The Martyr of a Fallen Republic
Darkness.
Then, the feeling of weightlessness. Cold liquid encasing his body, keeping him afloat. Faint beeping in the background. The rhythmic sound of pressurized air cycling through the chamber. His mind stirred, struggling to recall the last thing he remembered.
Flashes of Mustafar - betrayal, the pain that follo
Darkness.
Then, the feeling of weightlessness. Cold liquid encasing his body, keeping him afloat. Faint beeping in the background. The rhythmic sound of pressurized air cycling through the chamber. His mind stirred, struggling to recall the last thing he remembered.
Flashes of Mustafar - betrayal, the pain that followed... the rage...
And then, her.
Anakin's eyes snapped open, his vision blurred by the Bacta fluid surrounding him. He turned his head slightly, and through the hazy blue of the tank, a shadow stood beyond the reinforced glass. Tall, draped in white, regal in presence.
Lelouch.
Now... The Emperor.
The liquid muffled Anakin's breathing, but he didn't need to speak. Lelouch had already anticipated his thoughts. His purple gaze bore into him with knowing certainty, a gaze that stripped away pretense, that saw through everything.
Anakin didn't even have to ask.
Lelouch nodded, his expression grim. And then, in a voice that was calm yet weighted with finality, he delivered the words that shattered everything.
"Padmé is dead."
The words slammed into him like a crashing starship.
Lelouch let them settle. Let them fester.
"In your anger, you killed her."
The world turned red.
The Force howled in anguish.
Across Coruscant, buildings trembled. Transparisteel windows shattered in waves. The Senate chambers—or what remained of them—groaned under invisible pressure. In the skies above, Star Destroyers and Venators alike lurched in their formations, crew members crying out in alarm as their ships rocked under unseen force. The very air seemed to twist and warp, thick with raw, unchained power.
For one terrible moment, it felt as if the entire galaxy itself would collapse under the weight of his grief.
And then—it stopped.
A greater force, one infinitely more refined and controlled, descended like a crushing grip, clamping down upon Anakin's rage and suppressing it in an instant.
The disturbance vanished.
Order restored.
The Emperor had no intention of allowing a mere Skywalker's grief to disturb his Empire.
Anakin's glowing, furious eyes locked onto Lelouch's form, hatred and sorrow mixing into something raw and terrifying as he souht any measure of lies in those words, in that expression... but he found none. Lelouch merely turned away.
He left without another word, his footsteps echoing down the long corridor.
But he was not alone.
Somewhere—everywhere—laughter followed him. A voice as ancient as the void itself. Mocking, whispering, weaving its words like silk around his mind.
"How cruel of you, Emperor. An innocent lamb, and you led her straight to the slaughter?"
Lelouch's steps didn't falter.
"Or should I say... you fed her right to him?"
A small smirk curled at the edge of his lips. Tzeentch amused him.
"After all, did you not allow her to bypass your own blockade?"
"Did you not watch as she ran to him?"
"Did you not know what would happen when she did?"
"Ah, Emperor... How masterfully you play the long game."
"Was it Anakin Skywalker you wanted?"
"Or was it something greater?"
The laughter faded, dissolving into the shadows as Lelouch continued his walk.
For all his talk and laughter, the Changer of Ways understood one thing.
The time of Anakin Skywalker had passed.
It was Darth Vader he desired.
================================
Days Later—Imperial Medical Center
The room was cold. Sterile. Filled with the soft beeping of machines monitoring the two fragile lives resting in the medical crib.
They were so small.
Darth Vader stood motionless above the twins, his helmeted gaze fixed on the two sleeping infants.
Luke and Leia.
His children.
Their tiny chests rose and fell with each breath, unaware of the towering figure looming over them, unaware of the galaxy that would never allow them to be simply children.
Vader's gloved hand hovered above the crib for a long moment.
And then, slowly, he clenched it into a fist.
Without another word, he turned, his black cape flowing behind him as he strode toward the exit.
The doors hissed open, revealing an escort of 501st Legion troopers standing at attention.
Not a word was spoken.
As the doors shut behind him, the room remained silent. Only the soft breathing of the twins remained.
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=Excerpt from the Archives of the Emperor's Throneworld=
=The Last Victim of the Clone Wars=
=Padmé Amidala—The Martyr of a Fallen Republic=
She was the last.
The final casualty of the war that shattered the stars. The Clone Wars, as it was known to the people of the Empire, had claimed billions—soldiers and civilians alike, Jedi and Sith, innocents and tyrants. Planets had burned, entire civilizations had vanished into dust, and yet none could claim to be the final victim of that age.
