Title: "Posterboy!"
Author(s): Princess-Arulmozhi
Timeframe: Pre-RoTS
Characters: Obi-Wan, Anakin, Padmé
Genre: Angst?
Summary: A fit of madness, especially as I've never written Padmé before. Still, I'm nothing if not adventurous.
Notes: That 'posterboy' comment from RoTS intrigued me. You see before you, the results. I apologize in advance for any blunders committed -my only excuse is that I saw RoTS only once.
To say that Coruscant was a complex cityscape, would be the greatest understatement ever made in centuries.
Industrial sectors, business sectors, Chambers of Commerce, of Science, of History, of Linguistics, level upon level upon level, teeming with every creature that lay claim to planets so far-flung that few had ever come into contact with them, residential quarters, transport bays, hangars, airways seething with every craft that had ever been named and released into the vast consciousness of the public…Coruscant was all this.
It contained those who eventually decided the fate of entire systems in the galaxy, and those who would carry out what was decided by such people. Beings with such immense power, strength, and political chicanery that tales abounded about their kind, in the Outer Rim. But Coruscant was not just the home of subterfuge—it also housed justice. Peace, in isolated pockets, to be sure, but peace of a kind rarely tasted by those who did not call it home. It was the focal point of the known galaxy—it was the fondest wish of every citizen of the Republic to visit the city-planet at least once, in their life-time.
And to enjoy one glimpse—one, brief glimpse, at least—of the senatorial district, and the Jedi Temple. The only two places in Coruscant which eclipsed all the other sectors: one held the decision-makers of the galaxy, while the other held guardians of a thousand years of peace. Both had had their share of extreme turbulence in the recent past, and both were still trying to come to terms with it. And yet…
They represented Coruscant. They were Coruscant.
Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi made his way through senatorial district, pausing to enjoy the drops of aesthetically enhanced rain drops that fell on him. A wry smile crept into his face as he loosened his cloak, allowing moisture to settle onto his head and shoulders. Part of the reason for this abrupt departure from his usual aversion to artificial rain was the fact that he had spent the last two months in a near-desert, parched planet with not a hint of water; the other reason was that he was in an especially good mood.
Parched planet it might have been, but it had held the base—reportedly, of the one particularly prominent member of the separatist forces. Passel Argente's involvement had already trickled into the crevices of the Jedi High Council—what was difficult was not receiving shuttle-loads of information, but knowing what was the wheit, and what was the chaffe. Reports of the take over of Xan'el, a planet that had shot into prominence a decade ago with its wealth of mineral resources by Argente's droid forces, had reached its way through unofficial channels. Xan'el was a world that edged the Core, and sufficiently closely connected with Coruscant for its citizens, and others, to believe that an invasion was upon their heads. Which meant, simply, that the best Jedi team had to be sent to do what it could, post-haste.
Argente could not be captured, though it must be said that Anakin had taken great trouble to do so…but Xan'el had been freed of the horror that had sent its citizens cowering into every corner they could seek.
One planet. It was a tiny speck of dust in the vast sea that was the galaxy, perhaps—but the Council's faith in the Kenobi/Skywalker team had been re-affirmed. And, by the same token, Coruscant's faith in its heroes. The galaxy's heroes.
Obi-Wan shook his head as he pulled his hood over his face again, the easiest way to escape recognition. Hooded figures walked all around the city, in any case, and one more brown-cloaked figure was nothing out of the ordinary. For if he were to be recognized…
He sighed. There was a time when the Jedi had been revered, respected. They still were—but now, more as warriors who kept evil at bay, rather than guardians who maintained peace. The Clone wars had done what a thousand years of isolated skirmishes could not—they had shaken the core of the galaxy, rocked its foundations. No more were guardians needed; no more was fairness the order of the day. It was war, now. And war needed warriors. Warriors who could fight. Who could fly like Skywalker. Duel like Kenobi. And those who gave the greatest victories were the heroes, for they protected the galaxy as they were supposed to.
