“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.”
Four months ago, the universe changed and Padmé Amidala lost everything she loved.
Her husband, her children, her home. Friends, family. Hope. Every last shred of what she held most dear was torn from her soul and she was left clinging to life with a broken heart, as if hanging on by bare fingertips. Hidden away in a remote village on an even more remote planet in the Outer Rim, she couldn't be farther from Naboo and Coruscant, from anything that reminded her of what she'd lost...
Everything reminded her. Each morning when she woke alone in the small bed rolled out upon the worn stone floor. When she walked the hour to the nearby village and saw the mothers carrying children while they worked. When she returned home from a long day of work to continue toiling by firelight. When she cried herself to sleep and prayed to the gods of Naboo that her children were safe. Each day that passed was like a thousand.
Each day that passed was harder than the last, and all that kept her going was a singular thought, a possibility that may never take shape: One day, her children might need her.
It hadn't been especially difficult to set Padmé up on a planet not far from Tatooine, where he could visit her if needed, keep an eye on her without her knowing how close she was to one of her children. The Outer Rim planets wanted nothing to do with the Republic, now the new Empire; for the most part the inhabitants kept their heads down and kept to themselves. Establishing the former senator as yet another refugee wanting anonymity hadn't taken much.
Obi-Wan hated to deceive her, letting her think her children were both so far away. But all these years of knowing her, he knew if she was aware of how close Luke was, she wouldn't be able to stay away. No matter how much she understood the risk, she wouldn't be able to help herself.
He understood that urge, because he had a hard time parting with her when he returned to Tatooine. She was broken, and he didn't know if time could heal her. He wasn't sure if time could heal himself, come to that. Anakin's betrayal had done so much damage to the lives of all those he cared about, those he proclaimed he wanted to protect at all costs.
There were days - many, many days - where he didn't leave his small hut in the desert. (He didn't know it, but already rumors were starting about the "hermit" who now lived in the wilderness outside of Mos Eisley.) He put away his lightsaber; buried it at the bottom of a chest of clothes and other sundry items that no one would think to dig through. A remnant from a life he had to put behind him.
But he could not abandon the Force. It still flowed through him, and slowly, he began to reconnect with it. At first, he had tried shielding himself from everything; tried turning his back on it. What had the Force ever done but bring death, and betrayal? No being should have access to that kind of power, for it only bred greed for more. Once arrogant and self-confident, Obi-Wan was a Jedi now broken, disillusioned.
But slowly, his grief lifted enough that he could again begin to see patterns, the past and present merging and weaving together to show what had happened.
He began meditating again. His grief was still strong, but other emotions began to take root. One word began to get echoed in his thoughts, and he clung to it.
Patience.
Years would unfold before anything could happen. He could do nothing but wait. Wait, and prepare himself mentally, and emotionally. He had time. That was all he had, now.
And then, one night like any other, the Force reached out to him. In a bout of fitful sleep, Obi-Wan had a prescient dream. Padmé, overcome with despair, unable to see past all that had transpired. Pushing her body until it was as broken as her spirit, unable to continue. After waking, he could still feel the echoes of her pain in his own mind and heart, as if they were tethered together by the Force itself.
Dreams, like any other sort of prophecy, were dangerous to try to fulfill, or subvert. In trying to do so, one could easily enable the very outcome they had been trying to avoid.
But Obi-Wan simply couldn't sit by and do nothing.
Packing a few spare clothes, he headed back to the planet he'd left Padmé on, intent to check on her, and help in any way that he could.
He arrived back on the planet five months after he had left, the current climate now nearing winter. It was late when he arrived where she now resided; such a meager, humble place, especially compared to the places he knew she'd been raised on Naboo. He knew she could live, could thrive anywhere, but it still hurt him to know this was how she was now forced to live.
Padmé deserved so much better. In all things. But they could not afford the scrutiny a better lifestyle would bring.
With the days growing colder, a fire at night was necessary, the stone walls of the tiny house doing little to keep out the chill. It was strange to think some days that she could find a datastream of all the latest news of the galaxy in the city half a day's walk away, digital gambling halls and holodrama theaters, but here in her 'home' and the nearby village, they were lucky to have running water. There were no droids to help with the daily work, there was not regular trade with nearby planets, and even the criminal syndicates seem to have left much of the planet untouched save for the larger cities. Her life was now so different from everything she'd known that some days it easier that way.
