#from the best epilogue:

[sentanixiv]

Thieves Landing... MacFarlane said they was holed up here. This ain't the way to sort being robbed, John. No one steals from my family, Arthur. Not no more.

I'll handle these fools. All's I need's you to watch my back. You ain't never had to ask, Marston.

John! Keep yer goddamned head down! Sonofabitch!

You hit? I'm fine, but this asshole's about to dance with the devil!

Y'all' ain't gonna mess with us again, y'hear? Or I'll come back and shoot the rest of you!

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Laios's three Boy Best Friends. And yes, they hate him.

[luxsea]

ITS A GREAT DAY TO BE A KARLACH ROMANCER 😳 IM VERY HAPPY W THE NEW PATCH

[ketchupkio]

New year's catch up part 4: epilogue Warriors living their best life

Getting through all the art I haven't posted yet! Characters belong to @ageless-soul-au, don't tag any other AUs ✨

Sometimes it's just necessary for your mental health to draw ur special lil genderfluid bean with her corset out. Cottagecore royalty and nothing less. Estrogen works wonders, yknow??

[possamble]

realizing im kind of a weirdo about laios and marcille

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

the father [solar lunacy] the son [you move to dayshift but aren't paid any more, go figure] and the holy spirit [i see you, sundrop!]

[nebulousfishgills]

As much as I love playing embrace Dark Urge runs (discussion in therapy pending), there's something so narratively satisfying about how a Resist Durge playthrough can go once you get to the Bhaal Temple. Your character steps into the ring with Orin, it's intended to be a duel, but odds are you're getting eviscerated pretty quickly. You then switch to one of your other characters in your party and throw an attack, effectively breaking the duel and setting the whole temple upon you.

(Adding a cut because this ended up being longer than I thought)

But, I think it's a very satisfying way to play. Your party members have grown fond of your Durge, seeing them as a friend, a family member, even a lover. They've watched you and your pain over your Urge and what it makes you do or want to do. Maybe you've slipped up once or twice, but you've been trying so hard to be the hero they know you can be, that Faerûn needs. So, when it comes time to finally face your demons and you're getting so horribly hurt in the process, they can't help but rush to your defense. It'll put all of them in danger, but it doesn't matter because they want and need to help you, their ally and companion.

Bonus points if you select your character's romanced companion as the savior/duel interruptor to make it extra delicious. They've fallen in love with you, stayed with you when your Urge craved their blood the most, maybe by this point in the game you've helped put their demons down as well. They see you in pain, a final valiant effort to overcome your Urge against the power of Orin, a whole cult, a god of murder himself. They want to protect you, save you as you saved them.

I'm also fond of the extra beauty of Astarion being your Resist Durge romance since it puts the two of you in very similar situations. Fighting against the will of your masters, finally defeating your demons with your newfound companions' help and being offered the greatest power you could ever fathom... only to deny it, ignore power in favor of your party and your love.

This isn't even mentioning just how goddamn good the Withers resurrecting you cutscene is. This skeleton in your camp with unknown and unfathomable power (also apparently supposed to be Jergal himself if I've done my research properly?) is able to bring you back to life, free of your Urge. The line along the lines of "Bhaal could only destroy what of you that he knew, but because you've grown past your Urge and become your own person, he couldn't destroy that new growth" is just so weirdly powerful narratively. Tav may be a default character for you to create upon making a new save file, but Durge is the canon protagonist and I think that entire scene shows it the best. It's a beautiful secondary climax of the narrative (primary being battling the Netherbrain of course).

And, perhaps it's just an oversight on Larian's part or something that'd be a bit difficult to work into the cutscenes mechanically, but I think that it could only get more impactful if your companions could comfort each other during these moments. Everyone and their mother wishes you could hug Astarion after he kills Cazador, but also imagine your romanced companion cradling your body after Bhaal kills you. It seems just a little odd that they all (meaning your party) kinda just stand around staring at your corpse, especially with how close y'all have gotten.

Idk, I have a lot of thoughts about this section of the game in this particular type of playthrough and some of them are hard to articulate into words. It's just such a damn good narrative peak and can really make you feel things.

