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The Republic crumbles down around them; news of disappearance and death are the norm. Friends and allies are lost daily.
But his nearly destroys her.
Satine remains composed through the meeting; it is what is expected of her, but the Prime Minister catches the anguish that flashes across her face. (Missing, almost certainly dead.)
“Your Grace, we can postp –”
“We have business to attend to, Prime Minister, and unless you would like Mandalore to suffer the consequences of this new Emperor Palpatine as well, I suggest we continue.”
Her shaking hands betray her.
When she is safe in the seclusion of her chambers, she tears at the front of her gown as if it slowly strangles her, sobbing and gasping. She collapses to her knees, her body unwilling to support its weight any longer.
He cannot be dead; it is unthinkable. Even when he was not near to her, she drew small reassurance that he lived, that he cared, that he loved her, regardless of the Jedi Temple’s stupid rules.
(Do not think ill of them now, for they are all but gone.)
But no, he’d gone to face the Sith’s new champion and never come back.
Why, why did he have to go alone? Surely there were still some Jedi who survived the attack on the Temple – where was his friend Skywalker? As little fondness as she has for the man, she knows he would never abandon Obi-Wan to such a thankless task alone.
No, he must be dead as well. So many lives lost to pointless violence – all the Jedi she has ever known: Obi-Wan’s beloved Master Qui-Gon, Skywalker, probably Skywalker’s student, of whom she’d become fond…
Obi-Wan.
The finality crushes something inside of her. Theirs is a story of people reaching out, and never quite touching, hoping that next time, they might just meet.
There are no more “what ifs.” He is dead and gone.
In its place, a new determination builds; thin and steely. She will continue to live and defend Mandalore. And if there is a goodness to the Force (as he so fervently believed) maybe, just maybe, they’ll see each other again.
“Satine?” Her brother’s voice shakes her back to reality.
She stands, smoothing her skirts. Tears are brushed away, although her eyes still betray her.
“Just a moment.”
She takes a steadying breath.
She will be ready when the Empire comes for Mandalore; the Emperor, this Darth Vader, it doesn’t matter. They will come, there is no doubt. The speculation of the council has given her a headache for days.
She will face them as he did; unyielding. The Empire is a bully and bullies respond to strength. She does not need violence.
She opens the door. Jerec smiles weakly.
She smiles back; it is all she can do for now. Duty calls.
When the Executioner lands, she imagines Obi-Wan stands beside her, hand wrapped around hers. She almost can feel his fingers, unwilling to release her palm as she steps forward to meet his killer.
----------
Padmé did not imagine there would be days that exhausted her more than the senate. She did not imagine she would hide from the vestiges of the government to which she had dedicated her life.
No, this new rebellion is her government.
She cannot leave Alderaan, but she can still make contact with small systems via holo. Systems she wished the Republic paid more heed too, who needed a voice.
She tries to understand military operations; this rebellion will need to fight sooner or later and soldiers need supplies.
She gets annoyed when Bail tries to hide Vader-related reports from Coruscant. She is an adult, she can conduct herself accordingly.
She tries not to think about the Organas’ daughter or the little boy lightyears away on Tatooine.
She is not a wife. She is not a mother. She is a rebel and she will keep fighting.
Her small apartment in Aldera is good for precisely one thing: sleep.
She finds sleep comes mercifully quickly. Tonight though, it feels as though she is awake in a dim haze.
The bed creaks and gives as she is sure someone climbs onto it, and then, onto her.
She cannot make out his face, but she does not need to. He is a familiar weight; her fingers know the scars and imperfections that mar his chest.
She arches into him; he responds in kind. They are as two halves of a whole, the galaxy around them melting into seeming nothingness.
Her kisses are quick and desperate, as if each one makes up for lost time. He is as hungry as she is and his body subsumes hers entirely and she is home. She never wants to leave, never wants to hear the words ‘Rebel Alliance’ again, never wants to ache for the loss of her children, for the loss of him.
She puts her mouth on a scar on his shoulder, an old sensitive spot. His deep inhale turns a drawn-out rattling breath she recognizes too well.
No, no, no.
His weight isn’t protecting her anymore – it’s suffocating her.
In her struggle to break free, she sits up abruptly, completely awake and completely alone.
She scrambles out of the bed as fast as she can, sweating and panting, sheets tangling in her legs.
