"Those Pretty Wrongs That Liberty Commits…"
Archive: Fanfiction.net
Rating: PG-13
Notes: My view on how it's all going to go down… Not necessarily OOC…
Disclaimer: Star Wars and all its characters belong to George Lucas and company. I only use them for entertainment purposes.
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Scald of Heaven
"Nor Hatred…"
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Padmé emerged from her washing complex the next morning. Her chestnut mane fell about her shoulder in a pretty mess of complicated curls, and she wore only a comfortable shift she had discovered among her things the tumultuous night before. Wearing no robe and donning puffy chocolate eyes red with crying, she—rather unsteadily—took a few tangible steps forward, her eyes peering among her sunbathed room. The heavy curtains had been opened, she noticed, and a fresh vase of Naboo blossoms delicately decorated her vanity table. Her gaze finally fell upon her bed: fully done and crisp, almost as if no one had slept there—or made love there. She pursed her lips in a sad gesture and stepped out completely from the complex, bathing in the sun's glowing light.
"You look good even now," a voice declared. It was deep and musical, consisting of soothing harmonies and melodies Padmé loved to hear. She whizzed her head quickly to the right to find her husband leisurely reclining against the wall, his upper body bare and tanned. He was wearing the brown pants from the night before, and his boots were upon his feet, clasped and prepared for battle. He looked so…
She had to delay the pouring questions one way or another. "Thank you." She glanced at him, and was chilled by his calculating gaze. "I'm going to breakfast now. Will you join me?"
This is nothing like her, Anakin though, nothing. What is she hiding? WHAT HAVE I DONE WRONG?! "No, I don't think I will," he replied lazily. He was still leaning against the wall.
She continued with the useless banter. "Really? Why?"
"Because you and I must speak."
Anger flashed momentarily in her features. She closed her lips resolutely and hardened her gaze, an eyebrow shooting up. Unconsciously, she pouted her lips slightly, adding to the cold gaze she was administering upon her husband. "Speak?" she echoed. "What must we speak of?"
Anakin recognized her defense mechanism almost immediately. When angered or highly flustered over a somewhat trivial matter, Padmé tended to ignore, run away from, or completely forget the situation she was involved in. Even now, she picked the waist of her long shift and held it up diplomatically as she made her way to the door of her bedroom. No longer reclining, Anakin was now walking towards her, resolution burning within him.
Padmé noticed the extremely close proximity he was in. His pleasant breath tickled her ear… "I just wanted to know why"—he breathed in shakily—"why my own wife would not consummate our marriage."
Crestfallen, her shoulders slumped considerably and her head fell to her breast. The curls, in a wondrous sight, rushed from their places and ran with he movement, completely masking her face from view. "It's not that—"
"What is it then?" he question solemnly. "Tell me."
"I can't, Anakin."
Thoroughly confused and flustered, Anakin moved from his place and placed himself resolutely in front of her glorious figure. He searched her for an answer of some sort and instead received nothing. His old friend, Worry, came back to his side. "Why? Tell me, please!" he urged. "I'm tired of repeating myself, Padmé. You can't keep me in the dark! Don't keep me in the dark!"
His voice was almost to the point of breaking and shouting at her, but he kept it in check. In a desperate move, he crouched lower and lifted her chin, and lay kisses on her smooth forehead, her dainty nose, her pliant lips. It was feverish, tedious work, but he continued relentlessly, all the while whispering, "Why, my Love? Why? Tell me. Gods, Padmé, tell me."
The kisses lasted only a few brief moments before she tore herself away from him in shame. Shocked, surprised, and more than a bit angry, he caught her arm gently when she tried to get out of the room. She did not turn, but the determination to leave the room was there, etching its way into her face and body language. She stood, her hand held by Anakin's, his forehead against the back of her head, his breathing a bit distorted.
She closed her eyes and entwined her elegant fingers with his. "You and I," she whispered.
"Yes."
"This is so wrong, Anakin, so wrong!"
He widened his eyes. "What?" he asked her. "What? This marriage, Padmé? The love we feel?"
