Chapter 8
"Though my soul may set in darkness,
It will rise in perfect light,
I have loved the stars too fondly,
to be fearful of the night."
Sarah Williams
I awaken slowly, fighting my way to the surface of consciousness. The first thing I notice is the blinding white light.
Am I dead?
Instinctively, I open my eyes and reality descends on me harshly once again. My eyes immediately slam shut to fight against the harsh white glare of the room. Even closed, my eyes want to look away from the painful brightness all around me. The disjointed floating sensation I had enjoyed moments before is gone, and I am once again trapped in my all-to-human body.
My eyes burn and water, the bright light piercing the fragile barrier of my eyelids. I have been too long in darkness and now the lights around me are a brutal attack on my fragile senses.
My thoughts are jumbled, my mind feeling like it has been wrapped in cotton, surrounded in a foggy barrier that holds reality just outside its grasp. I don't like it.
I need to focus on something. Anything.
I suppose the obvious would be that I am alive. I did not die in that miserable pit. Which means someone rescued me. Most likely a trooper or officer from, . . . Well, wherever this is.
The next logical thought would be that I am in the medical bay of, again, wherever this is. What good these deductions offer me, I do not know, but it helps to have something to focus on-something other than what really bothers me.
I cannot describe how surreal this all is. I had not expected to survive. I accepted the fact that I was going to die, prepared for it, and finally, welcomed it. Then, I woke up here, a strange place filled with blinding light.
It is all too much for me to absorb. I don't really know how to deal with it so, I don't.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't allow myself to do this. I would take all of the painful, confusing feelings and drag them, kicking and screaming, out into the light. But then again, these are not normal circumstances, and if I allow myself to think too long on things I cannot change, I will go mad.
I can hear various machines around me but nothing to indicate a human presence. Soft beeping noises, whirring, and an oddly comforting mechanical whoosh of air, kind of like a mechanical heartbeat. In and out, in and out. It feels like I am in the belly of some great beast, and the mechanical breathing of the machine surrounds me. The soothing sound lulls me into a sort of daze, and I am once again floating, happily separated from my aching body.
Here I merely exist- a mindless sort freedom. The weights and chains that bind me in my conscious hours are gone. Memories and fears fall away, one by one. Like a boat that has come untethered, I am floating, free in the confines of my mind.
A choked mechanical sound snaps me painfully back to reality.
The sound that nearly stops my heart.
"Padme..." The rough machine voice chokes out, sounding oddly strangled. Instinctively, my eyes snap open, trying to see this creature that has pulled me from the abyss.
All I can see is the bright light and, dimly, a dark shadow hanging over me. I cannot help it; I cry out as the sharp pain of the light pierces my eyes like sharp needles. I close my eyes once more and turn my face away from the light, into the cool dark shadow. I can feel its presence, knowing I should be afraid, and yet oddly comforted by this dark apparition.
The shadow stays still for a long moment, before moving quickly away from me. I feel oddly bereft, abandoned in the harsh white light.
I can hear the shadow, heavy footsteps thudding on the floor. Footsteps? So my shadow is a man, a machine man. A door whooshes open and I can once again hear its dark voice, this time harsh and violent as he berates someone in the next room. I cannot hear exactly what is said; I only catch words when the voice rages in anger.
"Light... Pain... should have known!"
The voice lowers menacingly and shivers crawl down my spine like Vine Tinglers.
Suddenly, the harsh brightness is gone, and the painful pressure on my eyes is eased. Lying still for a moment, I savor the cool comfort of the dark, before cautiously opening my eyes again.
Most of the light is gone. The only illumination in the room is the dim emergency lights that run around the base of the walls, and the small blinking lights that flash on the monitors on my biobed. If I look too closely at any of the lights my eyes still hurt slightly, but for the most part this dim darkness is a soothing comfort.
I take a deep breath, relishing the feel of the clean, dry air, air that is not laden with moisture, and does not smell of mildew and dank stone. The pain in my body is barely noticeable when I lay perfectly still.
