Title: In A Dark Mirror
Characters: the handmaidens of Amidala
Timeframe: 2 years after TPM (AU)
Summary: The Battle of Naboo was lost to the Trade Federation, leaving the Naboo people to its mercies. The handmaidens of Amidala continue their staunch defense of the lady they are sworn to protect. Narrated by handmaiden Yané.
I lean over the cauldron set above the fire in the hearth and wonder if I should take the stew off the heat. The last time I cooked dinner, I left it on too long and scorched a meal that hadn't been very tempting to begin with. I peer critically at the lumpy concoction and wish I had some herbs to add flavor to it. I wouldn't know the right ones to use anyway; cooking had not been part of my handmaiden training.
"It smells good," Saché offers helpfully from across the room. She's gathering the bowls for dinner, and she smiles at me when I look up at her. It shocks me how old she looks; it always shocks me. I'm thankful we don't have any mirrors because I know I look just like her: dark hair pulled loosely into a hasty bun, clothes faded from age and wear, hands and face dirty from the day's labor. We do the best we can with what we have, but it's never enough. No one in the camp has much, and we expect no special treatment.
The front door opens, and Rabé enters the house – it's just a little house that Panaka had built for us, with a center hearth-room and five little bedrooms circling it. The whole building is smaller than Milady's bedchambers in the Palace.
Rabé wears a shawl of faded blue draped over her hair. It just covers the scar that slashes down her right cheek, an unfading memory of a lost battle. As though we need any more reminders. She leaves the door open, and a welcome, cool breeze sweeps in with her.
"They made it to the Palace," she says, and Saché and I breathe out simultaneous sighs of relief. "The temperature's dropped; Michel says a storm's coming from the upper plains."
"It will give them good cover," I say.
Rabé nods, and she pulls off her shawl, revealing slim shoulders lost in a dress too big for her. We've all lost weight; I suppose that's what comes of managing only two meals a day. She asks, "Is dinner ready?"
I bend over the fire again and give the stew another quick stir. "As ready as it can be," I say.
Rabé and Saché move toward me, Rabé stretching out her hand to take some of the bowls from Saché. I count five of them and raise my eyebrow.
"One's for Padmé," says Saché with a shrug. "She'll be back in time to eat, won't she?"
"Of course she will," Rabé says, and we all lower our eyes, refusing to look at each other. We're all thinking the same thing, but none of us wants to speak it. To voice the fear would give it power, and worrying won't keep Milady safe anyway.
I take a bowl from Saché and say, "Go ahead and fill the rest. I'll give this one to Eirtaé."
Saché nods and takes the ladle after I fill the bowl. Rabé gives me a spoon, and I turn away from the hearth, stirring the stew to cool it off a little.
Eirtaé sits in a corner of the hearth-room, rocking in her chair, muttering rules of etiquette like broken verses. She lost her entire family in the first round of the concentration camps, and she's never been the same. She does a few chores around the house, and on her better days, she reminds us of the bright young woman who told us rhymes and poems to teach us how to behave. I never thought I'd miss her lessons. Today is not one of her good days.
"You look terrible, Yané," she says as I place the bowl in her hands. Her nails are broken and chipped from carrying wood and tending the garden. Even when we lived in the Palace, Eirtaé never shrank from doing manual labor, but she had always been careful to keep up her appearance. I ache to see her this way. She peers at me now, and part of the old, critical Eirtaé returns to her face. "Your eyes are so red."
"She hasn't been sleeping," Saché says as she fills another bowl. I glare at her, but she ignores me.
Rabé, as usual, comes to my defense. "We've had a lot to do," she says. "A lot of planning. Panaka and Padmé have been working on this for a long time."
Eirtaé's eyes are as sharp as I've ever seen them, and she stares at me with an intensity that makes me back away. "It's not plans and meetings that keep her walking the floor of her room all night."
"How would you know?" asks Saché. She gives Rabé the filled bowl and steps away from the fire.
"Sometimes she comes and sits by the hearth," Eirtaé replies, and she leans toward me. "But mostly, she walks. I hear her. When the planning is over, she walks and walks; she tries to walk away the past and the worry."
None of us speak. Eirtaé brings her spoon to her mouth, but her eyes watch me, filled with something I don't recognize. It takes me a moment to realize that it's understanding I'm seeing – because even with the emotional damage, even with the confusion that marks her days, she still feels the call of duty. She still knows what it means to be a handmaiden.
Saché and Rabé go to the table with the four bowls and set them at their places. Eirtaé says nothing more, returning to her typical muteness. I come to the table, and we begin eating quietly. From one of her pockets, Rabé takes out a packet of cloth, and she slides it across the table to me.
"It might help you," she says without looking up from her bowl.
The packet contains a little sachet of herbal tea. It's a rare commodity these days, as are so many things we once took for granted. The sachet is hand-made and held together with thin stitches that Rabé may have done herself. The herbs nestled inside it are all native to this area, but no one I know of has been growing or selling them. I can't imagine where she found it or how much she had to pay for it.
I look up at her, my mouth open, but she shakes her head. "You would do the same for me," she states.
I would. But that's no reason not to find some way to thank her. I hope it works. I've tried so many things, but sleep is elusive for me now. Eirtaé was right.
"One of us should have gone with her," Saché says suddenly.
"Panaka is with her," Rabé replies.
"That's not the same."
