Author's Note: In which we discover that Aerdin Onasi inherited very little of his ancestor's personality and Healer Risto's first name, among other things. I think I actually gave this story a plot! To quote C-3PO, I never knew I had it in me.

To Lady Cora: I believe I labeled the last chapter as nothing because it took me nearly four hours to write (hours in which I should have been writing a paper--ah well, c'est la vie), and I only got about three pages out of it. I'm used to writing coming more easily than that, I suppose. Still, now that I re-read I like it more than I thought I did. I guess I'm better than even I know! And I enjoyed Obi-Wan getting Onasi to shut up too!

To Caslia: Glad you like it! I'm especially pleased that you think Obi-Wan is in character. I guess watching RotS over and over again to analyze his character paid off (internet file-sharing is a wondrous thing, if slightly illegal; though I will of course buy RotS on DVD as soon as humanly possible)!

To Storyteller Person: Yay! Another reviewer! I'm so happy! I like your name, btw. That's what I think of myself as, a "storytelling person."

To Hieiko: Glad you liked. I enjoyed writing Qui-Gon. Don't have a lot of practice at that.

To Eruvyweth: Awesome. I appreciate your compliments so much I can't even say. How many glowy-blue-Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan encounters have you read, anyway? Here's another chapter to slake your ravenous hunger. ;)

To Anakin's Girl 4eva: It's a deal. And while you're at it, tell Sidious that I think he's a manipulative jerk and that I cheer every time I watch him get tossed down the reactor shaft in RotJ. As for Anakin . . . he's still struggling, but let's just say he's working on it.

To Fragile Dreams: Wow, thanks. I'm so glad you thought it was brilliant. I just tend to look askance at writing that produces headaches ;). I really enjoyed writing the confrontation between Obi-Wan and Onasi, too. "You'll find that many of the truths we cling to depend greatly upon our own points of view," is one of my favorite lines in the entire Star Wars saga, and I had to work it in somehow. I think Obi-Wan has this very snarky side that he only shows sometimes, and I wanted to give him a chance to go with that a little. And I agree with you about Obi-Wan's doubt--I just want him to have faith and trust Anakin, but his character just isn't there yet . . . it's so sad. And I'm glad it made you feel warm and fuzzy.

I just realized I've been forgetting the necessary disclaimer, so here it is: I own nothing; The Flanneled One and Lucasfilm own all. Don't sue me, I'm a starving college student anyway, so you won't get anything out of it. Unnecessary suits are a thing of the Dark Side.

Eight

There was someone else in the room with him. They had increased the dosage of the drugs they were pumping into his system, so Anakin wasn't clear on who it was, but he could feel the presence even though the fuzziness blanketing everything, suppressing his awareness of the connecting power that was as much a part of him as breath. He didn't think it was Obi-Wan. It felt different, but trying to discern how it felt different made his head ache and his thoughts go skittering off to separate corners of his brain so Anakin gave up on it.

The awareness brought him out of a dull, drugged sleep, and Anakin wondered hazily if the other person was going to bother to do anything. Nothing seemed quite real at the moment, and he didn't mind that. If nothing was real, than he didn't have to struggle with anything, didn't have to hold onto anything . . . if nothing was real, than nothing he did or had done mattered.

"Skywalker," came an unfamiliar voice, and Anakin's eyes fluttered slowly open at the sound of it in a vague desire to connect that voice to a body. A tall figure dressed in gray swam in front of him, and he blinked tiredly to clear his vision. It didn't work. "I hear you are calling yourself Vader these days."

Anakin tried to wet his lips, to speak, but his mouth was dry and his tongue felt too thick. "I—" he croaked, uncertain of what he was going to say. "I—" He didn't have the strength to force out another word. He wasn't sure who this man was or what he wanted from him, and with the fuzzy blanket of nothingness over his thoughts he didn't really care.

"Yes, you, Skywalker," came the man's cutting voice. "It's all about you, isn't it? You're the one who destroyed the Jedi, who killed the Separatists, who helped murder the Republic. You. Darth Vader." There was anger and pain and searing hatred in the man's voice. A strong, gloved hand seized his chin in a vise-like grip and dragged his head up so that the blue fire of his gaze bore into Anakin's eyes. The other man's mind was loud and sharp and Anakin stiffened, instinctively struggling to draw away from the pain those thoughts cut into him. "But you're just a boy," that angry voice continued. "Just a boy so damn drugged he can't even see straight."

He let go, and Anakin nearly wept with relief as his head dropped back down to the pillow. Normally he would have taken offense at that, demanded if anyone called this man the "Hero With No Fear," demanded to know when he had fought the Separatists, what battles he had lead, older or not, but now the haze between Anakin and the world was playing havoc on his connection to the Force, and when the man had touched him the sense had been jagged and painful. "Wha—" he struggled through cracked lips that didn't want to obey him. "Wha . . . you . . . wan' . . ."

"I want you to suffer for what you did," the man cried, his voice breaking, and there was pain behind it. "I want you to pay! You deserve to be punished, deserve to suffer. But Kenobi is too blind to see what a monster you are, and they won't punish you."

