Day Two
Dinner was silent. A graveyard of unspoken words, where only the clinking of glasses and the awkward scrape of silverware filled the aching silence. Every bite felt like swallowing stones. Leia had finally cried herself into exhaustion nearly thirty minutes ago and now lay curled against Sola in bed. After all her struggles with conception, Sola's doctors had insisted on strict bed rest until the baby arrived. Padme envied her – the excuse to disappear, to close her eyes and escape.
The quiet was a mercy. It was a prison. It was hell.
Her nerves were threadbare, every breath a conscious effort to keep from unravelling completely, but still, it wasn't herself she pitied most. It was Vader. He had travelled all the way to Naboo to check on her and Leia, only to be trapped in this suffocating, unbearable meal at her mother's insistence. Padme could only imagine how he felt at the far end of the table – probably dying inside, desperate for an escape, cursing himself for ever coming at all.
Forcing herself to look at him was like reopening a wound, but slowly, she dragged her gaze up to the Emperor, her chest tightening as she took him in. He was dressed in his usual black, a spectre at the head of the table, but for once, he didn't stand apart. Tonight, he matched them all – cloaked in mourning, swallowed by grief.
Padme lowered her eyes to her own black dress and felt a pang deep in her heart. She almost smiled. Almost.
Anakin had always loved the rare days she wore black.
A quiet throat-clearing broke the heavy silence. Padme's gaze lifted from where it had been fixed on the untouched food on her plate, drawn by the weight of Vader's stare. His golden eyes burned across the table, filled with something she couldn't quite name… resolve, grief, something deeper and far more dangerous. "Padme, I wanted to speak with you about something," he said, his voice quieter than she expected, though no less commanding. "I've commissioned a statue in my brother's honour. It will be unveiled on Coruscant the day after tomorrow."
She wasn't sure how to react. A statue. Anakin had always craved recognition and sought approval in the eyes of those around him. He lived for praise, for validation – but this? Even he might have found it overwhelming. But if this was how Vader chose to grieve, how he sought to immortalize his brother when nothing else could bring him back, who was she to question it?
Her throat tightened painfully. "Thank you," she managed to whisper, though the words barely scraped past the lump in her throat. That's… what? Fitting? Too much? Not enough? She couldn't find the right words, couldn't string together a sentence that encompassed even a fraction of the emotions warring inside her.
Ruwee, ever steady, nodded grimly in her place. "That sounds like a wonderful tribute, son."
Vader inclined his head in silent acknowledgment before his gaze returned to hers, heavy with intent. "If you feel up to it, I would like you and Leia to stand with me at the unveiling." His voice didn't waver, but there was something unspoken lingering beneath the surface. "The people should see you both. They should see what they have done. The pain they've caused."
It wasn't just grief. It was anger, sharp and unyielding, simmering beneath his words. A declaration. A warning.
Padme swallowed hard, unsure if she had the strength to be paraded as a symbol of loss and vengeance. Leia deserved to be there, didn't she? She was Anakin's daughter. His legacy. But the thought of all those people… the flashing cams, the hovering droids, the relentless media capturing her grief from every possible angle… it made her stomach twist. Enduring the funeral was going to be hard enough, but this? So soon after? Padme wasn't sure she had the strength. She was so tired. Exhausted in a way that no amount of sleep could fix. There was nothing left inside her – just an empty, aching hollow where her heart used to be.
Her hands started trembling, shaking so violently she had to set down her fork before it clattered to the floor. A moment later, her mother's warm hand covered her own, grounding her. "I can come along and help you with Leia, dear," Jobal murmured gently. "I can keep her in your apartment if you feel like attending on your own."
Padme looked up, meeting her mother's gaze – red-rimmed and glistening with unshed tears. The subtle message in her words was clear. Leia shouldn't be there. She was too young, too fragile, and still recovering from her own trauma. Anakin had always been adamant about keeping their daughter out of the media's eye, keeping her life private for as long as possible. He had fought so hard to shield her, to protect her childhood the way his own father never had, and Padme wasn't about to unravel that now.
Now that he was gone.
The thought hit like a fresh wound tearing open, sharp and unbearable. He was dead. And it was all up to her to take care of Leia now. Her world began to crack, splintering beneath the unbearable weight of her grief.
No – no, not now. She had to hold it together. Just a little longer…
"I'll be there," she whispered, the words scraping their way out of her tightening throat. She had to be there. Anakin was her husband, her duty, her love, her loss. It didn't matter that she was barely holding herself together, that she had spent every waking moment since his death teetering on the edge of breaking. None of that mattered. She would endure this for him.
Dinner ended in a haze, a blur of murmured words and the distant clinking of dishes, none of which she could process. When it was finally over, Padme walked Vader to the door, her movements automatic, her body numb as she stood at the threshold of her parents' house, watching as he descended the small stone steps toward the waiting cruiser. He'd come all this way for only a handful of hours – just to check on her and Leia, as if he didn't have an empire to run, a war to wage, a galaxy to keep from fracturing at the seams.
She was sure she'd be touched if she could feel anything anymore.
With the door shutting behind her, the house and everyone inside seemed to vanish, wrapping her in the thin comfort of solitude. Her parents' well-meaning support had been suffocating, their presence too much, their pity unbearable. She knew they were trying their best, but the truth was… Padme didn't deserve any of it.
"It's all my fault."
The words fell into the cool evening air, raw and broken, a confession too terrible to keep locked away any longer. The guilt had throbbed inside her since that moment, wrapping around her ribs like a vice. She had been so angry with Anakin, so lost in her own frustration, so wrapped up in her own emotions, that she hadn't stopped to consider his. She should have tried harder – tried to reach him, to pull him back from whatever edge he had been standing on. She should have begged him to get into that damn shuttle with her.
Maybe then he wouldn't be gone. Maybe then he would still be here.
But he wasn't. And she had to carry that weight for the rest of her life.
Vader halted on the last step, his entire body tensing as if struck. He turned back to her, gold eyes wide, burning. "Don't say that," he hissed, his voice raw with something dangerously close to desperation. "Don't you ever say that again, Padme!"
