Author's Note: You see how awesome I am? Iwas going to wait to post this, but I decided to split it into two chapters instead of the one I was planning just for all my anxious fans. And, by the way--this next chapter could induce diabetic comas in those who dislike sappiness--you have been warned. ;).
Also, I have posted a companion piece to this one called A Certain Point of View, from Shian Risto's POV. I hope you read and enjoy while waiting for those pesky new updates . . . .
To Mrs. A.Skywalker: I liked that line myself. I'm glad you're continuing to enjoy it.
To Quill of Molliemon: Poor Anakin. I agree about Obi-Wan indeed. He can be very clueless, can't he? I'm glad you feel kinda sorry for Onasi now . . . .
To Blood Raven1: Funny you should mention a love triangle. It was definitely in my original plans for this fic. I'm not sure if it will make its way in now or not, though . . . . I'm really glad you like Onasi. At least the poor guy has one fan! And as for Anakin--well, that was the reaction I was going for!
To KTfanfic: I'm glad you liked it and thought I did a good job! I liked Yoda too, heh heh.
To VA-Parky: Wow, thanks. I'm certainly working hard on it--I want to make it realistic. Thank you so much!
To FuNnY cIdE: I'm glad you liked that. I tried to make him a three-dimensional character.
To Anakin's Girl 4eva: Well, I suppose that depends on that point of you, but he wasn't going to ask Obi-Wan to give him a hug, that's for sure. Is this soon enough for you?
To Life's a Dance: Well, thank you very much, then (blushing madly, I am). I'm really glad you're liking it so much.
To Alley Parker: Thanks. That's pretty much all I can ask for.
To SuperBlonde: First of all, thank you for leaving such long reviews! Those were exactly the emotions and issuesI wanted to explore, so I'm glad it got you thinking. And crying, I know it's bad of me, but it's such a great compliment to hear that your writing made someone cry that I'm happy to hear it. Sorry ;). Yeah, Onasi might be more human now, but he still has problems, which a good slapping might cure . . . . I'll be glad to give Yoda a pat on the back for you at some point. And I did hurry! You should be thankful!
To swiftykenobi: Aww, thanks. I work hard to keep the canon characters in character and to make the OCs believable. I'm glad you're enjoying it!
To Tandywr: Hmmm . . . very possible. But I don't know if Anakin would like to talk about that much. Thanks.
To RavennBeastbo/Arya Shadeslayer: Wow, thank you!
To Go For It: Sorry 'bout that. ;) I couldn't let you go on hating him with impunity forever, though, could I? I love "the Negotiator" as well. And yes, he is getting some warm fuzzy feeling, isn't he?
To Eruvyweth: Oh, goodness, now I'm blushing some more. Thanks so much. I love your reviews, they always make me smile. And yes--well, no drama with Ani and Obi in this part, but the next part will make up for it, I hope. And it will be more sane, I promise you that much.
To Fragile Dreams: All I can do is blush and struggle to find the words to reply, which elude me. Just--oh my. Thank you so much. Thanks.
To Bu-sanda: I'm glad it got you thinking. I'm very much trying to explore those issues, and, in a way, for Anakin so far it's been one step forward, two steps back. I don't want to portray this as being an easy or simple process or situation, in any way. It's far too complicated for that. I think it's easier to forgive Anakin/Vader at the end of RotJ because he's dead, a martyr, he sacrificed himself to save the life of his son, and in the sense that that shows a kind of unconditional love, it is selfless. But now he's still alive, and just as you say, he is a mass-murderer at worst and a war criminal at best, whatever his justifications.
To tejdog1: Thanks. I'm glad you like the emotions, since that's what I'm focusing on. And a lot of people have commented on that. I tried to make it clear in the first couple of chapters, but apparently I didn't do as good a job as I thought--in this story, the events on the fiery bank of that river of lava played out a lot differently. For one thing, Anakin only had one leg severed, instead of both legs and his other arm, and so he fell differently. His mechanical arm, that arm, and his back got the worst of the heat, and Obi-Wan put out the flames with the Force before they spread too far. So most of his skin and his hair is still intact, he can still breathe, though he's on a respirator for the first couple of chapters, and he's going to make a fairly full recovery. Sorry if that confused, anyway. His medical condition will be talked about a lot more in the companion piece to this one, A Certain Point of View, which is from Shian Risto's POV.
Disclaimer: You know the drill. The Flanneled One owns all.
Eighteen
This time the presence was like a warm buzzing in the back of his mind, not unpleasant at all, really, but Anakin was getting a little tired of so many visitors. His whole body felt worn out and achy, like he'd done lightsaber drills until he collapsed, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. His head was a fuzzy mass of nothing, and Anakin thought he might have been sleeping for a long time already, but he felt drowsy and limp and wanted nothing more than to get back to it as soon as possible.
