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FAN ART |
FAN FICTION |
Rush by Love and Rock Music. (TCW) The first half of "Destroy Malevolence," as Anakin and Padmé make their way towards each other. |
P/A SITE
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CALENDAR
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FAN FICTION : ATTACK OF THE CLONES ERA
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Soothing
Presence
Part II - Soothing (Anakin's POV)
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The Padawan finished his ninth kata. He would have to
postpone sleep with thoughts. The nightmare hovered at the edges of the
Padawan's consciousness. Waiting. Patient. Eventually, he would sleep.
Eventually, his defenses would be so weakened by the discouragement and despair
that he, of all the Jedi, seemed to be particularly vulnerable. And he would
lose the battle.
His thoughts did little to encourage him.
He missed Master Obi-Wan.
How strange to admit to that even in the silence of his own mind.
When he and his Master had stood in the center of the Council Room and listened
while Master Yoda said those five insignificant little words that had completely
altered his equilibrium - "Handle that, your Padawan will" - the first
thought that had entered his head was - "Padmé." then "An
assignment of my own." then "No Master Obi-Wan."
The Chancellor had filled him with so much confidence. Anakin never really knew
how much the Chancellor was privy to the Council's private considerations. The
Jedi Council worked very closely with the Senate at times and he assumed there
must be some shared confidences between the two. That was one part of his
Political Appreciation studies that he never fully understood - how the Jedi
maintained a working relationship with the Galactic Senate and still harbored
prejudice against politicians in general. Many times, he had wondered if
Palpatine had somehow learnt of the prophecy, of his destiny to be the Chosen
One of the Jedi.
He rather hoped not. He liked to think that Palpatine was drawn to him because
of Anakin's own personal charisma. He liked to think that the Chancellor saw
some hidden potential in him that made Palpatine think even more highly of
Anakin than the Padawan's own Master.
The Padawan had harbored a lot of resentment towards Obi-Wan ever since their
separate missions had been assigned. Right from the start, his Master had not
even bothered to try and mask his skepticism, his lack of faith in Anakin's
capability to handle a mission on his own; Anakin even suspected that Obi-Wan
must have privately expressed his doubts with some of the members of the Council
later. And afterwards, his Master had bombarded him with lectures: lectures on
comportment and deportment, on self-control and detachment. Obi-Wan's fears had
been glaringly obvious: Anakin alone with a woman he had carried a torch for for
ten years. Under normal circumstances, the Padawan would have been amused.
In this case, he was hurt and infuriated.
After the initial euphoria, it had finally sunk into Anakin's mind that by
leaving his Master to go off on a mission of his own, Obi-Wan was leaving him to
go on his own mission by himself . The last time that had happened
was in Anakin's first year at the Temple. The Padawan had not liked it then;
now, he he liked it even less.
He and Master Obi-Wan were a team. His Master's adherence to protocol
complemented the Padawan's unconventionality; Obi-Wan's patience - Anakin's
rashness, Obi-Wan's skill - Anakin's strength. What would happen the next time
Obi-Wan got tangled in a Calamarian political crisis? Or even the next time he
fell into a nest of gundarks? The Padawan had been worried that Obi-Wan would
not be able to cope without him.
But all his Master seemed to worry about as that Anakin would make a nuisance of
himself in front of the Senator.
The Padawan had not needed lectures as much as he had needed words of
encouragement and confidence. Even naggings about his carelessness with his
lightsaber and his flamboyancy during confrontations would have been more
welcome. He had especially needed his Master to press and poke and pry until
Anakin broke and confessed the truth about the dreams that he always shied away
from elaborating on. That these vaguely disturbing dreams were no longer dreams.
They had now become nightmares.
Dreams about his mother were not a new experience for either of them. The
Padawan had been dreaming about her from the first night that he slept in the
Temple at the age of nine. In the beginning, they had disturbed the little boy
so much that he had insisted on his Master returning him to Taooine. Anakin had
believed these dreams were prophetic visions about an impending danger to his
Mother; his Master had believed that the dreams were a manifestation of
homesickness. The disagreement that had needed to be settled in front of the
Jedi Council. The ruling had bee done in Obi-Wan's favor. The Padawan needed to
severe all ties with his old life if he was ever to grow properly as a Jedi. The
Padawan also needed to learn to accept and trust his Master's guidance at all
times. Anakin had borne Obi-Wan no resentment. In their short time together, he
had learnt to trust his Master implicitly. He believed that his Master truly
loved him, truly intended to act in Anakin's best interests. He accepted the
Council's decisions in good faith.
Sure enough, the dreams, reducing in frequency with time, had finally stopped in
his pre-adolescence. Eventually, the memory of his mother had faded in clarity
if not in poignancy.
