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A day, like any other, dawns red and bloody.
It’s difficult to know when it’s morning and night, though Padmé wakes as she always does; early.
The fortress is alive and bustling. Or, as alive as it can be with a small barack full of guards, a troop of droids, and one Sith acolyte. Padmé spends the morning ruminating in her chambers, watching the smoke and magma bubbling from her window. It’s always disconcerting to see such chaos, such danger, mere meters from her bedside. Sometimes she imagines the windows cracking under the heat, waves of lava sweeping in and burning her alive. But the heat shields are too strong, she’s been assured. The chances of meeting a fiery death are minimal. Under no circumstances is she allowed outside, even with her squad of personal guards.
Vader has some inclination that she might be tempted to jump into the molten rivers. She can’t deny that it’s crossed her mind more than once.
The unusual bustle begins to make sense when Padmé watches a shuttle break atmosphere and head towards the fortress. She half-expects a summons to the hangar, but nobody comes and bothers her. In her earlier days, Padmé might have snuck downstairs to watch, starved of human attention and contact. But there’s no urge to see, to watch what the shuttle brings. She’s learnt by now, it’s better not to know.
Instead, Padmé busies herself watching the Senate proceedings from a datapad. Bail’s looking worse for wear from where he stands at his podium, but she supposes having a young child will do that to you. She’d be going through her teething stage, right around now.
Padmé wouldn’t know. Nor would she ever.
There’s a vicious debate regarding Naval funding, and though Bail fights it honourably, he’s outnumbered, and accused of treason several times before the sitting is called off for a break. Proceedings in the senate are not usually televised live - the footage is edited and anything that doesn’t meet the Imperial censorship board is removed. But Vader, in one of his more generous moods, had hooked up the live feed. It’s almost torture, but Padmé makes herself watch. Sometimes she yearns to be back in her pod, stood by the small few remaining senators who hold a semblance of a brain, but she knows that too could never be. Besides, the Senate is merely a traditional body, more to appease the thousands of star systems under Imperial control. To give the illusion that at least some democratic processes have survived the overhaul of the Republic.
There’s a walk Padmé frequents, when the muted silence and cycled air of her chambers becomes too much. It’s not quite outside, but there’s the smallest hint to the roaring rivers, and the air is slightly heavier, like smoke. She takes it slowly, surprised not to catch C3PO coming to check on her, as he often did whenever she left her rooms. It takes her near the floor used to hold enemies of the Empire, as well as the small guard barracks, which she has yet to explore.
The distant rumble of the shuttle turning into the hangar bay is barely audible, but Padmé hears it. It’s only a matter of minutes later that she also hears the familiar drag of something heavy, and the clomp of boots on the hard floor. The sounds come closer, and with reluctance, Padmé turns and starts the walk back to her chambers.
There’s a high, keening sob, which is promptly cut off with a thud and a grunt.
A prisoner transfer, Padmé thinks. No wonder she hadn’t been summoned to the greeting party.
Like she’s received a premonition, Padmé senses the guard coming long before he punches in the access code to her quarters. She finds the guards oddly fascinating. Despite being around Clone troopers for a significant amount of her term in the Senate, something about the red garb doesn’t sit right with her. It’s almost as though she can’t process that a person is beneath the veil, that a human hand clutches the pike, and gestures for her to follow. As she walks behind him, she wonders about the colour of his hair, if it curled or was clipped short, as most of the clones kept theirs. They never speak to her, even when she makes her best effort to engage them in any kind of conversation. She doesn’t attempt to do so now. She thinks the most she got out of a guard was a grunt of amusement when they’d caught her trying to get up into the air vents of her rooms.
He leads Padmé to the dining room, where Vaneé is already seated, holding out a wine glass for C3PO to fill. He stands upon her arrival, nodding in respect.
“Good evening, my Lady.” He greets. Padmé returns his greeting with her own, letting C3PO pull out a seat for her.
“No Master dining with us tonight?” She asks, and if Vaneé picks up on her sarcastic tone, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
“I believe he will only be here for the next hour or so,” Vaneé replies, delicately holding a fork in his withered hand. Padmé starts eating too, though she hardly looks at the food set out before her. She distantly remembers refusing to eat out of defiance when she had first come here. That little hunger strike had come to an abrupt end when Vader had threatened to have her held down and force-fed.