"But it's true," she whispered, her hands fisting into the black fabric of her dress, clutching so tightly that the material twisted beneath her grip. "I should have let go of my pride. I should have ended our argument. If I just convinced him to get on the shuttle with me, if I…" Her voice broke. She swallowed hard, fighting past the ache in her throat. "I should never have gone to Alderaan with you. If I hadn't been there, he'd still be alive."
The words shattered between them, jagged and cruel.
Vader shook his head slowly, the dim streetlights casting cold silver over his dark hair. His expression was unreadable at first… until it wasn't. Until she saw it, the same agonizing weight she carried reflected in his features. "Those explosives were meant for me," he admitted, his voice quiet, strained. "I should have insisted he stay with you. I should have..." A bitter, wretched smile flickered at the edges of his lips. "I shouldn't have dragged him into my mission at all. He didn't need to be there. He should have been here, with you, with Leia. But I was selfish. I wanted him – wanted both of you – by my side."
Padme sucked in a breath. Was he torturing himself too? She'd been drowning in her own grief, but now, standing in the still night, she saw Vader's suffering laid bare. The guilt. The loss. It was weighing on him as heavily as it was on her, maybe even more.
"It's not your fault, Vader," she whispered, the words carried away by the cool breeze.
Vader exhaled sharply, his shoulders stiff. Then, with a quiet grace, he climbed back up the steps. His gloved hands settled on her shoulders, firm yet careful, like he was afraid she might shatter beneath his touch. "Then it's not yours either," he murmured. His thumb brushed absently along the edge of her sleeve, a rare, fleeting softness. "I don't want you to think that way anymore." For a moment, he hesitated. "Now that Anakin is…" His breath hitched, his throat tightening around the beloved name. He forced himself to continue, voice low but steady. "I will take care of you, Padme. You and Leia. Whatever you need. It is both my duty and my privilege to do so."
There was something final in the way he said it, an unspoken promise, one she wasn't sure she could bear.
Her trembling hands lifted to rest against the firm expanse of his chest, fingers hesitantly tracing the intricate black whorl of embroidery that curled over the rich fabric of his dark jacket. She wasn't sure why she did it, perhaps for something to ground her, something tangible in this moment of unbearable weight. Beneath her fingertips, she swore she felt the slightest tremor in him, a barely-there shudder that he masked with practiced ease.
"I don't need you to take care of us, Vader," she murmured, voice soft but firm. "I can do it myself."
A small, knowing smile played at the corner of his lips, something achingly gentle in its depths. "Oh, I know that," he answered, his tone warm in a way she hadn't expected. "But I'm here, Padme. I always will be. Whatever you need, whatever I can do – I will. And I need you to know… you don't always have to be strong when I'm around." Her breath hitched, something twisting deep in her chest. Before she could summon a reply, he leaned in, his presence towering and overwhelming, and brushed the lightest kiss against her cheek. His lips were cool against her skin, lingering just long enough to stir something unsteady inside her. "Please try to get some rest," Vader whispered, the words as much a plea as a command. And then, just as quickly as he'd closed the space between them, he stepped back, descending the stairs toward his waiting cruiser.
Padme stood frozen, watching as the door of the sleek vehicle slid shut behind him. The moment he was gone, the night seemed colder, emptier. Shaking off the strange pull that lingered in his absence, she turned and stepped inside, locking the door behind her before ascending the staircase.
The house was filled with the muted sounds of home – distant murmurs from the kitchen where her parents were likely washing dishes, the soft clinking of plates and running water catching her ears. No matter how much she spent on state-of-the-art machines or the finest service droids, Jobal and Ruwee had always preferred to do things by hand. It was comforting, in its own way, she supposed. Familiar. But right now, she had no space left inside her to absorb such comforts.
Instead, she made her way toward Sola's bedroom, where Leia was sleeping cuddled up with her aunt. The decision for her sister and Darred to stay here until the baby arrived had been a practical one, allowing Sola the extra support she needed in these final weeks. It had been offered to her too, back when she was carrying Leia. But she had declined, wrapped up in the excited bubble of impending parenthood with Anakin.
That felt like both yesterday and a hundred lifetimes ago.
Sola was still awake when Padme slipped inside the room, the soft glow of a holo-mag casting a rainbow of light across her face. Beside her, Leia lay curled up in deep slumber, her small fingers tangled in the fabric of Sola's pale blue nightgown. The sight of her daughter's peaceful expression, so free from grief in this moment, was a cruel mercy. Padme wished she could freeze time and hold Leia in this moment forever before she woke up and remembered what she had lost all over again.
"Thank you for watching her," she whispered, her voice barely audible as she stepped forward, careful not to disturb them. "I'll take her to our room so you and Darred can have some space."
Sola shook her head immediately, her hand moving in a gentle, dismissive wave. "There's no rush," she murmured, shifting slightly so she could tuck the blanket more securely around Leia. "Darred has been sleeping in one of the spare rooms anyway. We just don't want to take any risks until the little one comes along." Her free hand drifted to the swell of her belly, tracing absent circles over the taut fabric of her nightdress. Then, with the lightest touch, she ran her palm up and down Leia's tiny back, soothing even in sleep. "She's been no trouble at all, honestly. Poor thing is exhausted."
At least someone had been spared Leia's rage, her screams, her unbearable grief. Thank gods her daughter was getting some rest, something Padme hadn't known in what felt like a lifetime. The weight pressing on her chest felt unbearable. Her feet refused to carry her back toward the bed, her body instead surrendering to the deep green armchair near the window. She curled into herself, folding her arms around her knees as she stared out at the Naboo night, at the soft, golden glow of Theed outside. It was all too quiet. Too still.
"How was dinner?" Sola asked softly.
A humourless breath left Padme's lips. How could she even begin to describe it? The awkward silences, the tension so thick she could have choked on it, the way Vader sat at the end of the table, dark and unreadable? The way grief sat between them all like a ghost, an unspoken presence haunting every moment? She swallowed thickly. "It was…" She hesitated, searching for a word, but none of them were quite right. "Fine, I suppose." A lie. But the truth was too heavy to voice right now. She closed her eyes for a moment before forcing herself to speak again. "Vader is unveiling a statue of Anakin on Coruscant the day after tomorrow."
