FicWad

Additional Author's Note: THIS CHAPTER SHOULD BE CONSIDERED NC-17 FOR MOST OF ITS LATTER HALF.







To Mon Mothma's considerable shock, the making of Padmé's funerary clothes, in spite of turning out to be far more involved and vastly complicated that she ever could have imagined, somehow also manages to become one of the most fascinating and pleasantly engrossing tasks that she can ever recall taking part in. After hearing that they would be responsible for making the funeral garments, Mon Mothma had experienced nightmarish visions of being forced to bend over bolts of cloth with nothing but a pair of scissors and a needle and thread, but of course she should have known better. In addition to datacards overflowing with many different patterns and detailed instructions for using those patterns to make their various garments, there are also many different specialized machines traditionally used by tailors to aid and speed their craft, including: vat-like machines for dying cloth with controls so detailed that they can produce highly elaborate and personalized patterns of color; clever little cutting machines that can be programmed with all of the specifics of both a pattern and the size needed for that garment; machines that can be similarly programmed to sew or otherwise fuse the various pieces of a garment together; more programmable machines that can create fanciful individualized embroidery and embossed work; and even a few highly clever and specialized machines that, if loaded with sufficient thread and gems or beads, can produce airy confections of lace beaded edging that can then be attached to or overlaid on different portions of either pattern pieces or a whole garment.

There is something about that last type of machine that Mon finds particularly intriguing (though personally, it is the cutting and sewing apparatuses that she believes to be potentially the most useful, so much so that, before the trip to Naboo is over, she will ask Moteé about where she might be able to purchase some of her own. Mon has always had problems finding tailors for good, practical, everyday garments - for some strange reason, those who are quite capable of creating breathtakingly elaborate formal Senate robes apparently find it impossible to make a simple, unadorned dress or shirt and trousers that will both fit Mon properly and not make her look like either a stick in a sack or a pleasure-worker seeking to be hired - and the idea of being able to simply plug her measurements into a machine loaded with a datacard of specific patterns and create some garments of her own choosing is one that she finds most appealing) and before the day is over she will take to it and the creation of increasingly elaborate and rich patterns of beadwork like a proverbial fish to water. However, before they can get around to starting the actual process of dyeing and cutting, sewing and fusing, and embroidering and embossing and beading, first they have to program all of the various specifics into the different machines. And before they can do that, of course, they have to come up with those specifics, which means that they have to agree upon the particulars of the garments that they are going to make.

The actual process involved in making the preparations necessary to even begin actually creating the garments somehow ends up taking both less time and more argument (including several shocking and nerve-wracking observations, on Mon Mothma's part) than she ever would have anticipated. After very little initial discussion, almost all of the bolts of colored cloth are summarily sent away, as the handmaidens and Ayesha Jamillia all agree with such finality that it will be more fitting for them to dye the cloth themselves than to rely on fabrics that have already been dyed that no one else present bothers to protest or question the decision. After a little more discussion about appropriate materials, the handmaids, former Queen, and, surprisingly enough, Sheltay Retrac (who argues successfully against Ottegan silk - a rich and lustrous fabric from Ithor that Padmé had often enjoyed wearing, one that naturally comes in many different shades of amethyst, shading all the way from a dark plum purple to the palest of lavender lilacs, without needing to be dyed - in favor of the sheerer and even more lustrous fabric of shimmersilk) arrive fairly quickly at fabric choices for the various garments, which the rest of them also all simply automatically agree upon: Lashaa silk, for the undergarments; shimmersilk, for the underdress; chersilk for the overgown; and Cyrene silk woven into a deeply piled velvet for the shrouding cloak. It is only afterwards, when they begin to speak about what colors should be used to dye those four fabrics, that the discussion becomes more heated. The handmaidens and, surprisingly enough, the protocol droid are all adamant that only shades of blue should be used while Ayesha Jamillia and Jar Jar Binks all seem to think that the violet of traditional Naboo mourning is called for and Sheltay Retrac and Bail Organa seem just as baffled as Mon Mothma herself is as to why they simply cannot use an indigo shading towards purple for one garment and more obvious hues of blue for the others.

After several long minutes of argument that get them no closer to a final agreement - and it is apparently dictated by tradition that all parties involved must agree upon every detail that comes into question in the process of creating a suit funerary clothes - Sabé finally raises her hands in a halting gesture and firmly declares, "Enough. This is getting us nowhere. Ayesha, Jar Jar, I am sorry if I seem to be disregarding your opinions, but I fear that I must insist on the blues. There are . . . good reasons for their use, here. Reasons personal to Milady's private life. I am sorry, but I cannot explain any further than this. This has never been my secret to tell and . . . the other two whose word could override Milady's last words, in regards to this, are not present among us, though they will be present at the funeral rites. May I ask for your indulgence on this matter, so that we may proceed?"

It is entirely extraordinary to hear a voice so very different than that of Padmé Amidala's issuing from a woman who looks so like her. Mon Mothma had not known Padmé Amidala well enough until after her election to the Senate and Sabé's return to Naboo to become familiar with Padmé's natural voice, and so she's never noticed before just how dissimilar the two women's voices actually are. Now that Sabé is no longer a handmaiden and constrained by her role as a decoy to make her voice just as flat and unaccented as possible, so as to minimize the differences between the tone and timbre and sound her own voice and that of Padmé Amidala's, Mon Mothma is surprised to find that Sabé's voice is entirely unlike that of her former Queen's, her accent much more clipped and precise and the natural pitch of her voice just enough deeper than Padmé's to be noticeable. It is . . . disconcerting, in a way that Mon cannot quite put her finger on, and this distracts her so much that she nearly fails to notice the look of sudden shock and comprehension washing over both Ayesha Jamillia and Sheltay Retrac's faces. She can hardly miss it, though, when Bail reaches out and places a steadying hand on his cousin's arm, as she sways, and demands of her, concern evident in his voice, "Sheltay? Are you alright, Cousin?"

"A moment of lightheadedness, only. I am fine, Bail. Don't worry. Perhaps I simply should have eaten more for breakfast," Sheltay smiles reassuringly back at her cousin. But there is still a hint of stunned wonder lingering in the back of her eyes, and, from the glances that pass between Moteé and Sabé, Mon Mothma is not the only one who has noticed it.