Was that such a wrong thing? He wondered as he deliberately sloshed through a puddle of water.
The streets were empty; he was now in the senatorial district, which meant that he now strode in the sector of those who wielded power almost limitless—at least, in the minds of those who lived a simple existence. And the Jedi helped maintain their promises.
Ultimately, that was what mattered, after all. The hopes and dreams of the common citizen. The one who worked, ate and slept, brought up his or her children, and lived a simple life. There were millions of those in Coruscant, who believed that he and Anakin were demi-Gods. And others, in other systems, across the galaxy.
He supposed that it was worth it, in that case.
The puddles lessened as well kept pathways criss-crossed the sector. Obi-Wan looked around him, pondered his own whim with a quizzical smile, and then calmly bent and pulled off his boots. He left the clean, water-free part of the lane, and sloshed his way down the water bare-feet, reveling in the sharp cool feel of the rain.
Qui-Gon would approve, probably, while Anakin would grin, and instantly propose a race to see who could slosh through the water faster.
Anakin.
He darted a swift look at his chronometer, and walked swiftly towards his destination, the ends of his leggings now considerably soaked. His cloak was dragging along the lane—it was beginning to be frayed, anyway; he might have to requisition another, and meet with a bland stare from the quarter-master…
Ah. 500, Republica. He released a deep breath of satisfaction, and announced his arrival with a retinal scan. The doors swished open, and he slipped on his damp boots. A fine thing it would be, for a Jedi Master and Council Member to arrive bare foot, cloak dragging, and beard dripping with rain.
Not that it mattered, here. Aside from the Temple, this was where he felt reasonably at home, on Coruscant.
A brilliantly sparkling droid stood at the open entrance, its head moving in sharp jerks. "Good gracious… Master Kenobi! Oh, do come in sir. But you're soaked!"
Obi-Wan smiled, and controlled an urge to place a finger on C-3PO's neck and render him voiceless. "Thank you, Threepio." He peered inside, and was welcomed by the sight of the person he had hoped to see, walking out of inner chambers.
"Oh, Master Kenobi! My lady has been awaiting you. But where's Master Anakin? Didn't you come in your speeder? You're so wet! I thought you would—"
"Padmé…" Obi-Wan gave an absent wave in Threepio's direction, and stepped beyond the droid's reach. A smile broke out over his worn face.
A slender figure slipped out of the shadows of the inner chambers, and moved into the light.
"Obi-Wan."
She paused for a moment as she stood a little distance away, and smiled as she took in his appearance. Then, she came towards him, holding out her arms, genuine warmth colouring her voice. "You sloshed your way through the rain, didn't you?"
"You know me well." He smiled as he took her hands in his own.
"It's been a long time, after all."
"Am I late…?" He brushed a chaste kiss to her forehead; a greeting they had employed for years, now.
"Hardly." She threaded a hand through his elbow, and almost dragged him inside. "You have a flair for timing—there's just a minute to go." She gestured towards C-3PO, who clattered up as gracefully as he could. "Some refreshment for Master Obi-Wan, Threepio." She threw a teasing look at Obi-Wan. "Hoi-broth…?" Threepio began expostulating in a shrill voice.
Obi-Wan held out his hands, palms up. "If you really wish to see me violently sick, all over your beautiful Chesian carpet…"
"Well, then. There's no alternative but to send you back to your Temple."
"I never did trust politicians..." Obi-Wan murmured, as he shrugged off his cloak. She laughed, tucked a few tendrils of soft hair escaping the exotic hair-fastener, and led the way into a room that led off the welcoming chambers.
A large screen dominated one whole wall of the room; the other wall opened out onto Coruscant cityscape in all its grey; watery splendour. She touched a small button on the hand-held control panel, and the screen came to life.
