Beru was right, of course, and the following morning, as the brilliance of two suns flowed into the little bedroom, Padmé awoke feeling just a little more capable of dealing with everything the galaxy had thrown at her. The past was grim, the future bleak, but the present—she could handle that. And so she rose, washed and dressed rather mechanically, fed the twins, and made her way out to the kitchen, where Beru was already up and about, kneading an oddly blue-tinted ball of dough. Padmé watched, finding something comfortable in the steady rhythm, the quiet rasp of dough against the floured tabletop.
"I've never seen blue bread before," she observed. "It looks so exotic."
Beru laughed. "You're a Core worlder, you are."
"Mid-Rim!"
"What's the difference? This is the Outer Rim. We make do with what we have; bread needs liquid, or else it would be no more than a heap of dry flour and leavening and salt. We may not have much water to spare, but the banthas produce plenty of milk, and it works just as well. Besides," she added teasingly, "the blue color makes it easier to see when you need to brush the sand off. It really does find its way into everything, one way or another. You have to sift the flour if you don't want a little extra crunch in your bread."
Padmé had thought that she knew a decent amount about life on Tatooine, for a Mid-Rim Senator, but how quickly the gaping holes in her knowledge were revealed! Her social circles on Naboo and Coruscant had known nothing of blue bread, and Anakin had never told her—whether because he didn't consider it important, or because he preferred to avoid any discussion of his homeworld that was not absolutely necessary, she would never know.
Which was for the best, after all, she told herself fiercely. And so she returned Beru's teasing tone, though it took some effort. "What, do you hate sand, too?"
"Oh, not really. You get used to it, stop noticing it. It's just a part of life, like insects and bad holos and the rabble in Mos Eisley."
And the Empire? a cynical voice asked in the back of her mind.
That was it—she needed to talk to someone, learn more about the situation in the galaxy at large, and start making plans. She would try Bail first, of course, and if that failed, there was Mon, or Breha, or a number of other political allies—assuming that Palpatine hadn't taken such drastic steps toward silencing them as he had toward her. It was, disconcertingly, an assumption that she had no very firm grounds for making. It would hardly look that suspicious if most prominent members of the Delegation of Two Thousand were all killed by the traitorous Jedi, for hadn't the poor, foolish Two Thousand believed that the Jedi were on their side? Betrayed—martyred—a rallying point for the remainder of the Senate, an example of why the Empire was so desperately needed!
She felt ill at the very thought.
Her most drastic fears were proven false, however, when, a little later, she entered a comm code and the figure of Bail Organa appeared over her holoprojector.
"Bail," she said warmly. "It's good to see you."
The sight of her friend's relieved smile, even through the wavering blue of a holo that couldn't make up its mind as to whether or not to maintain the connection, was like a soft summer breeze on her homeworld, familiar and steady.
"Sabé said I should expect to hear from an old friend. I scarcely dared to hope it would be you. What happened?"
She related only the crucial information, and in broad terms—the birth of the twins, the attempt on her life, and the flight to an unnamed haven, finishing with, "And you say you've been in contact with Sabé?"
"Only once. She said that you had commed her, and that she could not reply without the risk of compromising the Revenant Plan. She didn't explain, but given the Imperial announcement of a funeral to be held for the noble Senator Amidala, so cruelly cut down before her time by the traitorous Jedi… and the fact of you being still very much alive…." Bail trailed off, with an arch countenance.
It was a simple plan: Padmé Amidala died, Sabé bore the sad news to her family, and off in a quiet corner of the galaxy, while all interested eyes turned to the Nubian Senator's funeral, Dempa Maaldai began her work in the shadows as the agent Revenant, communicating with the Handmaidens through a secure comm channel after a certain period of time, her identity safely buried beneath two aliases.
"You, Sabé, and my friends I'm staying with are the only people who know that I'm alive. Please, only share it with our closest allies. Sabé or one of the other Handmaidens will give you more information in the near future. For now, though, the less you know, the safer we'll all be."
Bail nodded. "The two thousand are under strict scrutiny from our new Emperor. A few have already disappeared, and the rest of us have been commanded to recant, under pain of investigation leading to possible execution or Imperial occupation of our worlds."
"The CIS?"
"Isn't in much of a position to counter this new Empire, after three years of war and with their primary leaders dead. There will be some resistance, I'm sure, but they won't be able to hold out. The so-dear Emperor has extended a benevolent hand to the misguided systems and reminded them how he struggled to end the war, against the conniving of the Senate," Bail said bitterly. "A couple of the most damaged systems have already initiated negotiations to join the Empire."
"What of Alderaan? What of you?"
"Publicly? Breha and I have always been loyal citizens of the Republic, and we accept our wise Chancellor's decision to withhold power from the largely-corrupt Senate."
"While privately, you whisper of resistance?"
"Things are past the point of resistance, Padmé. I've talked with Mon and a few others, but most systems are ready to give in for the sake of peace, stability, and security."
