Work Text:
Duchess Satine wasn't expecting him. They were acquaintances, but not friends. Not really. He didn't have to reveal anything to her. He was taking a risk in coming to Mandalore, and she would find out the truth soon enough. Along with the rest of the galaxy. But in spite of his orders, and in spite of the fact that it felt so perversely good to defy the Council after the stunt that they'd pulled, Anakin Skywalker knew he was doing the right thing. There was perhaps no one else in the galaxy who more deserved to know that Obi-Wan Kenobi was still alive.
He probably could have found a secure holo-terminal and contacted her that way. It would have beat the long trip to the Outer Rim, but Anakin felt this news should be given in person.
When he'd arrived, it was already evening in Sundari. Perhaps it wasn't proper protocol – Anakin wasn't really in the mood to care – but he went straight to the throne room, where he was informed by the palace guard that the Duchess had already retired for the evening with orders not to be disturbed.
"Contact her anyway," Anakin said bluntly, already annoyed that the guard had insisted on taking his lightsaber. "She will want to know what I have to say."
"Sir, that is quite impossible. But I can show you to a guest room tonight and you will be granted an audience with her grace tomorrow."
Anxious irritation swirled in Anakin's gut, as if a Rishi eel were writhing inside and trying to get out. He wouldn't wait. He waved his hand in front of the guard's face. "You will tell Duchess Satine that I am here now."
"I will tell Duchess Satine that you are here now," the guard intoned. He turned obediently, and Anakin shoved down the flare of satisfaction that came from being able to so easily direct others. Obi-Wan would have chastised him for that if he were here. It wasn't becoming of a Jedi to relish wielding power over others, even in relatively benign matters.
But Obi-Wan wasn't here.
That was the point.
Anger blazed in Anakin, and for a few indulgent seconds, he made no move to tamp it down.
Eventually though, he breathed deeply, trying to think of other matters. He would be meeting with the Duchess, and she didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of his own emotions. He turned in a circle to stare around the throne room. It'd been nearly two years since he'd last seen the impressively vaulted space. That was when he'd arrived to escort the Duchess and her neutral allies to Coruscant, and at the time, the room had shimmered gloriously, gently diffused light streaming through the windows. Or were they technically walls when they made up almost the entire building? In any case, the artificial sunlight had bounced around the space, bathing everything in a hazy, peaceful ambiance while also creating a steely warmth that bespoke the purposeful actions that took place in this room. When Anakin had met Duchess Satine, he had felt it a perfect reflection of the woman herself.
But now, the lighting of the domed city had dimmed for the night. The transparisteel no longer reflected light back in on itself. Instead, Anakin could see directly out into the sea of buildings that surrounded the palace. Except for the pinpricks of light from certain windows, the darkness of the city stretched in every direction. Literally every direction, Anakin thought, starring down at the transparent floor beneath him. It was like being suspended in space . . . adrift in cold, unyielding nothingness. Anakin Skywalker was an accomplished pilot and was no stranger to such a feeling. He'd never panic in such a situation. But this was different. Standing in the darkened Mandalorian throne room, he felt utterly exposed.
Fragile.
Breakable.
Footsteps echoing around the vast cavern brought Anakin back, and he centered himself as the armored guard reentered the throne room.
"The Duchess will see you now." He sounded a little flustered, and Anakin wondered if he'd been given him a tongue-lashing for disturbing her. Anakin smirked and followed the guard; he didn't know Satine well, but it was obvious she was a force to be reckoned with.
It was obvious when they reached the Duchess's personal spaces, and not just because of the guard standing sentry outside the door. The corridors – made of actual walls, not transparisteel – were narrower, the ceilings far lower than the more public areas. Less exposed. Anakin was grateful for that.
The guard who directed Anakin motioned to the other to stand aside. He waved his hand in front of the panel and the door swished open. "The Duchess will be with you shortly," he said as Anakin stepped inside.