And there were days when it wasn't. The local language was difficult to understand without a translator, though she tried her best to learn more of it each day. She missed having someone to talk to, every word she spoke now little more than an outright lie. No one here knew who she was, what she had been through, and while of course it was better that way, it still wore away at her.
She had no connections here, no friends and no neighbors near enough to matter, so when she knock came at her door-- The knife was in her hand in seconds, instinct propelling her from her seat by the fire to the small kitchen, thin fingers stiff from sewing wrapping around the thick handle with determination. That same emotion propelled her forward, swinging the door open with the knife held just out of view.
And then she stilled, everything in her going quiet at the sight of the man on the other side of that door. The man who had left her here, who had taken her children to safety, who she wasn't sure she would ever seen again. There was a part of her that wanted to rage, to demand that he take her from this place, take her to her children so she could have some part of her soul back, but those emotions wilt before they come to anything real. She's too tired to make those rash decisions, to be angry at what has become of her life or happy to see the only friend who knows of her existence. She's too tired to be anything but the broken woman she is, and so she simply steps back from the doorway to let him inside, knife now hanging uselessly at her side.
Her emotions are easy to sense, partly due to the fact that his own mirror them; they are both angry at him for the measures he's been forced to take, to keep everyone safe. But he also feels when they slip away, leaving a disturbing absence in their wake. For a moment, Obi-Wan fears he's come too late. That Padmé has given up, but simply hasn't realized it yet.
He sees the knife as he cautiously enters, and it actually helps ease his mind. If she is still willing to fight to defend herself, hope isn't lost.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, keeping his head bowed, eyes cast downward. Let her take his apology however she likes - he is sorry for his part in all of it. For Anakin. For hurting her. For forcing her into this existence. For showing up on her doorstep, a reminder of the life she used to live.
But she is all he has left of that life, as well. When her children are grown, they will have no knowledge of what came before them. They will not share any of the memories of the better times. Betrayal and heartbreak has occurred, but he has begun to remember other pieces of his life, and he clings to them.
He just hopes Padmé can see past the darkness, and remember it as well. He wants her to have hope.
Her actions with the knife would have depended entirely on who stood on the other side of the door. Were it a thief in the night or a soldier come to take her away, perhaps she would have fought to protect herself. If it had been Anakin... Perhaps instinct would have led her down a very different path. But it had been Obi-Wan there, Obi-Wan who now enters the small house the size of her bedroom on Coruscant, and so she steps back into the kitchen and returns the knife to its place, her free hand clutching at the knit shawl around her shoulders, her shortened hair tucked beneath it.
"I'll make you something warm to drink," she tells him in a quiet voice sounding as tired as she feels. "It's nearly winter here." The air is crisp outside and there is frost on the windows of the kitchen, the warmth of the fire not quite reaching the glass -- she hadn't been able to build it as much tonight, her stock of firewood getting low.
Her basket of sewing is sat beside one of the two chairs by the fire, the bedroll still tied and propped against the wall. She intends a few hours more of work before giving in to exhaustion.
He's circumspect in watching her, not wanting her to realize how intently he does so. He wishes he knew how to heal her, how to fix this. It seems everything he's done only makes things worse.
Patience.
If it takes years, if it takes a lifetime, he determines that he will help Padmé heal and become strong again.
"Please, don't trouble yourself," he says quietly. "I came uninvited, and unannounced." He won't tell her that the cold affects him more than even he had expected, after so many months in the desert of Tatooine. He will survive it.
He looks around the home, noticing the traces hinting at Padmé's current life. Work set out still, despite the lateness of the hour, the sparseness of her surroundings.
"It's no trouble," she counters weakly, already filling a kettle with water to heat on the stove. She wants to tell him that he would always be welcome in her home, but it hurts to think of this house as such, and those words seem to take more energy than she has left in her. So instead she focuses on taking out two cups from the cupboard, along with a small tin with a slightly bent lid.
It's not until she's nothing left to do but wait that she speaks again, the seconds that have passed feeling like hours. "I didn't know if I would see you again."
