Written for peekbelowthesurface's Tumblr drabble meme prompt #32, "night," with Anakin/Padme, given to me by skygawker. Padme's comic canon mausoleum on Naboo immediately came to mind, and then I realized I'd already started another 'fic involving Dorme kind of tiptoeing around Vader after Padme's gone, and they sort of synced up. Title is more lyrics by the band Lemuria, this time from the song "Chihuly," because it works. Rominaria flowers are also thanks to Wookieepedia.
Use Your Insecurity as a Plea for Innocence
Fear.
She doesn't look so much like Padme these days, if she ever did – he's surprised in retrospect how easily everyone was fooled by the former Queen's ladies-in-waiting masquerade – but there's a softness to her eyes, even as she seems to struggle to accept her abduction from Naboo for this, and enough aristocratic breeding not to do anything stupid, that helps keep the façade in place, even just for moments at a time.
"This is your home, now," he breathes. He watches her shoulders tense, her lips purse. The resemblance is striking now, and it hurts.
Dorme's head inclines just enough.
Anger.
The Dark Lord's anger quickly becomes legendary, even in this fledgling Empire. Dorme watches Vader brazenly strangle a man to death in the middle of his own throne room simply for giving him less-than-opportune information regarding the whereabouts of Jedi insurrectionists, Obi-Wan Kenobi and someone called "Fulcrum" in particular, it seems. Still, he does not appear to go out of his way to exhibit these shows of force around her, and in fact, there's one instance where she seems to catch his gaze out of what remains of his peripheral vision as he finishes thrashing an underling for not having quality results for him. Maybe her aghast face is simply a shadow of someone else's wan visage, but it makes him stop almost immediately nonetheless.
Sadness.
The installation is not without ceremony; the recently minted Emperor Palpatine gives a dour speech about all that was lost due to the betrayal of the Jedi, interwoven into which are stories of his own life on Naboo, and what the late Padme Amidala meant to him and to their people. Dorme, who takes advantage of the time on-planet to visit briefly with friends and remaining family, finds herself lingering at the mausoleum, remembering what was, not that long ago. When she leaves, it's almost nightfall, and she is alone, or so she thinks.
Darth Vader looks out of place here, to say the least. When they pass, he seems to simply stare at the stained glass window that portrays the former Queen and Senator in peaceful blues through the bulbous outlook on his helmet. It's not until Dorme finally takes her leave and turns back, however, that she is solely privy to the Dark Lord's gloved hand stroking the top of Padme's stone sarcophagus with the care of a father holding a newborn infant.
Joy.
There's little fanfare for the times when Lord Vader initiates conversations with her, and as a result, she never isn't caught off-guard by their commencement. "Tell me, are you happy here?" he queries one afternoon when they've both seemingly gravitated to the same spot in the gardens of the former Jedi Temple. "Do you have everything you need?"
It's two completely different questions, really, but Dorme nods. "Yes, my Lord."
"Good." Perhaps that was all, but then: "Rominaria flowers. They used to be her favorite." She doesn't have to ask who he means, which is just as well, considering the shock of such a pronouncement coming from him. "She said they used to smell like babies, new life." He shifts. Dorme stands stock-still. "I cannot smell anything, anymore."
"I'm sorry, my Lord."
Vader does not respond to this. "It impressed her that I knew what they were because the Jedi kept a few here." There's a lengthy expanse, then, where the only sound seems to be the soft wheezing of Vader's breathing apparatus. "I suspect natives of Naboo know them very well, however." Dorme nods. "And what else?" Vader prompts. "What other things do you grow up knowing there?"
Dorme thinks for a moment. "The history of our planetary Crest is taught to primary-aged children as soon as they'll sit still long enough to listen," she supplies. "I suppose besides the flora and fauna, some of our artistry?"
"Glass blowing," Vader intones. "And food or drink?"
"Wine," Dorme says, smiling a little now in remembrance. "And cheeses, and breads. Five-blossom bread was Padme's specialty. She used to make it with her mother as a little girl. It's tradition."
"Yes," Vader tells her, "I have heard that." It would be ludicrous to offer to make some for him, of course, and so she doesn't. Years later, she'll still recall this as their longest conversation to date.