Even with Mandalore's minimalistic tendencies, Anakin thought Satine's apartment was uncharacteristically subdued for a planetary leader . . . or maybe it only seemed so in light of his wife's own love of the ornate. This wing of rooms still exhibited the same simplistic feel that characterized Sundari more generally, but it felt cozy nonetheless. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked the city on one side, but heavy brocade curtains stood ready to block out even that view when greater privacy was desired. The furniture – all in the blue and silver color scheme of Clan Kryze – was sleek and unembellished, save for the soft wool throw thrown over the sofa. A tea service cart sat along one dark blue wall, kettle heating on a burner. Several vases of Mandalorian peace lilies sat along the walls as well, which were empty save for one surprisingly informal portrait of the duchess and a red-haired boy. Anakin remembered him from the time he dropped Ahsoka off – the boy from a pacifist system who'd been enamored with Ahsoka's Jedi lightsaber. So that must have been Korkie, Satine's nephew. But the eyes . . .
"Master Skywalker." Duchess Satine's crisp voice broke Anakin's gaze away from the portrait. Satine had entered from what looked like a bedchamber, clad in a white nightdress covered by a blue dressing gown. Her blonde hair had been haphazardly pinned back, but her demeanor was every bit as regal as every other time Anakin had seen her. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Her voice was diplomatic, but with an unmistakable edge to it. He bowed low. "Hardly a pleasure, your grace. I know you asked not to be disturbed."
See, he could be diplomatic when the situation called for it. Or maybe it was that this woman had a strange effect on him. In spite of the informal setting, she compelled a formality Anakin didn't grant to just anyone. And yet, there was a warmth about Duchess Kryze as well, one that said that every conversation she had was personal, not simply a mere formality. He was awed by her ethereal regality in a way that reminded him of that fateful day when his very own angel had walked into his life.
She nodded once, and Anakin knew that he'd been absolved of his trespassing. Her next comment held a lighter tone. "I assumed you wouldn't have barged into my palace if it weren't something important." She gestured toward a narrow armchair before taking a seat on the sofa. "Though I am curious as to why the Council didn't simply call, as they usually do."
Anakin sat on the edge of the chair and grimaced. "Well, my lady . . . your grace," he stammered. "They wouldn't have, because . . . they don't know that I'm here."
"This isn't a Council matter?"
"Oh, no. This is definitely a Council matter," he said, before continuing pointedly, "but the reason I'm here . . . that's a personal one."
"Oh?"
"Yes, in fact–" Anakin rubbed his neck, suddenly self-conscience about the whole situation– "what I'm about to tell you is something that you can't tell anyone else. Especially not the Council."
The duchess's brow furrowed in apprehensive confusion as she stared at him directly. "Master Jedi – please – tell me what you came to say."
Anakin breathed. "Obi-Wan's alive."
The duchess froze. Entirely. The burgeoning whistle of the kettle on the tea service was the only thing convincing Anakin time hadn't stood still. The blankness in her icy blue eyes was unnerving, and Anakin had to look away from her unseeing gaze. The seconds stretched. Anakin wondered if he should say something, but instead he closed his eyes and reached out to touch her mind.
He wasn't prepared for the affective blast that hit him through the Force, but he probably should have been. Satine's stoic facade masked the waves of emotion sheeting off of her, and Anakin mentally stumbled with the weight of them: shock, denial, hope, confusion, relief, betrayal . . .
Even Anakin was taken aback; his own volatile emotions seemed to be mere images of these originals.
The tea kettle shrilled.
"My lady?" he said.
The duchess breathed sharply and her eyes refocused on his. Without a word, she rose from the sofa and stalked over to the tea trolley, turning off the burner and pulling two dainty cups from the tray.
"Tea, Master Skywalker?"
Anakin's brow furrowed. She had heard him, hadn't she?
