#and his prior history

[pastafossa]

I'm not sure if this was already asked, but if Jane had skipped town when she had planned to, would Matt ever forgive her? How would he react?

Ooooh, now this is an interesting question.

I definitely think there's a small part of him that never would have forgiven her for it, especially since he'd already had a few vulnerable moments with her where he'd opened up and she, seemingly, had opened up with him, too. But mostly, it would have simply... broken that part of him that felt hope, that felt that maybe, just maybe he deserved to have someone care about him, or even love him one day, because he'd have read her letter - the kinder one, the gentler one, the one that said without saying, 'I could see myself loving you if I stayed.'

Ironically, despite her intentions - that she leave him a kinder letter, one that was honest and told him how much she cared for him - reading that letter after dhe left would have broken an entirely different part of him.

The loss of her, the idea that he'd been left alone again by someone who might have loved him, would have been all the proof he needed that he was a fuckup, that everyone in his life that he cared about was destined to leave him. He'd spiral, spiral right down into the decision that all he could do was leave them first before he hurt them so bad or put them in so much danger that they left him behind and, subconsciously, before they hurt him like the loss of his parents had, like Stick and Elektra and now Jane had by walking away. He'd retreat in on himself, curling up tight around that hurt and hiding behind the ferocity, darkness, and rage of the Devil because that seemed like the only way he could protect himself from being abandoned again when he wanted so, so desperately to have just ONE person who might... love him. It would have been a ticket to the S3 mindset basically, but because Karen and Foggy at that point didn't know about Daredevil, and because he hadn't met Maggie yet, no one really would have been in a decent position to help drag him up out of that spiral.

And Stick knew that, which is exactly why he tried to talk Jane into leaving, and why he gave her that letter to ensure she truly broke the more gentle, tender part of Matt. He knew this would push Matt into the mindset Stick wanted: that Matt was meant to be alone, that there was nothing for him but his 'duty', and there was certainly no room for friends, for lovers, or family.

One day it's possible he would have pulled himself out of it, and by then he likely would have forgiven her - either because he recognized she ran for fear of Cyrus, or because he simply blamed himself instead of her - but either way, if that domino had tipped, a part of him never really would have recovered or felt safe reaching for that kind of gentle connection again.

[venti-death-watch]

i remember when i first saw the march 7th = idrila theory, leading to my yanqing = yaoshi theory. thought process goes that the aeons looked differently as humans, so maybe they’re pieces of the aeons/what the aeons were before they became aeons, kept on ice by the remembrance, who just so happened to wake up without memory of who they were prior

[bookishdaze]

I gotta share something that's gonna sound so ridiculous, and I'm self-aware enough to know that this is me being very gullible, but I just HAVE to spit this out somewhere. Plus, I think it's hilarious.

So I just came back from watching Civil War. I went through like 3 mini heart attacks during that movie by the way.

Anyways, we got a KOTPOTA trailer beforehand, and ya wanna know what my mother said?

"Creo que el changuito se va enamorar de la humana." That's Spanish for "I think the little monkey is gonna fall in love with the human."

And listen. LISTEN. The last time I took a general audience member (my cousin) to watch the first movie in a trilogy from a popular scifi franchise (The Force Awakens) and who had never seen any of the previous movies, I KID YOU NOT they turned to me and told me that they felt something going on between Rey and Kylo. Fast forward 2 years later when the sequel came out AND THEY WERE RIGHT.

For those who don't know, 99% of the theories about Rey at the time were of her being a Skywalker, which would make Rey and Kylo related. Yet my cousin CLOCKED it. My cousin had the gift of PROPHECY.

"Don't be ridiculous. That was ONE time." I don't care. You don't understand. After that experience, I'll believe so many things at this point.

[jane-lynndrake-t]

I'd like to ask about your brother.

<3

Jamie is my half-brother. He loved creepy crawlies and flying things.

Mom would lock me alone in a room with him to 'bond'.

And I used to really dislike him because he ignored me for weeks. After about a month, I was so frustrated that I threw his book and deliberately got him in trouble.

As payback, he would talk my ear off about owls and insects every time he saw me.

Looking back, I was lucky my brother was, well, Jamie.

It's never a good idea to lock your 8 year old daughter inside a room alone with a 15 year old boy.

