Looking down at him, so vulnerable and broken, Dormé couldn't help shedding a few tears. In this moment, it didn't matter what he had done or what brought him here. It didn't matter that he killed thousands of Jedi, including younglings. It didn't matter that he killed her mistress and the child she carried. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that the emperor's private medical team was doing everything they could to save his life.

Many others would disagree. They would say that he deserved to suffer and die for his crimes and that he didn't deserve to live. Rumour had it that his own former master, Obi-Wan Kenobi, left him for dead. It seemed that not even a Jedi believed that he deserved a second chance.

Dormé was angry with her friend for so many things: the deaths of her friends and mistress, the death of the baby Padmé carried, the death of the younglings at the Jedi Temple…

Everything in the galaxy screamed at her to hate him. She was angry with him, that was certain, but she could not hate him. She knew of his goals, his dreams. She knew where he came from and how far he had come before his fall.

She knew he was arrogant and vengeful, but she also knew that he had the best intentions at heart. She didn't know how everything happened just a scant few days ago, but she knew that some of the outcomes were not intentional; they couldn't have been.

She allowed her eyes to roam over his scarred flesh, reaching out tentatively to touch his cheek. Gently, she applied a healing balm that the head doctor instructed her to use.

She took her time, carefully covering every trace of his wounds in a way in which she was saying to him: I know who you are, Anakin. I know where you've come and how you got here. I still care for you, my friend.

I'm not giving up on you.