Sympathy For The Devil
Anakin found himself strolling along the Naboo gardens. The grass, emerald green and aromatic. The clouds vanish into thin streaks and unveil an azure sky. The wild trees dance in the wind and tight buds wait to bloom, cyclical and effortless. Yet the wildflowers are never quite as freeing or as sensual as the young woman in yellow.
Padme sits on a picnic blanket, the golden hem of her summer dress creates a circular shape, origami-like folds of hope. She looks up at him, bright-eyed. A smile enchants with such innocence. She is where peace awaits for the broken – to heal them, nurture them... She is where light rises and darkness rests.
She embraces him in her arms as soon as he sits beside her. Her hands cradle his face. It is easy to become swept away by the flexibility of her fingers as she comforts him. Her warmth doesn't diminish as her lips press against his. But the kiss doesn't last long. He wished he could remain distracted by her ripe lips but his eyes quickly fall, unable to rid himself of a persistent fear stirring within.
"I had an awful dream." He murmurs, looking into her deep brown eyes. "You died in childbirth, I was all burned up. . .stuck in some metal suit. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't get out."
Padme tilts her head to the side in a dream-like state, affectionately offering gentle words of solace. "It was only a dream." She pushes his hair back, away from his eyes, and smiles. Her mouth drew his back to hers. Each kiss deluged with the sweetness of freedom. Fear melts away.
He protrudes forward, laying her down on the blanket as he slumps his body over hers. Her hands travel down his virile back, keeping him close while he rests his forehead on hers, separated only by her embroidered headband. His hands explore down to her waist, relishing the smoothness of her tulle shawl.
"Why didn't you stay?" She asks in between kisses.
He cranes his head back, caught off guard. "What?"
"Why didn't you stay in the Council Chamber?" The monotony of her tone was as puzzling as the question. Anakin's brows furrowed, growing more and more concerned as she squirms underneath him. He looks down, noticing a baby bump growing rapidly in real-time. He quickly scoots off her, trying to make sense of what was happening. Deafened by the sound of his heavy exhales, he calls her name over and over again, failing to console her as she begins to scream.
Once the sound escapes her mouth, only silence hangs between them. His nervous eyes scan her as he whimpers, "Padme... Padme!" Urging her to answer, sweat prickled his skin as he falls victim to a rising panic.
Her eyes were now closed; her heart, along with her growing baby bump, stops, and he watches as her body turns cold – an all too familiar temperature.
He has been forced to be subservient to the seasons of life. It was pointless to rebel. Temperatures don't change anymore. Whether you chase the warmth of the suns or feel the pull of the moon, for Darth Vader, it is always cold here.
For only a man who has been burned a thousand times can become immune to the heat.
Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
I've been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man's soul and faith
Lord Vader stared up at the night sky, watching the stars form an alliance. It is only when he looks at the stars that he allows himself to remember his nightmares – nightmares that spook him in new, creative ways every time he closes his eyes. It is one of the few quiet moments where he lets Anakin ponder.
Vader turned back around to face the man tied to a chair. He reached over and removed the restraint device over the prisoner's mouth.
"Sir Phren." The Dark Lord's haunting breathing didn't frighten the man in elegant royal blue robes. "I'm sorry we had to go to such lengths to get you here."
"That's a fancy way of saying kidnap."
Vader smirked under his metal mask. "...I know you can help me."
"I told you before, Lord Vader," Phren shrugged. "You can't mess with fate."
"You did."
"That was a mistake." The man warned while his handcuffed wrists dangled. "I learned the hard way."
Vader paced around the dark greyish room. Each step he took was slow, orderly... intentional. "Quite a few years ago, I lost someone close to me. . .and I would do anything to get her back."
Phren observed the Sith with attentive eyes, knowing of his wily nature. One should always pay attention to the subtleties of Darth Vader when he is calm – because his attacks are anything but.
"Are you expecting sympathy?" Phren couldn't help but scoff at Vader's pensiveness. Even when he's still and quiet, the Dark Lord exudes aggression and unpredictability.
"Sympathy is just a fancy word for pity." Vader remarked.