He liked this, almost, this weird haze smothering him in a blanket of dullness. This way there were no dreams as he slept, only a grayed-out blur in his head. This way he didn't have to be afraid of the images that might visit him while he was unconscious, powerless to fight against them.
"Wh-whadd'ya wan'?" he mumbled, not bothering to shift his head. The flat pillow of the medical bed swallowed most of his words, but Anakin thought it would be too much trouble to move and repeat the sentence. He wasn't sure his speech was making much sense at the moment, anyway.
"Nothing too demanding." He recognized that deep voice. Anakin frowned, struggling with the muzziness that seemed to have taken him over. "I'm just here to see how you're doing." A warm hand rested on his shoulder. "Don't be frightened, Ani. I'm an old friend."
Anakin tried to roll his head back this time, he really did. He wanted to see who this was, to see if his instinctive recognition could possibly be right—"M-Master Qui-Gon?" he mumbled, and then, feeling lost and adrift and very, very young, he added, "Sir?"
"Very good, Anakin," the Jedi Master said. He rubbed Anakin's shoulder a little, and Anakin thought blearily that it felt nice. He liked it when people touched him, especially when he was all blurry like this. It helped remind him that they were there. Usually he could feel the people around him without having to touch them, but he was too fuzzy and unfocused to feel much of anything at the moment. "Very good. Yes, it's me."
Somehow it didn't seem odd to be conversing with someone who had died nearly thirteen years ago. Instead it felt natural, as if Qui-Gon was meant to be there talking to him and there was nothing off about it at all. Anakin felt as if maybe it should bother him, but it didn't. Instead, it felt . . . right.
"Tha's nice . . . ." Anakin said into the pillow. He thought Qui-Gon might have been here, with him, before, and that was why it didn't feel strange to be talking to him, might have steadied him when he was afraid and calmed him when he wanted to lash out and helped him put things that hurt a lot back together . . . . "You w're here earl'r," he added, vaguely proud of himself for remembering. "Y' . . . fixed me . . . 'nside."
Qui-Gon's voice was pleased. "Oh, so you remember?" His large hand settled on the back of Anakin's head. "I didn't think you would. And you did the fixing, young one; I just aided you a bit along the way."
"Th'nks," Anakin told him. He thought it needed to be said, and it really was a relief to be able to breathe without his breath catching and dragging and hurting. "'preciate it."
"It was certainly no trouble," Qui-Gon said. His voice was slightly amused. "It's not as if I have much to do these days."
Anakin accepted that easily enough. He didn't think someone who was dead would have much to do.
Qui-Gon continued in a more serious tone. "How are you feeling, then?"
Anakin blinked and stared down at the pillow beneath his head. He couldn't quite make it come into focus. He had the feeling that was bad. "No' so good, I guess," he mumbled. "I thin' 'm still . . . brok'n, Mas'er. I—f-feel like a speeder wi' a bad stab'lizer. I—I mean—inside. No' . . . body . . . but . . . heart." He blinked blearily up at the blue glow above him. "Does tha' make any s-sense?"
Qui-Gon patted him gently on the shoulder. "Very good sense, Anakin. To tell you the truth, I'd be much more worried if you didn't feel that way. Feeling the guilt and pain that you do shows that you're still a good man—still, in some ways, the boy I knew."
Anakin bit his lip, trying to make sense of what Qui-Gon was saying, but the words didn't seem to want to float together into a format that made sense to his confused mind. One word resonated, though, one word dredged up something dark and terrible and aching inside him. Guilt—guilty of something terrible—yes, guilty of deeds that made his heart hurt and bleed when he thought about them, that had torn him apart even as he'd reveled in them.
Deeds that made him feel shattered, so badly broken Anakin didn't think he could ever be entirely put back together, like one of the wrecked Podracers he'd found long ago on the Tatooine flats.
But again the dull haze saved him, this time from having to think about what he'd done or feel the tearing burden of his actions. Instead being caught by the dragon shredding his heart with its claws, Anakin's mind slipped easily away from those thoughts and reaching teeth and grasping talons and ice cold scales, back into gray darkness where nothing mattered.
He thought he liked it there better. Feeling so much all the time . . . hurt a lot, these days.
"Anakin." Qui-Gon's voice was still gentle, but now it had an underlying sternness. "I can understand, but will running like this really help you?"
Running . . . was that what he was doing? Anakin shook his head against the pillow. "Hurts . . . ." he protested.
"I know," Qui-Gon said softly. "I know. But how will the wound heal if you never acknowledge the pain? Cutting yourself off from your wounds is no better than wallowing in the pain of them."
"I—" Anakin squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away, torn. He felt lost, so lost; he didn't know which way to turn and his head hurt too much to think about it. "Tell me wha' I shoul' d-do, Master," he begged.