[veveisveryuncool]

just finished thr new moomin series i think im in love with them

[busaikuknee]

[bloodbathfortwo]

This is OLDER! Nigel Colbie, admiring Alex's work: The vicious red marks littered across his chest, painting him with such vibrant hues of blackened reds and hot-ish maroons: the prominent teeth marks on his neck and the strong smell of Alex lingers on his skin, stuck to him like it's his own.

[skitskatdacat63]

Please save me, I'm reading a reddit thread about Seb vs Max(bcs Tost said he thought Seb would win out), and none of these people know how good Seb was in his prime

[giriduck]

I keep rapidly oscillating between two very opposite hypotheses / TotK headcanon predictions:

“Maybe Ganondorf’s ties to Demise might be severed!”

And

“Nah, he’s gonna be the nastiest Ganon. All of the beefy TotK Ganondorf content we’ve seen—updo, Gerudo voe attire, Sheikah-like katana—might all just be an Ancient Ganondorf from an epoch prior to his most recent downfall, attempt at conquering Hyrule with a horde of monsters, and eventual capture and stasis. He woke up fuming after 10k+ years and he’s going to be the. worst. He might even stay a Mummydorf throughout the present.”

While a large part of me wants the former, the latter is probably more likely.

[forgottenroderick]

The Boy King: A Prelude

excerpt from GOD'S OWN CHAMPION by Dr. K. Aa, a stunning new biography of Roderick the Terrible, himself. Armed with the recent discovery of a trove of letters sent to and from the emperor's court during his fabled reign, Dr. K. Aa has published her much-awaited new biography on the most controversial emperor in Astairan history. Available wherever books are sold. Preorder your copy, today!

EDUCATING AN EMPEROR

roderick's early life, in terms of the history annals, would appear to be a relatively quiet affair in which a little-known second son received a sterling education. in the years to come, there would be much speculation about roderick's childhood, with some historians claiming that he was undoubtedly his father's favorite -- how else could the boy have emerged w such confidence as to topple so many nations? others would cite quiet determination as his mindset -- a humble beginning overshadowed by the spectacular future, but fewer would be those few who would hit upon the truth.

the records of roderick's elder brother were detailed, drenched with near-obsessive care for a father whose favoritism would prove extreme. For this firstborn son, the finest tutors in the world were shipped from across the continent to instruct the young prince, his tutelage ranging from warcraft to statescraft, with individual scholars cultivated to instruct him in philosophy, science, alchemy, falconry, oratory, art, history, and every other pursuit a young royal might anticipate. what is less sure is the education of the heir apparent's younger brothers. did they, too, benefit from the scholastic training heaped upon their elder brother and, even, upon their elder sister?

a recent cachet of letters gives us, perhaps, a touch of insight upon the question. dated from the early part of her reign, roderick's second of many queens writes the following to her brother, godfrey of hanthom. "...and when i asked my husband whether he should suffer one man to give instruction to both his sons, when the time came for edmund and arthur to be educated, he replied that any crafty man may learn from his brother's tutors, if he cares so to do..." while the document is fragmentary, this retort does give some insight into the mind of the emperor. it seems he had already thought carefully about mining a brother's instructors for information, suggesting he may have gleaned something from his own experience of the kind.

nonetheless, the question cannot at present be known for certainty. what is certainly fact, however, is that roderick's own education, while certainly planned to be much the inferior to his brother's, was quite well attended as well, with roderick's tutors (though of less quality), instructing him on a similar variety of subjects.

this very early matter of education is the first openly observable rift between the two families of roderick's father, for it was not only lines of gender, as might be persumed by the culture in which roderick was raised, that lesser tutors were engaged: it was upon the matter of mother, for roderick and alaric were born to the old king's second wife. yet, for all the care put into his half-siblings' studies, the truth is that the surviving children of the original dynasty were all gotten on the king's second queen.

...

A KINGLY FATHER

there has been much speculation upon the relationship of roderick with his father, but with the recent discovery of his body and the CT scans run over it, it seems many of the tales -- long relegated to the status of mere myth by scholas -- may indeed be true.

most readers will already be familiar with the colorful tale of the king beating his young son half to death, each blow bloodying the child till, at last, the horrified monarch gathered his comatose boy in his arms, shrieking and wailing for what he had done. most scholars have been quick to dismiss the lurid tale as nothing more than propaganda meant to drum up some scientific explanation for the horror that would follow -- yet, it may prove just that. according to the story, the boy was comatose for three days and, when he at last awakened, was never quite the same afterwards.

his remains indicate that this may, in fact, be true, his skull itself wearing the marks of his trauma. says dr. bonespert, "There is very clear evidence of brain and skull trauma from a very young age written here in the bones, badly healed over fractures showing damage to a growing child. did the king truly knock down his own child and bash his head repeatedly against the marble floor till it ran red with blood and he wept his remorse over the boy, like the stories say? who can really know? but something terrible did happen to this person in his teen years: its right here in his bones. that much we can see for certain."