For the first time in years, I actually feel comfortable. The bed I'm laying on is soft, the blankets that surround me, warm and thick. I do not feel hungry, or cold, and my body feels deliciously clean.
Carefully, I run my fingers over my hair. Someone has washed and braided it. It occurs to me then, that I am not in a prison med bay. A low thrum of fear settles in my belly, sending small shocks through my body.
There is only one person I know of who would take such of care of me. Only one person who has ever made me feel that odd mixture of safety and excitement. Really, only one person who would have cared to rescue me- the only one who could.
My thoughts are broken as the door once again slides open, and I know my thoughts have summoned him like the proverbial devil. This time, my eyes see him, see the large, dark figure looming in the doorway.
My heart trips in my chest as he steps further into the room. An unexpected rush of joy fills me, and for a moment it as if nothing has changed. I think, if I had been able, I would have rushed into his arms in that moment. But as the dim lighting cast shadows over his lifeless mask, my heart is reminded brutally that this is not Anakin.
This is the man who destroyed him. He's encased in the dark suit that is the shell of Vader, his face obscured by that loathsome mask. He looks nothing like the man that was once my husband. This both causes me comfort and pain.
He stands at the foot of my bed, a silent specter, hovering over me. His head is slightly bowed, the arrogance and confidence I had expected noticeably absent. He is completely still, and I know he is waiting for me to speak. Even hidden in the shell that surrounds him, I know my husband.
He is afraid.
Of what, I wonder? I feel some bemusement as I realize that he does not realize that I know it is him under that mask. The amusement fades as it occurs to me that perhaps it is not. I fear that Anakin died long ago, and all that is left is Vader.
Still I cannot help the rush of foolish hope that fills my chest as my traitorous lips whisper his name.
"Anakin . . . "
My voice is harsh and raspy to my own ears. It should be, I suppose. I have not spoken to another living being in far longer than I can remember.
The dark head snaps up, and I can feel his astonishment radiating off of him in waves. A long moment passes before his dark voice once again breaks the silence.
"I..." he catches himself quickly before continuing, his voice almost unsure. "That name no longer has any meaning for me. The man you once knew no longer exists."
His words hit me like a blast of ice water, viciously squashing the small flicker of hope that had risen inside of me. It hurts. Even delivered in a voice that is not quite sure of itself, it hurts. It feels as though someone gripped the knife that was long ago buried in my heart and gave it a vicious twist, exposing wounds I had thought long healed. They are not. They are infected, weeping sores in my spirit.
"I see," I murmur lamely, unable to think of a suitable response to that. "Then I was mistaken. I thought you were my husband."
"I am your husband. That fact has not changed."
"Hasn't it? Anakin was my husband, and if you say that he no longer exists, that he is not you, than you cannot be my husband."
"You are my wife. Do not test me in this matter."
He turns away from me, and I can sense his agitation. It shocks me as I realize that it is through our bond, something I thought lost long ago. 'It's still there', I marvel, I can see it in my mind, a thin golden thread, tenuous and fragile...but there, still. Does this mean that Anakin is not as dead as I fear? Or is it simply that my bond is now to the monster he has become?
He turns to me once again and does what I expected him to do, what he has always done when faced with something he does not want to deal with. He changes the subject.
I feel some amusement as I realize that he is perhaps not so much changed as he would like to think.
"How are you feeling?" he asks gently, or at least as gently as the vocabulator of his mask will allow.
I shrug slightly and try to ease myself up into a sitting position. I fail miserably, as I am hit by a hard wave of nausea and dizziness. I might have fallen off the bed, but a large hand cradles my back and eases me back onto the pillows.
I watch him searchingly, as he carefully arranges the pillows and blankets to make sure I am comfortable.
I do not quite know what to make of him. As much as I know him, and as much as he has not changed, he is different. He is Vader. I can feel the dangerous edge underneath his shields, the roiling chaotic pit of darkness that whirls inside him. Anger, hatred, fear. All of these things are as much a part of him as the tenderness he now displays.