None… except her.
Padmé Amidala of Naboo.
Her death was not at the hands of a battle droid or a Jedi's blade. It was not a casualty of war in the traditional sense—yet it was war that claimed her all the same. Not in fire, not in an explosion, but in treachery, in whispers exchanged in shadowed halls, in the plotting of those who saw the new Empire as an abomination, as a mistake to be undone before it could take root.
It was not the Emperor who struck her down.
It was not Darth Vader.
It was not the Empire.
It was the Republic.
The same Republic she had served. The same Republic she had once believed in, fought for, bled for.
It was the Republic's remnants—its corrupt, self-serving senators who had refused to relinquish their power, who had refused to accept the truth of their own failure—that condemned her to death.
And among them, one name stood above all others.
Bail Organa.
A trusted friend. A supposed ally. A traitor.
The man who had facilitated the breach of Coruscant. Who had paved the way for an attack upon the Senate. The man who, in his arrogance, believed himself to be the savior of the Republic, when in truth, he was merely its final executioner.
Did he mean for her to die? Perhaps not.
Did his schemes put her in the path of destruction? Undeniably.
And so, history would remember.
The Emperor gave her honor in death.
A final gift to the wife of the man who had become his sword, his wrath, his executioner.
The procession was one of unparalleled grandeur, unlike any seen before. Coruscant's skies were lined with ships, their hulls gleaming beneath the light of a thousand pyres. The streets were draped in mourning banners, black and deep crimson, the sigil of the Empire embroidered upon them. From the highest spires of the Imperial Palace to the lowest depths of the city-world, all bore witness.
She was carried through the streets in a funerary procession guarded by the finest of the Imperial military. The honor guard—soldiers of the Zero Legion, the Emperor's own—marched in solemn silence. Their armor, pristine white with gold-trimmed sashes, glowed under the watchful eyes of the people.
Behind them, a single figure walked alone.
Tall. Clad in black.
No longer a Jedi, no longer a man, but soon to become a symbol.
Darth Vader.
And though his face remained unseen, all knew his grief.
He did not bow his head. He did not slow his step. But the silence that followed him was deafening, for none dared speak his name.
Anakin Skywalker was dead.
And yet, rumors whispered in hushed tones spread beyond the watchful eyes of the Empire. That sometimes, when the halls of the crypt were empty, when the guards stood far enough away… he would return.
Not as Vader.
Not as the Emperor's Wrath.
But as the man he once was.
Padmé Amidala had perished.
But her name endured.
And though the name of Skywalker was buried with her… its legacy would not die so easily.
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=Excerpt from the Archives of the Emperor's Throneworld=
=The Rise of the God-Emperor's Faith=
"To kneel before the God Emperor is submission, and enlightenment. To die in his name is sacrifice, and ascension. We are his subjects—we are his chosen."
—High Priest Malcor Vane, First Ecclesiarch of the Imperial Faith
=The Birth of a Faith=
It began as whispers—low, fervent murmurings among the surviving legions of clone troopers, among the officers who had once served a crumbling Republic, among the civilians who had lived through the inferno of war. At first, it was mere admiration. Lelouch vi Britannia, the man who had seized destiny itself and reforged the Galactic Empire in his own vision, was spoken of in hushed, reverent tones.
His words, delivered with absolute conviction, were remembered as scripture. His deeds, undeniable in their scale and consequence, were seen as the will of something greater than mere mortals could comprehend.
Then, there were the signs.
Though the years passed, the Emperor remained unchanged. His body, unmarred by time, stood as proof to the faithful—he was more than a man, more than a ruler. He was beyond them. He was something divine.
The faithful grew in numbers, at first informally. Clone troopers, bred for obedience and loyalty, found something deeper in their service to him. They had been created for war, their existence defined by orders given from distant, faceless overlords. But under Lelouch, they had been given meaning. A purpose beyond being discarded as mere tools. They, more than any others, knew what it was to be abandoned by the Republic—to have been bred as disposable soldiers in a war orchestrated by shadows. Lelouch had given them something to believe in: a cause, a future, a purpose.
And belief, once planted in fertile ground, spreads like wildfire.
Soon, the murmurings turned to prayers. The admiration became veneration. Shrines to the Emperor began appearing in barracks and military halls, at first unofficial, then increasingly grand in scale. Clones gathered to recite his words before battle. Officers sought guidance in the decisions he had made, treating them as sacred doctrine.
