this addition has been edited as of january 10, 2020

CHAPTER TEN

AFTER THREE DAYS AT THE NABERRIES' home in the quiet mountain village, Padmé decided that she, Artie, and Anakin should migrate to a lake retreat just a little way out from her parent's house.

"I used to visit all the time when I was younger," Padmé had explained to Artie the night before they were to leave. "As long as I'm here, I'd like to stay there for a bit."

Truthfully, Artie thought Padmé was seeking a little time away from her family. Their care and worry were delving deeper into smothering territory, and Padmé couldn't stand such things. Her fierce independence only allowed so much coddling. Artie wasn't complaining, however—the retreat house was beautiful, and after so many years amid nothing but dust and dunes, she pounced on every opportunity to be near water.

Their goodbyes were painful and Artie almost found herself convinced to stay upon seeing Ryoo and Pooja's red, tear-tracked faces. They begged her to come back to the meadow.

• • •

A WATERSPEEDER CARRIED THEM ACROSS THE lake's surface, their travel the only disturbance on water still as a pane of transparisteel. The wind danced across Artie's skin and coaxed little pieces of hair from her crown of twin braids. Here, the lone sun was kind. It's light warmed rather than scorched and Artie felt peace, tilted a freckled nose toward the sky and let her cheeks pink with the gentle heat. She had always thought the entire galaxy was as loathsome as Tatooine, as desolate and waspish; she was grateful to have been proven wrong.

They reached the shore. A flurry of ready attendants rushed from the house—the estate, more like—and helped them out of the speeder, gathered their bags, all things Artie knew she could manage herself but let them do anyway. It was polite, according to Padmé, to allow them to do the jobs they had voluntarily taken, and Artie understood the merit in it. It was simply odd to her that she, a scummy desert girl, should be waited on and served as if she had the credentials of Padmé. But she didn't argue.

"I'm going to speak with the groundskeeper," Padmé said to Artie once they approached the gates. "I'll only be a moment."

Artie nodded and watched her go, now quite aware that she and Anakin were alone again. He had been quiet for much of the trip and Artie suspected that something was troubling him deeply. His worry was almost palpable.

She wandered from the docks and wound up on a sun-warmed patio just outside the entryway. Deep green vines crawled up the orange walls; Artie's boots scuffed rhythmically over the stone floor as she headed for a small parapet that kept the patio isolated. She leaned against it, setting down her elbows, and dropped her head in her hands. Artie realized with a little worm of dread just how exhausted she was. Her nightmares had made a violent return their first night at the Naberrie house and Artie had refused sleep ever since. She couldn't take them. Seeing Lysander's sharp face, his leering stare and lightless eyes made sleeping the last thing she wanted to do.

Artie felt someone move beside her. She didn't have to look up to know it was Anakin. "You're troubled," he observed.

"Well, I was trying to be obvious," Artie murmured.

"What's wrong, then?"

Artie lifted her head. She looked at him, saw the shadows around his pale eyes, the droop in his shoulders, and snorted. "I was going to ask you that."

Anakin shrugged and leaned against the parapet, eyes trailing over the lake. "You know what's wrong with me," he said, almost ironic. "I keep telling you. But you won't let me know anything." He paused and threw her a look. "And you say the Jedi are closed off."

Artie scoffed, prepared some sharp retort, but reigned herself in. A sheepish feeling overcame her and she thought better of arguing. Anakin was right, after all. He'd practically bared his soul to her on the starfreighter and here she was unwilling to even admit she had fitful dreams, too. So Artie swallowed a great chunk of her pride. "I'm having nightmares," she said. "Bad ones. I can't sleep."

Anakin was quiet for many moments. Then, "When did they start?"

"After I came to live with Padmé. They're all about Tatooine." An image of Lysander passed over her mind; Artie suppressed a gag. "And the people I knew there."

"People that hurt you?"

Artie nearly laughed. It was an understatement. "Oh, yeah."

Anakin peered at her beneath long eyelashes, so plainly concerned it made Artie want to turn away. He was too intense. Too wholehearted. No wonder the Council was frustrated by him. "How long since you've slept?"

She winced. "Three days."

"Artie, that's—"

"I have it under control," she insisted. "I'll just take a draught tonight, or something." It was a lie, but it seemed to mellow him, which was all Artie wanted. She wouldn't go under, even if it meant she never slept again. She would never relinquish so much control.

"What happens in your dreams?" Anakin asked softly.

Artie stiffened. Her instinct was to wave him off, deny him, but again she stopped herself. She had wanted a friend, and that meant being able to trust him. If he disappointed her, well . . . it was a road she had been down before. "I see the worst times from Tatooine. But mostly . . . a friend I had." She forced away a shudder.

Anakin seemed to lean a fraction closer. "And?"

Artie closed her eyes. Lysander waited for her in the darkness. "We were friends . . . until we weren't. His name was Lysander Auletes. We'd known each other since we were children. When I was sixteen he joined the Hutt syndicate and tried to make me do it too, but . . ." she fought nausea, the fresh sting that this destroyed friendship brought. "He was a bounty hunter and I would have been made a dancer. When I refused, he tried to hunt me down and sell me off as one."

And there it was. The humiliating ending to what Artie had thought to be an unbreakable bond. In her nightmares, she saw Lysander with his blaster shoved against her throat, saw a chain around her neck and scarves in place of clothes. She became nothing but the price the syndicate put on her head: twenty-thousand credits and a special night with whoever brought her in. Perhaps she had evaded the chains, but Lysander never left her. Not really.

Anakin seemed stunned to silence. "Artie," he said at last, "that's . . . I'm so sorry. I don't see how someone could do that."

Artie twisted a rod in her ear. "He told me I'd betrayed him. That not joining was unforgivable. He said it would be a better life for both of us, but . . . . I don't think he understood. He was a hunter—he was in most ways free. But I'd be a piece of meat on a leash. I would have rather died."

"So he made you pay," Anakin ventured.

"Yes," Artie said, eyes locked on the horizon. "We'd grown up in Mos Entha, but once he joined the syndicate he was stationed in Mos Espa to be closer to the black market. He kept me out of the city and made it almost impossible to find work. More than once, he made me beg him for help."

Anakin's jaw was set tight. "How could you have survived so long?"

At this, Artie could manage a smile. "Well, I'm not sure if you've met anyone from the cartel, but they're all about as intelligent as a pile of fodder. I'd put engine grease in my hair so it was dark, and dirt on my face." She was tempted to laugh, so amused by her simple little solution that had proved so effective. "I fixed speeders and the occasional droid for enough money to take me to the next meal. If I kept my hood up, you'd never know it was me."

Anakin's admiration was plain to see, and Artie nearly blushed. "I lived in Mos Espa, you know," he said. "I left when I was nine, but if I'd seen you before . . . ." His eyes searched over her face, lingered, for half a moment too long, on her mouth. "Disguise or not, I'd know it was you."

note.
oh lawd they comin