darling, dearest, dead

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬.  there are a thousand stories where she slayed the dragon or where love was enough and shadow doesn't grow when you are not looking. this is not one of them. & when they ask how she died, here is the answer: 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲.   a study of   padmé "amidala" naberrie   from the   star wars franchise   created by george lucas,   & here inspired by different sources ——— interpreted and written by amanda.   an exploration of idealized sainthood, the aftermath of fallen democracies & what to do when your enemies are in power :    𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞.

balcony pas de deux from romeo and juliet.

simmer by hayley williams. "(...) and if my child needed protection from a fucker like that man, i'd sooner gut him 'cause nothing cuts like a mother."

so long, london by taylor swift. "(...) did you think i had in me? how much tragedy? just how low did you think i'd go before i'd self-implode, before i'd have to go be free?" + "(...) you sacrificed us to the gods of your bluest days and i'm just getting color back into my face, i'm just mad as hell cause i loved this place."

mother by florence and the machine. "(…) mother, make me, make me a bird of prey so i can rise above this, let it fall away" + "(…) every stone in this city keeps reminding me, oh, can you protect me from what i want? the lover i let in who left me so lost."

arwen's song by john williams & liv tyler. "with a sigh you turn away, with a deepening heart, no more words to say you will find that the world has changed forever (…) i wish i could hold you closer."

tagged by: @jedie & @legashe ♥︎ ( thanks, nerds ! )

sometimes there is little to do other than let grief just be grief , & to be tired of it as she has the right to be.  she looks at this dark thing , shadow-animal , a man-shaped laceration and it is like looking at the light for too long , big black blemishes moving in the corner of her eyes where there should be color.  & there is only ever the fire , the burning , the afterthought of sorrow under her tongue when she thinks of the man he used to be.  the weight of her grief is only equal to her anger , & her anger , her most intimate companion , the hungry parasite of it , is only slightly less heavier than her tiredness.  she is tired of fighting him , which is like her voice to the wall and the wall of his heart is impassive and apathetic and violent in return.    

anakin skywalker is an embalmed corpse left at the temple of her love.  padmé routinely mourns for him.  & like a half-eaten liver , her grief starts anew each morning.  & like burned skin healing , she revists her memory of him with caution.  the injured animal of her sorrow is wary of the sun-bright image of his smile , the salted taste of his mouth , the touch , the breath , the all of him as fragmented echoes in her mind.  there are mornings in which her throat still itches from contained sobs , mornings when anakin's ghost shares their bread with them & padmé answers obi-wan's silence with silence.

𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐰𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 , here named memory as well , who is sometimes woman , sometimes padmé amidala , sometimes mother , sometimes saint , & ghost again.  any woman is constructed as a mosaic , and had he ever had the patience to talk to his mother , she would have told him the same — any woman understands darkness , or the conflict of being and unbeing in the same body.  a ghost is a construct that exists very little , only as much as it is permitted to them.  a ghost might sit herself in the corner of his sterilized , artificial chamber & it is up to him to decide if she is there or not.  the sombrous , sullen , sinister side of the force could rage , perhaps , but she never had it in her to recoil from it  —  where others would turn and hide , a ghost might as well sit through it and endure.  

               there is a story ,  somewhere in the old world   (  here understood as that which is no more   &   all that has been lost   )  ,  about a man.  except he was no man ,  but a soldier ,  not a soldier but a negotiator ,  not a negotiator but a jedi.  sometimes ,  when he closes his eyes ,  he can see the shape of him ,  the grace of honor ,  the sillhouete of an ideal.  most times ,  he can not picture shape nor shadow ,  only a name which weights heavier than the entire galaxy and is all but buried now ,  burnt to ashes in a planet made of fire.  obi-wan kenobi once held the light of the galaxy in the palm of his hands ,  so carefully he watered it and fed it.  there is no more of that now ——  now there is only ben ,  and the grains of sand spilling through his fingers. 

