"Those Pretty Wrongs that Liberty Commits…"
Archive: Fanfiction.net
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Star Wars and all its characters belong to George Lucas and company. I only use them for entertainment purposes.
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Commencement of Heaven
"A Jedi Shall Not Know Anger…"
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They turned away from the comfortable position on the balcony once the sun had disappeared and the atmosphere was colored a somber black. With her flowing robes, Padmé began the descent of the stairs slowly, wishing to savor the powerful emotion she was feeling at that very moment. He followed close behind her, his steps matching hers, his body heat evident in the cool night. The click of her shoes was audible in the questioning silence, but she did not seem to care as she stepped into the ferry that had originally taken her there in the first place. Comfortably seated, she waited for Anakin to settle beside her, and was quite pleased when he did. Wasting no more space, the former Jedi wrapped his good arm around her dainty waist and neared her to him amazingly slow, as if he was admiring every perfect feature his wife had to offer that night. She smiled and blushed, and turned her head away abruptly, teasing him into finally gently grabbing her chin and make her look at him. His soul-searching eyes, happy yet sad, suddenly danced as he made his way to her mouth lovingly, grasping her lips with controlled force and almost unattainable sexuality. He took his time in savoring her, making her lips as well as her body pliant. His hand remained adamantly on her waist and never strayed, much to Padmé's relief.
Her parents had conveniently left on a trip to visit family on the other hemisphere of Naboo, and had given Padmé the key with great care and warning. Padmé remembered her mother's warning look directed to both her and the Jedi standing there oddly calm. Sola, her beloved sister and confidante, also decided to leave, using a rather pathetic excuse. She had kissed and hugged her sister, picked up Ryoo and Pooja, and whispered something inaudible in Anakin's ear that made him grin rather sheepishly. And now, both were walking towards the impossibly beautiful retreat wrapped in shimmering light provided by the stars. At the sight, Padmé slowed her hasty steps and admired the beauty and grace of such a fine structure.
She was nervous, though she hid it from her husband. Before, she had taken much pride in never being nervous—if one could step in front of Senators more numerous than the stars and speak openly of galactic matters, then there was nothing to fear. If one could survive attacks made on one's life, then there was nothing to fear. If one could survive an arena overflowing with battle droids, monsters, and murderers, then there was nothing to fear.
Yet, now she feared something. She loved Anakin with her whole heart, admired his grace and skill, and fell in love with his boyishly handsome face and eyes that could burn her alive. Simply put, she was in love with his whole being. But now, as they approached and neared the retreat, the reality of the current situation was dawning upon her. She would have no reception, no great party announcing her joyous union with the man she loved for fervently, no incredible gifts of light and sound. And though this did not matter to her, the event that was edging its way closer into her existence did. A reception she could do without; a party she could excuse; and gifts she could forgive.
But what of the impending wedding night? Suddenly, the idea of intimacy was an issue. The man delicately holding her waist was no longer a boy. And though she had admitted days before that he was "all grown-up," it now began to feel…
Strange.
She breathed in deeply, but did not smile when his soft lips planted a hungry kiss on her swan-like neck. Instead, she tensed up immediately, and almost pulled away when he turned her to look at him.
"You look beautiful," he whispered, noticing her blush of embarrassment as she looked away.
The feeling was becoming stronger… "Thank you," she responded rather diplomatically, as if she was used to being admired lovingly every day of her Senatorial life. Unconsciously, she was furthering herself from him, pushing her body away from his dominating fire—and the feeling tugging at her soul would not leave her alone.
Anakin refused to acknowledge the strange happenings occurring to his wife. He assumed that she was rather nervous, and was trying to buy whatever time she could in order to stall the inevitable. He smiled at the thought, but blushed when he began to shift his thought process to the horribly sexy things he would to her, which would then culminate into one singular scream of irrepressible pleasure… "I love you," he claimed, and kissed her lips again. As his lips connected with hers, Padmé's eyes widened as she realized the need evident in his touch. She watched, utterly fascinated, as his soft hand caressed her right cheek with undying love and devotion, but then trailed slowly down, past her fine features and down to elegant neck, stroking her vulnerable skin. The feeling was intensifying, attacking her senses and perception rather awkwardly.
Then, sluggishly, the feeling began taking form. Her stomach churned and flopped restlessly about her body, almost telling her to further herself from Anakin as much as possible. In the beginning, when her feelings for him were developing, her stomach had churned also, but in a comfortable, slight matter. She knew it was merely her mind reminding her of the consequences that would arise from her actions if she finally did decide to fulfill her love with him. But now, her stomach was doing more than just warning her—this was no warning. Nervousness she had felt before, but the characteristics she was exhibiting were far beyond the plains of uneasiness. Her blood began a slow boil—not a blush, she concluded—but a complete rebuttal of the sensory explosion his lips were causing. His good arm would not stay still: it moved about her face and back, touching and caressing her in ways unimaginable to her. She felt him lift her and walk the short distance to the retreat without ever breaking the kiss and the hold he had upon her. As the threshold loomed, Padmé's eyes widened to their fullest extent as she noticed the soft curves of the opening and the rich furniture inside. What is happening to me? she begged inwardly. This feeling? What is it? It is not nervousness… She kept her eyes wide open as Anakin easily climbed the steps leading to her bedroom, and focused intently on the round dining room table and its golden decoration. His mechanical arm opened the door and she uttered a sound, which Anakin mistook to be a pleasurable moan. Padmé's body would not move and lay unresponsive to his kiss. He set her down gently on the floor and once again neared her to him. Accidentally, his mechanical fingers came in contact with her porcelain skin and she realized what the feeling, which had manifested itself into a churning stomach, boiling blood, and increased heartbeat, was.