Phren started to feel uneasy as Vader's dark lenses aimed at him. His stares were sharp, debilitating even... There was something frightful about the inability to look into a man's eyes and gauge what he's thinking, especially a man who was known to take a life for the slightest inconvenience.
"I won't do it." Phren's words echoed the instability of the environment; a shaky tone possessed each syllable.
Vader shook his head callously. "What a waste of power."
"What you're asking for is an abuse of power." Phren shot back. "You go back, change one little thing, oblivious to the larger effect it may have, and you'll be thrust into chaos. The Force will ensure you suffer the consequences until you learn your lesson."
"I'm not asking. I'm telling." Vader raised a finger, telekinetically sliding a crystal bowl across the table in front of Phren. "I believe this is yours."
Phren glanced down at his own belongings and sighed. He felt cornered. His stomach twisted at the mere thought of impiety. Even the air around him felt corrupted. Phren politely refused to take part nor was he willing to be coerced into doing the inconceivable. It was sacrilegious. "You can't cheat death. And you can't cheat life."
Vader lifted his gloved hand as two of his fingers slowly swirled in a circular motion. Sir Phren felt a tightness grip his throat. He could feel the Sith's fingers pressuring his neck through a force-choke.
Vader watched Phren fail to fight the suffocation and finally released him. Led through a series of coughs, the man's head sank, gasping for air. Eventually, he looked up at Vader, who remained unruffled. His soul empty, as if surrounded by tumbleweeds – bored and unimpressed by the bleakness of his view. Not a shred of mercy.
"You'll find I always get what I want. One way or another." Vader's lenses landed on the crystal bowl once more, signaling to Phren that time was running out. "Do it."
A reluctant Phren placed his chained hands over the crystal bowl and a kaleidoscope of plasma blue light paints in flakes. He gestured for Vader to place his patent leather glove inside the bowl. Sparks fly and envelope his hand.
So if you meet me, have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
Use all your well-learned politesse
Or I'll lay your soul to waste
Anakin's head spun around, skimming over the lava-covered mountains from inside the factory. Anakin remembered the days when Mustafar looked desolate. A memory opened, in more ways than one. He looked down and saw that he was wearing his old Jedi robes – a black leather tabard over a loose-fitting garment. He lifted up his left hand, reveling in the ability to touch finger to thumb and feel his own humanity. He turned to his right metal hand and even that put a smile on his face. He then stroked the scar across his right eyebrow, nostalgic for this day in history when the map of Vader's future charred skin had been erased.
The sound of his own inhales was musical – the art of taking a breath without difficulty had been lost on him. He felt his chest had opened out to the heavens. Even the smoky air didn't bother him. It actually made him feel more alive. He could feel the wind in his hair again, smell the evocative scents that swarmed the flanks of the volcano. More significantly, he could see with his own clear, ancient eyes, the lava river, fiery red. A color so bold it made him pray he appreciates his sight no longer entombed by a dark, narrow helmet.
He caught a glimpse of the elegant silver design of the Naboo star skiff through the window.
Padme.
He rushed out. His spirit arriving before he did.
She fell into his arms hopelessly. Her face taut with grief as she struggled to balance worry and relief simultaneously.
"It's you!" His emphatic whispers fog the little space between them as he held her in his arms, slipping his fingers under her hair strands that were pulled into a tight braid. Feeling the softness of her hair and the smooth texture of her flesh at the tip of his fingers carried him back to wondrous times. Wild, fairytale-like moments of peace and pleasure return to him. Breathing her in now felt as good as it did back then. An excruciating reminder of what it felt like to be loved and revered by the woman he lost.
"What's going on?" Padme's tone displayed her ambivalence.
"I'll explain everything." He hurriedly looked around, cautiously aware of events yet to transpire. "But first, we gotta get out of here."
"What?" Padme couldn't wrap her head around why he was so antsy. She had so many unanswered questions, longing for resolution. But before she could even think, he grabbed her hand and took her through the volcanic wasteland.
"Come on." He encouraged. There were no colours anymore as they brushed past the scenery, no vibrancy. And the faster he dragged her to his ship, the blurrier the view.
"Anakin, my ship is over there!" She insisted to no avail. Everything surrounding them fizzled out into shades of auburn.
"Where are we going?" She demanded as he maneuvered the ship through the air.
