Happy belated May the Fourth! Below, please find an Anidala writing challenge from a friend. If you like this, I realize it is very similar to my Beauty and the Beast story, 'Prima Nocte." Title comes from the notion that Padmé is "unveiling" her groom; in this version, she didn't die after Mustafar and, instead, went into hiding with the twins, fully believing Anakin to be dead. This story takes place around 16 years after the Empire's rise.
They had never been alone together. Not since…
Padmé swallows, feeling a phantom ache around her throat. Best not to indulge that thought.
They had not been alone…
For all the power she wields, as the last of the Rebellion's leaders files from the conference room, General Padmé Amidala feels a flutter inside her chest, nervous and flittering at the sudden intimacy provided by the hiss of a sealed door, isolating her with the room's sole remaining occupant.
He has not moved. Nor given any sign that he might want to. The mask is blank. Much like the rest of him. Were it not for the name and the blood which she so meticulously tested and retested, even she, who had borne him his children, would think him a stranger. There is nothing familiar. Not in his shape and certainly not in his manner. Where her husband had been an inferno, he is a blizzard, and a part of her cannot help but shiver at the chill.
He stands before her. A hulking mass, far taller than Anakin Skywalker had once been. Metal and wires. Hard edges where once had been soft flesh. And somehow, she can tell that he peers down at her from behind those black lenses. It is no accident that he lingers.
It has been three months. Three months since he'd shown up half-dead at the Rebellion's doorstep, claiming sanctuary under her sigil. She'd raged to learn that he had discovered the closely-guarded secret of her survival, even more so that he had stolen her crest and played it like a trump card.
After much consternation, the Rebel medics had reluctantly intervened to stabilize him on the outside chance that he was telling the truth.
In hindsight, Padmé could not have been more grateful that they had—upon seeing his DNA compared with that of her own children, Padmé had thought it was a trick. But upon testing and retesting. The impossible had been confirmed. Anakin was alive. Her husband was alive.
And now, here he is, before her in her conference room. So near and yet so far. An asset to the Rebellion and an ally at her side, but to her, now a silent and fearsome stranger. He terrified her Rebels, and was mostly given wide berth by all except those who were forced by necessity to work with him on matters of intelligence.
"Lord Vader," she intones quietly. "It seems we are long overdue for a private conversation. Would you be amenable to our adjourning for such a discussion?"
"If you wish an audience with me, then so be it."
She hesitates.
"Perhaps I have been unclear, I am not asking for an audience. I am merely suggesting that it is time we spoke to one another without formalities and prying eyes. That we should see one another face to face…as husband and wife."
For the first time, she sees a hint of emotion in the tilt of the cyborg's helm.
"I am afraid that is not possible."
"And why not? You are still my husband."
She might have imagined it, but it is almost as if a note of disbelief hangs in the air around him.
"Your husband, as you knew him, is dead, General Amidala. I would suggest you come to terms with that fact."
"You lie. He lives. My husband is right in front of me." She snaps, closing the distance between them to stare up into the mask, searching for the gaze she knows is there. "My husband is alive, and while I have endeavored to respect your wish to keep your identity discrete, I am tired of pretending otherwise."
"It is time for you find someone else to warm your bed, General. I am not capable." He responds tonelessly, turning away from her, the vocoder booming inside the closed space.
An ordinary person might've trembled before him. But not her. Not the former queen of Naboo.
"And I do not care," she growls, her voice tight with controlled fury. "You will speak to me, face to face, husband to wife." She repeats, warning creeping into her voice. Her eyes are ice, and her tone is stone. She will tolerate no debate. No attempts at evasion.
She knows it, and so does he.
"General, I…" There is hesitation there. A rare thing to see from the infamous Sith. "If this is your sincere wish, then perhaps—Perhaps I would be better equipped to have your 'face to face' conversation were we to retire to my quarters."
She eyes him, but bows in ascension with practiced grace. "Very well. Then lead on." It is a reasonable request, albeit surprising. To her knowledge, he has never allowed her nor anyone else in his quarters, except for those required to check up on him as part of his probationary period with the Rebels.
They exit the conference room together. Her first and him second. As they walk, their steps unconsciously fall into rhythm with one another; even so, hers are drowned out by the thunderous steps that echo ominously in the hallways.
Once, he might have frightened her, but war has hardened the former queen. He was among the least frightening things she'd seen since the rise of the Empire.
Vader's quarters are distinct and distinguishable based on the hermetic seal that isolates them from the rest of the Rebel base. Unlike the doors that greet the entrance of any officer's quarters, Vader's are more like the hatch of a submarine, closing behind them with a hiss of sterile air.
She coughs as a blast of antiseptic spray showers them, leaving a fine mist in the air as low blue lights flicker to life.
His chambers are dark and sterile. Quiet like a morgue.
