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...
The suite was quiet in that particular Coruscant way—too large, too polished, the city's glow bleeding in through tall windows that never truly darkened.
Padmé Amidala moved from case to case with practiced efficiency, folding garments, setting jewelry aside, pausing now and then as if hoping the act of packing might argue back.
"I still don't agree with this," she said at last, not looking up. "Running. Hiding. It feels… wrong."
Anakin stood near the doorway, arms folded, cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders.
"Sometimes," he said lightly, "duty comes before what we want."
Padmé glanced over her shoulder.
"You sound older when you say things like that."
He chuckled. "The Council doesn't seem to think so."
She turned fully now, eyebrow lifting in quiet curiosity.
"Oh?"
"To some of them," Anakin continued, voice even, "I'm still an impulsive child. Qui-Gon's asked more than once for my promotion. They've refused every time."
Padmé returned to her packing, listening.
"And that bothers you?"
Anakin hesitated, then shrugged. "I'd be lying if I said it didn't."
She considered that.
"Sometimes," she said gently, "being held back isn't punishment. It's space. Space to grow into who you're meant to be."
Anakin exhaled, the sound faint through the mask, and crossed the room. He sat on the edge of the bed beside her open case, the mattress dipping under his weight.
She leaned closer as she set a final garment into place, her face near his helmet.
"Just… don't grow up too fast, Annie."
The nickname slipped out naturally, warm and familiar.
Anakin stiffened.
Then stood.
"I already have," he said, a little too quickly. "You said it yourself."
Padmé straightened as well, meeting his height with calm resolve.
"I said you'd grown," she replied. "Not that you were finished."
There was a pause.
She felt it before she named it—the weight of his attention, the way it lingered.
"Don't look at me like that," she said softly.
Anakin tilted his head. "Like what?"
"You know what I mean."
He let out a quiet huff of amusement. "Padmé, I'm wearing a helmet."
She crossed her arms. "You think that makes you subtle?"
That earned a low laugh from him—barely restrained.
"You're making me uncomfortable," she added, not accusing, just honest.
Anakin's shoulders rose and fell in a slow breath. "That wasn't my intention."
"Intent doesn't always matter," she said.
She stepped closer, studying the familiar, unreadable mask.
"Are you really going to wear that thing all the way back to Naboo?"
"Yes," he answered without hesitation.
She sighed, smiling despite herself.
"When," she asked lightly, "are you going to take it off for me?"
The question landed harder than she expected.
Anakin froze.
The air shifted.
"That's not important," he said at last.
Padmé's smile faded.
"It is," she said quietly. "You trust Qui-Gon. You trust Obi-Wan. Why not me?"
Anakin turned away, gaze drifting to the window.
"It's not what you think."
"Then tell me," she pressed. "I know your circumstances. I know you're the last of your kind. But I'm not going to hurt you, Annie. I don't even know what's under that mask."
Silence stretched.
Then Anakin turned back.
He lifted a gloved hand and gently cupped her cheek, careful, reverent.
"I'm not hiding from you," he said softly. "I'm protecting you."
Her brow furrowed. "From what?"
"From being frightened."
She searched his visor, then shook her head slightly.
"Are you deformed?" she asked, blunt but kind. "Because I don't care if you're not human. You know that. My uncle is a Rodian."
Anakin lowered his hand.
"Are you ready to leave?" he asked instead.
Padmé studied him for a moment longer.
Then she sighed.
"Yes."
He nodded once, decisive. He picked up her cases with ease and moved toward the door.
The elevator waited beyond, K-2SO standing rigidly at attention, HK-47 far too relaxed.
They descended in silence, the city sliding upward around them.
Padmé glanced at Anakin once more.
She didn't know what he was hiding.
But she knew this much—
Whatever was beneath that mask mattered to him far more than he let anyone see.
///
The port was loud with engines and departure calls, but the space just beyond it felt strangely still.
The transport's ramp lowered with a dull hiss, and they stepped out into the open air—Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padmé Amidala, and Anakin, flanked by metal and shadow.
Anakin had changed since Coruscant. The polished lines of Jedi robes were gone, replaced by practical traveler's gear—dark layers, reinforced boots, a heavy cloak pulled high. His mask remained, as always, but the hood obscured it further, breaking the sharp silhouette people had begun to recognize.