I've completed I think two resist Durge runs and just hit this point on my third and it really stuck out to me this time (then again my new antidepressants are kinda fucking with me so that might be playing a role). I left it as my last mission before dealing with the Netherbrain and I think it helped build the anticipation of that moment. Everyone else has been helped by you, and now it's your turn to come into your own. I really felt so connected to my character walking into the temple, feeling like everything has been building to this, that regardless of what happens our suffering will finally end. And you have your party there to help you in your time of greatest need as you've done for them.

There's a reason this game was Game of the Year, the narrative is just so powerful and the replay-ability is just insane. I've beaten this game ten times, heading for my eleventh and it truly just never gets old and never fails to make me feel so many things so strongly.

[butterfly--empress]

....About that Attack on Titan Series...

Well, well, well......I wasn't going to make this post, but fuck it, we here and I feel like ranting into the goddamn void, it's been a WHILE.

If you enjoyed this series from beginning to end and don't have the emotional maturity to understand that I don't fucking LIKE THIS SHIT. DO NOT REPLY

I don't have patience and I will block you on sight! As we fandom old's say: Don't Like? Don't Fucking Read!

Anyway onto the rant...

it's June 2024 and I finally after so many years, watched this show because it was recommended to me and I brought into the hype because I had NO IDEA just how derisive S4 and the series finale actually was back in the height of it's day.

I had always meant to eventually get around to watching the show and maybe even reading the manga alongside it, but as the years passed, I just never found the urge to pick it up.

And now that I have, after believing the show was great from beginning to end...

GOD, I sure wish I could get back the time I spent watching the entirety of Season 4, that Finale, and feeling utterly annoyed that a writer chose to end their story on such a nonsensical plot.

In fact, I sort of wished I never bothered at all to be quite honest.

The short of it: Seasons 1 to 3>>>>>>Season 4 and that awful ass Finale.

Very unfortunate too. This is just another case of 'great ideas, bad execution'.

And I'm not sorry but the more I think about it, the more I just cannot turn my brain off, suspend my disbelief and gaslight myself into accepting season 4 and that fucking finale as peak writing.

That shit was awful, the fact that seeing the latest interview from the creator himself, just reaffirms how strong the author's intent was when writing this last arc!

It wasn't the fact this was bad on accident, or that the creator ran out of ideas, OR the story got too complicated and complex, OR that he couldn't commit to what he already established in earlier seasons.

If his words are to be taken at face value from that interview:

It's not that this guy is a bad writer, Attack on Titan's last arc's messy writing:

-Plot holes and too many subplots that go nowhere

-Last minute ass-pulls and Deus Ex Machina that make no damn sense.

-Adding time travel-esque powers out of the blue, and it amounts to nothing in the end.

-Never giving an actual satisfying reason why Eren *couldn't defy his fate*.

--We not gonna talk about his mom...

-I'm not gonna bitch about that Ymir subplot about her loving her abusive ass slave master/husband, after what was already established before this point was fine by itself...nope, not going there...

-That god awful confusing asf 4yr time skip. (listen, I don't know NOR do I care at this point, if this time skip was elaborated on in the manga. This was just a poor attempt to hand wave away the obviously inconsistent switch OR lack of development to the characters I followed since ep 1.)

-The stagnation of already established characters we were with since the beginning and basically being replaced by new characters: the MINUTE the Marley characters took center stage, something in me just KNEW, the original crew were being replaced but hoping to GOD I WAS WRONG. --Turns out my gut feeling was correct and it makes me dislike these character more than I already did.

--Yeah, I really did not care AT ALL for the Marley crew. There's just something about shoehorning in new characters that I have no attachment to and telling me, they are now the real protagonists (who get sudden plot armor and make it alive by the end, with no real consequences...in a series that had no qualms about killing just about 90% of the characters I actually gave some fuck about and knew since ep 1 feels very contrived.)

-The unnecessary death of fan favorites that amounted to NOTHING

--I'm not...I'm just going to leave THIS ONE ALONE because I'll be here all fucking DAY and boy I'm doing enough ranting as it is.