THE FIRST ASSASSINS

there is another story, as well, that might perhaps account for roderick's childhood injury, though source materials say that he was in his twenties at the time, already king and beginning his bid for empire. according to sources, roderick stood before a cheering crowd, arm raised as he made a speech upon the glory of empire. writers of the time note how his eyes shone, his voice booming with certitude: this, they said, was the very image of a king in his prime.

all, however, did not agree, it would seem, for one amongst the crowd leapt upon a ledge with bow and arrow and shot at the young king. for a moment, the writer notes in horror, the young ruler stood staring at his attacker before raising his arm and pointing one finger towards him even as blood coating roderick's whole side. "he looked an angry god," writes the witness. "and next he looked nothing at all." next thing anyone knew, the king stumbled back, collapsing from the parapet. the would-be assassin was signed and hanged, drawn, and quartered for his transgression, with the ailing young king rising from his bed to witness the execution. this was to be only the second of a series of assassination attempts, with the king's -- soon to be emperor's -- ferocity only growing with each attempt.

the first assassination attempt against his own person (as opposed to one of the many poisoning schemes perpetrated in his view against his father) was, in fact, a more intimate affair. it was roderick's first campaign following his father's death, a hard-fought war against roderick's late stepmother's home nation of antilla*, almost immediately following the death of his father. roderick, himself, had gone to the front with his first wife and future empress where they stayed in a tent together. one night, an agent tore inside, threatening roderick with a with a scimitar. fortunately for roderick, he kept a knife beneath his pillow and was awakened by his wife's scream just in time. the two men fought with roderick ultimately defeating his opponent and slaying him on the spot, but not before the assassin slashed roderick across the chest.

according to legend, realizing that the assassin's blade had been poisoned, his queen quickly sucked the wound clean and spat out the poison, saving his life, only -- the legend nearly always states -- for his neglect of her ultimately to doom her mere years later. had she doomed the rest of the world in saving his life?

but whether any of this is so cannot be said: his bones bear scars enough but where each might have originated cannot be said...

----

*placeholder name

[corellianhounds]

Amidala the Resilient

Media: Revenge of the Sith

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,942

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, pregnancy, Force-choking, blood and injuries, traumatic labor and delivery, death in childbirth, no happy ending.

Art Credit: Iain McCaig, The Art of Star Wars, Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

Summary: In a universe where Anakin gradually descended into the Dark side of his own volition from the beginning— where his ambition and love were genuine and admirable, but the temptation of power too much— his turn is something much more destructive and purposeful. Amidala’s plan for retaliation is just as much so.

Padmé Amidala can feel tension twinging in her back and thighs. The pit in her stomach has coalesced into a tight knot as she steels herself for what she must do, bringing a mattock and salt to the ground where pruning shears should have been used long ago.

Anakin had been too far gone for a long time, and the fault lay in her and everyone in his life willingly turning a blind eye too often to his myriad of faults. In the past two hours she has seen actions the result of which came from an upbringing where his temper, jealousy, and ambition were allowed to slide because those who thought him destined for some great cosmic good were willing to overlook occasional— and often objectively justified— acts of wrath and ruthlessness. He had always been so good at justifying his reasons and putting his actions in a more favorable light, showing enough willingness for correction over the years people thought he was receptive to guidance and change.

What she’d come to realize with dawning horror was that the seeds of destruction had been sown long ago, and though the vines had borne occasional good fruit, they had always grown with selfish intent, inevitably choking out everything around them in an effort to keep his own desires hidden behind the barrier of thorns.

In the next hour, she will come face to face with the monster of a man he’s become.

The Jedi master doesn’t know. Kenobi knows she has some plan but wrongfully assumes it is to appeal to whatever mistaken shred of humanity might remain in Anakin. Obi-Wan— even now, even after what they saw— cares for him as a brother and would sooner cut off his own hand than see Anakin completely lost to the Dark. Padmé however has finally seen clarity of purpose.

For Anakin to be stopped, he must be killed.