Watching, that's all he trusts himself with now. So he stays silent, letting her carry out her motions, wondering if there will ever be anything he can do for her to make this all easier to handle.
Her words spark something in him, and he knows what he can do. "I will always come back. I... I should have given you a way to contact me. I admit, things were rushed, but it shouldn't have slipped my mind."
He will be here for her, whenever she needs him. "I will find secure comms, so you can reach me. I will always come when you call."
She frowns slightly at those words, wondering how things would be different now if he had left her with such a way. In those dark days after his departure, would she have reached out to him? When she'd cried herself sick, would she have begged for him to reunite her with her children, consequences be damned?
No, it was good that he hadn't left her a way to reach out to him. Even his great resolve might have been tested by her inevitable pleas.
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Obi-Wan," she cautions, keeping her gaze on the cups instead of anywhere near him.
He takes a slow, deep breath. "Padmé. I will always come back. I wish..." he trails off, glancing toward the low fire flickering in the small hearth. "I will do all that I can, to protect those I care for. If I did not fear for your safety, and theirs, I would bring your children to you. I will do all that is in my power to set things right. But I cannot cut the future short, to make today brighter."
His own Master, Qui-Gon, had cautioned him on numerous occasions to focus on the moment, not what lies ahead. Now, he finds himself having to go back on all those teachings, and think of what will happen many, many years from now, depending on what course of action he takes.
The kettle burbles and she picks it up off the stove before it can shriek, flipping the control to turn off the heating element. She speaks as she pours the water over the leaves in the strainer, trying to keep her hands steady and managing to suppress all but the slightest tremor.
"I know that, all of it," she stresses quietly. "Their safety is all that matters to me now. But I'm not-- I would still ask it of you. Because it hurts and I'm not--" She isn't strong anymore. The woman who had fought to save the galaxy was gone, she'd died with the Republic and everything else she held dear.
Setting the kettle and strainer aside, she picks up the two cups and steps closer to him, holding out one cup with a deceptively steady hand. "You cannot give in when I ask you. You have to keep them safe, promise me that and nothing else."
He reaches out, cupping both hands and holding not just the mug, but her hand around it as well. He finally catches her gaze, the first time he's looked fully at her since he arrived.
"You ask me to break your heart," he all but whispers. "But what can I do to help mend it?"
Gently, Obi-Wan removes the cup from her hands, setting it down beside her own, before reaching forward and pulling her against him. He says nothing, because how can he respond to that? She's right, of course. But, he refuses to believe that this, that she, cannot be helped.
"No," he finally replies. "None of this can be put back to rights. It will never be as it should, and it will never be as good as it once was. But things that are broken can be mended. I will do everything I can to help, Padmé. I love you, and it hurts to know you're in such pain."
She's been trying so hard to hold it together, flimsy bits of paper and string straining against a tidal wave of emotion. It's harder when he pulls her close; she hasn't been held by anyone since her death. And then he says those words.
She wants to tell him she loves him too. He's family, a dear friend who has been through so much with her, but the words can't make it past the tightness in her throat. The last time she'd said them to anyone it hadn't ended well, and she can't bear to lose him too. He's all she has left in the entire galaxy--
That thought is what crumples the flimsy dam, and in seconds she's falling apart, her hands clutching at him as sobs tears from her with such strength that she can barely stay upright. Her world is ending again and he is witness to it. Again.
Obi-Wan will bear witness to whatever she needs; he will stand vigil for her, without judgment no matter what happens.
He hates seeing her like this, knowing that at least a part of her immense sorrow is his doing. He cannot take her to see Luke, though - even she has admitted it, despite knowing that she will break at some point and beg him to do so. A clean break is necessary, no matter how painful; it would only cause her more heartache to see him, to know he was so close by, and not be allowed to have him with her.
Obi-Wan pulls her closer, tucking her head against his neck and shoulder, one hand cradling her head while the other wraps tightly around her shoulders.
"I'm so sorry," he finds himself whispering, over and over, his chest aching at her grief, which mirrors his own, but is so much deeper. He wishes he could cry her tears for her, to help ease some of her pain.
Nothing can truly ease her pain, but having him there does help in a way. Instead of floating alone in her heartache, she clings to him like he's a raft in the middle of an ocean. Everything in her hurts, but she knows that at least for now she is not alone.