"To Naboo. Just like you wanted." His attempt to sound reassuring fell short.
Padme studied him. She could feel the distance between them. There was a coldness, a discomfort, a flame desperately flickering to avoid dying out. And suddenly, it clicked. Her eyes now downcast as she invites in fragments of the glaring truth.
"You did it, didn't you?" Despite its faint pitch, a heavy undertone carried her wispy voice.
"What?" Anakin's forehead crinkled as he fidgeted in his seat dismissively. He could feel Padme's scrutiny as he tried to remain nonchalant.
"Obi-Wan was right." She said with a heavy heart.
"Obi-Wan doesn't know what he's talking about." He quickly grumbled. Still not looking at her.
She observed him again, leaning forward in her chair. "You're running away." She realized. "You're running away from him."
"No!" He snapped.
Anakin finally turned to face her and she could see in his eyes, a young man desperately searching for clarity and control. "I'm running away from myself." His voice erratic as he continued, "I've seen the future, I – I was there."
Padme watched him stumble over his own reality. "Is this about your dreams again?"
"No." The way he answered her sounded like a warning. "I saw... I saw what I'm capable of." He looked ahead into the pitch black abyss, his eyes fixed on the emptiness in front of him, hoping it would suck out his strangling thoughts. It was as though she could see his mind juggling them underneath a face contorted with uncertainty. This was not the face of a man with nothing to hide.
"You're behind the attack on the Jedi temple, aren't you?" Calm on the outside, shaking on the inside, she wasn't as ready for a confession as she thought. She felt her own fear paralyze her – the fear of having to let go of the outcome.
It didn't help that there was a screaming tension between them, making it hard to think straight. But the longer he was quiet, the harder it was for her to deny.
"Y–you killed them." She stammered, agony tearing at her insides. She placed her hand over her pregnant belly, closing her eyes to self-soothe but she quickly became crippled by cramps.
"We need to land." She pressed as insecurity, stress and pain puncture her in sequence. She knows the baby is coming. Only her thoughts are granted a remissive state as she is weighed down by the tropic of labour pain.
"Just breathe. We're almost there." His nervous words rolled out. Looking over, the pallor of her skin and burdened eyes distill the intensity of the situation. The residue of the past sinks in fully, frightening him further.
"Now!" She yelled. And the once delicious senses he felt, senses of rebirth, the titillation of love, and the innate togetherness that perfumes a warm room, are frozen. He cannot think, he cannot land, he can't accept the possibility of history repeating itself.
"My love, I swear, we won't be long!" He urged, exposing his agitation.
She tried to grab onto the back of his seat and fell to the floor, along with his ego and denial. She lies on the floor, the stress had become physical, a shadow over her strength, a contortion. His heart lurched at the sight of her, pulling her back up.
He observed the interface, and quickly steered the ship back, realizing the closest planetoid to Mustafar is Polis Massa. Managing to get Padme back into her seat, he tried to keep her calm but steam was coming out of her ears.
"I need to get off the ship!" She wailed, tugging at his arm, exasperated.
She knocked his hand, making him lose control of the ship. As the spacecraft sped up, their screams eclipse each other's. He grabs the controls while she claws at him, hysterical from raw pain, leading them to crash into the the layer of rocks in the asteroid.
Anakin carried Padme into the medical facility, calling for help as she cradled her stomach in pain. Droids appeared before him with a gurney, and he watched hopelessly as his wife was taken away.
He waited for what felt like hours upon hours, pacing around the room like a caged animal. The lines were so blurred between reality and nightmare. To clutch onto faith was distasteful at this point. It didn't feel right. This is not repairing the past, it only rattles equilibrium, a distorted ideal, a dream unsettled. He was supposed to come here to save her, to restore hope, fulfill an instinctive longing.
His shoulders stiffened when a medical droid approached him.
"The Senator is recovering." The robotic voice sank in.
He brushed his hair back, finally remembering to take a breath – or, rather, he finally allowed himself to release some of the pressure off his chest. "And the baby?"
The droid's arms hung dreadfully at its sides. "...I'm sorry."
A clinging guilt sticks to his flesh, a flesh he now wishes did burn off. He didn't think about the consequences for an unborn life when he embarked on this journey.