Ayesha, luckily enough, recovers from her surprise more quickly and completely, her gaze going distant and her face arranging itself into lines of thoughtfulness as she murmurs, her voice deliberately quiet and slow, "Padmé Amidala always did adore the water, didn't she? Though she hailed originally from the mountains, she loved the Lake Country and often spoke longingly of wishing to retreat there, after this war came to an end. I believe, after all, that shades of blue may be more appropriate - especially since we should not concentrate solely on mourning our friend's untimely passing but instead also celebrate the time that she had, honoring both her memory and her accomplishments. I believe she would be disappointed in us, were we to focus solely on our feelings of loss, as is signified by the mourning hue. She achieved many great things, while she was with us. We should honor that. I believe I wish to withdraw my earlier opinion."

"A grand fine lady, Miss Padmé was, tis true. Mesa thinkin yousa handmaidens are knowin her better than us others. If yousa thinkin her soul would be wantin more for a reminder of the Lake Country waters than a symbol of much tears, then concur with the majority opinion, mesa will," Jar Jar says after several long moments of deep thought, his gaze fixed on Sabé, obviously restraining himself from asking the question that is plain in his eyes.

But, "Thank you both for your understanding," Sabé only says, smiling at them warmly, though the nod of her head is oddly formal, almost as if Sabé were still carrying the weight of an elaborate regnal headdress. Afterwards, turning to the two Alderaanians, she simply asks, "Bail? Sheltay?"

Plainly puzzled, Bail looks quietly at his cousin, as if in question. Though neither one of them says anything, something, apparently, still passes between them, because with a small shrug Bail finally declares, "My earlier opinion was meant as a compromise, not a sign of any particular preference. I am aware that Milady Padmé was fond both of the water and the Lake Country, so the choice of a range of blues seems fitting, to me. More importantly, if it is what she wanted, then it would only be right for us to acquiesce to her wishes."

"I agree," Sheltay nods, her words all but tripping over Bail's.

"Very well, then. Mon?" Sabé asks, turning towards her.

"I also approve of the choice of blues, as it is what Senator Amidala wished," she promptly replies.

"Then we have a consensus. Thank you," Sabé nods gravely, her movement almost a bow. "There are many choices available for the types of garments that we are going to be making: if I may have your attention for just a while longer, we can look through the various patterns now and then break for lunch before we begin working with the actual fabrics."

Since Bail and Jar Jar and even Threepio seem embarrassed at the notion of picking out actual garments (and in fact give the women free reign, when it comes to the undergarments and underdress), this goes much quicker than Mon expects, and almost before she knows it they are breaking for lunch. Unsurprisingly, Sheltay finds a clever way to send the two men, human and Gungan, unsuspectingly on ahead, laughing a little as she makes shooing motions at her cousin and says, "You go along with Jar Jar, now, Bail. I have a question for the handmaidens about one of the undergarments and none of us wish to offend your delicate sensibilities!" Bails colors a bit at this but good-naturedly smiles back before setting off with Jar Jar, towards the ship's dining area. Sheltay waits until the door closes behind them and they are out of both sight and range of hearing and then waits a little longer, for good measure, before she rounds on Sabé and Moteé and quietly but firmly declares, "I am not blind, my friends. Padmé Amidala changed in the time that I knew her and the greatest change occurred in the time following Geonosis. At first I, like my cousin, assumed that most of these changes were in response to the outbreak of war. But I, unlike Bail, know what it is like to dress oneself to hide something. The Senator's style of dress changed a few months into the Outer Rim Sieges and I know of only three reasons that could explain this change, all of them having to do with a wish to disguise or draw attention away from changes to the body. I believe I know, now, both which of the three possibilities is the true reason and why she was so frantic, earlier on in the war, when he had been reported missing and assumed killed in action, though I never would have believed him capable of such folly."

Before Sheltay can say any more, Mon finds herself insisting, "You /are /wrong, though, Sheltay. Or at least you are wrong in the /who/, if not the /what/." Finding her gaze caught by the red face and wide eyes of the former Queen of Naboo and realizing that she, at least, knows that Mon is speaking the truth, she quietly and invitingly adds, "Jamillia? You know this, don't you?"

Stiffly, clearly embarrassed, her usually low, rich voice, with its distinctive southeastern Nabooian accent (which makes her enunciate the consonants powerfully even at the best of times), becoming oddly clipped, Ayesha Jamillia admits, "I had hoped I was wrong about this. Before Geonosis, Padmé returned to Naboo in order to hide from at least one assassin. It was for her own safety that she came, though she went into hiding with great reluctance. The young Jedi Padawan took his protective duties so seriously and Padmé was so distraught over what she saw as a retreat that it was decided things would go more smoothly, if they did not know of our own precautionary arrangements. The workers at the Lake House Retreat were all replaced by trusted members of my own court and the Royal Guard. There were some rather . . . disquieting reports, regarding the closeness of the relationship that rapidly developed between the two. But I thought that Padmé would have learned better than to seek to give her heart away to one whose Order forbade him from accepting any such offering, after the . . . disappointment she had suffered earlier, with the boy's Master. Padmé had cultivated close working relationships with several Jedi, by that time: in the end, I assumed that this was just another such alliance in the making. I never dreamed that she could be so careless as to encourage anything else - or so selfishly cruel as to take advantage of such a young one's lingering infatuation and open trust," she adds sadly, giving her head a small shake. "He was still but a boy, at the time, for all his years, and her heart had already been given to another, despite that other's inability to reciprocate or even fully comprehend the gesture. I imagine it was much the same with your cousin, Sheltay, was it not?"