The ship arrives on Mustafar. Padmé wrenches herself away from the viewport as Obi-Wan lands and she gingerly lowers herself to the cargo hold, donning a cloak. Obi-Wan hurriedly finishes the landing cycle, calling her name as she gathers her strength, but she’s hardly listening to him at this point and she knows she must conceal herself from him so he has no chance of stopping her.

A hand on her shoulder makes her flinch, and the Jedi lets go almost in surprise. “Padmé, you don’t have to do this. I will talk to him.”

“No,” she says, keeping her left hand secured across her waist beneath the voluminous sleeve as she cleared a path to the lowering gangway. “He’s made it very clear he’s past the point of reasoning with the Jedi. I will speak with him, and if I cannot convince him to come with us calmly, or I cannot ascertain his next move, I expect you to do what’s necessary to end this treasonous rebellion. That is an order.”

It was all false diplomacy, of course, for his sake. Padmé had no intention of believing Anakin was anywhere close to the realm of negotiation. They were far past that.

But she needed assurance that she could get close enough to Anakin to act decisively. She couldn’t have Kenobi interfering, not at this juncture.

Oppressive heat surrounded her as she swept down the ramp to the barren ground. Magma roiled and churned, flames flickering at the edge of the peninsula as Padmé approached the figure so cloaked in darkness an aura of blackened energy almost seemed to emanate from his form. The grip of the hidden dagger dug into her hand, grounding her as she approached.

Padmé’s eyes burned with a ferocity to match her husband’s. It was time for this to end.

When Obi-Wan had seen her determination in the hold of the ship he had never for a moment anticipated what it would lead to.

Padmé steadily approached Anakin, cloak and hood protecting her from the blaze. He could see her speaking forcefully with him, her face hidden from view but Anakin’s darkening by the moment in response. His right hand, devoid of glove, clenched the hilt of an already ignited saber, the bloodshine blade standing in stark contrast to his own cloak. Its presence alone was alarming, but Obi-Wan had been subject to so many tragedies that night already, he merely assumed Anakin had readied it in the expectation of facing his master.

What Obi-Wan hadn’t known was what Padmé concealed until she tried to close the distance between them, her own blade in hand. What followed happened in the span of a heartbeat.

Anakin’s saber blocked it on instinct, easily halting the approach of Padmé’s dagger, his eyes widening in surprise. In the following moment his left hand raised and with it, so did Padmé.

Obi-Wan’s astonishment lasted only a fraction of a second as he yelled “NO!” Padmé’s feet left the ground as an invisible force clutched her neck in a crushing, intangible grip, and in the breadth of time Padmé scrabbled at her throat, Obi-Wan acted.

Anakin stumbled back from the force of the bolt hitting his shoulder, releasing his hold on Padmé. Padmé crumpled to the ground in a heap, and Anakin’s sights zeroed in on Kenobi, standing at the mouth of the ship with both blaster and lightsaber in hand. Snarling, Anakin stalked towards his old master and brought his lightsaber down, red clashing against blue.

Padmé Amidala, heartbroken and dying, drags herself bleeding to the communication console.

Kenobi can hear her movement in the bay and yells her name, telling her not to move, that he’ll come to help her as soon as the ship breaches the atmosphere, and she stalwartly ignores him, cradling the underside of her belly with one hand and using the other to support herself on the railing around the sparse artillery deck. Her broken ankle protests at every movement, sending lightning arcing up the leg where she puts her unsteady weight. The cramps in her abdomen spread like bone-coral, sharp and hot and agonizing in her pelvis, sides, back— Every tendon and muscle in her body screams at its owner to relent, to succumb to the creeping darkness pressing around her vision, but she cannot allow herself peace until she finishes what she started.

Padmé staggers at the ship’s turbulent acceleration, her forearm slamming out against the bulkhead as the lights flicker, and she curses the unsteady pilot she thought was her friend. Perhaps if she’d been accompanied by someone more decisive, someone whose fatal flaw wasn’t a love too great for a brother that no longer existed, Anakin would have been dealt with and she’d have the wherewithal to fight against the added pain of a labor she was sure would tear her in two.

Sweat pours from her brow and forces her already shaking, slippery hands to scrabble for purchase on the blasted polished finery of a spoiled noble’s ship. Her muscles spasm and she gasps in abject terror as she feels something inside her snap; the membrane within her had ruptured.

