this addition has been edited as of january 12, 2020

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE TRIO OF MOONS HAD LEFT THEIR HIDING PLACES AND come out to claim their sky by the time Artie and Anakin returned back to the retreat house.

They had raced. He had won.

Artie hardly cared. If she was honest, she didn't think it a very fair competition, considering she was sleep-deprived and in fresh shock. She was Force-sensitive. She had felt it move through her, felt security and certainty and instinct unlike anything she'd ever dreamed of. She had more questions than she knew could ever be answered, but she had hoped Anakin would have been more helpful. He'd barely spoken to her since acting so strangely when she used the Force—he didn't even taunt her after he'd won the race. He only suggested they return the speeders and head to the house. The walk back had been silent.

It infuriated Artie.

Hadn't it all been his idea? Had it not been he who pushed her to try, and hadn't she protested? And now what was he, angry? Because he'd been right? Nothing about his reaction made sense, and more than it angered Artie, it scared her. What wasn't he telling her?

They came back to the pavilion near the docks that connected the halls to the center of the house. Their rooms were on opposite sides, so Artie, wounded and confused, made for hers without so much as a look back.

"Artie," Anakin called before she could disappear. His voice was strained. Guilty.

"And so he speaks!" she barked, unable to mask the venom in her tone; she was so tired, she would have mouthed off to the Chancellor himself. She turned around and found Anakin a few steps closer, eyes pleading. It mellowed her, but only slightly. He could explain himself before she was fully forgiving.

"Artie," he repeated, "I'm . . . sorry. I shouldn't have . . . I didn't . . ." he sighed and ran a hand over his face. His stare swept over her and he looked like he was in pain. "Listen," he began again, voice softer than Artie could ever remember it being, "can we talk about it tomorrow? You have to sleep. I can feel that you're—"

Artie shook her head. "Anakin, you don't need to worry about me, all right? You're here to help Padme, not to . . . ." Suddenly she felt more alone than she had since Tatooine. Artie shook her head again, eyes cast to the floor. "Good night, Skywalker."

She turned on her heel and marched to her room before he could say another word.

• • •

"YOU'LL BE BACK BEFORE DARK, WON'T YOU?"

Artie hears a child's voice, small and confused. The child is eight years old, clutching a rag doll in her fist. Her eyes are bleary; she's just woken up. There is a welt of disappointment on her heart. She won't be going to the market with her parents today. They say they have to go alone. She won't be seeing Lysander that week. So she asks: will they be back before dark?

There's too much light coming through the paneless window and she can't see their faces. There is a soft, citrusy scent and suddenly her nose is buried in a woman's ash-blonde hair. The woman is crying. The child does not understand—her question was simple. Then, it is a man's arms around her small frame. She is too small. She doesn't eat enough. A beard scratches her cheek as the man holds her to him. Together, he and the woman are warm, and the child trusts them.

But soon the warmth flees, and Artie never feels it again. For the rest of her life, she is alone.

There is a shift. The suns have found their way beneath her skin, and something is eating her alive from the inside. Despite the heat, the murderous, vile heat, she shivers. She is hollow. She is only bones.

Artie is starving to death where she stands.

There is a fist around her throat; Lysander is nose to nose with her. She is no longer a child. She is seventeen and half-dead, soon to be full-dead. Whether it be by the dragon devouring her organs or the boy with the blaster is her surprise to anticipate.

"Please, help me," she whispers. The fist squeezes tighter until no more words can come out.

"It's such a shame," Lysander says, voice low to her ear. His body is pressed to hers and she can't move. "You would have looked so nice in a dancer's garb."

Artie squirms. She tries to hit him, she spits in his face, but Lysander only laughs. "Just—kill—me—" Artie sputters. She hates him. She's never hated someone more.

"Why would I do that?" Lysander seems genuinely puzzled. "I like this. I like this game. It's a good lesson to learn, Artie, not to bite the hand that's trying to feed you."

