{ Come wrestle me free, free from the war

[resoluteandunyielding]

~*~

It had taken all of Padmé’s strength to stand there and maintain anything that resembled calm in the face of Captain Typho. It was not the first, or even dozenth time, she’d informed him she was leaving, on a personal errand, without him, any of his or her staff. Even as everything inside of her trembled she ground it down, into bones that once made of steel felt like shattered glass.

But she refused to let it have any part of her before him.
Refused to give him a single instances fodder to stop her.
She had to do this alone. No one else could come with her.

Padmé forced herself into stillness, even as her hands shook until they were pressed together a time or two. She focused on his face. On his voice. On her own. A misture of the impassive mask of Amidala, and placating, appealing of the Senator. The firm direction of her voice, that would say she was fine. In a rush, but fine. This was her duty, and these were her orders, and he was still bound by them if she wasn’t in peril.

(She wasn’t in peril. She could never be in peril from Anakin.

He would never—)

She didn’t wait. She couldn’t let herself think. Couldn’t let the words in. The other ones. The ones hammering to repeat themselves. Obi-Wan’s words. She pressed through her orders, calm and measured, as the ground under her feet unmoving. Even as it swung, tipping-tipping, and she denied it. A thing she knew better than all else. That she could feel splintering at the edges with each new breath, as she turned on her heel and left him there.

Wasting no time at all, even as the boulder in her chest only grew, only hardened, threatening to overfill her throat, threatening the edges of her eyes, as she engaged the repulsorlift’s even before the landing ramp was fully up, willing all of time to shorten and space to shrink. Leaning back as it all caught under her breast bone. C-390’s voice registering more as sound than words as a small intake of air was all she managed before her lashes were wet again. Even as she tried to hold it, her lips started to shake and the half-blinding buildings caught in setting sunlight blurred before the skiff was even fully off the ground. That same collapse that had Obi-Wan helping her to stand, to sit, like a fugue surging up around it all.

The whole flight is a blur. Alone it comes tumbling down, crashing out. Her tears a steady a constant that that start shortly after any time they stop. Her thoughts a fierce whirlwind, tearing her every direction at once. Obi-Wan. (Anakin.) The dissolution of the Senate. (Anakin is the father, isn’t he?) The war, for all intents and purposes, won, but, lost on two sides more than ever. (Anakin.) All the deaths. Thousands and thousands each for years and years. (I won’t help you kill him.)

Mustafar, when it appears, filling all that once was stars, is a raging destruction of burning light and darkest shadow, brilliant orange-yellow and eating blackness. It looks like it is trying to consume itself in both, in a war between the two. Like it was corrosive and unstoppable. Like it is falling apart. Like it’d already fallen. It looks the way she feels. The way she tries to push back and back like she’s holding back the rush of a waterfall behind a dam that is already pocked with holes and cracked in too many places, threatening to dissolve on the cusp of each new breath, each new film of tears gathering over her eyes.

For the thousands of hard choices and thousand of horrors and thousands of deaths either at her hands, or feet, or reign, or votes, she’s never cried this much. Never stood so terrifyingly, desperately, over the shattering edges of a precipice like this. Fear and grief the likes she had never known shooting itself through faith unshakeable, shaken suddenly, to its core, as the skiff landed, and she stayed seated, in parallel from the installation standing in the far ground.

Head in her hand, she stared out at the only place she knew he had to be.



Comments

[turnedforher]

The newly denominated Darth Vader sat slumped in a chair, having scarcely finished relaying his message to his new Master when he'd found himself too overwrought to stand. The chamber was littered with bodies, and in a few places, body parts. In fact, there was a piece of an arm almost under his boot. If he tucked his foot back just a little, his heel would rest on it.

The dragon which lived inside his heart chewed on his guts and spit flames inside his chest. Darth Sidious. He'd traded his Masters in the Jedi, included a man who had raised him, who claimed to love him, to a new Master. For Padmé. It wasn't a thing he even needed to think about. Not even in leading the assault on the Temple, not even in slaughtering the younglings hiding. The little ones who'd had such a sense of relief at Master Skywalker's arrival that it had only been by holding onto his nightmares of Padmé's death that he'd been able to not feel the punch in the gut it was. The dragon spits more flame, Anakin's eyes drift closed, but all he can see is the grey, black, and red carpet of Palpatine's inner chambers, his knees aching on thin carpet with a rough hand and no padding over hard flooring and lungs burning like he was inhaling coals, not air; his eyes burning with tears he refused to shed; as he'd sworn fealty to a Master when he knew, simply knew, that 'Master' in this case was everything to do with the Masters of his childhood and not the Masters of the Jedi. He didn't want to think of it, didn't want to remember, but the Battle of Coruscant replayed in his mind. Dooku on his knees, the look of shock and betrayal on his face as Palpatine ordered his death. As Sidious demanded it. Of the faux warmth in Palpatine's voice as he praised Anakin's anger and rage and desire for revenge. The only truth from that entire exchange was probably Palpatine's laughter.

