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Title: Agape’s Tale III : The Gift
Author: Eritae Halcyon (eritae_halcyon@yahoo.com)
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Vader, OFC.
Category: Romance

Disclaimer: I am not making any money from this, and he doesn’t belong to me. Darn.

Summary: Sequel to ‘The Dare’ and ‘The Choices We Make’.

A blind person, in reality, is the only person who can truly see. They know first hand what true love is, without the use of eyes, but with the heart. And that is the truest form of love. - Paul Acquasanta

I

It has been four months since that day, the day you chose to return to him. You shift beside him in the bed, turn over to face him, and set a light kiss upon his forehead.

The Sith Lord doesn’t stir.

He was with the fleet until late last night, and only returned to Imperial Center when he was satisfied with his son’s plans to destroy what little remained of the Rebellion.

You try to snuggle closer to his warm body to reassure yourself. In response, his arm moves to wrap itself more tightly around you. The contact is comforting so you tuck your head under his chin, set your ear on his chest, and let his even breathing and steady heartbeat soothe your troubled thoughts.

Thoughts of the Rebels always disturb you. They almost killed him at Endor. If Luke hadn’t been quicker, faster than his former friends and allies, the Sith Lord and his son would have died on the Death Star.

You know the story by heart. How his son killed the Emperor, how Luke saved his father’s life. Not once have you tired of hearing it and he always repeats it to you when you ask him to - when he decides to humour you, that is. And he has reasons to humour you of late.

There is a second twinge inside you.

It’s morning.

Time to flee to the ‘fresher once again.

***

‘Agapé,’ he softly calls your name. ‘You’ve returned to me.’

His grip grows tighter around you, as he holds you close to his chest. Your cheek rests above his life support panel, crushed into the hard armour he wears across his breast. You don’t fight him. There is no reason to fight him anymore.

This time it is your choice to stay.

‘You won’t ever leave me, will you?’ he asks.

There is a subtle trace of buried emotions in his voice, a hint of unmet longings and old pain.

And loss from long ago.

Terrible, overwhelming loss tinged with tragedy he always refuses to speak of.

‘I will stay,’ you affirm, reassuring him as best you can, ‘by my own choice, I will stay. I won’t leave you. I will never leave you.’

‘Words so very easily spoken,’ he sadly notes, ‘but yet so rarely kept.’

He’s in one of his quiet, reflective moods now.

‘I always keep my word,’ you remind him again, ‘and I will stay.’

You feel his fingers touch your hair now, run through it, soothing you, calming him, and you know he is thinking about what you have said. His touch moves to your face next as he caresses your cheek. The strong scent of leather from his glove assaults your nostrils.

Tension slowly leaves his body as he relaxes in your arms.

He has accepted that you are telling him the truth.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he announces, to your surprise.

‘Where?’ you ask, curious.

‘Along the square, towards the palace,’ he decides. ‘We can go to the Emperor’s private gardens, if you like.’

You tip your head, puzzled by his offer. After a year of being confined, he is giving you more freedom than you have ever had in your life. Very few have been admitted to his master’s personal residence, and fewer still allowed to enter the most heavily guarded parts of it. For a moment you wonder if he has something planned, but no, surely he could not have known what your choice would be?

Could he?

He is waiting for your decision, so you smile shyly at him and nod, making sure your grip on his arm is secure when he moves your hand to rest on it, just above his elbow.

A walk will be good exercise for you.

The smells of Imperial City assail your nose as you casually stroll along the edge of the square. Warmth from the sun kisses your skin. A part of you imagines it is his mouth heating your flesh instead. Wishes that the breeze blowing through your hair was his fingers trailing through it. Hopes that tonight he will let you freely, willingly be his for the first time.

His low rumbling laugh is his answer to your thoughts, along with a softly spoken promise of, ‘Later, Agapé, later.’

You aren’t sure when you arrive at the palace, but you know from the echoes you have entered a large room. The Sith Lord wastes no time, but continues on, down a long straight corridor, to another set of doors.

He is challenged by the Emperor’s guards, ceremonially, of course. There is no doubt who he is, what his rank and position are. When they ask about you, he ignores them, curtly dismissing their enquiries.

The next set of doorkeepers are more insistent.

‘She’s mine,’ he finally growls at them, ‘and that is all you need to know.’

They don’t question him a second time.

The next corridor must be open along one side, you decide as you feel the breeze on your skin again. He walks you partway along it, then tuns abruptly to the left.

‘There are ten steps that you must go down,’ he warns you, as you stumble a little on the first one.

He pulls you back, steadying you before you can fall and injure yourself.

The following step you take is more cautious - you feel along the edge of it with your foot before stepping down onto it. There are neutralizing sensors in the palace, for security, like in his suite. The distance measuring devices in your earrings will not function here.

In this place you are well and truly blind.

Your confidence returns as you clear the last of the stairs and place your feet more securely on the gravel surface at the bottom. As you walk at his side, you feel and hear the crunch of crushed rock under your feet. His steps next to you, commiserate with his weight, are considerably louder.

‘There’s a fountain in the center,’ he tells you, but his description is unnecessary.

You have been listening to the soft sound of the water cascading and falling in it ever since you first entered this courtyard.

The Sith Lord steers you off the path, and your slippers slap against a hard stone surface. You know it is stone because experience has taught you that tile and durasteel sound and feel different under your feet. He soon guides you to a cushioned bench where you sit, head tipped, letting your senses absorb what they can of this place.

You inhale deeply and smell the spray of water in the air from the fountain behind you. Your next inhalation brings to your nose the fragrances of flowers, some strong, others subtle, all joined in an aromatic medley and creating the sweet signature scent of this garden. A third breath and another group of odours come to mind. Mosses, bark, trees and shrubs - the deep bass notes of the perfume.

Sounds are the next item in your catalogue. The loudest noises are the fountain and the Sith Lord’s regulated breathing, but careful listening reveals leaves rustling in the light breeze and the faintest hint of flowers’ stems brushing one against the other.

Shifting a little, you reach over, feel the lip of the fountain and dip your fingers into the cool water. A few drops splash against the back of your hand. Something barely touches your fingertips, then is gone. Startled, you yank your hand away.