The storm passes almost as quickly as it came on, her tears drying as her breathing steadies, and exhaustion presses down on her, heavier than before. After a short while, she quietly rasps, her throat aching and raw, "Thank you."
"Of course," he responds instantly, without thought, for there is absolutely no need for her to thank him for this small gesture of kindness, after all that has happened. "Anything, Padmé. I am here for you."
Feeling her exhaustion, Obi-Wan guides her over to the chair in front of the fire, before moving to pick up her bed-roll and lay it out. "You should rest, now."
She watches him tiredly, knowing he's right and not caring that she won't finish embroidering the shirt she'd been working on. One more day won't matter.
"I dream about them," she says seemingly out of nowhere, though it's meant as explanation for why she was still awake when he arrived. "I dream about him finding them. He won't though, will he? They'll be safe wherever they are?"
He pauses in his motions, glancing toward her, but his gaze staying lowered. "They are as safe as two Jedi Masters could make them," he finally says, finishing laying out her mat. He straightens and moves toward her, kneeling down in front of her. "They are with families who love and care for them. We thought... We thought it best to separate them. But they will grow up happy, I promise. I am keeping watch over them."
This was true, in different ways. Bail Organa would send a short, secured transmission to Obi-Wan roughly once a year - they had agreed it should be at a random time to avoid detection of a pattern, but 10 to 14 months apart - informing him of Leia's growth and well-being. Luke, of course, Obi-Wan was keeping a much more literal watch on.
"Come, now," he murmurs, standing again to help her to bed. "Let me watch vigil for you, so you can rest easy tonight."
Two Jedi Masters. She tries not to think of how little assurance that actually seems, considering how much got past those two Jedi Masters, how much of what changed happened right under their noses -- those thoughts aren't fair to anyone, especially when she was just as much at fault as any of them. They'd all been blind to the truth and now the galaxy was paying for it.
No, she has to trust that he is right. Her children will grow up safe and loved, hidden from Anakin's reach, and she will hope that one day she might see them again. One day...
Reaching out a hand for assistance, she forces her heavy stiff body out of the chair, blessedly managing not to stumble, then pauses a moment to remove the shawl from her shoulders and drape it over the arm of the chair, revealing her now much shorter hair. Once down the entire length of her back, the dark locks only reach just below her shoulders.
They have all had to make sacrifices, in order to survive now, Obi-Wan knows this. But at the sight of Padmé's much shorter hair, he feels grief and sorrow anew, at how much she has lost. Her very identity seems to have been taken from her, and he wonders if that doesn't contribute to the hollowness he feels inside her. Children, identity; what does she have left to get her through?
She has him, at the moment. For as long as is needed, and perhaps even afterward as well. They are bound together now, due to the course events have taken.
He reaches out a hand, placing it on her back and shoulder, and can't help but brush his fingers up against the ends of her hair. Despite all it means that she had to cut it, it makes her look even more refined and stately, in his eyes. Whereas Padawans kept their hair short, and most Knights and Masters grew it long, in his mind long hair on a woman denoted childhood. It struck him then, that after everything that had happened, even having been witness to the birth of her children, only now was Obi-Wan seeing that Padmé was a grown woman.
It was a practical measure, the cutting of her hair. With the length it had been, the time to care for it had been greater than she could manage in her current state, and it had been too telling of her former self. Elaborate hairstyles had no place in this world of hard work, and she no longer held a position of any significance to anyone. It was better this way. Easier. Even if it is another constant reminder of what she has lost.
She welcomes that touch on her back, a physical reminder that she isn't alone, at least not in this moment. He isn't a phantom come to haunt her the way Anakin does. Obi-Wan is flesh and blood and he came back to--
Lowering herself down onto the thin bed, she looks up at him with apologetic sorrow written across her expression. "Obi-Wan, I'm sorry," she says, her heartbreak bleeding into every syllable. "I've been so focused on my own pain, I've forgotten about yours." She isn't the only one who lost everything.
It startles him, when she apologizes, and even after she explains, it takes him a moment to register what she's talking about. Slowly, he sinks to his knees on the floor by her side. The smile he gives her is small, and bittersweet. "There is nothing for you to apologize for, Padmé. I..."
