[She would die a thousand deaths if she could but save him one time, save him from the hatred that had clouded his eyes and made his gaze in to that of a stranger. Hatred that had turned him from her, turned him on her- Clawing at her throat yet her hands could find no purchase. A world turning red then turning black.
Her own breath is drawn in sharp at the soft touch, drawn from those memories, both good and bad, and how? How can she tell him the truth? How can she say she has died? It was what he had feared, what he had dreamed about, what she had told him would not happen. And by his own hand, crushing down with an invisible force...
There is a measured silence as her eyes flicker back and forth, holding his gaze, yet...] The war, Anakin... It was never about the Republic against the Separatists. It was about Palpatine against the Jedi. And Palpatine won.
[And she knows, knows what Palpatine means to him, although she doesn't quite understand just how far his claws have sunk in to her husband. It is not The Truth that she reveals, but it is a truth, a monumental one of it's own accord, and she isn't certain how he will take it. If what he says about Obi-Wan is true, then Obi-Wan likely hasn't told those words to her. Hasn't told her that he needs to kill Anakin to stop him, hasn't stowed away aboard her craft when she denied him the answer he was seeking.
And she loved him. Force how she loved him, even when Anakin had turned the full might of his rage against her.]
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It hadn't been him, that much she knew. It hadn't been that boy on Tatooine who had provided them with shelter and let them eat at his house, who had showed her a droid he was making and who had risked it all. It wasn't the boy who had carved for her the japor snippet still in her hand or called her an angel. It wasn't that man, grown but not fully, who had looked upon her with such emotion that Padmé hadn't know what to make of it. Like a woman. Like something precious. How it had turned her stomach, but not in a bad way. No, not that. And she had denied it for so long, denied him, until the arena, when she hadn't wanted to die with a lie on her lips. It wasn't the man she had wed, who had so tentatively taken her hand with his false one, who had said those vows on Naboo and joined them as one.
Her own breath is drawn in sharp at the soft touch, drawn from those memories, both good and bad, and how? How can she tell him the truth? How can she say she has died? It was what he had feared, what he had dreamed about, what she had told him would not happen. And by his own hand, crushing down with an invisible force...
There is a measured silence as her eyes flicker back and forth, holding his gaze, yet...] The war, Anakin... It was never about the Republic against the Separatists. It was about Palpatine against the Jedi. And Palpatine won.
[And she knows, knows what Palpatine means to him, although she doesn't quite understand just how far his claws have sunk in to her husband. It is not The Truth that she reveals, but it is a truth, a monumental one of it's own accord, and she isn't certain how he will take it. If what he says about Obi-Wan is true, then Obi-Wan likely hasn't told those words to her. Hasn't told her that he needs to kill Anakin to stop him, hasn't stowed away aboard her craft when she denied him the answer he was seeking.
And she loved him. Force how she loved him, even when Anakin had turned the full might of his rage against her.]