~If You Know, You KNOW!~

-I'm not going to rant about the female characters because 1. we'll be here all day, 2. to be fair: most of the characters sort of fell flat regardless of gender anyway. (But I def get that the female cast in particular was done so dirty in the last arc. It's one thing for shounen writers to write one dimensional female characters...you have to be some kind of SPECIAL to create two-dimensional, even three-dimensional female characters only to downgrade them to their lowest common denominator. THE AUDACITY, THE INSULT TO MY FUCKING INTELLIGENCE!)

-I'm not going to bother about the shipping: it's obvious that a certain ship was going to be canon but god, do I really need to bitch about the utter lack of meaningful development to get it from point A to B?

--Then again, maybe it was supposed to be toxic? Lord knows it fits well into the clusterfuck of the last arc of this story.

--Honestly, I was more into a non canon ship that developed thru friendship naturally onscreen anyway, so I have no horse in this race.

-The BIG ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM of mixes messages, that maybe, certain extreme ideologies are correct and justified.

--Yeah, we gonna leave this one alone too...Honestly because this is actually the one thing I don't think was intentional, even if the blatant implications of it are there...and I don't want to make assumptions of the man's politics and what he believes, and his worldview (outside of his personal feelings about himself), I don't know him personally.

--I will however, rant to high hell and I do think he utilized and underutilized the allegory he borrowed from real life history; which led to the unfortunate 'Fantastical Racism' that happens in AoT.

--The slaughtering of poignant thematic themes, period!

--That bad ending (not that it's tragic per se, but just thematically bad).

~~Are you starting to see a pattern??~~

ALL THIS TO SAY:

He didn't WANT to allow his story to progress 'naturally' in the direction it 'wanted to go'.

Isayama didn't want to commit to anything he established. The story is the way it is, because he INTENDED it to be this way.

Eren fails to be a great hero OR antihero (depending on how one sees it) because Isayama doesn't think he, himself is a great person even if others tell him he is. (Ring a Bell?)

And I think it's a hard pill for a lot of people to swallow. Your time was wasted theory crafting, giving the creator the benefit of doubt, all for him to basically say, because he suffered from a serious case of 'Imposter Syndrome', you are an idiot for ever thinking this story was great, was suppose to be more than it is, and that his success isn't earned because he doesn't feel that way and you have to feel that way too.

The creator wanted a nihilistic, myopic, depressive ending. Worldbuilding, lore, cohesive storytelling be DAMNED, because he let his negative feelings about himself bleed way too much into his work.

He wanted the message if there was one at all: there's no point in putting hope in humans because 'we're all just trash anyway', people will always fight, good people shouldn't sacrifice their lives to help humanity or put any hope into humans evolving to change our ways, so why try to find another way, and maybe 'Hitler was right'.

It gets worse when the creator HIMSELF, out of his OWN MOUTH, stated; if he WANTED TO, he could have given the story a better proper send off. He knows what he wrote, and he knows that the natural, better progression of the story he created would have been better received by the fans and critics alike, if he allowed it to go in that direction, but he didn't want that.

Granted: I'm all for writers doing ultimately what they want with their stories, for better or worse.

But that's not what he wanted. And that's what I take from all of this.

However what pisses me off, is that he should have been HONEST about the story/themes/message he wanted to portray from the start.

I don't have a problem with tragic, depressive tales and it's themes, if it is done right. This was not done right and we know it wasn't, because you can look at past and even present discussions and arguments throughout this fandom and see that people have valid reasons to be very upset. (No one likes for their intelligence to be insulted when the story takes them out of the immersion to the point, that the critical thinking jumps in, and now a person is starting to realize that a lot of writing choices that they ignored before, because the story was still good, are now flaws. Stories don't have to be PERFECT, but once those flaws can't be ignored, people begin to see them as the red flags that they are. We might be hopeful, that these flaws or plot holes will be course corrected at some point, but we will not ignore, when we see the trajectory of a story's plot going downhill to the point of no return. AoT's story went beyond the Point of No Return...ON PURPOSE!)