"No. Thank you, your Grace." It probably wasn't worth telling her that he hated tea; that Obi-Wan had considered it a personal failing that he hadn't been able to cultivate an appreciation for his favored blends in his padawan. That he'd always kept hot chocolate on hand for him, even when Anakin had outgrown his apprenticeship.
Duchess Satine's hand stilled on the kettle. "You're right. This calls for something far stronger."
She turned her attention toward a locked cabinet and couldn't see Anakin's confused expression following her. All that turmoil within her; was this all the emotion that she would release? A polite conversation over a drink meant to settle her nerves? Anakin realized he hadn't known how the duchess would react, but it certainly wasn't this. It's not how he would have reacted; how he did react.
It wasn't until Satine failed several times to unlock the cabinet that Anakin perceived her hands shaking. She finally opened the door, revealing an impressive collection of bottles filled with things that were definitely stronger than tea. Well, half-filled.
Duchess Satine reached to the top shelf and pulled down a bottle containing a clear liquid. She placed it on the wide lip of the cabinet, and then reached to pull down two drinking glasses. She went to place them on the tabled-top as well, but as she did, there was a loud crack in the air. One of the fragile glasses shattered within Satine's hand, set down with too much force, and Anakin watched the delicate shards rain to the floor.
And after a long, unmoving moment, the Duchess of Mandalore bent her head over the counter and drew in a wretched sob.
Anakin stared, having no idea what to do. Satine continued to emit several heaving cries. In spite of his upbringing, life in the temple had made Anakin accustomed to very . . . muted displays of emotion from his fellow Jedi. Whatever emotion he wrestled with usually came from inside him, not others around him. There had been a couple times in their marriage that Anakin had needed to comfort Padme after receiving tragic news. But she hadn't reacted like this, and this woman – bent over the counter and still holding a shattered glass to match her shattered heart – wasn't his wife. He and Satine weren't friends, but their mutual love for Obi-Wan Kenobi bound them together, and Anakin's heart ached for her as much as for his own hurt.
In the dim light, a flash of red caught Anakin's eye. There was blood dripping from Satine's hand. It pooled on the counter and stained the white sleeve of her nightdress. Anakin grimaced and moved to her side, trying to see the extent of the injury. He reached out to take her hand, but Satine pulled away.
"It's fine!" she snapped, and Anakin recoiled a bit in surprise. Dryly, he thought that what Rex had told him was true: Mandalorians were certainly defined by quick tempers. The duchess may be a pacifist, but she was no exception. She cradled her injured hand to her chest, and then slowly uncurled her fingers to assess the damage. Anakin could see several shallow cuts radiating outward, and one that was deeper that ran across her palm.
Silently, Duchess Satine brushed passed Anakin and returned to the tea trolley. She picked up a thin, linen towel and wrapped it around her hand. But as she pulled it tight to staunch the blood, her arm stiffened and she grimaced in pain.
"Haar'chak!" she hissed.
He could see tears streaming down her cheeks, but he couldn't tell which pain that she suffered was the cause.
As authoritatively as he could, Anakin stepped toward the duchess. "My lady, if I may." He touched her elbow and gestured toward the sofa, and she seemed to understand. They moved back to the sofa, and Anakin repositioned the long-necked lamp so that the light streamed over them. Taking her upturned hand in his, he dabbed her bloody palm with the linen. She was still shaking, but her long, deep breaths suggested she was regaining control.
"He was on a mission?"
"Still is," Anakin said simply, turning her hand in the light. "Ahsoka and I only just found out. The Council said it was important that Count Dooku believe Obi-Wan had been killed."
Anakin shut up before he could say anything more. He was already breaking too many rules. He probably shouldn't be revealing details about the situation, no matter how far removed Mandalore was from it.
The duchess gave a little huff but thankfully didn't ask any other questions. Anakin focused more intently on examining her now red and swelling palm. His sharp eyes discerned something in the light, and he gently pressed his thumb down on the suspect area. Satine hissed loudly. There it was. "Do you have a tweezers?"
