I stand by Padmé's side, gazing down at the two children silent in her arms. Tears rest on her ivory cheeks, tears of sadness and joy.

These are Anakin's children. My former Padawan's legacy. Maybe with the birth of these children, the Jedi's last hope, will the galaxy finally find peace.

These are the days of evil. Darth Vader, as Anakin now calls himself, rules over the Republic with an iron fist. An iron fist fuelled by anger and rage, born of hate and passion.

My faults helped build this machine of destruction. My inability to train Anakin the way he should have been trained, the way Qui-Gon would have trained him. I should have known, should have sensed it. Every death he causes because another chip on my shoulder. Another misgiving for which I have no excuse.

All gone. The initiates, the Padawans, the Knights, even the Masters. Innocents all killed in the name of the Empire. Master Windu, Bant, Garen, Reeft: all gone. Now all that remains of them are the memories that I hold in my heart.

If only Qui-Gon had lived... if only I had been faster... quicker... better. He never would have died, he would have trained the boy, and the evil the galaxy now knows would have never past. If only I had been better... the Jedi will still be alive, the Rebublic would have never fallen and everything would be fine.

Unfortunately, I was not fast enough. I watched my master die, watched as the lightsaber pierced his stomach and killed my only family, my father. And I knew, at that moment, that it was my fault.

Most people I knew would have told me I was being stupid; that I could have done nothing. They are all dead now, lying broken in the fallen Jedi Temple.

But even now, in my pools of self-pity, I sense hope. Hope in these two children, that maybe something good will come from my mistakes. That maybe, someday, a new and better Republic will rise, and the corrupt Empire will fall.

Hope is all I have to hang on to now.

And I will not let go.

I will not fail again.