Sola stilled.
Padme's voice was so dull, flat, so utterly lifeless that it barely felt like it belonged to her at all. The very idea of the ceremony, of standing there, on display, while the entire galaxy looked at her with either pity or scrutiny, made her feel sick. She didn't want to go. Didn't want to endure it. But she had to.
Because she had to keep moving, even when she wanted nothing more than to curl up and disappear forever.
"I wish I'd been the one on that shuttle, Sola," she whispered, barely even aware that she had spoken the words aloud.
Sola's reaction was immediate. "Don't say that!" Her voice, thick with horror, shattered the quiet. She sat up straight, the holo-mag sliding from her lap and thudding softly to the floor, forgotten. Her beautiful face twisted in anguish as she stared at her sister, her brown eyes wide and unguarded. "Don't ever say things like that, Padme! Ever!"
But how could she not? How could she not wish it was her instead?
"But it's true," Padme murmured, her voice hollow, as if all the warmth inside her had been stripped away with Anakin. She shrugged, the motion tired, aimless. "Everything would be better if I was the one who died, Sola. Leia loves Anakin more than me. She'd get over my death more quickly." The poisonous words spilled from her lips, unchecked, a steady, bleeding wound she had no strength to bind. Every cruel, self-loathing thought she'd buried deep within her heart tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. "He would be so good with her, so patient and gentle… He would know what to do to make her feel safe again." Her voice cracked, and her vision blurring as tears welled up, hot and unrelenting. "But I'm so tired. I don't know how much more of this I can take. She's so angry and that makes me angry with her, and I know that's a terrible thing to say, I do, but…" Her breath hitched, a choked sob tearing through her throat as she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. "I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to be enough for her."
Sola's dark eyes glistened, her own tears spilling freely as she reached for Padme's hand and gripped it tight. "Stop this now," she whispered fiercely, shaking her head. "Leia loves you so much. She's grieving, just like you. She's only a little girl, Padme! She doesn't know how to put her feelings into words yet – she doesn't know how to make sense of losing him."
Padme's aching eyes fell to Leia's sleeping form, so small, so fragile, her tiny body curled into the pillows, dark lashes dusting her round cheeks. The sight of her, so heartbreakingly innocent even in sleep, only deepened the unbearable weight pressing down on her chest. She looked so much like her – her dark, curling hair, her wide brown eyes, her delicate colouring. But there was so little of Anakin. He was missing from her, just as he was missing from their world now. And gods, how she wished that weren't the case. How she wished Leia had his smile, his laugh, his impossibly bright, beautiful features so she wouldn't have to close her eyes and strain to remember them one day.
Sola squeezed her hand again. "I know this is hard," she whispered. "I can't even begin to imagine the pain you're feeling. But I need you to hear me – really hear me, Padme. You are not alone in this. You don't have to do this by yourself. We're here. I'm here. And we'll do whatever it takes to help you, no matter what."
Padme squeezed her eyes shut as another sob wracked her body, and this time, she didn't bother trying to fight it. She let it take her. She let her sister hold her as the grief swallowed her whole.
Why did everyone keep offering to help her? Their kindness was a cruel mockery of what she really needed. She didn't need their reassurances, their gentle touches, or their well-meaning words – she needed him. Her Ani. His warmth, his laughter, the steady, unwavering love that wrapped around her like the safest place in the whole universe.
But he was gone.
And yet… in some strange, twisted way, she knew she was lucky. She had been loved. Not just loved, but cherished – completely, recklessly, beautifully. Some people stumbled through their whole lives without ever feeling something so all-consuming, so raw and real. For the longest time, she thought she'd be one of them, but then he danced with her in that dimly lit hotel after the Hedsard Gala, holding her like she was the only thing that mattered. He nearly killed for her, driven mad with devotion.
He was gone. But Anakin had loved her. And that love was still inside her, a wound that refused to ever close.
Was it worth this? This agony? This unbearable, gut-wrenching loss?
She didn't know. Maybe she never would.
Day Three
Padme often forgot just how incredibly vast the Imperial Palace gardens truly were. Acres upon acres of meticulously cultivated nature sprawled before her – an oasis of vibrant greenery and fragrant blooms, a rarity on Coruscant's durasteel skyline. So many people lived their entire lives without ever glimpsing something so untouched, so organic. Here, however, the hedges wove into labyrinthine designs that practically begged to be explored, their emerald walls cradling bursts of floral color. Some were sculpted into whimsical shapes, an archway adorned with climbing roses, spirals of ivy winding toward the sky, even a few intricate animal figures further in the distance.
Several small water features lay scattered throughout the gardens, intimate ponds rich with lilies and darting silver fish, their surfaces reflecting the towering statues of Emperors long past. Delicate fountains sang softly, their cascading water blending harmoniously with the rustling leaves and distant birdsong. Tucked away in the more secluded corners, herb gardens flourished, their mingling fragrances of mint, lavender, and basil teasing the air.
Padme sat on the wide, cool edge of an ornate fountain, letting its rhythmic waters lull her into a rare, fragile moment of calm. In its centre, a masterfully sculpted stone goddess stood in an ethereal pose, the water flowing in ribbons from her open palms. Carved along the fountain's edge, intricate engravings depicted mythical creatures, the regal Skywalker emblem, and sprawling floral motifs. The artistry was breathtaking, a testament to the Empire's wealth and grandeur.
But none of it mattered. How could it when just across the garden, beside a bed of white-and-pink blossoms, Leia was sitting in silence.
A soft blue blanket was spread beneath her and Jobal sat close, guiding her small hands as she clutched a pair of dolls. But Leia's heart wasn't it the game. Her movements were absent, mechanical, her little fingers half-heartedly adjusting the fabric skirts of her toys as she stared vacantly at the grass. Padme's chest constricted at the sight. Leia was always so full of life, bursting with laughter, running through the gardens with her hair flying wild in the breeze. Now, she sat there, quiet and withdrawn, as if the weight of her grief had stolen away the very essence of her childhood.