He doesn't know how to say how he feels, without sounding callous toward himself. He doesn't want to seem like he's dismissing her concerns, but he truly feels that they are unnecessary. "I am used to bearing pain," he finally settles on. Losing Anakin is nothing like witnessing the death of his Master, Qui-Gon. He had different relationships with each of them; and yet, how he feels now is not unfamiliar to him.
Only seconds pass after his explanation before she's reaching out to take one of his hands in her own, holding it firmly like an anchor to this moment between them. "Being used to it doesn't make it hurt less."
She's been slowly getting used to that aching in her chest, the pangs of longing and that emptiness that fills her up, but none of that diminishes the strength of those emotions. She's drowning in it and she knows he has to be as well, even if it he bear it better than she.
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𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒹𝒾𝑒𝓈
Her husband, her children, her home. Friends, family. Hope. Every last shred of what she held most dear was torn from her soul and she was left clinging to life with a broken heart, as if hanging on by bare fingertips. Hidden away in a remote village on an even more remote planet in the Outer Rim, she couldn't be farther from Naboo and Coruscant, from anything that reminded her of what she'd lost...
Everything reminded her. Each morning when she woke alone in the small bed rolled out upon the worn stone floor. When she walked the hour to the nearby village and saw the mothers carrying children while they worked. When she returned home from a long day of work to continue toiling by firelight. When she cried herself to sleep and prayed to the gods of Naboo that her children were safe. Each day that passed was like a thousand.
Each day that passed was harder than the last, and all that kept her going was a singular thought, a possibility that may never take shape: One day, her children might need her.
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Obi-Wan hated to deceive her, letting her think her children were both so far away. But all these years of knowing her, he knew if she was aware of how close Luke was, she wouldn't be able to stay away. No matter how much she understood the risk, she wouldn't be able to help herself.
He understood that urge, because he had a hard time parting with her when he returned to Tatooine. She was broken, and he didn't know if time could heal her. He wasn't sure if time could heal himself, come to that. Anakin's betrayal had done so much damage to the lives of all those he cared about, those he proclaimed he wanted to protect at all costs.
There were days - many, many days - where he didn't leave his small hut in the desert. (He didn't know it, but already rumors were starting about the "hermit" who now lived in the wilderness outside of Mos Eisley.) He put away his lightsaber; buried it at the bottom of a chest of clothes and other sundry items that no one would think to dig through. A remnant from a life he had to put behind him.
But he could not abandon the Force. It still flowed through him, and slowly, he began to reconnect with it. At first, he had tried shielding himself from everything; tried turning his back on it. What had the Force ever done but bring death, and betrayal? No being should have access to that kind of power, for it only bred greed for more. Once arrogant and self-confident, Obi-Wan was a Jedi now broken, disillusioned.
But slowly, his grief lifted enough that he could again begin to see patterns, the past and present merging and weaving together to show what had happened.
He began meditating again. His grief was still strong, but other emotions began to take root. One word began to get echoed in his thoughts, and he clung to it.
Patience.
Years would unfold before anything could happen. He could do nothing but wait. Wait, and prepare himself mentally, and emotionally. He had time. That was all he had, now.
And then, one night like any other, the Force reached out to him. In a bout of fitful sleep, Obi-Wan had a prescient dream. Padmé, overcome with despair, unable to see past all that had transpired. Pushing her body until it was as broken as her spirit, unable to continue. After waking, he could still feel the echoes of her pain in his own mind and heart, as if they were tethered together by the Force itself.
Dreams, like any other sort of prophecy, were dangerous to try to fulfill, or subvert. In trying to do so, one could easily enable the very outcome they had been trying to avoid.
But Obi-Wan simply couldn't sit by and do nothing.
Packing a few spare clothes, he headed back to the planet he'd left Padmé on, intent to check on her, and help in any way that he could.
He arrived back on the planet five months after he had left, the current climate now nearing winter. It was late when he arrived where she now resided; such a meager, humble place, especially compared to the places he knew she'd been raised on Naboo. He knew she could live, could thrive anywhere, but it still hurt him to know this was how she was now forced to live.
Padmé deserved so much better. In all things. But they could not afford the scrutiny a better lifestyle would bring.