                 (   &  this is what he tells himself at night ,  when the touch of her soothe him into sleep ,  as peaceful as it could be  :   in the story ,  the jedi had a best friend ,  who had a great love ,  who had a family and a home.  that is just a story.  he is only ben.  ) 

              padmé’s eyes glow against the sun  ,  brown reflecting gold against beige ,  and at times obi-wan forgets how stories ought to go  —  sometimes ,  all there is is the soft curl of her lips ,   the delicate pink of it  ,   how her laugh sounds ,  how the children cling to her with so much love it feels as though it could heal old wounds.  it doesn’t ,  but they can pretend , sometimes.   other times ,  it slips ,  like holding water in your palms , or sand ,  or the roughness of both against the skin now that all softness is gone from the world.     ❛   when you put it like that.   ❜     he says ,  and the words linger in the air with no finality  —  there is nothing to be said here ,  when neither live by their own choices ,  when their life ,  or their pretend-make-believe-life ,  is someone else’s life.   

               instead ,  he lowers his eyes to her hands ,  to the dry-softness of it , to the paradoxical nature of all around him ,  like the green in a vase in the corner in the middle of the desert ,  or their not-themselves-themselves existence. his thumb grazes over her jaw , softly , lovingly , and he smiles.  there is so much want here   —  the kind of desire that stains.  the tips of obi-wan’s fingers are stained with the desire of her ,  or perhaps they are stained with the blood of him ,  or perhaps they are both the same thing  :   red , and thick ,  and dripping over him.  it says  :   this is what you took in the same way you took his life.  you ,  murderer.   you ,  thief.   obi-wan stands in the place where he once stood ,  drinks the love that he once spilled ,  eats the bread that is his  ——  regret is late and posthumous and sometimes not here at all ,  just the memory of it , and the guilt ,  and the paradoxical nature of some-kind-of-happiness. 

               ❛   i didn’t think it would be this sweet …  the fruit ,  whatever it is called.   ❜      he says , finally ,  licking what remains of it off his thumb and fingers ,  tasting the luxury that life sometimes gives  &  often takes away.    ❛   perhaps i should look for more of it next time we hit the market.   ❜         

𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧.  root-less woman and uninhabited and haunted , alone inside herself.  let us talk about a body looking for what the body was before mourning , this body which is a sanctuary in her likeness , an in-between place , a sort of domestic animal.  she had been padmé once & it is still padmé's face staring back at her from the little shard of mirroed glass she keeps by the bed :   sun-touched skin , freckles-kissed , older with wider hips , sand-scratched hands , a woman rougher around all edges , & tired in ways she had never known herself to be.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.  the aftermath of war is two people waiting for grief to leave the table , only for quiet guilt to take its place.  there is a sort of vulnerability in how her skin already knows his , all the lack of softness in his fingertips , the pressure of his palm to her face.  war and the ending of it , which was the shadow of worser things , made lonely creatures of them both , two mutilated animals wary of open hands , but still craving it , the comfort of togetherness.  & perhaps in other stories she would not have gone to him in the night , the last pieces of her heart in her hands , the straps of her gown sliding down her shoulders , with the gentlest , quietest whisper of  please  under her tongue. 

𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 , & if they will not have anything else , they might as well have each other.

padmé-who-is-not-padmé , here named sola , for the sister she now lacks , laughs lightly at obi-wan-not-general-not-jedi , who here is just ben , and sits besides him , where guilt might have sat if she gave it any more attention.  she knows this is the wrong story , she knows this is the wrong man , that the children will someday not be children and ask questions that will cut like knives do — but what stories are there to tell ?  a dead father that like a ghost stays in the kitchen with them , a dead republic , dead dreams , dead friends.

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡.  love is the starved animal in her that sighs meekly at his hand.  love is rosy-fingered dawn light or the tenderness with which she unzips her limbs from his in the morning ,  & it is also the deserted space in her chest when he leaves.  love is her palm to his cheek now and his hand to her waist , this which is flesh to flesh , skin to skin , the hungry touch of hungry lovers. 

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 ... a mouth , a heart , a creature within a creature , that is her at the same time it is not — the animal of her love comes alive at the sight of him , & suddenly she is no longer padmé , nor hand nor feet nor flesh of her , but a burning feeling , & only that.  this is the hunger she has learned from him :  only his body against her body , only his voice against her cheek , his arms , his easy laugh , the light of him upon her.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 , & neither is wrong. we choose what we believe in.

