[perspicacity] PG-13: Anakin/Padmé, OC
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars. This story is purely a work of fan fiction, and I am not making any profit from it.
Author's note: set fairly early in the he!au, for estora .
[perspicacity]
Padmé realizes it’s not working even before he does. Anakin has never been one to give up; but she sees, first, that his heart is always elsewhere. Because even though he’s not lying when he tells her he’s always believed she was his destiny ... destiny just isn’t enough anymore.
She can feel him fighting it, resisting the knowledge that they can’t have the life he’d always dreamed, struggling to come to terms with the failure of their happy ending.
Anakin won’t say it, as the weeks drag on and he grows thinner and tireder and more desperate. And Padmé won’t say it, either, because ... in the end, it has to be his choice. It won’t mean anything but defeat to him, otherwise. And it will never mean anything to Ryn, either - that heartbroken girl who’d given Anakin this one last, astonishing gift: the chance to start a new life, with Padmé.
He talks about the kids, first, mischievous Jinn and thoughtful Obi, how much he misses them. And he could go for a visit - Padmé knows he could go for a visit at any time, Ryn left that door open, even invited him to bring Padmé, too - but he doesn’t, and Padmé guesses why. There’s too much history there, too much love that doesn’t belong to him any more, and if he sees Ryn again, he’s not sure he can turn away. Padmé watches him tell himself it’s the family, it’s not her, but with a bone-deep intuition she’s never felt about anything before, she knows it’s at least a little bit Ryn. While Anakin was chasing destiny, she stole his heart in pieces.
They’ve been living together in Ryn’s absence - living in sin, Jubal would have said - for six weeks when the shipment carrying messages from the planet below comes up. It brings drawings, sketched in dark lines on some kind of bark, from Jinn and Obi, and a letter from Ryn: a short missive detailing the children’s health and offering to find a reason to be away for a few days if that would make it easier for him to visit the kids. She ends it with, “We’re doing okay down here. Hope things are going equally well for you. Give Padmé my best. Take care, Ryn.”
Anakin tosses her the letter, ostensibly because it contains an update on the kids, and Padmé honestly adores them. But deep down Padmé knows it’s more: he’s frightened, and unsure of himself, and he wants some acknowledgement of what he’s given up for her.
So she reads the letter, in Ryn’s painstakingly neat print, that tells the story, in overly cautious aureks and beshes and her own unornamented signature (for which she doesn’t bother to use High Galactic), of a woman with practically no formal education, who somehow managed to change the course of the galaxy anyway.
It’s the story of a woman who loved too much, who gave too much, and saved nothing for the way home.
Padmé would have admired her for this, if for nothing else: for living her life among the people. It’s one of the failures of Galactic politics in general and the Senate in particular that the people who make the decisions rarely spend any time among the people who have to live with them. And Padmé has always known this, but she has chosen to work from the inside anyway, because, well, that’s where the power is.
(She remembers, vaguely, that at some point she had thought she could help more people from the Senate than working in the Refugee Relief Movement, but she’s known too many of her fellow politicians since then.)
But here, unexpectedly, is a rare, perfect opportunity to do the right thing.
A politician’s life offers so few of them: sharp and painful but uncomplicated, no collateral damage, no compromise, no one else to pay the price.
So she lets the letter from Anakin’s estranged wife fall onto the desk, looks out the window instead of at the man in front of her, and says, quietly, “She must really love you.”
“Ryn?” Anakin asks, his posture immediately defensive and guilt-stricken and miserable. “Oh, I don’t ...”
“Anakin.” Padmé traces the edges of the letter with thoughtful fingertips. “You can’t seriously mean to tell me you don’t think Ryn loves you.”
She sees his shoulders hunching, out of the corner of her eye. “She left me.”
Keep telling yourself that one, Padmé thinks at him. Or better yet, don’t. Aloud she says, “Did she not say that was to give us a chance to be happy together?” Possibly the only woman in the history of the galaxy who had ever left her husband because she felt she was crimping his style in finding a mistress.
Trust Anakin to forge into new territory.
Anakin’s jaw sets, but he looks more sulky than forbidding. “That’s what she said.”
