He's living somewhere warm now. It doesn't take any effort to conclude, since she knows he'd spent so much of life on Coruscant - even on the city planet, they'd had varying temperatures. For him to be reacting so strongly to just a gentle chill...
"The people in town have been saying this winter will be fairly harsh," she comments, carefully unpacking the basket of produce. "There isn't much trade here, so it's good that the harvest has gone well."
He realizes only too late what he's given away, and inwardly curses himself. While Padmé may not realize how close she is to Tatooine, if he mentions that's where he resides now, she is more than smart enough to discern that he's there for a reason, and that that reason is most likely one of her children.
"I will remember in future to only visit during the summer, then," he says mildly, watching for her reaction. He came to the conclusion today that his visit wasn't just for her sake, and it has done wonders to help bolster his own resolve, as well.
Something in her chest tightens at those words, and she knows that he's probably just joking, letting out a ghost of the sense of humor he used to have, but... Still, it unsettles her, the idea of not seeing him again for all those months. The year here is shorter than on Naboo, the rotation around the sun not as long, but already she's dreading when he'll leave to return to whatever warm planet he's living on now.
"That'll make for a lonely winter," she replies in the same tone, trying not to let on how much she hopes he isn't serious.
If anything, he'd been expecting her to tell him it isn't necessary for him to come back. It both pleases and distresses him that she seems to be saying the opposite.
Standing, he moves toward her until he can take her hand in both of his. "Could I stay, I would. I think even just one night has done both of us more good than either of us expected. Unfortunately, I have responsibilities, even in exile. Next time, I will make sure I'm prepared for a much longer leave, so that we may have more time together."
If she wouldn't feel incredibly guilty for doing so, she would beg him to come back sooner than the summer. Sooner than the six months it had been this time, even. The thought of not seeing him for such a long stretch of time makes her want to cry, the way so many things do these days, but she forces herself to be strong the way she used to be, before all of this.
"So long as there is another time..." That's all that matters, that hope of seeing her friend again in the future. She hadn't had that hope to hold on to when he'd left her here before.
Obi-Wan gathers both her hands in his and raises them to his lips, before drawing her against him in a tight hug. He may not know the extent of how she's feeling, but he understands how isolated she feels. "There will be another time. And another after that. And another after that. Until such time as you become sick of me and refuse me entrance," he murmurs in her ear.
Padmé returns that embrace with every ounce of strength in her, clinging to the last thing in this universe that still holds steady in her heart. The man with his arms wrapped around her is all she has left that makes any sense, and without him-- As much as she tries to tell herself to be strong for her children, she may never see them again. She needs something now to keep her moving forward, and that's what he's giving her now.
"It will be a very long time before that happens," she assures him softly.
Obi-Wan sways, just a little, in comfort for both of them as they cling to each other.
"Good. Because I believe I'm going to come to rely on these visits very, very much." He's not sure if he's recognizing what they both mean to each other now, or if it is his affinity to the Unifying Force allowing him to catch a glimpse of what is to come in their shared future.
Pulling back, he reaches up to frame Padmé's face. "Now," he says seriously. "I say we eat. And try to think of something not so horribly dire to talk about. It is a large undertaking, to be sure, but I believe we can manage it."
It's the best thing he could have said. The very last thing she wants is for these visits to be burdensome to him, for his guilt to obligate him to visit when he might not actually wish to himself. But he does, she can hear it in his voice and feel it in his way he holds her, and suddenly her world isn't unending darkness.
"Of course we can," she agrees easily, and there's even a smile, small but steady. And they do. She tells him about the town while she prepares their simple dinner, giving him small tasks to help with like chopping vegetables while she shares stories of her months on the planet. The people she's met, the kindness they've shown the war widow who had found refuge on their little planet. The life she's begun to live.
It is the first smile he believes he's seen from her that is true, reaching her eyes, and Obi-Wan is glad for it. There will always be shadows hiding in her eyes, he thinks, and the same is true for himself. But together, perhaps they can teach each other how to smile easily again.
He listens attentively as they prepare dinner, and while they eat he shares his own stories. Nothing from the present, because, he tells her, "Take my word for it, nothing of significance happens where I live, and the only time I see anyone, it is very much by my own choice." But he tells her anecdotes from his days as a Padawan; instances that, as snapshots from his life, don't dwell too heavily on Jedi training, the Force, or any other context besides perhaps cultural differences. Most of these stories, of course, have him as the butt of the joke, but he's learned to tell them in such a way as to invite others to laugh with him, instead of at him.
It is a good evening, and while he plans on staying at least a few days longer, Obi-Wan finds himself mentally extending his visit by a day or two, over and over. He doesn't want to leave.
Want, unfortunately, has never been a luxury he's been allowed to indulge.