"Thank you for letting me come." Obi-Wan said, as he sat down on one of the ornate, comfortable couches, wishing he could pull off his boots again.
She looked at him, amused. "Obi-Wan, we've known each other these eleven years and more. Must you thank me every time?"
"Mindful of his surroundings a Jedi is, always." Obi-Wan stretched out his legs in front of him.
"Oh, that's excellent." She scrutinized him carefully. "You may remove your boots—they're sopping wet, probably," She said, eyeing the boot-marks he had left as he walked in.
Obi-Wan sat up, remorseful. "Was it that obvious?" he asked ruefully, as he unlaced his boots. "Coruscant and rain don't team up often…I thought I might as well take advantage of it."
Padmé chuckled, showing a glimpse of pearly teeth. "They've come up with some strange colours for a rainbow too—blue and maroon." Her face was expressionless. "From one edge of madness to another, they said." She looked at his feet, now free of boots. "Oh, I knew it."
"An excellent Jedi you would make."
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Naboo's respected senator, Padmé Amidala Naberrie looked the same as ever. No, that wasn't quite right. Obi-Wan had seen her on and off before Geonosis exploded onto the horizon—and had met her even more, after that. At senate sessions, diplomatic meetings, ceremonies—and others such as this one. When he was not Jedi Master, Council member Kenobi, but merely Obi-Wan, and she was not a senator and former queen Amidala, but just…Padmé.
Obi-Wan looked at the beautifully coiffed hair that curled in around the nape of her neck—strong. She is, and has always been strong—the delicate face that framed expressive eyes—compassionate. The galaxy needs compassion, more than anything, now—or the slender form of a young woman comfortable with the image she presented—charismatic. The people of Naboo were not mistaken when they asked her to represent them…
He broke off his thoughts as Threepio wandered in, holding a salvere tray with multi-coloured liquids held in strangely shaped glasses.
"If you please, Master Kenobi—my lady said that I must offer you refreshments, but did not specify what I must offer you, so I took a great deal of liberty and brought you a glass of Corellian ale, some Riberain wine, but no hoi-broth—my lady has mentioned that you are allergic to hoi-broth—"
Obi-Wan shot an expressive look at Padmé, and took a slim-stemmed glass of sparkling blue. "Kind of you, Threepio,' he murmured, and the droid broke into more ecstatic exclamations, until Obi-Wan threw his host a pleading look, and Padmé dismissed him with a laugh.
Obi-Wan looked at his chronometer as he sipped delicately at his drink. "About time, now…"
He had barely finished, when an image flashed on the view-screen. The icon of the twice-daily HoloNet news flashed, followed by the Republic's symbol, signifying an all-important news bulletin. Followed by…
Anakin Skywalker. Jedi Knight. Hero without Fear.
The words scrolled under his image in Basic and Padmé stilled automatically, her attention completely riveted. The room was forgotten; Obi-Wan and Threepio were far, far away. At the moment, there was only…
He stood before her, larger than life, filling the screen.
Anakin, was her first thought, as it had been for many months now. Anakin. Anakin.
Someone was speaking—a HoloNet reporter, an Iridian, by the looks of it. She thrust a mike into Anakin's face and she felt a quick sliver of irritation in herself. Oh, leave him alone.
Anakin, however, appeared unperturbed, as though used to this—even expecting it. "…Xan'el is safe. No more threats of droid attacks…"
He was speaking something, to be sure. What, though?
"I hate this war, Padmé. All I care about is you. All I want is to be with you. All I want. All I…"
Blonde radiation-bleached hair framed his strong, gentle face. Intensely blue eyes were looking at someone beyond her line of vision.
"…magnificent display of strategy, pushing back enemy lines…" The Iridian had moved back, apparently; another goggle-eyed reporter had taken over, her eyes devouring him.
Eyes that had looked at her with such passion that she had been left breathless. Eyes that had savoured her in this very apartment, as she had walked from one end of the room to another. Eyes that loved her. Hands that had held her.