Stepping forward, Obi-Wan knocked on the door.
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And there were days when it wasn't. The local language was difficult to understand without a translator, though she tried her best to learn more of it each day. She missed having someone to talk to, every word she spoke now little more than an outright lie. No one here knew who she was, what she had been through, and while of course it was better that way, it still wore away at her.
She had no connections here, no friends and no neighbors near enough to matter, so when she knock came at her door-- The knife was in her hand in seconds, instinct propelling her from her seat by the fire to the small kitchen, thin fingers stiff from sewing wrapping around the thick handle with determination. That same emotion propelled her forward, swinging the door open with the knife held just out of view.
And then she stilled, everything in her going quiet at the sight of the man on the other side of that door. The man who had left her here, who had taken her children to safety, who she wasn't sure she would ever seen again. There was a part of her that wanted to rage, to demand that he take her from this place, take her to her children so she could have some part of her soul back, but those emotions wilt before they come to anything real. She's too tired to make those rash decisions, to be angry at what has become of her life or happy to see the only friend who knows of her existence. She's too tired to be anything but the broken woman she is, and so she simply steps back from the doorway to let him inside, knife now hanging uselessly at her side.
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He sees the knife as he cautiously enters, and it actually helps ease his mind. If she is still willing to fight to defend herself, hope isn't lost.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, keeping his head bowed, eyes cast downward. Let her take his apology however she likes - he is sorry for his part in all of it. For Anakin. For hurting her. For forcing her into this existence. For showing up on her doorstep, a reminder of the life she used to live.
But she is all he has left of that life, as well. When her children are grown, they will have no knowledge of what came before them. They will not share any of the memories of the better times. Betrayal and heartbreak has occurred, but he has begun to remember other pieces of his life, and he clings to them.
He just hopes Padmé can see past the darkness, and remember it as well. He wants her to have hope.
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"I'll make you something warm to drink," she tells him in a quiet voice sounding as tired as she feels. "It's nearly winter here." The air is crisp outside and there is frost on the windows of the kitchen, the warmth of the fire not quite reaching the glass -- she hadn't been able to build it as much tonight, her stock of firewood getting low.
Her basket of sewing is sat beside one of the two chairs by the fire, the bedroll still tied and propped against the wall. She intends a few hours more of work before giving in to exhaustion.
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Patience.
If it takes years, if it takes a lifetime, he determines that he will help Padmé heal and become strong again.
"Please, don't trouble yourself," he says quietly. "I came uninvited, and unannounced." He won't tell her that the cold affects him more than even he had expected, after so many months in the desert of Tatooine. He will survive it.
He looks around the home, noticing the traces hinting at Padmé's current life. Work set out still, despite the lateness of the hour, the sparseness of her surroundings.
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It's not until she's nothing left to do but wait that she speaks again, the seconds that have passed feeling like hours. "I didn't know if I would see you again."
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Her words spark something in him, and he knows what he can do. "I will always come back. I... I should have given you a way to contact me. I admit, things were rushed, but it shouldn't have slipped my mind."
He will be here for her, whenever she needs him. "I will find secure comms, so you can reach me. I will always come when you call."
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No, it was good that he hadn't left her a way to reach out to him. Even his great resolve might have been tested by her inevitable pleas.
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Obi-Wan," she cautions, keeping her gaze on the cups instead of anywhere near him.
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His own Master, Qui-Gon, had cautioned him on numerous occasions to focus on the moment, not what lies ahead. Now, he finds himself having to go back on all those teachings, and think of what will happen many, many years from now, depending on what course of action he takes.
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"I know that, all of it," she stresses quietly. "Their safety is all that matters to me now. But I'm not-- I would still ask it of you. Because it hurts and I'm not--" She isn't strong anymore. The woman who had fought to save the galaxy was gone, she'd died with the Republic and everything else she held dear.
Setting the kettle and strainer aside, she picks up the two cups and steps closer to him, holding out one cup with a deceptively steady hand. "You cannot give in when I ask you. You have to keep them safe, promise me that and nothing else."
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"You ask me to break your heart," he all but whispers. "But what can I do to help mend it?"
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"It's already broken," she reminds him. "And not everything can be fixed."
