
This was certainly a new development. Tarkin pondered whether the man would kneel at all. Eventually the stillness lasted for too long, and the faceoff between Vader and the emperor intensified to the point where even Tarkin could sense the tension. Palpatine shifted forward in the throne and narrowed his eyes slightly, and slowly, Vader descended onto his knees. A second later, he bowed his head silently.
Tarkin wasn't sure what he'd just witnessed, but he knew it held deep significance to the other two occupants in the room. He shuddered and looked down. Everything was different now since that fateful night. Now wasn't the time to think about it, though; now he had to focus on what the emperor wanted. He knew Vader would focus on that as well. It's what the boy always did.
He lived to serve his master.
"Love is a prison. It leaves you with everything… and nothing. And it always takes pieces of you away from yourself… until there's nothing left of you. Nothing."
End Part 1
To quote Bugs Bunny, "Well what did you expect from an opera, a happy ending?"
Okay, okay, before you kill me, let's just get something out in the open: I am a massive sucker for happy endings. So don't expect part 2 to end quite in the same manner. Also, be sure to read the story very carefully - I dropped a few hints in this chapter that ought to cheer you up if you can find them. ;)
I want to thank you all so very much for your reviews. Really, they mean the world to me; I always get so happy when I see them. I'm sorry I couldn't reply to anonymous reviews, but know that you guys are awesome and I appreciate the feedback! Speaking of feedback, let me know what you thought of this chapter and the entire story! (part 1, at least) What do you think worked, what needed improvement, favorite character, whether they seemed realistic, etc. What did you think of finally getting Vader's POV? Also, what did you think of the Vadmé relationship? I'm not that good at romance, so I'm not sure. Let me know! :)
Fun fact time!
1. This was originally going to be the ending to the story. A while ago, someone asked how long the story would be, and I'd said about 30 chapters. I was intending on ending it here and writing the rest as a sequel, but I felt like it left too many plots unresolved, so I opted to make it two parts of the same story instead.
2. This story's plot was initially ridiculously different. So the backstory to all of this craziness is that about seven or eight years ago I asked some faithful reviewers what they'd like to see as a oneshot. One reviewer, ilovenat1995 (shout out to you if you're still on this site!), asked for a romance between Vader and Padmé. For the life of me I didn't know what to write; I wasn't good at romance (still not sure I've gotten much better lol) and I had very little interest in it, so the request just sat around in a word document. Then, in 2012, I read a story called Shadow of a Name by Yesac (amazing story, by the way, even though it's sadly incomplete - you should totally check it out) and I loved the idea that Vader was actually part of the royal Imperial family, and then the next thing I knew, Naboo Rose finally got a plot! It wasn't this one, though; originally Padmé, Obi, and Siri were attacked by rogue Jedi who wanted to attract the Empire's attention by taking Imperial hostages, and Vader was sent to rescue them. They all ended up stranded and romance happened. Obi and Siri weren't married, so then I had to worry about getting them together, and -GASP- Vader had a POV from the onset of the story! It got tedious and I didn't like it, so then it sat around for another few years until this story finally popped into my head! It's amazing how roundabout a story's origins can be, lol.
3. Another author shout out here: in ch. 12 Padmé talks about her favorite pastry store, which is owned by a woman named Nilbau. The lady and her pastry store is based off of a character in ruth baulding's Out of the Blue, a oneshot featuring Anakin and Obi-Wan (because obviously I can't get enough of those two). It's a wonderful story, so do check it out!
There are so many other fun facts, but I'll save them for another time lest the author's notes becomes longer than the actual chapter. Be sure to check on the "NOTES" section on my profile and a poll that I posted for info about this story and others. Please review and let me know what you think of the story!
Thank you all so much for your feedback! :)