Standing in the cockpit, staring out at the bluish blurs of hyperspace, Padmé delayed the inevitable.

She hadn't asked Obi-Wan what exactly had happened to Anakin, nor had Obi-Wan volunteered any information on the subject. Certain assumptions could be made, of course. After she had lost consciousness, there had presumably been a fight. Obi-Wan had survived. Did that mean that Anakin—had not? She could hardly envision Obi-Wan taking the life of the man he had half-raised, instructed for ten years, and from all appearances considered a close friend, if also a not-infrequent cause of exasperation. Perhaps he had temporarily incapacitated him. Yet… the Jedi Master was so strongly driven by duty, and perhaps he would have viewed it as his duty to eliminate the one who had betrayed and aided in the decimation of his Order. Driven by duty…. The Rako Hardeen incident sprang to mind. Duty. Was there a limit to what he would do in the name of duty?

She did not want to find out. If she did not know, then Anakin was alive, somewhere, and there was a chance—just the slimmest hair of a chance, but a chance nonetheless—that he would come back to her, to them, and they could all figure out a way to make this nightmare end, or at least prevent further damage.

Something in her coiled up in revulsion at the idea. He's gone—you know he's gone—maybe not dead, but gone, without a doubt. Could you ever see or think of him again without seeing the atrocities? Frankly, she was a little afraid of the answer to that. Maybe more than a little.

And so she had delayed, telling herself at first that she should rest a bit before asking, then that she shouldn't trouble Obi-Wan by speaking of it, and finally that it could wait until they had made plans for leaving Polis Massa. They had left half a standard day after choosing Tatooine as their intended refuge, and now, just hours out from the planet, Padmé had yet to ask the dreaded question.

"Obi-Wan."

He must have suspected what she was about to ask, because he looked up from the controls and warily asked, "Yes?"

She didn't want to continue, she didn't want to know. Limbo was somehow infinitely preferable to both the finality and sorrow of one answer and the utter uncertainty of the other—but it was no way to live. A person could only go on with their life if they knew what they were going on from.

"What… what happened? Back on Mustafar?"

His face contorted, and he replied hollowly, "I can't tell you."

It wasn't prevarication; he seemed physically unable to bring himself to speak of whatever had happened, or whatever he had done.

"No details," she said. "Just—did he survive?"

Obi-Wan's silence was answer enough, and Padmé gave a shaky sigh as she sat down in the copilot's seat, the streaks of hyperspace growing wavy before her eyes despite her best efforts to keep back tears.

"There was still good in him." It wasn't exactly her most articulate sentence. What she meant was that he had still had the capacity for good, if he had chosen it—but she was emotionally exhausted, sore, and tired from several nights with twin babies who had little interest in sleeping through the night. Everything was too much, and she simply did not have the energy or the will to express herself more clearly.

"That isn't possible. The dark side is corrupting, all-consuming, and Falling is irreversible."

"How can you believe that?" she asked. What about the strength of the sentient will?

"It is what we were taught from the creche."

She wanted to say that it seemed like a very limited view but stopped herself. Arguing wouldn't help anything at this point, and perhaps the Jedi needed to cling to the belief of darkness as unconquerable, for if he allowed himself to think otherwise, then it would mean that whatever awful thing he had done might have been unnecessary. His haggard appearance certainly suggested that a belief in the necessity of his actions was the only thing that allowed him to keep going.

Instead of arguing, she merely buried her face in her hands and wondered when it had all gone wrong, trying to ignore the little voice whispering in the back of her mind that it had all been wrong from the start.

"Padmé, it could take hours or more to learn where the Lars are, once we get to Tatooine. You should get some rest."

"I could say the same thing to you."

"I am—"

"Used to not sleeping enough? I've heard," she said tartly, then continued in a gentler tone, "You've been pacing the ship in the middle of the sleeping cycle every day we've been in space. How long can you run on nothing?"

He didn't actually know the answer to that, although sometimes it felt like nothing was all he ever ran on, so he answered, "Too long, in all likelihood."

Padmé sighed again. "Going on nothing is easier than having nothing going on in your mind but regret."

She rose and started out of the cockpit, heading for the small galley, where she set water to heating and dug out a box of tea leaves and two cups. It was good to have something active to do, even for just a few moments. Every time attempt at rest only freed her mind to think over the last few days, so that she was almost desperate to be doing something, planning, thinking of anything else.

As a senator, she had been almost constantly busy, drafting speeches or researching or working with various committees. Just a week ago, she had longed for a break, a few days where she wouldn't be required to do anything even remotely useful. Now, she would give anything—no, she would give much to be busy once more.

Unfortunately, it seemed that all options for busyness had been exhausted. Removing the embellishments from the plainest of the dresses on her ship had been the occupation of only a few hours. She had scanned the holonet for news of the galaxy, but it appeared that one of the first institutions to be affected by the transition from Republic to Empire had been the press, for most news was already laden with propaganda, and anything remotely seditious was removed within hours, if not minutes. Only a few days into this Imperial era, and already the majority of journalism was censored. But then, what else would one expect from an apparent Sith lord who had been plotting galactic domination for stars knew how long?