“A shame.” Padmé murmurs, and behind her a guard shuffles their feet slightly as they adjust their pike. Vaneé hums in agreement.
“Why such a brief visit?” Padmé asks, when their plates are taken away, and the lights have dimmed to simulate true night.
“That’s not for me to say.” Vaneé replies, folding his hands on the table top. Padmé stares at his long nails and shudders slightly.
She goes to turn in her seat, get up and leave, when Vaneé beats her to it, standing up abruptly and bowing his head low.
“Good evening, my Lord.” He says, and Padmé wants to roll her eyes at the reverence in his voice. One of the reasons she avoids the man is that he sees her husband as a God amongst mortals, when all Padmé sees is a walking corpse. The sound of mechanical breathing permeates the room, sending unwilling chills down her back. Still, she does not turn or stand at his arrival, merely fiddles with the end of her sleeve, defiantly keeping her eyes turned down.
The thud of the heavy boots on the floor comes closer, until Padmé can almost feel the whoosh of Vader’s respirator, right between her shoulder blades. After a moment, she sighs and turns.
“Yes, my Lord?” She asks. She used to say the title with a mocking edge, or she wouldn’t even bother to acknowledge him until he wrapped a monstrous hand around her chin. Now, there simply isn’t enough energy in her to goad him. Padmé looks up expectantly at the red lenses. No matter how hard she looks, she sees no eyes staring back at her, the mask too opaque to penetrate. Her memory of his manic gold irises is enough to remind her that the man before her isn’t the man she married.
“I will be leaving in the morning.” Vader says, and she’s almost thankful that he speaks through a booming modulator. The separation of Vader and Anakin in her mind is more concrete this way. The suit also helps. Padmé pretends sometimes, that they’re two different people. It’s rather liberating to do so, until Vader says a certain phrase, or fiddles with his lightsaber hilt, and she remembers it all over again. Like the red guard, it’s hard to process just who is truly under the mask.
“Oh?” Padmé replies. “Vaneé said you’d only be here for an hour.”
“Vaneé was misinformed.” Vader says. “I have work to do before I return to my fleet.”
“Riveting.” Padmé says, standing from her chair. There’s not much room to manoeuvre, but Vader steps back slightly to accommodate her. “Can I go back to my rooms now?”
“I will accompany you.” Vader allows her to pass, cape brushing around her legs like a friendly loth-cat.
“If you must,” Padmé says. “Goodnight.” She calls over her shoulder to Vaneé, who gives her a nod, even though he is surely biting his tongue at her blatant disrespect.
“So,” Padmé starts after several minutes of silence. “Where are you going?”
“Coruscant.” Vader answers. Even with the monotone of his vo-corder, he sounds weary. “I do not expect to be there for a significant amount of time.”
“What about the prisoners?” Padmé asks, earning her a sharp look. She feigns nonchalance, staring instead out of one of the windows overlooking the hangar. “I heard you moving them to the interrogation cells.”
“You would do well to forget what you say to have heard.” Vader says after several moments. A gloved hand points at her in warning. “Do not cause trouble whilst I am away.”
Padmé nods, eyes already sliding away from his outstretched digit and back to the window, but she notes the concealed urgency in his command. He’s never particularly minded leaving her for weeks and even months at a time. She knows that Vader gets regular reports of her behaviour whilst he’s away, which mostly involves staying in her room or walking with C3PO. And she certainly knows that he’s kept prisoners in the fortress and left for missions. She’s heard the cries, the pleading, and the creative insults hurled out into the adjourning hallways.
So a prisoner, then. One that he wouldn’t like her to interact with. Padmé wonders, not for the first time, what had to be done to receive Lord Vader’s personal attention. It isn’t often that the interrogation cells are filled; from what she’s heard from listening to Vaneé and Vader’s discussions, most ‘processing’ happened on his flag-ship, or in Imperial City. It could just be a matter of convenience, because despite a lack of garrisons and trooper squadrons, Mustafar is probably the safest place to keep a dangerous rebel. If they made it past the resident Sith Lord, Emperor’s guards, and the industrial gates, they’d have to traverse the rivers of lava and thick, smokey air.
