Lapse
Here is the truth:
The weeks and then months pass with the slipperiness of dreams, light and indistinct, and so intent is she on the rebuilding of nation and people that Anakin Skywalker falls through the cracks of her life with nary a sound. She does not think of him, not at all, not in the hours spent rebuilding cities and political trusts nor in the precious moments of solitude which she guards with silent ferocity. In a way, he becomes a specter of the past, a shining star blinking in the black depths of her subconscious, hidden behind void and time. Like all Jedi, his presence is immeasurable yet indefinite, ascetic in appearance and bearing, and swiftly extracted from awareness like the clean and gliding motion of an elegant stranger's passing.
His memory sleeps inside of her in years thence, a dark and sturdy thing beneath the raucous of a busy mind. Still, it lays its traps keenly, and she is inevitably snared in an unexpected way. It is his trinket, that humble child's piece, hewn with more care than skill, years lost now in maiden's robes until found again in the final days of her queenship. For a long moment, she observes it, turning it so to admire its dull shine and affectionate memoir; she smiles to think of it and of him, the boy who by now must be so far removed from the static youth of her recollection as to be recognizable. Anakin Skywalker, she thinks for the first time in ages, a strange and wondrous creature as any she had ever met. What he is now she cannot say, and perhaps the same can be said of her now that she is no longer queen, and that above all may be what impels her to place the necklace among her finest jewels, closing the box with a fond smile as this great chapter of her life does the same.
But that is not the end of it.
Weeks now, and the war stands at bay with only the thinnest of tethers restraining it, a tension that rings the whole galaxy and pulls ever tighter. Sleep covers her with dark thoughts and darker dreams, and even there is little respite until -
it is the humid season and the earth is moist and richly black beneath her feet, the sky is smeared with cloud and star, and the air filled with birdsong, the crying of swoons and whistlebacks. the forest encloses her like a tightened fist, endless and constricting, and she knows this place and knows herself not. it is damp with rain and tears and fecund with the life it instills. how long she walks she knows not but thunder beckons in the distance, and she answers its howling with a cry of her own, carried on swift step through this thick and verdant place to where memory begins.
the tree grows twisted and crooked, an uncertain smile against the shadows of the forest, and the boy among its stubborn roots is an uncanny things with blurred edges, more concept than creature, like a word stuttered on the edge of a tongue. she blinks, and the boy is gone, replaced by something larger, grander, in between.
i've been waiting for you, padmè, he tells her, and she knows that he has, that something in her has been waiting too. it should scare her -
and yet
he stands now, tall against the gloom of deep forests, extending his hand. in his palm, the pear sits ripened to near rot, an elegant ruin. won't you have some? he asks, and bites deeply, richly, his hands are stained with something dark and wet. he takes a step toward her, and the image flickers, the static of holo out of range, and he is boy then man then boy and then something dark and unseen moving toward her, his lips are parted, he is whispering her name
and she won't, she will not but the thunder is sounding in the distance, his eyes are so blue, and she realizes that he is the storm calling her here, it is his heartbeat thrumming beneath the backdrop of the forest, breaking beneath her hands, his name is shaped upon her lips and-
She awakens gasping, her lungs thick with the moisture of summer air. Cordè leans over her, brow furrowed in concern. Her palm is gentle and cool, a balm against uncertain dreams.
"A fever mayhaps, my lady," she murmurs, "It may be wise to delay your meeting with the chancellor."
But Padmè Amidala will not be deterred. A woman implacable, she thinks little of dreams and lesser of portents and proceeds with her day as she would any other. It is a conceit she maintains until the world insists otherwise, and it is hours before she can face the Jedi without Cordè's blood staining her hands, and then -
Here is the truth:
She does not know root from bough, dream from waking, wisdom from folly. When she calls him a boy, she means it, and she cannot know of the moment it altered, the image flicking, an unstable illusion, then reshaping into something larger and grander, something indistinct. In the light of fire and stars, his eyes are so blue, his hand is extended, he says to her -
Without you, I can't breath.
And she believes it because the air is so thick, her throat is tight and airless, the words are not there. When he moves over her, hot and oppressive, she cannot speak, is never certain what to say. There are whole worlds in his eyes, but they are only for her.
"I dreamed of you," he whispers, a voice full of promise and heat.
"As did I," she says honestly, and when he kisses her, it tastes of water and earth, honey and rot, fire and ash.