Would time ever bring her back? Or had this loss ruined her too?
Padme swallowed hard, blinking against the burning sting in her eyes. The loss of Anakin had shattered her world. What had it done to Leia's? What if she never came back from this?
What if none of them did?
Just as her heartbreak threatened to spiral beyond her grasp, the sound of footsteps crunched softly against the gravel path behind her. A presence, powerful and inescapable, loomed before Vader slid into place beside her. He said nothing at first, only observing Leia's half-hearted attempts at play, his keen golden eyes shadowed by something unreadable.
Even in mourning, he was striking. Dressed in sombre black, the golden embroidery gleamed against the dark fabric like starlight, his meticulous appearance untouched by grief – at least outwardly. Not a single strand of his sleek, dark hair was out of place. Of course. He had media statements to make today, carefully curated words to shape the Empire's perception of this loss. Was Arievel attending with him? Padme hadn't heard from the Empress since her initial message of sympathy.
"I've been thinking… After the unveiling," Vader said softly, voice smoother than she expected, "I would like to host a private dinner in Anakin's honour. Just family and close friends. You and I, your mother, Rex, Cody…" He hesitated before adding, "Even the apprentice."
Ahsoka.
Padme stared at the water rippling in the fountain, her reflection shifting with every gentle movement. Her jewelled headdress dug sharply into her scalp, a glittering weight pressing into her skin, and the matching dress, elegant, heavy, suffocating… Mourning. How could a dress display mourning? It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. Nothing would ever be enough again.
Vader's voice had already faded into the hum of the garden, his suggestion settling somewhere in the periphery of her mind. But something gnawed at her… Something was missing. She frowned. "What about Sabe?" Her voice was quiet, but pointed.
Vader's expression remained unreadable, but she caught the slight twitch in his jaw before he answered. "She likely won't be attending."
Padme turned to him now, really looking at him for the first time. His posture was carefully composed, his hands resting loosely against his thighs, but there was tension just beneath the surface. "Why wouldn't she?" she pressed.
A breath. Then, quietly, "She has chosen to no longer serve in my court."
The words struck her like a slap. She blinked, barely comprehending them. That just wasn't possible! Sabe had been at Vader's side for years. She was one of the only people he and Anakin had ever trusted without question. She was family.
"What did you do?" Padme whispered.
Vader sucked a breath through his teeth. When Padme turned to look at him, he evaded her eyes. "I will, of course, send an invitation… but I'm not sure she will accept."
Her frown only deepened. Why wasn't he looking at her? What wasn't he telling her? "Why not? Sabe loved Anakin…"
Finally, Vader sighed heavily. "We had a… disagreement about some of my decisions lately."
The woman she was a few days ago would have pried until she understood the root of the issue and tried to resolve it. She would have demanded to know exactly what decisions could come between years of love and friendship… but Padme was just too tired. Or maybe she just didn't care anymore. "Tell her I asked to see her. She'll come," she muttered.
"If you believe that will work, I'll do it," he said.
"Uncle Vader!" Leia cried, finally noticing her beloved uncle's presence and toddling over.
"Sweetheart!" Whatever grimness had clouded Vader's face before melted away as he stood, holding out his arms. Leia ran into them without hesitation, her small form lifting easily as he swept her up, spinning her in a gentle circle before tucking her close. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, cradling her against him as if she were something impossibly precious, something breakable. "How are you, hmm? I've missed you."
Leia didn't answer. She only buried her face in his neck, her tiny fingers clutching at the thick fabric of his jacket, holding on for dear life. Vader exhaled softly, stroking her back with slow, steady movements, up and down, up and down, until her trembling breaths evened out against him.
Padme watched the exchange, her heart aching at the sight. "She loves you so much," she murmured. It was true – Leia adored her uncle, had always gravitated toward him, but now, when so much had been taken from her, it seemed like she was clinging to anything, anyone, who made her feel safe. And as terrible as it was to admit, Padme was almost grateful for the small reprieve. A break from the questions, from her endless, heartbreaking pleas for Anakin.
Vader lowered himself back onto the stone beside her, shifting Leia carefully so she rested more comfortably against his chest. For the first time in days, Padme saw something close to peace on her daughter's face. "At least someone does," he chuckled, but the sound was hollow, laced with something raw and bitter. A ghost of pain flickered behind his golden eyes, there and gone again before he masked it.
Padme frowned, her gaze sharpening. "What do you mean? Where's Arievel?"
At the mention of his wife, Vader's entire frame seemed to stiffen. Just slightly. Just enough for her to notice. "She has not returned to the palace yet," he admitted, voice quieter now.
She hesitated, this was really none of her business… but she just couldn't stop the question slipping past her lips. "Why not?" At a time like this, when everything was unravelling, shouldn't they all be together? Wasn't that her place? "Is there something wrong with her?" she pressed.
A pause.
Then, low and almost to himself, "Me, I think." Padme's lips parted, surprised at the admission. He shifted Leia slightly, smoothing a hand over her curls before adding, "I have not acted as I should have toward her. If she needs some time and separation, I understand." His jaw tightened, but his voice remained controlled, resigned. "She will be in attendance tomorrow, according to her father."
Something about the way he said it, the way he avoided meeting her gaze, made Padme's stomach turn uneasily. There was more to this, she could tell. But she wasn't sure she wanted to know.
Laying a hand on his arm, she shifted closer. "You have so much on your mind right now. You're battling this terrible illness and now losing Anakin… No one could blame you for making a mistake, Vader," she whispered.
Gods knew she felt like snapping nearly every second of the day. Every time she heard the words, 'I'm so sorry,' she felt like scratching someone's eyes out. What good was sorry? It didn't bring her husband back. It didn't mend her little girl's broken heart.
Vader looked like he was about to say something, his lips parting slightly, before he hesitated. Instead, he shifted Leia more securely in his arms and smoothed a hand over her dark curls again. His fingers trembling slightly as he cradled her close.
Padme swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. Vader was always so controlled, so immovable in the face of everything, yet here he was, a man hollowed out by grief, clinging to the only thing left of his twin brother. It hurt to see him like this.
