XXII.
Never before - never again
You will ignore,
I will pretend
(Dolores O'Riordan)
Sabé barely recognised the novice when she rushed past her. A flash of blue colour, then the great door swung closed and the girl was gone. The high priestess shook her head, sighed and allowed herself a thin-lipped smile. Only then did she notice that Sabé was in the room as well. After she had recognised the face under the hood of the simple handmaiden robe, the slight bow came natural.
"Why have you come, mistress?"
They healer's eyes didn't leave Sabé's face, they scrutinised, tried to find the reason for the unusual visit before it was spoken aloud. And with the infallible instinct of the head priestess, she managed.
Sabé saw disb elief and anger flitting over the stern face of the priestess before she schooled a mask of calm.
"There will be no supplies." Not a question. A declaration. Sabé nodded and couldn't manage to look the older woman in the eyes.
"I have done all I could. But the senate hasn't decided yet. We can expect the supplies in three days, earliest."
Why did she feel as though she was ramming a sword into the priestesses chest? Sabé had read Aethra's reports. She knew of the situation of the medical supplies, knew what the piece of news must feel like. Would Amidala have achieved more? Was she, Sabé, not strong enough to negotiate with Palpatine? Should she have been more demanding? Should she . . .
"It is well, mistress." Aethra's clear voice disturbed her racing thoughts. Surprised, Sabé's head shot up.
In a gesture atypically gentle for her, Aethra placed her hand on the tense shoulder of Amidala's locum tenens and said calmly: "It's not your fault. I thank you."
With those words she turned and left Sabé in the soaring entrance hall of the temple. The handmaiden in the queen's role fought tears when she saw the upright figure of the high priestess disappearing down one of the long passage ways.
How much longer? How much longer would she have to carry this increasingly heavy burden?
A gust of cool night air followed Obi-Wan into the sleeping chamber when he returned from his nightly round. He closed the door quickly. Outside an upcoming storm angrily shook the tree branches and caused them to pound on the flat shingles of the roof with a dull sound. Despite the coolness, the air was heavy and moist - it carried the promise of rain. Thunderstorms. Severe thunderstorms, if Obi-Wan wasn't mistaken.
Exactly what they didn't need now.
The atmosphere between Padmé and him had been charged all day long. He b elieved to understand. They had been out here for quite a while now, with only each other for company. Cabin fever had to set in sooner or later. That didn't stop a niggling fe eling of worry from surfacing, though. She wasn't in the place which was destined for her. Did this cause her incalculable moods?
He glanced towards her sleeping form. The days were growing shorter and Padmé had gone to sleep earlier than ever. The day had passed without her exchanging more than the bare necessities with him. The silence gnawed at him. Had it been the same for her when he had been silent for so long?
With a tired gesture he sloughed off his cloak, slipped out of the tunic and the undershirt. In a automatic set of movements he folded the clothes - a nearly perfect little tower with nearly perfect edges. He shivered reverently at the thought of how often Qui-Gon had made him fold his clothes to refresh one of the dreaded lectures in tidiness.
With a crooked smile he took the pile of clothes and placed it on the simple stool next to his bed. His gaze moved on and stopped at a much more accurately folded tunic. A velvety blue tunic, velvet pants, a silky camisole.
He closed his eyes, thrusting back the fe elings suddenly emerging inside of him. After his heart had found its normal rhythm again and the thoughts were pushed aside, he shook his head, grimacing. Was there anything she couldn't do?
He had expected her to be untidy, spoiled rotten by the constant presence of her handmaidens, but she was the complete opposite. Where Qui-Gon had already been tidy, Padmé was almost pedantic. He didn't envy her handmaidens.
In her doze, Padmé heard Obi-Wan stepping into the sleeping chamber.
Opening the door ushered in the resinous smell of the trees. Where did he come from, at this hour? Shouldn't he have been asleep by now? She pushed the thoughts back, forced herself to keep her mind blank. She didn't have to worry about this. Didn't need to care.
A squall howled around the walls of the building in which they slept and filled the night with an eerie echo. He opened his eyes again and turned towards the open window.
A fleeting glance at Padmé revealed her slightly shivering form. With a fluent movement he rose and closed the window. On his way back he dragged his feet, coming to a stop at Padmé's side.
The subdued light of the sleeping chamber reflected off her hair and cast a warm glow on her face. Fine features, belonging to an Elven world, but not to this. Her breath was calm and steady. One hand lay next to her head, relaxed, while the other rested on her thigh. It was a picture of utter peace.
So what was he doing here? Why was he disturbing this peace?