Padmé. I am doing this for Padmé. I can kill him. I will kill him. Once she's safe.

Dimly, he's aware there is a ship close and he rose, lightsaber in hand. More of the Trade Federation possibly. Not Palpatine surely, there would be no point and besides, he would have had to have left Coruscant just hours behind Anakin. It's only as he exited the inner chamber that he felt something. Something he recognized, and it shocked him, like being dunked in icy water. He sucked in a breath, steadied himself.

That's Padmé's star skiff, he knew. He knew without feeling her inside, even though he could. He knew without the chrome plating, even though he saw it. He just knew.

Anakin wasn't happy she was here - Mustafar was toxic, she didn't need to breath the air here, she didn't need to know what he'd done inside. She didn't need to know the price he'd paid for her life.

So he rushed out to her. To hold her, to nail down his resolve. He needed her.

[resoluteandunyielding]

Everything is cracking and crackling. Volcano's erupt in the distance, all around the installation, spewing every which way into the dark night. Brilliant magma in such a startling contrast, but only with more menace than the dark beside it. Padmé sees it, even as she sees nothing at all. Nothing but the building. Nothing but the way her breath catches, and her focus shifts to a specific end, right as -- before? -- a shape at the end shifts, and she knows. She knows into her bones, it can only be one person. (Anakin.)

Knows it even before the alarm shivers through her. (Anakin.) Knows it before the figure takes off running. (Anakin.)

Knows it, as she pushes out of her seat, the strength she hasn't had since she took off, welling up through her limbs. Knows it, as she's turning and she's running. Need stronger than any impulse, any question, any doubt scattering on the floor as though it had been pieces held in her lap, at the speed of her heartbeat, the speed of her feet suddenly slapping the floor as she never even considers walking. There's no time for patience and pause and dutiful performance now. There's none of it left in her, in this place.

The ash and the heat of the air is oppressive, stinging her eyes and filling her mouth, a cloud of blistering change from the modulated, recycled air of the skiff, but Padmé runs through it as her feet take her down the ramp as fast as she can go. Faster than Typho or her handmaid-nurse would approve of in her condition. But there's no checking it. Not when she can see him even clearer now. Not when he's running to her at the same speed. And he is.

He is everything he's supposed to be. Everything her mind takes in with raw necessity through tactician's eye. Strong, and beautiful. Alive, and whole, in one piece. Himself. Himself. There is nothing in the galaxy that could stop her from throwing herself into his arms. (The place she belongs; is safe.) That could stop him from being the truest and only bottom and top of her very soul. Stop the relief that all but pours out of her skin, even if it's born on and, even in its burst to life, being born up by the razor-sharp shards. By the things she can't forget, and knows in a breath, even deeper, could never, never be true.

"Anakin." She can't help that it causes her to shake all over, or that her hands are harder in holding herself to him, him to her, like it's the next most necessary proof. Real. Hers. Anakin. This was real. More real than anything else. "My Anakin." Words spilled, even as she squeezed her eyes shut against his chest. Willing it all to be true. It had to be true, even as it all shook. "I've been so frightened."

[turnedforher]

He's been on planets where the Force moves darkly. He's been on planets touched by the Dark Side and even one ruled by the ancient Sith. But there is something about what was done on Mustafar, how the Dark Side was used to warp and change it, that makes him uneasy. It isn't the planet in chaos, constantly trying to rip itself apart and rebirth it's self. It's the Dark which clings like a thick layer of grime to everything. Including him.

Padmé's own emotional state is a cacophonous rush along his senses, it makes him even more uneasy than he is already, Dark verses Light, his actions and his fears verses what he knows to be right, they war in him, tear at him. It's too much, too loud, too everything for him to beginning to focus, to settle.

But in the moment she's in his arms, when he can wrap his arms around her, letting the heavy wool of his cloak wrap around her and shield her from the ash and embers on the air, dampen the intense heat some, when he can tuck her against his chest and feel her against him. It's then Dark and fears and too recent horrors fade a bit. His love for her, for their family, is so bright a force of Light inside him it's blinding. "Frightened?" Anakin moves to kiss her, deep and strong but gentle at the same time. "I'm all right. I promised I'd come back to you." Lifting his left hand, he softly strokes her face, her skin is hot and damp. She's been crying, he realizes and it makes him pull her in close, tight.

