this edition has been edited as of february 24, 2020
warning: this is a very long chapter BUT it pays off. please read to the end! don't skip!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

AM I DEAD? AM I DEAD? The question pestered her through an incomprehensible haze. Everything was black and still and quite honestly if this was death, it wasn't so bad. Her body rejected the question with a hiss. If you were dead you would not be in so much pain.

And pain there was; Artie's head may as well have been splitting itself in half. She cracked open her eyes and found nothing, just a room as dark as void . . . no, not a room . . . Artie felt sand shifting beneath her body. A tent. Her breathing hitched and fear seemed to line her very bones.

Lysander. Lysander. The name like acid splashed on her brain.

Artie remained sprawled on the ground for what felt like hours and each passing moment only made her more afraid. Her hands were clamped in irons, a gag slipped between her teeth so she was forced to bare them like a beast. What was he planning for her? Would she be auctioned off? Bought right then and made a palace entertainer in seconds? How could Padmé ever find her? No, don't be stupid—Padmé would never find her. The Hutts would make it like she never existed.

She sensed movement outside and heard low mumbling voices beyond the tent's rough canvas walls. Artie knew she must be in one of their camps, she just had no inkling of which one; she could be on the other side of the planet. Suddenly a square of bright white light cut through the darkness as someone opened the tent's flap door. Spurred by some primal instinct, Artie shut her eyes and went limp. Let them think she was still out cold, defeated and weak. She had one last trick up her sleeve—or, in her pocket. Whatever dullard had tied her up had forgotten to disarm her; she still had Anakin's lightsaber.

Footsteps thudded softly over the sand and kicked a little bit in Artie's nose as they halted before her. A hand took her shoulder and turned her over. Artie let her eyes open a fraction. Lysander Auletes stared back, pale gaze satisfied and haughty and meaner than the devil. Sandy hair fell across his eyes constantly, and fingers riddled with wispy white scars came up to brush it away.

"Sit up," Lysander commanded. Every nerve in her body screamed against obedience, but Artie caught sight of both a whip and a blaster on Lysander's belt and the part of her with good sense opted to do as she was told. She straightened and kept ahold of his cool stare. She wanted to study him, study what she'd lost, meanwhile hoping she could convey years of hatred through a single look on her face. Lysander lifted an unamused eyebrow and pulled the gag from between her teeth. "You know, I don't believe it. I really don't believe it."

Artie remained perfectly still. "Believe what?"

"You're back," Lysander said, pacing around her. He laughed to himself. "Kriff, Artemis, once I heard you were playing politician with that shrew from Naboo I lost all hope you'd ever end up here again." He stopped and studied her. "Look at you, didn't I say you'd grow up beautiful?"

It made her insides boil, but Artie let the insult against Padmé slide and ignored his comment about her appearance. There was no use in provoking him. "How did you find me?"

"The syndicate sees every ship that enters this atmosphere," Lysander stopped before her and crouched down so their faces were level, "didn't you know? A Nabooian royal ship catches eyes, Artemis, especially those that are looking anyway." His lips tilted. "I thought to myself . . . that's either the queen or the senator. Guess I got lucky."

"You had no way to know I was onboard," Artie snarled, leaning as far away from Lysander as she could.

"A claim so bold and incorrect," he replied coolly. Artie wanted to claw the smirk off his face. "I'm not reckless. I figured someone would have seen who got off that ship, and this planet's full of people without loyalties or decency. At the right price, some Toydarian junk seller was more than informative." Artie's stomach dropped. Lysander seemed to notice the shock on her face and smiled wryly before he went on. "Turns out he knows that ship pretty well. First saw it 'bout a decade ago when a few Jedi were escorting Naboo's young queen back home, and well . . . Watto says he never forgets a face. Also mentioned Amidala was with one of his former slaves and a scrawny girl with yellow hair who wouldn't look past her hood." He spread his hands. "I like when puzzles put themselves together."

"So what now?" Artie asked a little too quickly, too shakily; her heart pounded in her throat and made speaking nearly impossible. "Still want to sell me? Want to shove me in a costume up against that fat kriffing slug?"

"Jabba would like you," Lysander whispered, mouth barely moving. He touched a knuckle to the apple of Artie's cheek, "so don't give me any ideas."