Gravity pulls on her bones as her muscles betray her, and she collapses against the bench. Fingernails scrape vinyl and she chokes out a guttural, rending cry of pain in the effort it takes to haul herself upward into the seat.

Obi-Wan is yelling again. Traitorous coward.

Padmé punches in the covert frequency on the transmitter. Her other hand rests on her stomach, her infants moving restlessly under her touch. She forces the hot flashes of pain back, shoving down every instinctive response to curl in on herself.

“Sabé—,” she says into the comm, gritting her teeth and tasting blood once more; the contractions were stronger and with a strangled grunt she yanks the comm closer, ignoring the frantic waves of worry rolling off of the useless Jedi in the pilot’s seat.

“Sabé, if you find the man who was my husband,” she chokes, the creeping black at the edges of her vision beginning to overtake her.

“Kill him.”

Obi-Wan sat listlessly on a bench in the hold, what bloodied clothing he still wore sticking to him like a second skin. His hand rested on the makeshift bassinet, a gun locker repurposed into a cradle.

He could only imagine what directive she’d felt necessary enough to strain herself to get across the sublight waves; he could only imagine because the message was encrypted and the recipient unknown, and her mind had been shielded from his probing. He didn’t know whether to blame his failed use of the Force on the heartbroken, distracted nature of his psyche being pulled in a thousand directions as he’d manually flown from Mustafar’s orbital pull in order to make the jump to lightspeed, or to blame some unknown energy stalwartly blocking him from Padmé’s mind. Reaching out to her had felt like hitting a steel wall.

The tumult of their departure had preoccupied him until he was sure he’d escaped whatever enemy fighters Anakin’s new master had sent after them, the maneuvering less of a dogfight and more of a half-cocked evasive prayer for the hull to remain intact long enough for them to break atmo. Klaxons blared and the astronav’s interface barked orders, warning him of too many systems he already knew were damaged enough that if they took even one more hit to the hull they would be obliterated; shields were failing, exterior panelling being shorn off, the pursuing fighters gaining on them— Until by some stroke of luck he’d found a slip in space to pull through and immediately jump to lightspeed.

Lightspeed jumps themselves were already hazardous to expecting parents’ health. He was terrified of the condition she had been in when he’d finally gotten her onboard, and the fact he could sense her moving with purpose somewhere below decks while he tried to shake the fighters had sent his heart rate skyrocketing.

Piloting had never been his forte. As soon as they’d hit hyperspace he’d slammed a hand against the autopilot controls and bolted from the dash, scrambling down to the hold below.

He swore under his breath, calling her name and skidding to a halt beside her. Her face twisted in agony, her hands clutching the underside of her abdomen. Obi-Wan knelt beside her, hesitant to move her and instead ran a quick check over her vitals, astonished at what he found.

Broken bones in her leg, fractured ribs, internal bleeding, damaged trachea— how had she even moved?! By all rights she should be dead and yet something had propped her up long enough for her to drag herself to the terminal and send a message.

And now she was in labor.

“Kenobi—” she spat derisively, grabbing his tunic. “Get— up—”

“Padmé, hold still, let me—”

He was cut off as a violent shudder wracked her body, her limbs curling in on herself with a gurgling cry. Panicked desperation lanced through him as he reached out and grasped tendrils of the Force, gingerly cradling her neck and attempting to delicately, swiftly mend ligaments he couldn’t see. If he was even a millimeter incorrect, she would die.

A misaligned vertebrae shifted back into place, and Padmé screamed.

Obi-Wan bit back a sob, carefully tracing his fingers on either side of the back of her neck with as much force as he dared in an attempt to still her and provide what pain relief he could as his own energy was leached from him. Padmé gasped, her eyes flying open, her expression stricken as she looked up at the ceiling. Her iron grip loosened as the tension dissipated, if only in one area. She gulped air as if coming up from the bottom of a lake, and Obi-Wan settled as he felt his strength wane. A concrete task was better than guesswork at unknown variables.

The reprieve didn’t last long; Padmé grunted in pain, convulsing as a contraction rippled through her torso again. Further assessment revealed her leggings and the floor beneath her to be drenched, and Obi-Wan’s panic flared again.

“I have to get you up—”

“If you move me I will kill you,” she spat harshly. She trembled despite the ferocity of her glare, her hand still twisted in his robe. “There is no time— Here and now, Kenobi. Make do.”

“Padmé—”

“Look around you,” she seethed. “There’s no level surface in this blasted ship big enough to work. There are no other choices. There is no one else to help. Sleeves up. Now.”

