Meredith Bronwen Mallory (garnettrees) wrote,
Meredith Bronwen Mallory

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[fic] "Objects in Motion" 1/1 (Star Wars, P/A, PG-13)

Author's Notes: I originally posted this on Christmas Eve, under a friends lock-- now I'm reposting this for the world at large. ^__^ This is just a short Padme/Anakin vignette, written as a Christmas present for my ever valiant and darling beta, leia_naberrie. I actually surprised myself by just sitting down and writing-- I've never done very well on command, but this time, it might actually have worked. I hope this doesn't suck too badly. As always, I thank you for taking the time to ride, and will adore you forever if you choose to comment. Really, I will.

Objects in Motion 1/1
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory


When Anakin Skywalker entered the third year of his apprenticeship, Master Yoda gathered all his age mates together for a lesson about dreams and the Force. Wide-eyed and dry in the throat, the young padawans gazed on the diminutive master, faces flickering with doubt.
The future, Master Yoda said, was always in motion.

It was right, and it was wrong-- it was true, and it was false. Kneeling on the cool stone floor of the classroom, Anakin felt a dainty but forceful hand close securely around his heart. The texture of his dreams branded Yoda both charlatan and a saint and, as he grew older, that single sage phrase would echo ruthlessly in his mind. Fourth year, and he dreamed of sandstorms, sweeping through towns of sun-baked brick, leaving absence and desertion in their wake. Padme's face in a dark, flickering window. En route to an assignment with Obiwan on an old freighter, and the laboring engine conjured phantom troops to march through his inner landscape, white-booted and horribly immaculate. Later still, and meditation under Windu's watchful eye brought the Force's touch more keenly, as incomprehensible and alien as the impassive face of the moon.

Fifteen, and he dreamed of the swell of Padme's breast beneath his strengthening hand, scarlet silk riddled with black and gold. Her voice echoed in his dreams-- a queen, strident and commanding; a woman, tender and wise. She advised him, consoled him, tones in time with the beat of a his heart. He dreamt of that, too-- his chest cleaved open, exposing the treasure within. A thing of red glass, clutched by black wires and silver cords, the heart of a boy commanded not to love but unable to refrain. Sometimes, he saw an ocean world, water reflecting sunset; red tides that washed Padme up, chill and barely breathing, onto a terrible, endless white beach. The sound of the waves was the sound of someone's infinitely labored breath.

Eighteen, and a sliver of glass showed him Padme smiling, body cradled in marble tub even as the water bled to a deep, vibrant red. A shift, a sideways motion that left him reeling, and he could see her miserable struggling, soaked in sweat and antiseptic cotton. She writhed, pained and broken, like a butterfly pinned to a tray, while Obiwan told her to just hold on. Nineteen, and the Force showed him Sand People behind his closed eyes, his mother's voice reaching with unfathomable power from the past.

Fear not, Master Yoda once said-- what the Force shows you is possible only. Always in motion, the future. That was probably the first time Anakin realized you could tell the truth and still manage to lie.


*yoda voice* Really freak'n shiny, the feedback is. ^_~
Tags: fanfiction, star-wars

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