He didn't know the baby. The thought of the baby represented a future he idolized but it did not ferment a familiarity. His wife, however, felt the baby close to her everyday. Her heart, her mind, her body was woven into this soulful connection. She not only knew the very essence of the baby, they were one.
Anakin became quiet, trying to develop his own criterion in which to place this feeling. A burial, a memoir, it didn't matter where he stored the heartache. Everything will change when he sees Padme. Either way their relationship is stifled and he recognizes that. In this moment, he must become brutally honest with himself. He must open up before he can commemorate. First to acknowledge and then to accept that when they lay the baby to rest, a part of Padme will die with it.
But, for now, he takes some comfort in the fact that she is at least alive.
"Hey..." Anakin peered through the door, checking on Padme.
She lied on the bed as though her body had become one with it. Her face was awash with grief. A descent of awareness as her surroundings drop from her memory. They shrivel up and she closes her eyes to let them go willingly. But his presence hovering over her kept her awake.
"It was a boy." She muttered, practically to herself.
"I heard." He sat beside her on the bed. His knuckles softly grazed her cheek in tender rhythms.
"He had your eyes. . .and a birth mark on his side." Her glazed-over eyes pictured the silent image of her baby, looking peaceful as if he was simply asleep. It brought her to tears – tears she quickly shuffled to the back of her mind. "The doctor said it was his twin from another lifetime."
Anakin's head drooped. "I'm so sorry, Padme."
A tear streamed down his cheek, evoking her own to finally fall. He bent down to kiss her forehead, wanting to be close to her, to seek refuge in one another. His hand brushes her hair out of her eyes, sharing in remorse, embracing defeat. He longed to take away her pain in the hope that she'd return the favour. She succumbed to his touch as she wept.
Feeling responsible for her frailty, he traced kisses down her cheeks, wanting to combine his soul with hers to feel whole. His lips brushed against hers and, for a moment, she is submissive to his fervor and repentance. Until his tongue enters her mouth, demanding closeness with a desperation that reminds her just how far apart they really are.
"No." She turned away from him, leaving his lips unsated.
A rush of anxiety floods his features as his eyes searched hers, dreading the separation of an impassioned touch.
"Tell me the truth." She pleaded. Her eyes, her soul, no longer the embodiment of tremendous rapture for life but the death of it now. Dark clouds pull at her eyelids, she can barely find the courage to reveal one last broken prayer. "Just. . .tell me the truth."
With his hands lingering either side of her, she could feel the trepidation he tried to camouflage. She watched his mouth intently, wondering whether he would give her relief or surrender whatever demons flowed through him. But she clung onto one last beacon of hope, that the darkness he struggled with had no correlation to the darkness of this night. This fall from grace was strictly a war of the mind.
"Did you kill them?" Her voice was stern, hiding her weakness as she folds all her cards in search of one last shard of honesty. Her body was giving up but she mustered all the strength she could to speak clearly. No cracks, no stutter, no uneven cadence. But the answer was no answer at all. His face warped with desolation, soft eyes looking for their place in a hardened, icy reality. The silence compelled her to see the dust has settled. No winds of emotion can torpedo the truth.
She closed her eyes, giving into the tears that threatened her. "Even the children...?" She could barely stomach the words that left her mouth.
"Padme–" He implored her to look at him, trying to swim against the waves of rejection, abandonment, the severing of connection. But she shook her head hopelessly and got out the other side of the bed.
"You took the life of a child. . .while I was carrying yours." She sobbed, disgust crinkling the corners of her eyes. She places a hand over her heart squirming in her chest. "And then you came home right after and kissed me and touched me like nothing happened!"
"Just let me explain." He got up and ran to her side. His hands begging for atonement as they gather her.
She wriggled out of his arms. Her voice quivering with confused despair, "I need you to leave."
"Padme, come on." He pleaded with urgency, reaching for her again.
"No!" She shoved him off, "Either you leave or I will."
"Padme, you can't–"
He chased her to the door. She looked down as he plastered his hand onto hers once it landed on the door handle.