He both heard and felt Qui-Gon's sigh in the air around him. "You should trust, young one. Trust the Force. Trust those who care for you, and would never have willingly hurt you. Trust that the light isn't done with you yet. You can still heal."
That callused hand rested on his forehead for a moment more in a gentle benediction, and then Anakin was asleep again.
"You think we need to get going soon?" Padmé repeated, looking up into my face with a slight crease of confusion between her brows.
I sighed and nodded. "Yes, Master Yoda and I have come to that decision."
The little Jedi Master hobbled further into the room. "Fear we do that Anakin's pain and suffering Sidious will track. A hold on young Skywalker the Dark Lord still has. Risk him finding us here, we cannot."
Padmé's eyes widened. She took a deep breath and pressed her hand against her swollen belly in a protective gesture. "Sidious?" she whispered. "Palpatine? He'll want the children, won't he? He won't be content with just twisting my Anakin to serve him."
The fear in her eyes made me ache. "I'm afraid he will want the babies," I told her tiredly. "Your children . . . Anakin's children . . . would be a powerful asset to him."
She closed her eyes for a moment as if in agony and took a few more deep, shaking breaths, pressing her other hand against her mouth, and I moved forward to comfort her—but after a moment, she opened her eyes again and was the cool, collected Senator, her emotions firmly under control. "How is Anakin, then?" she said. "Is he well enough to be moved?"
"Healer Risto tells me that she'd prefer to wait until he's been equipped with prosthetics," I replied. "She assures me that she will speed up the process and try to get Anakin into surgery tomorrow."
Padmé nodded in acceptance, but her eyes never left my face. "But how is he?" she pressed. "Can I see him? How is he doing?"
Yoda looked up at me, his wrinkled face drawing my gaze. "Together, they should be allowed," he said. "Need her, Anakin does."
I couldn't help but agree, but I was shocked to hear the sentiment from Yoda's lips. I looked back over at Padmé. "He is doing . . . better," I told her, choosing my words carefully. "Both better and worse. He is in agony over what he has done. But he knows that it was wrong." I sighed and brought up a hand to rub it over my face. "I fear for him," I told her, too tired and heartsick to be anything but blunt any longer. "He seems so . . . lost."
Padmé's face set with the strength and determination I remembered from her days as a young queen. "Take me to him," she said.
Yoda nodded. "Take you to him, we will," he replied.
The healer finished with the bandages she'd been applying to his back, pressing the edge of the last one against the intact flesh of his shoulder until the bandage adhered to it and clung there. Anakin lay still on the bed and tried not to move or think or do anything much but breathe.
"Well, you're doing a lot better, hero," Healer Risto said in a cheerful tone. Anakin gave a slight, tired smile in response, a simple upward quirk of one side of his mouth. He didn't feel as if he were doing a lot better and he didn't feel much like a hero, but the healer who took care of him so carefully deserved a few illusions about him. She'd come in after the medical droids had finished applying the first coat of sterile bandages to his injuries and done the rest herself, and Anakin had to admit he had been pathetically grateful for the touch of soft skin against his instead of cold, hard metal, impersonal and unforgiving. He didn't think he deserved a healer so conscientious and thoughtful, but he wasn't going to complain. Not when he barely had the strength to keep his eyes open, and that was when he was feeling better than average.
Healer Risto brushed his cheek gently with the backs of her fingers. "I'm glad," she said. "So look, don't you give up on me, all right?"
Anakin blinked confusedly up at her, not entirely certain why she cared, but he could feel his smile get a little bigger. "I'll . . . try," he said, and his voice was soft and thready and didn't sound anything like himself. The thought that Obi-Wan would have given him a lecture about trying and doing if he had heard him say that flitted through his mind.
The thought hurt, but not as much as he'd expected it to. At least there was hope. At least Obi-Wan didn't hate him. It confused him and he didn't understand and sometimes he thought it might hurt less if Obi-Wan raged at him and wanted to hurt him, but at the same time it was a comfort, something he could lean on when he was weak and tired—and he was so very much of both right now.
Healer Risto patted him gently on the cheek and took her hand away as she moved to stand up. "There's someone who'd like to see you," she said. "Do you mind?"
Someone? Who? Obi-Wan? As long as it wasn't the cruel man with the blue eyes. Anakin never wanted to see him again. "No," he said. "It's a'right."
The healer nodded and then she was gone, leaving Anakin alone to stare at the endless white of the sheets beneath his head and wonder blearily who it was who wanted to talk to him. His head hurt, and he couldn't manage much thought, but he still wondered.
He felt her as soon as she entered the room, and the thrilling tingle of her familiar presence brought his head up and around, scanning the room until his eyes found her. He drank in the sight of her, even though she was pale and worn and tired-looking still. She was beautiful, so beautiful that it hurt his heart. "P-Padmé?" he whispered, hardly daring to believe his eyes. She had come back to him? Even after his foolish assumptions and brutal accusations—even after what he had done to her? She had come back to him, not once, but twice?
