The end of this chapter is M-rated and is therefore posted separately. It is a one-shot titled 'The Blessed Marriage Bed.'
In saving Padmé's standing, he has sold his destructive might to High Command. Until that day, they had not trusted him beyond an advisory role. His status having been treated as purely probationary. However, they, it seems, have received all the confirmation of his "conversion" that they desire. Her star ascends among the Rebellion's leaders, their marriage having become something of an open secret. Those remaining under Padmé's command are broadly comfortable with the arrangement, having had firsthand confirmation of his devotion. In the end, he becomes just another Imperial defector. Albeit, the most terrifying one anyone has ever seen.
He wins several battles for the Rebellion; vindicating her and exonerating himself. It is what he is good for and it is what he has always known. His victories are a present made to his wife. But victory does not come easily.
When Anakin had left the Emperor, he had done so on terms that had implied, rightly or wrongly, that his intent was to amass an army of his own to challenge and kill his old Master, thus fulfilling the Rule of Two. Having, at last, found a place beside Padmé; it is his dearest preference that this misperception be maintained, if only for her safety; after all, the Rebellion is the last place Darth Sidious might think to find Darth Vader.
To preserve Sidious's ignorance as to the exact nature of his defection, Anakin does not reveal himself during the ground offensives; instead, he confines himself to tactical guidance and air engagement.
But there is another reason why he confines himself to the skies, one he hardly dares to admit, even to himself.
The new life support system, the white suit, is a drastic improvement over his previous circumstances. They have painted it in the colors of the Rebellion, and garish though it is, he finds that it is a fitting outward display of his inward allegiance to Padmé's cause. More importantly, the suit is, at least, less painful and less thoroughly cumbersome. Its respirator is vastly improved and quieted, softening his maddening, whining breaths into soft hisses, sufficiently subtle as to allow him to sleep for the first time in years. It is well-fitted and, unlike its predecessor, intended to minimize pain and injury to its occupant. Though Sidious had always maintained the torturous aspects were essential to Sith training, he has begun to suspect that such had been nothing more than a charade (contrary to Sith creed) to make him submit willfully to Sidious's weakening. But despite the suit's improvements, he does not return to full strength. He thinks perhaps he never will. It seems the shock of his near-death has taken something out of his body's reserves that no amount of healing can bring back. It is no real consequence to him. But he does worry for what it might mean for Padmé. He had made a promise to her. A promise that he would help her to clean up the destruction he has wrought.
So, for perhaps the first time in his life, he plays it safe.
In the wake of battle, he returns to his quarters. Alone. He had thought he'd gotten used to being lonely. And yet…He misses the unfeeling droids who never flinched at the sight of him. Who didn't tempt him to speak. Sometimes he even misses not knowing the faces of the children, whom he can never truly see. Who are only "his" in the most limited sense of paternity. This war must end for their sake, if not for the sake of their mother. But if he's not strong enough fight, then what good is he? What good is he?
Even when he deigns to leave the rooms, nobody speaks to him. Not truly. A few of the soldiers, including the one whose life he had saved, are glad to acknowledge his presence but beyond that, there is no one with whom he converses outside of a technical capacity. It is just the doctors, asking medical questions as they attempt to attenuate the life support system, attempting to correct the tremors that have developed in his servos. Sadly, he suspects it is not the suit, but the body within it, whose integrity is lacking.
Sitting bare-faced within his quarters, most of his armor threshed away to reveal the mechanics of his limbs, his arm shakes as attempts to lift a wrench from a tray table to try his own hand at correcting his movement issues, the fine motor control on which he had so long relied having been decimated. It is almost comedic. He has always been a warrior. And yet now, when that ability might at last be put into his wife's service, the might of his full ability eludes him. He feels something that is not quite rage but closer to despair burn inside his sternum. Can he not do this one thing? For her?
Anakin has not seen her for days. A week, perhaps. He had been called away as part of the offensive and she had been similarly preoccupied. He cannot help but think he has certainly punished her enough with gauche reminders of his ruin. It cannot be pleasant for her, to see him this way. They have not had any true privacy since before the initial attack. After that one lovely night he had begun to hope—he had begun to hope that maybe—
And yet, since that night, she has shown him compassion. Shown him kindness. But never desire. Never the ardency that had once left his knees trembling and his breath catching in his throat.
But how can he blame her? Much like his mind. His body is torn to pieces.