‘It’s just one of the harmless ornamental fish,’ your lover remarks in his deep even baritone. ‘They will come to your hand if you leave it in the water long enough.’

You are not brave enough to attempt what he has suggested, so you shake the remaining evidence of your explorations from your fingers.

He chuckles at your reticence and you hear him step a few meters away, only to quickly return to your side.

‘A millaflower for the lady,’ he offers as he carefully wraps your fingers around its strong, sturdy stem.

“Thank you, my lord,’ you politely reply, tracing the stalk in your hand to its terminal blossom with the fingers of your other one.

The petals are soft, like the finest mothsilk against your skin. Guiding the blossom to your nose, you soon discover where much of the garden’s sweet smell lies. This is heaven, you decide, a little paradise someone has created just for you.

For a moment, peace reigns and nothing else exists except you, your love, and this place.

Then another set of footsteps shatters your quiet meditations.

A hand grabs you firmly on the wrist and pulls you from the bench, forces you to kneel on the hard unyielding flagstones right beside him. The flower falls from your fingers and is crushed underfoot as you move.

‘My Emperor,’ you hear your lover solemnly intone.

An icy chill settles around your heart. Before you is the Empire’s and Sith Lord’s undisputed master.

‘Lord Vader,’ you hear an old, oddly sounding voice reply in greeting.

You keep your face turned down in an attempt to avoid drawing attention to yourself.

It doesn’t work.

‘So this is her,’ he notes, ‘the woman you have chosen for yourself.’

You hear a step, then another as Palpatine comes closer.

Then a cold, leathery hand lifts your chin, tips your head from side to side as he examines you more closely. It’s all you can do to not attempt to pull back, get up, and run away. Not that you could escape, even if you wanted to. The Sith Lord’s grip on your arm is as unyielding as the stone beneath you.

You stay, silent, where you are while the Emperor conducts his evaluation.

 ‘Suitable,’ you hear him announce as he releases you. ‘You may keep her, my old friend. Consider her my gift to you for your many years of dedicated service.’

Gift? You think to yourself, furious. Gift? You are no piece of property to be handed over at his whim and pleasure. Your mouth opens in protest, only to snap shut at the pain you feel as the Sith Lord increases the pressure from his hand against your skin, leaving bruises. He wants no inappropriate outburst from you here.

‘Thank you, my master,’ he politely responds, ignoring your obvious discomfort and ill ease. ‘I am most grateful for your generosity.’

‘It is a small matter,’ the Emperor says in dismissal. ‘There are other things of more importance I wish to discuss with you, but they can wait for a more private setting.’

You hear his footsteps fade away as he leaves you kneeling there, fuming at what just happened.

‘I am not your property,’ you hiss at the Sith Lord.

‘By Sith tradition,’ he calmly answers, helping you to your feet next to him, ‘you are, and were the moment I took your virginity from you.’

You flinch a little at the memories his words have evoked. But there is nothing you can use to dispute his claim. You have no knowledge of Sith laws to argue with.

‘It will be simpler if you just accept that it is so, that this is the way it must be,’ he tells you, his voice softening a little as he rests a gloved hand against your cheek. ‘Be grateful that my master has agreed to allow me a permanent relationship with you. He could very easily have forbidden it entirely.’

Then his hand takes yours again as he leads you back to his castle, retracing the same path you took earlier.

***

The Sith Lord meets you as you leave the ‘fresher, and you know he is worried from the tone of his voice.

‘You’ve been sick again,’ he states, half-accusingly.

‘A little,’ you admit, ‘nothing to be concerned with. Nothing to worry about.’

He pulls you close to him, wraps a supporting arm around your waist.

‘Back to bed, right now, Agapé,’ he firmly orders. ‘You need to rest.’

For a moment, you consider protesting. You are not that ill, just a bit queasy, but arguing with him won’t work. It never works. He will continue to insist that you lie down until you do it.

‘Will you stay with me?’ you ask as he guides you back to the bedroom you share, ‘For a little while? Please?’

If you are going to humour him, then he should humour you in return.

‘For a little while,’ he concedes. ‘I have much work to do today.’

He lies down on the bed, and promptly rolls onto his back so you can curl up against him and rest your head on his chest. As soon as you are settled, he runs the fingers of one hand through your hair, soothing you, in an attempt to get you to fall asleep. His fussing amuses you - he is behaving just like Sorra did during the last week, when she was looking after you while he was away.

‘Tell me my favourite story, please,’ you politely request, suspecting he is in a mood to do so.

‘Again?’ he asks.

You nod a confirmation against his chest.

‘Please?’ you repeat.

‘Very well,’ he gives in with a sigh.

You nestle in closer, lightly kiss him on the cheek and wait for his tale to begin. He reaches the point in it where Luke kills the Emperor before you finally, reluctantly drift off into sleep.

II

When you wake, he is gone from your bed. This no longer bothers you as much as it once did. He is often up and busy, gone into his office or over to the palace, long before you stir these days. Fatigue has become your constant companion, almost a third member in your relationship.

You shift a bit and pull his pillow to your face. It is a poor imitation, but it smells like him, so you hug it to your chest.

He will be back soon, will take a few minutes away from the running of his Empire to check on you, to make sure all is well. The Sith Lord never leaves that task to Sorra or anyone else. Your welfare has become one of his primary concerns of late.

For a man who prefers military action, who has an entire galaxy to worry about, you decide, he certainly spends enough time fussing over you.

You take a few deep breaths, snuffling your nose in his pillow.

You miss him when he is at the palace, working, and wish he would hurry back.

And this evening he will hopefully make love to you the same way he did that night six months ago.

***

Sorra finishes wrapping the elegant folds of your new robe around you. Her nimble fingers tuck the mothsilk carefully into place while she chatters away at you. The Sith Lord’s Twi’lek major domo, the manager of his women, was quite pleased when he released all of his other concubines earlier today.

‘I won’t have to deal with harem politics and petty in-fighting any longer,’ she happily told you. ‘There will be just you to look after, and I know you won’t make my life too difficult.’

You had laughed at her assumption, then teased her a little, ‘No, Sorra, the worst I could do is make you pick out my clothes for me.’