Cold fell heavily though the open window and Padmé futilely tried to suppress a shiver. Gratefully, she realised that Obi-Wan closed the window. But it took him too long. She counted how many times his feet touched the floor, knew exactly how many steps there were from the window to his bed. Fifteen steps. There should have been fifteen steps. Had she miscounted?
She was wide awake. Her muscles seized up, trying to appear relaxed and asleep.
Her heart somersaulted and what was left of fatigue dissipated like a shadow in the light when her mattress indented slightly and she felt his cool, firm body sit down next to her.
Obi-Wan exhaled carefully, trying to make as little sound as possible. She mustn't wake up and find him here.
Questions bounced around in his mind. Why was he disturbing this peace? Why was he sitting here, at the edge of her bed? When had he sat down? He couldn't tell.
He almost flinched when his hand unintentionally brushed her naked arm. Warm. So warm. Despite the fine goose-flesh. Pale, velvety skin which was clearly contrasted by the dark blue sheets in the sleeping chamber's soft light.
This time, he couldn't bring the touch to an end. The contact of their lips the night before had been innocent, a d elicate thanksgiving from him to her she would never know about. But this . . .
Obi-Wan knew that it was wrong to touch her like this. Knew it from the moment in which scorching heat rushed up his fingertips and settled in his stomach. But the knowledge didn't help. His hand trailed d elicately over her bare arm and with every centimetre he grew more aware of what he did. The touch of her velvety skin fired tiny explosions along his overly sensitised nerves.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Again and again he repeated those words, a desperate mantra against his racing thoughts. His left hand followed the curve of her shoulder and slid tentatively over the filigree silver necklace to her silky soft neck. Obi-Wan swallowed hard. His heart started pounding in an erratic manner.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
His fingertips reached her face.
She already felt the coolness of his hand as it still hovered over her arm. Her innermost being tensed up in anticipation of this touch. Feared what would happen if he completed the gesture. Yearned for it nevertheless. Invisible shivers danced along her skin when Obi-Wan touched her for the first time. An infinitely tender caress which sent an wave of warmth tingling through her body.
Wrong.
Her heart raced. He had to know. They were too different, their destinies were set on different paths. Her brain kept coming up with more and more reasons why she mustn't feel what she was rapidly beginning to feel.
What he did was wrong.
Her breathing grew shallow. She mustn't indulge in this. Mustn't yearn for what his touch ignited in her.
Wrong. Wrong.
Then why were her fe elings speaking a completely different language than her mind?
Padmé fought with conflicting emotions. She wanted to open her eyes and look at him, wanted to see what she would read in his gaze. But what would that be? And most of all, would she be able to handle it?
His hand sensitised her warm skin. His fingertips left a cool, tingling trace on her arm.
In the quiet darkness she heard him expelling his breath softly, slowly. The warm, moist air moved her hair. She picked up his scent unobtrusive, masculine. If he came only a millimetre closer she would be able to taste him . . . She fought a breathy moan.
If she showed him now that she wasn't asleep, she wasn't sure either of them would be able to remain in control of the situation.
The cool hand had found her face in the meantime and painted exotic patterns on it, discovered, caressed. She was hard pressed to fight a shiver. A part of her wanted to run, hide from what this touch implied. The other part of her welcomed the forbidden and found it difficult to keep her muscles from moving and reciprocating.
The heat of her soft body was suddenly so much more than just a sign of life and his awareness heightened immeasurably: Every single movement of a muscle, every sound, every breath became almost painfully cognisant to him.
Unexpected warmth coiled in his stomach. Her scent surrounded him. His heart hammered a rapid staccato against his ribcage. His breath leaked from his lips slowly, arduously.
Force, he had to get away from her nearness. But he didn't want to. Something in him asked him to stay and d eliver himself completely, to reveal himself after those many times she had saved him from himself no matter where this fe eling might make him drift to.
But his mind warned him, stifled the desire to wake those lips with a searing kiss.
Obi-Wan slowly pulled back his hand and raked it through his hair in a frustrated gesture. He mustn't read more into her innocent help than was intended.
He mustn't follow his fe elings. They were dangerous. Maybe even more dangerous than anything the dark side could ever come up with. He had to ignore his fe elings, fight them. He owed that to himself, to the order, and to her. Most of all to her. He couldn't and mustn't forget her origins.
He lingered nevertheless, unable to leave.
But it was a tiny gesture of Padmé's which made him flee her bedside. Her left hand wandered to push aside a stray strand of hair in her sleep and rested on her forehead. This picture was so innocent and peaceful that the icy knot in his stomach came back to life with a painful suddenness. She looked young. So young.
He was on his feet instantly and flung open the door to dive into the night. A cold squall met him and whipped over his naked chest. He welcomed it with a r elieved hiss. How could he forget how old she was? What was he doing here?
TBC
