A/N: This vignette was written in response to a challenge on another site. The challenge stipulated that the story be no more than 2,500 words, and must be in response to a dare issued by someone else. My dare was to combine a Broadway musical with Star Wars in a crossover. I chose The Phantom of the Opera, but I warn you, these two stories are linked more thematically than literally in this vignette. Anyway, it was fun to write. :)
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The Darkest of Shadows
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She stands at the far end of the veranda, dark hair loose on her bare shoulders, the train of her cream-colored gown splayed across the stone. Sundown is only moments away, and she waits for her benefactor to arrive.
This is the first time she will see him. He promised it would be tonight, although he has said that before and not kept his word. He doesn't do it on purpose; she has the feeling that he is a little afraid of her. Even in her head, the thought sounds ridiculous, but she can feel the truth of it.
"You think it really is him?" Those words, part of a whispered conversation with her sister, return to her. And why not? Was there anyone else in the galaxy who could truly protect her from the Emperor? Was there another of his minions who could allow her to remain so conspicuously on her beloved homeworld? It is possible she is wrong, but she doubts it. She is not often wrong.
"But why him? Why should he risk himself for you?"
She shakes her head, remembering the hint of revulsion in her sister's eyes when she simply shrugged and asked what was so wrong with her appearance that the Dark Lord of the Sith wouldn't want to protect her.
Instead of chastising her younger sister for her high opinion of herself, Sola grew quite pale and looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was around.
"He's a monster, Padmé. He's murdered children."
And that is the one thing that makes her wish it weren't him. Strange, that it should be this sin and this sin alone that rests heavily on her heart. Why shouldn't she reject him over his countless other atrocities?
"Don't try to save him, Padmé. If it really is him, that is. Don't entertain that notion for even a second."
It's a wise warning; Sola knows her too well. She has always been optimistic, always tried to see the good in others, even when they couldn't see it themselves. As she waits for her benefactor, she feels the urge, the desire to sway him to her side.
There is a rustle of cloth behind her, then the soft echo of boots treading lightly across the stone. She doesn't turn around; instead, she focuses even more intently on the final sliver of red-orange sun still lingering above the horizon. For several long moments, they stand in a silence filled only by the sound of his raspy breathing.
"You came," she says at last. The sun is gone, leaving a faint glow in the darkening sky.
"I promised you I would," he answers, his voice low and gravelly. The damage done to his vocal chords is even more pronounced in person. She had always thought it was an effect of the holotransceiver, making him sound thus, but apparently the rumors are true. She wonders what other injuries he harbors.
Padmé glances over her shoulder. He is standing a few meters away, in the darkest shadows of the veranda. Several candles have been lit inside, but their light fails to reach him. It is only his silhouette she sees.
"Will you finally explain to me why you've done all this?" She turns fully toward him and gestures at the grand estate behind them.
"Does it not please you?" He is trying to keep his tone level, but she can sense the earnestness in his voice. "This used to be your home."
"I am no longer a senator. It is not my right."
"It is whatever I say it is. And I say it is yours." She shivers at the edge of malice in his tone. She knows it isn't aimed at her; it's aimed at anyone who might think to challenge her good fortune. But that does not stop her from being frightened by it. He is the only reason she is still alive. He never lets her forget that fact.
Despite her fear, she takes a step toward him. Proving her theory about his own fear, he takes a step away from her. "I thought I would be allowed to see your face," she says, frowning.
There is a long pause, and Padmé feels an acute sensation of turmoil, so strong she is amazed it doesn't knock her over. She didn't know the Sith could project his emotions like that. She had never experienced anything like it in the company of Jedi. For a fleeting moment, she feels sorry for him.
As if sensing her thoughts, her benefactor moves swiftly in her direction. "Do not mistake my hesitancy for weakness, lady. I am not to be trifled with."
He is very close to her, but somehow still obscured by darkness. "It is you who are mistaken, my lord. It is clear to me now that you are a good deal more powerful than I first thought." She paused, stepping forward slowly, tilting her head so that she might catch even a glimpse… "Are you not the Lord Darth Vader, second only to the Emperor?"
The air seems to have taken on a sudden chill. "I am," he murmurs. He sounds much younger than before. She wonders for the first time at his age.
"Why me?" she asks. "Where is the value in protecting one of your master's enemies?" She has been moving closer to him, and now she can make out the pale outline of a chin beneath his voluminous black hood.
"You question my mercy when you should be thanking me."
A thought occurs to her that sends a horrified tremor through her body. "Is that why you're here? To receive my… my thanks?" Can it really be as base as that? Rumor has it he was once a man, but still…
The denial she hopes to hear does not come, and her stomach twists in response to his silence. That he would even think… she, a former queen and senator… it was preposterous, outrageous, unthinkable. She will not do it, cannot even begin to imagine it.
He steps within arm's reach. She can see his eyes now, flame-colored circles that blaze from a well of shadow. She saw eyes like that once, a long time ago…
"No," she whispers, and starts to back away. He reaches out and takes her by the shoulders. His dark gloves are smooth against her bare skin – damn this dress! – and he pulls her closer.
"You refuse me? I haven't even asked for anything yet." There is amusement in his voice, and it occurs to Padmé that she may have underestimated this Dark Lord. "I think it strange that you should deny me anything when I have given you so much."
"You won't do it," she says, as if telling him so will convince him not to take what he wants from her. As if she still has the power to command.
"No?" He removes his left hand and raises it toward his hood. She sees two rows of white teeth flash for a moment as he bites one fingertip of his glove and pulls it off. He tosses the glove aside, revealing a pale hand with long, sturdy fingers. That part of him, at least, looks human. She tries not to flinch as he brings the hand close to her face.
