Archive of Our Own ^beta

𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧

Padmé loved her children with an intensity that hurt, a sun burning from the inside out, illuminating two young lives that were pieces of herself — and, somehow, pieces of him. She loved Leia for her ferocity, for the way she threw herself body and soul into justice, into freedom. In her daughter, Padmé saw the pure reflection of the Naberrie family: a people of peace, but capable of fighting tooth and nail for what was right. Every gesture of Leia in the Senate — every measured word, every steady gaze — seemed charged with a purpose that transcended her sheltered childhood on Alderaan. Bail and Breha had given her a safe world, but what Leia carried from Padmé was fire, the unyielding root. Leia was Organa in name, but Naberrie in soul, and in every action, Padmé saw her own heart.

Luke, however, was another story. Luke grew up under Tatooine’s harsh sun, under Obi-Wan’s silent, rigid tutelage. He was the promise and the weapon, the instrument of a destiny Padmé had silently orchestrated. Every lesson Luke learned, every training with the Force, every movement of the blue lightsaber was a step toward the inevitability: facing his father — destroying Darth Vader, bringing down the Empire. And all of it with Anakin’s face, her Anakin’s, etched into her son’s features.

At times, Padmé felt like she was vomiting inside, horrified by her own decision. She, who loved that boy more than anything, who had shaped her daughter’s path toward justice, was now sending her son to die — not only to kill his father, but to be forged into a sharp, cold blade, blind to what he was truly doing.

She needed them apart. Protected. Safe. But at the same time, used. Luke was the sword she would wield against the darkness, Leia the scale that would keep the galaxy just. Each would bear their silent burden, far too heavy for any child, but essential for the survival of the world.

Leia would be the General, the founder of the New Republic, the embodiment of justice and democracy, Saint Leia, who could never escape the weight of her own glory. Luke would be the last Jedi, the slayer of Sith, the hand that would strike down Vader and Sidious with the same precision that would destroy the Empire.

She loved them so much that love turned into pain, into fear, into guilt. Leia would carry the galaxy on her back, Luke would carry death.

And then Luke appeared before her. Never before had they met. Luke was the living copy of Anakin, but the shoulders, the posture, the quiet sorrow — all of it carried traces of her as well. Every detail was a memory crushing her heart.

“Luke, this is the agent I told you about, Agent Lotus. She will arrange your passage to Coruscant.”

Luke approached, young, serene, but with tension written in every line of his face.

“Pleasure to meet you, agent.”

She swallowed a wave of tears and answered with a voice far too steady: “The pleasure is mine. Your actions in the Battle of Yavin were commendable, young one.”

Luke did not reply at once. He only looked at her with that strange, distant gaze, so much like Anakin’s but also entirely his own. “When must I leave?”

She exchanged a quick glance with Obi-Wan. A silent nod confirmed it: now was the time.

“Tomorrow. Vader will be at the Imperial Senate.”

“It’s a very open place. Many could get hurt.”

Padmé nodded slowly. She knew that. Every risk, every life, every detail — she had planned it all. But the galaxy needed to see Luke raise the saber against his own father. It needed to see Vader fall, the monster die. Luke had to be the blade, and she, the hand that guided the blade.

“The strike will be after the final session. Many senators will have already left. It will be the perfect moment for the surprise.”

Luke remained silent, absorbing it. Something heavy flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t know, couldn’t know, that he was being shaped into flesh-and-blood assassin. He only felt the weight, the tension he couldn’t understand, as if carrying something that didn’t belong to him.

He turned to Obi-Wan. “I’ll meditate.”

And he left, Padmé watching her son’s back — so young, so beautiful, so cruelly destined for a death he did not yet understand. Every feature reminded her of Anakin, but the sadness in his shoulders reminded her of herself. She felt the weight of her decision like silent daggers in her chest.

She loved her children. But the price of love… was this sacrifice.

𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧

Padmé remained alone in the room after Luke walked away, her breath caught in her chest, as if every movement of the boy were a cut into her soul. She wanted to run, to scream, to warn him, to protect him — but she knew she couldn’t. Every gesture of his, every step toward the destiny she had orchestrated, was necessary. Cruelly necessary.

She imagined Luke on Coruscant, moving silently, like a shadow no one would notice until it was far too late. And Vader… her own Anakin, her lost love, the monster she had once held in her arms and then watched succumb to darkness. Now, their son would face his father with the same force the Empire had taught: not with malice, but with the coldness of duty, the purity of an obedient blade.