Then a few months back, the dreams had restarted. Increasing in intensity until
they made the Padawan fear sleep. And this time, Anakin could not bring himself
to confide in his Master.
After ten years in training and a strength and naturalness in Jedi skills almost
unmatched in their history, Anakin was still no nearer to approaching his
trials. He knew his Master's reasons: Anakin's rashness, arrogance,
unpredictability. The last thing he needed was for Obi-Wan to add to that list
that Anakin, at the age of twenty, was suffering from homesickness and was yet
to learn the code of detachment. And it would have been so far from the truth.
The real truth about the dreams was even more damaging.
The dreams followed no known pattern. They seemed to come irregularly with
random intensity. Each was horrifying real. And every time Anakin woke up bathed
in sweat gasping and grateful for reality, his heart pounded, not with
loneliness or melancholy but with fear.
Fear was of the Dark Side.
Jedi shall not know fear.
Jedi do not have nightmares.
The Padawan grimaced as he channeled his thoughts elsewhere. Presently they gave
him no comfort. The alternative came to him as natural as breathing. If the
events of the past few days had not happened, the image of her, perfectly honed
and preserved in his mind would be enough to give him consolation. He would
speak to her imagined form of his problems, write letters to her in his head and
listen as she replied with her wisdom and love.
But now, thoughts of Padmé no longer gave a guarantee of comfort. It was
amazing how someone that could give so much pleasure merely by breathing and
smiling and being could also be the arbitrator of pain. As much as Anakin
longed for her - her presence, her attention - sometimes, it hurt to be near
her. When he was with her, he could find himself pouring out his soul in a way
he had never done with anyone else- not Obi-Wan, not even his Mother. He could
speak about his problems with Obi-Wan and his insecurities without fear of her
thinking less of him. He could speak about the devotion that he had carried for
her for ten years and not fear being rejected. What hurt him was the shield that
would come over her eyes; the way that she would draw herself away after a
particularly moment of intense sharing; she knew what was between them, what could
be between them - and she was fighting it. It didn't hurt that Padmé did
not care for him. It hurt that she did - almost as intensely as he did for her,
and that she was going to use her entire will to fight against herself ever
succumbing to it.
Perhaps, Master Obi-Wan was right. Anakin really should not be thinking about
her.
Anakin did not even try to put up a fight. He shut his eyes and thought of her
. Black-opal eyes speaking words that her lips denied. Her figure framed in
the doorway, small and vulnerable. Her whole body at once calling him and
rejecting him.
Patience.
It should not have been so hard to be patient. He had waited ten years. Padmé
was his destiny as he was his. Nothing could possibly change that.
Yet.
Always in motion, the future is.
Nothing was ever written in stone. There was always the fork in the path, the
decision that could take one's life in either of two completely different
directions. For him, as far as Padmé was concerned, there had been no decision,
no turning point. He was hers completely and had been from the first moment that
he laid eyes on her. But he knew her strength of will. He knew that she would
not accept that she was his; he knew that she would not come to him easily. That
she might never come to him at all.
Padmé.
Padmé.
In the ten years they had been apart, this hold she had on him had haunted him,
soothed him. Now that he was with her again, it was an ache. Whispering her name
in the silence of his thoughts, seeking for her aura and enveloping it around
him was no longer enough. The devotion he had carried for ten years was piercing
his insides like a living creature, looking for something to nourish on. The
closer he got to her, in every possible way, the worse the ache. It was as if
partially pacifying his longing only increased its appetite, only made him want
her more.
Patience.
Padmé would come to him. He had to believe that.
Nevertheless, hope was dim and doubt plentiful. Anakin's mind succumbed to
sleep, weakened and despondent. There was no struggle. The nightmare claimed it.
The sand was rising, a swirling whirlpool of dust and heat and darkness. It
might have been night. It might have been day. In a sandstorm there was not much
difference.
Sandstorm.
Tatooine.
Anakin struggled against the tempest on stunted legs. He felt large in his body,
or his body felt small encasing him. His mouth struggled against the cries that
he knew that once started, would continue too easily. Instead, he swiped a
chubby hand roughly against the dampness of his face - from the sand, of course
- and forced himself to call urgently but not plaintively.
"Mom!"
Mom. The word was almost alien in his world now but in the nightmare, it always
fell out of his lips so naturally. The years had rolled back in this reality.
Anakin the Jedi Padawan might never have existed. He was only Anakin the slave
boy, a little lost slave boy who had misplaced his mother.
"Help me!"
Sometimes she answered. There was always a franticness in her voice that he had
no memory of from real life. Desperation rose with his tears. His small body
turned hopelessly in the eddy. The winds caught at him and lifted him, throwing
him this way and that. It was futile fighting against the rage.