Meaning that resistance would be too sporadic, not to mention too poorly-funded, to do anything more than make a brief and easily-silenced ruckus.
"Rebellion, then. We lie low for a few years, gather support, organise. My friend—" she bit her lip, realising that she would have to reveal one of her "friends'" identities, but ultimately trusting Bail enough to continue. "General Kenobi is with me. As a Council master, he has the requisite codes to access the accounts where income from the Order's endowment is deposited. The accounts aren't easily traceable to the Order, so as long as withdrawals continue to be made in a similar manner as before, they shouldn't fall under scrutiny. I talked with Obi-Wan, and he has agreed that the credits would be best used to fund a resistance movement—or rather, a rebellion."
"That would be—"
"Incredibly helpful, yes."
"Yes, but we can't take that money. Rebuilding the Order—"
"Won't happen until the Sith Lord at the head of the Empire has been deposed."
"The what?"
"Palpatine is a Sith, like Count Dooku was."
"Nothing is ever easy, is it?"
"You thought launching a rebellion would be easy?"
"It looks easy when compared to the prospect of launching a rebellion against a powerful and evil Force user, particularly after he's all but wiped out the only people who could defeat him."
She supposed he had a point, in a way. "True. But we'll manage, Bail. It doesn't require a Force user to kill a Force user."
The clones were proof enough of that.
"And Bail—I want to help with this rebellion."
"Are you sure that's wise, Padmé? If you're in hiding now, perhaps it would be best to stay—"
"I need to do this, Bail, or I will go insane. For a few years, I can work behind the scenes. I'll organise the Handmaidens, coordinate operations, analyse data, help you to get a solid foundation for a rebellion. Once the twins are a bit older—I can't just stay safely on the sidelines while other people are risking everything."
"I understand." Of course he did, and she knew that understanding would triumph over any obligation he felt to press her to remain in safety.
A couple of months found the expanded family settled comfortably in the farmhouse amidst the sands. The refugees' plans to unburden the Lars of their presence had never come to fruition, and now looked unlikely to do so until Padmé (and Obi-Wan, if he so chose) left to take up a more active role in the seedling rebellion—for Beru would hardly hear of their going, and Owen, while he was not exactly what one would call welcoming, at least tolerated them, and seemed to have a degree of fondness for Luke and Leia. Life settled into a routine, Padmé alternately minding the twins, helping her inlaws, and comming her co-conspirators and a growing number of informants, the most helpful of whom was often an anonymous figure known as Fulcrum. Obi-Wan helped with the intelligence work at times, and did what he could to gather information from smugglers and their ilk in Anchorhead and Mos Eisley. He never said as much, but Padmé suspected that three years of near-constant action in the war rendered it difficult to settle into a quiet life on Tatooine.
Early one afternoon, Padmé and Beru returned from a trip to Anchorhead with news. Beru, setting her purchases on the kitchen table near where Obi-Wan was sitting, absorbed in a datapad, flicked him over the head with a bit of flimsi. "We've beaten you to the latest smugglers' gossip for once, Obi-Wan."
"Oh?"
"It seems Palpatine now has a lieutenant to do his dirty work on less-than-compliant planets," Padmé said. "And the rumor, at least, is that they carry a lightsaber."
"It seems the Emperor is getting desperate," Beru added. "They're saying this lieutenant is like a giant droid with a breathing problem."
Obi-Wan groaned. "Don't tell me Palpatine has resurrected General Grievous," he said, only half in jest. He dreaded to think that another of his enemies had somehow failed to remain dead. No, surely not. It was sheer paranoia to expect a repeat of Maul, unheard of for such a thing to happen even once, let alone twice. No, Grievous was well and thoroughly dead. After all, he had seen him engulfed by flames—just like—don't think it.
"I did wonder if that was what he was trying to do by stealing my life," Padmé replied, "especially since word has it that this new lieutenant is obsessed with hunting Jedi. Grievous wasn't Force-sensitive, though, was he?"
"No, he wasn't. Why, is this lieutenant a Force user?" Always two, there are. Wonderful. Another Sith apprentice. Really, he thought, at this point, candidates ought to be taking note of the mortality rate of Sidious' apprentices and realising that there isn't much future in the position.
"So rumor implies. We heard that they can kill opponents with nothing but the air. You don't suppose it's Maul again, do you?"
"Doubtful. Maul seemed intent on his own path, which had nothing to do with aiding his former master."
"Well, I can't think of any other dark force users, so unless Ventress has gone back to her old ways, this must be someone new. It's possible that a Jedi survived the clones but turned to the Dark, I suppose? Seeing the whole Order destroyed could very well have been enough to drive a survivor over the edge. If this Vader was a Jedi, then—"
Obi-Wan froze. "Vader?"