As she went to the 'fresher, Anakin reached out and touched her mind again. She was moving passed the explosiveness of shock, and settling more on confusion. There was some curiosity – likely for precisely how Obi-Wan had faked his death – and then underneath, a simmering current of betrayal.
He knew that feeling.
He grimaced as Satine's rolling emotion pierced his heart, but Anakin allowed himself to touch it more fully. It washed over him, an acknowledgement and validation of the turmoil he'd been in the last few days.
As she returned, Anakin pulled back from her mind. It probably wasn't fair to use that power so cavalierly, but he didn't regret doing so. He hadn't realized how utterly alone he'd felt over this whole affair – lied to by the Council and hogtied from telling anyone else – until he'd found another who felt as deeply as he did. In this woman, Anakin Skywalker had found a kindred spirit in a world that proclaimed such volatile reactions unbecoming of a Jedi.
But he wasn't just a Jedi, Anakin thought as Satine handed him the tweezers and sat down again. He was human, and hadn't Padme told him long ago that anger went hand-in-hand with being human?
Well, he was human. And he was angry.
Satine hissed again as he poked a sensitive spot.
"Sorry." He held up the tweezers in his artificial hand. "Delicate work's difficult with this."
Satine raised an eyebrow, and Anakin wondered if she knew that was a lie. He worked on delicate machinery for all kinds of ships, after all. He didn't know if Satine knew that. He looked back down and began working on her hand again, taking care to be more gentle.
"Was it his plan? Or the Council's?" Satine asked, softly.
"I don't know." Anakin hadn't asked. It had been enough that he'd been betrayed by all of them.
"But he went along willingly, of course."
Anakin gave a little shrug and continued to poke under her skin "Even if he doesn't agree with certain things, Obi-Wan trusts the Council's judgements. I don't know if he'd defy the other members for any reason."
Satine pursed her lips. Anakin thought she agreed with his statement, even if she seemed frustrated by it. "So, we bore the grief. And the burden to sell this plan to the galaxy."
Damn right.
He thought back to the funeral two weeks before. His mind consumed by the sight of his master's body – nothis body – covered in a shroud. The anger threatening to break out of him as the corpse was lowered into the ground. The stone-faced Jedi masters – how many of them knew? – standing around the tomb. Padme and Ahsoka – equally devoid of emotion – attempting to catch his eye to offer comfort he wouldn't accept. And somewhere in his memories, he remembered the Duchess of Mandalore's quiet sobs echoing around the chamber. It was why he was here.
He stilled in his ministrations with the tweezers. Satine bent her head to look at him, even as he focused on her palm. "I am sorry, Master Skywalker," she said, softly. "This must be very difficult for you. You're closer to the situation than I am."
There was no insincerity in her tone; no jealousy. Just acknowledgement of his own close relationship with the man she loved. From what he'd garnered from his limited interactions with her, Satine Kryze offered genuine empathy to anyone and everyone in need of it. She had a big heart and she let it show, and the Council had used that against her as well.
Anakin gave a light scoff. "I think we're both plenty close to the situation, my lady. I'm sure the Council was pleased with both of our responses at the ceremony."
He looked up in time to see her hooded eyes and the blush that darkened her cheeks. He didn't need to reach out with the Force to guess what she was feeling. He'd felt the same things himself. In the moment, he hadn't thought anything about his reaction at Obi-Wan's funeral. Emotions be damned; attachments be damned . . . he'd been mourning his master and friend. But now that he knew he'd been on display – not only for the Council, but for Dooku himself – he felt violated, exposed. He'd put his fiercest emotions on display for the galaxy to see, and it had all been for an act that he didn't even know he was a part of.
And now he couldn't find the karking glass in the duchess's hand.
Perhaps his frustration showed, or the pain was too much, because Satine pulled her hand out of his grip. "Let it be for a moment," she said, dabbing off the blood beading on the wound.
The tweezers fell to the caf table with a small clang. Anakin leaned back against the sofa and rubbed his real hand over his face.