I suppose I should be afraid, worried about what he might do. After all, the last time I saw him, he nearly killed me. But I can't seem to summon the energy to fear him, or to hate him. Knowing what he has become, I still cannot believe in my heart that he would kill me. Of course, there are far worse things than dying. Believe me, I know.
His hand moves instinctively to smooth my hair, and he freezes, realizing for the fist time what he is doing. He steps back from me as though he has been burnt. 'He is afraid to touch me,' I realize. 'Why?'
"Thank you," I say stiffly. It's easier to put up the polite barriers of courtesy than to discuss what lies beneath the surface, or to let him see the weakness.
He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable to hear my thanks. It's odd, seeing such a human gesture on, what is essentially, a machine. I know, looking at him, that most beings only see the machine. I wonder, do they even know that underneath the shell he is a flesh and blood man?
Or perhaps, I am the one in the wrong. Perhaps he is only a machine after all. It's much easier to think so. It aids the delineation in my mind between Anakin and Vader. If they are two different beings, I do not have to deal with the crushing pain that hovers over me.
"How, did this happen?" I question softly gesturing at his suit. I had seen the images on the holonews, seen him standing next to the man he now calls 'Master'. But I had no idea what occurred between the time I saw him last and then.
The answer comes in a voice harsh from bitterness and pain. "Mustafar. After . . . " His voice trails off and I know the meaning of his unspoken words. Yes, after...
Through the tenuous thread of our bond, I catch images and painful memories- the fire, the pain, and the fear. Even after all that has happened, I feel tears welling in my eyes. I cannot stand his pain. More fool I.
I turn my face away from him. I don't want him to see the tears that stubbornly pool in my eyes. He does not need another weakness to exploit. I may not fear him, but I do not, cannot, trust him. He is not Anakin. Anakin and Vader are two different beings! They have to be, for what remains of my tattered heart, my enemy, cannot be my love.
I'm disturbed from my thoughts by the rumble of his voice. In a perverse sort of way, I actually like it. The deep timbre is soothing.
"You're tired. Perhaps it would be best if I left."
"No!"
The word jumps from my lips before I can stop it, and I am filled with shame over my weakness. I'm terrified by the thought of being alone in the darkness once again. Before, when he left, I could still hear him in the other room. I could hear the voices and know I was not alone.
He's looking at me, the reflective eyes of his mask impossible to read. After a moment he nods, silently answering my unspoken plea. It strikes me then that he knows, he understands. I forget sometimes that our bond works both ways. As he is to me, I am to him. We are neither of us complete, but two pieces of a whole.
But then again, I cannot forget that we're broken. We don't fit anymore. As much as I would like to curl up in his arms and have him hold me, I cannot. There is too much that lies between us. Too many words lie unsaid. Too many questions we both want to ask. Too many answers we don't want to hear.
My eyes dart to him again, where he is sitting in the room's only chair. It's funny to see his large frame bent awkwardly into the small chair. It can't possibly be comfortable. Not that I care, I remind myself stubbornly. He is not Anakin. Instinctively, my weak defenses allow my heart to respond to him, but my mind knows the truth. I can accept nothing else.
I will have to deal with the things that lie between he and I soon enough. He is being surprisingly patient. Perhaps he, too, is unprepared to deal with this. I know though, that he will not leave matters lie, and honestly, I couldn't either. Sooner or later, one, or both, of us will lose the polite reserve that lies between us, and our true natures will emerge. What I wonder is, when he drops the pretense what will lie beneath? Will it be Anakin or Vader who is the mask?
I can stand the silence no longer, so I ask the first question that enters my mind. I feel no real need to know, but I ask still.
"Where are we?"
"The medical bay of my flagship, the Executor."
I have a slight urge to make a comment about the appropriateness of its name, but refrain. No point in provoking the sabercat in its den. Instead, I ask the real question that has been itching at me. Knowledge is power, and I have been powerless for quite some time.
