"Give me now wisdom and knowledge, that I may go out and come in before this people…"
[2 Chronicles 1:10]
The Queen is a beacon light of wisdom to her people. Vivat Regina.
Sanguine red and eggshell white are the colours she chooses to be the fraternal twins of her palette, the yin and yang to mingle on the canvas of her face. Foundation and makeup sponge act as paint and brushes in her artist's hands, painting sparse poppies on barren snowdrifts to create the stark landscape of tradition.
The Remembrance scars her lower lip in ancient custom, a severe reminder in a slash of scarlet paying tribute to the Time of Suffering before the Great Peace. It is as powerful an exhortation as the scholar's memorandum – "Only the dead have seen the end of the War." Such a travesty must never be forgotten, so that it may never be repeated.
Upon her cheeks are marked the twin spots of Symmetry and Balance. History is a heavy influence – her reign will be a looking-glass reflection of preceding dynasties. Yet the future lies before her – pristine, untouched; unfathomable. She must equilibrate records of the past with visionary aspirations for the times to come.
Thus the makeup that she wears is a necessary institution of her office, no less ritualistic than the robes of state – but for her it is so much more.
She was young (a tender fourteen years) when her Coronation Ceremony was performed, but not unusually so – election of pre-adolescent rulers is a cherished tradition of her planet, one honored through the generations. Whether her early appointment to royalty is folly or wisdom, she does not yet know…for what is more pure, more guileless, than the conscience of a child?
Yet her assumed responsibilities have aged her prematurely, her time in power stealing her childhood away. She has witnessed the treacherous tragedy of murder. She has been slapped by betrayal, and to her corruption is as familiar as a friendly face.
And still she retains a youthful naïveté, an ignorance of worldliness, detrimental to the proper execution of her rule. "The Queen must shine with wisdom as a light before her people." In the addendum to her Coronation Oath, she swore to uphold this sacred trust – and yet is sagacity elusive, slow in coming to her callow mind.
Unable to expunge this vestige of innocence from her teenage soul, she desperately seeks a matured alter ego, one imbued with an understanding she does not possess…
…and finds it, in another face.
Limber fingers dip a soft sponge in facepaint, drawing it over her brow…her nose…her chin. The brush moves slowly about her lips, and traces gently upon her cheek.
Seating herself before a towering trifold mirror set in an imposing wooden frame of Grizmalltian design, she stares intently at the triune image cast within.
The left panel shows her the monarch, projecting an air of unwavering confidence beneath inscrutable ivory and dignity in crisp crimson. White…for purity of intention and illumined judgement. Red…for determination in action and strength of conviction.
Queen Amidala.
The right pane reveals a young Nabooian lass whose blush blooms rosily over country browned skin. This child longs for climbing perlote trees and scabbed knees, for the heady fragrance of millaflower chains and for dancing barefoot and carefree through the long spring grass in a sun shower.
Padmé Naberrie.
In the centre glass, the two faces stare out at her as one.
Fear surges through her veins like icewater, making her pulse race. I am not ready. I am not worthy. She tries to calm herself, orders her heart to slow its beat – but it will not obey. How can I govern a multitude, when I cannot govern myself?
But she must. She is Queen as well as rural maid, and she must not fail her people. And the Trade Federation crisis will wait for her no longer.
Her fingers tremble as they swipe across her face. The foolish flush of youth is swiftly concealed by hoary wisdom, infantile insecurities buried beneath ruby rectitude.
Now that she has donned her mask of courtly countenance, Amidala's hands no longer shake as she begins to dress. Padmé lies safely hidden, tucked away between the potolli fur-trimmed folds of the ceremonial Throne gown.
So it is that the Queen rises from her dressing table and makes her way to the Court Room, prepared to greet the Jedi ambassadors.
"We wear the mask that grins and lies,/It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes…"
[Paul Laurence Dunbar]