Coloring slightly, Sheltay carefully replies, "Bail is a romantic, yes, but he is also quite capable of pragmatism. He has never had any expectations, regarding the keeper of his soul. And he has been honest with his wife and loved her a great deal. Breha Antilles Organa has never had cause to doubt Bail's love for her. Besides which," she add, a slightly defensive tone coming into her voice, "it is not as if Bail is alone, in regards to the chosen keeper of his heart and guardian of his soul. How many here can honestly say that they do not love Master Kenobi? Who better to trust with all of one's self, than he?" she demands challengingly. When no one answers her, she nods once, decisively, "I thought as much. But we are straying from the point - the purpose of the blues in Padmé's funeral clothes. This . . . relationship sounds like one that was wholly under Padmé's control. So if the blues are meant as some kind of accusation - "

"It is not an accusation," Dormé, one of Padmé's former handmaidens in the time during which the relationship in question truly began, suddenly quietly interjects, causing Mon to startle slightly (since she had not noticed the young lady's approach). "It is an acknowledgment, both of her greatest folly and of her greatest strength. She never ceased to love and she never stopped hoping; these are extraordinary things, even if they did lead her to folly, in the end. Moreover, blue is the predominant color in the eyes of both men; blue is the dominant color of the Lake Country; and blue is the color of penance and apology just as violet is the color of grief and mourning. Shades of blue are quite meet, for this."

"Especially since she made her peace with both men. I was with her, when she died. Her last thoughts were of them both, and what she bade me do, in her last moments, in some way helped to bring those two together in a way that they had not been, before. I do not believe they will ever part, now, and it is because of her need to help set things right between them again that this is so," Mon adds, being careful not to break her given word by repeating what Padmé told her or what she learned, when she went to Obi-Wan with Anakin Skywalker's beatified Padawan braid, but at the same time explaining enough to keep the spirit of her promise, protecting Obi-Wan and Anakin from any adverse reaction to the nature of Anakin's previous relationship with Padmé by telling Sheltay and Jamillia enough to reassure them that there is no reason to take offense, either over the complicated nature of the relationship between Obi-Wan Kenobi and Padmé Amidala and Anakin Skywalker or the many layers of significance to dressing Padmé in shades of blue for her funeral. "Blue is also the color of guardianship, as the Jedi would be the first to admit. Padmé has sought to be a guardian both for the peoples of Naboo, the rights and privileges democracy affords the sentient beings of the galaxy, and the ideals that lie at the heart of our Republic. She has earned the right to wear the color that acknowledges her toil. Blue is the right color for this."

For several long moments, Ayesha Jamillia simply looks at Mon silently, brow furrowed in thought, before finally seeming to reach a decision. With a decisive nod, she simply declares, "You are right, of course. Padmé deserves to wear blue. From what I have seen on the HoloNet of those two since their return to Coruscant, I think you are right about those two being brought more closely together. So I believe that what she led you to do, in the end, more than makes up for her error in becoming involved with that particular young man in the first place. There are many who have been brought near to despair over the uncertain and sometimes strained nature of the relationship between those two dear men and have wished in vain for a way to help them see their way past the artificial limitations imposed upon them by their Order . . . Yes. Whatever it is that she asked of you - and I have no wish to know what it is. There are some things that are better kept secret, so that they cannot cause harm to any by falling into the hands of the unwary or the outright malicious - it is a good thing that Padmé caused you to do."

Sheltay - who has stood by silently, with a stunned look on her face, ever since Mon's roundabout correction let her know that Padmé's need to disguise a change in her body had been due to a relationship with Anakin Skywalker, not Obi-Wan Kenobi - gives her head a small and bemused little shake before slowly admitting, "I am . . . unsure how either one of them could have hidden such a thing from Obi-Wan, much less how either one of them could have justified doing such a thing, much less believing it to be a good enough idea to follow through enough to necessitate Padmé needing to ask you to do such thing, but . . . I agree that it is, nonetheless, a good thing that she asked you to do. I have never known Bail to be happier than he was, when he told me that he had been accepted as the joint Padawan learner of Obi-Wan and Anakin, and I do not think that this would have ever happened, if those two had not found reason enough to truly come together, presenting a united and unbreakable front against the High Council and insisting upon changes to the Order, in the wake of all that had gone so very nearly entirely wrong, with all of us failing to see Palpatine for what he truly was." Her eyes go distant for a moment, then, before, with a shrug, she returns to the here and now, gaze sharpening as she flatly declares, "These are not things that should be spoken of again, outside of this specific gathering. It is likely dangerous to speak of them even as little as we have. There are too many beings in the galaxy who are lacking in either hearts or souls or both, and I would not put it past some of those despicable vultures on the HoloNet to seek to make something ugly of this. It is for this reason precisely that we of Alderaan have been so careful in regards to Bail's feelings. If our Prince wishes to indulge in romantic tendencies that hurt none within the bounds of a relationship with a strong foundation of admiration and respect and friendship, then it is no one's business but his own. Obi-Wan himself never suspected - though I would imagine he probably knows, now, and understands that it is not something Bail has ever expected any kind of reciprocation for, since Obi-Wan has agreed to become one of Bail's Masters. But I am becoming distracted from my point," she continues, giving herself a brief little shake before adding, "and it is important. We should agree not to speak of this again, outside of the company currently present, unless Master Kenobi or Master Skywalker himself wishes to speak with us on the matter. I am quite certain that Bail does not suspect, and until or unless Obi-Wan and Anakin explain all of this to him, we should assume that they have a good reason for not telling him and honor their decision."

