AUTHOR'S NOTES: By popular demand, I give you an epilogue from Anakin's point of view.

The twins grow up as Anakin Skywalker grows old. It's funny, he thinks, he never thought he would grow old. Whether as a faltering Jedi or a simulacrum of a Sith, for various reasons, he has never believed in old age.

But still, it comes for him all the same.

Poor Leia, dear Leia, so very like him and so very not. She'd gone frantic after Ryloth. Making Luke send him to both surgeons and specialists alike in a vain effort to piece back together what had been broken even before she was born.

It touches him in ways he no longer knew he could be touched. To see how she cares for him in her own distant way. It is more than he ever expected. He deserves her hatred. He deserves her ire. Not her compassion. Not her forgiveness. Not the benefit of her wealth.

His pains are as acute as ever, sharper in some cases, and yet, for the first time since he can remember, he is no longer suffering. He is in pain, but he does not suffer. The years are catching up to him, the long and weary wars, have come to exact their toll. He is in the autumn of his life, but the thought is gladdening not saddening. It has been a long and livid life. He is only grateful for some peace before the end.

The doctors and the specialists do help; he would be an ingrate to think otherwise. They ease the agony of breathing. Make comfortable the carcass of his frame. Improve his eyesight to where he can witness the twins' laughing faces as they train with one another.

It's funny how times change. The twins are teenagers now. No longer in need of his protection. They are too strong for him to spar without injury. Jaina is a model padawan, and Jacen harbors too much of his grandfather. Even so, Anakin no longer worries. The future remains in motion. And so does he. He loves the children and gives them all the guidance that he can. They do not know the truth, and, of course, they never will, at least, not the whole of it.

They are his grace and salvation from the Force, living embodiments of his atonement, and the proof that he was not doomed to relive the horrors of the past.

But to them, he is just the old battered Jedi who once rescued their mother. They will understand eventually that he is more than a beloved godfather; they'll understand in the way their bond with him will feel so different in the Force from that of any other. But not yet, not when they are both so young and inexperienced. Clouded are their destinies. But he is confident they can overcome.

Much later than his sister, Luke has had a family of his own. Anakin does not begrudge him the pleasures of his children. Though they live planet-side, they do not visit him often. Luke's wife, like Han, is privy to their secret. She accepts it, but even so, she doesn't exactly like his company, and Anakin understands. Still, he misses the joy of his son's presence.

Instead, it is Leia who eases his loneliness. Who journeys from New Alderaan to visit her children and to bring her father books and banter. When she makes the trek to his isolated residence, she always wears the japor snippet; it is a thoughtful gesture, even if it brings a temporary twinge of bittersweet pain. They walk together in his gardens and break bread in the simplicity of his hut.

It is a good life. One he has never deserved and never will. But it is the life his children desire him to lead. And in the end, how can he refuse them anything?

He has not harmed a soul since Ryloth. Has not raised a weapon in arms since he was called by another name in another life. He has spent too long as a tool of destruction. Now he seeks to be that rarer thing: a tool of peace.

Padmé would roll over in her grave to know that it is he who has tutored Leia on diplomacy and what her mother once called "aggressive negotiations." But he smiles with pride all the same whenever he sees her speeches echoing the subjects of their conversations. The Emperor's name was a cursed one, but his cunning mind was unrivaled, and even Anakin, fool though he had been, had learned a thing or two from his machinations. A lack of canniness had been Anakin's downfall, and it was a mistake he refused to allow his daughter to repeat.

There's a secret chest in the corner of his Spartan room; it is full of datachips, all of them full of news reports and publications detailing Leia's exploits and appearances. He'd started the collection at the end of the Rebellion when first he'd taken gasping breaths with new lungs in a Corellian surgical suite. Listening to Leia's speeches on the holo-net had been Luke's suggested distraction, and collecting them had eventually become a sentimental pastime.

He'd never mentioned the collection to Leia. He did not plan to, either. But over the years, he'd painstakingly cataloged it, knowing that after his death, it would be an invaluable resource for the inevitable memoir of her illustrious political career.

He is—dare he say it—happy. Contented. In spite of him, his children have flourished. And like them, so have his grandchildren. He no longer wants an Empire, now all he treasures is their embrace.

Leia is coming to see him tonight. He is cooking vegetable stew. It is a wonderfully domestic reward at the end of a violently destructive life. He does not deserve it. But as Luke has often said, he does not have to. It is a gift. One that was freely given by the Force. One he may choose or discard. But a gift all the same.

When Leia arrives, he will not tell her the latest test results about reduced lung capacity or the possible beginning signs of organ failure. He will omit the report of pre-cancerous cells and diminished cardio-resistance. He is not done. He will not be for some time yet. He'll live for today and wait to die on some indeterminate tomorrow. There's no reason to upset her prematurely.

She will have secretly pulled the records anyway. She does it every time. He pretends not to notice. She pretends not to know. Even if he's reasonably sure it's at least part of her reason for visiting, so long as he doesn't bring it up, then neither will she. Instead, she'll tell him of political intrigue, and he will respond with whatever useful insight he may provide. They'll dine on thick stew, coarse bread, and sweet apples, the taste a luxury to which has never quite been re-accustomed.

And, when the hour grows late, and she is placated by the wine he cannot drink, he will bid her goodnight, tell her he loves her, and how proud he is of her.

And then he will slip into his own bed, but he will not sleep, not just yet. Instead, he will relish the knowledge that his child rests beneath his roof, and he will lay there and listen, and when she has retired to the room next door, he will, at last, fall asleep to the sound of his daughter's soft snoring.

He has never told her—he doesn't need to—but she, along with the rest of his family, are his entire world.

And what a beautiful world it is.

Fin.

END NOTES: I am sad to tell this piece goodbye but grateful for everyone who has watched it with bated breath. As I mentioned before, I have now posted two other Vader-centric fics; if you enjoyed this, please check those out.