My Unfortunate Fate

chapter 70

The foundation of every great love story is a constant sense of comfort.

I am back in the cell. I am in my cell on Oba Diah with no knowledge of how I arrived here and no pain in my nose. My arm throbs and tightens around the syringe lodged within it, pumping me full of heinous and intoxicating liquid. I feel woozy.

Eyn appears a few feet in front of my suspended body. "You really thought you could get away?" he taunts. "Thought your boyfriend could come and rescue you?"

"Not my boyfriend," I hear myself grumble. My vision spins, fades, melts, and loads again. Everything becomes clear: he stands less than a foot away, still taunting, trying to be intimidating.

"Tell me I'm wrong when I say this: You can't get out of here alone, y/l/n."

I don't respond, but my mouth does, in a spiteful tone: "You're wrong."

"How so?" Eyn asks.

I feel my spine chill with familiarity, something I haven't experienced as of yet. I've heard, and read, about this feeling—déjà vu. Jedi are often so hyper-aware of our surroundings that we don't experience this feeling—we simply know what's real or not. But this...

"My name is Skywalker," my voice intones. "You got that wrong."

And then, a flash: searing pain ripping me apart, darkness, silence; crying, pleading, a frigid sensation, and finally...emptiness. Death.

I gasp, only to wake myself, sitting up in the warm  and calm setting of my bedroom. The first thing I do—as tears begin to fall down my cheeks—is touch my nose. A thick bandage covers most of the bridge, and it's warm at the touch.

My skin is warm. I'm alive.

The dream was a memory—my memory of the events on Oba Diah—but with a vastly different conclusion. Hence the feeling of déjà vu, and the obvious fact that I am still alive.

My heart is pounding. My eyes are raining. My hands are shaking. When a breeze hits my forearm, I lay back down and pull the duvet over my shoulders. I turn to my side, finding my husband sleeping soundly beside my crying and shaking figure.

The last thing I want is to disturb him; he doesn't get much rest nowadays—I believe this is the first time he's slept in a week. He deserves peace. But I start to think about what he would want me to do: he would tell me to wake him, and he'd want to help me through this as he helps me through every other issue. I decide that, despite my selfish motives, I shall wake him.

"Love?" Anakin's voice whispers. His tone is soft and gentle, concealed beneath the ragged groan of drowsiness. He woke up before I could interrupt his slumber.

My throat is padlocked and my lips are sealed. I try to press my head into his shoulder, but all my body seems to do is cry. Sensing my need for comfort, he wraps his arms around my back, slowly pulling me to his chest. I think I'm crying harder as my hands hold his sides, soft skin caressing my calloused fingers and palms. He pushes my hair away from my face and holds it behind my head with the utmost care.

Everything I do can be described hyperbolically. I am not breathing—I am hyperventilating. I am not still—my entire body is frozen. I am not shaking—I am convulsing.

Anakin is holding me together, piece by piece, calming my cries with low shushes and soothing my jerks with soft kisses and gentle back rubs. Without him here, I might shatter into oblivion, a mere cloud of dust passing through a whirlwind of misery. But his presence, his lungs filling and emptying beneath my head, his heartbeat and his voice filling my ears, and his arms holding me so protectively make it all okay. Make it all tolerable.