I don't own anything in the galaxy far, far away. Too bad. I would love to cuddle up with my very own Obi-Wan... You might have seen this posted under another user name on another board. I am the author, just using another name. You may PM the author (VaderLVR64) on that board to make sure. I will make sure to answer! :D

Author's Note: Just a little "what if" inspired by reading the Henry and Eleanor trilogy by Sharon Kay Penman. I really should stop now.

The Empress

She moved with the familiar grace that still made his breath catch. His wife, his Empress - the mother of his children.

Padmé's beauty still affected him. He often wished it was not so, but the sight of her moving through the very gardens he had designed for her (admittedly long ago) could still make his breath catch in his throat. She was aware of her allure and hated it as much as he did, but some habits were harder to break than others.

Her hatred was the one constant in their lives, the foundation upon which their destinies had been built. They were both drawn to and repelled by each other.

In spite of his own reluctance, and the sure knowledge that she would not welcome his company, he found himself moving toward her in that garden. Amongst the bright, fragrant flowers and verdant plants of her homeworld, she seemed to be once again the lovely young woman who had stolen his heart. And for just a moment, he was once again a man with a heart to steal.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps, but only slightly, just enough to catch sight of him from the corner of her eye. Though no one else would have noticed, he observed the slight tightening of her expression. Silently, he applauded her composure, knowing that none would guess at the horror she felt in his presence. She was a worthy opponent in every way, a fitting mate for the man who had claimed an Empire as his own.

"Padmé," he said softly.

She gave a regal nod of her head but nothing more. It was as he expected - nothing more or less than cool courtesy.

With uncharacteristic hesitation, he held out two flimsies. "Here," he said roughly. "I've heard from the children." Even now, he could refer to them only as "the children," or his children. Luke and Leia were never their children, the lives that had been created when they still loved without reservation. Before they had hated. Such a bond was too painful to acknowledge, though it lurked beneath the surface of every moment, ready to rake into them like a nexu's claws.

Padmé stared at the flimies in his hand as she might regard a pair of coiled serpents. "Are they well?" she asked, her voice strained and husky.

Once, he reflected, it would have been husky with passion and longing. Now there was only distaste and a furtive sense of fear. How had their love come to this, he wondered. That it was his fault, he did not argue. But he could see no other path they could have taken, no other way he could have saved her.

And if he had earned her hatred with that act of love, then he would live with it - as she must.

"Luke is doing well in his lessons," Vader said, looking down at the flimsies as if he did not have every word already memorized. "But not as well as Leia," he conceded dryly.

A flash of amusement glinted in Padmé's eyes and then was gone.

"Thank you for your report on the welfare of the children," she said coldly, now refusing to look at the flimsies, much less reach for them. "Though I'm quite sure that one of your lackeys could have given me the information just as easily." With that, she turned and walked away from him, leaving him standing there helpless and furious.

Again.

Usually, he would stalk into the palace and work off his fury with training droids. This time, however, something old and dark urged him toward her. He was almost as surprised as she was when he grabbed her by the arm and swung her around to face him.

"Enough!" he spat. "Don't you realize that you've done this to yourself!"

Padmé sneered at him. "Really? I've held myself prisoner, have I?" He could feel her trembling beneath his harsh grasp. "I sent my children away? I've deprived myself of the simple comfort of holding them for three long years?" She laughed then, bitterly, verging on tears he knew she would not shed. "Go away, your majesty. Leave me to my garden…cold comfort for a mother who has lost her children." Wrenching her arm away from his hand, she stumbled and then scuttled backward. "Go back to your Empire, Lord Vader. I don't need you. I don't want your company."

Rage roared up, repressing the old feelings of guilt and shame. Once more, he grabbed her, this time shaking her until her hair tumbled out of its elaborate arrangement and her teeth clicked together. He was strangely gratified by the spot of blood on her lip where she had bitten her tongue.

"I cannot trust you, Padmé," he growled. "I had to take the children away, or you'd use them in your endless schemes to overthrow me!"

She laughed in his face yet again, wildly, a note of hysteria lurking beneath it. "That's what really scares you, isn't it, Anakin?" Neither of them seemed to be aware of the slip of her tongue. "You're not scared of me, you're terrified of your own children…and the power that you gave them as their birthright!"

"Shut up!" His hands tightened and he heard her whimper but he could no longer control the anger that swept over him in a hot, red tide.

Padmé merely continued to laugh, seemingly heedless of the painful pressure on her arms, ignoring the obvious rage that was building up inside of him. "You've taken them away from me, it's true. They might be only ten years old now, but they won't always be children. And one day they'll make you answer for robbing them of their mother. No matter what you tell them, no matter how far away you take them, they'll remember me. You can do nothing about that, Lord Vader, and that is what keeps you awake at night…sweating and shivering in that lonely bed of yours."

He thrust his face close to hers. "Who says it's lonely?" he taunted, watching with satisfaction as she blinked in stunned hurt.

Perhaps they still had ways to wound each other, he mused. There was a grim satisfaction in that realization.

"Take any whore to your bed," she hissed. "Much better to have a faithless husband than to be corrupted by a monster's touch!"

Her barb was true and sharp - nothing less than he deserved or expected. He was a monster in her eyes, perhaps his own as well. Ah yes, they could still draw blood. They had not lost their knack for striking at sensitive nerves.

He smiled at her then, his own eyes now glittering with the banked fires of fury and passion. It seemed that he could no longer feel one without the other, and he hated himself for his weakness. "You're losing your touch, my love," he sneered. "There was a time when you wouldn't have revealed your weakness….your fear…so easily."

Abruptly, he released her, as disgusted with himself as he was with her. She almost fell, then righted herself, straightening her gown with unconscious regality.

She would always be a queen at heart, even now, as his prisoner, his disgraced wife - an Empress with no power or influence.

Lord Vader inclined his head mockingly. "I'll make sure to tell the children that you send your…regards." Then he turned and strode away.

The sound of her voice almost made him stop and turn around to face her.

Almost.

"Tell them…" her voice broke, as if she might sob. "Tell them," stronger now, "that I love them and I'd be with them if I could."

He finally did turn. Their eyes met. His tone was almost apologetic as he shook his head. "No," he said softly. "I don't think I'll tell them that at all."

Her screams of rage and agony followed him into the palace. A smile danced along his lips. Yes, they could still hurt each other. And they would.

Again and again.