When she turned her head, she caught her mother's eyes. Jobal was watching her from her spot on the blanket. Watching them.
The warmth drained from Padme's body as her mother's lips pressed into a tight line, her expression unreadable but unmistakably wary. Then Jobal's gaze flickered deliberately to the space between her and Vader, the subtle shift of her hand on his arm. Their closeness.
Padme's frown deepened.
Jobal quickly looked away, pretending to busy herself by gathering Leia's dolls, but her movements were stiff, careful. Forced.
Something unpleasant settled in her stomach.
Why was her mother looking at her like that?
It took three agonizing hours to settle Leia into bed tonight – a whole thirty minutes shorter than yesterday. Was that progress? Or had sheer exhaustion finally stolen some of the fight from her? Padme wasn't sure how much longer she could endure this, the nightly screams, the desperate wails, tiny fists pounding against her as Leia sobbed for a father who would never come home. She whispered every comfort she could think of, stroking her daughter's curls, holding her close, but none of it was ever enough. Nothing could fill the void Anakin left behind.
Now, slumped in the deep embrace of an armchair before the crackling fireplace, Padme felt as though her body had become an extension of the heavy silence pressing in around her. The palace was too quiet at this time of night, yet still so full of ghosts. Shadows flickered along the walls, stretching and shifting with the low, golden glow of the flames. Somewhere in the background, she could hear the soft rustle of fabric as her mother moved about the room, overseeing the preparations for tomorrow. Always taking care of things, always doing what Padme herself should be doing. She barely had the energy to glance up as Jobal and her handmaidens laid out her mourning attire – a long, elegant black gown, a matching headpiece, a sheer veil.
A widow's veil.
The realization sank its claws into her chest, leaving behind a dull, aching weight. The fabric was beautiful, embroidered with the finest Naboo craftsmanship, shimmering ever so slightly beneath the glow of candlelight. But what did it matter? What did it matter what she wore when Anakin wasn't here to see it? When the only thing waiting for her tomorrow was more grief, more cams, more whispered condolences from people who didn't know him, who didn't love him?
Her fingers curled tightly around the armrests, nails pressing into the plush fabric. She hated being here. Hated the palace. The place was enormous, but there was no air to breathe, no privacy, no escape. Every hallway held some wandering politician or Grand Moff, and every room was a reminder that she wasn't just Padme Amidala Skywalker – she was a Princess, a public figure, a woman expected to perform for the galaxy, even in mourning.
But in their apartment – she was just Padme. Just Anakin's wife. Just Leia's mother. In their apartment, they had been a family. A real, happy, loving family. And now that was gone.
Her throat burned as she stared into the fire, but no tears came. Not yet. She didn't any strength left to cry.
"You look exhausted," Dorme murmured, brushing a gentle hand over Padme's shoulder, her touch warm but featherlight, as if afraid she might shatter. "Why don't you take a walk? Get some fresh air before bed? It might help you rest, my lady."
Padme shook her head instinctively, the thought of leaving Leia, even for a short while, sending a sharp pang through her chest. "I can't," she whispered, but before she could protest further, Rabe stepped forward with a reassuring smile.
"We can help your mother watch over the little Princess," she promised, her voice low and soothing.
"That sounds like a wonderful idea, darling," Jobal nodded in agreement. "Tomorrow will be long and trying. You need to rest if you're to face it head-on."
They were all so kind. It was late, and she knew they must be longing for their own beds, yet here they were, putting her welfare above their own. Padme swallowed thickly, the weight of their kindness pressing into her chest like a quiet ache. What had she done to deserve such unwavering devotion? "Thank you," she murmured, rising from her chair with effort, feeling every bone and muscle protest the movement. "I won't be long."
A walk did sound lovely, but the thought of stepping into the cool night air, of feeling the weight of the galaxy pressing down upon her in the open courtyard, was too much. Instead, she slipped quietly into the grand palace corridors, their vast, polished expanse bathed in the flickering glow of dimmed sconces.
The hush of the late hour wrapped around her, heavy and thick, the muffled sound of her footsteps swallowed by the endless halls. It was eerily silent, yet not uncomfortable. The emptiness was a welcome reprieve from the weight of mourning glances and whispered sympathies.
Perhaps a cup of tea would help. Something warm, something gentle to coax her into sleep, even if only for an hour or two. She adjusted the black shawl draped over her shoulders and turned toward the kitchens, letting the quiet guide her steps.
Vader's eyes were bleary.
His back ached from hours of being hunched over, his elbows pressing into his thighs, but he couldn't bring himself to move. The fire before him danced wildly, licking at the blackened logs with greedy fingers, reducing them to smouldering embers and ash. The crackling flames were the only sound in his vast, empty chambers. The only sound in his life.
Satine was gone, left to salvage what remained of her ruined existence on Mandalore. Arievel wouldn't return until morning. Padme was with her child.
And he – he was here. Alone.
The world tilted slightly, the warm, heady burn of two bottles of whiskey dulling the edges of his thoughts, sinking deep into his veins. Vader exhaled sharply through his nose, his golden eyes slipping closed. If he focused hard enough – if he let the alcohol cradle him just right – he could almost imagine another figure seated in the chair across from him.
Anakin.
For a fleeting moment, he let himself believe his twin was still there, lounging with that infuriating ease, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. He could almost hear his voice, teasing, familiar, so full of life. "Force, you look like hell. Maybe switch to caff before you drown yourself, huh?" Anakin would say it with just enough warmth to be infuriating. And then he'd probably snatch the bottle right out of Vader's grip and dump it out before hauling him to bed.
Recently, Anakin had been the responsible one between them. When had that happened?
But when Vader opened his eyes, the chair across from him was empty.
It always would be.
His fingers fumbled for the bottle beside him, no longer bothering with the crystal glass. He drank deeply, swallowing fast and hard, letting the whiskey sear down his throat and settle in his chest, numbing everything it touched. For a brief, blissful second, it almost worked. But then he dragged his sleeve across his mouth and the world came rushing back. The grief. The rage. The unbearable, suffocating silence.