"How did you find me?"
He is silent for a moment before answering me.
"I was inspecting a detention facility on Rakesh, and I heard you. I heard you call out to me, and I realized that you were alive. That you were in danger..."
I zone out slightly, not really listening to what he says. I have heard enough to gather the gist of it. He heard me somehow, felt me through a bond that had long been dead. How odd is that? And really, rather disturbing. I don't know what it means, and part of me can't help but feel that I should have died in that miserable pit. Even thinking of it makes me feel slightly ill.
As I said, I'm not really listening to what he says. But I am listening, I'm listening to the sound of his voice, the deep timbre, the rise and fall of the words. After so long in the quiet, the sound of another person speaking is fascinating. Even the steady whoosh of his mechanical breathing is pleasent, soothing, and oddly... comforting.
How perverse am I, to find comfort from the monster?
His voice stops, and I glance up at him. He was asking me something, and I don't know what it was.
"Tell me what happened to you. How did you come to be in that...place." He says the last with tinge of disgust.
I open my mouth to speak, to tell him all that had occurred, but I cannot. The words catch in my throat, a painful pressure in my chest. I cannot breathe. I want to tell him, share the burdens that have weighed me down the past ten years, but I simply cannot do it. It is all too fresh in my mind, too close to the surface.
"I can't," I finally manage to gasp out.
I can feel the intense need to know battering at him like waves, spilling over into me.
"You will tell me," he says firmly.
I refuse to respond to that. So instead I merely stare at him, the challenge clear on my face. 'Make me.'
He turns away from me, and I know he is struggling with his temper. Long moments pass before he reluctantly amends his statement.
"When you are ready."
I did not expect him to yield so easily. Perhaps he has mellowed, but then again, perhaps not.
He turns to look at me once again, the dim light of the emergency lights illuminating the lifeless mask that shields his face.
"If you will not speak of what happened to you, at least tell me what happened to the child."
An intense wave of pain and anger courses through me and pounds at my chest.
"You have no right to ask me that!"
"It is my child, too." His voice is surprisingly calm and soft.
"Anakin's child. But as you said, you are not Anakin anymore, are you? If that name has no meaning to you, than nothing from that life has any meaning to you."
The pain and rage pouring off of him almost makes me regret my words. Almost.
"Regardless of your feelings in this matter, I have a right to know what happened to the child."
"No. No you don't! You lost all rights to know anything about my child, when you attacked us on Mustafar."
The anger leaves him as my words strike him like a blow, only to be replaced by intense guilt and sorrow.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice as soft as his mask will allow. "You have to believe it was never my intention to harm you. I wouldn't have attacked you if..." He trails off. He begins to pace, and I can see the anger boiling underneath the service. Then it flashes, a violent flame, just as I knew it would.
"This is all Obi-Wan's fault! If he hadn't been on your ship, I never would have..."
I cut him off viciously, unwilling to listen to more. "It was not Obi-wan's hand that closed my throat, Anakin.
The words flew from my mouth without conscious thought, each a sharp little dart that found its home in his heart. I hadn't realized until I said it just how angry I still am over that. Hurt? Yes. Heartbroken? Most definitely. But angry? I hadn't thought, hadn't realized until I saw him standing there, trying to justify what he had done to me. It just erupted, a deep well of anger I had not known existed.
He is silent, his only sound the steady mechanical breathing that surrounds him. His shields slam up with my well-aimed words, but I can still feel his confusion. There is so much turmoil inside him right now. It's like looking directly into chaos.
Still, in spite of all of this, in spite of everything that lies between us, both spoken and silent, being in his presence is like peace. I feel safe and protected. Foolish, perhaps. But old habits die hard, and he has always been my protector. He was always willing to do anything and everything to protect me from harm. Ironic, isn't it, that that desire proved to be our undoing? The one thing he failed to protect me from was himself.