[resoluteandunyielding]

Anakin kissed her, fingers solid and gentle on her cheek. Feeling right; feeling the way they should; feeling...too fragile as it jangled against all of her nerves, caught in her throat, the boulder lodging hard again, taking away her ability to breathe, as his thumb traced down a part of her cheek where tears had been only minutes before.

Even then, her fingers only tightened on his arm, his side. Desperate to put lies to bed, even as coldness seeped through her bones, refusing to warm her through even in his arms, with the deep heat of Mustafar on her skin coming from everywhere else. Padmé looked up into his face, frantic, as truth spilled from her lips. An honesty born of too little time for them to ever speak lightly and in shadows.

Not since she'd said the truest of truths the first time;

I truly, deeply love you.

In a choice between his word and any other word, it was always supposed to be his. Wasn't it?
He would explain it. He would say it was wrong. Would make it right. "Obi-Wan told me terrible things."

[turnedforher]

He's been on the planet longer, and there's a burn in the back of his throat that reminds him of Tatooine's sandstorms. It's not a genuine burn, it's irritation and he'll have a sore throat later. For the moment, he's not noticing it. Not thinking of what Mustafar's air must be doing to her, at least consciously. But he does move to keep his cloak wrapped close to them, to filter her air, even as he's using it to hold her close, to pull her in, so her body rests against his, his arm slipping around her back.

Obi-Wan's name lands in his ears, dueling reactions ripping at him, howling and singing in his heart. Unbidden, his fingers dig just a little into her back, his jaw tightens, his back relaxes, and he exhales heavily. Obi-Wan is alive, Padmé's seen him, spoken to him, and doesn't mention injury. Of course, it was hubris to think Obi-Wan could be so easily taken out by mere soldiers (as much as Clones were mere anything). "What did he tell you?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounds suspicious (paranoid)

[resoluteandunyielding]

There's a reflexive flinch in Anakin's features and tension that slides through him at her words. But that makes sense, doesn't it? Isn't it impossible that Obi-Wan, of all people, would ever gainsay such darkness about Anakin? About his once padawan? The man he elevated to Jedi Knight? To General? His brother in arms for so long as he'd lived after leaving his home planet.

It seems impossible. It has to be impossible. He has to be wrong.
(Even looking so aggrieved. So weighted down. So apologetic.)

"He said--" It's near impossible to let the words out. To have them touch her mouth. Her head is shaking. "--you've turned to the Dark Side." She's trying to make the other words come. But it's so much worse. It's so impossible. Not with. Not how. "He said--" She has to look down at his chest, even though she's not seeing it, thinking about his joy at her news, about their child, not so long ago. "--that you killed younglings."

[turnedforher]

He knows, before she even begins to speak, what Obi-Wan must have told her. Of course, there were security monitors in the Temple, he'd known there were. He hadn't planned on anyone getting back inside the Temple and there's a part of him that's furious, that roars and screams that Obi-Wan could even get inside the Temple. When he finds out who had been supposed to be on duty...

Even while he's relieved Obi-Wan is alive.

Even while he's horrified that Obi-Wan is alive.

In his arms, she shifts and he does too, to better keep her protected.
(To keep her safe.)

His.

"Palpatine is a Sith Lord. The Sith Lord. The one behind everything Padmé. The one we've been hunting for." Doubtless, she'd heard him angry before, over the war, over Dooku, over the loss of his men. She's certainly heard him speak of Palpatine, the man who'd acted like a grandfather to him. But now? His voice is hate-filled, so cold, it seems ice should be spreading out from him, crystalizing in beautiful fractals with him as the center seed.

[resoluteandunyielding]

Even as he moves in perfect sync with her shift, even as he starts speaking, even as even fresher horror widens her eyes, there's the too well-trained whisper in the back of her mind, decades-long in the shaping regardless of emotion or confusion —

He didn't answer her.
Again.

But the words still land. Vast and detonating as Obi-Wan's had. Bewildering and too far; her face caught in that explosion as well. "Palpatine?"

Vainglorious and power-hungry. No whisper left of the man she had once known when she first came to Coruscant. But. Then, also, just comes out, like it should be a disagreement. "He just declared himself Emperor."

Even when it feels sickening like it fits too well.

[turnedforher]

He didn't answer. He would, eventually. He'd have to. But first, he needed to explain just how dangerous Palpatine was.