"It is why we have sought not to speak of this, before now. We were unsure how much any one of you might have known or figured out, for yourselves," Dormé explain, her soft voice unabashedly apologetic. "This could be made into a scandal and there is too much upheaval in the galaxy as it is without seeking to invite more troubles through carelessness. Milady was at least careful in concealing her secret. Her family - her parents and her sister - know of this; we who have been her handmaidens know, as we were all considered her chosen siblings; the two droids, R2-D2 and C-3PO, know; Anakin and Obi-Wan themselves know; and now you three also know at least a good portion of the truth. There are no others. The holy man who helped Padmé write up the temporary marriage contract and then presided over the exchange of vows kept no records of the arrangement, per Padmé's request, and the war has since claimed him. The only others who will be in a position to even wonder about these things will be the people of Naboo who observe and properly identify the traditional symbols that are going to be patterned into Milady's funeral clothes, and they will all be constrained by tradition - as well as respect of Milady herself - not to speak of such things to outsiders. Padmé has been well-loved, on Naboo, and there are many who have wondered if she would not eventually seek some happiness for herself, by pursuing a contractual arrangement for a temporary alliance, one meant only to bring her a child. It is widely known that her sister, Sola, wished for Padmé to do something similar, if she would not retire from politics. It will be assumed, by our people, that Milady was in the midst of just such an arrangement, and so they will not seek to pursue the matter further. So long as we keep our silence, all should be well. Before you make any final decisions, you should all be aware that Milady loved her young husband a great deal - as much, if not more, than your cousin Bail has loved his young wife - and that she never meant to cause either him or Master Obi-Wan any harm or pain," she insists, catching and holding, in turn, first Sheltay's and then Ayesha Jamillia's and Mon Mothma's gaze. "The young man adored her and she was lonely and afraid and weary of the prospect of remaining alone for the rest of her life. She came to care for him a great deal in a very short amount of time, and then she made a mistake that she could not, thereafter, quickly rectify. She did not know how to correct her error without causing even more pain - something that she did not wish to do. Padmé agonized over this conundrum during the whole of the time she was bound to him and, when she knew that death was about to claim her, she used her last moments to see to it that what she had interfered with would be set aright again. Please, try not to think too harshly of her. Milady was only human, as are we all, and her mistakes were such that any one of us could have made. She was a good person, with a kind and loving and generous and true and courageous spirit. And she did many good things, in her time with us. I would ask that you all please try to remember her for the good that she intended, not for the ill that she inadvertently helped to cause. I do not doubt that there will be those who seek to destroy her reputation, for the aid she was manipulated into giving Palpatine, in his rise to power over the Republic. There will be danger enough, without any of us adding to the mix with our anger or disappointment. And Milady Padmé is not the only one who would be harmed, if others were to learn any of what we know. There is also Obi-Wan, who was her acknowledged am'chara /and cariodal/, as well as Anakin, who was her unacknowledged husband. And those two most assuredly do not deserve such trouble. They have already more than suffered enough."

"I think we are already in agreement, on this matter," is Ayesha Jamillia's quiet response. "But in case you need to hear it, then I swear that no others will learn of these matters from my lips." Then, turning towards Sheltay, she thoughtfully adds, "And in case you are worried for your cousin's sake, let me also assure you that I consider what you have said of Bail Organa to be included by my vow."

"I have already given my promise to another, but I will gladly give it again. I will do everything I can to safeguard Masters Kenobi and Skywalker: none shall learn of these matters - any of these matters, Sheltay - from me," Mon quickly agrees.

"You handmaidens have already sworn such vows, I am sure. Allow me to add mine to yours," Sheltay offers, her voice grave but firm. "I shall protect this knowledge with my life, if I must. Bail is my cousin and has been my Prince and I love him dearly; Anakin and Obi-Wan are his new Masters: I would rather die than aid in causing them any shame or trouble or anguish."

"Then our minds and wills are as one, in this. We are in agreement. The vow is sealed," Sabé - the former handmaid who still looks so much like Padmé but sounds so disconcertingly different - declares then, voice grave, face solemn. She waits half a handful of heartbeats, as they all nod agreement, and then smiles, her expression lightening to an almost impish grin as she exclaims, "Good! That is settled, then. If we wish to keep our vow, we should begin by going down to lunch as though nothing more important or interesting has been happening in this room but a discussion about proper undergarments, so that the men will not suspect anything. Jar Jar has become far more perceptive, in recent years, and your cousin is a very smart man, Sheltay. We don't want to give them any reason to start thinking about certain things, and we've been up here alone quite long enough. Please, follow me. Did I ever tell you about the truly lurid shades of dyed Lashaa silk that the Trade Federation tried to pay a part of the costs of the court-mandated reparation they were ordered to made to the Naboo people? Milady swore that they must have been rejects from a Hutt's pleasure palace, they were all so awful! Let me tell you all about it," she smiles widely before she begins chattering animatedly (as though continuing an earlier conversation arc) about the garish hideousness of the bolts of silks in question.

Reassured, Mon files out with the others, smiling and shaking her head occasionally as she listens to the story of the Lashaa silks. By the time they reach the dining area, they are all laughing and chattering like old friends, and she can tell, from the slightly glazed look in Jar Jar eye's and the polite blankness of Bail's eyes (as he carefully tunes out conversations that might be considered inappropriate or embarrassing), that Sabé's attempt at a providing a distraction, in launching into just such a tale, has worked like a charm. A weight lift from her shoulders then and Mon begins to breathe more easily as she relaxes, several of her most pressing worries all but entirely eased from her mind by the conversation they have just had and the vows they've chosen to share. Of those who know enough of the potentially incriminating truth to be able to cause trouble, she is now certain that no harm will ever willingly come to either Obi-Wan or Anakin through the action or inaction any who are aboard this ship. Since she trusts the two Masters to keep silent on such matters - for the sake of Padmé's reputation, if nothing else - that leaves only three people to worry about (four, if she counts Padmé's grandmother, who traditionally will be in charge of the funeral proceedings and so will be in a position to notice many potentially troublesome things, even if she has not been told the truth about Padmé's short-term marriage), regarding the safety of these secrets. Since those few beings are the closet living blood-relatives of Padmé Naberrie - people who will have a vested interest not only in protecting her good name but also in seeing to it that her will is carried out, in the matter, and her secrets go with her to the grave - Mon feels certain that fears are about to be laid to rest for good and all. After all, surely, of all possible quarters, it is from Padmé's family that trouble would be last to arise!

Smiling brightly, Mon Mothma shakes her head over Sabé's vivid description of the gaudy Lashaa silks and turns towards Moteé, determined to take advantage of the first lull in conversation and ask her about how she might go about procuring some of the clever cutting and sewing machines for herself, so that she might be able to make some plain and proper clothing for herself . . .

