"I did," another truth, even if he doesn't elaborate on the reason why he would willingly take up arms and march on the enemy. "I picked up my weapon very willingly."

He's paced these floors a thousand times since they threw him in here, and he's tested every bar of the cell. It's sturdy; unbreakable. Iron and stone, the bars set down deep in the bedrock of the dungeon and anchored with impossibly heavy steel to the ceiling. But even stones turn to dust eventually. Even iron flakes away, one tiny sliver at a time.

He could wait them out, see how many generations it would take before they forgot that he was even here. Before they would forget why he was here.

The next turn leads him back to Padmé, his slow footsteps taking him closer to where she sits.

"It seems like I have no other choice than to bear it for as long as it takes," he watches her watch him. She's intelligent, her words carefully chosen. "I hope that people are looking for me, but I'm not indispensable to anyone anymore."

"Will someone come for you? Whoever helped you escape capture before, perhaps?"