A/N: This will be my last chapter for a while, since I'm leaving for vacation today. It's about four times as long as a normal Requiem chapter; I don't know why I didn't see that coming, considering it has four times the perspective. This is the death of Amidala from the perspective of the Naboo-- four Naboo characters I've made up. I think I've made it about as good as I can now, and I hope you like it. I also want to thank everyone for your kind feedback on the Jar Jar chapter-- that was a really nice surprise.

The Naboo

Cam Deskali:

I was one of the first to know what had happened. I saw it come off the wire, direct from the Palace to us at HoloNet News Naboo. I was always the one monitoring this kind of thing, grabbing the stories, proofing, screening, and fact-checking—they called me "the Desk" Deskali. I saw the story come through to us before anybody else, and for a solid two, three minutes, I just held it in my hand and stared at it, read it over and over and waited for it to make sense. I can still remember those first few lines exactly:

"Padmé Naberrie, Senator Amidala of Naboo, died this morning on Polis Massa. Initial evidence indicates that her death was the result of an attack by Jedi. An official statement from the Palace is forthcoming. We ask that the media be respectful of the Senator's family."

Suddenly I felt hollow, the noise faded away, and I was sure I was dreaming. Because Amidala couldn't be dead. Other Senators could be killed by Jedi, but our Senator… our Amidala? No. This was wrong. Any minute something would come through saying it was wrong. But nothing did.

Someone, I can't remember who, came up to me—I must have looked shocked, just standing there holding that report—and asked what was up.

"Padmé Amidala's dead." Saying it out loud somehow made it real, and I felt myself wake up, and as the guy who'd approached me said, "What?", I was already pushing past him, heading for the news desk, where the beautiful Sila Orilaan was in the middle of a story about the Jedi Rebellion.

"Break!" I shouted, then remembered where I was and whispered, "Cut it. Right now." The director looked at me like I was crazy, but I held up the report and said, "Amidala's dead," and he gave Sila the order to segue out.

I handed the report over to her, said, "Just in." Sila barely had time to read it before we were back on. She blinked, dazed, for a moment, then drew a breath and said it.

"Breaking news. Padmé Naberrie Amidala, Senator and former Queen of Naboo, died this morning on Polis Massa as the result of an apparent attack by Jedi. She was twenty-seven years old."

She started blinking again, because she was trying not to cry.

Varé Jotira:

I was sitting at my desk at work, and my friend Mina commed me from her place in accounting. Her voice sounded strange.

"Have you seen it?"

"Seen what?"

"Turn to the HoloNet."

So I did. They were talking about Amidala and at first I wondered why—what had she gotten up to now? I even started to ask Mina; then I saw headline splayed across the screen and, and the picture with the dates under it. The room spun.

I gasped out, "Oh, my gods…"

"I know," Mina said. She was crying, that was the strangeness in her voice. I could feel tears coming into my own eyes.

"What's going on?" asked Lon, at the next desk.

"Turn to the HoloNet."

Balen Winar:

I didn't know anything about it until later in the day—a few hours after the story broke. Our farm is pretty isolated, and I was out in the fields until lunchtime. Kallé was out in the garden, and came in about the same time. It was a beautiful day, mild, with clouds coming in and a chance of rain later. I hadn't taken a break so that I could get everything done before it hit.

I turned on the news, just like every day, and froze in front of the screen. Kallé looked up from the kitchen. You could tell that they were in the middle of something serious, but it took a couple of minutes for what it was to sink in. I swore and Kallé covered her mouth.

The next minute we were both sitting, huddled together, watching. Nothing else got done that day, we didn't even eat our lunch until two hours later. I kept thinking, "Her poor family." And I wanted my kids to come home.

Ami Barana:

I was at school. We were just finishing a test when the teacher from across the hall came in and whispered in Mrs. Palia's ear. We all looked up as she gasped, "Ai Shiraya!" Her eyes went wide and the color drained from her face. "Né, u Maiavala, né…" She and the other teacher went out into the hallway. We looked around at each other, with startled expressions, but we didn't say anything in case Mrs. Palia was about to come back, which she did, a couple of minutes later. We tried to finish our tests and not look at Mrs. Pallia's head bent over her desk.

