(no subject)
My dearest Anakin,
The first birthday I can remember, I was six years old. Maul told me I would not have a birthday, because birthdays were for important children like you. I remember the disappointment; I wanted so badly to get a pet, I’d been so sure Palpatine would let me have one.
I remember seeing little of you that day, and I remember overhearing that you were in trouble for sneaking out of the palace in the morning. I thought then that I was so unloved, so unimportant that not even my best friend wanted anything to do with me on my birthday.
Later that night, I woke up to you crouching over me, with one hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t scream and making the “Shhh” gesture with one finger to your lips. You led me to the gardens, and I remember the excitement, confusion, and fear of creeping through those huge, dark halls alone and barefoot. I still remember you reaching back to hold my hand so I’d be less scared.
And I remember the tears and hugs that came so freely after we stepped into a secluded part of the garden and there they were, two little gizka in a fenced off area where no one would look. I remember them nibbling my fingers through the cage, and hearing your voice as you whispered that they were mine. I remember kissing your cheek and hugging you, and I remember naming them Pride and Glory.
My birthday has come and gone without celebration. There is no point celebrating alone. The night is empty, and I cannot sleep; some childish part of me is wishing you’ll creep in my door. I am eighteen now, a woman grown. A widow never married; a single mother to a child I did not bear. I made no wishes, for one would not come true and the other would break my last promise to you. I wish you were here; alive, well, and in my arms. Or I wish I were dead and with you on the other side.
My sixth birthday was the happiest night of my life. My eighteenth is the worst. I wish it were possible to die of heartbreak.
Yours, still. Always and always.
Even as my heart perishes within me.
Halley Atremis.
The first birthday I can remember, I was six years old. Maul told me I would not have a birthday, because birthdays were for important children like you. I remember the disappointment; I wanted so badly to get a pet, I’d been so sure Palpatine would let me have one.
I remember seeing little of you that day, and I remember overhearing that you were in trouble for sneaking out of the palace in the morning. I thought then that I was so unloved, so unimportant that not even my best friend wanted anything to do with me on my birthday.
Later that night, I woke up to you crouching over me, with one hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t scream and making the “Shhh” gesture with one finger to your lips. You led me to the gardens, and I remember the excitement, confusion, and fear of creeping through those huge, dark halls alone and barefoot. I still remember you reaching back to hold my hand so I’d be less scared.
And I remember the tears and hugs that came so freely after we stepped into a secluded part of the garden and there they were, two little gizka in a fenced off area where no one would look. I remember them nibbling my fingers through the cage, and hearing your voice as you whispered that they were mine. I remember kissing your cheek and hugging you, and I remember naming them Pride and Glory.
My birthday has come and gone without celebration. There is no point celebrating alone. The night is empty, and I cannot sleep; some childish part of me is wishing you’ll creep in my door. I am eighteen now, a woman grown. A widow never married; a single mother to a child I did not bear. I made no wishes, for one would not come true and the other would break my last promise to you. I wish you were here; alive, well, and in my arms. Or I wish I were dead and with you on the other side.
My sixth birthday was the happiest night of my life. My eighteenth is the worst. I wish it were possible to die of heartbreak.
Yours, still. Always and always.
Even as my heart perishes within me.
Halley Atremis.