fic: all our yesterdays [anakin, padmé, pre-rots]
This was inspired by the best fic ever, aka yenneffer and her birthday fic for me. Go read it, nowwwwwww!
Title: all our yesterdays
Author: albumsontheside
Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala
Timeline: pre-ROTS
Word Count: 200
Summary: Regret is a shroud, translucent and pale, binding their corpses stiff in a parody of fidelity.
Regret is a shroud, translucent and pale, binding their corpses stiff in a parody of fidelity. She lies in their borrowed bed, jaded and naked, sheets twisted around her like teeth, the smudged lipstick rendering her lips bloody, grotesque.
“Don’t you think, Anakin, that we shouldn’t have to do it like this? At all?”
(Here, he shivers. Looks away to distract himself. Cups a heavy hand around her face, and tries not to return to the war.)
“Don’t you think,” he says at last, eyes anywhere but her own, “that it’s a bit too late to care about that now?” (She almost terrifies him, now, she and the fear he isn’t supposed to feel whenever he wants her, needs her, because he is a hero, and he has no fear.)
Her kiss is sharp, her tongue slick, bittersweet. He swallows, inhales again, closes his eyes even as he feels her (thin, frighteningly delicate) hands on his chest, fluttering over the scars there, hesitant. He knows that this isn’t desire, however much she desires. That she loves, but that this isn’t love, either. This, this is regret, all-encompassing and nostalgic and final --
(Because, after all, she never wanted a hero. She just wanted him.)
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Macbeth, Act 5, scene 5, 19-28
Title: all our yesterdays
Author: albumsontheside
Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala
Timeline: pre-ROTS
Word Count: 200
Summary: Regret is a shroud, translucent and pale, binding their corpses stiff in a parody of fidelity.
Regret is a shroud, translucent and pale, binding their corpses stiff in a parody of fidelity. She lies in their borrowed bed, jaded and naked, sheets twisted around her like teeth, the smudged lipstick rendering her lips bloody, grotesque.
“Don’t you think, Anakin, that we shouldn’t have to do it like this? At all?”
(Here, he shivers. Looks away to distract himself. Cups a heavy hand around her face, and tries not to return to the war.)
“Don’t you think,” he says at last, eyes anywhere but her own, “that it’s a bit too late to care about that now?” (She almost terrifies him, now, she and the fear he isn’t supposed to feel whenever he wants her, needs her, because he is a hero, and he has no fear.)
Her kiss is sharp, her tongue slick, bittersweet. He swallows, inhales again, closes his eyes even as he feels her (thin, frighteningly delicate) hands on his chest, fluttering over the scars there, hesitant. He knows that this isn’t desire, however much she desires. That she loves, but that this isn’t love, either. This, this is regret, all-encompassing and nostalgic and final --
(Because, after all, she never wanted a hero. She just wanted him.)
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Macbeth, Act 5, scene 5, 19-28