𝐬𝐨 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 ,  sins extended of half-forgotten grandfathers , their  conjoined crimes , a shadow within a darker one…  her grandson , red as anger , red as a wound.   the hand of the sith attached to flesh of her flesh —  black , tumorous , apathetic.  she accepts it with the intricate , yet compact efficiency of a well calibrated starship.  there would always be stories of darkness , this does not mean she believes in them.   darkness is both the absence of light and the death of it , which is to say padmé knows darkness because she has once known light.   the shadow grows , as she has seen it a thousand times before , & she has never feared it.   there are a thousand more stars in the sky.

002.  ON HER WARDROBE :   an original content from liberdie.

the dark, heavy fabric and geometric cuts seen in queen amidala’s gowns were meant to hide her body, which would disguise and blend the differences between the queen and the handmaidens who acted as her decoys.  the layers of fabric created an illusion of proportions, hid different skin tones and purposely dehumanized the figure of naboo’s regent — the queen is an idea, a constructed concept embodied by a human girl when she wears the ceremonial makeup, the heavy fabrics or the high geometrical hairstyles.

the woman born as padmé naberrie had existed entirely dedicated to public service from early childhood.  she was queen by the age of twelve years old, in which her duty and the greater good superimposed her individuality, her identity as  "padmé"  which existed beneath the persona of  "amidala".   padmé’s first steps in finding her own persona and revealing herself to the galaxy comes through her manner of dressing when she becomes a senator.  by then, she is free to be more creative and independent with her outfits and is able to show who she is instead of who she is supposed to be.  to mark this contrast between 𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐝𝐦é , she opts for lighter gowns with flowing skirts in colors that are mostly white or variations of it, relating to her honesty and incorruptibility before the republic.  the ever present pearls she wears on headpieces, upon embroidered veils, pr on her sleeves are representative of naboo and she often wears pale blue and other tones reminiscent of water when defending bills that are particular of her home planet.

after her secret marriage to anakin skywalker, padmé takes on an old tradition from naboo, and starts to wear transparent veils as a symbol of her union. it is an old tradition, which is rarely kept by younger generations, & to the general public, padmé's excuse is that the veils are a symbol of her marriage to the republic and a way of being connected to her culture from the capital of coruscant. 

001.  ON RELIGION:   an original content from liberdie.

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐨.  in my portrayal, the religion of the naboo is semi-monotheistic, based in the veneration of the three moons of naboo, each representing the triunity of three distinct aspects of a single goddess :  𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐨’𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, worshipped as  maiden, mother and crone.  she is, sometimes, equated with a facet of the force, as she embodies life as the mother and death through the image of the crone.  because the naboo venerate the triple goddess viewed as a triunity of feminine archetypes, the naboo society is solely matriarchal — represented mostly by the figure of the elected queen, but also through the registration and record of the maternal bloodline ( ex: the children take on the name of the mother ). this portrayal will disregard all male kings of naboo, focusing men to a role commonly associated with neopaganism:  the consort. 

their holy people are ( mostly but not exclusively ) priestesses and often healers scattered either in nomadic groups or across temples through the largest cities; they are sometimes called  "moon daughters".   in theed, the capital, there is a great temple under the jurisdiction of a head priestess ( typically a widow who has given birth to many children ) who is in charge of all other holy women and men of naboo.  these priestess of the great mother are known to do humanitarian work not only on naboo but also across the galaxy and are known to accept volunteers to accompany them, such as the relief mission padmé and her father ( ruwee naberrie ) went on to offer to aid to the suffering planet of shadda-bi-boran.

naboo’s monarchs themselves are said to represent the maiden facet, which is shown through the election of young girls as queens.  heir age vary between 11 to 16 years old, although there are rare occurrences of young women of 18 or 19 taking on the role of queen through their second term.   because the maiden archetype represents purity of body and spirit, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐲 —  as the naboo believe political power in the hands of the elderly is a path to stagnation and unnecessary attachment to outdated values.  the queen’s alleged naivety and inexperience is then balanced by the queens of old who take on the roles of mothers and crones as they act as advisors to the young leader in her formative years in power,  also known in canon as the naboo royal advisory council. consorts to late queens might also act as members of naboo’s royal council.  𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧, 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐨, 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚.  she is a constructed concept which is embodied by a girl when she wears the ceremonial face paint and the elaborated geometrical hairstyles.  such details are meant not only hide the physical identity of the queen for her own safety, but also transform her into something more than human, an agent of the great goddess.  