Kenobi’s brow remained twisted as he stripped off his outer tunic, knowing it was laden with silicate and volcanic dust. Padmé propped herself up on her elbows as he raced to scour his hands and forearms, coming back to remove her boots so he could work her outer garments free. Whether the blood seeping between her teeth was due to the injuries she’d sustained or because she was gritting them hard enough one had cracked, he didn’t know.

Padmé gasped again as the fracture in her shin shifted— He wanted to settle her, to fix this, but the contractions were coming more quickly and closer together. They were running out of time.

He finally seated himself before her, kneeling and shaking in just his undershirt and trousers, feeling acutely unprepared for what was to come. Battlefield triage and casualty care were the extent of his healing knowledge, and though he was adept at relieving or numbing acute nociceptive responses, it was usually with soldiers whose minds were open for him to assess areas of injury. A commander with a blaster burn would be focused on the point where his plastoid hadn’t covered. A civilian’s attention after suffering a fall would be turned to the joints and bones that took the brunt of the effects of gravity.

Labor and delivery were far too different from his experience in the medical field.

And Padmé was still blocking him out.

Her knuckles gripped bone-white to a ridge of floor plating, one knee bent and her foot planted flat. The other lay weakly to the side, and Obi-Wan grit his teeth as he raised it up to rest over his thigh despite the lancing pain he felt radiating from her, tucking a blanket beneath her and readying his hands for whatever instruction he prayed she could give. With him gathering his wits and her gathering her strength, they set to work.

The whole ordeal couldn’t have lasted longer than ten minutes, and it was the longest and most arduous process of their lives. Between her strangled cries, his intuition, and the muscle spasms that told him everything about this was wrong, Kenobi’s concern grew with the pool of blood beneath her, and she forced him to focus on the children, refusing to allow him any modicum of time spent healing her injuries between her screams. Untended bone cracked further as she thrashed, her screams echoing back in the cargo hold.

By the time Kenobi had swaddled the two squalling— living!— infants in what sterile dressing he could find from the field kit, Padmé had gone a sickly pale. Her skin was waxy under the recessed halogen lighting, her hair sticking to her forehead. Dark circles rimmed her eyes and different muscle groups continued twitching of their own accord as if sparked by electricity. Obi-Wan was torn between ensuring the infants had been properly cared for, and wanting to drag Padmé to the captain’s berth to fully assess her wounds and heal her: Padmé kept stubbornly shoving him away, tears tracking unnoticed down her face as she continued to choke out instructions for the care and keeping of her children.

He’d finally been forced to stop when that iron grip returned in full force— Padmé grabbed his arm and yanked him down to where she had propped herself up against the wall. Kenobi lurched forward, her ashen face now level with his. She forced her voice to obey despite the strain in her throat, rasping the words she needed to say.

“Keep them away from him.” The venom in her tone was undeniable. “You keep them safe, Kenobi, get— get them as far away as you can—”

Kenobi grunted, refusing to let her continue her orders. He pressed a palm to her chest, willing those wisps of energy to sustain her just a few moments longer as he tried to haul her up into his lap, coax her arm around him so he could lift her— If he could just get her somewhere comfortable, somewhere clean, if he could focus—

Padmé shrieked in pain, clawing at his chest and arms, and the sum of their separate fights came crashing down on him as the Force dissipated from his mind’s grasp. His knees gave out, his strength sapped from the energy he had poured into her, and they lay heavily back against the terminal yet again. The children cried distantly behind them.

“Padmé, please…” Obi-Wan pleaded, tears streaking down his face, but she shook her head yet again.

“Keep them safe,” she coughed, begging for the first time. “Get them away f-from—”

“He’s gone, Padmé, Anakin is gone—”

She shook her head fiercely, squeezing her eyes shut. “No. He’s there. I can feel him.”

“Listen to me— Anakin is dead, I saw him—”

“You’re wrong,” Padmé said. Her breath rattled. Tears dripped from her chin. “If— If you won’t k-kill him then t-take care o-of them. Wh-Whatever it takes.”

Her chest hitched as she gasped around the liquid filling her lungs. Her bloody hand trembled against his neck. She hiccuped, her eyes went glassy, and her hand fell away.

And in the stillness of hyperspace, Padmé Amidala Naberrie passed from one life to the next.