“I trust you to inform me if there is anything you need in my absence.” Vader says, and the chastising tone has given way to a more gentle one. Padmé would prefer to shouted at than to hear that modulator struggling to output a voice with some semblance of emotion.
The first few weeks on Mustafar, Padmé had begged to be returned to Coruscant, or even to her family’s home in Naboo. They had been at an impasse for days, and Padmé had fought him tooth and nail. She’d screamed and cried like a child, had balled her fists up and hit out at his mask, ripped at his cape, but he had been as unmoved as a building or statue. She’d truly thought that her anger would hold forever, burning and strong, but the months of silent halls, mute guards and the occasional symphony of prisoner’s begging has doused it, and now only embers remain.
“What could you possibly give to me?” Padmé asks listlessly, her hand coming up to trail across the cool plexi-glass that flanks the corridor.
“Anything. You know this.” Vader sighs, or seems to. It’s hard to tell with the respirator.
She wants to tell him that he knows exactly what she’s talking about. That it does not matter how many gifts he bestows upon her, how many games and droids and holonet devices she receives, Vader can never give her what she truly needs: Her freedom.
“Enjoy Coruscant.” Padmé says instead, waiting for her doors to open. Vader steps forwards as though he’s about to follow, but thinks better of it.
“I will miss you.” He says, and she hates that he still speaks to her with such an earnestness. Memories of Anakin, looking uncertain but lovestruck, fidgeting with his padawan braid as he snuck into her apartment, invade Padmé’s mind. Vader stands at her threshold, an abominable machine that still manages to be that uncertain boy, gloved fists clenched at his side.
“I will miss you.” Padmé admits. He senses it when she lies, but even she is unsure as to if her words are the truth. “I always do.”
It’s a day later that Padmé gives in to her curiosity and enters the interrogation cells.
Late at night, the fortress is dead in its silence, with only the whir of cleaning droids making their way up and down the corridors.
She had thought about Vader’s strange reaction to her comment, and his reluctance to leave her alone, and that had done it. The dormant urge to investigate, to move and observe, reignited once more. Padmé almost feels as though she is sleepwalking as she navigates the building, having subconsciously memorised the infrequent guard patrols that roam nearby. It’s easy to slip in, with no officers posted outside. No need to have any supervision or watch; Vader likes to deal with his prisoners personally.
It’s a long, dark room with cell doors made of thick plexi-glass. Only one hums with a conditioned air cycle, right down at the end. Even though the hour is late, Padmé is certain that the single prisoner is awake. The door had clanked when she’d come in, and the lights in the cell were shining brightly. A tactic, she knew, used to stop prisoners from sleeping.
“Hello?” A voice calls out, and Padmé startles badly, hand reaching out to steady herself on the wall. She says nothing, heart suddenly leaping into her throat. She should leave; this is a terrible idea. Perverted, even, to come and leer at the poor person her husband would carelessly torture until he deemed them fit for an executuion.
“Hey!” The voice calls again. It’s feminine, and has a blatantly youthful squeak to it. Not a child, but perhaps a teenager. “I can hear you. You come back for another go, bucket head? Or maybe it’s Lord Vader himself, though I don’t hear all of that breathing apparatus, you wheezy kriffing cyborg!”
Padmé slowly walks forward, hoping that nobody is hearing the ruckus. Her feet are cold on the duracrete floor, but they make no sound as she pads along. Cautiously, she leans until she can peek around the edge.
The prisoner is standing, fists clenched by her side. She’s young and her eyes are full of fire as she stares out, looking quickly back and forth. But despite her defiant stance, Padmé can see that her body is shaking, and her face is darkened with dirt and bruises, blood matting her hair back to her scalp. Padmé thinks of Vader hurting her, wrapping his hands around her neck and throttling. Before she can pull away, the girl’s eyes lunge and catch sight of her. The girl freezes, staring at Padmé for several seconds as Padmé also stares back, dumbstruck with fear and guilt.
Slowly, the girl raises a hand, opens her fist, and spreads her fingers in a placating gesture. Like Padmé is a wounded animal.
“Hey,” The girl says, so much softer, but Padmé still flinches, moving quickly back from the glass.