padmé herself once considered initiating in the path of the goddess as a priestess like her sister, sola naberrie, but she then preferred to take on a more active position through politics after the traumatic experience of shadda-bi-boran.  reverent whispers of padmé amidala answering a divine call gained strenght after her death and she is considered by many a herald of the great goddess.  after her death, padmé amidala would be commonly depicted as the great goddess in art, through the mother aspect.  later, a temple would be built in her name, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭.

the three moons of naboo have influenced the naboo in their sacred relationship with water as well.  in general, their women prefer humanized childbirth through water. later, it would cause a great sadness in padmé that she was not able to have her children in this manner.  children are early baptized in the water at night, as an offering to the great goddess, who is their spiritual mother.  newly married are also baptized in the water and young couples begin courtship through pearl hunting at the bottom of larges bodies of water.  to the more superstitious of the naboo, and generally the elder population, the lunar phases might also influence a child’s personality, more or less like the concept of astrology.  before every major important event that signify change, there is a ritual of blessing led by a priestess or priest, be it a queen's coronation or even padmé’s tenure as a senator, which included her moving from naboo to coruscant. 

𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐬: 

𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 , which is not bone-pale , cold or dark — death is red , ever-burning , fire which does not know anything else.  she knows death and the wound of mourning , & she knows the anger of it.  anger is familiar , but rarely welcome.  even now , as she feels the flare of it , a red thing inside of her , she swallows it down.  justice had not served her , so it had to be personal , she had made it personal in her mind ,  she had imagined her hand to the blaster , the blaster to his armor , fire one , two , three times.  it was not for the wounding of him , it was to get the message across :   𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲 , as only cornered animals are.  but staring at him as she is now , she only shakes her head and does nothing.   ❛  you haven’t built anything , you destroyed it. ❜

          a mother is a god to a child.   the highest name spoken on her lips, always soft, always a comfort. what else is needed if not for the cradle of her arms, the patter of her heart a song that beats wildly against leia’s ear? she is the beginning: she that fashioned her within the womb, she that raised her through a rebellion. and leia draws to her room like a zealot craving grace, seeking peace from a darkness that threatens to consume her. such is the basis of all religion. motherhood and godhood have always been synonymous.

          ❝  mother?  ❞   a prayer uttered, a pin-prick of light that opposes the cloak of night surrounding them. and— poor thing— her clenched fists shake at her sides. this is courage in its most gentlest form: braving the storm of oneself to find comfort in another. she stands at the door and lets it pour from her throat.

          ❝  i’m sorry, i… i had that dream again. the burning man.  ❞

𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥.  but the half-light of a mother's illuminated room is a beacon , light upon light in the night , where the white sheets , the white ceiling , the white gentle hand of a woman stretches out into the shadows and touches leia. a mother's room is no place for darkness , so the dark stays by the threshold as the child steps inside.  

          he’s existing in this awkward space between boy and man, knowing too much and not enough at the same time, still heart-clumsy and yet carrying the weight of a galaxy on his shoulders. it’s selfish, he knows, that the deaths that’ve encompassed him as of late mean little when naboo’s warmth is so bright— when he sees padmé, haloed by the sun, turn towards him with gold in her veil, in her hair. her open arms invite him to worship; anakin laughs freely for the first time in weeks, running towards the saint of his love, sweeping her in her arms with a joy that would crush her if he wasn’t careful.

          ❛ i told them i’d be on a mission on correllia. they’ll never know i’m gone. ❜

            her body to his feels like a prayer’s been answered. he breathes her in, touching the small of her back, her spine, his cheek curved against the dip of her shoulder. he delights in each kiss against her neck, his teeth at her throat, finally meeting the softness of her lips with a hunger that hollows out his stomach until there’s nothing left but the ache of it.

          ❛ i’ve missed you, my love. ❜ he mumbles between their breaths, and the vulnerability of it nearly breaks his voice. he wants to say it again with more meaning, i’ve missed you i’ve missed you i’ve missed you, until it sears and binds their skin together in one form. he shakes his head, his hands coming to frame her jaw, settling for the way he can pull her mouth to his once more.

          ❛ these pieces of you, i can’t… i can’t keep living like this. i need you. ❜

𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 ,  a sort of starvation that grows in the back of her mouth.  there is no satisfaction for a hunger that eats , eats again and still wants more.  this is a dangerous love , red and raw as the underside of her cheek , this is also a tender love , a warmhearted creature in her hands.  there is selfishness here , but there is devotion too , & 𝐚 𝐯𝐮𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫 :   her name at the tip of his tongue makes her shiver.