Somehow you knew she was smiling at your light-hearted attempt to needle her, but she made no more comments about it as she helped ready you for tonight. Over her many long years of service to the Sith Lord, she has learned when to speak and when to stay silent. She won’t risk provoking you now that your status has changed. And a part of you regrets that she feels she must modify her behaviour, censure herself that way.

Her hands leave your robe and move to your hair. It is long and loose, and full of the sweet perfume he prefers you wear. There is nothing more to be done with it, but tonight she sets a thin circlet over it, flattening it in place against your scalp.

A symbol of your new rank, you think, ironically, which is little better than the bands of bondage some slaves are forced to wear on their arms or around their necks. It marks you as his property nonetheless. You are his, irrevocably his, but by your choice, despite any laws, rules or traditions he might invoke to enforce it.

You were his the moment you gave your heart to him.

The moment he stayed silent that first night and refused to admit what you knew he felt for you.

A frown wrinkles your forehead.

Will he ever freely admit what he feels?

Sorra touches your arm to get your attention, distracting you from your musings.

‘Time to go,’ she quietly warns.

You quickly follow her along a now familiar route from your bedroom, down the hall to his private chambers. It is no reluctant virgin who walks this corridor tonight, but a bride who is eagerly going to her new husband, hurrying to his side, speeding to her proper place next to him.

Sorra opens the door for you. You step through it and into his arms.

He wastes no time leading you to his bedroom, or in starting to remove his cloak and tunic. His chest armour hits the floor with a crash in his haste to discard it.

The Sith Lord is as eager as you are tonight.

You finally hear his bodysuit join the rest of his armour on the floor.

And then nothing else matters except him. And you. And his touch upon your skin as he tosses the thin circle of gold on your head to the side, and slides the expensive robe Sorra spent so much time arranging from your shoulders, letting it fall around your feet in an unorganized heap upon the floor.

He’s looking at you now, examining every inch of you.

You don’t flinch as you feel the touch of his cybernetic hand on your face and body as he traces a slow path from your cheek, down your chest to your waist. His other hand repeats the same movements before he pulls you close and simply holds you to himself.

You have no desire to be anywhere else other than exactly where you are, in your lover’s arms.

‘Husband’s arms,’ he whispers a correction in your ear, in reminder.

‘But...,’ you start a protest.

He moves a hand from your waist and silences you with a finger across your lips.

‘Husband’s arms,’ he repeats, amused, slightly scolding now.

You shake your head in denial. It is much too soon for you to accept this new truth in your life - in your lives.

‘No,’ you softly say, still refusing to believe what he has just said, even though you know it to be fact. ‘No, please, no.’

‘Accept it, you must,’ he insists.

You still deny what he is telling you.

‘I can’t,’ you decide.

‘You will in time, my wife,’ he teases, chuckling a little at your rather obvious discomfort with the title he has bestowed on you. ‘You will in time.’

His mouth descends on yours, silencing further protest. Slowly, delicately, he kisses you, pulling back to pause briefly, from time to time, to let you catch your breath. You push up on your toes, set a hand behind his neck and pull him down to meet you. The kiss you give him is not a gentle chaste one like his have been, but deep, passionate and demanding.

For a second time today, he lets you take the lead.

You keep one hand at the nape of his neck, holding his mouth against yours when he tries to pull back a little. No, not now, you decide as your tongue slides against his, duels with his for a moment. He moans into your mouth when your free hand brushes down his body, settles on his hip a moment before continuing lower to find that he is ready for you. Your touch, only a brief stroke, is enough to prompt him to break away.

‘Not yet,’ he breathes into your ear.

Then strong arms are lifting you into the air, carrying you over to the bed, where he lays you down on top of the soft sheets which are on it.

He stretches out beside you, leans on an elbow and traces the curves of your body with his free hand for a while. His touch stokes your desire to do the same to him, but he playfully pushes your attempts to do that aside.

‘Wait,’ he suggests, ‘until I am done with you.’

‘Not fair,’ you protest. ‘I want to touch you, to feel you.’

There is no answer as his mouth joins his hands on your skin. You wiggle a little at the suction he applies with each kiss. First he sucks, then gently nips, before pulling away and blowing lightly on the spot his lips just were.

It is the most exquisite form of torture.

‘Don’t,’ you ask, when he finds a ticklish spot on your side.

He takes his lips to another place, to the center of your stomach, instead. Then he moves them slowly downwards. Your hips jump up to meet him when he finally stops. His playful teasing has ensured that you are ready for anything he might do to you.

He denies you what you are expecting and kisses the inside of your thigh, instead.

‘Stop that and get on with it,’ you growl at him.

‘Impatient, little thing, aren’t you?’ he observes in return.

‘Just...’ you start to say, only to have your words turn into a moan as he decides to finally finish what his teasing lips had started.

Your hands abandon their places at your sides, and find the top of his head between your legs. He catches one of them in his own and holds it tight on your stomach, squeezes it to reassure you as you begin to shudder at his expert touch. Another moan escapes from you when your body arches, presses against his mouth, urging him on.

His grip on your hand tightens, and the twinges within you rush together into one long, almost exquisitely painful sensation. Your moans are replaced by gasps now, but he isn’t finished with you yet.

He lets you catch your breath and relax a little, waits for your body to become less sensitive to his touch once more.

Then his mouth is upon you again, and you repeat the same dance with him. After your third orgasm, he sits up, settles himself beside you again, and lightly brushes your face with his fingertips.

‘Your turn,’ he announces, amused, when you try to catch one of his fingers with your lips.

‘My turn?’ you ask.

‘Do as you wish to me,’ he volunteers. ‘I won’t resist.’

You debate for a moment whether to take him up on his offer or not. He hasn’t really let you have your way with him before, so why now?

And why not?

Tonight you will thoroughly explore his body, you decide.

You sit up beside him and reach down to touch his face. He has stripped the sparse hair from his scalp again, you note as your fingers move across the smooth top of his head. Tracing his scars, you catalogue them, one at a time, committing the location of each to memory. How battle-worn he is, but these are old injuries suffered and healed long ago.

Like you just did, he tries to catch your fingertips with his lips when you brush over them, so you smile at him, lean over and kiss his forehead. His nose is distinct, but perfect for his face - neither too large or small, you decide as you playfully run a single finger down it, resting it for a moment on the end. You feel his eyes crinkle, his cheeks grow taut when he smiles in amusement at your explorations.