What grinds my gears about this entire situation is that, we have a creator here, who purposely build up a story, world, characters, and themes that the audience expected would follow through and make sense, given what we have of the story.

Only for the creator to fail spectacularly by trying to fucking subvert the audiences' expectations, and seeming to really not give a damn that it's what he wanted to do from the start.

Despite whatever issues he feels or has about himself, it sours whatever sympathy I may have for the guy, because in a way, what he decided to do of his own free will, seems very jaded and quite narcissistic...

I SAID WTF I SAID

It's the audacity for me.

People were lead on, lied to, and wasted their time for nothing.

Character motivations, deaths, sacrifices, the themes, worldbuilding, all of it, amounted to NOTHING.

We were idiots to put good faith into the author. We were idiots to think, this story was worth it. For some of us, it felt like a slap in the face if you were an original fan since the story's inception and honestly, your resentment for sticking with it til the end for ten plus years for an unsatisfying bullshit finale is very valid.

TL:DR: AoT's ending is trash because the Author wanted it to be trash, and that's really, unfortunately what it all amounts to.

Soo, yeah, I don't think I can really say much more than that.

Man should have just stuck with Keeping It Fucking Simple Simon and just ended the story where literally everybody dies from fighting giant ass flesh eating zombies called titans.

Okay NOW I'M DONE WITH THIS!

Edit: GOD, and here I thought I finally fallen into another great shounen on the same level as FMA:BH after the constant disappointment, that is MHA's last arc.

...Maybe I'm getting too old for anime, at least 'shounen'....idk...anymore

At least Spy x Family can't hurt me...

[kirjavas]

IMAGINE if they'd ended his dark materials here

[just1gnome]

"that sounds tediously boring"

gnome beat the game

here they are on the boat

[quirkle2]

Teruki blinks at him, and then he’s chuckling again and bowing his head down so he only sees the beginnings of brown roots coming in. When he lifts his head again his eyes are wet, but the pinks in his aura are soaking into his soul so much that he finds it really hard to be alarmed in the trance of it. “Please don’t apologize,” Teruki whispers, blinking away the shine that reflects the slit of sun from the window. His voice wobbles and hitches at the end, and Shigeo shifts, widens his eyes a little, but then his partner is moving. He leans over Shigeo’s chest, arches over the cracks that seep with energy carefully. Both of his hands are suddenly around his face and Teruki’s clamping his eyes shut and pressing their foreheads together, nose to nose, soul to soul. His hair tickles Shigeo’s jaw and his knee digs into his thigh, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t mind. The coral hues sing; the golds roar. “Please don’t. Please don’t do that to me,” his partner teeters, and the watermelon seeping into his skin is now tainted with harsher reds, deeper magentas. He can tell Teruki is trying so hard to keep it light, to keep it gentle and comforting for him—controlling an aura when emotions are high is one of the hardest things in the world. And yet he’s holding his partner, who is crackling apart at the seems in every sense of the word, and all that seeps from him is a little fear that get snuffed out instantly upon exit.

[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 their 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

[pasdetrois]

[killjoy-prince]

Finished Jumin's end

[mimicteruyo]

After jumping the gun by over a year and making such a mess of the initial draft that I had to scrap the entire thing, I have finally written a functional chapter outline for working title Ain't Your Fairytale.

[sparrowmoth]

Preview of a WIP follow-up to The Show Must Go On:

“Oh, absolutely not!” Nina’s voice rose out of nowhere, well and above the idle chatter and the ambience of the club. Jesper and Wylan broke breathlessly from their kiss as pounding footsteps approached to the tune of, “Jesper Fahey! You put him down!” “Saints, Nina…” Jesper groaned, as Wylan buried his face in his shoulder, muffling his own groan. “I’m not going to break him.” Nina stopped in front of them, her hands on her hips. “Down,” she insisted, chin dipping toward the floor. She challenged Jesper with a sharp look when he mumbled a sarcastic, “As her majesty wills it…” Wylan slid to the floor, Jesper’s arms still encircling him. He found his feet and Jesper’s hands moved to support him as he turned— He greeted Nina with a sheepish look and a very soft, “Um, hey.”