Qui-Gon turned to Padmé first.
"We'll find who's behind this," he said, voice steady, grounding. "Whoever ordered the attack didn't expect us to respond so quickly."
Padmé inclined her head. "I know you will. Thank you… both of you."
Obi-Wan offered a small, reassuring smile. "Try not to worry. That's our job."
Then Qui-Gon turned to Anakin.
He didn't speak at first. He simply reached out and squeezed Anakin's shoulder—firm, brief, familiar.
"You'll do well," Qui-Gon said quietly. "Trust your judgment."
Anakin nodded, the gesture subtle beneath the hood.
"I will," he replied. "Thank you, Master."
Obi-Wan hesitated, then added, "Don't forget to sleep."
Anakin snorted softly. "I'll try."
The two Jedi stepped back, already turning toward the next task, the next hunt. Padmé watched them go for a moment—then looked at Anakin.
"Well," she said, exhaling. "Ready to leave Coruscant?"
"More than ready," Anakin replied.
///
Hours later, the ship was deep in transit.
The main cabin lights were dimmed, the hum of hyperspace a constant presence that settled into the bones. A makeshift table had been set up between the seats, and Padmé sat there now, eating slowly, methodically. R2-D2 trundled back and forth, beeping cheerfully as he delivered another tray.
Anakin sat across from her, forearms resting on the table, watching—but not eating.
In the corner, HK-47 stood motionless, optics glowing faintly, while K-2SO leaned against the bulkhead like a durasteel statue. Together, they made the far end of the cabin feel… decidedly unwelcoming.
Padmé noticed Anakin's untouched plate.
"Are you going to eat?" she asked.
"In a bit," he said. "Maybe later."
She frowned. "That's not an answer."
"I will eat," he clarified. "Just not now."
"That isn't healthy, Annie."
Anakin tilted his head slightly. "I've gone days without food before."
The words were said plainly. No drama. No self-pity.
But Padmé felt them land like a weight.
She looked down at her plate, appetite fading, the memory of a small boy on Tatooine surfacing unbidden—bare feet on hot sand, a smile too big for a life that hard.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
He waved it off. "There's nothing to be sorry about."
"I know," she replied. "But it doesn't make it easier to hear."
She changed the subject, as he had expected.
"It must be difficult," Padmé said after a moment. "Being in the Order. Not being able to enjoy the things other people do. Travel where you want. Choose your own life."
Anakin considered that.
"It is," he admitted. "And it isn't."
She waited.
"There are… rules," he continued. "Boundaries. Some make sense. Some don't."
"And the people you care about?" Padmé asked gently.
Anakin's gaze lifted—straight to her.
"Those are the hardest," he said.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. Just… charged.
Padmé broke it first.
"Are Jedi allowed to love?"
Anakin looked down at the table.
"No," he said. "Attachments are forbidden. Possession. Obsession."
He paused.
"Though," he added, "my situation is… different."
That caught her attention.
"Different how?"
"Master Qui-Gon told me I've been granted an exception."
Padmé's eyebrows knit together. "An exception?"
Anakin nodded. "You know Ki-Adi-Mundi?"
"The Cerean on the Council?" she asked.
"Yes. His species is near extinction. The Order allows him to marry."
Padmé blinked. "Marry?"
"Five wives," Anakin added, dry humor slipping in despite himself. "Which I still find impressive."
Padmé's mouth fell open.
"Five," she repeated. "I was under the impression marriage was absolutely forbidden."
"So was I," Anakin said. "Until that conversation."
She shook her head, half-laughing in disbelief. "Five."
He nodded once more.
"Qui-Gon believes," Anakin continued, "that the same logic would apply to me. As far as we know, I'm the last of my kind."
Padmé looked at him more closely now.
"He expects you'll be allowed to marry?" she asked.
"Expects," Anakin confirmed. "There's been no formal decision. But he's rarely wrong about these things."
She leaned back slightly, absorbing that.
"Well," she said slowly, a small smile forming, "whoever you end up marrying would be a very lucky woman."
Anakin didn't respond right away.
If she could see his face, she might have noticed the way his breath caught—just for a moment.
Instead, he inclined his head.
