𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 — the desert makes you that way. the body which had not been born to the sand craves the softness beyond it , her water-fat desires , the sea which is not the dune sea , the wind that is not violent , the green that is not a bruise. this is nostalgia , as well as guilt , to feel that surviving is not enough , to want more with a hunger that sits in the pit of her stomach , always there , watching from behind her eyes.
padmé’s small hand , desert-touched , should not fit so well in obi-wan’s hand , their callouses brushing against one another , born from the same wounds. it is not a sin that in their tragedy , they’d seek the comfort of touch. but it feels like it anyway. it feels like a knife to her heart that his rough lips would be so gentle against her skin , & that she would be thankful for it , until their intertwined fingers squeeze their conjoined hands ever so lightly. & like their conjoined grieving , they touch for the sake of touch , only for the hunger of it.
it is almost funny ( in the way tragedies are ) that another’s man lips , in another story , had felt like fire and that now she feels obi-wan’s mouth so gently kiss her hand and can only think of water. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬. this fills her with guilt , a sadness for which she has only one name but will no longer speak.
& padmé is familiar enough with the cold touch of guilt nowadays : she is guilty of living when others are gone , guilty of being a ghost , a mother , and no-longer-being-padmé , which sits in her both as guilt and as anger. but she ignores it as she ignores so many other things , the desert has no heart for it.
❛ well, so many other things in life leave us no choice at all. ❜ , which she says with as much melancholy as cynicism. it tastes different in her mouth , she’s still unused to the shape of it. ❛ like everything else , we’ll just have to deal with it. ❜ , which she adds with more softness, with a brush of her mouth to his hand like he did with hers.
& most nights , the darkening of the stars ( metaphorical at the same time it isn’t ) mirrors the bruised shadows under their eyes. but in the morning she holds his hand in hers , makes caf for him and the children , & 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞 .
there is a story , somewhere in the old world ( here understood as that which is no more & all that has been lost ) , about a man. except he was no man , but a soldier , not a soldier but a negotiator , not a negotiator but a jedi. sometimes , when he closes his eyes , he can see the shape of him , the grace of honor , the sillhouete of an ideal. most times , he can not picture shape nor shadow , only a name which weights heavier than the entire galaxy and is all but buried now , burnt to ashes in a planet made of fire. obi-wan kenobi once held the light of the galaxy in the palm of his hands , so carefully he watered it and fed it. there is no more of that now —— now there is only ben , and the grains of sand spilling through his fingers.
( & this is what he tells himself at night , when the touch of her soothe him into sleep , as peaceful as it could be : in the story , the jedi had a best friend , who had a great love , who had a family and a home. that is just a story. he is only ben. )
padmé’s eyes glow against the sun , brown reflecting gold against beige , and at times obi-wan forgets how stories ought to go — sometimes , all there is is the soft curl of her lips , the delicate pink of it , how her laugh sounds , how the children cling to her with so much love it feels as though it could heal old wounds. it doesn’t , but they can pretend , sometimes. other times , it slips , like holding water in your palms , or sand , or the roughness of both against the skin now that all softness is gone from the world. ❛ when you put it like that. ❜ he says , and the words linger in the air with no finality — there is nothing to be said here , when neither live by their own choices , when their life , or their pretend-make-believe-life , is someone else’s life.
instead , he lowers his eyes to her hands , to the dry-softness of it , to the paradoxical nature of all around him , like the green in a vase in the corner in the middle of the desert , or their not-themselves-themselves existence. his thumb grazes over her jaw , softly , lovingly , and he smiles. there is so much want here — the kind of desire that stains. the tips of obi-wan’s fingers are stained with the desire of her , or perhaps they are stained with the blood of him , or perhaps they are both the same thing : red , and thick , and dripping over him. it says : this is what you took in the same way you took his life. you , murderer. you , thief. obi-wan stands in the place where he once stood , drinks the love that he once spilled , eats the bread that is his —— regret is late and posthumous and sometimes not here at all , just the memory of it , and the guilt , and the paradoxical nature of some-kind-of-happiness.
❛ i didn’t think it would be this sweet . . . the fruit , whatever it is called. ❜ he says , finally , licking what remains of it off his thumb and fingers , tasting the luxury that life sometimes gives & often takes away. ❛ perhaps i should look for more of it next time we hit the market. ❜
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