Author's Beginning Notes: Here is another SW one-shot from me, written once again in the span of one day. I hope you enjoy, and please leave a review; feedback is always highly appreciated. (Note: In case anyone's interested, my other one-shot is Quality of Rest.)
Summary: (one-shot; set during ROTS near its end; Padme/Anakin a.k.a. Vader) All Padme can think of...are his paintings.
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, but I really wish Darth Vader was mine...
The Art of Pain
As I lie in my own pool of sweat, swathed in white blankets of detachment, my children's cries distant and far away, all I can think of are Anakin's paintings.
Within a few days of our marriage, I had taught and shared with him my own little way of relieving stress, leaving streaks of paint imprinted upon paper in a pattern that was always clear, yet sometimes vague; it was a technique I had developed by myself when I was a very small girl, after I had gotten into a fight with some bullies. I still remember those cool fingers of calm enfolding me within their grip as the colors dripped from my brush in dizzying designs.
My Annie had proved to be an apt learner, and I found it rather funny at the time how he practically salivated at the mouth with the thought of gaining moments of some semblance of peace, and yet felt an irrational jealousy over the fact that I couldn't do it for him solely with my presence... The tears slipping down are spelling out how cruel fate is, or would that be the Force?
Anakin's paintings had spelled, spelled out horrid and terrifying images pulsating with fire, always with fire. His brush strokes were so harsh, seeming to be currents of wind frozen into solid stone; his brush strokes were tears that left behind so many engravings that whispered, whispered of foreboding things; his brush strokes were shattered fragments splattered about to hide the emotion that was forever forbidden by the Jedi Code, that damn Jedi Code... Obi-Wan soothes little Luke and Leia, but why oh why couldn't it have been Anakin?
He had once apologized, my Annie did, for his art, shameful of its ugly distortion, and I had comforted him. Told him that was the whole point of the exercise, to banish all the ugly material in oneself to the farthest corners of stark white paper in complete and total exile. He had questioned if I was certain, a timid expression on his face, the little boy on Tatooine I had initially met making a quick return, and I had given him a peck on his cheek sealing my reassurance, which soon evolved into strings of crimson kisses. Crimson, crimson, crimson... Anakin, why did you have to paint yourself crimson as well, why did you forget the point of my technique, of the painting?
As I fall into darkness, all I can talk about is Anakin, my last words sounding like the beating of his heart, as well as the agonizing rasping of haggard breathing...
Fin
Author's Ending Notes: I hope you enjoyed the story and please leave a review; feedback is always highly appreciated.