Uh-huh. Padmé picks up the letter, toys with it a little. “Is Ryn known for saying things she doesn’t mean?”
He looks away. “No,” he says, grudgingly.
No, I didn’t think so. Studying people is a necessary skill for survival in the Senate. She’d had a pretty good scan of Ryn the first time they’d met: a little lost, a little muted, a lot in love with Anakin. It hadn’t taken long to figure out that Ryn understood the last part was hopeless; it went a long way toward explaining the first two.
“Anyone can play the jealous wife,” Padmé says now, and her voice doesn’t even shake. (She’s had practice delivering the hard news.) “It takes a lot of love to let someone go.”
Anakin doesn’t believe it, not tonight. But she can see in the set of his shoulders that he’s thinking about it, and for right now that’s enough. So Padmé lets it go, with one final nudge: “She’s probably right about you visiting the kids. They must miss you.” She grins and kicks his ankle under the desk. “And I know you miss them.”
Anakin grins back and ducks his head, hopelessly susceptible where his children are concerned. “Yeah, maybe.” He perks up, struck with a sudden thought. “Hey, maybe they could come here!”
Padmé cocks an eyebrow at him. Her knowledge of children is mostly limited to interaction with her nieces, but still ... “That’s a pretty big trip for a couple of little kids. And I doubt Ryn would want to come here with them.” Nobody wants to visit her husband and his mistress.
Anakin’s face falls, registering unwilling agreement with this assessment. Then he brightens again, his face so open to her. “Hey!” he says, already planning a way around their obstacles. “You could come with me -”
Padmé starts shaking her head before he can go any further. That’s just cruel. “Anakin, I wouldn’t feel right about ... imposing on Ryn and her family.” She knows the younger woman is staying somewhere on the planet’s surface, with her less-than-tender brother and his beautiful, irrepressible wife.
“She invited you, it’s -”
Padmé puts her hand over his. “We’ll figure something out.” Something like not walking into Ryn’s family home, violating what little sanctuary she has managed to find. But there’s time to persuade Anakin of that, so Padmé leans back in her chair, determined to enjoy whatever time she has left with him. “Now, what were you telling me about maja berries?”
Author's note: set fairly early in the he!au, for estora .
[perspicacity]
Padmé realizes it’s not working even before he does. Anakin has never been one to give up; but she sees, first, that his heart is always elsewhere. Because even though he’s not lying when he tells her he’s always believed she was his destiny ... destiny just isn’t enough anymore.
She can feel him fighting it, resisting the knowledge that they can’t have the life he’d always dreamed, struggling to come to terms with the failure of their happy ending.
Anakin won’t say it, as the weeks drag on and he grows thinner and tireder and more desperate. And Padmé won’t say it, either, because ... in the end, it has to be his choice. It won’t mean anything but defeat to him, otherwise. And it will never mean anything to Ryn, either - that heartbroken girl who’d given Anakin this one last, astonishing gift: the chance to start a new life, with Padmé.
He talks about the kids, first, mischievous Jinn and thoughtful Obi, how much he misses them. And he could go for a visit - Padmé knows he could go for a visit at any time, Ryn left that door open, even invited him to bring Padmé, too - but he doesn’t, and Padmé guesses why. There’s too much history there, too much love that doesn’t belong to him any more, and if he sees Ryn again, he’s not sure he can turn away. Padmé watches him tell himself it’s the family, it’s not her, but with a bone-deep intuition she’s never felt about anything before, she knows it’s at least a little bit Ryn. While Anakin was chasing destiny, she stole his heart in pieces.
They’ve been living together in Ryn’s absence - living in sin, Jubal would have said - for six weeks when the shipment carrying messages from the planet below comes up. It brings drawings, sketched in dark lines on some kind of bark, from Jinn and Obi, and a letter from Ryn: a short missive detailing the children’s health and offering to find a reason to be away for a few days if that would make it easier for him to visit the kids. She ends it with, “We’re doing okay down here. Hope things are going equally well for you. Give Padmé my best. Take care, Ryn.”
Anakin tosses her the letter, ostensibly because it contains an update on the kids, and Padmé honestly adores them. But deep down Padmé knows it’s more: he’s frightened, and unsure of himself, and he wants some acknowledgement of what he’s given up for her.