Your hands brush down his neck to his chest. You have felt the remnants of his burns before, so you continue your path down his arms instead. Parts of them are his own, and you soon find the points where cybernetics and flesh meet - one above, one below his elbows. You pull your hands away once you realize how little of his limbs are his own.

Embarrassed by your startled reaction, you shift a little and set your hands on his chest once again. Following around his life support panel, your fingers slide across his stomach, down his legs. His flesh stops abruptly mid-thigh.

How, you want to know, and why, when and where? But you don’t dare pose those questions. His past is a forbidden topic to you. He became quite angry the one time you did ask, so you won’t repeat that mistake now, or ever again.

You turn to face him and debate what to do next.

He’s already completely aroused, so you don’t need to encourage that. You could torture him the way he just did you - repeatedly push him close to orgasm then back off again before letting him do so. For a moment you consider doing precisely that, then dismiss it from your mind.

He senses your indecision, your inability to determine what to do next.

‘What do you want Agapé?’ he quietly asks you, gently prodding you for a decision.

‘I want...,’ you start to tell him, then fall silent.

What do you want?

What do you desire, more specifically, from him?

Other than needing the freedom to make your own choices, what you want from life is not a question you had given much thought to in the last year. Too much of your time had been spent under his direct control for you to worry about simple things like how you would ask him to make love to you.

‘I want...,’ you try again, only to be tongue-tied once more.

Slow realization dawns as you feel him move on the bed, hear the sheets shift under his weight. He pulls you into his arms and holds you to his chest. Then he waits, patiently, for you to speak.

‘I want you,’ you finally manage to whisper into his chest, repeating it a little louder, to be sure he heard it. ‘I want you.’

He doesn’t say a word, just eases you back so you are lying flat on the bed again. Another light kiss to your lips and he sits up on his heels, looking at you, you are sure.

A cool hand touches the side of your face, then moves down, stopping on your chest, above your heart. You wonder what he is thinking. What he is up to. Has your admission affected him at all?

The hand lingers a moment longer before slowly making its way to one of your ankles. He pulls your leg up, bent at the knee, repeating the same with the other. You shiver in anticipation, let your knees part for him, offering yourself to him. He does not decline your invitation.

There is no hesitation on his part when he finally slides himself in.

There are no more teasing touches, no more delays as he slowly, gently makes love to you, timing his thrusts with your soft cries of encouragement.

You want him, need him tonight, and he is willingly giving you exactly what you desire from him.

The tremors inside you increase in frequency. He senses it, picks up his pace at last, pushing you, driving himself closer to that final release. Your nails dig into his back as your orgasm approaches, but he ignores the pain. And then you hear his own distinct cry of triumph, feel his spasms within you as your bodies react to one another as one.

Then he is collapsed across you, laughing, covering your face with feather-light kisses. Soon he tires of that, shifts himself up and off of you, and settles you securely in his arms for the night. One hand brushes circles on your stomach for a number of minutes before he wraps it around your waist.

You can feel his smile against your neck when he kisses it.

‘I have given you a gift tonight, Agapé,’ he tells you, speaking softly into your ear.

You frown a little, completely baffled by his words. Gift? What gift?

A low chuckle is his only answer to your thoughts.

***

Gift, you think, amused when you hear the door to your quarters finally open.

It was weeks before you figured out what he meant by that, and you were as surprised as he was when his teasing about your illness proved to be all too true. You didn’t have the typical summer flu, nor the virus which was making the rounds of the Coruscanti population.

His footsteps enter the bedroom, so you push yourself up in the bed and reach a hand out to where you know he will sit beside you. He chuckles at your audacity, but as always, takes your hand in his and gently holds it while he assumes his usual place.

‘You look rested today,’ he notes, tracing a line along your cheekbone with his free hand, ‘much better than you have in the last few days.’

You nod at him. Today you feel like doing something. Yesterday and the day before that, you didn’t.

‘Another day of rest for you,’ he insists, to your annoyance, ‘but if you feel like it, I will take you to the opera tomorrow night.’

You childishly stuck your tongue out at him, but don’t complain. Sorra will come by for the afternoon and keep you amused, if you ask her to.

‘Now let me check on him before I go.’

His gloved hands settle above your swollen stomach, above your son.

‘He’s fine,’ he announces as he always does, ‘but his mother needs to rest some more.’

“Will you be working late?’ you ask.

He hesitates, at the longing in your voice, you hope.

‘No, not tonight,’ he promises, ‘I will be yours for tonight.’

Then he is gone again, but you don’t feel any need to call him back.

He’s made a promise. He will keep it. He always keeps his word to you.

Always.

III

Sorra hands you another toy to examine. You run careful fingers over its smooth surface, feeling every inch of it. There are no sharp corners, nothing that will harm your child. Handing it back, you nod your approval and accept the next one she has selected from the inestimable number you could choose from.

This one is a stuffed animal. Brushing its soft fur against your cheek, you let out a long, quiet sigh. It is a child’s version of a sabercat, much like the one you had when you were very young.

‘This one will be fine, as well,’ you tell your Twi’lek companion.

Then someone else decides to make their opinion known. A sharp kick strikes you from within. You let out a hiss and rub the spot he hit. Your son has his busy moments, but you wish that he would pick times when you are not occupied to start his usual gymnastic routine.

‘He’s moving again?’ Sorra asks, curious.

‘Yes,’ you answer, taking the next toy from her hand.

‘Ah, human babies move more than Twi’lek ones,’ she replies. ‘My daughter was not as active as your son is.’

You don’t reply, refusing to re-open her old wounds. She rarely speaks of her family, her dead husband, or her lost child, the girl who was ripped from her by slavers many years ago. An extensive search by the Sith Lord, after he had hired her as his major-domo, had tracked Sorra’s daughter, but she was dead, like her father, at her captor’s hands - it was too late to save her.

You rotate the toy again, then reject it, not liking the feel of the fabric against your fingers. It is too rough, you decide, for a baby’s delicate skin.

When you hear the door slide open, you turn to face it. Two sets of footsteps, one heavy and accompanied by regulated breathing, the other lighter enter the room. Sorra quickly excuses herself, taking the box of toys with her.

Your husband is here, with Luke, his son.

