Title: Mona Lisa Smile
It is the artist who begins the conversation.
"It would be wise for you to let me paint her," the artist murmurs, taking his first sip of the hoi-broi in front of him. He winces as it stings his tongue. And then for a touch of nonchalant respect, the artist adds,
"Lord Organa."
Standing now, Bail Organa towers over the lithe artist who merely glances up, barely concerned. The artist has known far worse than a politician and having once tried to be one himself, he knows that a politician's threat is only words – tough talk.
On the other hand, a Sith Lord's threat...
And that reminds him why he is here in the first place.
"I'm going to be blunt, Lord Organa," the artist says firmly. "Usually, I don't prefer to paint royalty."
Except for her, the artist remembers. And she's why I'm here.
"Six years ago, I completed a portrait of your daughter, Leia," the artist recalls regretfully. "And you displayed it to your guests like any proud father. Unfortunately, one of your guests, an unwelcome one, set his eyes upon it and when he heard my name, he sunk into a most...peculiar obsession."
"Padme Naberrie Amidala," Bail whispers, the name like a long-forgotten curse.
"Your daughter resembles Padme as a little girl in so many ways," the artist says, remembering curls and large, adoring eyes. "Lord Vader wishes (demands) another portrait of her."
And as Bail, who trembles, sits down and puts his head in his hands, it is his daughter who rushes out of the shadows and to his side. Twelve year old Leia Organa whose sienna hair curls at her shoulders, whose white dress rustles and folds like a lily as she kneels by her father, whose wide, dark eyes with a dusting of thick lashes glare at the man who has disturbed her beloved parent so.
"Who are you?" she demands. She expects to be obeyed. Like Lord Vader.
"Palo," the artist answers, but inside, he thinks...
Padme.