"Perhaps," he said.
R2 beeped softly, nudging another plate toward Padmé.
She smiled at the droid, then looked back at Anakin.
Outside the viewport, stars streaked past in endless lines of light.
///
Night settled gently over Naboo.
By the time the formalities were finished—the quiet meeting with the Queen, the Governor's careful assurances, the layers of security discussed and rediscussed—the air had cooled and the sky had darkened into deep blues and silver. The decision had been made quickly and without argument.
Lake Country.
Varykino.
A place Padmé knew not as a senator, nor as a queen—but as herself.
The transport skimmed low over still water, its reflection rippling across the vast lake as it approached the island villa. Lights glowed warmly from within, soft against the encroaching dark. Trees lined the shore, their silhouettes unmoving, as if the world itself had chosen to hold its breath.
By the time they stepped inside, exhaustion settled over them both.
The droids dispersed almost immediately—R2 trundling off to explore with quiet curiosity, K-2SO taking up a position near an exterior entrance without being asked, HK-47 claiming a corner with a clear line of sight to everything, declaring it "an optimal murder-prevention location."
Padmé smiled despite herself.
She turned back to Anakin as the villa grew quiet.
"Well?" she asked. "What do you think?"
Anakin stood near the wide windows, looking out over the water, moonlight reflecting faintly off his mask.
"It's… beautiful," he said, and then yawned before he could stop himself.
He straightened slightly, embarrassed. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"
Padmé waved it off gently. "You don't have to apologize. We've barely stopped moving for days."
He nodded. "I think I'm going to try and get some sleep."
"Of course," she said. "Rest. We both need it."
They parted then—separate rooms, separate silences.
Sleep did not come easily.
Anakin lay still at first, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the soft hum of the villa settling around him. The bed was comfortable—far too comfortable—but his thoughts refused to quiet.
He turned once.
Then again.
Finally, with a soft breath of frustration, he reached for his helmet.
The familiar weight settled over him as he placed it on his head, grounding, stabilizing. He rose and moved soundlessly through the villa, bare feet against cool stone, past darkened corridors and quiet rooms.
He stepped out onto the covered patio.
The lake stretched endlessly before him, glass-smooth beneath the stars. Naboo's sky was clear tonight, constellations sharp and bright, reflected perfectly in the water below so that it felt as though he stood between two heavens.
Anakin rested his hands on the railing.
He thought of Qui-Gon.
Of patience. Of listening to the Living Force. Of choosing, always choosing, even when the choice was hard.
Then his thoughts drifted—unbidden—to another voice.
Hego Damask.
The Muun, the banker, the deciever.
Plagueis.
The Sith Lord lingered at the edges of his mind like a shadow that did not move unless acknowledged. Anakin had never fully trusted him—but he could not deny what he felt when they spoke. No malice. No hunger for domination. Only… purpose. Curiosity. Vision.
The Sith lord had come to him years ago in secret. He spoke of secrets only Anakin knew, of the blood that flowed in his veins, of the pacts made, the inheritance Anakin was to take.
Anakin had thought of it for years, of what he could bring to the galaxy, what he could change. The power he could wield, to free all those enslaved, to re write the laws of the galaxy, cutting down the corrupt.
Bring the Sith back to their prime.
Restore the old empire.
Anakin stared out at the lake, jaw tightening beneath the mask.
He imagined it—not as conquest, not as cruelty—but as order. Stability. A galaxy no longer strangled by corruption and endless debate. His people returned. His bloodline restored. Balance enforced not by fragile ideals, but by strength guided by will.
An empire ruled by him.
Not out of evil.
Out of necessity.
He exhaled slowly.
You're thinking too far ahead, he told himself.
The night did not answer.
Eventually, he turned back inside.
The couch in the central room beckoned—unplanned, unimportant. He removed his helmet and set it carefully on the low table, then tugged his shirt over his head, exhaustion finally winning. Without ceremony, he sank down onto the cushions.
Sleep claimed him quickly this time.
Moonlight filtered through the windows, catching the edge of the helmet resting nearby.
Anakin Skywalker slept—unmasked, vulnerable, dreaming of futures not yet chosen—while the waters of Naboo remained calm and unaware of the storm slowly gathering far beyond its shores.