I decided to start Part II of "For Every Moment" today. The writing just sort of came to me, but I really like how it turned out. I'm going to be working between my two stories now. When I'm into comedy and fun, I'll work on "What She Doesn't Know Won't Kill Her", but when I'm more into the emotional sort of stories, I'll be doing this one. I hope everyone enjoys it. Please comment and review. You don't know how much that means to me when you guys do. :)

{t6d}

Chapter One:

Weight of the World

He could still remember her face, especially the concern that was all too often etched within it's depths. Concern for him. Always for him. And her touch, so soft, so comforting, and he knew she'd never truly raised a hand against him. Only as a ploy. Never for real. It made him realize just how forgiving she was.

Then there was her body. He could never keep his hands off of her. They'd spend long nights intertwined, as if they'd always been one, and never separate. She'd made him whole again, on those brief occurrences when he'd returned from war. He'd come to her in pain, and he knew she'd felt it, but the pain never lasted. How could it? When he was with her, it wasn't possible. How he wished he could feel her body next to his. How he wished to feel that comfort she gave him.

She had been his everything. Every breath he'd taken had been for her. Every move he'd made had been made as if she were inside of him, telling him how to think. He'd survived because he couldn't imagine how she'd live without him. But he'd never considered how he would live if she were no more. When a man is in love, does he think of such things? Perhaps he should have, or perhaps not. If he had, he might have missed out on so many things through fear of someday losing her. He knew what he'd avoided doing, and looking back, he hurt to imagine not remembering those things. How much he would have missed if he'd avoided her through his fear.

But now, after so long, when at last he was allowing himself to think back to the moment when he'd lost the only thing he'd ever fought for, he couldn't help but wonder if it were his fault she had died. What might he have done to cause such a terrible thing to happen.

And the truth was clear, though he wanted nothing more than to ignore it.

It wasn't his fault. And he needed to accept that.

Padmé's death had been the many pains of war. He was only glad it hadn't come sooner. If it had… He couldn't bear to imagine.

You can still fight, says a voice in his head, and he tries to push it aside, but it will not be held down. You have not yet lived this life to the fullest. There is still more you have yet to do. Will you throw this away when there still is hope? Or have you forgotten that hope?

He tried to close off his mind to this voice, unbeknownst to the fact that this voice was himself. He wasn't ready for this. Wasn't ready to face himself. All he wanted, all he'd ever wanted, since the cruel world had taken her from his arms, was to curl up and pass into the void. All he wanted was to throw away the pain. Throw away himself.

And yet…

There is no hope, he found himself saying in the depths of his mind, and the voice was dark and pained. There never has been. There… And he could not finish what he was going to say, for even as the words formed themselves in his mind, he knew they were not true. He knew he was lying to himself in order to convince his mind of something that wasn't true.

You're a fool, the other voice said, but not bitterly, not unkindly. You have wasted your very life. And for what? When you have thrown away the only thing, the only thing that could have given you happiness. Did you ever truly see her? Did you see how much she looks like Padmé? Or were you too bitter at yourself to notice?

Go away!, he screamed within his mind.

You know what I say is true.

Get your blasted words out of my head!

That's not possible. I am you. And you are me.

"Anakin."

And that was a voice, a real voice, one that entered his ears and not the space behind his eyes. This was a true voice, and though it was soft and sad, it was powerful enough in the fact of simply being there to cause him to open his eyes.

And then he realized he was crying. He never cried. Not Anakin Skywalker. Padmé's death had torn all emotion away from him. It had made him unsusceptible to the tears that often threatened to plague him. He was a cold person, and yet here he was, and there was a wetness on his cheeks, though his vision was as clear as if he were looking at the world through the clearest glass in the universe.

Then he took a deep breath, for he realized he'd been holding it even as he'd been struggling with himself.

"Master," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. Then he roughly cleared his throat and frantically brushed the tears off his face as he stood up. He knew Obi-Wan felt his pain. It was clear in his old Master's eyes that he knew exactly what Anakin had been thinking. But he couldn't bear let the tears show, no matter how much he deserved to shed them.

"Do you need a few more minutes?" asked Obi-Wan, and there was kindness in his voice, though his eyes were plagued with sadness. Padmé's passing had borne easier on him than on Anakin, but they'd been friends ever since the Battle of Naboo and that alone made it painful for him as well as for Anakin.

"It wouldn't help," answered Anakin, and he forced himself to breath deeply so as to avoid tearing up again. "A thousand year wouldn't be enough time for me."

Obi-Wan appeared as if he were about to speak, but he didn't. He reached over and put a hand on Anakin's shoulder, even as a father might, then gave him a reassuring pat and turned away, clearing his own throat. That in itself was enough for Anakin to pull himself out of his misery long enough to wonder if more words were needed between them.

"Did you wish to speak to me, Master?" he asked, smoothing down his tunic, which was slightly disheveled from the seated meditation he'd been in only moments before.

"The Council is waiting for you," answered Obi-Wan, starting down the hallway, and Anakin, knowing that Obi-Wan was avoiding the question, quickly followed, using the Force to close the door to his personal mediation chamber.

"What is it you're not telling me, Master?" he asked, and his voice sounded darker than he had intended.

They walked in silence for some time, Anakin's anger growing all the while. But, as he'd discovered at the beginning of his Jedi training many years earlier, the more his anger grew, the less likely Obi-Wan was to speak. So he swallowed his emotions and forced himself to calm down and breath steadily. When he was virtually calm, Obi-Wan glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and spoke.

"I'm concerned for you, Anakin," he said simply. "Your pain ripples through the Force like the rain that falls down a mountainside."

"I don't have time for riddles, Master," said Anakin irritably. "Speak plainer."

"You want plainer? Then I'll give it to you." Obi-Wan stopped so suddenly that Anakin took several more steps before turning to face him. "You are not who you used to be, Anakin, for obvious reasons. Loosing one you love is painful. We all know how much Padmé meant to you, and we do what we can to ease her passing. But it's been ten years, Anakin. Ten years. How long will you hold onto this? Padmé would have wanted you to move on. The Council has done what they could to compensate for your loss. They've restored you within the Order. They've kept you off the front lines and given you a seat among them. All past wrongs have been annulled. They've even changed the Code to accommodate you. What more would you ask of them? They've given you a chance to move on. Why won't you take it?"

Anakin did not reply. At first, he sought for an excuse, but when none was forthcoming, he chose merely to remain silent. He told himself that Obi-Wan would never understand. But even that wasn't the truth. The death of Duchess Satine soon after Padmé's had been painful for him, yet it was obvious Obi-Wan had moved on, as best he could.

"Why do you hold onto your pain, Anakin?" asked Obi-Wan, and the hardness of his earlier tone was replaced by one of sadness. "Why can't you learn to live again? Padmé's death hurt us all. We understand it hurt you most of all. But what about Leia? What about your daughter? You've ignored her for ten years! Would Padmé have wanted that? She loved Leia. Why can't you?"

"I do," answered Anakin weakly, and he knew his emotions were about to give way again.

"Really? Then why do you avoid her?"

"I… I can't…" Anakin struggled to finish what he was going to say, but a dam that has been held back for many long years breaks easily under pressure, and though he'd forced the tears down earlier, he could no longer. Nor did he try to this time around. And so he cried, and Obi-Wan gently led him to a window alcove off the main hall and stayed with him while the conflicted young Jedi released the tension that comes from avoidance. And no one came for them, for as far as Obi-Wan was concerned, the Council meant nothing at that moment.

Nothing.