"...thirty six hours, to push back the attack," he was saying. "Obi-Wan—General Kenobi, I mean—out-flanked the eighth contingent—"
The reporter pushed her way into his speech, as she stared straight at the view screen, herself. "And there speaks the Hero without fear of his former Master, Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. To us, he's the fearless negotiator, to Knight Skywalker, he is Obi-Wan, friend, guide and confidante…" Anakin blushed a little.
Padmé could almost hear the sighs of ecstasy that might have escaped a thousand other female hearts, at the end of that sentence.
My Anakin, she thought fiercely, as she drank in his features like a parched plant in the summer rains, almost forgetting the presence of another, in the room. My Anakin. Mine. She was tempted to look pityingly at the reporter. His mind might be consumed by battle…but his heart belongs to me.
Her heart did indeed whisper that he was a Jedi—but Anakin was more. So much more.
"It was over within hours," Anakin was saying. Someone interrupted with a question; he turned in that direction, his profile outlined sharply against the screen, rain not withstanding. "…outrageous, yes," he was saying. "But hey, nothing venture, nothing gain." She saw Obi-Wan shake his head, possibly at the abrupt departure from calm, Jedi knight to a gregarious soldier.
"Knight Skywalker!" Screeched another voice. "What about Passel Argente?" queried someone else, and she saw Anakin's face darken.
"He will be brought to justice," was the grim reply, and she sensed Obi-Wan stiffen slightly. Very slightly. "The Jedi guard peace and justice, and we will bring peace." He paused, an impish light in his eyes. "And besides, we've never yet failed in any mission, have we?"
"Are Jedi allowed the satisfaction of victory?" asked one shrewd reporter, and the crowd stilled. Padmé moved slightly to the front, fingers curling up despite herself. Beside her, Obi-Wan was motionless.
Anakin's flush subsided. "This is war," he spoke, his tone abruptly quiet. "And war needs warriors. Warriors who can fight. Fly better than I can. Duel like Master Obi-Wan. There're millions out there, who need our help. This is what we're born for. To help the people who work, eat and sleep, and bring up their kids. This victory is theirs, not ours. We feel just a small bit of it." He paused. "Is that such a wrong thing?"
The crowd pressing against him promptly went wild, and delighted shouts rent the air. For the first time, Anakin looked faintly embarrassed.
Padmé clenched her fists tightly, feeling a surge of pride course through her. My knight. My fearless hero. Oh, Anakin, how long…how long…it's been so long. How I've missed you.
Beside her, Obi-Wan appeared calm, unperturbed, a slight smile on his lips. She threw a look at him, gauging him. Jedi. Jedi calm, Jedi serenity. She knew enough of Jedi in general, and Obi-Wan in particular to know that he was not an emotion-less droid…but this was Anakin. His former padawan. A Jedi knight. Arrived after a long mission. The proud achiever of success. The Hero without Fear.
Disciplined. Obi-Wan would never let his façade slip, in public. Never bare his innermost thoughts. Never wear his heart on his sleeve.
And that was why Anakin would be the only Jedi she could ever love.
Fear filled her, abruptly. Anakin might be fearless, but his enemies increased, with every encounter such as this. She watched him speak again, answering questions, nodding at remarks, but her mind registered nothing. Force, she called out, uncertain of whether this power source that the Jedi trusted so implicitly, would acknowledge her pleas. Force, keep him safe. Even if it means that I may never see him again. He is strong, compassionate, gentle. Keep him safe. He labours for you; he thrives for you. Guard him. Guard him…
"Obi-Wan," She turned to him, abruptly, barely noticing his faint surprise. "Keep him safe. Promise me that you will keep him safe."
He straightened. "Padmé, what—" Half his attention was still on the screen, on Anakin, still talking.
"Keep him safe, please," she was close to losing control. "From this war. He is…" My light. My love. My universe.