Rabé and I exchange glances. We know, because each of us wanted to walk with her, to be there for her. None of us wants to think what will happen if she needs us and we aren't there. She is more than our friend, more than our sister, more than our queen. She is our hope. She is the promise of Naboo's future.
We can't imagine going on without her. She is the beacon of our world, dimmed only until she is free to burn brightly again. She has kept us going with her visions of peace restored to Naboo. Sometimes, in her eyes, we see reflected Naboo reborn and rebuilt. In those moments, she is Naboo.
I was not present when Milady laid out her plan to free Naboo; I have no way of knowing if she ever considered the possibility that it might fail. Milady's strongest asset – and her weakest – is her confidence. She holds no doubts about herself and her abilities. Two years ago, she was young enough to believe that her will was strong enough to ensure success.
Whether she had considered it or not, she failed. The Federation captured the Queen. Of course they did; the Viceroy needed her alive to sign the treaty. By this time, thousands of people all over the planet had died, and the Queen had no other choice. The Viceroy would have forged the treaty if necessary; once he had her, he could do whatever he wished.
Droids brought the rest of the handmaidens to the camp, but they held the Queen. They used her as a puppet for two months, and then the Viceroy released a statement that claimed she had died of complications from an illness, a fever likely contracted from the swamp-lands and complicated by a weak constitution.
The people of Naboo pretended to believe that story. The Neimoidians killed her; they had no more use for her, so they killed her. We mourned her death and promised never to forget her because it was expected of us. And, in secret, the Naboo understood what had happened to them. With the treaty in place – and there were rumors that the treaty was forged, that the Queen had been killed because she refused to sign – the Senate could do nothing to reverse its effects. We became slaves on our own planet.
The factories started going up not four months after the initial invasion. I have seen them on the plateau, squatting around Theed like foul, dark fungi. The Neimoidians took over Theed, while our people moved into the camps and became laborers. We in the valley count ourselves fortunate, toiling away in the fields to produce the natural products that even Neimoidians need to survive. At least, down here, we have the wide, rolling fields and dim, beautiful forests. We know that these are limited resources, but for now, we have them, and they remind us that we still have something to fight for. We mourn the loss of our freedom, but we remain a part of Naboo.
For us, the handmaidens, the Queen's death remains a wound that will never heal. But the name imprinted on our hearts is not Amidala's.
Sabé Alluri died in the line of duty, fulfilling her role as decoy until the last breath she took. We'll never know if she actually did sign the treaty or if the Viceroy forged the documents. All we know for certain is that she died to give Milady a chance at saving our world. Her faith in Milady stood as steadfast as she herself did in the face of her ultimate destiny.
Would we have done the same? Would we do the same?
Yes. Without a second thought. Without complaint.
Rabé and I stand in the house's doorway, watching storm clouds build over the outline of Theed. I remember the way Theed used to look. The colors so vibrant, the air so fresh, the city so real and alive. Now, gazing up at the looming hulk of Theed, I can see only a dim outline of the city, shrouded in a cloud of dirty gray smoke. What was once been the cultural center of Naboo is now an industrial mega-complex. The Federation has drained the color from Theed; even the once-blue waters of the Solleu run like colorless ribbons over the cliffs.
Rabé wrings her hands, and she'd be pacing if the hearth-room was big enough. Saché clears the dishes from the table, her movements sluggish, as though she's half-asleep. Her eyes are blank; is she dreaming of the way things should be?
She brushes her fingers against Padmé's bowl, which has gone untouched the entire evening. The stew congealed long ago, but she leaves it where it sits. I've left the remainder of the meal warming by the fire; she and Panaka will be hungry when they return.
"What time is it?" Rabé asks.
I tilt my head to gaze at the chrono on my wrist, but it's stopped again. I should throw it away, but it was a gift from my parents in the long-ago days when I left them to become a handmaiden. The last I heard, the Berne family was in Camp Two, up on the plateau. At least I know where they might be; Rabé and Saché know nothing of what's happening in their hometowns, much less what became of their families.
"Don't worry," I tell her. "It's not even dark yet. There's still time."
Rain begins to fall; it thrums on the roof, a hundred little feet marching over the house. The tea kettle I placed over the fire whistles, and I leave the doorway to fetch it. The tea smells sweet and weak, but as I pour it into my mug, the steam wafts up around me, and it's calming, soothing. I don't know how helpful it will be, but I'll savor it. I'll offer it to the others, of course; I shouldn't keep it all to myself.
I take the first few sips and close my eyes, pretending I am a child again, wrapped up in my nana's warm quilt and snuggled safe in my bed. The tea slides down my throat, warm and weak, but it is the best thing I have ever tasted.
Rabé cries out from the doorway, and she slumps against the wooden frame. I jerk around, tea splashing onto my fingers, and the bowls slip from Saché's hands, clattering into pieces on the floor. She kneels to pick them up, but she stares at the bent figure of Rabé and the rain falling around her.
I put my cup down by the hearth and move toward her, reaching out to grab her shoulders. I intend to pull her back out of the rain, but then I see what she sees, and everything stops. The warmth brought to me by her tea washes out as raindrops splatter my face.
Panaka walks toward us, and something greater than the storm darkens him. The rain streaks dirt down his face, making him look like he cries tears as polluted as the river. His clothes are stained and disheveled – one of his sleeves has been ripped away. He is weaponless, and he is alone.
Rabé leans against me, and I wrap my arms around her. She shivers, and her tears are as endless as the rain.
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