***

Two months after your unhappy encounter with the Emperor, you are given further reason to resent the Sith Lord’s master.

‘I am being sent off-planet to supervise an important military project,’ your husband tells you, ‘a project which is months behind schedule. I will be gone for a number of weeks and cannot take you with me.’

You bite your lip and nod. He has been on Imperial Center for the last three months, staying here at his master’s command, but you knew that sooner or later he would be ordered away.

That day has arrived sooner than you would like.

‘Sorra will be here to look after you,’ he notes. ‘She will sleep in your quarters in case you need someone to attend to you in the night.’

You nod again.

The Sith Lord prefers the help of droids, but knows that you don’t. You would rather have a living person see to you, and Sorra will be good company. She will help keep you from becoming too lonely and bored while he is gone on this errand.

‘You must stay in my castle, Agapé,’ he orders next. ‘It is not safe for you to be seen in public, not when I am not there to guard you and my son.’

One of your hands drifts across your stomach in a protective motion. You won’t disobey him in this and he knows it. Even if he confined you to a single room you would willingly comply. There is nothing you will not do to keep your child, his most precious gift to you, safe.

‘Unfortunately, I must leave immediately,’ he finally admits.

You frown as you realize you won’t be allowed to give him a proper send-off.

‘It’s not fair,’ you complain as he pulls you close and holds you tight to his chest for a few long minutes. ‘Really not fair.’

‘Life isn’t fair,’ he quietly reminds you, his voice full of regret. ‘It has never been fair. Not to either of us.’

He is speaking of your blindness and his own physical handicaps and painful, personal losses. And of other things from his past which he will never discuss with you.

A gloved hand touches your face, brushes down your cheek as he releases you. He steps away, while you stand there, silent, and suspecting, somehow, that you will never be in his arms again.

‘I promise I will return as quickly as I can,’ he says to reassure you.

‘Farewell, my lord,’ you whisper to him as he turns to leave. ‘Good-bye, my love.’

He doesn’t reply in kind, but you hear him pause, sense his eyes glance back at you before he is gone.

You don’t let a single tear escape until you hear the door slide shut behind him.

Then you collapse onto your bed, weeping as if your heart had just been broken.

***

The next few weeks you worry constantly, jumping to your feet anytime Sorra announces a Holonet message to you, from him.

You expect bad news to arrive any moment.

And then he misses sending a transmission at his usual time. The next day, it is the same. For two weeks there is no word from him. He’s busy, you try justifying it, he can’t talk to you right now. But in your heart, you know that something terrible has happened.

‘Sorra,’ you tell your Twi’lek friend, ‘something is wrong.’

She tries to reassure you by offering to go to the castle’s Command Center, to see if there is any news. You send her on her way, but suspect she will hear nothing which will be of use to you from the Sith Lord’s staff.

When she returns, she is excited and agitated.

And afraid.

Very, very afraid.

Terrified, in fact.

‘He’s dead,’ she tells you, concern and fear mixing in her voice, ‘the Emperor’s dead.’

You shake your head in denial.

‘Not many know this yet,’ she reveals, ‘but one of the rebels killed the Emperor.’

‘That’s crazy,’ you start to protest. ‘It’s not possible. How could this have happened?’

She hesitates, and you know she doesn’t want to tell you the rest of the story.

‘Sorra,’ you prompt her.

When she stays silent, you get to your feet, intending to go to the Command Center and find out the answer for yourself.

A firm grip on your wrist stops you.

‘Sit, my lady, and I will tell you what I was told,’ she offers.

You resume your seat, settle yourself comfortably in it, and wait for her to start talking.

‘There was a rebel attack on the installation his Lordship was assigned to,’ Sorra admits.

Rebels, you think, terrorists is a more apt name for that lot.

‘At some point during the battle, a captured rebel was brought before the Emperor by Lord Vader,’ she continues.

You hear her slow, controlled inhalation. Whatever comes next, she really doesn’t want to tell you it.

‘Sorra,’ you softly say her name again.

‘There was a ... fight, a duel,’ she finally divulges. ‘His Lordship was injured, and the Emperor killed. That’s all I know, all anyone knows.’

Your hands start shaking. He’s been injured, and probably hurt quite badly for Sorra to be so reluctant to tell you what you wanted to hear from her.

‘Where is he?’ you quietly ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

‘On the Executor,’ she answers. ‘On his way back here. They’re in hyperspace. He should arrive sometime tonight.’

You spend the next hours alternately pacing and sitting, impatiently awaiting the Sith Lord’s return. Every time Sorra tries to calm you, you resume your seat, but the moment she stops insisting you relax, you are on your feet again.

‘You must rest, my lady,’ she scolds again. ‘You must look after yourself, for the sake of your child.’

With that, you take your chair, and sit there, fussing with your dress, tugging at the fabric, fretting like a child until she reaches over and stops you with a touch to your arm.

‘Worrying won’t help,’ she tells you.

Then you hear two sets of footsteps approach. One you know, the other is unfamiliar. You ignore protocol for the moment, throw caution to the wind, and hurl yourself out of your chair and into your husband’s arms.

He catches you and says nothing for a few seconds.

‘You kept your promise,’ you remind him. ‘You came back to me.’

You set your ear against his chest and listen to the strong, steady beat of his heart. He’s safe, and in one piece, and is here, now, with you.

‘I will always keep my promises to you,’ he smoothly replies.

He rests his hand against your cheek and your hear his head turn to look over at whoever it is who has accompanied him.

‘Luke, my son,’ you hear him say, introducing you, ’this is Agapé.’

There is a soft inhalation from this man, this adult child of his, who you never knew existed until this moment. So his son must be one of those closely guarded secrets from his past which he has kept from you.

But does Luke really know who you are? What you are to the Sith Lord?

‘Agapé,’ Luke’s voice repeats your name, this time with a heavy Outer Rim accent.

‘She is my wife,’ the Sith Lord tells him. ‘She will bear me a son, soon, your younger brother, in fact.’

A shocked gasp now emerges from Luke.

His reaction does not surprise you. Few are aware of your marriage, and only the Sith Lord, Sorra, and your doctor know about your pregnancy. Your husband has been reluctant to make your existence public knowledge. His private life has always been exactly that - private and hidden from view.