They are devoid of decoration except for one small holo with two smiling brunets, a boy and a girl in their mid-teens. They are far away from here. Safe and sound under the watchful care of Beru and Owen Lars. Padmé had been with them until they were five years of age, at which point, she'd left them in the Lars's care. Though she frequently visits the children, the Rebellion needs her and the twins are better off without being put in harms way.
"I didn't know if you'd kept it…" She muses aloud gesturing to the holo, a sad smile creeping up the corner of her mouth. She wishes things had been different. She wishes they'd been a family...
As is often the case, he does not respond to her observations. Instead, he turns away from her, his back and the armor-weave cape stretching into an empty wall.
"Surely, the Rebellion has not outfitted this room..." she remarks, attempting to draw his attention. "I doubt anyone is capable of building anything so intricate…."
"I have constructed it to suit my own needs," he responds curtly.
The gaze of the helm rests on the opaque sarcophagus in the center of the room, churning with clear viscous bacta. Beside it sits a table that has almost assuredly been appropriated as a makeshift operating theater. A veritable jungle of wires grow like vines above it, dangling from where they wait to embrace the chamber's occupant.
"…enough with these silly games. Take off that mask. Let me see you. Let me speak with you."
She steps toward him and reaches for the helm, only to be stopped as he spins around suddenly, his hands grabbing stiffly for her wrists. The roughness of his grip surprises her, but only then does she remember. Prosthetics. She knows they are prosthetics but she still pictures those hands as they had once been, soft and supple against her skin.
"No."
Her eyes flash with disappointment, her brow furrowing as she searches for sentiment behind the blank metal, confused by the suddenness of his refusal. She had thought she had made clear to him that she wanted to see him without such barriers between them…
"It does not—It does not come off that way," he says at last, seemingly softening his volume, though the vocoder remains as monotone as ever.
"Then show me how to remove it."
As she watches expectantly, he turns with slow ponderous steps toward the harness array dangling from the ceiling above. At the press of a button, the array begins to descend, and to Padmé's horror, graspers and clamps extend to latch onto various pieces of the armor, unsealing them with a hissing noise.
"You wanted to see me." The vocoder growls. "Then you will see me as I really am."
She can only stand frozen as two cables latch onto his back, like striking serpents, supporting his weight in a standing position as the armor peals away. A dripping noise draws her attention, and, as she looks, she sees rivulets of blood trickling off the armor, splattering on the floor beneath her feet.
With a gasp, she lifts her gaze to watch in horror as the helm is peeled away to reveal a white-scarred face beneath, sharp needles retracting and leaving track marks in their wake along his scalp.
"Anakin…" She whispers, fighting back the tears threatening to well up in her eyes as her gaze rests on scored and twisted chunks of tissue. There is muscle there, something recognizably human, but it is twisted and mottled nearly beyond recognition.
Of course, in her mind, she'd known the extent of his injuries, she'd pictured what she might see beneath the armor. But picturing it was nothing compared to witnessing it, to seeing where the prosthetics jutted brutally into his thighs and biceps, twisted and screwed into his very bones. She searches. She searches for that body that she once knew like it was her own. That body she'd once peppered with kisses. Instead, she sees only death and destruction, the shape of his loins, his navel, his chest, obliterated into a pale twisted mass.
As her gaze rises, she meets yellow eyes that glower down at her with an inscrutable expression. There is defiance there as if he intends to mock her with the sight of him. He stands before her, stripped down to the barest components of the life-support system. Naked and raw, the vestiges of his humanity just short of being burnt away.
His throat bobs and moves, but it takes a moment for her to realize the hissing noise she hears is the rasp of half-formed words…
"…say it, now…say that …I…am…your…h-husband…."
She meets his eyes and stares. Stares deep into the yellow irises that had once been as blue as the little button flowers that grew wild on Naboo. For so long after Mustafar, she had wanted to hate him. But somehow she never could. Palpatine had both convinced him that she would die and also that the Sith were the key to saving her. Rightly or wrongly, his fear for her was the reason for his downfall.
Of course, the Emperor had done nothing but make attempts on her life ever since the rise of the Empire. Even so, Palpatine had been sloppy. He had not thought to learn the identity of the mysterious Rebel General who so often vexed his best-laid plans.
Her survival was the reason for Anakin's defection, Palpatine's fatal mistake that had led Anakin back to her side.
He had wanted to save her. That was all. And when she'd accepted him into the ranks of the Rebellion, despite the advice of her wisest counselors, hadn't that been all she'd wanted as well? To save him? To bring him home?
"…go on…" he goads, coughing as he takes a threatening step toward her. "…tell me that this…monstrosity… is your h-husband…."
There is a tremble in his jaw as he looks down at her. And it is then she sees it. The fear behind his challenging gaze, but even deeper than that fear, a spark of hope, a flicker of blue, of light inside a cavern. Nearly extinguished but still there. Still burning.