***

Obi-Wan Kenobi wakes gradually, becoming aware, by degrees, of the gentle give of a mattress, the soft warmth of a downy bedspread, and the increasingly familiar feeling of arms wrapped securely around him, even in slumber. He and Anakin are lying together in a warm cocoon of sheets and limbs, curling half on their sides so as to face each other and cuddle more closely together. Joy and awe bubble up within him as Obi-Wan open his eyes and smiles at his beloved, certain the sensation of waking up next to him and knowing that it is no nightmare that has brought Anakin to his side but rather a love that he never would have dreamed they would one day be able to so openly declare is a feeling that Obi-Wan will never grow tired of rejoicing in. Gently, tenderly, Obi-Wan raises his right hand and carefully brushes back the tangle of loose curls spilling over Anakin's brow, his fingers lingering lovingly against his golden skin. Anakin stirs, ever so slightly, just enough to move closer, leaning up into the hand resting in his hair, the thumb absently stroking his brow. Anakin is still deeply asleep and so the movement he makes is small, but it is, in a way, even more incredibly telling for that, for it is a trusting and instinctual motion, one that makes Obi-Wan's heart swell to overflowing with tenderness. If Obi-Wan has ever known more joy than the past few days have brought to him, it is from a period in his life too long ago for him to remember it. Given the choices he has made in his life, Obi-Wan never could have imagined that so much pleasure, so much joy, could be found in just this simple act of waking up beside another person and seeing him move naturally and automatically into even the lightest of touches.

Closing his eyes momentarily, Obi-Wan sends out a fervent and unending stream of gratitude to Padmé Sharian Naberrie, wherever she might be now within the Force, for providing the impetus necessary to wake him to the fact that he is and has been deeply in love with Anakin Skywalker for many years, now, a realization he had hitherto managed to avoid making because of those same earlier choices (which limited so much of his awareness of how his own body could and should normally function) and thought patterns learned over a lifetime within an Order that has allowed no admittance of natural emotion (for fear that such feelings would lead to the passions and insanity of what was known as the Dark Side), a realization he had needed to have thrown up in his face to gain enough knowledge of himself as well as courage enough to act upon that knowledge to even be able to approach Anakin with a clear offering of himself, all of his love and all of his devotion and all of himself, all that he is and all that makes him Obi-Wan Kenobi, including his body as well as his mind and his heart and soul, as demanded by that love. In that moment, Obi-Wan could have kissed Padmé, so heartfelt is his thanks. Since that is impossible, he does the next best thing, instead, leaning forward to brush his lips softly and thankfully against Anakin's, keeping the caress light so as not to wake him quite yet. On Coruscant, he promised to show Anakin his gratitude. Though he has done much, already, to do just that, and Anakin would likely believe himself well thanked, Obi-Wan has it in mind to share a bit more of his joy and his thankfulness while they still have the privacy and the time for such sharing, and he is quite certain that Anakin will not complain, once he rouses to wakefulness.

Smiling softly as he leans back, shifting until he can raise both hands out to Anakin, Obi-Wan gently presses feather light touches across his face, tracing his beloved features with all the reverence of a blind man who has been blessed with a moment of clear vision. Anakin's breath warms the skin of his face and neck as he moves a little closer, until he is practically lying flush to Anakin's body. A contented little murmur escapes Anakin as Obi-Wan bends even closer, to skim a second kiss across his lips, and when he pulls away Anakin sighs again, an unconscious exhalation of, "Obi . . . " that makes Obi-Wan's hands tremble ever so slightly as he continues his all but worshipful caresses, skimming his palms and trailing his fingertips lightly across the broad expanse of Anakin's chest, cataloguing every sculpted curve and recess and smooth plane on the way down towards the rippling muscles of his stomach, loving the feel of hard muscle underneath all of that silky smooth golden flesh. Anakin's nipples pebble beneath his touch and, without stopping to think about it, Obi-Wan leans forward, pinching Anakin's right nipple ever so slightly between his thumb and forefinger even as he rasps his tongue across his left nipple to tease it to similar hardness before latching his mouth around it, sucking gently and shivering as the taste of heated salty skin invades his senses. Just touching him is making Obi-Wan's own body ache with need, and from the shiver of Anakin's body under his right hand, pressed flat to hardness of his stomach, he would gauge that the same want is rising in Anakin, though it is not yet great enough to rouse him from slumber.

Pulling back just enough to look down Anakin's body, Obi-Wan can't help but blush slightly, with a mixture of pride and desire, as he sees that his body is indeed responding to Obi-Wan's caresses. Pleased, he continues to slide his hands across Anakin's pectorals and abdomen, leaning forward to trace lazy patterns in the wake of his hands with his lips when Anakin shivers slightly and leans in closer to him, a low noise catching in his throat as he moves, restlessly, in his sleep, instinctively pressing closer to Obi-Wan. Emboldened, Obi-Wan reaches down to slide his fingers through the nest of silky golden curls at his groin to touch him. Anakin's skin is hot, the feel of satiny soft skin coupled with hardness still exotic and new, and there is a thin layer of skin there that moves with his touch, gliding back under the slight pressure of his fingertips, and the breathless moan that escapes Anakin then is a good indication that he will be tumbling into wakefulness soon. Quickly, before Anakin can wake, Obi-Wan traces across the blunt head with his thumb, gathering the liquid that is beginning to well from the slit at the center, and then brings it to his lips, curiously flicking out his tongue to taste, wanting to know the essence of Anakin but not yet ready to try a more direct approach, unsure if he can do what Anakin has done for him so many times already without in some way fouling up or disappointing and unwilling, as yet, to risk it.

And yet . . . and yet . . . Anakin's makes a noise that can only be classified as a whimper, and that finally decides him. Sliding down on the bed to bring himself level with Anakin's waist, Obi-Wan leans in and presses his mouth to the dip there in an open-mouthed kiss, his tongue tip pressing firmly against and into Anakin's navel, wanting to taste that hollow first before moving on. He lingers there for several long moments, burrowing in closer, before finally pulling away. Then, bending his head, Obi-Wan places a second open-mouthed kiss to the crown of Anakin, a second, louder whimper giving him courage enough to open his mouth enough to close it gently around the swollen red head, his tongue sliding slowly, inquisitively, across that slit to dip lower, circling around the ridge behind the head and then seeking out and tracing the sensitive veins running along the underside. Anakin flesh is incredibly hard and unyielding and the skin is so hot that it feels as if a furnace were blazing just beneath the surface. The pleasure the intimacy of the act brings him is shockingly delicious and Obi-Wan finds himself humming happily around a mouthful of Anakin. Emboldened by yet another noise from Anakin, this one closer to a guttural groan than a whimper, Obi-Wan leans closer, his hands wrapping around Anakin's hips, and opens his mouth wide to take in more of him. The very moment he begins to suck, though, pulling Anakin into his mouth as far as possible, is the instant Obi-Wan feels him break into consciousness. There is a bright flare of warmth, awareness, and desire along the bond, flooding his mind and senses with heat and hunger and just the sensation of /Anakin/, pressing in all around him as warm and real as an actual touch, and Obi-Wan moans, unable to help himself, around his mouthful of flesh, unable to keep himself from responding to the heat of the sensation of blanketing heat and touch.