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 :   there is war , the dread of it weights on her , & dread is not the same as fear.  she hates violence and injustice and the darkness that clings to the galaxy , but fear for anakin lives lodged within her , the weird-shaped shrapnel of it hurts her from time to time.  padmé had been blessed enough to not know loss as he does , but the mere thought of it is enough to hurt again , & her heart writhes , & the thought of him alone , then of him not existing at all , poisons her with this fear. she knows this is a sort of selfishness , she keeps it with her anyway. 

[ she should be at the senate , but she is not. she should be raising funds , but she is not. she should be debating votes , & she is not. ] 

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 :   the sun breaks through the trees as it breaks through the water and padmé is in anakin’s arms.  padmé feels so light , as if she is floating beyond her self , at the same time that she sinks against his body , as if he too is water , all of the blue of it in his eyes.  this is what it feels to be in love , her body shifting in the light to accommodate his.

                    obi-wan has learned how to live with guilt —  from a young age , he has been haunted by it ,  from the first time he ever laid eyes on a beautiful woman , to the countless of deaths that hang on his hands , the blood of all drip, drip, dripping from his fingertips , red and sticky and redder , its iron taste almost blinding. obi-wan has known guilt  :  he carries it with him as an old friend, hand in hand, tells them stories to go to bed and feeds them after a long day. he has no interest in departuring from it   :    there is no such thing as an absolution for obi-wan kenobi.  there is only the penance of each day , and the pain , and the silence choke of tears that dare to burst out of him, a broken-raw-swallowed sob that he muffles by the touch of his palms against his throat.  this is what it means to be obi-wan kenobi, every day : you carry the guilt and the remembereance and the loss and you try to keep yourself together, against all odds, so that one day, perhaps, you may rest your head against the pillowcase and have a dream made of the force.  

                 the first haunting and haunted guilt he had ever met was of qui-gon’s death :   here , boy , child , padawan , here is where you should have been more. should have been better. should have saved your master’s life, should have stood by him in death , should have joined him, should have —— silence, now, or the guilt of him will resurface, and that is a guilt that neither reader nor narrator could bear to hold.  instead , now , we talk of the guilt which is no guilt at all  —  the guilt which obi-wan kenobi will take on gladly, again, and again, and again, if only for the small flutter of hope to shine through his chest once again. if only then. 

                  obi-wan smiles at padmé, the softness of her touch bringing softness to his features, to his sand-bruised skin, to the roughness of the desert, and of a soldier,       a jedi.     he takes her hand, softly, from the corner of his lips and holds it inside of his own, before bringing it closer and placing a kiss to the back of it, ever gentle with her.  a smile that reaches his eyes bloom from him, and he sighs in fake displeasure.      ῾     podracing?  hm. perhaps he will be a great pilot one day.  if biggs darklighter isn’t too much of a … distraction , of course.   ᾿   obi-wan lets her hand down, but does not let them go  :  instead , he intertwines their fingers together, so that they are only one, and if so wish could feel each other’s heartbeat through skin.  

                     ῾    i don’t know if there’s anything friendly about a draw, my darling, but i suppose there is no other choice.   ᾿   he says softly, and smiles, before taking a sip of hot caf and closing his eyes. he will not stare at the ceiling. he will not look at the cracks of beige which lead to nowhere. he will not seek absolution. 

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞  — the desert makes you that way.  the body which had not been born to the sand craves the softness beyond it ,  her water-fat desires ,  the sea which is not the dune sea , the wind that is not violent , the green that is not a bruise.  this is nostalgia , as well as guilt , to feel that surviving is not enough , to want more with a hunger that sits in the pit of her stomach , always there , watching from behind her eyes.

padmé’s small hand , desert-touched , should not fit so well in obi-wan’s hand , their callouses brushing against one another , born from the same wounds.  it is not a sin that in their tragedy , they’d seek the comfort of touch.  but it feels like it anyway.  it feels like a knife to her heart that  his rough lips would be so gentle against her skin , & that she would be thankful for it , until their intertwined fingers squeeze their conjoined hands ever so lightly.  & like their conjoined grieving , they touch for the sake of touch , only for the hunger of it.

it is almost funny  ( in the way tragedies are )  that another’s man lips , in another story , had felt like fire and that now she feels obi-wan’s mouth so gently kiss her hand and can only think of water.  𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬.  this fills her with guilt , a sadness for which she has only one name but will no longer speak.