“Hey, no, no, don’t go.” The girl pleads quickly. “I’m sorry, I thought you were one of the Imperials. I didn’t mean what I said.” She pauses, and Padmé can see her hand spread across the glass wall that separates them. “Could you come back here for just a moment?”
“I should be the one who’s sorry,” Padmé says, wringing her hands. She remains where she is though, head tilting back until it hits the wall with a thud. “‘I’m not allowed to be in here.”
“You a prisoner too?” The girl asks. “I promise not to tell anybody I saw you. Just come into the light where I can see you, please?”
Padmé takes a breath. She should return to her room, forget what she’s seen. But she can’t help but wonder - this was the prisoner Vader had been so anxious about her seeing?
She’s never seen a single soul in this cell block. Heard plenty of their pleas, threats and screams, but it feels strange to actually see a real person, not just a disembodied voice that fades to a sharp silence, once Lord Vader has finished his interrogation. The closest she had gotten to see is the body-bag she’d witnessed being hauled over the bridge to be incinerated in the lava below.
Vader’s off-planet. Vaneé and the guards have no idea that she’s here, or they would have come up and got her by now. This is the first living being other than her husband and guards that she’s seen since the rise of the Empire. So Padmé steps back in front of the cell.
“Hello,” She says cautiously. Her hands wrap in the loose folds of her nightgown, and Padmé curses internally as the prisoner’s eyes go straight to the diadem that’s keeping her hair pulled back, and the jewelled catch at her throat.
“Hi.” The girl replies, though there is no anger in her tone. Merely confusion, or curiosity perhaps. “You’re not a prisoner.”
“I can’t leave here.” Padmé replies. The words feel clumsy and strange in her mouth. “But I’m not locked up.”
The girl looks worse up-close. Her hair is tangled and damp looking, and her skin is caked in old dirt and grime. She has a patch on her breast, a blazing emblem of the Republic, seen on Jedi General armour. The sight of it is jarring. She’d never thought she would see that symbol again.
Padmé wonders just what had happened leading up to her capture, or if this is just how Imperials treat their prisoners.
But there’s a steely determination in the girl’s eyes. Brown, just like Padmé’s. She gets closer to the glass, looking over Padmé’s shoulder.
“A guard’s wife?” She asks. “I can tell you’re not an officer.”
“I could be.” Padmé says, despite herself. “What makes you think I’m not?”
The girl laughs. “Well, for one thing, you’re not looking at me like I’m the dirt under your shoes. And that isn’t exactly Imperial-army issued fatigues you’ve got there.”
She laughs too, letting go of the fabric she’s still twisting. “I suppose you’ve got me there.”
“A prisoner of a different kind, then.” The girl nods, then takes a step back from the glass. “How did you get in here without being caught?”
“I’ve lived here a while. The guards don’t patrol so much at night.”
The girl’s eyes flicker with interest in the light, and Padmé could kick herself. What is she doing? Vader would be so furious to know she’d even come down here, let alone telling a prisoner about the guard shift rotations.
“I’m going to get out of this place.” The girl says after a moment, and there’s so much determination in her voice that Padmé almost wants to believe her. There had probably been the same conviction in her own ramblings about breaking free and leaving Mustafar. She can hardly remember now.
“I used to think the same,” Padmé says. She rubs her hand up and down her arm, a nervous habit she’d never had before. What feels like a lifetime ago, she had never fidgeted, or stuttered or blushed. Such self-assurance had been drained out of her like blood sapped by a needle.
Distantly she recalls mercy missions to the outer rim. Where beings had never interacted with other species, and had stared at her and Republic soldiers, shaken and terrified. She feels as though she’s gained a greater understanding of that particular response.
But the hope on the prisoner’s face is heartbreaking. Because Padmé had taken on the same haughty expression, she had told herself over and over that she was strong, capable, resourceful. That she’d gotten out of tougherscrapes than this. That attitude had fizzled away into horror, and then acceptance.
If the girl lived long enough, she would go through a similar process.
“Well, I’ve got a trick or two up my sleeve.” The prisoner replies. She crosses her arms, and nods as if to affirm herself.
“Can I trust you?” She asks. Padmé takes a breath, glancing over her shoulder once more. It’s unlikely that the guards will check on her and find her gone from her bed, but she had no idea how often they would check the cell block.