You snuggle closer into his chest, burying your face in his shoulder, seeking shelter from the prying set of eyes you feel upon you. Luke is looking at you, not just curious, but also evaluating and measuring you, and you don’t like that one bit.

‘She is my wife,’ your husband repeats, then coolly adds. ‘Your mother, Padmé, my first wife, died more than twenty years ago, Luke. Agapé will be my Empress. Treat her with respect, my son.’

You hear his feet shuffle uncomfortably in place, then a quickly mumbled apology.

Sorra, you note, has already made her hasty retreat from the room. She does not want to be privy to what will follow, you decide, which will most certainly be a very intriguing conversation.

***

You settle yourself back against the pillows in your chair and wait. Comfort is a necessity for you now. Your stomach is getting big and your back hurts if you are not careful to support it.

The two men in the room remain standing, motionless for a moment, before the Sith Lord starts to pace back and forth. You count his steps each way before he turns about and retraces his path.

‘I do not like this,’ he states. ‘We do not know what the effects could be.’

‘You have little choice, father,’ Luke replies, ‘and it might actually work.’

Your head tips while you try to puzzle out what their topic of conversation is. Since they are here, it must involve you somehow.

The Sith Lord’s footsteps grow louder as he crosses in front of you again.

‘It worked with Leia, when she was injured,’ Luke states, ‘and it healed me when I should have died.’

His cloak snaps as your husband turns about and approaches you.

‘That was different,’ he notes. ‘The injuries were fresh, not something like this, a defect she was born with.’

‘What are you talking about?’ you finally work up the courage to ask.

He stops directly in front of you, and you suspect he has made a decision about whatever he and Luke have been arguing about.

‘Hold out your hands,’ he tells you. ’I have a gift for you.’

You promptly obey and are rewarded immediately as he carefully sets a large gem of some sort in them. Your fingers wrap around it, feel its various facets and angles. It is cool to your touch, but not cold. Shifting it from palm to palm, you wonder exactly what it is, how valuable it must be. Certainly it is big enough to be worth tens of thousands of credits.

‘It didn’t work,’ you hear Luke sadly say after a few minutes have passed. ‘And I was sure it would work.’

‘I did not think that it would,’ the Sith Lord admits. ‘After it failed to have any effect on my old injuries, I doubted it would heal her blindness.’

Your hands shake as you lower them and the gemstone you are holding onto your lap.

His gift was supposed to be your sight.

He thought this stone might somehow effect a cure. After years of your own fruitlessly hoping, searching for some treatment, your stepson thought he had found something that might actually work.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ you firmly state, placing the stone on the table beside you and reaching a hand out, to feel your husband catch and grasp it in his own. ‘I don’t need my sight to see into your heart, my lord, and that is the only thing which will ever be important to me.’

IV

Your son’s birth is only a month away now, you wryly note, rubbing your very large, and at the moment itchy, stomach.

A hand firmly reaches across the bed and grabs your wrist, stopping your fidgeting.

Your movements are keeping your husband awake.

‘My lord,’ you whisper to him.

‘Go back to sleep, my wife,’ he quietly scolds you.

‘I can’t,’ you admit, feeling a bit miserable.

You are big and awkward and uncomfortable, and no matter what you do, what position you shift into, you can’t fall asleep.

There is one of his oddly broken sighs next to your ear before he kisses your neck and gives one of your pillows a tug. Then he rolls you back a bit from where you had been lying, settles you firmly against his chest and kisses you again in the same spot. He’s using his body to support yours.

‘Try this,’ he offers. ‘It might help.’

You catch the hand his has across your waist in his own and lace your fingers in his. His embrace is comforting, soothing.

After the events earlier today, you need that closeness and reassurance. That knowledge that he will always be there to protect you.

***

You didn’t want to accompany him to the palace, but yesterday your protests had fallen on seemingly deaf ears. So, now, you find yourself, standing in your dressing room, submitting to Sorra’s expert touch as she fusses with your formal robes.

The Empress’ robes.

One of those gowns you hate with a passion.

‘But I can’t move in it,’ you voice your grievances again. ‘It’s too heavy. I trip on the hem. And I am always tired after an hour or so of wearing it.’

Your complaints, as always, do you absolutely no good.

She sets the coronet on your head.

You despise that elaborate headpiece almost as much as you dislike the dress, but it is part of the role you must take on, from time to time, at your husband’s behest.

‘His Lordship won’t be pleased if he has to wait for you,’ Sorra reminds you.

She doesn’t say it, but you know there’s an unspoken ‘again’ appended at the end of her sentence. The last time there was a formal audience that you had to attend, you were late, very late, and your husband had been quite annoyed at your tardiness.

‘I don’t like being put on display,’ you whine a little.

You know he is insisting on this just to put the Hapan monarch in her place. Ta’a Chume and the Sith Lord do not like one another. They have sent sniping messages, framed in stilted, polite diplomatic language, back and forth for the last few months.

And today.

Today the Galactic Emperor will hand his daughter, Luke’s twin sister Leia, over to the Hapan Prince Isolder, to be his wife.

He couldn’t bring himself to publicly execute her like he did Mothma or the others in the Alliance’s High Command. Nor was a lifetime of imprisonment an option he would consider. No, Leia had to be exiled somewhere and placed under someone’s firm hand, so that she could do no further damage.

Then the Hapan ambassador had arrived with Isolder’s proposal.

It was the perfect solution to the problem of Leia’s Rebel ties and her stubborn refusal to swear allegiance to her father. The Sith Lord expects that Ta’a Chume and her son should be more than able to keep his errant child in line.

Sorra finally decides she is finished, steps back and leads you from your dressing room towards the doors of the palace’s largest audience hall. Your husband meets you partway down the corridor and sets your hand upon his arm. He guides you at a leisurely pace, ignoring the ceremony surrounding your entrance, and settles you in the throne next to his before taking his own place beside you.

This could be quite an afternoon.

You didn’t participate in the heated arguments he had with his daughter about her impending marriage - you only heard about them after the fact. Your husband did not want Leia’s anger to upset you. Not in your ‘condition,’ as he had put it.

Today you suspect her protests will be both loud and very public.

Luke enters and greets the Emperor, then you.