& padmé is familiar enough with the cold touch of guilt nowadays :  she is guilty of living when others are gone ,  guilty of being a ghost , a mother , and no-longer-being-padmé , which sits in her both as guilt and as anger.  but she ignores it as she ignores so many other things , the desert has no heart for it.

❛  well, so many other things in life leave us no choice at all. ❜  , which she says with as much melancholy as cynicism.  it tastes different in her mouth , she’s still unused to the shape of it.  ❛ like everything else , we’ll just have to deal with it. ❜ , which she adds with more softness, with a brush of her mouth to his hand like he did with hers.

           there is no man in this suit.

          darth vader is haloed by the flames that devour him still, eating at the edges, red-against-chrome-against-black. each slow exhale is another loss of self, heavy with that messianic ache he never asked to have. when you cannot see the body, it simply stops existing— it ascends— so i’ll say it again: there is no man in this suit. and yet, if there was any remnant of one, it’d be his heart— a writhing, ugly lump of a thing, bent into the shape of her palms. it resounds, it rages, slamming against his chest in erratic beats. she has always brought that out in him. even in what was once her death did darth vader lose himself in her, and he threatens to do so once more.

           but what had stopped him then stops him now.

          obi-wan.   it’s a brief, fleeting feeling, but it washes over him all the same, this tether to an old life that exists in her thoughts. the softness that had begun blooming in his throat quickly crumbles into ash. a voice that has been his for so long he can barely remember the old one rips from him, made more harsh by the man who’d nearly stolen it.

          ❛ — i speak only the truth, your highness. your little rebellion is nothing more than another lie of the jedi meant to keep you from me. do not be fooled by your precious hope. ❜ 

          her face holds a fragility here, and darth vader pauses, nearly choking on it. they stand so far from each other as they did on this planet all those years ago, and just as he did then, he wishes to close the distance— to cross over and crush her to his chest until they are one body, one blood, one heartbeat. but he is no longer that laughable boy, and she doesn’t reach for him with the same longing she held before.

          no matter. he will bend all of time and space to create their new eternity now. ( fear can feel like love when you’ve lost the memory of it. )

          ❛ i sense… confusion in you. perhaps obi-wan is not the man you once thought he was? after all, he killed anakin skywalker. ❜   the recollection consumes him, and it is tangible, another presence in the room. he breaks an unspoken promise and moves towards her— slowly, yes, but still a threat; the mouth of him would bare its teeth if it could.    ❛ or was your love for him merely a facade? ❜

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 ,  the flames , the black place where fire meets rock , where in foetal position my body laid by a man's feet —  i cannot speak his name. i cannot speak his name. i cannot speak—  grief pulls harder here , stretching over my bones. & i had never meant to die like that , to die like this , with fear so well lodged within my heart it could have bloomed into anything.  it is anger now , it is also fire that burns like the lava burns , & i hear it as i hear him breathe.  it burns outside against black stone , it burns in this room , my rage against his.

fear is familiar :   i am flesh , blood , heart.   fear exists within these things.  & danger and death have often been so close companions; my hands have held blasters for as long as they have held other hands.  i am not afraid of death , i’ve done it a thousand times , but i am afraid of him — the power he has , the eye within his eyes that could see what i hold in my heart.  i cannot think of their names , the animal of his mind senses these things , hungers for the tender flesh of hope , & obi-wan has taught me well enough.  this heart is a fortress to match his own , i will die without revealing the rooms inside of it. 

❛ there are no more jedi. you and your inquisitors killed them all. ❜ ,   cynicism is weird-shaped in my mouth , but these are cynical times.  & 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐲𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 , our gestures as temporal events :   he moves and i follow , as i meticulously avoid his gravitational pull.  cyclically , repeatedly ,  we orbit each other around the room.  the space between where our bodies never meet exists fragmented , he pulls and i pull and we always end up in the center of the room , in front of each other , still breathing the same air. i raise my face to stare at him.   ❛ like you killed anakin. you have no right to speak his name. ❜