Even dazed and blurry-minded, Anakin didn't like what he was hearing. "I—" he said again, but his voice got stuck in his throat and he couldn't get it out past the dryness in his mouth.

A hand brushed down over the bandages on his back, not in the gentle way the Healers or Obi-Wan had touched him but roughly and brutally, and Anakin gave a startled cry of agony. Pain jabbed through his body, playing up and down his back, and tears started in his eyes at the unrelenting sharpness like a thousand tiny needles stabbing into his flesh. He struggled to move away, to escape, but his body wouldn't obey and his head just flopped uselessly on the pillow. "Did Kenobi do this to you?" the man demanded. "Force, why didn't he just finish the job? What is wrong with him?"

Anakin vaguely remembered gentle arms pulling him back from the fire, cool, soothing power pouring into him and the feeling that was his Master, that was safety, encircling him. Had that been Obi-Wan?

Why hadn't he left him? Anakin didn't understand. He remembered pain, fire, burning, hurting—

The man leaned closer, bracing his hands on the pillow on either side of Anakin's head, and he was shocked, frightened out of his confusion. The part of him that was a slave and had always been a slave registered that looming presence and he was three again, being beaten for some imagined offense to Gardulla. He cried out and jerked away, his breath speeding up, coming too fast—and then he couldn't breathe at all and was left choking and suffocating, his chest heaving uselessly as he struggled and the respirator stole his rapid, too-shallow breaths from him.

"So, you're married to Senator Amidala," the man said in a contemplative tone. He was watching Anakin gasp and fight for air as if it were a moderately interesting holovid, and Anakin felt a surge of white-hot anger. It should have given him strength, but his head was blank and blurred and he couldn't feel anything anymore. "I hear she's in critical condition. Dying. Because of you. Did you know that?"

Something in Anakin froze and broke. He remembered his hand closing into a fist, his fury, tightening, choking, anger and pain and rage, and Obi-Wan's voice ordering him to let her go, shock and horror and agony—and how could he have done that? How could she dare to leave him? Why? Why was she leaving him, when he'd done everything for her? Why had she gone to Obi-Wan, why had she chosen his master, who had always been better than him anyway?

What was so terribly wrong with him that no one he loved ever stayed with him?

"N-no," he whispered. Obi-Wan had told him that she was fine, hadn't he? Obi-Wan wouldn't have lied about that. He wouldn't have. And he had felt her! She was alive, she was okay, she had to be, she had to—he threw himself into the Force, searching for her, but he was cut off, he couldn't feel anything except for this man's angry presence, and he was lost. "NO!" he screamed, and tears came to his eyes and even as blurred and distanced as he was the Force whirled around him and the man staggered back.

But he couldn't keep it up for long, and soon all the anger and power drained out of him and he was left shattered and defeated, his breath sobbing slightly as terror and guilt shook his whole body. "No," he moaned.

The man's hand fisted in his hair and pulled his head back. "It's all your fault," he hissed. "All of it."

And even though Anakin struggled, he couldn't escape from that iron hold.

I keyed open the door to Padmé's room and stepped inside, pleased to see her sitting up, shrouded in the white robe all the patients wore and looking more alert, though rather grumpy. I was still puzzling over the dream I'd had last night. It didn't make any sense—Qui-Gon was dead, I was certain of that much, and yet that had definitely been him, every detail exactly the way I remembered. Wishful thinking, I supposed.

It had been a . . . reassurance, anyway.

"Obi-Wan, I want to know what's going on," she said as I made my way to her side. "No one's told me anything since I got here. Where's Anakin? How is he? What's going on? What's happening with the—" a flash of pain tightened her pale features "—the Empire?"

"Slow down," I told her with a slight smile as I sat down. "One question at a time, please."

Padmé waited until I was seated, then said, "I want to know what's going on." I knew better than to argue with the look on her face.

"All right," I said. "All right. Yoda and a commander in Senator Organa's forces arrived yesterday." I could feel my voice sour and tense and cursed my lack of control.

She was studying my face closely. "You don't like him," she said, and I hesitated, but I was forced to nod. "Which one is it?" she asked.

"Commander Onasi," I said, and Padmé bit her lip. "What?" I asked.

She gave me a rueful smile. "He's all right, I suppose. But he's always been a bit . . . zealous for my taste."

"You don't like him either," I said with a bit of a smile.

She smiled back. "Not too much." Her smile faded. "How's Anakin?" I know she could see my hesitation. "Tell me, Obi-Wan," she ordered.

I looked down. "He's in the trauma center, in intensive care. I—I had no choice—" I was stumbling over my words, and she reached out and touched my hand.

"I know, Obi-Wan," she said. "I know. Is there—" she stopped, her face drawing tight and pale, and I knew what she was trying to ask.

"He's . . . confused," I said, uncertain. "Angry with me. But—"

"You can't give up on him, Obi-Wan," she said, her voice urgent. "He's not lost. Not completely. I know it."