Anakin's breathing is already coming fast and shallow but at that he gasps, panting as if he has been running instead of sleeping, and the hands he reaches down to thread through Obi-Wan's hair and cup around his head tremble, his touch so soft as to almost seem uncertain. But it is only for a few moments, time in which Anakin does nothing but rest his hands passively on Obi-Wan's head, and afterwards Anakin pulls back on Obi-Wan, gently but inexorably urging him to back away. Oddly reluctant, Obi-Wan obeys that tender pressure, leaning back until he rises up off of Anakin with a faint but audible pop that makes a soft growl catch in the back of Anakin's throat. Confused and hurt by what seems like rejection, Obi-Wan simply looks at him, the question blatant in his eyes. The noise Anakin makes then is half a laugh and half a sob as he whispers, "No, Master, you're not doing anything wrong, I swear to you that you aren't. I just - not yet, please, and not like this. Please. I want to be awake for it all. I don't want to miss even a moment. And I want you to be ready, when it happens," he continues as he guides Obi-Wan back up on the bed, until they are on a level, his gaze unblinking and intent, deliberately not allowing him to look away. The desire in those eyes is as unavoidable as the restraint necessary to keep Anakin from simply selfishly allowing Obi-Wan to just keep doing what he was doing, and Obi-Wan can't keep from shivering a little at the combination of raw hunger and the durasteel control needed to keep it in check, unable to keep from remembering some of his earlier fears at the sight of so much unabashed appetite. "I want you to truly want it, Obi-Wan, not to just feel as if you should. I promised that I would not rush you, earlier, and I meant it. If that means I must also keep you from trying to push yourself into doing more things and more quickly than you would on your own, then I will do so. Do you understand? I want you. In every possible way. But I can wait for you. I will wait, love. You don't have to do this now."

The seriousness and fervency of Anakin's final declaration is almost as startling as it is warming. He knows that Anakin wants him: he doesn't need Anakin to tell him so to realize it, not anymore - not when Anakin's body is rigid and straining with desire and the bond between them is all but vibrating with need, like a wire drawn far too tight and about to snap violently in two. All he had wanted to do was to acknowledge that desire before Anakin could wake to it again, to show his thanks for the great gift he has been given, in Anakin, and the second chance they have won, together, in each other. And Anakin's reaction is not simple acceptance of that gratitude but instead the same fierce protectiveness and tenderness and unyielding control with which he went about first making Obi-Wan his own, patiently relaxing him and readying him and then tenderly showing him how his body, so newly released from a lifetime of control, could come to completion, all the while carefully making sure to never push too far too fast or to try to push beyond the boundaries of what Obi-Wan felt ready for yet. The restraint, the care, the sheer amount of love and respect that this reveals, to him . . . Obi-Wan cannot think. His mind goes entirely blank and white and all he can do is lunge up to wind his arms around Anakin's neck and attack his mouth, kissing him so hard that it doubtlessly hurts, that their teeth all but clash together in his urgency to cover Anakin's mouth with his own, and oh, Force, it's so good, so right, and he wants this, wants him, just wants -

And then they are kissing and rolling in the bed, first Obi-Wan on top and then Anakin, and all the while kissing and kissing and kissing, and he knows he will never get enough of this, ever, so long as he lives, he will never have his fill of kisses or touches and caresses, never grow tired of this, this simple feeling and its expression, so natural and so basic, and all that he wants is this and this and more of this, a forever of this, and it will never be enough but by the stars he is more than willing to try to make it so, to make it last for an infinity of eternities, and Anakin is making a noise that is half a feral snarl of want and half a mewling cry of need as the moment erupts between them like an exploding sun, bodies entwining and pressing together for more and ever more closeness as the world seems to tilt and fall away and they turn, once more, in the bed, Anakin writhing as he raises his legs up, hooking them purposefully around Obi-Wan's hips, and Obi-Wan slides into him as effortlessly and naturally as a key sliding home into its lock when already well-oiled and primed, the motion that easy and that final. Obi-Wan stills for a moment then, already inside hot and somehow slick seeming skin as far as he can go and with no clear idea how he got there, an instant of bemusement penetrating the whiteout of desire, since, after all, wasn't he planning on this going another way entirely, so that Anakin would now be within a part of him . . . ?

But then Anakin groans, almost as if he were in pain, while his arms lock tight around Obi-Wan, digging possessively into his shoulders, and his own arching back pushes him up off the mattress and closer to Obi-Wan, somehow managing to drive him in deeper, the whisper into his mind, Obi-Wan - /please/, stars, just move! pained in a way that has nothing to do with bodily hurt. And the half-formed thought falls away as Obi-Wan gives into that plea and moves, hips rolling purposefully so that Anakin's back snaps into a tight rigid bow and a scream of pleasure that is almost Obi-Wan's name catches in his throat, and after that there is nothing else but heat and pleasure and pounding movement, Anakin crying out beneath him again and again while writhing up desperately to meet him on every downward stroke, wild and sweet, their pace desperately fast, no room for finesse, just need and want and motion, the pleasure building and bouncing back and forth endlessly between them along the wide-open bond, reverberating to wild heights, until finally Anakin lunges up beneath him to catch him in a desperate kiss, mouths colliding with bruising pressure, searching tongues plunging past open lips to lock together an instant before another scream rips its way out of the depths of him, the inchoate noise of ecstacy trapped and vibrating between them as heat and wetness blossoms between them, orgasm crashing over them both like a tsunami dropping with inexorable pressure and violence from out of the heights, washing them out of themselves and together in an undeniable wave of power and intent, love and joy like a force of nature itself.