If only she could manage to kindle that flame…
"You are my husband." She whispers, swallowing hard as her fingertips extend toward the bare mechanical digits hanging limply at his side.
He flinches, his eyes widening, bewildered, drawing her gaze to the deep wounds scored across his cheek, the keloidal ridges carved along the cap of his skull. Even after all these years, they are still half-healed, flecks of blood oozing from where the helm's neural needles have been pealed out…
"Oh, Anakin…you must be in such pain…" Her voice breaks as tears well up, glazing over her vision.
Her fingertips brush over his prosthetic ones as she draws nearer, closing the distance between them.
"Padmé…?" He wheezes, glancing down in shock at her fingers gingerly touching his own.
And in that one word, at last, she finds a trace familiarity, the broken hope of the boy who'd once whispered 'you love me?' with such awe-struck reverence. The same terrified joy with which he'd spun her around upon learning she was with child.
"Shh…don't speak…your poor voice…" She hushes, a tear spilling over her cheek as she looks up into the wide frightened eyes of one of the most feared men in the galaxy. A sob bubbles up in her throat. She had not thought she would ever see him again. And now, even like this, even after all he has done, all Padmé can feel for him is love.
"…just…just let me hold you." Padmé croaks, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around his naked waist, the smell of blood filling the air. A moment passes, then several more, until she feels the metal arms shift to rest around her shoulders, holding her gingerly against the hard metal embedded in his abdomen as red stains smear into the sleeves of her uniform.
He is trembling, convulsing with a soft gasping sound. After several moments, she realizes he is slumping onto her, even in the oxygen-rich air, the prosthetic limbs wobbling beneath him.
"…you don't need to stand, my love…" She murmurs, allowing her own knees to buckle as they sink to the floor, his metal joints striking the steel paneling with a dull and hollow sound, the mess of harnessing slouching down with him.
He has killed so many people, and butchered them without remorse. He has filled graveyards. Graveyards she has visited, and been the cause of eulogies she has given. Stories of his brutality and cruelty are known throughout the galaxy, as whole people groups have been extinguished at the word of his Emperor. He is Darth Vader, the Emperor's Fist. But he is also her husband, crippled and broken, brought to his knees by her embrace. It is unfair that he still alive. It is unjust. But it is what it is. And she would still gladly kill anyone who threatened to take his life.
She looks up at him as he moans a word that sounds like her name, and is shocked to see his eyes have shifted from a sickening yellow, to a greenish shade of blue.
"…It really is you…isn't it Ani…?" She whispers and is rewarded as his irises light up at the endearment.
"Ani…my Ani…" She breathes, again, leaning forward to brush her lips over his own. For a moment, his eyes squeeze shut, and then open again, raw with wonderment. Even as he pants for air, she leans forward once more, this time closing her own eyes and capturing his lips in a show of passion.
To her own joy, this time, he responds, his mouth working against hers with the same fervor she remembers, the familiar taste of his lips intermingling with the tears flowing from beneath her eyelids. She groans as the joints of his durasteel fingers slide lower, cupping and caressing her with comforting strokes that she remembers from another life.
Before she quite knows it, they are lying on the ground, her body intertwined with the steel and flesh of his limbs as she presses careful kisses around the wounds that litter his body.
She moves down his collarbone and then to his breast, her heart soaring as he moans and shivers with pleasure. Her touches trail lower and lower as his prosthetic hands wander pleasantly over the curves of her own body until—
"Padmé…stop…" He whimpers as her lips graze over his stomach, moving down toward the curve of his hipbones. "I don't…I can't…"
"Did I hurt you?" She asks quickly, sitting up and lifting her gaze to meet his.
He shakes his head, his eyes glancing down the ruin of his body toward the barren space between his thighs.
"Oh, my love…" she murmurs in realization, lowering her lips to place one final kiss on a scar on his lower belly. "How could you think I would care?" she mumbles into his skin, slowly lifting her head to meet his eyes.
His breathing is deteriorating, and the scared look in his eyes is almost assuredly making things worse. Best not to push him too much, not right now. As with war, sometimes it is necessary to withdraw the offensive.
"I'll stop," she promises, reaching up to cup his cheek, "but, in time, I swear, I will find a way to give you pleasure again."
He falls silent, but his eyes widen and soften with awe as she crawls back up into his embrace, resting her head on the swell of his bicep as he pulls her closer to his chest. Though she is unsure if he is able to cry, he is still shaking, using up air, and making quick panting noises that she thinks might be his body's poor attempt at weeping. Soon enough, he'll need the respirator, his breathing has already grown all too ragged. But for just this moment, she is a wife pillowed in her husband's embrace, nothing more, and nothing less.
"We're going to be okay, Ani…" She whispers into his heaving collarbone. "We're going to be okay."
And, now that they are together, somehow, deep down, she knows they will be.
Reviews don't require registration! Tell me if you liked any of the particular phrases, sentences, etc. Again, yes, very similar to Prima Nocte.