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WIP Amnesty
This is one of those fics that never seem to get their feet. I'm not happy with the last scene. Someday I shall rip it apart, asfetre [after. What a typo!] I do all the other stuff I need to.
Sand. Sand spreads endlessly in all directions, dead grey-brown, and as flat as a sheet of water, although no one here would recognise a sheet of water if they saw one. The twin suns draw all the moisture from the planet so that all there is left is sand. The place is sterile; it saps vitality in a moment. At the horizon, the air shimmers in the heat so that the eye cannot distinguish between sand and sky. The suns beat down relentlessly, their rays slanting through the dusty atmosphere.
The little farm is caught between the unforgiving suns and the infinite desert. The adobe dome of the house bakes, reflecting the sunlight. Droids move shabbily in the yard. Shmi's few, jealously tended plants droop. The hot wind is so faint that it moves nothing but the finest sand grains, a creeping dust close to the ground. The vaporators glint, in the places where they aren't rusty. Their shadows, their two closely overlapping shadows, shift slightly.
Inside the house, they wait.
Suddenly, on the horizon, there is a black speck, an approaching swoop bike like an angry humming-fly. They hurry outside when they hear its engine, avoiding each other's eyes. Owen, Beru, Padmé, and lastly Cligg in his hoverchair. The swoop is close enough now to see its jagged black outline, and the dark, cloaked figure riding it. Alone. They had expected him to be alone. If he returned at all.
Anakin flies effortlessly. He can fly anything. A blond, handsome young man, boy one could almost say still, except there is too much knowledge in his eyes. The landscape is blurring around him, as it blurred the night before when he rode out to find his mother. The glare of the suns on the sand makes his eyes ache. He hates sand. He hates the suns. He hates the Tuskans. Most of all, perhaps, he hates himself. What he has let himself become.
He is flying fast, so that he raises his own wind in his passing that snatches the air from his throat and leaves a drifting wake of disturbed sand behind him. It hurts when he breathes. He wants Padmé, and he wants his mother. He wants the horror that he left behind him to be wiped out of existance. His lightsaber cut the night like a flame with no heat in it, only cold blue light. The world had narrowed to his anger and his enemies and the blue blade. After that— He will not think about what he did after that, but the memory is following him, biting at the heels of his mind, no matter how fast he flies.
He cuts the engine at the homestead. Four pairs of silent eyes watch him. He lifts the bundle easily, for he is tall and strong, and she was starved. A grey, pathetic figure, fragile as a bird in his arms. As she was the night before, in his arms. He walks past them all without a word, and down into the house. Behind him, the dust drifts over his footsteps as though they had never been.
------------
Padmé helps Owen and Beru to lay out Shmi's body, in the room she had shared with Cliegg. Anakin has disappeared, slipped out of sight like a shadow. After they have finished, the two girls move back to allow Cliegg to enter in his hoverchair. Owen kneels by the bed, his expression as bewildered as a lost child's. Beru gives Padmé a sidelong glance, her wide eyes grey-blue like the waters of Naboo.
"Anakin should be here."
"Where is he?" Padmé asks, in a whisper. Beru's shoulders shrug briefly.
"The garage perhaps, or one of the storerooms around the yard. It's where Owen goes when he wants to be alone."
Padmé nods, but still she hesitates.
"You should go to him," Beru says, intently, and she moves off to Owen and Cliegg. Cliegg has a hand on his son's shoulder. They are not crying. In this desert, there must be a tabbo against such a waste of moisture, Padmé realises.
She turns out of the doorway and leaves the Larses alone with their dead.
She does not go to find Anakin, not right away. She cannot forget his face when he came back with his dead mother in his arms. She feels that she does not know him any more, that the little boy she knew, that she loved, is gone, taken over by the man with the angry eyes. Her first impulse is to go to him
he needs you
but she does not know what she will do or say when she finds him. For the first time in her life, Padmé Naberrie, Amidala of the Naboo, does not know how she should act.
She goes into the kitchen. The food is all stored in water-tight sealed containers. Everywhere on this planet are reminders of the lack of water. She looks at them, trying to discern their contents. A light step sounds behind her. Beru.
"You want something to eat?" she asks.
"For Anakin."
The two girls make up a tray of food. Beru asks Padmé about Naboo, what it is like. Padmé answers absently, her mind on Anakin. Beru is a comforting person to be with, quiet yet strong. Her hands work neatly, pouring milk and snapping the seals of the food containers. Padmé takes a tray and fills it with the food.
"Thank you, Beru," she says with a smile. And then she goes to find Anakin.
