fools, anakin skywalker (ongoing)

sixteen.

this edition has been edited as of february 24, 2020
warning: this is a very long chapter BUT it pays off. please read to the end! don't skip!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

AM I DEAD? AM I DEAD? The question pestered her through an incomprehensible haze. Everything was black and still and quite honestly if this was death, it wasn't so bad. Her body rejected the question with a hiss. If you were dead you would not be in so much pain.

And pain there was; Artie's head may as well have been splitting itself in half. She cracked open her eyes and found nothing, just a room as dark as void . . . no, not a room . . . Artie felt sand shifting beneath her body. A tent. Her breathing hitched and fear seemed to line her very bones.

Lysander. Lysander. The name like acid splashed on her brain.

Artie remained sprawled on the ground for what felt like hours and each passing moment only made her more afraid. Her hands were clamped in irons, a gag slipped between her teeth so she was forced to bare them like a beast. What was he planning for her? Would she be auctioned off? Bought right then and made a palace entertainer in seconds? How could Padmé ever find her? No, don't be stupid—Padmé would never find her. The Hutts would make it like she never existed.

She sensed movement outside and heard low mumbling voices beyond the tent's rough canvas walls. Artie knew she must be in one of their camps, she just had no inkling of which one; she could be on the other side of the planet. Suddenly a square of bright white light cut through the darkness as someone opened the tent's flap door. Spurred by some primal instinct, Artie shut her eyes and went limp. Let them think she was still out cold, defeated and weak. She had one last trick up her sleeve—or, in her pocket. Whatever dullard had tied her up had forgotten to disarm her; she still had Anakin's lightsaber.

Footsteps thudded softly over the sand and kicked a little bit in Artie's nose as they halted before her. A hand took her shoulder and turned her over. Artie let her eyes open a fraction. Lysander Auletes stared back, pale gaze satisfied and haughty and meaner than the devil. Sandy hair fell across his eyes constantly, and fingers riddled with wispy white scars came up to brush it away.

"Sit up," Lysander commanded. Every nerve in her body screamed against obedience, but Artie caught sight of both a whip and a blaster on Lysander's belt and the part of her with good sense opted to do as she was told. She straightened and kept ahold of his cool stare. She wanted to study him, study what she'd lost, meanwhile hoping she could convey years of hatred through a single look on her face. Lysander lifted an unamused eyebrow and pulled the gag from between her teeth. "You know, I don't believe it. I really don't believe it."

Artie remained perfectly still. "Believe what?"

"You're back," Lysander said, pacing around her. He laughed to himself. "Kriff, Artemis, once I heard you were playing politician with that shrew from Naboo I lost all hope you'd ever end up here again." He stopped and studied her. "Look at you, didn't I say you'd grow up beautiful?"

It made her insides boil, but Artie let the insult against Padmé slide and ignored his comment about her appearance. There was no use in provoking him. "How did you find me?"

"The syndicate sees every ship that enters this atmosphere," Lysander stopped before her and crouched down so their faces were level, "didn't you know? A Nabooian royal ship catches eyes, Artemis, especially those that are looking anyway." His lips tilted. "I thought to myself . . . that's either the queen or the senator. Guess I got lucky."