Padmé swallowed hard, trying to smother the knot rising in her throat. Luke did not know. Luke did not understand that every training session, every lesson from Obi-Wan, every meditation in the Force was preparation for the death of his own blood. He did not know that by raising his saber against Vader, he would become complicit in the very cruel fate Padmé had, in silence, woven for him.

She remembered every small tale of him as a child, whispered to her by Obi-Wan: the carefree laughter beneath Tatooine’s sun, the curiosity in those blue eyes that so resembled Anakin’s, the desire to do good. And now, that same boy — so much like the father he was about to kill — was walking toward becoming the blade of justice the galaxy needed. An impossible weight for any soul to bear.

She sat down, her hand upon her belly, feeling the empty space she always carried for having separated her children, for having shaped them for a war no one else could ever understand. Guilt tightened every muscle of her body, every beat of her heart. She was being mother and executioner at once. She loved them with all the strength she possessed, yet she needed to see them suffer. She needed to see them face death so that the galaxy could breathe.

Padmé closed her eyes and imagined the moment of the encounter. Luke before Vader, the father’s face reflected in his own, and the hesitation that might rise — the confusion she longed to witness, the shock no one should ever see. The blue blade slicing through the air, the end of an era, and the awareness that all the training, all the preparation, had been nothing but sacrifice.

She could almost hear the boy’s muffled sob, who still did not know what he carried. She could almost feel every wound he would endure, every fear he would have to swallow in order to fulfill the destiny she herself had woven.

And then Padmé whispered, barely audible:

“Please… do not cry when the moment comes, my son. Please…”

Because she knew that when the time arrived, he would have no choice. And she, mother and silent author of his fate, would only be able to watch.

The sun spilled through the window, gilding the hair of the boy who did not yet know the weight of the sword he would wield. Padmé felt her heart shatter into a thousand pieces, but she also knew — in the rawest, cruelest form of love — that it was necessary. Luke would be the blade. She would be the hand to guide him, even if it meant watching his innocence be sacrificed. It's his destiny. 

And in the stillness of the room, while the galaxy slept, ignorant of what was to come, Padmé wept silently for the son she loved, for the son who would have to kill his father, for the son who would bear alone the weight of his own death and of everyone’s redemption.

𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧

The train swayed gently along the metal tracks, cutting through the afternoon on its way to the Imperial Senate. The constant sound of movement was almost hypnotic, but for Padmé it was a cruel reminder of the time slipping away. At her side, Luke sat upright, impenetrable, dressed in dark clothes that absorbed the light of the compartment. The lightsaber lay hidden at his waist, a silent promise of destruction and justice, while the tension in his body spoke louder than any word.

Padmé watched him. Every gesture, every held breath, was a reminder of who he was — of who he might have been, if not for what she herself had shaped. She felt the knot in her stomach tighten, her heart pounding with an almost physical ache. Her son was about to cross the line between innocence and death, and nothing she could say would spare him.

The train passed through another tunnel, plunging the compartment into shadows. Luke closed his eyes for a moment, internalizing each step he was about to take. Every beat of his heart seemed to echo through the metal frame, each second deepening the gravity of the fate awaiting him.

Padmé reached out, hesitating for an instant, before touching his arm. He turned slightly, his blue eyes reflecting the light of the corridor. She swallowed hard, feeling the weight of every unspoken word, the burden of every secret that stood between them.

“Luke…” Her voice broke, soft, almost a whisper, yet laden with all the pain and love in the world. “Forgive me.”

There was no explanation. Only the plea. A request from the deepest place in the heart of a mother who loved so much she knew that any detail revealed might shatter what innocence still remained in her son.

Luke only blinked, unsettled, but something in his expression softened for a fraction of a second. The tension was still there, taut as a drawn cord, yet something subtle shifted: her silent presence, the brief touch, the single word — asking for forgiveness — seemed to share with him a burden he could not yet grasp, but was beginning to sense.

Padmé withdrew her hand slowly, her eyes locked on his, and allowed herself simply to breathe. Every moment was a stolen instant with her son, every second a reminder of what was about to come.

The train slowed, nearing its final destination. The Senate’s crowd awaited, unaware of the blade that would cut through its halls and of the pain hidden behind the determination of that young Jedi.

Luke lifted his chin, adjusted the hood, and with silent, measured steps, moved toward the exit. Padmé watched him go, her heart shattering in silence. The plea for forgiveness lingered in the air, unexplained, misunderstood, yet carrying all the impossible love she could not put into words.

And as he vanished into the crowd, she remained there, caught between pride and despair, knowing that in that moment her sacrifice of destiny, of love was being fulfilled in silence. And that nothing could ever change it.

𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