There is a brief darkness, a loud ringing in her ears, the feeling of utter weightlessness as if she has truly embodied the Skywalker name and learned to fly, that all quickly gives way to sudden, pounding agony as splintering awareness takes root in her skull once again as she abruptly regains consciousness.
Padme comes back to herself in a world of hurt, and she isn't nearly as pleased as she probably should be that she is somehow alive.
There is pain crushing her head in a tight grip, threatening to squeeze her skull until her brain turns to mush, and opening her mouth to vocalize her torment only makes it worse.
She blinks starlights from her eyes, trying to focus on the swaying floor around her and make sense of the bits of duracrete and flaming fabric she can see bits and pieces of quietly rocking along the ocean of stone.
Where is she?
What happened?
Was there an explosion? How?
She tries to move her arms, wanting to ground herself on the heaving floor, wanting to move, but just placing one hand in front of her face is threatening to make her blackout again.
Padme flutters her eyes shut, biting back bile rising with her floor's violent rocking, trying to remember and think and not let her skull fall apart before she can get up.
The dull ringing echoing through her head is only just starting to fade – she can hear loud thuds and what might be distant cries of pain; how many were caught in the blast? Was it an accident, or an assassination attempt? If the latter, then who was the target?
It hurts to think hard, but it's helping to keep the queasiness at bay.
She's just about to risk opening her eyes again when a hand suddenly gripped her shoulder hard, and she is unceremoniously rolled onto her back without her permission.
Padme groans in agony and squints her eyes open into a glare, fully intending to tell whomever was there to let her wake up in peace, thank you, but when her gaze focuses on who is above her the anger mellows suddenly.
She has only seen her husband's face so terrified a handful of times, and her heart pounds hard in her chest when she sees his mouth moving over a familiar name.
"Padme, Padme, Padme," Anakin is muttering to himself over and over again, too soft for her to actually hear, face pale as a sheet and eyes dark with something a Jedi should definitely not be feeling during a crisis.
Seeing her husband in such distress nearly makes her forget her own pain, and Padme reaches one dirty, shaking hand toward his face, wanting to help, wanting to draw Anakin back from the edge he's standing on.
He catches her hand in one of his, looking at it like he's never seen it before, and the relieved sob that escapes him nearly drives her to tears as well.
"Hurt?" she tries to ask, numb mouth slurring the word like she's drunk on Corellian wine, and Anakin hiccups, shakes his head, looking lost.
"I wasn't close enough," he confesses, voice shaking as he very carefully cradles her fragile skull in his human hand, fingers trembling hard. "I pulled you away from the worst of the blast with the Force, but I was too slow. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Padme."
Her thoughts are still slow and muzzy, but she wants to say something – anything – to drive that wretched look from his face. She doesn't even care if they are surrounded by witnesses; she wants to comfort her husband, who looks only a shade better than he did on Tatooine the day after his mother died.
All she can manage is a painful smile, and her fingers slowly tightening around his. "Still here," she murmurs, and she sees his breath hitch just before darkness slowly swims over her vision again. "Love you."
"I love you too," Is the most comforting thing she's ever heard before falling unconscious again.