It had been an hour since then. Only an hour since Obi-Wan had had to keep himself from buckling under the weight of his grief, an hour since he’d sobbed on the floor of a ship as one of his oldest and dearest friends died in his arms. The former queen of Naboo, dying in the bloody cargo hold of a stolen ship, her own life stolen from her by the one person the two of them had trusted beyond measure while her infant children cried out for comfort he felt wholly incapable of providing. Obi-Wan wept alongside them, digging his fingers into the cold, unfeeling floor, wanting to scream as the agony of heartbreak threatened to overwhelm him.

So many dead, or lost. There was no solace even in the Force.

But as Obi-Wan Kenobi found himself doing so often in his life, he shoved his feelings down into the furthest recesses of his broken heart, let go of another loved one returned to the Force, and turned himself back to the task at hand.

The infants were asleep now. He’d shakily scrubbed at his face and arms with cold water and spared only enough time under the sanisteam to ensure he was clean enough to handle them before finding a spare undershirt for himself. He fed them, cleaned them up, and held both of them together against his chest as they squirmed, dissatisfied at their situation before accepting their present accommodations and falling asleep. By the ship’s chrono he had roughly two standard hours before the ship was due to drop out of hyperspace.

He sat unseeing in the captain’s berth with the ad hoc bassinet nearby. Padmé was still in the hold; he couldn’t be two places at once, and he couldn’t stay down there with the children.

Something bothered him about the infants in his arms, though. Once the girl had passed from Padmé’s body, it almost seemed like the barrier keeping him from sensing Padmé’s thoughts had broken. He was too drained and scattered to dwell on it as his last moments with her had been focused on her well-being, but despite his utter exhaustion he had a suspicion that had already begun to crystallize under the sheer openness of the twins’ young presences within hyperspace.

It troubled him.

Whatever message she’d sent was evidently received by the people she’d needed it to. Bail Organa met him at the hastily assembled but covert rendezvous, his ensuing shock and horror upon entering the ship’s docking ramp turning to commanding resolve as he followed the trail of destruction to Kenobi’s station. Organa had to shake him from his stupor before Obi-Wan could tell him of Mustafar, of the newly appointed Sith and Padmé’s scheme, and of Padmé’s last words. The senator’s brow furrowed. He knelt next to the Jedi, looking over the sleeping children.

“What of Anakin?”

Obi-Wan shook his head tiredly. “I cannot sense him. I don’t believe Anakin is alive.”

“… Who else did she contact?” Bail asked.

Tears dripped onto Obi-Wan’s shirt. “I don’t know.”

Bail sighed, bringing one hand up to rest on his shoulder. “I am truly sorry, Obi-Wan. For everything.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t respond.

Bail’s team, handpicked and vetted by the senator himself, worked below decks as the men weighed their options. The aftermath of the despotic coup was rippling out and changing by the minute; the Jedi had been slaughtered and scattered, the clones had broken all communication, and the Senate had reached a fever pitch of chaos. Anything that needed to be done had to be done now.

The feeling of loss that bordered on consuming him was one he’d rarely felt in his lifetime as acutely as he did now. The comfort he found in the Force was absent. He’d felt like a ship unmoored when his master was killed. Now it was as though he’d been dropped into the middle of a hurricane.

Bail’s hands were clasped loosely together against his forehead, elbows resting on his knees as he bowed his head in thought. Kenobi could have been a corpse for how still and gaunt he was.

“Obi-Wan…” Bail began. “Are you certain Skywalker is dead?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said. “I cannot sense him at all.”

Bail was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “… But you, of all people, couldn’t sense what must have been growing within him. Is it at all possible the body of Anakin remains, but the reason you cannot find him is because the man we knew is entirely lost to the Dark?”

A chilling fissure of clarity cut through Obi-Wan’s senses. His reaction told Bail everything he needed to know.

Even if it was only a suspicion, they could not afford to waste time figuring out the emperor’s next move. Anything that could be used to motivate Vader had to be hidden from public knowledge. They couldn’t leave a trace of his past behind.

Bail mulled over his thoughts, then stood, gesturing for Kenobi as his resolve hardened to steel. “Come. We have work to do. We will mourn when we are done.”

Sabé trembled with the effort it took to control her breathing. She stowed her bag behind the seat of the starship and brought the engine to life, moving with purpose as tears streamed unbidden down her face.

The ship rose, coordinates locked in place to meet the others of her gathering retinue. These weren’t the orders of former nobility, of a governing senator— This was the last request of a dying friend, someone whose very existence was woven into her bones. Padmé Amidala’s death would not be in vain.

