Anakin was accustomed to waking early, before the sun's first rays shone through the window in his Temple quarters. Often he would join his Master to meditate as the dawn broke over the horizon; it was a habit Obi-Wan had instilled in him from their earliest days together. At first, Obi-Wan had instructed him at great length, but as the years wore on, they spoke less in those morning hours, falling into companionable silence and each to his own meditations. In the more recent years, Anakin had learned to meditate by himself on the occasion that his Master was away on a solo mission, or, as now, when Anakin was the one was away without Obi-Wan. It had been a difficult adjustment--though they exchanged few words, the presence of his Master was always his support when he had difficulty focusing--but he had come to appreciate those solitary moments.

This morning should have been no different. Though there was several hours of time difference between the Temple on Coruscant and the Naberries' lake home, Anakin woke well before the sun climbed over the hills beyond the water. For a moment he lay in the quiet dark, allowing his eyes to adjust, feeling the peace of everything around him; all was as it should be.

Especially the even breathing of the woman beside him.

Anakin rose slowly, half turning to look at her again--he could never stop watching her. She was so beautiful in the soft grey light, the wild curls of her hair sprawling around her, a dark contrast to the pale pillow her head rested on. A few locks had fallen across her face, and Anakin reached out to brush them from her cheek, only to pause halfway there. He had used his right arm without thinking, and the naked wires and metal joints of the mechanical arm caused an odd sense of surprise--he had somehow forgotten that it was there.

Padmé told him yesterday, as they stood in front of the lake just moments before their marriage, that the arm didn't bother her; it was a part of him now, and it made him no less human. However, Anakin found, to his consternation, that the arm did bother him. Oh, it responded as a natural arm would--better, in some cases; certainly stronger--but it had no feeling. When he touched something, all he felt was pressure--the mechanical hand could tell him nothing of the smoothness of Padmé's skin or the softness of her hair; and though its appearance was nothing to either of them, the metal grew colder as the warm afternoon turned to a cool evening.

He had hastily acquired a glove to at least soften the cold grip of the metal hand. It was not a perfect fit and covered only a few inches past the wrist, but it would suffice until he returned to Coruscant and the mechanical arm was finished with the proper casings.

The glove, he now surmised, had come off in the night as he slept. He curled the fingers into a fist, listening to the faint whir and click of tiny parts he could see working to respond, and considered, for a moment, searching for the glove. But to do so might wake his wife--and he felt a strange conflict of emotions at the thought of that word--so he carefully turned back the light sheet and swung his feet over the edge of the bed.

The stone floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he walked out to the veranda that overlooked the lake. The water, black in the fading moonlight, rippled as a warm breeze played through the white petals scattered across the ground, the flowers' scent still lingering. Anakin scooped up his Jedi robe from where it had fallen the night before and wrapped himself in it, feeling cold despite the warmth of the air. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and reached out with his thoughts, stretching further through the villa and the lake waters, feeling the warm, drowsy presence of Padmé in the bed and the sleeping forms of her family, briefly touching the watchful minds of the guards ringing the house.

Of late, the meditations of the Jedi had been troubled, or so Anakin had heard. Master Yoda was now rarely seen outside of his quiet chambers; Mace Windu wanted to tell the Senate that the Jedi could no longer see clearly. Obi-Wan had said little to Anakin on the subject, but the padawan could feel his Master's unease and noted that his morning meditation hours had grown longer.

Whatever was affecting the Jedi had not touched Anakin--until now. The first step into the Force had been as simple as always--it was easy as breathing. But now, as he attempted to go deeper, past the now and see the paths ahead, he found himself frowning. Something was obscuring his way, and the faint trails disappeared into darkness.

His frown deepening, Anakin took a deep breath and stilled his thoughts, listening to the Force whispers around him. The tiny, almost nonexistent hum of insect life around him was periodically interrupted by murmurs of larger life--and a darker, almost ominous thread that curled around him. Curious, he focused on it, narrowing all his concentration to this aberrance in the Force.

It was not strong; it took Anakin a moment to realize that it was an emotion, centered on himself--one of the odd feelings he had experienced at the thought of being married. Fear.

It startled him out of his meditation and back to the peaceful scene before the lake. Consciously relaxing the frown, Anakin inhaled deeply once more and turned his thoughts back to the problem before him. What had he to be afraid of? They were quite safe at the lake house; there was no dangerous presence, sentient or otherwise, that he could sense; if anything, he should be elated. He was in love, and he was married to the woman he loved.

And there he found the source. It was not the marriage itself but the effect it could have on his -and Padmé's--life. If the Council were to find out, they would be thrown into chaos: the Order could force the marriage to be annulled, or expel Anakin, or both; Padmé would probably be forced to retire from her position as Senator. No matter what happened, it would be a disgrace. And why? Because they were in love, and it was forbidden.

Forbidden, thought Anakin, his fingers unconsciously gripping the Jedi robe tighter. Of all the things Obi-Wan had taught him--from the moment he became a padawan--the denial of love was the most difficult for him to grasp. Compassion was, as he had told Padmé only a week ago, essential to the Jedi way; could he not protect her all the better if he loved her?

You fear to lose the ones you love, he recalled from an early lesson, and fear led to anger--the path to the dark side. Indeed, even as he sifted through the conflicting emotions, Anakin felt a small stab of anger--of course he was afraid to lose Padmé, just as he was afraid to lose Obi-Wan, or had mourned his mother's death. How could he not? It was natural part of life, Yoda said; but that made it no less painful.

Anakin exhaled sharply, struggling to reconcile his deep-seated feelings with the Jedi teachings. The conflict had always been somewhere on the edge of his mind, but now was the first time he had been forced to confront it. Despite what had been preached to him ever since he arrived at the Temple, there was no clear-cut answer.

He simply did not understand how it could be wrong to love.

The sun, when it finally lifted over the horizon, found Anakin no closer to a conclusion. He had buried himself in meditation again, seeking an answer in the quiet touch of the Force, but it had so far eluded him and frustration began to seep into his thoughts, making it more difficult to concentrate.

He could not miss Padmé's approach, though, no matter how elusive clarity had become. He turned to greet her as she stepped onto the warming stones of the veranda, feeling the darkness dissipate along with his frustrations. Her presence was soothing--but for now, he pushed his conflicted meditations away and drew his wife into his embrace, and together they watched the last vibrant pulses of the sunrise.

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