Artie jerked her face away. "I hate you."

"Sticks and stones."

"Why are you doing this?" Artie fought to keep her voice steady. "Why do you care where I am or what I do?" She felt the steady pressure of the lightsaber against her leg; Lysander really hadn't noticed she had it. The weapon was warm and alive—ready when you are, it seemed to say.

Lysander searched Artie's face. He looked almost sympathetic, but she knew it was a trick of the light; his eyes were long dead underneath the shadow. "You're my only real friend, Artemis. I miss you. I want you home."

"I'm not your friend," Artie seethed through grit teeth. "And I don't believe you. You don't miss me. You never did. You left me for dead."

"I never let you starve," Lysander snapped, jumping back to his feet. "I always—"

"You made me beg for help!" Artie cried. "You made me pay for saying no—because I didn't want to be a syndicated whore. You tried to sell me to any man who turned me in!" She couldn't calm her voice, it lifted to a scream. "I didn't want to be owned!"

"I was trying to save you," Lysander growled, throwing out an accusatory finger. "We were starving, you were practically dead—"

"Don't pretend like you joined to help me," Artie said. "They bribed your ass until you couldn't see straight."

"Artemis," Lysander closed his eyes and pinched his nose, "could you ever not make something personal? The galaxy isn't set against you, you know. Bad things happen to everyone. You play with whatever sithing hand you're drawn."

Artie's mouth fell open; she couldn't fathom what he was saying. How could he claim his actions weren't directly meant to hurt her? Could someone be that blind? "You're delusional," she murmured. "You're out of your mind—you hunted me for a year! You think I betrayed you? It's personal because it's personal. Stop trying to rewrite the past."

"Why can't you see what I'm trying to do?" Lysander shouted. "I could have drugged you and sold you inside of an hour and I didn't."

"Aren't you princely."

"Stop holding on to the past, Artemis," Lysander hissed. "You've got your nails dug into things you can't reverse. Your parents didn't want you. That's a fact and you have to live around it." He knelt back down, nose inches from hers. He swept a piece of ashen hair away from his crazed pale eyes. "I'm trying to fix this. I want . . . I want you to stay here. With me. As a bounty hunter, not a dancer, not a slave. We can go back to doing whatever we want." He paused. For a startling moment, Artie thought there might be tears in his eyes. "I'm alone without you."

Artie recoiled. Lies. She knew they were. He didn't care about her. How many times had he caught her, beat her black and blue? Twice he had made her beg and grovel for credits enough to buy half a meal, and even then there was sand kicked in her face and despite many narrow escapes, Artie had never felt safe on this planet that was supposed to be her home. It was no home. She thought of the way Padmé treated her, with enough love and respect to make up for all the years she'd been given none. Whatever Lysander considered friendship was nothing Artie wanted any part of, even if it meant he killed her once and for all for her refusal.

Something jolted her. Idiot! an unseen thing seemed to scream. It was the equivalent of being knocked upside the head. Use the Force. Use the lightsaber for sith's sake! You don't have to die!

Suddenly overcome with resolve, Artie swallowed her fear. This was not where she ended. This was not how she ended. She tilted her head towards Lysander and gazed at him beneath her eyelashes. She hoped his arrogance would be enough to convince him. "Like it was before?" she whispered.

Lysander's face lit up. "Yes," he said cautiously. "Yes, exactly like it was. You and me."

Artie blinked slowly. "Oh. If you promise, then . . . I suppose . . . I'm alone without you, too. I know . . . I know I need you. I need your friendship. I need your help—I can't do this without you." She took in a fake, shuddering breath and made her eyes as pleading as she could. "You're the only person who understands."

Something like relief—like triumph—crossed Lysander's sharp face. He clasped a hand tight on her shoulder. "Thank you. I hoped you'd see it this way."

Artie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She smiled softly and lifted her bound hands. "Take these off, then. Unless you keep your friends in irons." Lysander took her arms and pressed a thumb into a fingerprint scanner on the shackles; they opened with a hiss and fell to the floor. Artie's heart leaped with anticipation and she let her anger and determination loose; they bloomed together like a fist of smoke in her chest. "You know, this is just a small suggestion, and you don't have to take my word, but . . . you should hire smarter muscle."

