the obianidala discord went wild with medieval obidala au chat so here's this
He is not supposed to be there yet he stands, sunlit and golden, in the doorway of her chambers, holding her stunned gaze with troubled eyes.
“I am not a selfish man,” he says suddenly, without preamble. She feels the first unwise step of her feet towards him, compulsive, instinctive.
But she remembers herself, remembers what’s at risk, and halts. Pulls herself back. Turns away and toys with the wedding jewels laid out for her at her dressing table, feigning preoccupation.
She does not know how or why he’s come, and does not let herself hope.
“Indeed you’re not, good sir,” she agrees in a polite, detached tone; it’s all she can give him. All she can afford to offer now. And it is no lie; he is kind and noble, selfless. “Your heart is unmatched.”
His footfall is slightly uneven on the wooden floor behind her — the lingering symptom of an old injury from the war — and she is acutely aware of it. Feels his ever-known presence growing closer with each step. Feels the reflexive lean of herself into it. “Then why, Your Grace, do I find myself struck by these… thoughts… that are so unlike me? That I cannot rid myself of?”
“Thoughts?” She cannot hide the lilt in her voice, the upward cadence of it as her curiosity piques, as her heart surges painfully beneath her ribs. She clears her throat, idly fingering a strung pearl necklace in front of her. “Such as?”
“Selfish thoughts…” She can feel him just behind her, and stills.
“Of what, dear sir?” She whispers, eyes fluttering shut as she relishes in his cherished presence, denied to her in these final days of her engagement. His breath is light, warm like a summer breeze, against her skin, stirring the hair at the nape of her neck.
“You,” he hums, his nose grazing the soft curtain of her hair, tracing the shell of her ear. “And how I do not wish to share you with another…”
His confession, long awaited, leaves her breathless, has her leaning back into the sturdy wall of his chest. He sucks in a deep breath, flat palms sliding around the silk bodice of her gown to pull her flush against him.
“How I want you for myself.”
Her breath hitches, falls from her lips in a tremulous sigh, the sound recalling long spent nights twisted together in bedsheets and their own heady need.
“It is both a great pleasure and a relentless torment,” he continues, “To want you this much. To know I will never be able to release you.”
She shakes her head. It’s a farce of a protest. Weak. Passive. Without any real conviction behind it. “I’m to be married tomorrow. And Lord Skywalker is—is—”
She cannot finish her sentence, does not know exactly what she means to say. Skywalker is a good man, a worthy man. Powerful, and indeed his good name would do well for her kingdom. But for all that he is, for all the good he could do, he is not…
“Padme,” he says her name like a prayer and it nearly undoes every fragile strand of her resolve. She turns her head, inclines it to look upon him. Lets her breath mingle with his, lets his lips brush across her cheek, her jaw, the plush bow of her lower lip. “My lady… my love…”
“Obi-Wan…” She slips her hands over his, still pressed tight against her ribs, their heat radiant through her corset, straight to her skin, flushed and aching for him as it always has. She nudges his nose with hers, almost meets his mouth. Her whisper is pained, filled with regret she cannot even attempt to conceal. “I—I have a duty to my people.”
His forehead presses to her temple and she feels him nod. Feels his hands flex under hers, feels them slipping from her grasp, retreating. She holds tight to them, unwilling to let them go.
“As do I, to my Queen…” he mutters into her skin, voice thick with longing, with grief. “And I will not defy your word. I will not compromise your kingdom… So tell me, Your Highness. Please. Tell me to leave you now and I will.”
She knows he will. Knows that his selfless heart still rules even his selfish desires. Knows he will do almost anything she asks of him. Knows he long ago pledged himself to her, not only in service but in heart.
And she knows the ache that lives inside him, the ever-raging conflict of duty and desire. His torment is her own.
And so she turns, blinks away the sting behind her eyes and faces him with steady resolve, with the reflection of his woe, his longing, his love. She raises her hand to his face, touches her fingers to the rough of his beard, whispering a confession of her own.
“I can’t.”
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