You stared towards the Jedi Temple: Anakin was there. As night had begun to fall, you had known. You'd known something was wrong, and you'd waited what fate would so cruelly throw out at you.
As Padmé Skywalker, not as Senator Amidala, you'd worriedly place a hand to your belly, and you'd choked back tears for what was the umpteenth time. You'd brushed C-3PO off, told him to power down.
At night, you saw the smoke rise from the Temple, and you'd begin to nibble at your lip. Eventually, you sobbed: you thought him dead, and you were right.
The Anakin Skywalker you'd loved was dead, as had been proven when he'd arrived on the veranda, as he'd left to "deal" with the Separatist leadership, on that horrible volcanic world of Mustafar.
When you'd left with C-3PO, you almost knew he was beyond redemption, at least for now. You'd blamed yourself, swollen your eyes from crying the whole way there. When you stumbled down the ramp, you'd thrown yourself into his arms. You loved Anakin Skywalker, only a moment longer.
He choked you. He screamed at you, andyour heart was broken in half. Obi-Wan, he had come with you. Your Anakin, your Anakin: he wouldn't die. You didn't know he was already dead.
You gave birth on that alien operating table, you gave birth to hope: A new hope. He'd find you. He'd find you; he'd hurt you or take your children away. He'd mold them into his successors, his successors of evil.
You had to die for the Republic, but most of all, for your children. Anakin Skywalker would find you, if you did not die, through the bond you so inexplicitly shared. You named them before you died.
You had breathed to Obi-Wan that there was still good in him. He thought you delusional, he thought Anakin dead. As your head sagged to the pillow, and your breath faded to a sigh, you knew you had done right. As Padmé Skywalker, you had saved the Galaxy.