Star Wars: from conversations / reader requests

8 (continuation of #7): Truth

He's lying on something solid... Solid! Confusion runs through his mind. It has not been this way for many years. He had been drifting in the Force, still watching over the galaxy that he'd once sworn to protect, with Luke and Leia by his side, until darkness took hold of his presence, and he became unaware for the first time since his passing on, over a century ago.

And now, suddenly, for reasons unexplainable other than the will of the Force, he was touching something material again, and he could feel a weight to this new vessel...

Fingers twitch, then he experimentally lifts his arm and touches his face. To his great surprise, it was unmarred, and he could even feel hair cushioning his head from the ground. His vessel is unburdened and healthy, unlike how it was for decades before he took his last breath in what was presumably a previous life. It felt... good. He felt living.

He breathes, life anew, and opens his eyes.

There is an ancient door, broken and ajar from disuse, and he hears noise from the inside as if there was a quiet conversation. He recognizes this door... yes. He peers inside, blinks, blinks once more, and gasps.

He would have recognized this place from anywhere. The glossy but now broken transparisteel, the warm yet faded carpet, the memories he held with his beloved.

Oh, how he missed her, to the point where the knotted pain in his chest constricted his heart and stole the precious breath out of his lungs. It had been more a century and a half without her in his arms.

Cautiously, he moves his legs (flesh!), shifts his weight, and stands. He did not know why he was sent here, but if, by any chance, his beloved angel was around, he would have no complaints. He takes careful steps, blissfully listening to the soft sound of his own footsteps on the ground. The whispering voices grow louder, into a full conversation as he wanders into the old apartment and peers in at a closer distance.

On the dusty couch that momentarily took the breath out of his lungs (oh, so many memories, of him kneeling before Padmé, leaning his ear against her bulging stomach that carried new life) sits a young lady with dark hair and brown eyes that vaguely resembles his brave, sweet daughter and her husband; a man, whose dashing looks reminds him fiercely of his beloved Luke, blonde hair and cleft chin and all. And Anakin was sure he had seen them before... He blinks a few times, in confusion, then recognition. Yes, yes, these were his offspring. He'd watched over them through the years, guiding silently without their knowing. And, in the middle...

His angel.

He quietly observes, reaching out to the Force to mute his presence from Cade, only to find that it wasn't there—perhaps this stay is temporary, he thinks to himself. But it is worth it if he would have the chance to be with Padmé, even if it's only for a little while.

His offspring are talking—briefly of what they viewed as past history, then about what had happened in their personal lives: the attack on the Jedi Temple on Ossus, dealing with the One Sith, the formation of the Galactic Federation Triumvirate, experiences with Darth Wredd, things he had watched over in the Force, and once in a while his angel would comment, and Cade and Ania might look at each other, and the conversation would start again.

Until Cade mentions the deathsticks he had once taken and the subsequent visits he got from distant ancestors; Padmé perks up upon hearing her husband's name.

"Cade, do you know what became of Anakin?" Her eyes widen, voice strained and somehow hoarser, her lovely brows wrinkling in worry. A stab of guilt hits Anakin's heart, and he feels himself choking—

"Anakin Skywalker?"

She nods.

Cade squints, trying to remember; Ania raises an eyebrow, expecting him to answer. "Well, from what I know, he turned into Darth Vader and was the fist of some former Emperor for a while, and, well, did some pretty damn bad stuff, until—"

"Atrocious acts?" Padmé gasps, her eyes infinitely sad and horrified. The guilt stabbed harder at Anakin's chest, and if he had to take any more, he thought he might suffocate.

Cade nods. "But, you see, there was this prophecy of the Chosen One, someone who would bring balance to the Force... he did, in the end. He killed the old Emperor, saved his son, redeemed himself—"

Padmé could not help but interject. "But—"

"—No,"

All three pairs of eyes abruptly shift to the stranger. There was a moment of silence before Cade muttered, "Anakin Skywalker. Kriff, the Force is getting weirder by the day."

"Ani, how could you?" Tears were welling in her eyes now. They didn't need to tell her what he'd done; she could already guess, just by how much shame was on his face.

"I—I... It was for the greater good of the Force, Padmé," he chokes out, his voice cracking. He turns his head away, unable to look her in the eye. He tries to think of ways he could justify himself, but his mind was blank. He lets out a sigh. "The Jedi were becoming too narrow in their doctrine, they were abducting children, and you know how they did not accept attachments," he lets out lamely before drawing a pathetic breath.

Padmé was fuming. "But this doesn't justify, what, genocide!"

He bows his head, shoulders trembling. Even more than a century later, with his history long forgotten, he still deserves this.

He missed her so, so much, and he before this, he'd wanted to tell her how much he missed and loved her, but now all he could say was "I'm sorry."

He cannot watch the tears pour from her perfect eyes and instinctively reaches out, tries to hold her in his arms; she lashes out at him for a moment, struggles in his embrace for another, then stops fighting, glad to be in his arms again, even if she might never be able to forgive what he had done.

"But Padmé, in the end I changed my ways. Our son saved me."

A trembling smile breaks across her face.