She wasn't going to leave him?
And then she was there, right there by his side, cradling his head in her hands. "Anakin," she said, her voice choked and faltering, and she bent her head and pressed her lips to his.
Anakin gave a broken, sobbing breath and leaned into the kiss, feeling as if with the touch of her lips to his, forgiving and warm and petal-soft, life had flooded back into him, her touch alone pulling him out of the gray nothingness where he had been drifting. In that moment, he didn't care about anything except that she was warm and breathing and there, and that he could taste her, feel her breath on his lips, smell the scent of her hair. He reached up with his good arm to bury his fingers in her hair, splaying his hand against the back of her neck and pulling her close to him. Her curling hair was a little rough with neglect but still as soft as silk beneath his hand, and Anakin clenched his hand into a fist at her neck, catching her hair between his fingers and deepening the kiss until he was panting so hard for breath he literally didn't have the strength to continue.
"Oh, Padmé," he whispered, pulling away only to press his cheek against hers. He noticed that her cheeks were wet and wondered which of them was crying. "Oh, Padmé."
Her arms went around him, one winding around his neck and the other encircling his waist. "I know, Anakin," she whispered.
He stared into her face in pure, awestruck love. "You came t' visit me," he whispered wonderingly. "Y-you're really here? Not jus' another d-dream . . . ?" He wouldn't have asked, but for the lingering, soul-searing doubt, the cold, trembling fear that—how could she still love him? How in all nine hells could she still be here with him? He knew how complete and strong Padmé's convictions were, how beautiful and good her spirit, and he could hardly believe that this Padmé who held him and kissed him and offered him warmth and love and forgiveness was real instead of merely a figment of his desperate, fevered imagination.
Her arms tightened around him. "Yes, yes, I'm here, my love," she said quickly. "It's real; I'm here with you."
Anakin's whole body went weak with relief, and he let his head sink down to rest on Padmé's shoulder as he started to shake. "Thank the Force," he murmured helplessly, turning his head into the curve of her neck and simply inhaling the sweet, familiar scent that was Padmé's. "Thank the Force."
Her fingers stroked gently through his hair. "Did you think I could stay away?" she asked softly.
Anakin just pressed himself closer, tightening his arm around her, so achingly grateful to feel her in his arms that he could barely breathe. He didn't want to tell her how he'd feared that she would never again look on him with anything but disgust in her eyes, that he'd never hold her in his arms again, never again touch her hair or kiss her lips or lay his hand on her stomach and feel the life they'd created together in her softly swollen belly. And he didn't deserve it. From no point of view did he deserve the incredible gift of her love, he never had, and now he deserved it less than ever.
But she must have felt his desperation in the clasp of his arm around her, for she rubbed his shoulders and back before returning her hand to his head to tangle in his hair. She brought his head up with that hold on his hair so that she could stare into his eyes, and Anakin didn't resist.
"I'm so sorry, angel," he mumbled, hardly even able to look her in the face.
"You, love," she said gently, her voice both sad and loving, "are a mess." Her other hand was rubbing his back now.
Anakin nodded. "I—you shoul' leave me," he admitted, his voice breaking helplessly halfway through the sentence. He could barely force the words out of his mouth, and he thought his heart shattered a little bit more than it already had to hear his own voice saying that. "'m not worth 't."
Padmé's arms tightened so hard it hurt, just like Obi-Wan's had when he'd started to ask the older man to punish him. "No, Anakin," she said. "No, you can't believe that. Never believe that."
"But—" he was still struggling to get the words out. "But—how c'n you still l-love me? It's—" his voice wavered out of control "—it's all right if y' don' want t' be w'th me anymore. I won' hurt you if wan' t' go."
Padmé stroked her fingers through his hair, tugging softly on the curls, kissing his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks. "Don't worry about things like that, Anakin," she whispered. "I'll always love you, no matter what." She pulled away and braced her hands on his face, forcing him to look at her straight in the eyes. "And if you ever say anything like that again, I'm going to have to get a little rough with you."
Anakin smiled at that and ducked his eyes again. "Wouldn't mind," he told her through the lump in his throat, feeling a little bit of his old spark return. "No' much of a punishment, my love."
She shrugged and pulled him close again, pressing a kiss to his temple. "That's the Anakin I remember," she told him softly. "And it's as much of a punishment as I ever want to give you."
Anakin felt his throat close up. "Thank you, angel," he whispered. I don't deserve it, I don't deserve any of this, but thank you.
She pulled his head up and kissed him again. Anakin lost himself in her presence and the taste of her lips, and for a few brief moments, he was happy.