"I told myself I wouldn't cry," Satine said, softly, holding her injured hand near her chest. "At his funeral. I thought I had prepared myself. It was a shock, of course, but I thought that I had lived through the deaths of too many other friends to be so shaken."
Anakin noted her deliberate word choice. Without looking at her, he said pointedly, "One usually doesn't have too many friends like Obi-Wan Kenobi, I find."
He could feel her eyes on him, probably wondering how much he knew. "True," she finally said. "He was . . . isone of a kind."
She fell silent after catching herself. The news seemed to finally be setting in.
"I can't believe he's alive . . ." she breathed. Then she stood abruptly. "Ni nu'lise urmankalar bic! I can't believe it! I just can't believe it!"
She stomped back toward the liquor cabinet, picking her way around the shards of glass still littering the ground. She opened the bottle she'd chosen before, poured the unbroken glass half full with a clear liquid, downed it in one, and hissed, "Di'kutla jetti!"
Anakin sat silently, assuming the duchess would either continue to rant or compose herself. She chose the latter and looked back at him with a little embarrassment. "My apologies."
"No, no, it's fine." He waved a hand. "Rex calls me that least once a week."
She pulled out another glass and filled it – this time only a quarter full. She returned to the sofa and handed it to Anakin. "Be careful with that."
Usually, Anakin may have heeded the warning, but the desire for something to help calm and center him overruled caution. He was glad he swallowed it so quickly, or else he may have coughed up the liquid all over the duchess and her sofa. As it was, the spirit burned inside him, as if it could strip him of all other feeling.
Wheezing, he asked, "What is that?"
"Tihaar," she said, a little too smugly. "Now you've had a true Mandalorian welcome."
He grimaced and focused on breathing. The pain of his hazing – because it definitely was that – began to give way to a solid numbing feeling, and Anakin knew why she kept that bottle around. He wasn't a drinker, but he'd found himself waking up with a hangover more than once in the last two weeks. He probably should have dealt with his feelings through meditation, but a trip to the bar with several of the clones was so much quicker and easier.
"I'm gonna need a bottle of that," he said, setting down his empty glass. "And maybe a couple for my men." He'd dealt with his anger in other ways, too. "There are a few of them still 'taking it easy' after I offered to spar."
The pacifist in front of him looked disconcerted, but she chuckled nonetheless. "I'd say they should have known better, but they have Mando blood in their veins, so backing down from a fight really isn't in their vocabulary."
"Nor in yours, my lady."
Anakin picked up the tweezers and held out his hand to her. There was still a task to be done.
She grimaced as he began poking again. "That's one way to phrase it."
"What's another?"
She shrugged, a little derisively. "Hopelessly naive. Utterly ill-prepared. I fight with words, but my enemies retaliate with blasters. Perhaps you'd agree with such people that battles fought with weapons are more decisive."
He wouldn't deny it, though he didn't want her on the receiving end of such a mentality.
"The point is, Master Skywalker," she continued, "I'm a marked woman. I always have been." She paused. "I've never deluded myself that Obi-Wan's esteemed vocation was a dangerous one. After all, he risked his life to protect me all those years ago. And that was before this infernal war. But . . . I guess that deep down, I always thought that he'd be the one to deal with my loss, not the other way around."
"Force forbid it, my lady," Anakin said with great sincerity.
"Yes, Force forbid," she echoed, but there was a resignation in her voice, and Anakin brushed away a shiver that ran down his spine.
"But I guess I never really thought . . ." she grimaced. "When it did happen . . . when Padme contacted me. The shock of it all . . ." Her voice cut off abruptly. "It was so overwhelming, and I just . . . I just . . ."
She lowered her head.
"Shattered," Anakin said as she trailed off. The image of her sobbing beside Obi-Wan's grave came to mind. It couldn't have been more different from his own hard stoicism, but the emotion driving both reactions had been identical.