She was trying her best to conceal her feelings from him. Padmé, ruthless at times as she was, did not want to cause the love her life any type of pain. She knew that her revelation would cause instantaneous grief—grief so harsh and unforgiving that it would probably kill him in the process. But he urged her, whispering the same questions over and over again, demanding answer, wanting to know. His fingers clenched hers until she was almost sore.
"Oh, Annie," she began. Quick as lightning, Anakin lifted his head, released her hand, and steeped back.
Shock. "You haven't called me that since…" His eyes firstly narrowed and then widened, and then his eyebrows furrowed in frustration. This was not making sense to him. This enigmatic equation Padmé had set up was hard to solve, puzzling to answer.
"This has nothing to do with the marriage, does it, Padmé?"
"No." She affirmed his response so quickly that it stung his very soul.
"Nor of your love towards me."
"No." The puzzle pieces were falling into place so far. But that one piece, that crucial piece that was the answer, still loomed in the horizon, far away from his reach. In a second, he turned away from her and faced the large, decadent windows, his body straightened. The subject had changed, inexplicably so.
Anakin's inhale of fresh air suited more the means of preparation of a great blow than anything else. He was releasing the breath at regular intervals, hesitantly at first, and then with definition.
"Why did we not consummate the marriage last night? Why did you refuse me?" The last question he asked with great difficulty.
Padmé herself inhaled deeply, thoughts whirling through her mind. She knew she had to tell him one way or another, and she knew that he would press her until he received what he wanted. Therefore, in preparation of the outpour of emotion that was sure to come, the Senator of Naboo straightened, her back straighter than the time she had worn that impossibly tight leather corset, placed her hands solemnly next to her, and shakily spoke.
"I… love you to death, Anakin, I really do." He shivered when he heard "really do." She continued. "But the thought of you in my bed, sharing that intimacy… well, scares me to death."
He had feared the worst. "But that's natural," he explained, appearing more like a professor than anything else. "You were nervous, Padmé, as was I. It's a reaction…"
"You are not listening to me, Anakin." Her voice was no longer calm or loving. It was now forceful and demanding. It caused him to turn and stare at her, his eyes full and innocent like that of a dog's.
He formed the words after a few moments. "I don't understand."
She moved her arms, trying to convey the rush of emotion speeding through her, trying to show the feeling that would not leave her body alone. With a shaky breath and an equally shaky step, she spoke.
"The thought of the intimacy does more than just scare me to death." A bad dream, this is a bad dream… "You know how I handle fear, Anakin. I'll stare it in the face, and die with it if I have to. But this"—she pointed to her the clean sheets laid upon her bed—"this is more than fear."
It came. "This is repulsion."
Explosion. Explosion of madness. Explosion. Anakin's eyes widened so much that he strained to see the scene in front of him. He thanked the Force that he was not facing her when she told him this because he knew that if her eyes has caught sight of his, he would have buckled under the pain. His knees began a small quake, but he stopped the movement. His head fell sorrowfully, the braid gently caressing his skin as it settled against the crook of his neck. By the Force, it hurt! Those words, those fateful words, were crumbling the perfect world he had created in his mind. Repulsion? he asked himself. But, how is that possible? He wanted to sob like a child, to let the emotions flooding his body crash on something else, to let him be. This was not fair, he decided, not fair at all. HE HAD DONE NOTHING WRONG! His intentions were good, unrushed—suggestive, yes, but not forceful. Yet, she still could not stand the thought of being with him and felt hatred at holding him in her arms after lovemaking. How could the woman that he had loved for ten harsh years hurt him in such a way that was causing more pain then when he lost his arm? How?
Padmé noticed his breathing: it was unpleasant and quite unlike his normal, steady breaths. Maybe it's best if I leave him, she thought sadly. Acting on pure feeling, she turned and made her way to the automatic doors.
"I repulse you?"
She stopped and spoke. "Not you, just—"
"The thought of being with me?" he offered. He was stricken with grief when she nodded earnestly.
He knew that asking her any more questions would only make the situation more delicate than it already was. Unfortunately, his penchant for speaking out of turn was taking over his vulnerable being.