"Padmé," I said helplessly, "he tried to kill you."

Her gaze was even, fearless, and her eyes held mine. "He was hurt and afraid. I know my Anakin, and there is still good in him. I know it."

Again the love between them awed me. "I wish I had your faith," I murmured.

She smiled. "You do, Obi-Wan. It was you who saved him, after all. You just haven't found it yet."

I smiled back a little. "How can I argue with you, Senator?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but then her face twisted in agony. She brought her hands to her head in a quick, convulsive motion and gave a low moan of pain.

"Padmé?" I blurted, leaning over her. I had no idea what to do, even what was wrong with her, or how to help. "Padmé, what's—"

"It's Ani," she gasped, tears welling in her eyes, and gave a sharp intake of breath, her chest heaving. "He's—he's in pain—" her hands clenched in the fabric of my tunic as tears started to trickle down her cheeks. "Oh, Anakin—I'm here, my love, I'm all right—Anakin, no—"

I took her hands in mine. "Padmé—"

"He needs you, Obi-Wan," she gasped. "Go to him."

"But—are you all right?"

"I'm fine!" she said. Her breath was hoarse and ragged. "Go to Anakin, call Shian and I'll be fine—"

"Shian?" I said blankly.

"Healer Risto!" she snapped, and one part of my mind thought stupidly, Oh, so that's her first name.

"Go to Anakin!" Padmé nearly screamed, and I obeyed, letting go of her hands and slapping the button that summoned the Healer on duty, then sprinting for the door.

I must have set a new record by the time it took me to reach Anakin's room. As I got closer and concentrated on Anakin I felt what Padmé must have felt—I had had no idea their bond was so strong, that a woman who wasn't even Force-sensitive could feel his pain even before I did—and the confusion and fear and hurt spiraling downward into darkness that emanated from him made my throat close up. I burst through the door, expecting to see some scene of horror, perhaps see him under attack, even. It took me a moment to orient myself, and for one terrible second I couldn't find him on the bed and thought he was gone.

But then my eyes focused on the limp body on the floor, and I realized that he had tumbled off the bed. His good arm was bleeding from where he had wrenched the IVs from it, and his face was messy and wet with tears. The breath mask had been torn off his face and his breath was coming short and fast and shallow, groaning in his chest. He was curled with his knees against his chest even though the position must have hurt, considering his injuries, and shaking almost convulsively.

I threw myself to my knees at his side and gathered him into my arms, careful not to touch the burns on his back, scooping his fragile form up off the ground and lifting him carefully onto the bed. Anakin gave a short, broken cry and grabbed hold of my tunic with his one hand, tugging me close, and I stopped in mid-motion, paralyzed by shock at him pulling me closer to him. His tear-stained, desperate face lifted toward mine. "Y-you didn' lie, M-Master, di' you?" he whispered, his voice a hoarse rasp. He stammered a few more words in Huttese in that pleading tone. I eased myself onto the bed and braced his head against my shoulder.

"What is it, Anakin?" I asked desperately. "What's wrong?"

"P-Padmé—she's no' . . . dyin', is she?" His voice was slurred and choppy from the drugs. "Tell me th' truth, O-Obi-Wan, p-please. I didn'—I didn' k-kill her. I c-couldn't have."

"She's fine, Anakin," I answered, shocked and baffled. Why would this fear, this unreasoning terror, have hit him now of all times? "She's fine. I told you already. She's more worried about you than anything."

He gave a hoarse, choked moan. "Y-you're tellin' me th' truth?" He whispered something further in Huttese, and I recognized a few expletives but had no idea what he was saying.

"Of course, Anakin," I said. I stroked his hair to calm him. "Always."

"C-can't f-feel her," he mumbled, tears still leaking out of his eyes, down his cheeks. "C-can't feel . . . anythin'. W-why, Master . . .? I can' feel anything."

I felt my throat close up and bent my head closer to his, desperate to soothe him, to calm him. "You remember that time on Myrkr? When it was as if the Force had been turned off and we had gone blind? It's . . . similar to that, they've given you some sedatives to help you calm down, to keep you safe. It's nothing to do with Padmé, nothing. I promise."

He was beginning to relax, his muscles unclenching, his fingers releasing their death grip on my tunic. "She's all right?" he whispered.

"Fine. She's fine." I imbued my words with the Force, giving them strength and power.

He rolled his face into my shoulder. "Promise? You—you wouldn' lie? E-everyone l-lies t' me, ever'one . . . ."

"I'm not lying to you, Anakin," I said, exasperated and aching for his pain and confusion at the same time.

He gave a tired sob. "O-okay. I—I trus' you, Obi-Wan."

My eyes filled, and I could feel a single tear escape and run down my cheek at the sheer wonder of him saying those words to me again. He just lay there, shaking, his weeping quieting now, and I moved to lay him back in the bed.

His hand tightened into a fist in my tunic. "S-stay," he pleaded, his voice little more than a wisp of sound.

And of course I did.