Disgust.
Revulsion.
Padmé was boiling over with complete and utter repugnance. The thought of taking this loving man to her bed was creating sensations of detestation.
As soon as the realization washed over her completely, the dark shadow of sadness enfolded her within its embrace. She broke their physical union with quick movements, unclasped his arm from around her waist and stepped back, the shame burning her face in the semi-darkness of her sleeping complex. Her feet forced her to step back hesitantly whenever he made a motion of stepping to her, and her head was turned from his confused sight. The stillness in the air hung thick like a heavy veil, and only Padmé's breaths and Anakin's baffled question pierced the stifling stillness.
His eyes, confused and innocent, seemed to ask the question for him. "Padmé?" As if on cue, Padmé clasped her arms about her upper body, and held herself. "Is there something the matter?" he continued, his voice worried and child-like. He breathed in deeply, trying to calm himself, trying to gain some semblance of a thought in an otherwise strange situation. He stared at her agile movements: the way she edged herself closer to the wall instead of him, how her eyes remained solemnly fixated on the richly-carpeted floor, her fingers clenching and unclenching in unease as he questioned her. He flexed his mechanical arm warily, and he heard the mechanical hiss audible only to his ears. Had he done something wrong? It seemed improbable; he was not pushing the woman against her will—was he? The patience he forced himself to have was to savor the moment they would spend on their wedding night, a most crucial night of consummation and physical love. Anakin tried to discover what sudden movement he had caused to make her recoil from him so. Was it his kiss? No, he decided, it could not have been. They were languorous actions meant to pleasure her instead of scare her. His caress? Had it been his caress? He momentarily pondered this and once again decided that it was impossible. His hand had trailed, yes, but only to rest upon her smooth neck now filled with tense muscle.
"Don't shut yourself from me, Love," he assured her. "Just tell me. Did I do something"—he hesitated once the blush passed—"wrong? Uncomfortable?" He kept his voice steady and soft, without anger, but bursting with concern. He stared at his formal Jedi robes and inspected every seam and patch of fabric, looking to find some disgusting creature nestled about his clothes. He sniffed the air about him unnoticeably, straining to catch the abhorred scent. Instead, he smelled only her illustrious perfume reminiscent of exotic flowers and strength. Finally, he handed his mechanical arm a solemn stare and forced his gaze upon her, eyes cooled and somewhat chilled, no longer burning.
He held the arm up, letting the long Jedi sleeves fall from their place and reveal the skeletal-like arm. He, like so many other times, flexed the fingers clearly within the space she admitted between them. The glint caught her eyes and she stared impassively as he demonstrated the movement of the arm for her.
"The arm, possibly?" he offered. She shifted her gaze from the arm to his beautiful face. He sighed, a thoroughly exhausted release of breath. "I understand that it may frighten you, but bear with me," he told her, the sadness creeping in his voice. Could she—would she—refuse him for the arm? True, the arm was somewhat a strange apparition, but not completely detestable. He offered what he thought would serve as an icebreaker.
"They've taken some of my skin cells and found a way to grow skin on the arm. It'll take two, three days maximum." His breath was coming in uneven intervals. "Why won't you speak, Padmé?" he finally demanded desperately. Tired of standing where he was, he closed the gap between them. He gasped when he caught sight of her teary eyes and coolly passionate gaze.
His eyes forced themselves to adjust to the dim lighting of the room. The desperation was driving him insane and the silence offered no care. In his state of agitation he could not convene with the Force, and tried as he might, he knew perfectly well that he could not move any closer to her than he already was.
Anakin shifted uncomfortably, finally falling into that place where he let his inhibitions out… "Speak to ME!" he demanded. He watched her choke back her oncoming sob and wince painfully at his forceful scream laced with desperate worry. "Please," he whispered, letting his hand touch her bare arm, "please." Her twitch at his touch was evident. He narrowed his eyes and turned around, walking till he reached his original spot.
Padmé unclasped her hands and looked at him, her sweet, brown eyes on the verge of flooding tears. How could her nagging feeling destroy the most joyous day of her life? "I," she began. Anakin's eyes were lifted, and he smiled in joy when she spoke.
"I—I," explained Padmé, "I can't do this, Anakin. I cannot."
"But--?"
She held he palm up, blocking his face from her sight, demanding silence. Her eyes closed in pain. "No, don't ask. Not tonight. Not now…"
Padmé Naberrie Amidala-Skywalker turned away from her husband and entered her personal washing complex, closed the door, locked it, and sobbed quietly.
Anakin, shocked, finally collapsed on the comfortable mattress, an astonished gape lining his features, his eyes haunted by her fleeting memory.
What had he done wrong?
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BEGINNING.