"Mom!"
"Ani!"
Her cries were getting fainter, more anguished. He struggled against the vortex.
He did violence to himself to get to her. But it was useless. The winds swept
him across the desert plain. Half blinded, he forced himself to squint into the
dust and darkness.
Mom!
She was there. Faded and ageless and standing impossibly straight in the eye of
the storm, the expression on her face one of abject agony. Her lips formed his
name.
"Ani." Hopeless, now. She had given up hope. She had given up on him.
"Mom!" Please hold on. I'm coming. I won't fail you.
A wave broke against his face. When his vision cleared, she was gone.
"Wait!"
Darkness, smoke, heat. The sand beat against him mercilessly, punishing him for
failing his mother, making him feel the torture that she was going through...
He was drowning in his despair. He would die of it and he would welcome it.
Abruptly, in the consciousness that was neither dream nor reality, he saw - felt
the image of water quenching fire. The heat from the desert receded.
"Ani."
The hand had slipped into his so simply he had not noticed when it did. But now
he grabbed at it, clutching at it fiercely, desperately. A lifeline. She had
found him. Her sunshine moonshine presence was filling him to the top; her aura
was pouring into his like ice cold water on a raging fire.
"Hold on, please -" The storm was dying down. The light was coming.
"Shh, Ani." Her soft hand on his face, stroking back his hair like his
mother had done so often, so long ago. And his mother was there. In the
increasing light, he could see her clearly. And though her face was sorrowful,
she was smiling and whispering. "Don't look back."
"No. I'm coming."
"I'm right here. It's OK."
The storm had lifted. The twin suns shone brightly, harshly, briefly against the
desert plain and reflected on Shmi Skywalker's ageless face. Then abruptly,
sulkily, the nightmare receded. Tatooine, the desert, the storm and his mother
receded with it.
He could feel the dampness of his clothes, the sheets beneath him. His chest was
still heaving and he could hear his blood as it rushed behind his ears. Her
hands were still smoothening his hair; they passed over his ears and felt like
rainwater. And he could feel his body - long, strong powerful. He was a Jedi
once more. The particulars of the dream were already fading. And it had not been
a vision. Just a bad dream.
Dreams pass in time.
He rolled so he could press closer to her. His eyes were still closed and maybe
he was dreaming. He dreamt of her always, waking and sleeping. The other dreams
had never felt so real. Her skin was soft against his cheek. One hand was
dancing in magic circles across his face. His own hand rested in the other; he
felt as if she was squeezing his heart with her hand; he welcomed the pain. Her
aura brushed against his, soothing, intoxicating.
"Padmé."
The slightest pressure on his hand. "Shh... I'm here." Her voice came
to nestle against his ear like a warm animal.
He sighed and rolled entirely against his side, burying against her softness,
throwing the arm that she was not holding around her. Her hand slipped to the
nape of his neck. He felt a tug against his braid. He sighed again and refused
to open his eyes.
He could not guess how long he remained like that. Perhaps he drifted to true
sleep while she laid guard above him. But then she was pulling away, retracting
her softness from him. He tried to hold onto her but with that deceptive
strength that she had, she had already pried herself loose. He rolled onto his
back, sulking.
"Goodnight, Ani."
Her soft laughter was very close. He could feel the sweetness of her breath
across his face. Then, briefly, very briefly and yet still unmistakable, the
softest pressure on his lips.
His mouth burned.
The living creature in him clawed so sharply that he gasped aloud and his eyes
flew open. Padmé's shocked black opals stared down at him in the darkness. For
a few seconds that felt like an eternity, their souls connected. With the Force,
he felt the perfect rhythm of their heartbeats and breaths.
Then Padmé was drawing away from him, not physically yet but the
sunshine-moonshine presence that had recently filled him up was withdrawing as
she distanced herself from him. He could see that incredible willpower in
action, reining in her emotions, forcing them back in their chains. For an
illogical moment, Anakin's own will wanted to rise against hers, clash and
battle and then see who came out victor.
Her hold over him would never break. He was hers even though she might never
accept that she was his. He could do only what she wanted. And he could never
fight against her.
Her eyes were still staring into his the way he always knew that they could. He
closed his eyes, wanting to carry that image to his dreams.
Padmé's weight slid off his bed, so feather-light that it was no wonder Anakin
had not felt it when it first came to rest. He could feel her presence drifting
out of his chambers. He fought against the urge to open his eyes to catch a
glimpse of her form. He fought against the stronger urge to call after her, to
plead with her to come to him. Instead, he kept his eyes tightly shut and held
onto yet another piece of her to feed his devotion.