“I won’t tell anyone about your plans.” Padmé replies. “Though, I must tell you, there really is no escape. I’m sorry.”
The girl clicks her tongue. “Save your apologies.” She replies firmly. “I’m a Commander in the Rebel Alliance. This isn’t my first time in a prison cell.”
“The Rebel Alliance?” Padmé asks, though she’s hardly surprised. “Then surely you know how Lord Vader treats Rebel soldiers?”
“Of course. I’ve lost many brothers and sisters at his hand.” The girl sits on the floor, and after a moment, Padmé does the same.
“Then how do you think you’ll escape?” Padmé says, expecting the horror to dawn across the other woman’s face, to hear the begging and pleading that always came.
But the girl merely shrugs.
“He won’t try and kill me right away. I have information that he wants.” She says. “I know he’s been forced to return to Coruscant.”
Padmé blinks, looking up from the polished durasteel floor. The girl looks vaguely smug at her response.
“That’s not accidental, either.” She continues, seemingly spurred on. “His absence will give me enough time to get out of here. I knew when I took this mission that I could be captured, and the closest processing point not on a flag-ship would be his fortress.”
The girl leans forward until her breath fogs the glass plating. “I got hold of the blueprints. I can get out of here.”
Padmé takes a few moments to process the words.
“What about all the lava outside?” She asks finally. “Surely, even if you get out of here, there’s nowhere to run. The air would kill you, if you managed not to burn to death.”
Unwarranted flashes of shattered memories; the stench of scorched skin, animalistic screams and declarations of hatred.
“I’ll tell you how,” The girl says. “And I can take you with me. But you have to promise that you’ll help me.”
“Vader will kill me.” Padmé replies immediately. Her hand brushes over her throat.
“Vader will kill us both at some point if we stick around. And I for one don’t want to wait until his famous hospitality runs out.” The girl rebutts. “Our best chance of survival isn’t rolling over and playing nice.” A hand, caked in dirt and blood and star’s knew what else, pressed against the glass.
“The Rebellion fights for those who cannot. Defends the weak, the voiceless.” She says. “You could be a part of that. Let me help you out of here.”
Padmé stares at the hand for a moment, and then her own, still folded in her lap.
She’d like to tell her that Vader would not kill her, if she rolled over and played nice. Testing his ire is the last thing she’d like to do. But the girl’s face is completely fixed with an unflinching determination, making Padmé unwillingly recall her own face, powdered and painted, stoic and strong in the face of an invasion.
“To live without hope is not to live at all.” The prisoner says. At that, Padmé feels her resolve crumble into dust. It had been so long since she’d ignited that fire within her that the feeling is foreign, though welcomed.
“Alright.” Padmé replies. Hesitantly, she lifts her hand, places it over where the girl’s is still pushed up on the glass.
“I’m Commander Votum.” The prisoner introduces.
Padmé thinks for a second before answering. She’s obviously not been recognised so far, and not many knew her by anything other than her regnal name.
“Padmé.” She replies.
“Well, Padmé,” Votum says with a grin. “Let’s get the kriff out of here.”
Vader sends her a missive the next evening, and Padmé’s heart plummets, thinking that they’re found out. But it’s merely a tentative attempt to ask how she is. Over twenty similar communications sit in her datapad inbox, unanswered and stale. Vader had programmed it to only receive messages from his frequency. They had become more infrequent as time had gone on, but he still tries to speak with her, even now.
She stares at the glowing letters on her screen until she feels sick to her stomach, before throwing it to the end of her bed with a ragged sigh.
Votum had told her that the plan had already been in motion before Padmé had come down to the cells. With Vader’s absence, the guards had visited the Commander with taunts of their newly delegated power, and Votum had gotten hold of a key pass that would allow them out into the hangar. From there, she’d be able to disable the planet-wide shield, and they’d be out into the galaxy before they knew it.
Because neither of them knew when Vader would return, the best course of action was to act as soon as they saw the opportunity. Padmé sleeps lightly, waiting for any kind of sign or signal. She’d spent the day expecting to hear the cry of alarms blaring across the fortress, a legion of guards storming into her rooms and dragging her away. But nobody seems none the wiser.