"Sell—me—" Artie corrects him. Her vision blotches, her head throbs as if it's about to explode. She hopes it might. Kriff, if she could just die.

"Tell me," Lysander says, ignoring her. "What do you think Skywalker could do for you? Understand you? Save you from that . . . hole . . . in your chest. You're a void, Artemis Adhara. Nothing can change that. Not even the Chosen One."

• • •

ARTIE SHOT AWAKE, A STRANGLED SHRIEK ESCAPING HER MOUTH. She clamped a hand over her lips, breathing as if she'd never tasted oxygen before. Tears slid like little rivers down her cheeks, through her fingers, into her hair. Her back was slick with sweat and her thin shirt stuck to her skin like it was glued. Despite the open windows letting in the balmy night air, she shivered. Eyes wide, blown with fear, Artie tried to think.

She did not remember falling asleep—in fact, she had adamantly resolved that she would not even close her eyes. But sleep had been too seductive. She was so tired . . . and of course, now, she would not even be welcomed with the morning. Outside, the night was young. Artie doubted she had even slept an hour. Well, it didn't matter. Nightmares took minutes. She raked her hands through her sweat-and-tears-sodden hair, calmer now, but still trembling uncontrollably. She decided after a few more moments of shaking, weeping in the dark, that she couldn't endure another moment. Artie gathered a dry blanket over her shoulders and fled the room, leaving it as still and silent as a tomb.

She wandered into the pavilion, as waking Padmé was out of the question; she was eighteen years old and she would handle this herself. Artie traipsed toward a cluster of couches in the pavilion's center, content to sit there until the sun rose. But she stopped short. A shadow had beat her to it.

Anakin had beat her to it.

In her head, Artie relayed every swear she knew, and then made up a few more. Even more infuriating was that her first instinct was not to turn back. Something pulled her to him, something supernatural and bigger than either of them. The Force, Artie thought scathingly. She went through the curses again.

"If you're trying to sneak up on me," Anakin said through the darkness, "you should think less angry words."

Artie took a few cautious steps forward. "I wasn't trying to sneak up on you." In the pearly moonlight, she saw anguish in his face; he shook almost as badly as she did. She felt . . . fear in him. It stained him. Seized him.

"You're still angry," Anakin shrugged limply.

"You made me angry." Artie stepped into the moonlight and showed herself fully. "I did what you asked--I tested the Force and you were right. And you get mad? You won't even explain yourself?" Anakin was on his feet, now, but Artie rose to his challenge. "It's your fault this is happening to me—the least you could have done was answer my questions."

Anakin shortened the gap between them. Artie tried not to notice how the threadbare shirt he wore barely did anything to cover him—or how her blanket had slipped and let show her bare shoulder. "I know," he said, "and I'm sorry. I was selfish. But part of me had hoped . . . I just thought if you weren't, then . . . it might be easier . . . " He paused. "For you." A longer pause. "And me. But you are, and now you'll join the Order, and—"

"I'm not joining the Order," Artie said. Her heart hammered so swiftly she didn't understand how she was getting words out. "I don't want to be a Jedi."

Anakin scowled as if she'd suddenly begun speaking a different language. "But you have the Force."

"And no one knows but you," Artie replied. It came out like a warning. Anakin nodded once. Artie peered at him. "What do you mean . . . easier? For me and you?"

Anakin smiled weakly and took yet another step nearer. "I feel things for you, Artie. Things I know I shouldn't. I hoped . . . I wasn't alone in them, but . . . if you joined the Order, it would be impossible regardless." He wasn't stopping. Every second he grew nearer, but slowly, giving her time to stop him. Artie didn't want to. He was only inches away.

"Don't do this to yourself," she whispered, but her eyes were closing anyway. "Not for me."

"I think you're the only person I'd ever do this for."

He kissed her. It was tentative and soft, his hand on her cheek, her fingers curled around his wrist. When they pulled away, despite her shaking knees and shallow breaths, Artie grinned up at him. "You're in so much trouble, Skywalker."

note.
k, so that happened.