Part XI
Mercifully, the twins sleep soundly when they do sleep. Her husband is almost there himself when she whispers, "What happened?"
Groggily, Anakin opens one eye, and she thinks he settles himself more comfortably into the mattress, but it could just be a remembering shudder.
"I killed him."
She doesn't ask who, doesn't need to. The answer circles them in the dark. Instead, she snuggles closer, laying her head on his heart to let him know she's still there.
Anakin inhales slowly. "You tried to stop me," he starts, "and…" His exhalation quakes beneath her ear. Padmé raises her head to see terror, rage, resolve, relief, and love etched in cerulean. She nods encouragingly, her fingers catching each emotion spilling over his cheeks,
"Tell me."
And he does.
He tells her of a scheme she had never known, machinations and planning in the works behind their own. How the Jedi had set a trap for the Emperor even as he had hung a noose for her. How Lyra and Jyn were taken into protective custody and Anakin had begged his brethren to take her as well. How Galen's "betrayal" had been carefully leaked to cast doubt on the rumors surrounding her own. How Palpatine had taken the bait, summoning her as a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter to ensure Anakin's fall. How the second she had tried to interfere with Anakin and the Jedi had revealed themselves too soon, Palpatine had thrown her against the wall.
Anakin can barely make himself recall how narrowly she had missed being tossed out a window.
She remembers the ensuing chaos, and by her husband's description, it was indeed total chaos. Galen had been squirreled from the room, but the remaining Jedi - Anakin and Obi-Wan and Yoda and Mace and other names she doesn't know had had their hands full enacting their planned coup.
In the end, Anakin dealt the fatal blow. After all, no one threatens the wife of a Sith Lord and lives to see the next day.
It's a lot to process, and Anakin isn't done explaining.
She learns that she suffered a premature placental separation and that without Anakin's brazen life-Force transference, her glimpses of death would have likely been permanent. She also learns that Luke and Leia are the only biological children she'll ever have had the chance to carry.
"There was so much damage," Anakin tells her in gasping sobs. "They couldn't fix it. I'm so sorry, angel."
Her tears don't come at first. They wait until exhaustion claims her husband, sparing him her torrential grief.
In the weeks that follow, a galaxy heals.
But Lord Vader's ultimate deliverance of justice cannot prevent the calls for his own.
The injunctions come swiftly. The cries for reparations deplete every bit of goodwill, every favor, every appeasement and promise Padmé has left to give. The Jedi and other prominent leaders of the Rebellion testify on his defense, divulging secrets, uncovering his unknown good deeds, and disclosing classified communiques and documents.
Even then, the galaxy demands Anakin's soul.
"They can't have you!" she screams. "I won't let them."
Absolution arrives in an unlikely voice.
Calm and poised at the press conference podium, Mon Mothma begs for the witch hunt to stop.
"Just like the rest of us, Lord Vader was a pawn, abused, used and enslaved by an evil he eventually eradicated. His life will not restore those lost on Chandrila. Please do not put his blood on their hands."
Padmé can barely see the holoscreen through her tears.
Mon Mothma declines the Chancellorship nomination due to her commitments to Chandrila's diaspora. The name that follows in her stead shocks no one, even if his choice of Vice does.
"They want leaders from planets without military might," Bail explains.
Padmé considers the sentiment, a devilish glint coming to her eye. "But Naboo has a standing army," she argues.
Not used to being wrong, Bail frowns. "I don't understand," he begins. "Since when does Naboo have a standing army?"
With a sly look over her shoulder at her ever-present shadow, Padmé exchanges a conspiratorial grin with Anakin. "See for yourself; he's standing right here."
Bail's eyes dart between them, but the twinkle that had faltered returns, rising to her challenge.
"Well, my dear, when you decide to accept my request," he replies cavalierly as if her acceptance is foretold, then grinning wickedly adds, "what name would you prefer on the ballot?"
Senator Skywalker.
Lady Vader.
Hero. Traitor. Both.
Padmé grins back, just as wickedly.
"What do you think?"