------------
"Anakin," she says, but her mouth is dry and the name is soundless. Anakin is standing by a workbench, his blond head bent over the swoop bike. His stance is hunched, as though he expects a blow, his shoulders tensed. She swallows a few times, working moisture back into her mouth.
"I brought you something. Are you hungry?"
Anakin looks up. "The shifter broke," he said dully." Life seems so much simpler when you're fixing things. I'm good at fixing things... always was."
His voice is raw-edged. Padmé sets down her tray and listens. He stops working at the bike.
"But I couldn't...Why did she have to die? Why couldn't I save her? I know I could have!"
He stares at her, his eyes glistening. She can almost feel the pain and anger emanating from him, and something else, too—guilt.
"Sometimes—sometimes there are things no one can fix.You're not all-powerful, Ani," she says gently.
"I should be! Someday I will be... I will be the most powerful Jedi ever! I will even learn to stop people from dying!" His voice comes out in gulps.
"Anakin—" Padmé says, trying to stop the flow of words.
"It's all Obi-Wan's fault. He's jealous! He's holding
me back!" Anakin flings the tool he'd been using across the garage, violently. It clatters to the floor, somewhere unseen.
Padmé has the sensation that the ground is opening beneath her feet to show unimagined horrors. Something is terribly wrong with Anakin, something more even than his mother's death.
She finds her voice after what seems like an hour, though in reality it is only a few seconds.
"Ani, what's wrong?"
He stands, staring at her.
"I..." His voice halts. "I killed them. I killed them all. They're
dead, every single one of them..."
No, Padmé thinks. The ground is gone altogether, and she is falling into darkness. Anakin's voice goes on, building to an anaguished cresendo, "Not just the men, but the women and the children too. They're like animals, and I slaughtered them like
animals... I hate them!"
He ends in a half-sob, the threatened tears spilling from his eyes.
The room seems to return from a long way away. Padmé's breath is coming fast as though she has been running. She is poised between pity and anger, but pity wins out.
She makes a small gesture, beckoning him, and he comes to her at last, collapses beside her on the garage floor. She strokes hiss hair, tucking the slender Padawan plait behind his ear. Oh, Anakin, what have you done?
"You're only human," she says, a murmur of comforting sound as though he were a child.
"I'm a Jedi, I know I'm better than this," he says, and hides his face against her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
He sobs in her arms, and she rocks him, making little wordless noises.
"Oh, Anakin."
Sand. Sand spreads endlessly in all directions, dead grey-brown, and as flat as a sheet of water, although no one here would recognise a sheet of water if they saw one. The twin suns draw all the moisture from the planet so that all there is left is sand. The place is sterile; it saps vitality in a moment. At the horizon, the air shimmers in the heat so that the eye cannot distinguish between sand and sky. The suns beat down relentlessly, their rays slanting through the dusty atmosphere.
The little farm is caught between the unforgiving suns and the infinite desert. The adobe dome of the house bakes, reflecting the sunlight. Droids move shabbily in the yard. Shmi's few, jealously tended plants droop. The hot wind is so faint that it moves nothing but the finest sand grains, a creeping dust close to the ground. The vaporators glint, in the places where they aren't rusty. Their shadows, their two closely overlapping shadows, shift slightly.
Inside the house, they wait.
Suddenly, on the horizon, there is a black speck, an approaching swoop bike like an angry humming-fly. They hurry outside when they hear its engine, avoiding each other's eyes. Owen, Beru, Padmé, and lastly Cligg in his hoverchair. The swoop is close enough now to see its jagged black outline, and the dark, cloaked figure riding it. Alone. They had expected him to be alone. If he returned at all.
Anakin flies effortlessly. He can fly anything. A blond, handsome young man, boy one could almost say still, except there is too much knowledge in his eyes. The landscape is blurring around him, as it blurred the night before when he rode out to find his mother. The glare of the suns on the sand makes his eyes ache. He hates sand. He hates the suns. He hates the Tuskans. Most of all, perhaps, he hates himself. What he has let himself become.
He is flying fast, so that he raises his own wind in his passing that snatches the air from his throat and leaves a drifting wake of disturbed sand behind him. It hurts when he breathes. He wants Padmé, and he wants his mother. He wants the horror that he left behind him to be wiped out of existance. His lightsaber cut the night like a flame with no heat in it, only cold blue light. The world had narrowed to his anger and his enemies and the blue blade. After that— He will not think about what he did after that, but the memory is following him, biting at the heels of his mind, no matter how fast he flies.