Padmé wants him to stay forever, and it hurts to know that he can't. She knows it, because he needs to get back to whatever life he's leading that allows him to look after her children, but still she can't help but wish they could have more time together now. Time to remember when things were better and the days weren't so hard to get through.
But he does have to leave eventually, if only so he can come back again soon, and perhaps... Perhaps he would have news of her children that he could share. Some observation of how they're growing, what their first words are-- anything to help her know they're really out there, alive and well.
Obi-Wan insists on cleaning up after supper, before settling on his knees in front of the fire. "If there's work you still need to do," he nods at the basket of sewing by the chair, "I thought I might meditate. I don't wish to interrupt your life." He does find himself wanting to share in it, however.
This is why Jedi are discouraged from making attachments. They are transient, forever moving on, away from people, due to necessity and duty.
But he's not a Jedi anymore. He's a man trying to survive.
"Your interruptions make my life better," she explains with a shake of her head, but she does take a seat in the chair in order to pick up the pieces she'd been working on the night before. She's gotten fairly good at embroidery over the past months, practice perfectly the skills she'd learned as a child, and her thin fingers easily resume their work of forming a design with various colors of thread.
Jedi or man, it doesn't matter; he is in hiding, and self-imposed exile. Attachments are the last things he needs, and the one thing he thinks he won't be able to resist.
Kneeling in classic pose, hands on his thighs, Obi-Wan doesn't close his eyes; instead, he stays watching her. After several moments, he says, "One of the more everyday skills I learned, was how to sew. Nothing like you're doing," he says with a nod to the intricate embroidery, "but considering how often clothes would get ripped on missions, it was a necessary skill. I could, if required, make my own clothes. Slowly, and possibly with much bleeding from pricked fingers," he teases with a smile, "but it could be done."
He doesn't mention how being able to sew has also helped save his life a time or two. Nobody wants to hear about how sewing flesh together differs from sewing cloth.
She's fairly certain that's not how one meditates, she thinks as he watches her. Not that Anakin had ever given her a proper example of the exercise to judge by, but she is fairly certain that one is supposed to have their eyes closed while meditating. He makes her smile again, though, especially at the image of him trying to make his own clothing.
"My grandmother taught me before she died, when I was very young," she explains, offering her own tale in return for his. "She thought it was a skill both Sola and I should have before we were grown, because so many never bother to learn it now. There was little call for it in my adult life, but sewing and baking are among the very few of my skills that are actually useful here."
It saddens him to think of all her knowledge and wisdom, all her other skills wasted here, being forced into hiding who she truly is, but he knows she wouldn't appreciate him feeling that - Obi-Wan is in the same predicament, and would certainly not appreciate the sentiment from her, or anyone else.
"Your grandmother appears to have been a very wise woman," he says. "It's clear that got passed on, as well."
The smile that blooms at his words is small and sad, the memory of her grandmother and all the rest of her family now bittersweet. She misses them dearly, and has to remind herself that there's nothing to be done for it. They would only be in danger if they knew she was alive, let alone if she foolishly tried to contact them.
Obi-Wan thinks of his own childhood, raised in the Jedi temple, never really knowing his family. He thinks of Luke, raised by his uncle and aunt, who have already begun to make it clear that they don't want Obi-Wan to be too much a part of Luke's life. Owen in particular seems to believe that if they ignore Luke's parentage, he will continue to be a typical, average boy.
"I believe we all wish that, once the time is past to be able to change it. But you have memories of her, and that's something to be thankful for."
He's often wondered if some of his own quirks were inherited from his family, or if he'd picked them up from his Temple family instead. Many people over the years had commented that he'd gotten his stubbornness from his Master, but was there more to it than that? It also worries him that perhaps Luke will have inherited some of the darker aspects of Vader (he would not call what was left of him Anakin - that was not Anakin any longer). He worries that in leaving Luke untrained and ignorant, he is setting the galaxy up for an even greater evil.
Which is certainly not something he's going to confide in Padmé about.
Her movements don't cease or even slow at his words, but when she replies is it with a carefully constructed ease that she doesn't truly feel. "Do you think my grandchildren will have memories of me?"
She's asking him to give her hope, even the slightest amount to help her get through this. Her heart has broken beyond repair, her soul is in tatters, and all that holds her together now is that hope for the future that shines like a dimly flickering light in a sea of darkness.
He's not expecting it, and so the vision triggered by her question takes Obi-Wan completely by surprise. He's studied for countless hours with Master Yoda in order to keep his prescience at bay, but so much talk and thinking of the future has clearly weakened his mental barriers: he sees a young man and woman, celebrating, victorious. The woman has dark hair and an infectious smile; the man has light, sandy hair, so reminiscent of another, and is more solemn, even as he smiles happily as well. He glances back as the woman - his sister, Obi-Wan is sure - pulls him back to the celebration, and he's also sure that the man is looking directly at him.