Obi-Wan comes back to himself to find himself collapsed over Anakin, Anakin's hands still closed bruisingly tight upon his right hip and left shoulder while his own arms are locked bands of durasteel around Anakin's back, still within him, the heat and the pressure so great that he feels himself already beginning to reharden, the sensation making Anakin gasp and groan beneath him, his laughter breathless as he whispers urgently, voice hoarse with strain and desire, "Yes, please, again, can't get enough of you!"

Obi-Wan, though, gives a gentle shake of his head as lets go of Anakin, pulling away slowly but inexorably, despite the pained moan of loss as he draws back enough to remove himself entirely from Anakin's reach, sitting back on the bed and regarding Anakin quietly for several long moments, watching him until he opens his eyes (which have been screwed shut with disappointment and longing) and props himself up on his elbows. Catching his confused gaze, Obi-Wan explains, his manner calm but his voice almost plaintive, despite its steadiness, "I wanted this to be for you, though, Anakin, not for me. It isn't about rushing. I want to do something just for you. Please?"

The sudden ragged intake of his breath is loud in the silence that follows that question, Anakin staring at him like he's either had the universe carved away from under him or else been offered a whole string of worlds, lined up like jewels on a chain and all for the taking, and then he closes his eyes tight and shudders, golden body gleaming like light itself as it dances against the foam-white and sea-green and ice-blue tangle of sheets and blanket and coverlet. When his eyes open again, they are almost black with desire. But his voice, when Anakin speaks, is deadly serious. "Everything that you do and everything that you are is a gift to me, Master. Please, try to understand that. Please. You don't have to try to do anything special just for me, Obi-Wan. And you don't need to try to prove your love to me or your happiness over what we've come to have. I know it as well as I know my own love for you and my own joy at what we have. Even without the bond to tell me, I would have to be blind and deaf and dumb and bereft of the Force as well, to not know it. You tell me so with your every look, your every touch, your every emotion - hells, Obi-Wan, you tell me so simply with your presence, here at my side and refusing to leave despite all the things I've done that should drive you away from me," Anakin continues, giving voice to a brief and bitter little wild laugh that curls him in upon himself, the memories of those things momentarily doubling him over with shame and pain. After several long moments of silence, though, in which Anakin curls around himself like a man who has taken lethal blow to his middle and is fruitlessly trying to save himself by hunching over the wound and refusing to let it show, he gives himself a shake (literally, his body shivering like an animal seeking to shrug off an unwanted touch) and unfolds himself until he is sitting up on the bed, too, his back firmly braced against the pillows at the head of the bed, his gaze once more locked with Obi-Wan's as he quietly admits, "I don't try to understand why you are still here, Master. I just know that you are and I accept it. And it is enough and more than enough. It is enough to know that you love me and it is enough to know that you know that I love you. I need nothing else than this."

"But - but I - but you - "

"Obi-Wan." The look on Anakin's face as he reaches out to capture his former Master's chin in his right hand, holding him steady so that he cannot cast about wildy in his confusion or his suddenly panicked fear but must instead continue meet his gaze, is true pain, and it is also as close to real anger as he has seen since the fear-driven anger over their separation on Utapau. "I will not ever leave you. Not willingly. Ever. I will not ever seek to renounce you or to cast you off, as as certain others," there is a flash of hardness and implacable rage at those words that briefly escapes from Anakin's side of the bond, making Obi-Wan go very still, eyes wide with shock, before he once again gains control and the grieved anger vanishes as totally as a snuffed candle, infinite love and tenderness mixed with a sense of unbending determination flooding the bond in its place as Anakin steadily continues speaking, "have done and tried to do. I have found myself in you. I am not whole without you. And I am well aware of the fact that I would not be here, much less be myself, still, if not for you. I am never going to give you up. Never. Our enemies would have to destroy me so utterly that I could not come back even as a Force ghost, to keep me from your side. I am not going to go anywhere. I promise you that, Obi-Wan. You don't need to do anything to try to keep me happy or keep me here with you. I love you, remember? I'm not going to abandon you./ I swear it./ I would rather die than do so." Anakin's eyes are haunted with old pain for a few moments, then, but after a while his lips twitch, quirking into a very small smile, and he adds, "In short, I'm afraid you're stuck with me for good and all, Master, because I have no intention of going anywhere much without you ever again."

"I - believe I shall be able to bear the burden of your company." There is a slight tremor to Obi-Wan's voice and there is color rising in his face but his eyes are level and steady as he holds Anakin's gaze.

Anakin's answering smile is so bright that it almost eclipses the sense of sudden joy that blazes along the bond. He doesn't even say anything, just opens his arms, and Obi-Wan is there, his hands perhaps a bit tighter than strictly necessary as he burrows into the embrace, burying his red face into the crook between Anakin's neck and right shoulder. Anakin's right hand strokes tenderly through Obi-Wan's hair, his left hand making soothing circles across the small of his back, and for several minutes they simply lay there together, Obi-Wan not quite shaking against Anakin as the younger man silently and gently reaffirms the totality of his love, reminding Obi-Wan of its unconditional nature by flooding the bond with warmth and joy as he rhythmically strokes and soothes Obi-Wan. When Obi-Wan has finally relaxed against him and the anxiety and cold touch of fear have both vanished from him, so that the bond all but hums between them with Obi-Wan's contented joy, Anakin laughs a little, bending slightly to kiss Obi-Wan's ear before telling him, "Good. Because I intend to be in your company for a very, very long time to come, Obi-Wan."

With a quiet sigh, Obi-Wan nods understanding and agreement against his shoulder. With a bemused little laugh of his own, he asks, "When did you become so wise, Anakin?"