He cuts the engine at the homestead. Four pairs of silent eyes watch him. He lifts the bundle easily, for he is tall and strong, and she was starved. A grey, pathetic figure, fragile as a bird in his arms. As she was the night before, in his arms. He walks past them all without a word, and down into the house. Behind him, the dust drifts over his footsteps as though they had never been.
------------
Padmé helps Owen and Beru to lay out Shmi's body, in the room she had shared with Cliegg. Anakin has disappeared, slipped out of sight like a shadow. After they have finished, the two girls move back to allow Cliegg to enter in his hoverchair. Owen kneels by the bed, his expression as bewildered as a lost child's. Beru gives Padmé a sidelong glance, her wide eyes grey-blue like the waters of Naboo.
"Anakin should be here."
"Where is he?" Padmé asks, in a whisper. Beru's shoulders shrug briefly.
"The garage perhaps, or one of the storerooms around the yard. It's where Owen goes when he wants to be alone."
Padmé nods, but still she hesitates.
"You should go to him," Beru says, intently, and she moves off to Owen and Cliegg. Cliegg has a hand on his son's shoulder. They are not crying. In this desert, there must be a tabbo against such a waste of moisture, Padmé realises.
She turns out of the doorway and leaves the Larses alone with their dead.
She does not go to find Anakin, not right away. She cannot forget his face when he came back with his dead mother in his arms. She feels that she does not know him any more, that the little boy she knew, that she loved, is gone, taken over by the man with the angry eyes. Her first impulse is to go to him
he needs you
but she does not know what she will do or say when she finds him. For the first time in her life, Padmé Naberrie, Amidala of the Naboo, does not know how she should act.
She goes into the kitchen. The food is all stored in water-tight sealed containers. Everywhere on this planet are reminders of the lack of water. She looks at them, trying to discern their contents. A light step sounds behind her. Beru.
"You want something to eat?" she asks.
"For Anakin."
The two girls make up a tray of food. Beru asks Padmé about Naboo, what it is like. Padmé answers absently, her mind on Anakin. Beru is a comforting person to be with, quiet yet strong. Her hands work neatly, pouring milk and snapping the seals of the food containers. Padmé takes a tray and fills it with the food.
"Thank you, Beru," she says with a smile. And then she goes to find Anakin.
------------
"Anakin," she says, but her mouth is dry and the name is soundless. Anakin is standing by a workbench, his blond head bent over the swoop bike. His stance is hunched, as though he expects a blow, his shoulders tensed. She swallows a few times, working moisture back into her mouth.
"I brought you something. Are you hungry?"
Anakin looks up. "The shifter broke," he said dully." Life seems so much simpler when you're fixing things. I'm good at fixing things... always was."
His voice is raw-edged. Padmé sets down her tray and listens. He stops working at the bike.
"But I couldn't...Why did she have to die? Why couldn't I save her? I know I could have!"
He stares at her, his eyes glistening. She can almost feel the pain and anger emanating from him, and something else, too—guilt.
"Sometimes—sometimes there are things no one can fix.You're not all-powerful, Ani," she says gently.
"I should be! Someday I will be... I will be the most powerful Jedi ever! I will even learn to stop people from dying!" His voice comes out in gulps.
"Anakin—" Padmé says, trying to stop the flow of words.
"It's all Obi-Wan's fault. He's jealous! He's holding
me back!" Anakin flings the tool he'd been using across the garage, violently. It clatters to the floor, somewhere unseen.
Padmé has the sensation that the ground is opening beneath her feet to show unimagined horrors. Something is terribly wrong with Anakin, something more even than his mother's death.
She finds her voice after what seems like an hour, though in reality it is only a few seconds.
"Ani, what's wrong?"
He stands, staring at her.
"I..." His voice halts. "I killed them. I killed them all. They're
dead, every single one of them..."
No, Padmé thinks. The ground is gone altogether, and she is falling into darkness. Anakin's voice goes on, building to an anaguished cresendo, "Not just the men, but the women and the children too. They're like animals, and I slaughtered them like
animals... I hate them!"
He ends in a half-sob, the threatened tears spilling from his eyes.
The room seems to return from a long way away. Padmé's breath is coming fast as though she has been running. She is poised between pity and anger, but pity wins out.
She makes a small gesture, beckoning him, and he comes to her at last, collapses beside her on the garage floor. She strokes hiss hair, tucking the slender Padawan plait behind his ear. Oh, Anakin, what have you done?
"You're only human," she says, a murmur of comforting sound as though he were a child.
"I'm a Jedi, I know I'm better than this," he says, and hides his face against her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
He sobs in her arms, and she rocks him, making little wordless noises.
"Oh, Anakin."