Dinner that night had been painful. Vaneé had probed her about her day, no doubt on Vader’s orders to ensure that she was surviving and alright. C3PO’s loud exclamation as a wave of lava came particularly close to the plated windows had made Padmé jump out of her seat, and for the rest of the evening she had flinched at every sound and movement.
Sleep comes uneasy, like a restless tide, but Padmé manages to sleep through the sound of somebody coming into her room and kneeling over her on her bed.
“Shhhhhh.” Commander Votum’s hands are clean, she notes, breathing in the smell of soap from the palm wrapped gently over her mouth.
“Wha-” Padmé starts, and Votum quickly sits back, a finger to her mouth. Votum is dressed in a guard’s uniform, a red helmet tucked securely under her elbow. Padmé doesn’t even want to think about how she got hold of the garb.
“Come on.” Commander Votum says, pulling back her covers. “I’ve wasted enough time trying to find your room.”
Padmé jumps from her bed, throwing on a pair of slippers kept by her dresser. Votum is staring around her room silently, urgency temporarily suspended. She’s eying the decadence, the art pinned to the wall, the velvet sheets, the powered-down protocol droid charging in the corner. She raises an eyebrow but her face is guarded, tense. Padmé’s heart begins to pound. Would she leave her here, if she were to find out who she was? She might kill her, just to spite Vader.
“Who are you?” Votum murmurs, absently stroking the rumpled coverlet through her fingers.
“I’m sorry,” Padmé says in answer. The feeling of self-loathing grows like a venom in her chest. Votum had been confined, beaten and abused in a cell, and Padmé had been languishing in her rooms. To compare herself to Votum felt like the worst dishonesty, and she waits for Votum to tell her that she can’t come along, or for a strike to her head or chest. Instead, Votum looks to the locks on the door, disabled for now, but always ready to be turned back online, when Padmé acted particularly defiant.
“A prisoner of a different kind.” Votum murmurs. “I understand.” She holds out her hand, grasps Padmé firmly on the elbow. “Come on.”
They sneak quietly but quickly down to the hangar, almost tiptoeing. They nearly make it undisturbed, but at the last minute they have to pull back and hide behind a pillar when they hear a guard patrol meandering past, complaining about a broken laundry unit back in the barracks.
“How are we going to get the shield down?” Padmé whispers as they sneak along the wall. The glow of the hangar is so close now that it reflects off the crystals embedded into her slippers.
“Already handled.” Votum replies lowly. “A contact of mine in the Imperial Navy passed on clearance for shield recalibration. We have a two hour gap to get out undetected.”
For the first time, escape feels real. Tangible, like a physical object, and not just an abstract concept. In her years of living in Mustafar, Padmé’s never allowed herself to dream of getting away, not after her feeble attempts in the beginning. Vader had put her so thoroughly in her place that the mere thought of fantasising is met with an overriding sorrow. Now it feels weighted, heavy, and Padmé shivers in anticipation before following Votum’s crouched figure into the open doors of the hangar bay.
Oddly, there are no guards, and even the maintenance droids are sleeping, powered off by the workshop rooms. Padmé doesn’t stop to ponder why, her heart beginning to pound, but this time in excitement.
“We’re taking this one.” Votum murmurs, nodding to a lambda shuttle in the corner. “I’ve always wanted to fly one of those.”
“Are you sure we’re safe to go?” Padmé asks. “All this effort will be for nothing if we got straight out of the sky.”
Votum smiles, and the youthful grin unwillingly reminds her of how Anakin used to look, right before he pulled off some ridiculous stunt. The helmet comes up from under her elbow, before Votum quickly wedges it on over her head.
“Heat vision.” She says in explanation, her voice deeper and modulated. “Go start up the warm up sequence, and I’ll watch for anyone coming in.” From beneath the red cloak she pulls out a standard issue blaster, likely pulled from the storage cupboards used by the troopers.
“Alright,” Padmé says, and then she’s up and running haphazardly, trying desperately not to make noise as her feet slap across the floor. She waits impatiently for the ramp to extend, tense and hunched as though blaster bolts are already flying, though the hangar is still filled with the same eerie silence.
The controls of the shuttle are thankfully similar to the Nubian-1 Star Fighter she’d been used to operating, and it takes only minutes to go through the pre-flight sequence, the craft thrumming to life beneath her like a living animal. Padmé waits by the ramp, praying that the engines starting up isn’t loud enough to attract curious guards or droids.