It doesn't give him the answer to Padmé's question, but it certainly gives him hope.
"Your grandchildren will grow up in a Republic, not an Empire," he says with surety giving his words weight. "We will both do what we must to ensure that your children, and their children, know us."
Edited (sure did leave out a bunch of stuff) 2018-08-29 05:13 (UTC)
There's something in Obi-Wan's expression that tells her he's seen something, or knows it, however it was the Force worked with Jedi at times. She'd experienced it with Anakin's dreams and she knew that sometimes others would learn things while awake... Whatever it is, she holds on to it, grasping the certainty he felt because it's all she has. And she tries her hardest not to think about the fact that he hadn't offered the same certainty in answer to her question.
"Thank you," she says after a few seconds of silence, a sadness in those two words that she wasn't sure she would ever lose. She would still hold to the hope of seeing her children again, but at least she knows that they will live, and considering all things, that's truly the best outcome possible.
A deep breath and then she lets that sadness fall back into place around the edges of her mind instead of at the forefront, instead offering him a small, teasing smile as she points out, "Have you always been this terrible at meditating?"
Obi-Wan wishes he could tell her for certain that they would still be around for her grandchildren to know her; as it is, technically he's not even sure he was alive in the vision. Despite the man - despite Luke looking directly at him, it felt tangential enough that he thinks the young man might have been seeing his spirit in the Force, much as Yoda had taught him to do with Qui-Gon.
Her questioning of his terrible meditation startles a laugh from him - rusty from disuse, but no less genuine. "I assure you, I'm quite good at meditating." He makes a face, playing it up a bit for her benefit. "Unfortunately, I've had little else to do for the last six years, and even I can get tired of it, after a while. I find I much rather share the company, now that I've found it."
It's so good to hear that laugh again, she can't remember the last time she'd had the pleasure. A year may well have passed since the last time, if not longer, the war having given them little time for lighter interactions between the missions he'd been sent out on. Missions with Anakin...
"Well, I'm afraid my life here is quite boring most days," she admits with a small smile, still threading the needle through the cloth with careful precision. "The most adventure I get is when I try reading some of the books I've borrowed from a woman in town. They're a bit on the ridiculous side, but they help pass the time when I don't have work to do." When she's run out of work, more accurately, which isn't often if she can help it.
"So far, the only adventure I get is when the locals try to raid my home. It's going to take a while before I've sufficiently deterred them from it." The Sandpeople aren't a problem while he's actually on his farm, although the edges of it butt up against their territory in the Jundland Wastes, so he has to be careful while tending the edges. It's the Jawas that worry him, greedy little mechanical scavengers that they are. Twice he's had to scare them off from dismantling his water vaporizors. He'd set several cunning traps around them before leaving, but he has no doubt they'll have gotten around them by the time he returns home.
Home. It's not, really; it's just a place for him to sleep, and while away the years.
It's those words that finally make her pause in her work, hands lowering to her lap as she looks up at him in concern and just a hint of fear. He's living in such a place that his home might not even be safe? The idea of anything happening to him and the fact that she would never even know -- it terrifies her.
"Obi-Wan, I know you can take care of yourself, but please, please be careful." Her voice is tense, emotions pulled tight. "If anything were to happen to you, I couldn't bear it."
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"The people in town have been saying this winter will be fairly harsh," she comments, carefully unpacking the basket of produce. "There isn't much trade here, so it's good that the harvest has gone well."
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"I will remember in future to only visit during the summer, then," he says mildly, watching for her reaction. He came to the conclusion today that his visit wasn't just for her sake, and it has done wonders to help bolster his own resolve, as well.
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"That'll make for a lonely winter," she replies in the same tone, trying not to let on how much she hopes he isn't serious.
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Standing, he moves toward her until he can take her hand in both of his. "Could I stay, I would. I think even just one night has done both of us more good than either of us expected. Unfortunately, I have responsibilities, even in exile. Next time, I will make sure I'm prepared for a much longer leave, so that we may have more time together."
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"So long as there is another time..." That's all that matters, that hope of seeing her friend again in the future. She hadn't had that hope to hold on to when he'd left her here before.
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"It will be a very long time before that happens," she assures him softly.
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"Good. Because I believe I'm going to come to rely on these visits very, very much." He's not sure if he's recognizing what they both mean to each other now, or if it is his affinity to the Unifying Force allowing him to catch a glimpse of what is to come in their shared future.
Pulling back, he reaches up to frame Padmé's face. "Now," he says seriously. "I say we eat. And try to think of something not so horribly dire to talk about. It is a large undertaking, to be sure, but I believe we can manage it."
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"Of course we can," she agrees easily, and there's even a smile, small but steady. And they do. She tells him about the town while she prepares their simple dinner, giving him small tasks to help with like chopping vegetables while she shares stories of her months on the planet. The people she's met, the kindness they've shown the war widow who had found refuge on their little planet. The life she's begun to live.