"What?" Lysander frowned with an unsure smile, but Artie was already on her feet. She imagined two hands, larger and stronger than her own, forged in balance and power, raising to knock Lysander back. She felt the gravity in the tent sway, a tug in her navel, and he went staggering away from her, pushed by an unseen aggressor; it was only a few feet, but it was enough. His eyes snapped up, fury and disbelief raging in their depths. His lip curled. "No . . . that's not possible. You're not one of them."

A blue beam of light cut through the air. Energy hummed in Artie's hand and the saber cast deep azure shadows across Lysander's astonished face. The blade felt at home in her palm; it buzzed like it itched for a fight. Well, Artie wanted one too—she'd let Lysander think she was a Jedi. She wanted him afraid. "A statement so bold and incorrect."

He leaped to his feet and whipped out his blaster. He shot once and Artie clumsily deflected it; the beam ricocheted and tore through the roof, narrowly missing searing her across the chest. Lysander shot again and Artie dodged it but stumbled over the shackles left on the ground. She scrambled around and kept Anakin's lightsaber far in front of her.

"Whose saber is that? Did you steal it?" he seethed. "You're no Jedi. You're too old, they'd never train you so late."

"My training isn't your problem," Artie said evenly. "I'm your problem. Let me go."

"Or what?" he barked. "You'll kill me? Try it."

Artie stepped forward and delighted in Lysander's decided step back. She allowed herself a small smile. "I won't hurt you. I don't want to—I'm not like you. But I have friends who are less hesitant . . . especially when it comes to slave marketers." It rattled Artie to admit it, but it was true. If she revealed or even implied all of what Lysander had done to her, Anakin would kill him. Like he killed the Tuskens. "They'll come for me."

"You think I don't know an empty threat when I hear one?" Lysander took the charged scourge from his belt. "You've got nothing, Adhara, no one outside of me."

He lunged at her and thrashed out with the scourge; the first onslaught Artie evaded, but his next landed her across the arm, the short whip's many electrified, barbed tails both petrifying Artie and drawing immediate blood—four deep gashes like claw marks that screamed crimson. When the current left her she found herself halfway on the ground, guard down, and Lysander wasted no time in punching her across the mouth so hard she saw stars. She cried out and blood slid down her chin as she fell flat on her back, saber sheathed six feet away.

Lysander loomed over her. "Cleverness never was a strength of yours." He'd retrieved his blaster and now held it level with her forehead. "At least I can say I made another offer."

Artie raised a wobbly hand. "And I can say I refused again." She made a sweeping gesture and Lysander went flying like someone had tied an invisible cord to his back and sharply yanked him away. He slammed into a small generator and did not rise again. Struggling to heave the wind back in her, Artie climbed unsteadily to her feet and snatched up Anakin's lightsaber. Casting one last hateful look at Lysander, she turned and tore out of the tent—and right into Anakin.

"Artie!" he cried, catching her in his arms. "Are you all right? What happened? Who was it?" He released her and took her face in his hands, angry eyes searching her bruised cheek and jaw, the blood that still poured through her teeth.

Artie had no words for him. The gashes in her arm burned furiously and it felt like a churning sea was trapped in her skull. She gripped him tightly to keep herself from swaying; she felt empty, like the Force had sucked away every ounce of her energy until she was a shell. Artie wondered fretfully if that was normal. "We . . . we have to leave. There are others." Anakin didn't move. Artie gave him a weak shove. "Come on."

"Artie . . ."

Something in his voice worried her. Slowly, she looked around. Yes, there were others scattered through the outpost, but they were no threat. At least a dozen men and nonhumans alike lay unmoving on the sand, still like they'd laid there for generations. Bones left for time to bury. Everything was quiet except for various machines and couplings left unattended. Panic swallowed Artie. "Are they—"

"No," Anakin said firmly. "Just unconscious."

"Oh. You did that?"

"Not exactly—it was knockout gas Padmé had on the ship. We just set it off before I came down."

Artie scowled. "What do you—oh." She looked past his shoulder and realized Padmé's ship was docked not ten strides from them. "Is Padmé here too?"