So she reads the letter, in Ryn’s painstakingly neat print, that tells the story, in overly cautious aureks and beshes and her own unornamented signature (for which she doesn’t bother to use High Galactic), of a woman with practically no formal education, who somehow managed to change the course of the galaxy anyway.
It’s the story of a woman who loved too much, who gave too much, and saved nothing for the way home.
Padmé would have admired her for this, if for nothing else: for living her life among the people. It’s one of the failures of Galactic politics in general and the Senate in particular that the people who make the decisions rarely spend any time among the people who have to live with them. And Padmé has always known this, but she has chosen to work from the inside anyway, because, well, that’s where the power is.
(She remembers, vaguely, that at some point she had thought she could help more people from the Senate than working in the Refugee Relief Movement, but she’s known too many of her fellow politicians since then.)
But here, unexpectedly, is a rare, perfect opportunity to do the right thing.
A politician’s life offers so few of them: sharp and painful but uncomplicated, no collateral damage, no compromise, no one else to pay the price.
So she lets the letter from Anakin’s estranged wife fall onto the desk, looks out the window instead of at the man in front of her, and says, quietly, “She must really love you.”
“Ryn?” Anakin asks, his posture immediately defensive and guilt-stricken and miserable. “Oh, I don’t ...”
“Anakin.” Padmé traces the edges of the letter with thoughtful fingertips. “You can’t seriously mean to tell me you don’t think Ryn loves you.”
She sees his shoulders hunching, out of the corner of her eye. “She left me.”
Keep telling yourself that one, Padmé thinks at him. Or better yet, don’t. Aloud she says, “Did she not say that was to give us a chance to be happy together?” Possibly the only woman in the history of the galaxy who had ever left her husband because she felt she was crimping his style in finding a mistress.
Trust Anakin to forge into new territory.
Anakin’s jaw sets, but he looks more sulky than forbidding. “That’s what she said.”
Uh-huh. Padmé picks up the letter, toys with it a little. “Is Ryn known for saying things she doesn’t mean?”
He looks away. “No,” he says, grudgingly.
No, I didn’t think so. Studying people is a necessary skill for survival in the Senate. She’d had a pretty good scan of Ryn the first time they’d met: a little lost, a little muted, a lot in love with Anakin. It hadn’t taken long to figure out that Ryn understood the last part was hopeless; it went a long way toward explaining the first two.
“Anyone can play the jealous wife,” Padmé says now, and her voice doesn’t even shake. (She’s had practice delivering the hard news.) “It takes a lot of love to let someone go.”
Anakin doesn’t believe it, not tonight. But she can see in the set of his shoulders that he’s thinking about it, and for right now that’s enough. So Padmé lets it go, with one final nudge: “She’s probably right about you visiting the kids. They must miss you.” She grins and kicks his ankle under the desk. “And I know you miss them.”
Anakin grins back and ducks his head, hopelessly susceptible where his children are concerned. “Yeah, maybe.” He perks up, struck with a sudden thought. “Hey, maybe they could come here!”
Padmé cocks an eyebrow at him. Her knowledge of children is mostly limited to interaction with her nieces, but still ... “That’s a pretty big trip for a couple of little kids. And I doubt Ryn would want to come here with them.” Nobody wants to visit her husband and his mistress.
Anakin’s face falls, registering unwilling agreement with this assessment. Then he brightens again, his face so open to her. “Hey!” he says, already planning a way around their obstacles. “You could come with me -”
Padmé starts shaking her head before he can go any further. That’s just cruel. “Anakin, I wouldn’t feel right about ... imposing on Ryn and her family.” She knows the younger woman is staying somewhere on the planet’s surface, with her less-than-tender brother and his beautiful, irrepressible wife.
“She invited you, it’s -”
Padmé puts her hand over his. “We’ll figure something out.” Something like not walking into Ryn’s family home, violating what little sanctuary she has managed to find. But there’s time to persuade Anakin of that, so Padmé leans back in her chair, determined to enjoy whatever time she has left with him. “Now, what were you telling me about maja berries?”