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He listens attentively as they prepare dinner, and while they eat he shares his own stories. Nothing from the present, because, he tells her, "Take my word for it, nothing of significance happens where I live, and the only time I see anyone, it is very much by my own choice." But he tells her anecdotes from his days as a Padawan; instances that, as snapshots from his life, don't dwell too heavily on Jedi training, the Force, or any other context besides perhaps cultural differences. Most of these stories, of course, have him as the butt of the joke, but he's learned to tell them in such a way as to invite others to laugh with him, instead of at him.
It is a good evening, and while he plans on staying at least a few days longer, Obi-Wan finds himself mentally extending his visit by a day or two, over and over. He doesn't want to leave.
Want, unfortunately, has never been a luxury he's been allowed to indulge.
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But he does have to leave eventually, if only so he can come back again soon, and perhaps... Perhaps he would have news of her children that he could share. Some observation of how they're growing, what their first words are-- anything to help her know they're really out there, alive and well.
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He does find himself wanting to share in it, however.
This is why Jedi are discouraged from making attachments. They are transient, forever moving on, away from people, due to necessity and duty.
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"Your interruptions make my life better," she explains with a shake of her head, but she does take a seat in the chair in order to pick up the pieces she'd been working on the night before. She's gotten fairly good at embroidery over the past months, practice perfectly the skills she'd learned as a child, and her thin fingers easily resume their work of forming a design with various colors of thread.
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Kneeling in classic pose, hands on his thighs, Obi-Wan doesn't close his eyes; instead, he stays watching her. After several moments, he says, "One of the more everyday skills I learned, was how to sew. Nothing like you're doing," he says with a nod to the intricate embroidery, "but considering how often clothes would get ripped on missions, it was a necessary skill. I could, if required, make my own clothes. Slowly, and possibly with much bleeding from pricked fingers," he teases with a smile, "but it could be done."
He doesn't mention how being able to sew has also helped save his life a time or two. Nobody wants to hear about how sewing flesh together differs from sewing cloth.
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"My grandmother taught me before she died, when I was very young," she explains, offering her own tale in return for his. "She thought it was a skill both Sola and I should have before we were grown, because so many never bother to learn it now. There was little call for it in my adult life, but sewing and baking are among the very few of my skills that are actually useful here."
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"Your grandmother appears to have been a very wise woman," he says. "It's clear that got passed on, as well."
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"I wish I'd had the chance to know her better."
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"I believe we all wish that, once the time is past to be able to change it. But you have memories of her, and that's something to be thankful for."
He's often wondered if some of his own quirks were inherited from his family, or if he'd picked them up from his Temple family instead. Many people over the years had commented that he'd gotten his stubbornness from his Master, but was there more to it than that? It also worries him that perhaps Luke will have inherited some of the darker aspects of Vader (he would not call what was left of him Anakin - that was not Anakin any longer). He worries that in leaving Luke untrained and ignorant, he is setting the galaxy up for an even greater evil.
Which is certainly not something he's going to confide in Padmé about.
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She's asking him to give her hope, even the slightest amount to help her get through this. Her heart has broken beyond repair, her soul is in tatters, and all that holds her together now is that hope for the future that shines like a dimly flickering light in a sea of darkness.
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It doesn't give him the answer to Padmé's question, but it certainly gives him hope.
"Your grandchildren will grow up in a Republic, not an Empire," he says with surety giving his words weight. "We will both do what we must to ensure that your children, and their children, know us."
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"Thank you," she says after a few seconds of silence, a sadness in those two words that she wasn't sure she would ever lose. She would still hold to the hope of seeing her children again, but at least she knows that they will live, and considering all things, that's truly the best outcome possible.
A deep breath and then she lets that sadness fall back into place around the edges of her mind instead of at the forefront, instead offering him a small, teasing smile as she points out, "Have you always been this terrible at meditating?"
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Her questioning of his terrible meditation startles a laugh from him - rusty from disuse, but no less genuine. "I assure you, I'm quite good at meditating." He makes a face, playing it up a bit for her benefit. "Unfortunately, I've had little else to do for the last six years, and even I can get tired of it, after a while. I find I much rather share the company, now that I've found it."
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"Well, I'm afraid my life here is quite boring most days," she admits with a small smile, still threading the needle through the cloth with careful precision. "The most adventure I get is when I try reading some of the books I've borrowed from a woman in town. They're a bit on the ridiculous side, but they help pass the time when I don't have work to do." When she's run out of work, more accurately, which isn't often if she can help it.
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Home. It's not, really; it's just a place for him to sleep, and while away the years.
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"Obi-Wan, I know you can take care of yourself, but please, please be careful." Her voice is tense, emotions pulled tight. "If anything were to happen to you, I couldn't bear it."
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