There were tears on her cheeks when she lifted her eyes to his. "Yes."
Anakin had expected to see grief and pain in her gaze, but he was met also with such a tender concern – for him – that his own breath hitched. He had seen in her a kindred spirit; it seemed she sensed the same. After so long, of feeling so alone, of trying to repress so much, Anakin's resolve shook, and he felt the tears beginning to well.
He blinked hard and looked down again, but his vision was obscured and he couldn't see Satine's palm any longer.
He put the tweezers down, tired of fighting. His face crumpled in sorrow and pain and the elation of hearing someone else echo his own despair.
He felt Satine's good hand on his shoulder. "What?" Her voice was so gentle. It reminded him of his mother, which was a second wellspring within him, and one that he couldn't touch today. But he gave into the first and the words flowed out of him.
"Ahsoka and I saw him fall. He was lying on the ground." The image was as vivid as when he lived it. "I tried to shake him awake, but he was gone – vital suppressant, probably. There was nothing I could do, and nothing else mattered. It felt like every story in the universe stopped in that moment." He wiped a hand over his nose. "Every story except one."
"Which one?"
A chill ran through Anakin. "The one to avenge his death. He was gone and my mind was . . . filled with rage. I wanted nothing but to kill his murderer." Satine stood and walked away and Anakin blanched, remembering who he was talking to. "I'm so sorry, my lady, I'm sure you don't want to hear this."
"Nonsense," she said, not sounded offended. "I'm not a fragile woman, Master Jedi. Nor was I always a pacifist." She returned with another quarter-glass of tihaar and handed it to him. "I only thought that you could use one more."
He could, and he did. His ribs constricted around the burning liquid, but he knew what to expect this time.
"Did you kill him?" the duchess asked softly, when he could breathe again. "Rako Hardeen?"
He was sure she had seen the holo-reports: how Hardeen – an assassin from a Mandalorian planet – had killed Obi-Wan Kenobi, been arrested, and then had promptly escaped from custody. "Ahsoka and I went after him. Got pretty close, too." He stopped short at telling her the whole story, that Obi-Wan had been Rako Hardeen. "I called it off when we discovered the truth."
"That Obi was alive."
"Yes. Revenge was unnecessary, then. I returned to the temple and the Council told me the truth." He growled, unable to hide the anger in his voice. "They apologized. Said they were wrong. But as they looked at me, I could tell they were disappointed. My reaction sold the act, but they didn't like what it revealed." He thought of Yoda's stern rebuke, and Mace Windu's wary expression when he saw him later on. "They were . . . unsettled . . . and why shouldn't they be? It isn't the Jedi way. It's not what I should have done. It's not what . . ."
"Not what Obi-Wan would have done?" the duchess finished when he broke off. He nodded. It didn't matter if he was angry with his master; he still felt like he'd failed him. And what's worse, while wearing a different face, Obi-Wan had seen his rage first hand.
Satine touched his arm, comfortingly. "I can't speak to what constitutes the Jedi way, Master Skywalker, but if you think that Obi-Wan Kenobi has always had as tight a rein on his emotions as he does now, then you're mistaken." He looked up at her, but she held up a hand at his curious expression. "I'm not saying anything more. It's something you'll have to drag out of him. Once he returns."
He certainly would. Even without knowing more, he was struck by how much Satine must know of Obi-Wan. How much she must have seen during the year they spent on the run, when Obi-Wan was only a little younger than Anakin was now. Once again, he felt bonded with her in that connection. Maybe that was the reason that he found himself confessing things he'd never spoken of to anyone but Padme.
"This isn't the first time I reacted this way," he said, looking down at his lap. "The last time there were–" two dozen Tusken bodies sprawled in the sand– "lasting consequences. I'm not proud of it. But this was the first time I didn't know how to go on. I couldn't imagine my life without him."
"It is a difficult man that we have chosen to love."