His gaze flicked to the chrono mounted on the far wall. Its numbers shone like a curse, stark and merciless in the dim glow of the room. Every tick of the second hand was another step closer to damnation.
Vader curled around the bottle like it was a lifeline, pressing its cool weight against his temple. He barely felt it.
Two hours ago, Tarkin had departed with the Death Star.
There was no stopping it now.
Vader's breath shuddered as he stared at the broken glass, at the whiskey bleeding into the fibers of the rug like spilled blood. His hands trembled in his lap, unsteady and weak—he hadn't felt weak in years. Not like this. Not since he was a boy with no control over his own fate, no power to stop the universe from wrenching everything he loved away from him.
This was supposed to be justice. This was supposed to make the galaxy bow in fear, make them pay for what they had done. For Anakin. For his brother. His twin. His other half.
But the only thing Vader felt was dread.
He closed his eyes and his mind betrayed him with visions of Dantooine – not as a target, but as a home. A farmer and his wife, sharing a quiet meal after a long day in the fields. A cantina buzzing with music and conversation, laughter spilling over glasses of Corellian ale. A mother humming softly as she cradled her newborn child in her arms, whispering the first words her baby would ever hear.
And soon, none of it would exist anymore.
A strangled breath hissed through his clenched teeth. Is this what power looks like? Is this what he had fought for? Had killed for?
This wasn't vengeance. This wasn't justice.
This was annihilation.
Vader forced his golden eyes open and looked at the chrono again. Less than a minute now. His fingers twitched. His heart pounded a war drum against his ribs.
There was still time.
One command – one order – and he could stop it. Halt the destruction before it became another permanent scar on the soul of the galaxy.
But if he did… If he stopped this now, if he showed mercy, the entire Empire would see him hesitate. Tarkin, the Council, his enemies, his allies. Padme... Would she see it as weakness? Or would she see it for what it was – the one shred of humanity left in a man who had spent his entire life trying to bury it?
Would Anakin, wherever he was, finally look at him and recognize his brother again? Vader's breathing shallowed. His hands curled into fists. The chrono ticked down to twenty seconds.
Do it.
He had spent a lifetime making decisions in the blink of an eye, navigating war, blood, politics, betrayal. He was the Emperor. He was the most powerful man in the galaxy. And yet, in this moment, he had never felt more trapped.
Vader swayed on his feet, his chest rising and falling too fast, his breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a choke. His fingers dug into the edge of his desk as his knees threatened to buckle. After a moment, the cold flickering blue light of Tarkin's transmission burned into his eyes. "Majesty," The Grand Moff's cold expression did not shift. "It is done."
His stomach twisted violently, and for the first time in a long time, he thought he might be sick. The weight of what he had done, what he had just allowed to happen, crashed over him like a tidal wave, pulling him under, drowning him in the suffocating blackness of his own making. The Force – the ever-present, shifting current he had relied upon his entire life – was fractured. It was screaming, mourning and raging, shaking beneath the weight of a massacre it could not undo. And then… silence.
A black, endless void.
"Majesty?" Tarkin's voice cut through the fog of his mind, crisp and unbothered, as though they had merely completed another routine meeting. Vader's lips parted, but no words came. His tongue was dry, his throat tight. What have I done? "Shall I issue the official statement?" Tarkin continued, ever efficient, ever merciless. "We can begin immediate broadcasts to ensure the proper message is conveyed. The rebellion will have no choice but to understand the price of their actions."
The price.
A price of two-hundred-thousand-lives.
Vader felt his hands shaking. He clenched them into fists, nails biting into his palms. The pain helped. It grounded him, kept him from unravelling completely. "… Yes," he rasped at last, his voice a shadow of its usual commanding presence. "Issue the statement."
Tarkin inclined his head. "As you wish, my Lord."
The transmission flickered out. And then Vader was alone.
Truly, horribly alone.
His breath hitched. His pulse pounding against his skull. The silence pressed in on him, a crushing weight, as a ghostly echo of all the voices that had just been snuffed out muttered around him. Were they here watching him? Judging him? Vader felt their eyes on him, sensed their fury at what he had stolen from them all.
He'd thought this would feel triumphant. Like vindication. He'd told himself this was necessary, that the rebellion had to be broken, that fear would bring peace. But all he felt was wrong. His legs finally gave out, and he crumpled to the floor, bracing himself against the cool, polished marble. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling too fast, too hard. His vision blurred, but whether it was from the alcohol or the agony clawing at his soul, he couldn't tell.
Anakin would never forgive him.
Padme would never forgive him.
The galaxy would never forgive him.
And for the first time since ascending to the throne, Vader wondered if he would ever be able to forgive himself.
Padme barely suppressed a yawn as she trudged into the palace kitchens, the warmth of the flickering sconces doing little to chase away the exhaustion weighing down her limbs. She tugged her thick blue robe tighter around her body, seeking comfort in its embrace, when suddenly –
A shadow in the dim light. A figure leaning heavily against the long, steel countertop. She gasped, nearly knocking over the nearest pot as a startled cry tore from her lips. "Gods! Vader, you scared the life out of me!"
One hand flew to her hammering heart, any hint of lingering drowsiness vanishing in an instant. But he didn't flinch, didn't react beyond a slow blink, his golden eyes dull as they fixed on the half-empty bottle of whiskey before him. "I'm sorry," Vader muttered, voice rough with exhaustion. "I can go and leave you in peace. I only came down here to get this anyway."
He made a move to straighten, but Padme instinctively reached out. "No, please. Stay. It's fine."
He hesitated before slumping back down.
As she stepped further into the kitchen, Padme took him in fully and her heart twisted. In all the time she'd known Vader, he had never looked worse. His normally pristine clothes were wrinkled, the usually impeccable styling of his dark hair was mussed as if he'd raked his hands through it too many times. A rough shadow of stubble darkened his jawline, the first time she had ever seen him unshaven. And his eyes… red-rimmed and unfocused, clouded with something dark and fathomless.
Was this it? The grief finally breaking through the walls he had built around himself?
