For Star Wars Mothers' Day fest, and also for the "seven sections, seven sentences" challenge from anghraine.
"If it's a girl," Jobal speculates, "I think Sola is a beautiful name."
"How do you feel about Padmé?" asks Ruwee.
"I'll think about it," says Jobal, in a voice that means that's going to need more than nine standard lunar months to grow on me, pal.
When Sola Naberrie comes into the galaxy, screaming herself hoarse, her father agrees that it is, in fact, an excellent name. Jobal is exhausted and relieved, pained and proud, and above all, adores the tiny life laid in her arms.
"We chose well," she reiterates. "This generation's accented-Es are entirely too faddish."
When Padmé is thirteen, Jobal overhears her giving political speeches to the mirror. "A Queen must be more and less than a lawmaker; she must be a reflection of and an example for humanity. Like the lakes in which we gaze, she shows us the best we can be, yet is not afraid to change beneath the winds of the people's will. She wears many masks, but her truest face is serving as the face of the planet to the galaxy. What matters is not age, but willingness to serve."
"Who wrote that?" Jobal asks, wondering if Padmé's history classes have a declamatory component.
Padmé submits her declaration of candidacy the next week.
"This is Sabé," Padmé announces briskly, inviting the handmaiden to take a seat at their kitchen table. "I was wondering if you could help her learn how to sound like me? You probably pick up on things I don't."
"I don't want to take up too much of your time," Sabé rushes to say. "With all due respect, Your Highness, I don't think this is necessary. If I'm captured by enemies looking for you, it's better if I just refuse to talk, surely?"
Jobal tries to swallow her despair at how offhandedly Padmé discusses threats on her life, and turns her attention to the young woman before her, a too-elaborate shadow of the Queen.
Jobal is not surprised when Sola announces her engagement to the energetic, conscientious university student she'd been seeing for a few years. Ever since Padmé's coronation she's been aware that children grow up fast, no matter what planetary system you use.
She is surprised, however, at the date they've set-over a year in the future. "Afraid you'll have second thoughts?" she asks, meant as a tease.
Sola is unamused. "We thought we should schedule it at least a month after the inauguration. So Padmé will either be into her second term or a private citizen once again, and there won't be any campaign events to interrupt."
Skywalker is forthright about the danger Padmé is in. Part of Jobal hopes against hope that he's merely inflating the threat to justify his own importance, but deep down she knows better. The expression on Ruwee's face suggests that he, too, takes it seriously, even if he doesn't speak about it in front of Padme. They see her so rarely these days, it's not worth picking fights.
Naboo has lived in peace for a decade, but have they only traded local threats for galactic darkness? In Padmé's first year as a Senator she savored every moment of her visits home; it isn't like her to be desperate to return to Coruscant, unless the situation is worse than she lets on.
Still, at least one visitor is welcome there; Ryoo and Pooja chatter with the little astromech so energetically that Jobal figures they'll be fluent in binary before the week is out.
At times during the funeral preparations, Jobal has no more space to consider Padmé's child. At others, it's the only thing that takes her mind off the grief consuming the planet. She had been working closely with the childless senator from Alderaan-surely not? Even Chancellor Palpatine-she will not call him Emperor-had been concerned about his protege's well-being. Jobal suppresses a shudder at that mental image. Surely it's for the best that such a tyrant has no children.
The procession is drawn-out and somber, as all Naboo throngs the streets to mourn, not only their Senator, but their belated Republic.
Jobal adores her granddaughters, of course, and spoils them rotten. But more than that, she tries to love them for themselves. Even if Pooja's bursts of eloquence in the moribund Senate have the ring of her aunt's courage, Jobal refuses to conflate them, not so much for Pooja's safety as for her chance at forging a path of her own.
But then the galaxy is somehow, impossibly, free, and Pooja has no choice but to blaze her own trail in the fledgling New Republic. Jobal has little time for political subtleties; she has seen more than enough change for one lifetime.
Or so she thinks. Until the day when Pooja bursts through the door calling "Hey, so, I met someone at work..."