She does not sleep that night.
----------
His old friend was right: this place does drive you mad.
Ben is bored. Conversation on anything remotely of substance is thin on the ground. On the rare occasion he does speak to a smuggler, a slaver, a moisture farmer, they have nothing to say.
‘Nothing’ is still preferable to what haunts him in the night.
Ben is exhausted of the same, tired conversations he has with those who plague his conscious.
He sits on his stoop, watching the twin suns coming down on the horizon. It cannot be too long now before Luke is old enough and they can get away from this place, and do something for the Republic, or whatever’s left of it.
When he returns inside, it is dim, but for the one light at the table, old Hutt smuggling maps spread out. (He must do something to fill the time.)
“You know, this place isn’t all that different from where we used to hide when you first came to Mandalore. It’s dismal, but it has its charm.”
In the low light, Satine looks deceptively young. She is as his memory wants her to look, before the wars, before they lost every last chance for one another.
He looks old, a man gone grey before his time. Or so he assumes. He hasn’t seen his reflection in a while.
If he ignores her, perhaps she will go away. As with most nights, he is not up for a conversation with any of his dead.
She stands. He sits. Neither gives up their ground.
Softly, “This isn’t your fault.”
Stonily, “You’re a figment of my imagination. My conscious trying to justify the many mistakes I have made in my life.”
“Even so, this isn’t your fault.”
His resolution cracks with his voice, and much quieter, “I let Vader live, how in all the galaxies is this not my fault?”
The light may be playing tricks on his eyes, but she looks terribly sad (also his fault). He leans forward so he cannot see her, so her eyes can no longer bore into his.
“You never could have killed your friend. No matter how bad it was, no matter how bad he was. Because you are a good man.”
He can sense (imagine) her moving towards him. He does not look up.
“Was a good man, if I even was one to begin with.”
He is filled with a bitter, dull anger, one he was counseled against, one he counseled against.
Flatly, “Vader killed you.”
“Yes. The Emperor would have wanted me dead, Vader or no. Someone else would have been sent in his place.”
“I should have come back, I should have saved you.”
It is one of the many millstones around his neck, one that these conversations cannot unburden him of.
He chokes and realizes tears cloud his vision. He furiously rubs at his eyes.
“And what of your responsibility to the boy? Would you have left him defenseless, open to both the Emperor and Vader?”
Anger gets the better of him and he lashes out, “I don’t want the responsibility anymore! I’m sick of it, sick of this place, sick of keeping my promise to Padmé, sick of living when I should have died with the rest of the Jedi!”
She does not respond to his outburst, but he can sense her standing behind him, a single elegant hand wanting to reach out for him, but resisting. She cannot reach him because she does not exist.
Slowly, oh so slowly, his anger boils off. He was not taught to behave like this, even on his worst days he would not allow it. Others, however…
To the dark room, “Satine?”
No response.
As he expects.
----------
The information from Imperial intelligence confirms what he already knows.
How could he not? He’s never sensed the Force so strongly in another.
The boy’s records make a mockery of him. The name Skywalker, raised on Tatooine. He was hidden in plain sight the whole time.
Putting the boy on that gods-forsaken planet was a cruelty on Kenobi’s part.
Anakin Skywalker had a son, sentimental fool that he was, but Vader cannot deny that he feels something as well. Having a son is a foreign concept, as remote to him as going by the name Skywalker and yet…
The Emperor promised him order and ultimate power through the Force, but there is a rebellion, restoring no order to the Empire. He is reduced to commanding armies, no more than he already did during the Clone Wars. Battles are cold tactics. Where is the unknowable work of the Force in that? That is not power.
Vader feels an old penchant for rebellion chafing. With a son, nearly as powerful as him at his side, the Force would be at their beck and call, wielding a power of which the Jedi could not conceive. There will be no more need for the Emperor.
Although he will deny it, Skywalker sparks a fire within him.
There is no time to lose. He must move swiftly so the Emperor is not aware of his plans. Luckily, hunting for the rebels and their new base masks his truer purpose.
He rises; admirals and patrols must be given explicit instructions, or else nothing will be executed efficiently.
He imagines he hears a quiet, determined voice at his shoulder.
“Our son, Anakin.”
He ignores it. There is work to be done.