Anakin nodded. "We both left as soon as we realized you were gone. She never would have stayed behind." He glanced uneasily at an unconscious blacksmith sprawled a few feet away; the man stirred slightly and a small groan escaped his lips. "We need to go—the gas won't last forever."

They made for the silver starship slowly but surely. Anakin supported Artie almost entirely, careful not to touch her bleeding arm, until they met Padmé at the ramp. The Senator was uncharacteristically disheveled and her cheeks were red and wet with tears. Padmé grabbed Artie in her arms as soon as she was within reach. "Oh, my—Oh, Artie I was so terrified we'd lost you! When you didn't come back from the ship I assumed the worst and—oh it's too awful to think about." She crushed Artie in an embrace and the latter clung on just as tightly. Sister, Artie kept thinking. Sister, sister. Family. My real family.

Padmé released Artie and noticed the blood for the first time. "Artemis, what—"

"I'll take care of her," Anakin said decidedly. "Do you mind piloting?"

Padmé frowned and looked like she wanted to protest, but conceded with a short nod. "All right . . . there should be a medpack back there," she gestured behind them, eyes never quite leaving Artie's bloodied arm. Face still set deep in worry, Padmé turned and retreated to the cockpit. A moment later, the ship hummed to life.

Artie let Anakin lead her to the small durasteel sickbed in the main hull. Dizzy with pain, she climbed atop it and sat at the edge. Anakin retrieved the medpack that hung from the wall and set to work wordlessly.

"How did you find me?" Artie asked distantly.

"Obi-Wan put a tracker in my lightsaber when I was twelve," Anakin replied. He tore away the frayed, singed remains of Artie's sleeve and exposed the entire wound to the air; it was not quite as deep as Artie had expected, but wrapped nearly all around her upper arm and stung horribly, spasms of white-hot pain lacing through her skin. Anakin produced a small canister of bacta spray from the medpack and gingerly applied it to Artie's wound; it burned immediately and she sucked in a breath, flinching away.

"I'm sorry," Anakin said quickly. "I have to clean it. Just one more time." He sprayed the bacta again and though it hurt just the same, Artie kept still, gnawing the life out of the inside of her lip. Anakin moved a step closer and examined the gashes. "I don't think you'll need stitches," he said quietly. "The bacta should heal it up quickly." He took a roll of white bandages and a cloth from the medpack and began to carefully wipe away the excess blood that snaked down Artie's arm. "What happened?"

Artie said nothing for several moments. "He ambushed me," she whispered at last, eyes on her hands. "Lysander, I mean. Some goon knocked me out and he took me back to the outpost."

"What did he want?" Anakin asked tentatively, almost like he didn't want to know.

Speaking over the lump in her throat, Artie replied, "For me to stay here with him. Become a bounty hunter with the syndicate . . . and act like he never tried to kill me." Now it was Anakin's turn to go silent. He switched from the cloth to the bandages and slowly wrapped up the gashes; Artie was very aware of his touch, very aware of how careful he was, how warm his fingers were. Hadn't he slaughtered a village not a day ago? Artie tried to will away the blush that mingled with the purple on her cheek. She was out of her mind.

Anakin moved again even closer to tie off the bandage and when he spoke his voice was level with her ear. "Did he do this? He hurt you?"

Artie nodded. Anakin pulled away to look her in the eyes with his too-intense stare. Artie no longer squirmed beneath it, but met his gaze readily. "Yes. He did."

She saw the light in Anakin's eyes change. Saw the blue darken and intention turn deadly. "Do you want me to go back?" he whispered. "I can make him pay for it."

"No," Artie said at once. Instinctively, she grabbed his hand to keep him before her. "Don't. I'm all right. Don't . . . don't give in."

Anakin stiffened beneath her touch. "What do you mean?"

"You can't do it again," Artie said in a rush. "What you did to the Tuskens . . . you can't ever do something like that again. It wasn't right."

A scowl twisted Anakin's face and he leaned away a fraction. "They killed my mother," he said quietly. Menacingly calm.