You hear him take his place to the front and left of you. Your stepson has trained hard the last few months, spending many long hours working closely with his father. He is the commander of all the Empire’s military forces now, succeeding your husband in that role.

The Sith Lord trusts him completely.

Silence fills the room.

The large doors facing you open. Soft music flows across the audience chamber.

Ta’a Chume and her son have arrived.

They cross the floor quickly, stopping in front of you. You tip your head a little, listening intently, trying to read between the words they speak.

The Hapan Queen Mother is polite, icily polite, but no more than that. This marriage, her son’s idea, does not have her approval. You feel her eyes on you, boring into you, looking past the heavy, concealing robe Sorra dressed you in.

It does not fool Ta’a Chume.

‘Congratulations are in order, I see,’ she tells the Sith Lord. ‘A son, I presume, not a daughter.’

‘Of course,’ he smoothly replies, ‘a son to succeed his father, as a daughter should her mother.’

He’s baiting her, not so subtly mocking her inability to produce a female heir.

‘It is easier to acquire a suitable wife for one’s son, than husband for one’s daughter,’ she offers in return.

The Sith Lord lets out a quiet hiss. Much of Leia’s resistance to her arranged marriage has been based on that feckless Corellian smuggler she is so enamoured of. Ta’a Chume’s primary objection to her son’s choice of wife is due to the same individual.

‘Mother,’ you hear a firm male voice state.

That single word short-circuits any further taunts of that sort.

‘Bring my daughter to me,’ your husband orders in the uncomfortable, ensuing silence.

You hear Luke excuse himself to go fetch his sister. He will hopefully see to it that Leia arrives without any public show of resistance, but, no, your stepdaughter’s enraged voice fills the air as her brother drags her before their father. Her anger has not abated in the week she has been kept isolated - if anything, it has increased exponentially.

‘I will not be handed over to him like I am a piece of property!’ you hear her yell.

You flinch in sympathy. It is a protest which sounds so painfully similar to your own when the previous Emperor gave you to your husband.

‘You will do as I command,’ the Sith Lord beside you threatens, ‘or I will see to it that insufferable Corellian you are so fond of pays the price for your continuing refusal and defiance.’

You hear a door open while Leia considers how to answer that.

‘Leia!’ an unfamiliar voice calls to her.

‘Han!’ she answers.

This is her smuggler and erstwhile lover, you decide. So this is how your husband plans to force his daughter to comply.

The loud sounds of a struggle soon follows. Han must be fighting with his bonds and the guards who are keeping him in check.

You rest a hand on your stomach as your son starts kicking. Has the noise bothered him? Or is the distress you are beginning to feel transmitting itself to him? A gloved hand reaches over and is set atop your own. Warmth transmits downwards from it, and the movement within you subsides as his father soothes your son. There is a reassuring squeeze to your hand before his touch is gone again.

Your husband is in complete control of the situation despite the apparent chaos in front of you.

‘So, daughter,’ he warns her, ‘you have a choice. Obey me, or have him suffer the consequences.’

Leia says nothing.

‘Just do as he wants, Leia, and give your consent,’ Luke tries to persuade her. ‘Han will go free if you do.’

She still stays silent. You know she is debating her options, deciding what she should do.

Stubbornness, you note, certainly runs in the family.

‘I...,’ you hear her begin to say.

You know she is going to sacrifice herself - to give in to spare her lover any further harm.

But so does Han.

And he can’t accept that.

Han’s voice rings out in protest as he tries to forbid her to do what she plans. His seemingly futile struggles increase, then you hear a guard curse, a body hitting the floor... and then he is free and there is the sound of a blaster being fired, two lightsabers igniting, one in front of you, one to your side as father and son react.

And then you can no longer tell what is happening or who is doing what. Too many things are occurring simultaneously to differentiate one from another.

There are shouts and curses, threats and accusations, as former friends and allies confront each other. A blaster is fired again, the shot deflected by an energy blade before your face as you hear Leia’s horrified scream of denial.

Then silence.

Silence broken only by the sound of a woman’s hysterical weeping, regulated breathing, and the hum of two still lit blades.

***

You shiver at little at that memory.

Han had deliberately taken aim at you, intending to hurt the Sith Lord in exactly the same way your husband had threatened to do to Leia. Your husband reacted in the only way he could - the only way you knew he would.

He had given Leia to Isolder immediately, without any delay. She had no fight left in her after Han’s body was removed. All his daughter had done was stand there, crying, while the formal betrothal ceremony was conducted.

You feel nothing but pity for her.

She made her choice to defy him.

It was the wrong choice.

Her lover paid the price.

And she has to live with her decision for the rest of her life.

Just like you will always live with yours.

You settle back against your husband’s chest, feel his firm lips against your neck.

‘My lord?’ you whisper to him a second time.

‘My wife,’ he responds in kind.

You squeeze the hand he has around your waist.

‘I have a gift for you,’ you softly tease him, ‘but you will have to wait another month to get it.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he replies, amused. ‘I can wait.’

Then he kisses your neck once again.

V

It’s morning, but something is not right. You frown, reach over to your husband, expecting that his absence has woke you, but no, he is still there, at your side, softly snoring.

You shift a little in the bed, restless and no longer sleepy. The ‘fresher calls, so you carefully lever yourself up and make a quick trip to it.

Partway back to your bedroom, the pain hits you.

‘Ohhh,’ you groan as you lean against the nearest wall.

No, not yet, you think, to no avail.

Your son has decided to be born today.

Another contraction hits while you are still recovering from the first one. They are close together already, you note. There will be little time for you to go to the castle’s Medcenter. You moan louder during the next one, hoping you can wake your husband and that his help will arrive quickly.

Your cries of pain prompt an immediate response. You hear the Sith Lord rush from the bed, his metal feet hitting the floor with a distinctive ringing slap, as he makes his way to your side.

‘Hang onto me, Agapé,’ he orders, pulling your hands from where you are resting them.

Letting your head fall against his chest, you do as you are told and wrap your arms tightly around him. His body is warm, his grip around your waist firm as your breath hisses between your lips. Another one has hit you. The contractions are less than a minute apart.

There is no time to spare, no way to get to medical help before your son is here, you realize at the same time your husband does.

‘He’s coming so fast that I will have to play midwife,’ he announces, sounding completely unfazed at the prospect of delivering his own son.