Quietly, seriously, Anakin simply tells him, "The moment I found out I was not the only one who felt this," snaking a hand around to press his palm flat against Obi-Wan's chest, above where his heart is now beating steadily, no longer pounding erratically with fear, "and that we were going to act on what we were feeling. Hope and reassurance can teach a great many things to one willing to listen. Besides which, you know he was able to get to me because of my fears. His knowledge of my fears and his willingness to exploit them is what gave him access to my mind and my heart and ways to manipulate both to his own purposes. It tends to make you very aware of your fears, when they've been used to such ends. And I know you, Master. I know you very well - extremely well, now, with the bond the way that it's become. Some of your fears are very like mine were. You may not have been a slave when you were a child, but the Order didn't treat you much better than our masters on Tatooine treated us. In fact, I'm not convinced that they did treat you any better," Anakin adds, a dangerously dark and angry look momentarily coming into his eyes before he composes himself again, his gaze once more turning thoughtful and serious as he continues to try to explain. "Growing up in the Temple, you had even less certainty in your life than I did, in a way. It's given you the same soul-deep pain that I had, the same terrible fear of never being enough, much less good enough, to keep the ones you cared for and wanted to be with happy enough with you to keep you with them, though you learned how to hide it much better than I've ever been able to, Obi-Wan. You know I've got that same need to test people to their limits, to be absolutely sure of their loyalty and their love, that you've used to winnow out your closest friends from your other admirers, like Bant and Garen and Bail and even Padmé. That need to push and push and then push some more, to try and see if I could find a place where your love for me and the Temple's willingness to tolerate me ended, is what won us that first mission, to Zonama Sekot. I may not have understood it very well, then, but I do now - or at least I do enough to recognize signs of that same pain and fear in another. I've also got that same desperate need to help and to please that the Temple taught you, though I think being in the Temple taught me, more than anything else, to want to prove my worth, and that this led to a different kind of fear, one that changed my behavior, so that I seemed to want to be in the middle of things, always, and at the center of attention, rather than simply wanting to be of whatever help I could be. You're like me, Master - or like I was before I came to the Temple, anyway. You said it yourself, to Padmé: you always want to please."

Another bright flare of fear along the bond, and then Obi-Wan is pushing away, insisting, "Anakin, I'm not just trying to please you - "

But, "No, don't pull away! It's alright, Obi-Wan. I know it's not like that. You love me as I love you. The bond lets us both know that, beyond any possible doubt, remember? Come here, please. It's alright. I promise it is," Anakin only insists in turn, hands firm on Obi-Wan's hips and waist, urging him back into Anakin's arms, reassuring him with another flood of undeniable, unmistakable love along the bond, quieting him with gentle caresses from hands and lips until finally he relaxes into the embrace again, Anakin moving against him slowly but purposefully until finally Obi-Wan groans softly in pleasure and begins to move with him, hardness sliding over hardness. "Yes, Master. It's alright. I love you, too. And I want you again. Please?" Anakin whispers, his mouth all but touching Obi-Wan's ear, moaning softly at a particularly sweet thrust and then leaning forward to trace the outer rim of that ear with his tongue before latching onto the lobe, sucking it into his mouth and nibbling along its edges before pulling away, licking a wet stripe down the curve of Obi-Wan's neck as he arches powerfully against Anakin, his reply a silent nod as he bites at his bottom lip to keep himself from crying out.

And this time the lovemaking is sweet and slow, Anakin spreading his legs so that Obi-Wan can push in gradually, one pulse-pounding millimeter at a time, kissing and caressing one another all the while, every movement an act of love, an affirmation of absolute loyalty and trust and devotion. Anakin moves tenderly and gently with Obi-Wan, trying to make it last, letting the initial rhythm slow even more until finally Obi Wan is barely moving inside him at all, their mouths meeting in a deep, lingering kiss as Obi-Wan stills, body pushed forward into Anakin as far as it is possible to go, the pressure and pleasure of their tight embrace making them tremble uncontrollably in each other's arms, shuddering with need and love. Anakin, reaching out a hand to cup Obi-Wan's face, needing to feel those beloved features beneath his fingertips, discovers wetness there and gasps, a low sound catching in the back of his throat as it hits him that Obi-Wan is crying - not tears of rage or sorrow or fear or brokenness and despair, as he remembers all too well from those nightmare visions of the future they had so narrowly avoided, but instead tears of joy and understanding and love - and is not surprised, somehow, to find Obi-Wan's right hand upon his face, too, sliding across his cheek, flesh slippery from an answering wetness. At any other time, under any other set of circumstances, Anakin would have felt shame at the sign of his own weakness and fear for the proof of Obi-Wan's loss of control, but here and now a fierce happiness only blossoms in his chest, prompting him to lean closer, bringing them cheek to cheek, so that their tears will mingle, before sliding his lips across that wetness and to Obi-Wan's mouth, trapping the saltiness and sharing it between them.

Anyone looking upon them, in those first few moments of togetherness, could have been forgiven for thinking that, perhaps, they weren't making love at all but instead simply lying in each other's arms, their movement together is that slow and that gentle and unobtrusive, but they are in fact cleaving purposefully together, testing their control as they hang together, pressing as close as humanly possible and deliberately trying not to move, aside from the lingering brushes of caressing hands and mouths, determined to be and to remain as near to each other as they can, though their bodies, their flesh, may be crying out hungrily for more, longing for a greater range of motion and a more familiar and immediate kind of pleasure. This, though . . . this incredibly slow but steadily building burn brings about an ecstasy all of its own, and so for a long time they continue as they have been, their bodies barely moving except for a small, gentle thrust now and again in accompaniment with an endless stream of warm, wet, open-mouthed kisses coupled to gentle, lingering caresses from light, reverent hands. It is beautiful, to make love so slowly and with such awed joy, beautiful and pleasurable in a way that is different from the other times they've been together, so that every loving act, every caressing motion, is both a promise and an offering, every act binding them closer together, in a way that should be painful but somehow isn't. There are barriers falling between them with every kiss and tender touch, the bond growing and deepening in ways that they would have thought impossible, before, drawing them closer and ever closer together in ways that they could not have begun to explain or understand, a light building between them so bright that it would put to shame even that flaring of white power when they had stood together, in the Council Chamber, and claimed Bail Organa as their shared Padawan learner.

Though neither of them really notices (the expanded bond having made them too attuned already to the sense of power inherent in each other within the Force even when that other is not attempting to channel any of its power), Obi-Wan and Anakin are shining like unshielded stars, both in the Force and to the normal range of physical senses, as they hang together, clinging to each other in the bed, when they both finally let go and that power erupts between them with the breaking of orgasm over both of their bodies, Obi-Wan pouring all of himself into Anakin's heat while Anakin spills his essence between their tightly joined bodies while they cleave tightly to one another, suspended in overwhelming bliss and each other and raw power, their love a light and an energy vast enough to make the Force itself shiver to the peaking of their pleasure.

***