"I know." Tears filled Artie's eyes and she slipped a hand over the nape of his neck. She drew him back to her. "I know they did. I'm so sorry." Anakin's face did not change, but Artie watched a film of tears turn his eyes to glass and one by one roll down bronze cheeks to land on his collar, on her lap. She touched her forehead to his. "I'm sorry. I know nothing I say can make it better. I know . . . I know you're angry. I know you're in pain. Let us help you. Let . . . let me . . . let me help you."

They were both still for a beat; the next moment Anakin kissed her, fervent and full of want. The hard press and brief release of his lips startled Artie, but she let him stay near, inviting his hand to take her cheek, letting him search, in all his desperation, for whatever it was he sought in her. She wanted him to find it. She wondered distantly, as her thoughts hazed and heart hammered, if she possessed it at all.

Anakin tilted his head away, breaths deep and full, eyes lowered and lashes still dark with tears. But he smiled softly, thumb going gently over the bruise shadowing Artie's cheek. "That helped."

Suddenly R2, whom Artie hadn't even known was there, whistled and screeched with a frantic bounce; Anakin and Artie leaped apart. R2 whirred again and Anakin scowled. "A transmission?" he said. "From who?" More beeps and squeals and Anakin's frown deepened. "Obi-Wan? Bring it up, Artoo."

The little droid beeped a reply and the next moment a glowing blue image flickered unsteadily to life. A miniature Obi-Wan stood before them, looking anxious even in the rough hologram. "If you get this, Anakin," he said urgently, "retransmit it immediately to the Council. The Trade Alliance has pledged its armies to Dooku and are forming an . . . wait—" Kenobi unsheathed his lightsaber, "they're forming an attack—" blaster beams broke into the image and Obi-Wan deflected them away, "I don't—I can't—argh!" A pair of battle droids darted into view, their gunfire heavy, and suddenly the hologram shut off, leaving heavy silence in its wake.

Unable to remain passive, Anakin jumped into action. "I'm going after him."

"Wait—wait," Artie hopped off the sickbed and caught up with him. "You don't know what you'd be getting into. Retransmit it first and see what the Council says."

Anakin looked like he wanted to argue, but complied with a heavy sigh. "All right, all right. Artoo, come transfer the message to the main panel and send it to Coruscant."

R2 beeped in his little language and rolled into the cockpit, Artie and Anakin close behind.

"Is there something wrong?" Padmé asked worriedly as they joined her. "Artie? How are you?"

"Never better," she replied with a forced smile as her arm seared like fire.

"Obi-Wan sent a transmission, he's in trouble," Anakin said, dropping in the copilot's seat. R2 whirred excitedly and suddenly Artie was staring into the dark-but-made-blue eyes of Mace Windu, his brow heavy and expression overall disapproving, though no one had said a word yet.

"Skywalker," Windu began, voice deep and stern like he was already combating nonsense, "you are to stay on Naboo. We'll send reinforcements to Obi-Wan—do not go looking for him. Your sole priority is protecting the Senator."

Anakin's face remained unmoving. "Understood, Master."

Windu cast him one last suspicious look, then flickered away. The three of them were left glancing between each other. Finally, Padmé grabbed the controls and turned the ship up and into the atmosphere, clearly meaning to leave Tatooine altogether.

"What are you doing?" Anakin demanded? "He said to stay—"

"On Naboo?" Padmé interjected. "We've already disobeyed that. Obi-Wan's message came from Geonosis—that's across the galaxy from Coruscant and less than a parsec from us. The Council will never get help there in time. We can."

"But Windu said—"

"Since when do you do what the Council says?" Artie cut him off. "Especially if your friend needs help?"

Anakin looked helplessly from Padme to Artie and back to Padme. He was clearly outmatched, and Artie knew he must have wanted to go after his master; she guessed he also wanted to limit how many orders he deliberately defied, but at that point, there were a few too many notches in the belt. Between kissing her, leaving Naboo, and killing a village of Sand People, saving Obi-Wan's life would be his least offensive dissent.

Anakin seemed to realize it in that split second; he resumed his place at the control panel and helped Padme set a course for the planet Geonosis. "All right," he said, mouth twitching with obvious eagerness. "It's a rescue mission, then."

note.
thank you so much for sticking with this chapter! i know this rewrite was a long time coming. thank you for your patience!

comment your favorite part!!

( beautiful sign-off gif made by sonatastark )