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"No," he finally replies. "None of this can be put back to rights. It will never be as it should, and it will never be as good as it once was. But things that are broken can be mended. I will do everything I can to help, Padmé. I love you, and it hurts to know you're in such pain."
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She wants to tell him she loves him too. He's family, a dear friend who has been through so much with her, but the words can't make it past the tightness in her throat. The last time she'd said them to anyone it hadn't ended well, and she can't bear to lose him too. He's all she has left in the entire galaxy--
That thought is what crumples the flimsy dam, and in seconds she's falling apart, her hands clutching at him as sobs tears from her with such strength that she can barely stay upright. Her world is ending again and he is witness to it. Again.
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He hates seeing her like this, knowing that at least a part of her immense sorrow is his doing. He cannot take her to see Luke, though - even she has admitted it, despite knowing that she will break at some point and beg him to do so. A clean break is necessary, no matter how painful; it would only cause her more heartache to see him, to know he was so close by, and not be allowed to have him with her.
Obi-Wan pulls her closer, tucking her head against his neck and shoulder, one hand cradling her head while the other wraps tightly around her shoulders.
"I'm so sorry," he finds himself whispering, over and over, his chest aching at her grief, which mirrors his own, but is so much deeper. He wishes he could cry her tears for her, to help ease some of her pain.
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The storm passes almost as quickly as it came on, her tears drying as her breathing steadies, and exhaustion presses down on her, heavier than before. After a short while, she quietly rasps, her throat aching and raw, "Thank you."
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Feeling her exhaustion, Obi-Wan guides her over to the chair in front of the fire, before moving to pick up her bed-roll and lay it out. "You should rest, now."
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"I dream about them," she says seemingly out of nowhere, though it's meant as explanation for why she was still awake when he arrived. "I dream about him finding them. He won't though, will he? They'll be safe wherever they are?"
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This was true, in different ways. Bail Organa would send a short, secured transmission to Obi-Wan roughly once a year - they had agreed it should be at a random time to avoid detection of a pattern, but 10 to 14 months apart - informing him of Leia's growth and well-being. Luke, of course, Obi-Wan was keeping a much more literal watch on.
"Come, now," he murmurs, standing again to help her to bed. "Let me watch vigil for you, so you can rest easy tonight."
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No, she has to trust that he is right. Her children will grow up safe and loved, hidden from Anakin's reach, and she will hope that one day she might see them again. One day...
Reaching out a hand for assistance, she forces her heavy stiff body out of the chair, blessedly managing not to stumble, then pauses a moment to remove the shawl from her shoulders and drape it over the arm of the chair, revealing her now much shorter hair. Once down the entire length of her back, the dark locks only reach just below her shoulders.
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She has him, at the moment. For as long as is needed, and perhaps even afterward as well. They are bound together now, due to the course events have taken.
He reaches out a hand, placing it on her back and shoulder, and can't help but brush his fingers up against the ends of her hair. Despite all it means that she had to cut it, it makes her look even more refined and stately, in his eyes. Whereas Padawans kept their hair short, and most Knights and Masters grew it long, in his mind long hair on a woman denoted childhood. It struck him then, that after everything that had happened, even having been witness to the birth of her children, only now was Obi-Wan seeing that Padmé was a grown woman.
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She welcomes that touch on her back, a physical reminder that she isn't alone, at least not in this moment. He isn't a phantom come to haunt her the way Anakin does. Obi-Wan is flesh and blood and he came back to--
Lowering herself down onto the thin bed, she looks up at him with apologetic sorrow written across her expression. "Obi-Wan, I'm sorry," she says, her heartbreak bleeding into every syllable. "I've been so focused on my own pain, I've forgotten about yours." She isn't the only one who lost everything.
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He doesn't know how to say how he feels, without sounding callous toward himself. He doesn't want to seem like he's dismissing her concerns, but he truly feels that they are unnecessary. "I am used to bearing pain," he finally settles on. Losing Anakin is nothing like witnessing the death of his Master, Qui-Gon. He had different relationships with each of them; and yet, how he feels now is not unfamiliar to him.
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She's been slowly getting used to that aching in her chest, the pangs of longing and that emptiness that fills her up, but none of that diminishes the strength of those emotions. She's drowning in it and she knows he has to be as well, even if it he bear it better than she.
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