Summary: After the war, after losing her husband andher son, there's not a lot that Padmé has left.
Disclaimer: Not mine, but then you knew that already.
Notes: I've been writing this for a year. I'm a lot happier with than I was, but there are still a couple of rough patches. Please read it and tell me what you think.
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All that I Have
Your cheekbones. The curve of your chin. The way you smile. It's all his. Your temper. The way, at two, you have the entire palace wrapped around your little finger with a laugh or a scream.
I can't decide if your stubbornness comes from me or from him. Probably from both of us. Force knows that when you make up your mind there's no changing it, come hell or high water. The floods will rise up and over you, but when they fall back you'll still be standing there, glaring.
The only time you're still is when you sit in Bail's arms and listen to stories. Fanciful wanderings of heroic Jedi, who are vaguely familiar, and good politicians that I feel I should know. I don't think you understand what he tells you, I think you just like to hear his voice rumbling in his chest. It must be comforting.
Except for those few short moments you're always moving: running, climbing, exploring, hiding. That, too, reminds me of whose child you are. Your father could never keep still, either. He always wanted to be somewhere else, doing something else. It wasn't that he disliked where he was, only idleness bothered him. He always had to run off to do something, and that something was either the Force or trouble – or, more likely, both. In that, you're very much like him I think – it's always the Force or trouble.
Yesterday, when I gave you a bath you didn't just splash me, you drenched me with a Force-induced wave. You thought it was a great joke. I'm just glad I keep that time for you and me only. Obi-Wan said that the likelihood you'd actively use your abilities was next to nothing. It takes years of training to be able to manipulate the physical world, years of training you'll probably never get.
But Obi-Wan also took my son from me. I may have agreed to it. I may even understand why. Yet he is still took my baby boy from me, and I'm not sure I can forgive him for that, or trust him – whether it's his fault or not.
My son, your brother. Remember that – you have a brother, a twin.
In a perfect world, you'd be raised together to be Jedi or politicians, whatever you wanted to be. You could even be moisture farmers if that's the way your fancy turned, but I don't see any of your father's children wanting to live on Tatooine. For that matter, I don't see any of my children wanting to live on Tatooine. You just didn't get the kind of genes that would let you be satisfied with that kind of life.
Instead, you've ended up a princess. A fitting title for the child of a woman who used to be Queen. You'll be Vicereine one day. Maybe politics will kill the Jedi in you. Maybe your days will be so filled with duty and responsibility that the wanderlust and the adventurous spirit will be quashed. You'll find some other way to quench your curiosity, different from my own disastrous travels. Another way to be a hero.
Force help us, your parents were never quite successful at stopping the collision course we were on. When the gods made our lives they must have forgotten the brakes – it was bound to end badly. We just couldn't seem to make the galaxy fit quite right. Even me, neat and tidy in my office, packed in, dressed up, filed away, could never quite drive the messiness from my life.
I need you to promise me you'll be happy, to be what I couldn't. Cross your heart. Swear on whatever religious text you can find. Force, swear on my grave if you have to. Just make sure you're happy, and make sure your brother is, too.
Your father and I weren't very happy. We had a moment or two, stolen, where there were only ourselves and our happiness to keep us company. You have no idea how wonderful they were, but in the end it amounted to hardly anything. So, I think you and Luke are owed all the happiness we missed out on. I hope you get to cash in.
When times get really bad for me, I want to let Amidala take over. I want to feel the soothing numbness she brings. Amidala is compassionate. Amidala is steadfast. Amidala loves her people. Amidala is what a politician should be. Amidala is what the Jedi claimed they were. Amidala: perfect person, perfect machine. Watch out droids! They don't make them any better than this, give it a month or two and you'll be out-dated and useless compared to the next Amidala-droid.
Amidala always brings revulsion with her, though. A thick, sickly feeling, as if she's actually a corpse: a casualty of the Clone War, or even the Battle of Naboo – only no one's noticed she's dead yet.
Can I tell you a truth? I don't want you to meet her. You'll be raised as a politician's daughter, amongst politicians. You'll probably even be a politician. The last thing I could wish for is for you to emulate Amidala or admire her even. She's not worth it. For every good thing she tried to do, a thousand destructive ripples spread out from it. If you have to emulate anyone, go for Bail. He can teach you how to remain wary without becoming jaded or corrupted and that's important. So is this: Amidala was a fool.
I'm not so sure I can give Padmé any more plaudits, however. She's done just as a terrible job as Amidala. If I hadn't married Anakin… if I hadn't been stupid enough to fall pregnant… if the stars didn't shine…
Only I think Padmé is more honest about her mistakes than Amidala ever was. Admitting you have erred is a weakness, and politicians cannot show weakness. Weakness is death. Amidala could no more admit she'd ruined everything as she could lie down and die.
(but she's already dead!)
Remove the mask, and you find that Amidala, mistakes and all is an act, a beautiful act. A parody of something that never really existed. Sometimes I wonder if even I, Padmé, existed behind Amidala. Or was I just the dreamer who dreamed an ideal that became a being?
I'm getting lost. Amidala, shell though she is, complicates life. She is not Padmé and yet she is. Word of advice, my love, don't ask your mother for advice, and don't become a politician.
You're owed an explanation of what I did, as Padmé, and why it was a mistake. I married your father. That's it, that's the terrible, terrible thing I did. I married the man I loved. Oh, and I had his children.
Most people would consider it a gift.
But maybe I haven't done enough that I deserve anything that good.
Some days I'm not even sure I deserve you.
I thought it was the right thing to do. No, I take that back, I didn't think that at all – I just knew it was what I had to do. My life without Anakin was empty, devoid, colourless. When he arrived back into it, I despaired because I knew I could never willingly go back to the way I had lived; yet I could not be with him. In the end, marrying him was a relief – it was a decision, a completion. But it was also a defiance: we contravened a number of well-respected laws that day.
Do you know what bothers me the most? I don't regret it. Given the opportunity to go back and redo everything from the Military Creation Act on, I might not have made the decisions I did. However, I'm not sure I would have changed very much. Maybe that's something you have to know Anakin for to understand.
I wish you could have met him. He would have adored you, as is his right. Most people didn't realise it, but what Anakin wanted most of all – aside from being able to stop people from hurting – was a family. That he could serve something like the Empire tells you how far he fell from his dreams. The Anakin I knew and loved would have loathed the New Order – it causes so much suffering.
Sadly, the only person to catch Anakin was the person who pushed him off the edge: Palpatine. I ask myself if that monster hadn't been there, hadn't nudged Anakin in all the right places at the right times, would Darth Vader have existed today? Truthfully, I don't know. I'd rather not think about it.
As your mother I feel I should have some great wisdom to pass on to you, but wisdom comes from the wise, not the foolish. My own mother would have plenty to pass on to you. She'd offer you a handful of truisms and you'd be set for life. But you're not allowed to know her. Another thing missing in your life – your grandparents, all of who would have doted over you and pampered you until I was left with two utterly spoilt children.
All I have to offer you is this: I love you.
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