Her gaze drifted lower, to his hands as he reached for the whiskey, fingers trembling as he fought to pull the cork free. The sharp scent of alcohol hit her before the bottle even moved closer, telling her he had already indulged far too much tonight. What was he thinking? How was he supposed to stand before the entire galaxy tomorrow in this state? To face the crowds, the cams, the weight of his own Empire pressing down on him, judging his every word and movement?
Without thinking, Padme reached forward, fingers brushing against his as she gently slid the bottle away from his grasp, pushing it out of reach. He finally met her eyes then, and for the briefest of moments, she swore she saw something splinter behind the gold.
"Please, help yourself," he slurred, his voice slow and thick, like he was wading through something heavy. He swayed slightly, his fingers grasping the counter as if it was the only thing keeping him tethered. "I don't know where they keep the glasses… but I can try to find one for you."
"That's probably not a good idea," Padme sighed, wrapping her arms around herself. A long drink actually sounded tempting, something to warm her from the inside out, to dull the jagged edges of her grief. But she wasn't about to follow his lead down this path. One of them had to keep their head on straight tonight.
"It's one of the finest Corellian whiskeys you can find," Vader murmured, staring at the amber liquid. "I promise you'll like it."
The sight of him like this, so utterly undone, sent a sharp pang striking through her chest. He was always the composed one, the controlled one, the cold and immovable force in every room. But tonight, Vader looked as though a single gust of wind could knock him over. "I only came down here to make some tea," she said gently, moving toward the vast countertops. She busied herself with filling the kettle, listening to the hum of the water rushing from the tap, the sound soothing her in a way nothing else had today. "And I think you could use some caff while I'm at it."
"You're too good to me," Vader sighed, leaning heavily against the counter, head tilting back toward the ceiling. "It's soo easy to see why Anakin loved you more than anything. I've never seen any man more in love than he was." His golden eyes, dark and unreadable, flickered toward her. "You made my brother happy, Padme. You made him better than I could ever hope to be. He was so damn lucky…"
Her hands stilled, gripping the edges of the counter as a lump swelled in her throat. She couldn't look at him, not with this weight pressing down on her chest, but she managed a small, fractured smile. "Thank you, Vader… That's a very kind thing to say."
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unspoken words.
Ever since the day she met Anakin in the Senate, something inside her had shifted forever. He was laughter and warmth, a flame she could never resist touching, even when it burned. She fell in love with him the moment he smiled at her, and she'd never stopped falling. Every day after, he pulled her deeper, until he became the centre of her universe.
They were supposed to have forever.
She gripped the counter tighter, the pain in her chest threatening to consume her whole. "Why do things have to change?" she whispered, her voice cracking as she blinked rapidly, willing the tears away. "Things weren't perfect, but I loved our life."
She would have chosen it over and over again, through every argument, every difference, every impossible challenge. Because no matter what, they always found their way back to each other… But he died believing she was angry with him. That she preferred Vader. That she might not see and want every single piece of him exactly how he was.
She would never forgive herself for that – she couldn't.
"If I could answer that question, I'd be a wealthy man," Vader muttered, staring at the floor.
Despite herself, a quiet, breathless laugh escaped her. "You are a wealthy man."
"Well," he smirked faintly, "wealthier, then."
She didn't think that was possible, but Padme kept that to herself. The soft whir of the kettle filled the silence between them as she busied herself, grateful for the distraction. She rummaged through the endless cabinets, searching for the mugs – how did the droids manage to find anything in this mess? Their storage system was completely illogical. She should send Threepio down here one day to organize it properly.
Something in her cracked at the thought.
Anakin would have laughed at that. Would have teased her about her love for order. Would have leaned against the counter, watching her with that soft, amused expression that always made her feel like the only person in the whole galaxy.
But Anakin wasn't here.
"You don't take sweetener or milk in your caff, do you?" Padme asked, seeking refuge in the small, mundane details of normalcy. Her fingers brushed against the warmth of her mug as she turned to face him.
Vader shook his head. "No, I don't," he murmured, voice low and rough. "It dulls the effects."
"Exactly. Neither do I." She offered him the smallest of smiles before setting his mug before him. For a long time, they sat in silence, their drinks steaming between them. The kitchen, vast and polished, seemed to shrink around them, the quiet stretching, pressing in like something physical. The crackling of the cooling embers in the hearth was the only sound.
And then Vader looked up.
His golden eyes burned with something raw, something haunted. A tremor ran through his fingers as he held his mug, as though the warmth was the only thing tethering him to reality right now. "Padme…" his voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and full of something terrifying. "I've done something terrible."
A chill slid down her spine. Those words felt like a prelude to a storm. "What is it? What's happened?"
He exhaled slowly, his breath uneven, a battle raging inside of him. "I was so angry," he said finally, as if the admission alone was too much to bear. "Those Rebels thought they could assassinate me! They took my brother!" His jaw clenched and his fingers curled so tightly around the mug she feared it might shatter and scald him. "I needed them to pay."
Padme's breath hitched, a cold dread creeping into her bones. The room, once merely dim, now felt suffocating. She barely realized she was gripping the counter, her own hands shaking.
"There was a suspected Rebel stronghold on Dantooine," he continued, the words coming slower now, heavier. "I sent the Death Star."
The world tilted. She could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Vader inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his eyes darting as if he, too, was trying to make sense of his own words. "It wasn't just the Rebels," he rasped. "The farmers. The men…The women and the children… I killed them all." His voice cracked. "Hundreds of thousands of him. Gone."
His hands shook so violently that dark caff sloshed over the rim, spilling onto the silver counter, an inkblot of guilt staining the polished surface.
Padme could barely breathe.
Dantooine.
She had visited once. She had met the people, spoken to them, seen their homes, their families. And now, in an instant, so many had been wiped from existence. Their lives, their dreams, their children… all gone. Her stomach churned, nausea clawing at her throat. She clasped a trembling hand over her mouth, blinking back the burn of tears.
How could he?
And to do it for Anakin? No! This wasn't honouring him – it was blaming him!
The words pushed through her, hoarse and broken. "Anakin would never want this," she whispered, barely able to force her voice through the tightness in her throat. Her nails dug into the counter. "He would never – never – agree to innocent people dying in his name!"
"I know," Vader uttered darkly, his voice barely above a breath.