The contraction peaks, then fades.

Two powerful arms pick you up as if you weigh nothing and carry you back to the bedroom. The lifting motion ruptures membranes and amniotic fluid rushes forth to spill and drip onto the floor. He ignores the mess and returns you to the bed, settling you against the pillows and shoving folded sheets beneath you.

Not once does the Sith Lord exhibit anything other than complete, utter calm.

‘Breathe through them,’ he suggests when you begin to moan again.

You feel him slide your knees up, your legs apart, as he prepares to examine you. The irony of the situation amuses you, so you laugh a little hysterically at the fact that the arrival of the product of one of your love-making sessions requires the same position that they do.

A hand strokes your face as he tries soothing you with his touch.

‘Agapé,’ he softly calls you.

‘I’m fine, my Lord,’ you reassure him.

‘I need to check your progress,’ he warns you.

You nod. This makes sense. And you know he understands what is happening, what he must do to help you.

The Sith Lord has been unusually diligent when it comes to educating himself about your pregnancy. He spent days hounding his medical staff, asking about every development in obstetrics, every possible thing that could go wrong, and how to remedy any situation.

It has almost become an obsession.

And now, after all his planning, equipping his castle with the latest equipment, transferring the galaxy’s very best doctors to his staff - it has come down to you and him alone, in his suite, with no help from anyone else.

You feel his fingers gently slide into you, probing, measuring, gauging how much longer it will be.

‘You are ready to push him out,’ he tells you.

But you already knew that.

Your back arches, you curl your body forward as the urge to push, push right now, becomes the sole focus of your existence.

The next minutes blur into seemingly endless pushing and panting, and sweat dripping down your face as your body refuses to let you rest. You grab the backs of your thighs with your hands, hold your breath and bear down again. And again. And again.

You hear him say something to you about seeing his son’s head, but you don’t really hear his exact words.

Then there is stretching and burning and pain between your legs.

And the final blessed relief of something - someone - being pulled from your body.

You let yourself fall backwards against the pillows, completely spent and depleted.

***

‘She’s still sleeping,’ you hear Sorra say once you are aware again.

A gloved hand rests on your forehead.

‘No, she’s awake,’ the Sith Lord counters.

He is sitting beside you on the bed and lifts one of your hands in his own.

‘You were exhausted,’ he tells you, ‘so I let you sleep once it was all finished with.’

His fingers lace among yours as he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. He helps you sit up with his other one, props you in place and gently brushes your hair back from your face.

‘Where is he?’ you ask, but he has already anticipated your question and released your hand from his grip.

‘Here he is,’ you hear Sorra say.

Sounds of cloth being passed from hand to hand, of your son being given to his father threaten to fill your eyes with tears. He’s here - your son, your husband’s gift to you - is here.

‘Hold him like this,’ the Sith Lord coaches, helping you settle your child in your arms, against your chest.

You keep him close to you.

He’s small and warm, and wrapped in one of the soft blankets you chose for him months ago. When he wakes, he nuzzles into your breast. Setting your cheek against his skin, you breathe in and smell him. New. He smells new, fresh. Like nothing else you have ever known.

You tip your chin a bit and kiss the top of his smooth, slightly fuzzy head. There is little hair yet, but that will grow with time. Lightly, delicately, you touch his face with your fingertips. Round, a bit chubby, but he will have a strong nose and chin once he is older. You suspect he will look much like your husband.

‘His eyes will be blue, like mine,’ he tells you, ‘and his hair is blonde.’

Blue. Blonde. Descriptive, visual words which have no meaning for you. Your world is catalogued in other terms - smell and touch; sound and taste.

A tiny hand grips your finger when you brush against it, adding ten fingers to your inventory of his features.

You reflexively kiss your little son again.

A soft cry comes out of his throat.

‘He’s hungry,’ you guess.

‘Let me help you,’ Sorra offers.

You feel your husband leave your side as she leans over, opens your nightgown and helps position both you and your child. The feeling of a mouth firmly attaching itself and the following suction are familiar, yet completely unexpected at the same time. Twinges of pain inside make you inhale sharply. This is definitely not what you experience when the Sith Lord does the same.

‘Let him nurse for a while,’ she suggests, ‘then you need to rest some more.’

When he is finished, you are tired once again, but reluctant to relinquish your child.

‘He’ll be right beside you,’ your Twi’lek friend states.

She takes your free hand and guides it so you can feel where his cradle has been placed. Your son will sleep next to you, within an arm’s length, but you still refuse to give him up. Instead you hold him tight and glare fiercely at her. There is no way you will put him down or allow anyone else to touch your child.

‘Your Empress has strong maternal instincts,’ she says to the Sith Lord, sounding a touch amused. ‘All Twi’lek females are like that at first, too. It should fade a little in the next few days.’

Your husband chuckles and humours you for a few minutes more, but you know that won’t last for much longer.

‘You must rest, Agapé,’ he finally insists. ‘If you don’t want to put him in the cradle, then let me hold him for you instead.’

You try to persuade him to let you keep your son in your arms, using your best pleading expression, but it does absolutely no good. When your husband makes a decision, there will be no changing his mind. The Sith Lord’s leather clad hands slide above yours, between your palms and your son, separating you from your child as he is lifted up and away.

‘Sleep, Agapé,’ he orders before you can rally yourself to fight his command.

***

It’s evening.

You know this because the sound of armour being removed has roused you from your sleep.

For a moment you frown as you remember today’s events. Realization rushes in so you push yourself upright, reach over quickly... to find your son, securely wrapped in his blanket right next to you as Sorra had promised.

‘You needed to rest,’ your husband tells you, ‘and he has slept as long as you have.’

‘Please,’ you quietly ask.

He places your child in your arms as he did once before.

You feel his weight beside you on the bed as he settles himself next to you. An arm falls around your waist when he holds you close. His free hand turns your face towards his, then you are being gently kissed.

‘He’s perfect,’ you tell him after he frees your mouth from his.

Metal fingers lightly brush your cheek.

‘That he is, my love,’ the Sith Lord, softly states, ‘that he is.’

It takes a moment for you to realize what he has said, what he meant by it, what he has finally admitted to giving you.

His heart.

His love.

And to you that is the most important gift of all.

FIN

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