"The Sith were always lead by an Emperor." Scrubbing the Outer Rim from his voice and trying to do so when his voice had started cracking had left Anakin adopting a monotonous tone, but even now, it sounds flat. Unsurprised. No, he hadn't been included in that plan, but the Jedi had whispered. Even Padmé and her allies had grown wary of his power. And Anakin had been able to guess what Order 66 would result in. "He killed Masters Fisto, Kolar, Tiin, and Windu, after I told Windu what he was. Declared all Jedi an enemy due to their attempts to arrest him." It should be easy to piece together how these all fell together. If she'd been able to feel him as he'd felt her while he waited, afraid, in the Temple.

"He'll kill anything he see as being a threat to his power."

[resoluteandunyielding]

Padmé's eyes widened, leaning back against the band of his arms as he started talking. Alarm filled her at even those first words. Heavy, flat. Not unexpected. Not horrified. If anything — and she has to be wrong, she has to be — he sounds more annoyed than anything through that stony distance. Her heart kicked faster; disbelief slammed through with a wash of horror as Jedi Master after Jedi Master was named. "Anakin."

Four of the best sword masters in The Order. "What are you saying?"

Her head shook, and she used her hands to push back from his chest.
Needing a step, even as everything felt like it was slipping suddenly.

[turnedforher]

One would think after all the years of disrespect, of always being 'Skywalker' never Padawan Skywalker, never Jedi Skywalker, or General Skywalker that he'd have been used to disrespect and digs from Mace Windu. One would think with the man certainly dead (and Anakin is sure he felt the man die), his last comment of how little he thought of or trusted Anakin wouldn't get to him.

(He was right about you, all along, wasn't he? Something in his mind whispered, something that sounded so much like Watto when he was sneering at how talented Anakin thought he was but he couldn't even win one race and then white hot pain would connect with his head as Watto's fists landed on him.)

One would be wrong.

And Padmé listening to Obi-Wan instead of staying where it was safe when all of this was happening just.

He didn't know. He shouldn't be upset with her. He didn't even know if he was.

But then she was pulling away from him and that was upsetting, his mouth twisting down, his forehead wrinkling above his nose. No. Undaunted he pulled her back, trying to push her head back to him, against him, trying to curl around her. You're mine! something in him seemed to roar even as another part almost sang Gentle, gentle at him.

In some kind of compromise he pressed a kiss, quick and hard against the bone of her cheek. His face was sticky with ash that had caught on his damp cheeks from his crying as he'd stared out the window and the heat was making him slick with sweat. "I won't let him hurt you." It came out as a growl. "I'll keep you safe from him."

[resoluteandunyielding]

His hands and arms instantly become tighter — throwing her emotions into alarm — as he forcibly pulls her back against his chest, trying to push her head down. Followed it up with a kiss against her, just as surprisingly hard. Everything about it is wrong, possessive, and demanding. It only inspired her to push away much harder, confused panic lacing into that alarm.

This wasn't like him. This wasn't. He didn't. He never.

(There's the alarming flash of a nighttime diner that had appeared as though it went too far. The words let and demand a roar in the back her head. Two men grappling on the ground at her feet as she shouted. Anakin's possessiveness spun to light in a horrifying display of violence in a fight that could never be fair. Strength and control and sense forgotten entirely.)

"Stop it!" A demand, even as emotion betrayed. Fear. Confusion. (A flare of energy she doesn't even recognize as happening slides into it as well, casting outward from the hands scrabbling to pressing in the reverse from his chest, buffeting her backward a step, two, more.)

"Anakin, you're scaring me."

[turnedforher]

Padmé's pulling away makes the heart dragon roar and snap, Anakin not understanding why she's pulling away.

("Master Kenobi was seen leaving the Senate Towers alone, late in the evening. No one knows what his business was." Palpatine has been telling him about the Jedi yes. And this. "Obi-Wan has told me terrible thing." Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan. What was Obi-Wan doing there?)

It made his pull her harder, fighting against her actions, fingers growing hard, voice ready to roar-

until he heard that demand. That voice. He stopped pulling on her, even if he didn't let go, his grip softened even if he didn't let go. He couldn't let go. Everything, everything he'd done was for her, he couldn't let go. Anakin Vader The dragon roared, all he could hear, worse than any noise Mustafar created, making him want to bring his hands to ears, cover them, and roar back. His skin was slicked in sweat. Dark bags under his red-rimmed eyes, the skin raw and chapped. So were his lips. Chapped and marks in his lip from his teeth. Despite his hold on her, his hands shook. His skin was an odd, off shade, too dehydrated, too strained, too stressed. And his eyes were quite wild.

He shook his head, mouthing 'no' without saying anything. Mouth moving without words coming out, only partially formed syllables before he cut them and jumped to another.

"I'm trying to protect you!" It wasn't a scream but it was empathic and rough, almost frantic.