"What good is it if I'm not willing?" she asks quietly, forcing herself to look directly into his eyes. As she does so, she finally gets a good look at the left side of his face. It, too, appears completely human. And so young.
He hesitates, his hand centimeters from her cheek. She can see from his expression that he hadn't really expected her to deny him, that he is surprised by this turn of events. There are several emotions evident in the visible half of his face: uncertainty and embarrassment and anger, mostly. He snatches both hands away and turns roughly on his heel. Before she can react, he has stormed off into the darkness.
Padmé lets out the breath she has been holding and leans against the rail for support. It's only now that she realizes her body is trembling. Adrenaline, she tells herself. A natural reaction to being in an intense and frightening situation. Certainly not weakness.
She rubs her arms to ward of the cold night air and takes one last look around before leaving the veranda. Instead of taking her usual warm drink and sitting in front of the fire, Padmé retires almost immediately to her bedroom.
She rarely sleeps peacefully these days, what with the precariousness of her situation always looming over her, but tonight she cannot even get herself to lie down. She sits upright in bed, her sheets pooled around her, the only light in her room coming from the full moon. Somehow she knows he will come back. She is also aware that she has made things even easier for him, sitting in bed in her nightgown. Maybe it's that optimistic part of her that convinces her he won't try anything.
That's right, Padmé, trust the murderer of children not to take you right here in your own bed. The cynical voice in her head sounds oddly like Sola. She pushes it aside and tries to think of something else while she waits. She lets her mind wander back to another time, a time when she fought to free her world, a time when she was in control of her own fate. She thinks she might give almost anything to have that feeling back.
The doors to her private balcony swing open on their old-fashioned hinges. A cool breeze whispers across her skin. She is absolutely motionless as he jumps down from the rail and steps into her bedroom, his black cloak floating away from him like outstretched wings. He walks around the side of her bed and stands there silently; she knows he is staring right into her eyes, even though she cannot see his. He has returned to being a silhouette, faceless but no less terrifying.
He sits on the edge of her bed, his left hand – still ungloved – resting within reach of hers.
"Don't try to save him, Padmé."
She knows she can't. Darth Vader's sins are too many and too great.
He raises both hands and for the first time lowers his hood. He is sitting so that only the left side of his face is visible to her, the side she has already seen. But now she also sees dark hair that stops just above his shoulders; it is wavy, and it curls slightly around his ear and at his neck and temple. She was correct in her assessment of his age. He can't be any older than her and is most likely several years younger.
How does someone so young become so evil?
As she continues to take in his features – they are handsome, though wasted on him – she feels an odd buzz in the back of her mind. It's recognition of a sort. She has seen him, or someone like him, before. Possibly even before the rise of the Empire.
Vader nods in the direction of Padmé's nightstand. "Do you wear that often?" he asks quietly.
Padmé looks at the nightstand and sees a necklace laying there, a carved wooden pendant on a long silver chain. Her throat tightens. What she wouldn't give to be back on that starship with her Jedi guardians and that little boy…
"I used to," she answers, and wonders how it came to be resting on the nightstand.
He raises his gloved right hand, and Padmé watches in silent awe as the necklace floats through the air into Vader's grasp. He bends his head to examine it, running the fingers of his left hand over the engravings. After a moment he offers it to her. "It will bring you good fortune," he says softly.
Padmé stares at the japor snippet in his hand for several long seconds before raising her eyes to meet his. The flame-edged irises have faded away, leaving behind a clear blue. And then, despite everything she knows about him, despite everything he has done to the galaxy, she feels her heart ache for what he once was.
"Anakin?"
He recoils for a moment, as if stung. He narrows his eyes and quickly shakes his head. "No," he says with force.
But Padmé is already reaching for the japor snippet and the hand clutching it, tears filling her eyes. "Ani," she whispers. She feels him jolt as her hand touches his. "What happened to you? I thought you went back to your mother on Tatooine?"
He starts to pull his hand away from her, but she grabs onto it with her other hand. She is no longer afraid of what he might do to her; this is Anakin, her Anakin, whose heart was always as big and as bright as the twin suns of his homeworld.
"He came for me," is all the answer he gives. He tries to look away from her, but Padmé grabs him by the chin and turns his head so that she can look him full in the face. She withholds a surprised yelp.
Most of the right side of his face is covered in burns that have left his skin waxy and wet-looking. His eyebrow is gone, and there is a deep scar running from the top of his scalp to his cheek bone. Most of his hair on that side is singed off; what little remains is wispy and so unlike his natural hair that it is hard to believe they occupy the same head.
"Oh, Anakin," she murmurs through the tears, resting the palm of her hand on his scarred face. He closes both eyes and leans into her touch. "I'm so sorry," she says, raising the other hand to stroke his hair.
"Now do you understand why I've protected you?" he asks, his voice choked.
She nods fervently and doesn't even protest when he pulls her into his arms.
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Padmé holds onto Anakin through the night, letting him weep until he is dry. Just before dawn, he wakes from where he fell asleep, with his head in her lap.
"Padmé," he whispers. It's the first time he's actually said her name. "Come with me."
She has always loved Anakin dearly, but that is one thing she cannot do. She cannot become Darth Vader's mistress, nor even his companion. She cannot forget what he has done.
"No, Ani." She is as gentle as she knows how to be. "I must stay here."
He doesn't ask why. He doesn't try to argue. He merely nods and pulls the hood of his cloak over his head, his disfigurement once again hidden.
"I love you, Padmé. I always have."
And then he is gone.
She clutches the japor necklace tight in her fist.
In another world, another lifetime, perhaps, she might have followed him anywhere. But not here.
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Fin