The Darkness has ravaged and defiled his flesh and his soul. He had given himself over to Darth Sidious, prostituting himself in betrayal of all that Padmé held dear. Such things cannot be undone. He can no longer please her—not the way a lover pleases, not the way her husband had pleased her when he had once been innocent and naïve, and wholly hers without blemish. He is a shell of a man, but he still loves her. He loves her with his whole heart, and, miraculously, she still cares for him, still honors the memory of the man he had once been, but fever dreams are far from reality, and memories of once pure love can only carry one so far. He can die a contented man for all the mercy and tenderness with which she has blessed him. He will take whatever she will offer, and hold her when she cries, advise her, defend her when he can. Die for her, if he must. But she will never again possess him. Want him. Love him. Trust him. Not as she once had.
Anakin tries once more to lift the wrench as his hand trembles, shakes, and then allows the metal to slip through his grasp. Hitting the floor with clang. He could call upon the Force whether Light or Dark, to float the errant tool back up into his grasp. But, constricted by the suit, no matter how much he wanted, he could not reach down with ease to bend over and pick it up.
As he stares at the wrench, resting tauntingly at his feet. He hears a sound that it takes him moments to realize has come from deep within his chest. A sharp gasping noise accompanied by a tingling warmth behind his eyes.
He misses Padmé. He misses the man he had once been.
Oh, Force. What has he done? What has he done? He is tired of life. Done with it many years over. Sidious would have punished him severely for such heresies to Sith philosophy but what is he except anathema to all the Force, the Light and Dark?
His chest begins to heave and the respirator increases its subtle hisses, pushing air into his gasping lungs. There is water on his face. Wet and salty. Trailing burns down his lips rubbed bare by the respirator.
Anakin's knees go weak as he allow himself to fall heavily into the one chair, the only bit of furniture with which he had furnished his medicalized chamber. A chair he had procured solely for Padmé's comfort.
And as he sits, he stares off into the distance, at the carefully kept holo of his children, letting hot droplets slide down his face, their flowing streams the only movement in the stinging emptiness.
Moments pass as he falls inward, his mind slipping habitually into a Sith's Dark meditation. He hardly notices the sound of his door sliding open until, with a blaze of Light, he feels a hand on his shoulder.
"Anakin…? Anakin, you were not answering my comms….Is everything okay?"
He starts and looks up, staring into Padmé's worried brown eyes.
Her expression shifts, and she gives a gasp, her gaze tracking the dried tears that have carved a course on his face. He does not answer her. Instead, he merely stares up at her, looks up at her living face and lets his heart thrum with grief for all the ways he has failed her until the pain becomes too much and he tears himself away from the sight.
The wrench still lies discarded on the floor and she tracks his gaze to where he eyes it. Her joints crack as she moves to pick it up, placing it gently back on the table beside him. She has aged too. The years have been kinder to her than to him. But they have both been punished by this war.
"I could not pick it up." He says hollowly. She looks confused for a moment, and then glances at the wrench, comprehension slowly dawning as he lifts one shaking arm. He can normally hide it but some part of him wants her to see, wants her to know how thoroughly he has let her down. "I cannot…" He trails off, swallowing down the words as concern dances over his face at the sight of trembling in his servos. "If I cannot—If I can—" He tries again and fails again. Unable to speak the words that die with the devastation he is sure is naked on his face.
"Have you told the doctors about this?" She asks gently. Her voice strained.
"Yes."
They lapse into heavy silence. His unwillingness to speak pregnant will all the meaning she needs to understand.
"Would you be willing to continue this in my quarters?" She asks softly, offering him a hand as if to help him up. He hates to admit that he might actually need it.
His body feels tired and heavy, but he nods all the same. Anything she asks. Anything to please her. He re-dons the mask, closes off the machinery, and follows her to her quarters. It is late at night. There are few in the hallways beyond the sentries posted in the corridors. No one raises an eyebrow at their companionship anymore. And yet he still finds himself hesitant. He does not deserve to walk so openly beside her.
Her rooms are practically barren and yet the Force thrums with her warmth such that the room almost seems to glow. There is a thick mattress in the center of the room. One that he notes with a stab of jealously is big enough for two. A part of him begins to wonder who it would have been meant to accommodate, but he quickly closes off that line of thought. Wordlessly, she steps past him, and he stares confused as she sits down on the edge of the bed, stripping off her boots and uniform.