But none come, and after a few moments Votum is lunging up the ramp and hitting the button as she passes her, and Padmé watches the hangar bay slowly disappear with a hiss of exhaust gas.
“Right,” Votum says, throwing down her helmet on a sofa-like ledge before heading into the cockpit. “Let’s get going.”
Padmé sits down in the co-pilot chair, eyes glued to the view screen, barely blinking.
“I can’t believe it.” She says as they maneuver round to the exit of the hangar bay. Votum looks over, hands on the throttles. She gives her that roguish grin, and Padmé smiles back, feeling a rush of pure elation.
“Believe it.”
Padmé knows logically, that all novelties eventually wear off. But as she stares out into the void of space, the glowing jewel of Mustafar invisible to them now, she can’t imagine ever not feeling so happy. She gets up and walks around the shuttle as Votum undresses from her stolen guard’s gear. At the back of her mind, Padmé notes that the Lambda shuttle is oddly similar to the layout of her N-1 Starfighter, from the plush couches, placement of fresher, and even the colour scheme. She hadn’t thought the Imperial Navy would have furnished their shuttles with such extravagance, but she casts the thought aside. She’s free.
She’s free.
It feels unreal, like a good dream.
The possibilities are too much to consider all at once. Votum could take her to the Rebel Alliance. Bail, Mon, and other Senators who Padmé knew from her avid watching of Senate proceedings are still alive. Her daughter, swept away to Alderaan - Padmé could see her from afar, and she could get in touch with Obi-Wan, if they could find a secure enough channel.
She could finally start living again.
The stars blur past, and Padmé presses her hand on the view screen, expecting the cool plating. Instead, her hand pulls away warm and clammy.
Why is she so hot? Padmé rubbed the back of her neck, feeling a sticky sheen across her skin. Feeling oddly self-conscious, she wipes her hands down her night shirt.
It’s the adrenaline, she reasons; a delayed reaction.
Out of the fight for so long, Padmé had almost forgotten what it’s like to take that first shaking breath, assured that she’s safe, and will live another day. She does her best to calm herself, sitting down on the sofa and placing her head in her hands. Part of her wants to cry and laugh, just to give the excitement bubbling inside of her a conduit and an outlet.
But she doesn’t calm down. And she’s still so horribly hot.
Space is cold, she remembers saying once, dressed in her handmaid's outfit, blanket in her arms.
“Are you alright?” Votum calls, stepping out of the cockpit. “We’re about to make the jump, I’m just finishing some calculations.”
“Fine,” Padmé replies, standing and feeling her clothes sticking to her uncomfortably. “I’m going to use the fresher.”
“Good idea.” Votum says, then hurries to correct herself. “I only mean, you look like you need to cool off a little. These shuttles carry a water tank, feel free to use some.”
“Perfect.” Padmé says, trying to be casual as she makes a beeline for the fresher door after Votum returns to the cockpit.
In the small space, Padmé feels even more flustered. There’s a tiny sink with a plated mirror above it, though Padmé’s reflection warps and twists back at her, making her stomach flip unpleasantly. The taps turn under her hands, and Padmé doesn’t know when they had started to tremble. She puts her fingers through the water and splashes her face, but the water is warm, stingingly so. With a gasp she closes her eyes as it sears her cheeks, dripping off of her eyelashes. When she opens them again, the fresher is filled with steam, the water scorching her hands, which she belatedly pulls back. Her hands grip the durasteel rim of the sink, searching desperately for a cold surface, but the sink has heated up, too.
“Padmé.” Votum is behind her. She didn’t hear her come in. “What’s wrong?”
“I- I don’t know.” She gasps, fingers clenching around the sink. “It’s so hot.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” Votum says, her hand falling onto her shoulder. Her hand feels large, but so blessedly cold that Padmé leans back slightly. “It’s adrenaline. A delayed reaction.”
Padmé feels her blood freeze in her veins, which is a strange sensation, as she simultaneously can feel herself boiling from the inside out.
“I thought that’s what it was.” She says numbly, and her voice sounds funny, like she’s underwater, or speaking through a faulty com. It takes her another minute to process that Votum is still talking, though she doesn’t sound like Votum at all.