"You know," he said, "I've waited my whole life for you." Hmm, he contemplated, not much of a revelation for the all-powerful Senator. His calloused arm reached for the velvet drape in front of him. He grabbed it and closed his powerful fist around it, using it as a form of release for the pain, hurt, anguish… and anger consuming him. He saw the calm swaying of the ocean breeze play with the indigenous plants, the swell of the water about the retreat, and the impossibly bright rays of the sun create a spectacle of light with the glass window. I hate sand. Before, he had thought that he and Padmé were like the ocean: rough and forever in motion, but unwavering and temperate at the same time. But now he realized that it was not so. He was like the fire from the sun: stunning and full of heat, but far, far away from ever reaching his true love. But this pain, this pain, this pain…
He heard her soft sigh of defeat. "I've had ten years of slavery, ten years of training, and it all comes down to this one, singular day—a day I thought could change our lives." He released a dry, sarcastic chuckle. "But, um, it seems that this day has turned out to be the worst day of my life."
"You don't under—"
"Yes, yes I do, Padmé!" he finally screamed. Padmé was surprised at the tone of his voice. He had never screamed directly at her, and it was a frightening thought for her to think of. She knew the grief would be intense, but the biting anger he held in his voice was immeasurable. His voice was on the edge of breaking, held in place only by twinges of genuine hurt. The drape became easily detached from its rightful place on the window and landed on the floor soundlessly and effortlessly.
A wordless intonation left his throat. "My life as a Jedi… I gave it all up! All up for you! For you!" Her eyes widened, but she felt that she had done nothing wrong. He wanted truth—she gave it to him. It was not a sugar-coated confection meant to be enjoyed; it was a bitter, resentful admittance that she tried to hold of. But this, this about giving up the Order for her was preposterous! I told him! I warned him!
"I never asked you to."
He turned to her. "Never asked me to do what?"
She raised her head proudly and pushed the curls back. Her face, resolute and harsh, spoke quite clearly for her.
"I never told you to leave the Order. It was your choice."
Again? Once again the woman killed him? But how is this possible? he asked himself bitterly. How could she?
He narrowed his eyes and crossed his hands behind his sculpted back. "What?" he questioned.
"I already told you," she explained diplomatically—automatically-without feeling: unresponsive, cold, "that I never told you to leave the Order. Your choice… your consequence."
"Take it back," he responded immediately. It was now her turn to narrow her eyes in what seemed to be more than just anger. She watched his body tense considerably: his thin, sculpted muscles were tense and he was flushed with fury. His usually unmoving fingers began a series of irritated compressions and his knuckles were blanching. Padmé took in his change stoically, but she did take a step back. She felt the waves of rage radiate from him, and she was shocked to discover that she could feel them surround her. You've angered me, my Love, she acknowledged, you've hurt me. I am filled with grief and dying hope, but you still struggle. Talk to me in your soft tones, Anakin. PLEASE! A ringing was filling her ears, a painful sound that was trying to avoid his oncoming tirade.
Anakin contorted his face in what seemed to be genuine alarm and a dull ache. But soon enough, the rage was becoming more and more visible…
"TAKE IT BACK! How could you be so cruel?" he asked, emphasizing "cruel." "I gave up the possibility of becoming a powerful Jedi for you"—he pointed at her with a shaking finger and teary eyes—"and for this! For you and I to be together, for you and I to enjoy this night, Padmé! Our wedding night!"
Padmé looked at her room solemnly, noticing that it smelled of him, that combination of pure beauty, strength, and oceans. She also noticed the earnest, disappointed shake of his head, his slightly panting breaths, and his magnificent half-naked sculpture of a body. Her eyes could not bear to see his…
"But, now I've made a mistake."
The harsh words brought her back to reality. It was now her turn to ask the questions.
"What?"
He sneered menacingly. "A mistake, my dearest. This—you and I—is wrong!"
"Anakin, don't say something you will regret," she pleaded half-heartedly. He did not even soak in her words.
"In the beginning," he began as he made his way past her and to the door, "you were an angel. Then, you were a goddess"—his hand was on the switch to open the door—"but now, my Padmé," he said, "now, you are—"
"No, don't, Anakin!" she screamed. He released a dry, sarcastic chuckle, grabbed his sheer Jedi tunic, and exited the room, leaving her deserted, shaking, and furious.
So be it…
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MIDDLE.