She had also commed Sabé several times without reply, which only distracted her from the hell of her own thoughts by giving her something else to worry about. Had Sabé and the other Handmaidens come under suspicion from their connection to her? Had they been singled out by Palpatine as she had?

Even something as simple as preparing the tea was a welcome occupation, and if she was a little more attentive in measuring the water and the leaves than was necessary for a decent brew—well, excessive focus on her task was one way to buy a few more moments of distraction.

Returning to the cockpit, Padmé handed one cup to Obi-Wan, who accepted it with quiet thanks. A few minutes later, as the ship dropped out of hyperspace and the dusty tan sphere that was Tatooine loomed in front of them, she raised her own half-empty cup in an ironic toast.

"To a new future."

The air of Mos Eisley was thick with the smell of cantina food and the squabbles of commerce, of voices rising and falling as their owners haggled over prices on food, machine parts, spice, even water—and sometimes, slaves. Padmé wanted to cover Luke and Leia's ears to shelter them from the world they had entered, even though she knew they could not yet understand the conversations.

Shady characters lounged outside shadier bars, cantinas, and shops of various descriptions. A few children played in and along the streets, some of them chasing a harried mouse droid. They nearly caused multiple speeder accidents just in the time that it took for the refugee quintet to traverse half the length of the street, and she tried not to think of another reckless desert child, or of the young man he had become. Or the monster.

They had landed in Mos Eisley and disembarked from the ship into the heat of the desert midday, Padmé carrying both twins and Artoo bringing up the rear behind her and Obi-Wan. They blended easily into the streets of the city, just another drab addition to the assorted dregs of sentiency. Obi-Wan had drawn up the hood of his cloak, but in a city where most of the residents seemed to be smugglers, bounty hunters, or wanted fugitives, no one even gave him a second glance, while Padmé's unadorned dress and simple braid made her an unlikely target for attention.

After fruitless inquiries after the Lars in several establishments, they at last entered a cantina where one of the patrons happened to be acquainted with the family.

"Cliegg Lars? Died awhile back."

"What about his son?"

"Owen? Still out at the farm, him and Beru." The woman narrowed her eyes at them. "Say, what's this—what do you want with the Lars? They're good people, and if you're lookin' for trouble—"

"We're not," Padmé broke in. "We're family. I'm Owen's sister-in-law."

"Oh? Don't recall as Cliegg had any other kids."

"No, his wife, Shmi—she did."

"Ohh, yeah—heard something about her boy, won his freedom in a pod race or something like that, years back. You his wife?"

"I was."

The woman reached up and patted her on the arm. "Owen and Beru live out by Anchorhead. Like I said, they're good people. He's quiet, but she'll take to you real quick, most likely, and the little ones, too." She sketched a map on a bit of flimsy and tucked it into Obi-Wan's hand, since both of Padmé's were full of infant. "Ask in Anchorhead if you get lost, someone'll know 'em."

They thanked her and returned to the ship with only one minor incident along the way, involving Artoo, a string of highly uncomplimentary binary, and a couple of lightly fried Jawas who had taken a trifle too much interest in the astromech. Artoo was still uttering a few of what were clearly invectives as they entered the ship and began the flight to the Lars farm. He seemed more than ordinarily worked up over the incident. Padmé wondered whether he, too, was still processing the past several days, and whether the Jawas had been a welcome distraction. The days ahead would likely contain few distractions and little to keep an astromech occupied, particularly one accustomed to daring [reckless] maneuvers on the front lines. They could shut him down for the time being, but that seemed inhumane, especially as he would restart to the knowledge of all that had occurred. She hated waking up every day and finding that the nightmare had not ended, and would not inflict the same on Artoo.

The astromech let out another irritated beep, and an idea suggested itself.

"Artoo, we're both going to need something to do."

Questioning warble.

"Work helps, you know. I'd like to be able to understand you. Would you be willing to teach me?"

Affirmative-sounding beep.

"Thank you." She nudged his dome gently with her elbow, since both hands were still full with the twins. Leia gave a small complaint at the jostling, and then, since she was now awake, proceeded to make a distinctly imperious sound—less harsh than a scream, but more commanding than a coo. It was a sound which both Padmé and Obi-Wan had already learned meant, "Walk me."

"Well," Padmé remarked, "someone's a princess, isn't she?" But she began to pace slowly within the confines of the cockpit. Leia cooed in satisfaction, and her mother smiled.

"I shouldn't have had you walk her," she said to Obi-Wan. "It seems to have given her ideas."

"Really? I think she would have developed those on her own, regardless."

Padmé did not refute it, though she did worry lest Leia's ideas would extend to indoor walks being insufficient, as the ship landed and its doors opened to let in the scorching heat once more.