“Come on, let go, just let go,” She’s saying.
Padmé looks over her shoulder, and Votum is dressed once more in her red guard outfit, her voice modulated and deep from behind the helmet.
“When did you put that back on?” She asks, and goes to reach out, but her hand is swatted away, back to grip onto the sink.
Votum is suddenly helmetless, and her face is covered in grime and dirt once more, gaunt and horrible in the light of the refresher. There’s a hissing noise coming from the tap, and water begins to flow over Padmé’s hands, scorching her knuckles and singing through her slippers as it overflows onto the floor.
“Let me go, Padmé.” Votum says. “I’m dead. They’re all dead. Let me go.”
“What?” Padmé asks, her voice shrill and distorted. “What are you doing? Stop!”
“It’s like you said,” Votum says. Her skin isn’t just grimy, but there’s a paleness to it now, horrible and haunting. “Nobody leaves this fortress alive.”
And then Votum is in her helmet once more, and the hissing increases. The air around them fills with a black smoke as Padmé is burnt, and the water seems to melt through the floor and the walls, the heat unbelievable.
“Let go.”
And the modulated voice deepens and becomes sonorous, and through the smoke Padmé sees Vader’s monstrous form, the hand on her shoulder gripping with inhuman strength. She turns back to see that her knuckles are not seared, but merely grazed with flecks of molten ash. There’s no sink or mirror, or no fresher for that matter. Instead, Padmé looks down to see that she’s stood on a duracrete bridge, holding on tightly to a railing. Below her, the lava spits up and hisses at her, the heat making her dizzy ,drying the tears running down her face.
“Padmé, let go.” Vader tugs once more, and she goes limp, allowing herself to be pulled away. Her slippers, scorched and black, drag across the floor.
“She slipped by the guards again?” Vader asks.
“Yes, my Lord. Through the hangar bay this time.” Vaneé looks down onto her, hands buried in his robe and head bowed in sympathy. Padmé tries to get free, desperate suddenly to wipe that expression from his face, but Vader’s grip is ironclad.
“I will have to replace them.” Vader replies. His voice sounds odd, almost weary. “Or transfer Death Troopers to the garrison.”
“She is tenacious.” A pause, and then Padmé feels the cool air overtake her again as they retreat inside. The fortress is silent, and she wants to scream and cry, but her throat is sore and her body feels drained.
“I would recommend guard placements by the cell block, my Lord.” Vaneé says after a moment. “My investigation suggests she visited there following your departure.”
“See to it that she did not break anything in there.” Vader commands. “Though it is empty, I do not doubt she could have inflicted some kind of damage.”
“Very well, my Lord.”
When Vaneé’s footsteps had faded once more into the silence, Vader lifts her into his arms. Padmé watches the corridors sweep by, sees the orange blur of the glass.
Alone in her bedroom, Vader places her on top of her bed.
“I do not know what to do with you.” He says, leaning over to pull her slippers off one by one. “I will summon a medical droid to look at your hands and feet.”
“You could let me go.” Padmé whispers. She feels his gloved hands gently stroking over the scorched ball of her foot, before running up her ankle.
“I cannot.” Vader replies. “Padmé, you must stop doing this. Please.”
“No.”
She pulls her foot out of his grip, and stares at him. In the semi-darkness of her room, his hunched form is huge and horrible, but she can see the uncertainty and pain in his posture. He sits there for some time, his hand reaching up and patting her like she’s a pet or child. The oddness of the gesture makes tears prick in her eyes, though it could just be from the residual smoke hanging around them both.
“Was she real?” Padmé asks. Vader turns at her voice, hand pausing. “The prisoner. Was she ever real?”
“No.” Vader replies after a moment. His hands resume the pattern he'd been drawing on her bared leg. “No. A figment of your imagination. I stopped bringing prisoners to the fortress, but you...” He doesn’t have to finish.
“Oh.” She says.
“I love you.” He says into the silence, a few minutes later. He reaches out and touches the rolling tears with a gentleness that only spurs on more. “I love you more than you could ever know.”
She doesn’t reply, but she lets him run his hands through her hair, the steady beat of his respirator sending her into a deep, dreamless sleep.
A day, like any other, dawns red and bloody.