"The lieutenant's name, apparently. Are you okay? Obi-Wan? You look like you've seen a ghost." Padmé's voice sounded distant, or perhaps it was merely muffled by the rushing that had filled his ears.
A ghost. Yes, he wished he had seen a ghost. Anything, anything to tell him that Anakin was dead and not across the galaxy, unable even to breathe on his own, and carrying out the grimier parts of the business of starting an empire.
Vader.
It wasn't possible. He had stood on that shore, and he had watched the pyre, a twisted version of a Jedi funeral. No one could survive that, not even Anakin, adept as he had been at surviving against long odds. And yet—and yet, there had been that cold, dark bond draining Padmé's life force, so soon after they had left Mustafar.
It was generally known that the Supreme Chancellor appreciated the finer elements of culture, and an appreciation of drama, of poetry and irony, was clearly manifest in the Sith Lord's schemes to turn Anakin and to transform the Republic into his Empire. Why should this not be another of his artistic plots? What could possibly be a more poignant irony than taking Padmé's life to sustain Anakin, after turning him with promises of the knowledge that would preserve her?
"Obi-Wan?" Padmé's voice cut through his thoughts again. "What's wrong? Do you know something about Vader?"
He shook his head. It was true, from a certain point of view: so far from merely knowing something, he knew everything. Everything, that was, except what mattered, which was how in all the hells he could go back in time and fix this damnable mess.
"Are you sure? The way you reacted—"
"I'm sure. He—he is probably Palpatine's new apprentice."
She sighed. "Well, as Bail and I have come to agree, overthrowing an empire isn't supposed to be easy. Wait… if you don't know anything, what makes you think Vader is a he?"
Blast. "I suppose I assumed, since all the full Sith I've met before have been."
And on that note, Obi-Wan excused himself from the conversation and stepped out into the desert. He began to walk, aimless in his direction, pace and distance his only objectives, keeping up a rapid stride despite the sinking of his feet into the looser patches of sand. Truth be told, he barely noticed the struggle, his faculties being primarily occupied with Padmé and Beru's news and his own horrendous failures.
The Negotiator who couldn't persuade his brother to yield. The Sith-Killer who had taken on two Sith, only to see them both survive in the most awful of ways. The parent who had condemned the young man he had raised from a boy to torment as no parent should be able to do. The Master who had failed to protect his Padawan from the evils of the world, even at what should have been the end. He ought to have gone into the AgriCorps and stayed there, living out his days in a peaceful, useful existence. (Never mind that he had not been possessed of any particular inclination toward a peaceful, useful existence at that point in time.) If he had, then Qui-Gon would have raised Anakin, would have… probably failed to comprehend him just as much as Obi-Wan had, if he was completely honest with himself, judging by his lack of effort to free the boy's mother. And Qui-Gon would then have seen a second padawan Fall, and—Obi-Wan quite frankly could not imagine what that would have done to the man. No, it was better that he had been Anakin's Master, for if there was one thing at which he excelled above all others, it was pressing onward, bending almost to the brink, but never quite breaking. He had been, in a strange way, the best Master for a Padawan who seemed destined to Fall.
And so he walked, and he walked, on and on through the desert, until his legs burned, and existence was nothing but a blur of beige ground and glaring sun, with the occasional shimmering mirage for interest.
He should tell Padmé. It was her right to know.
He couldn't tell Padmé. She was not precisely rational where Anakin was concerned. [Neither was he.] She had told him that she thought there was some goodness left in him. How she had arrived at that conclusion, after what Obi-Wan had related to her, he could not [allow himself to] fathom, but he accepted that she fully believed it—and when Padmé fully believed something, there was little enough that could hold her back from whatever course of action she chose. If she knew the truth about Vader, would she be able to resist the attachment, or would she go off on an ill-fated crusade to retrieve Anakin? There were so many ways that could end badly, of which her death alone was scarcely the worst. If she took Luke and Leia with her, they could end up indoctrinated in the dark side by Vader, or else given into Sidious' keeping. The latter possibility quite frankly made the former seem a trivial matter. Or they might be killed outright. After seeing the Temple footage, after watching Vader—Anakin—choke Padmé, Obi-Wan could not be at all certain that the twins would be safe with their father.
No. Padmé did not need to know. Let the twins be as safe as his shielding could make them. Let Padmé at least have the peace of knowing Anakin to be dead and unable to do further harm to anyone, the peace of never having to wonder if she could help, if she only knew how. Let her have the bliss of ignorance which Obi-Wan desired more than—almost—anything else. It was the better of two bad options, the alternative unthinkable. This way, the rebellion would go on, the Sith would someday be toppled, and the galaxy was such a very large place that there was no reason to fear Padmé coming into contact with Vader.
And so, resolute and thoroughly lost, the Jedi leaned into the Force and let it guide him back to the Lars farm. And if it thrilled around him, if it whispered warnings, if it murmured that the truth will out… well, the Jedi of his time had never been particularly good at listening to the Force, had they?