As the door seals fully behind them, its locking mechanism clicking into place, he flinches, swiveling his head all around in surprise as the lights dim and the scent of antiseptic bursts into the air. There is a hissing noise as the indicators on his helm detect a sudden oxygen enrichment in the atmosphere.
"I had some modifications made. You should be able to breathe without the mask…" Padmé says softly, looking up with a nervous expression, letting the words and all their hidden meanings and implications hang like the oxygen in the air.
Almost in a trance, he reaches up for the mask and fumbles for a moment. He cannot tell if his hands tremble from the sudden hammering of his heart or the defect in their mechanism, but, after a second, she stands and steps toward him to assist, reaching up to disengage it herself.
They are face to face now. As if in a trance, he watches stiff and numb with shock as she gently helps him out of the rest of the armor, casting it aside until he is all but fully exposed.
When she is finished, she steps back and lies down on the bed before opening her arms toward him in a gesture that it takes him a moment to realize is an invitation.
"Lie down with me…?" She asks, her voice lilting. Hopeful. How can he refuse her? Hesitantly, he finds himself crawling gingerly into the bed beside her.
It is as if his mind suddenly catches up to reality, as he stares up into her eyes, her hair undone, her garments discarded. Her warm body inviting him into its embrace. Anakin feels her arms wrap around him, spooning his back as she pulls him flush against her body.
And he stiffens. She should not be here. He is not worthy of this…this kindness.
"Ani…" His heart sings at that name. It always sings at that name. He loves that she still calls by that sweet name! "Ani…" Her voice whispers in his ear. "You can relax. It's okay. Let me hold you. Please…." Her voice is almost plaintive.
Why does he suddenly feel so fragile? Like poorly tempered glass. Like he might shatter under her touch. His nerves are raw and tender. Eyes aching from his tears. His throat parched and dry. He has done unspeakable things. Awful. Disgusting. Horrendous things. And yet here he is, crawling out of his own skin, anguished by his wife's touch. He does not deserve her embrace. He deserves…He deserves…
He clenches a fist as he feels her kiss the swell of his shoulder. A part of him wants to scream at her that he should not be touched this way…that he should be torn apart…tortured…scorned…
And then she kisses him again.
And again.
And again.
His nerves electrify with something like pain and he presses shut his eyes. It is heaven and hell all at once. Her kindness is like rain on burned skin, painful and soothing at the same time.
"Do you know why I came to see you…?" She murmurs into his ear. He swallows hard and does not answer as her hand trails tenderly down the rough ridges of his back. "I came to ask if you would live here with me."
Without the vocabulator, his voice is already hoarse, but the sounds he makes now are so soft as to be barely heard.
"Why?" He tries to ask. Why would she want to exist like this, with dim lights and antiseptic air, just to live with a half-cripple?
"Because I need you, Anakin. Can you not see how much I need you?" Her cheeks grow damp and wet against his bare back as she speaks. "I never wanted anyone else. I never had anyone else. If you think I did, then you are wrong. I have been alone, all these years. Fighting to end this. Fighting to avenge you…" Her voice breaks.
He struggles to roll over, his heart fracturing at the sound of her tears.
"Oh, Padmé…Padmé…don't cry…" He rasps, looking up at her face, his eyes roaming over the streaks of silver in her hair, the lines the years have worn around her eyes.
He reaches up to run a hand through the edges of her hair, and he brushes away her tears, pulling her down to his chest so that she lays on top of him, her face pressed against his bosom. "I am alright…" She mumbles. Still, she stays there for several moments, as he feels the heat of her flesh burn against his. Their hearts beating against each other.
"I do not care if you never get any better than this…" She says, gesturing toward where his hand twitches as he strokes her hair, lifting her head to gaze into his eyes. "And I do not care what you have done. You are here now. And that is all that matters to me."
Suddenly, she leans forward and captures his ragged lips with her own, kissing him deeply and fiercely.
When she draws back, they are both breathless and panting. Baptized in one another's tears.
"Let us make love…" She begs softly. "Let me show you how much…how much I still love you…"
He swallows. Staring up at her. Suddenly as frightened as he'd been on their wedding night. Perhaps more so. For how can he be anything except a disappointment?
"Anakin…" She breathes. "Please…"
He considers as seconds pass, staring up at her. And then, after another moment, he reaches up and kisses her...
THE REST IS POSTED SEPARATELY AND RATED M FOR A REASON. YOU WILL NOT MISS PLOT IF YOU DON'T READ IT. Again, if you want to, go to my profile and you will see it rated M as "The Blessed Marriage Bed."