She lowered her head, blinking rapidly. My husband. "He is your best friend. Guard him, please. I know you can. You're the only one who can. You're the only father he knows. You're the only one who—"
She stopped, suddenly aware of who she was speaking to, whose hand she had grasped hold of, in her distress. Whose fingers she had clutched, as she wanted reassurance, guidance.
Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan, who was disciplined. Serene. Calm. The bed-rock of all that was worthy. The strong foundation that held Anakin as he soared over the heavens. The unseen thread that anchored him.
"I will," she heard him say. "I will protect Anakin." His voice was soft, strong. Promise.
"You promised Master Qui-Gon," she was speaking incoherently, and she knew it.
"I did," was Obi-Wan's quiet answer. He looked at the screen again, at the young man who stood there, confident, sure of himself and - dare he say it? Proud. But a worthy pride, it was. "He is…" He paused. "He means much to me."
She drew back. "Is that all?" She murmured. "He means much to you. Is that all?"
"…thanks to Obi-Wan—General Kenobi, I mean," Anakin spoke, on screen. "Without him, I couldn't have done so much."
She gestured wordlessly, towards him.
"…come to the end of this broadcast…"
His gaze was far away, focussed on something above her head. She followed it—and recognized, with some horror, that it fell on a tiny ornament that hung on one wall of the room. A small coil of hair. Anakin's braid, cut by his Master, after his knighting ceremony. A symbol of pride and joy, of countless years of devotion. The symbol of fruition. Of years well spent. The symbol of dedication. Devotion.
Anakin had presented it to her immediately after the ceremony, she remembered. It's the only thing that's mine to offer, he had said, smiling wistfully as he placed it into her hands.
Oh, how she remembered that day—and that night…
"A pretty ornament," she heard Obi-Wan quiet voice, and was forcibly brought back to the present. That coil of hair was a personal treasure, an ornament that adorned her bed chamber…who had hung it up there, in full view of anyone who walked into the lounge? Threepio? Threepio, who had been 'decorating' her chambers, the day before…
She turned to speak something, and caught sight of Obi-Wan's eyes. He was still looking at the braid, lost in thought. Had he recognized it? She had changed its outward appearance, decorating it with beads, but it still retained its original state. A slender braid of blonde hair.
"Braids are all the rage now, I hear," There was a brittle quality to his tone, which she did not quite recognize. Anger? Mortification? Severity? Had he guessed? How much had he guessed? How much had she given away, in her mad fit? How much…?
She looked at his eyes—blue-green, crystalline eyes…and felt a jolt as she recognized the expression in them.
Sorrow. A deep sadness.
She knew it, because she had seen it in Anakin's eyes too. The sorrow that accompanies realization that a loved one is gone. Or belongs elsewhere.
He knows, she understood slowly. He has always known.
He stood up slowly, eyes till straying towards the braid hanging on the wall, and the viewscreen, an image of Anakin and himself, now frozen, with the words 'Saviors of the Galaxy', emblazoned across it.
He shook his head, and began walking towards the door.
She followed a moment later, mind and heart reeling with mortification. "Forgive me, please. I said—I didn't—" She held out her hands to him, in a gesture pleading forgiveness. For what, she hardly knew. "I was worried for him."
He seemed to recognize her turmoil, as he gave her an understanding smile, and folded his cloak over his arms. "There's nothing to forgive."
The door swished open. He walked outside and then turned back, seeing her form silhouetted against the light streaming from the inner chambers.
"He means much to me," he murmured, and she understood. She wanted him to stay, but knew that the right time was past.
The doors of Senator Amidala's apartments closed upon him, as Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi walked to the turbo-lifts.
He means much to me, he re-iterated, within himself. He means so much to me that I will overlook what I know, Padmé. I will overlook the fact that he loves you. And you him.
He drew a deep breath, and walked out into the darkness.
Light followed him.
FINIS