"Let go of me!" She yelled as he spun her around to face him. His fingers tightly grip her shoulders, not knowing his own strength in moments of desperation. She cried out, her body twisting in sinuous motions in an attempt to break free. The room, the floor they stood on, the air between them, all echo the screams of perpetual failure. Pain and sadness are doomed to prevail. Deceit, treachery is all they have been reduced to. She mourns for the life of her child, a shattered future, an innocence corrupted, and the person responsible, her lover.
There is no direction left to follow, both sides of the blade are sharp points, she is stabbed invariably.
"Padme, listen to me!" He said forcefully. His adamance to deny the severity of his actions made her certain that they cannot wind up on the same side of the door and expect to find peace. With all her might, she escaped his violent clutches but the sheer momentum she evoked to do so resulted in her lunging towards the bedside table. Her head hit the sharp corner and her body was thrown to the floor.
Anakin panicked, rushing over to her. He lifted up her head and gasped in terror at his hand now covered in her blood.
Nurses and doctors rush in, the chatter in and out of his head is deafening. It is so loud, it has become silent. He is screaming at them as they pry Padme out of his arms. It was all a big, destructive blur and he became numb. He feels hands on him, stretching his clothes, picking him up from the floor. He despises the lack of clarity. Imagination is cruel––or is it reality?
His head now rests on a gurney. He can barely lift it up. What have they done to me? He looks down at his hands, rattling the restraints on his wrists.
What is happening?!
"What the hell was that?" Vader roared, sitting across from Sir Phren, hyperventilating. His sinister breaths, smoky drawn out rasps.
"Fate." The philosopher interlaced his tied hands as they rest on his knees. "She still dies. . .by your hand... And you still end up a prisoner. That is until the Emperor bails you out. But, nevertheless, a prisoner."
"Well, go back and fix it!"
"You asked to come back. Perhaps you now see the danger of manipulating the Force."
Vader lunged across the table, his metal hand wrapped around Phren's neck. "Listen here. We don't have time for you to cry over the debauching of your morality. Now help me find a way to bring her back alive."
"Why?" Phren wheezed, a cacophony of croaks, until Vader released him. Steadying his breath, Phren bit back, "Why would you want to? She doesn't want you to! I witnessed the same scenario as you. She won't forgive your crimes."
Vader sneered, "Bold of you to speak to me like that."
"Threats of death don't scare me, my Lord." The way he spoke of Vader's title, a mockery to some. But Vader liked witnessing a man with a daring boldness in his eyes, an audacity. It was a refreshing change from those who carry all their shame, inferiority, and fear on their backs, waiting for Vader to put them out of their misery.
"I know. And I don't want you dead." Vader leaned back in his chair. His tone, now, relaxed, omniscient, a mystery. "But I can make you wish you were."
"Alright." Phren accepted, knowing there was no two ways about it. His volition is dominated until Vader has no further use for him. You didn't have to know Vader personally to know there's a culture to adhere to if you are taken in by the Empire. If you want his respect or clemency, don't expect it to be sequential, gradual, or chronological. It can take days, twists and turns... and it may never come. Vader could smell fear and desperation – it takes one to know one.
"It is not where you go on your journey to save her, it is who goes." Phren informed, aiming his bow and arrow of resilience right at Vader, determined to never buckle under – even if he has to perform an unsavory act in exchange for his freedom. He may have to do what the Sith asks but he doesn't have to like it. And he will not bury his pride or his beliefs – in hopes that the Force will grant him salvation. "You are selfish. And your selfishness is no longer rational. Your hedonistic existence has taken over your quest for pure love. You want what you want whether it's good for the people you love or not. In both your dreams and reality, you have proven that you'd rather her be dead than leave you."
Vader had almost forgotten that Phren had a gift. The philosopher could read the signs, the symbols, the motifs behind everyone's suffering, enthusiasm, and interests. He divulges constellations, using your layers, cells, and pain to discover your deepest desires, a crusade to rescue you. But what Vader was asking of him was far from an innocent force power.
"I'm doing this for her." Vader stated clearly, slowly.
Phren's eyes squinted, fettered by a sea of confusion. "You really believe that..."
And the philosopher couldn't help but chuckle. It was depressingly poetic. "My sympathies."
Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name
But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game
Sympathy For The Devil - The Rolling Stones