Anakin started at her quiet words. It was strange to hear his relationship to Obi-Wan described so flagrantly. But she also wasn't wrong. Not in the least.
"I don't know you terribly well, Master Jedi, but I know that you feel deeply . . . because you love deeply." Satine's gentle gaze was confident, insightful. "And while revenge is never the answer, I think I can say with confidence that every thing you do is motivated by love. If that's a flaw, it is a noble one."
Anakin sat with that thought for a moment. It hit differently than Padme's insistence that to be angry was to be human. It wasn't a justification of his actions – much less an absolution – yet it was an affirmation of the emotions he'd tried so unsuccessfully to hide. And why not? Hadn't the Chancellor said that he was special; his emotions made him that way? If those feelings were rooted in love, how could the Jedi disagree? They were commanded to love. Anakin had only followed orders.
But Satine was wrong on one thing: those actions – the ones that came unbidden to his mind in the middle of the night – they weren't driven by revenge. It was justice. The Jedi told him that meekness against enemies was proper. They were wrong. Conviction swirled inside him, assuring him of that fact.
No one could kill and expect to get away with it. It unbalanced the cosmic scales of justice. And wasn't he the Chosen One, the one poised to balance those scales? It was his job to fix that. He was good at fixing things.
He told himself that he didn't regret his actions and picked up the tweezers once again. The duchess placed her hand in his. He'd fix this, too.
After all of the previous prodding, Anakin didn't expect to find the offender so quickly. But left to its own devices, the foreign object had started to work its way to the surface and had revealed itself. Anakin allowed himself a small sense of triumph when he finally pulled out a thin shard of glass from the duchess's palm.
"Got it!"
Satine gave a sigh of relief. Anakin held up the shard so that the edges glinted in the light. Amazing how something so small and insignificant could cause such pain. He placed it in his hand, planning to throw it in the garbage bin on his way out.
"Thank you, Master Skywalker," Satine said, "for assisting a fair maiden in her distress."
She pressed the linen towel against her hand again.
"It was nothing." He smiled at her. "Typically, though, the fair maidens I assist are allowed to call me by my first name.
The duchess smiled back. "Then, thank you, Anakin. Perhaps this fair maiden could allow you the same license."
"Oh, I don't know if I could do that, your Grace."
"I insist," she retorted, with a haughty tilt of her chin. "I have so few friends who don't address me by my titles."
That reminded him. "Satine, I know you're friends with . . . Senator Amidala. Please, don't tell her anything about this."
"You don't have to worry about that," she said, waving a hand. "I do know how to keep my mouth shut, you know. At least some of the time." She sobered. "But I'm grateful that you told me. It's been a difficult couple of weeks. Knowing now that he's alive? It makes things bearable."
Anakin nodded in acknowledgement. "I thought you had a right to know."
Sensing the conversation was wrapping up, he stood. He had a long trip back to Coruscant.
"In that case," Satine continued, coming to her feet as well, "when he does finally come back, you tell that di'kut that I deserve an apology, too."
"I will," Anakin smirked, before adding, "but maybe you could do something for me in return."
"Of course."
"When you see him," Anakin said, "if you could punch him in the face – really hard – I'd appreciate it. I can't do it without consequences."
Satine smiled widely at the half-facetious request. "As a pacifist, I don't think I'll be able to make good on that request." But she shrugged, as if landing on another thought. "Then again, I'm still a Mandalorian. So it's difficult to know which side will win out."
The comment was a joke, but Anakin felt he knew that feeling all too well. Still, he gave a good-natured scoff.
"If Obi-Wan comes back with a black eye, I'll know which one was victorious." He waved his hand next to the door panel, and it slid open. But before he could leave, he heard the duchess's voice behind him.
"Anakin?"
He twisted back around. Satine's eyes were more solemn now. "Don't let your noble flaw take you to a place where the means can't justify the end."
Never. He gave her a small bow. "Force forbid it, my lady."
Anakin turned and left, his hand still wrapped around the shard of broken glass.