Sabé looked out beyond the stars, her breathing finding stasis despite the ocean of grief beneath it.

“My hands are yours, Padmé,” she said to herself. “For as long duty compels them.”

She wasn’t going to kill Anakin. Not until he felt every bit of the pain and suffering he deserved.

Notes:

The line “clarity of purpose” comes from Saw Gerrera in the Andor TV show

I wrote Sabé’s line before seeing that one similar was used in one of the books. Good to know I was on the right track with a character I know very little about lol

[fideidefenswhore]

Culpeper had intimate access to the king and was well placed to provide Katherine with information about her husband's health and his ever fluctuating moods. More importantly, Culpeper could warn her of any indication that Henry was angry [...], could listen out for any gossip about her, and report on speculation that her husband was considering repudiating her in favour of Anne of Cleves. Throughout Katherine's queenship, this topic would surface time and again, to her consternation and grief.

Katherine Howard: The Tragic Story of Henry VIII’s Fifth Queen, Josephine Wilkinson

[yngai]

a lot about ada's character in resident evil 6 flies over people's heads but i'm always thinking about ada's line as she's about to provide sniper fire & help jake & sherry, "i suppose i should return the kindness their parents showed to me." a lesser pettier woman might've indulged in letting the children of two people who've separately put her through hell suffer as recompense. while i won't say she goes out of her way to offer aid given the only danger she puts herself in throughout the whole exchange is zipping around to whisk sherry to safety & the only reason the ubivsto is chasing after jake & sherry is because ada failed to kill it previously, it does speak to ada's rather wrapped moral fiber, something always shown & never told

[cinnabargirl]

Just found out yesterday that the guy in my uni class that liked to be characterized as a big huggable bear golden retriever bf type was accused of raping a drunken girl from our degree at a camping trip (idk which year) and his feminist polyamorous mom friend gf has done nothing but defend him ever since how is ur week going so far

[spring-lxcked]

Happy pride, the serial killer in the rabbit suit is queer. In all seriousness, I said I was going to write this headcanon awhile ago but I'm just getting around to it. Also: reminder that pansexual is an older term than people often think. Still, William usually defaults to "queer" on the occasion he's openly talking about his orientation.

William realized he was queer/pansexual when he was 15. It's the usual story: he developed an undeniable crush on a boy at school, but didn't pursue it. Obviously, he had grown up in a very unaccepting time and this wasn't something he was open about. His own feelings about it were initially mixed (a result of being raised in such a homophobic society), but by the time he left for university in America, he was neutral on his own queerness. It was simply a fact about himself. In university he explored his sexuality thoroughly regardless of gender, both casually and in very brief relationships. While he still obviously kept his orientation private from most people, he did find some other members of the community he could talk to openly. Finding out that William was queer in university wouldn't have been that hard, but afterward he starts being much, much more careful. Without getting into it, I think we all know that he couldn't afford to be outed with the type of business he was wanting to open. He (happily) marries and feels content that there's no way his orientation comes out. He does not and will not tell his wife about his queerness by default. Then the divorce happens, he's left with custody of three young kids, and dating just isn't his priority, regardless of gender. Still, William absolutely would take the risk of dating a man and even disclosing this to his kids (if they're old enough to keep quiet about it) if he really, really liked someone and intended the relationship to be lifelong. William generally doesn't care if his kids are queer, but his borderline obsession with keeping them safe (especially post-CC's death) can rear its head if they are openly queer. This is absolutely the part where he drops the bombshell of also being queer (if they don't already know) as a way to prove he has a "fair argument" about safety/homophobia. You might expect his reservation to be about the "optics" of him having a queer kid, but by this point (assuming his kid is coming out as a teen), he is actively caring less and less about that. NOTE: In verses where William is lowkey obsessed with head over heels for Henry (which, lbr, can be pretty much from university onwards lmao), he is seemingly much more likely to hint at his orientation, although this is only around Henry. Of course, he's more likely to open up about it/flirt if he thinks the feelings are mutual OR if Henry's queer as well (and Will knows). He also just generally talks about Henry in a way that is. . . potentially telling. Still, he'll claim this is just admiration, which is half true.

[orchideae]

Uncle Tian. The importance that is Uncle Tian. ... With a "cameo" of Yelan in the second half, exactly at 1:00, which is incredibly so very important if you really want to get a proper glimpse into her 'professionally'.