And then, to her horror, a tear slid down his pale cheek.
"He wasn't like me," Vader admitted, his voice thick with grief. "He was good. He was the best man I ever knew." He swallowed hard, eyes burning. "And they took him away from us."
Something inside Padme cracked. Despite the horror, despite the weight of his confession, she moved without thinking.
Her arms slid around him.
She held him.
He was shaking beneath her touch, his broad frame stiff before he exhaled a shuddering breath and buried his face against her shoulder. His arms came around her, slow and hesitant, and then all at once. Padme silently wept into his chest, feeling the tremors that ran through him too.
What he had done was monstrous and the galaxy would never forgive him.
And yet, as she felt the sheer weight of his grief, the unbearable sorrow in his embrace, she realized something with a painful clarity.
Neither would he.
"I'm so sorry," Vader whispered into her hair.
"I know," Padme murmured, the words catching in her throat. Her arms tightened around him instinctively, pulling him closer, as if holding on to him might somehow hold back the darkness clawing at the edges of her mind. She buried her face deeper against his chest, inhaling the faint scent of whiskey that clung to him. The warmth of his body seeped into her, grounding her in the moment, keeping her from spiralling into the vast, empty void of grief that threatened to consume her whole.
"I tried to stop it," Vader admitted, his voice raw, scraping against the silence like a blade. "I tried, but I was too late."
"I believe you." And she did. Padme wished she could feel something more than this terrible, aching numbness. She wished she could muster the energy to be outraged, to shove him away, to condemn him for the destruction he had wrought. The horrors of what he had done should have filled her veins with fire. She should be screaming at him. Cursing him.
Anakin would have.
But she was too exhausted. Too lost. This grief had stripped her bare, carved her hollow, left her with nothing but the pieces of a shattered life. Somewhere in the distant, rational part of her mind, she understood that what Vader had done was monstrous – unforgivable in the eyes of the galaxy. But the galaxy had already stolen everything from her.
And deep, deep in the shattered remains of her heart, something darker stirred.
She should feel revulsion at the deaths of so many innocent lives. She should feel horror at the sheer, unthinkable scale of it. But all she could think about was them. The ones who had truly taken Anakin from her. The ones who had orchestrated his murder and walked away unscathed. Her fingers began trembling where they clutched at Vader's jacket, and for a moment, she felt herself sway on the precipice of something dangerous.
Padme pulled back slowly, her tear-filled eyes searching his. The dim light caught the gold of his irises, making them burn like molten fire. She could see the torment there, the anger barely restrained beneath his carefully composed mask.
She could see Anakin in him. Her Anakin.
And yet… not.
A memory burned to life in her mind… Bail and Mon sitting before her, speaking in hushed tones of revolution, of rebellion, of toppling an Empire. Of all the lives that could be saved, all the futures that could be rewritten if only they had the courage to act. She remembered the way Bail had nervously appealed to her, the way Mon had pleaded with her to see their vision, to believe.
And she protected their secrets because they were her friends.
But Anakin was dead. And they had done it.
They had gone behind her back. They had set their plans into motion, knowing the risks, knowing the cost. They'd tried to kill Vader, calling him a tyrant, a threat, an extension of the Empire that needed to be dismantled. But they'd taken her husband and Leia's father away instead, they'd stolen her heart and crushed it before her eyes.
Her gaze flickered toward the kitchen door, as though she could see through it, beyond the grand corridors of the palace, beyond the walls of her rooms, all the way to where her daughter lay, curled up in restless sleep. Leia. Her precious little girl. So small. So incredibly fragile. So unaware of how the galaxy had changed around her.
Padme's throat tightened. Leia was innocent, untouched by the darkness that threatened to consume them all, but she was also the daughter of a Prince – the heir to the Empire, whether she understood it or not. The child of a man the Rebels had just murdered in cold blood. Would they come for her one day? Would they justify her death the same way they were probably justifying Anakin's? Would they call it justice? Freedom? Would they believe, in their hearts, that they were right?
A shudder rippled through her. The thought was unbearable.
Mon and Bail Organa had been her friends, her allies for so many years, but now… now she saw them for what they truly were.
Murderers.
Her vision blurred with unshed tears as something sharp and painful settled in her chest. She had already lost Anakin. She couldn't – wouldn't – lose Leia too. If she had to choose between her child and the people she had once called friends…
There was no choice at all.
She looked up at him, at the man who had done the unthinkable tonight. The man who had just wiped a countless people from existence. The man who had just confessed his regret to her – broken, grieving, drowning.
He was a monster. The galaxy would never forgive him for this.
But the Rebel leaders, Mon, Bail and the others… they were still walking free. They were still breathing.
And Anakin wasn't.
Her voice came quiet, barely a whisper. A death sentence.
"Bail Organa. Mon Mothma." She swallowed. "It's them." Vader stilled in her arms. "They're the leaders of the Rebel Alliance," she whispered, the words tasting like venom on her tongue.
Silence stretched between them. A sharp inhale of breath. A flicker of realization in his eyes.
His fingers tightened on her arms, not painfully, but firm. Searching. "How can you be sure?"
"Because I know them," she rasped. "I know… Vader, I know."
For years, they had sat at the same tables, laughed over glasses of wine, stressed and laughed and even cried together as they whispered their dreams of a better galaxy. For years, she had trusted them, fought alongside them in the political arena, believed in their causes as passionately as her own. And all this time, they had been willing to sacrifice her family for their dreams of greatness.
Vader's expression shifted, a slow, terrible fury rising behind his golden gaze. The air in the room seemed to vibrate with his rage, with the sheer force of his presence. His jaw clenched. His hands trembled against her. And then, suddenly, all that rage melted away, his face smoothing into something eerily calm. Cold.
A man who had just found a new purpose. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her brow, the gesture was oddly tender, yet distant and then he pulled back, his voice low, steady. "Then I will do what must be done."
Padme didn't move. Didn't stop him.
She only closed her eyes, and for the first time in days, she felt something other than grief.
She felt resolved.
And she didn't know if that made her just as much of a monster as him… and right now, she didn't care if it did.