What had started as mere loyalty had become something more—a faith. A faith in the Emperor, the God-Emperor.
========================================
The religion spread with terrifying speed, at least among humanity. It was not the faith of soft prayers and quiet devotion. It was born in blood and fire, in death and destruction, in the ashes of the Republic. It was a faith not of peace, but of absolute will—of unity through strength, of order through control, of obedience through devotion.
And it did not tolerate dissent.
Non-human species were the first to resist. The wounds of the Clone Wars had never fully healed, and many alien populations still bore grudges against the human-led Galactic Empire. Where humans saw salvation, many others saw oppression—another attempt at human supremacy, cloaked in religious fervor.
They were not entirely wrong.
The clones, once merely soldiers, were now missionaries of faith as much as warriors. The teachings of the Emperor had been burned into their souls. They had been cast aside by the Republic, betrayed by the Jedi, and nearly slaughtered when they had outlived their usefulness. Only the Emperor had lifted them up, had given them identity, had made them something more than expendable troops. And they would not suffer those who rejected him.
Those who spoke against the faith—who denied the Emperor's divinity—were branded heretics.
Tensions boiled over. In some systems, non-human populations rioted, attempting to push back against what they saw as forced indoctrination. In others, human populations purged their alien neighbors with righteous fury, convinced that those who rejected the Emperor had no place in his Empire.
Worlds burned in the name of faith.
And through it all, the faith grew.
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The Divide Deepens — The Day of Ascendence
The schism was undeniable. The Empire had been reforged in fire and faith, its banners no longer merely symbols of dominion, but of divine mandate. On one side stood the faithful—zealots of the Emperor, their belief absolute, their unity unbreakable. They were legion, and they were righteous. Humanity had found purpose beyond survival; they had found their god, walking among them, shaping the galaxy as only He could.
On the other side stood those who refused.
The doubters. The heretics. The remnants of a broken past who clung to old ways, old gods, and old lies. The aliens, whose refusal to bow before the undeniable truth of the God-Emperor's Ascendence became a quiet yet growing defiance. They still spoke of the past as if it could return. They still whispered of an age where humanity was but one among many—an age that no longer existed.
For a time, this tension remained unspoken, simmering beneath the surface of the great Imperial machine. Worlds still traded. Governments still swore loyalty, if only in name. The laws of the Empire still extended to all within its borders.
But then it happened.
[REDACTED]
[Archive Security Log: Z-1 Clearance Required]
Date of Recording: [REDACTED]
Verification Officer: Grand Archivist Helbrant Vos
Classification Level: Z-1 Access
Status: Sealed—Direct Approval from the Emperor Required
No official records were made. No holorecordings survived. No documents were ever signed into existence. Only the memories of those who had been there, and the scars they bore, remained.
It was the moment the veil was lifted. The moment the illusions of equality, of coexistence, of unity among all species were shattered. The moment humanity saw the truth, and the false gods of the old world were cast down in righteous fire.
They called it The Day of Ascendence.
The faithful knew it as the sign from their Emperor.
The heretics remembered it as the day they realized they would never be saved.
After that day, no one spoke of the Republic anymore. No one dared invoke the old gods. No one questioned who ruled this galaxy.
And so the Divide deepened. The war had already been won—but the true crusade had only just begun.
Final Entry:
"The truth of the Day of Ascendence is known only to those who lived through it. The records do not speak, but the people do. And that is enough."
"This document has been reviewed, verified, and its contents confirmed as true by both my own hand and through machine validation. No alterations have been made. No falsehoods inserted. The Emperor's will is as it has been written."
"By the authority granted to me as Grand Archivist, I hereby lock this file under Level D-5 classification. No unauthorized access will be permitted. The machine acknowledges. The archive is sealed."
[CONFIRMATION CODE: 0-0-1—IMPERATOR AUTHORIZED]
[FILE LOCKED—ACCESS RESTRICTED]
F.Y.I: Authorization Level of D-5 in my mind is quite low as most citizens can apply for it and have a good chance of getting it, as it is mostly history and religious stuff, probabl even be taught in shcool, only parts that matters is the restricted section Z-1 which only few can access and is not even shown here, merely replaced with a [REDACTED] placeholder.
A.N: Liked the idea of some historical records, premonitions of what is to come from a third party that wasn't there and only knows the vague outline and indoctrinated truth. Anyway, hope you enjoyed. I certainly did :)