When the last test had been handed in, Mrs. Palia stood up and said, in a quiet voice, "There will be an announcement from the principal shortly, but I feel it is incumbent on me to inform you…" her voice broke, "that Padmé Amidala was killed this morning."

I'll never forget that moment, that first moment when it didn't seem like it could be real. Everybody started talking at once, in muted voices, all questions. Mrs. Palia turned on the HoloNet for us, and we all fell silent to watch.

Cam Deskali:

What I remember most about the rest of the day was how quiet it was, like people were afraid to talk too loudly. Our offices were usually loud but now, when we were working twice as hard as usual, things were eerily quiet. Sila stayed on-air for hours. Everywhere else on the planet, places were closing early, but at HNN Naboo, nobody was going home.

We broadcast a statement from the Queen, and another particularly moving one from the Emperor himself. The fact that the Senator's death was unexpected meant that we had to cobble a tribute of sorts together fast—"Use that stuff we had from when we thought she'd been killed a few years ago! You know, that attack on Coruscant, right before the Wars!" "If you don't know where it is, find it, and tag some stuff on at the end!"

"No, nothing with Skywalker! You want to show her with a Jedi? Now?"

I spent hours going through clips of a young, smiling Queen; a Queen in tears after the Battle of Naboo; a beautiful, confident Senator; a young woman playing and working with underprivileged children… A whole lifetime of service.

I came away from it certain of one thing: that woman had style. She knew how to work a crowd. Not even the we, the media, were immune—we might have been more susceptible than anyone else.

"What do you mean the Palace won't let us film them taking her body off the ship? The people need to see it—she was ours!"

Varé Jotira:

The office closed, probably because no one was getting any work done, but when I got home I just felt lonely and exhausted. I don't know why, but it felt personal. Padmé Amidala's murder. Not just for me, for all of the Naboo. We felt like we'd watched her grow up and, besides, she was the Queen who saved us. Everyone felt like they knew her.

She loved Naboo, too, everyone knew that. Every holiday she came home to Naboo, and there was always someone excited to say they'd seen her ship coming in to land. Now we were watching the skies one last time, waiting for a foreign ship to bring her home. She should at least have died on Naboo. She shouldn't have died so young; we should have been able to watch her grow old as well as grow up. This wasn't fair.

Frustrated and angry, I turned the HoloNet off.

Balen Winar:

By the time the kids did get home, it was raining—a steady, heavy rain, like the planet itself was in mourning for its beloved Amidala. It wouldn't surprise me if it was—the Naberries, her family, were mountain farmers, the knew the land of Naboo. That was something I always liked about Padmé Amidala, she was really just a farmer's daughter, like my wife and my daughter, like anyone you might find way out here. And she never lost touch with us way out here, either. I never met her myself, but she came out to the rural areas all the time. She helped people, she wasn't like most politicians you'd find. Most of those on Coruscant are all out for themselves. I even thought that about Emperor Palpatine sometimes, but not now; he was a true friend to her, and right all along. Still, I doubt we'll see her like again.

It was such a waste. And her poor parents, farmers like me, had lost their daughter. That was tragedy enough.

Ami Barana:

The school let us out an hour early. Some teachers made us try to work, but we couldn't think; in most classes we just watched the news. Our history teacher was in awe. "This is a day you'll remember forever," he told us. "This is what happens at the end of an age. You'll never see something like this again."

It amazed me, walking home, that everything seemed just the same as every other day, that life was just going on.

I couldn't remember a time when Padmé Amidala hadn't been famous. I was thirteen years old; I'd been born just two months after the Blockade Crisis. My mother, pregnant with her first child, had been imprisoned in one of the detention camps until the Queen came back and liberated us, and when I was born Mom named me Amidala. I grew up hearing her insist that the Queen for whom I was named had saved both our lives. I liked that, even if I didn't like that there were lots of other girls my age named "Amidala" and "Padmé." It made me feel a little special.

I always took an interest in Padmé Amidala for that reason. From about the age of twelve, when we started to study her in class, I knew I could never have done what she did. Still, I always thought I'd like to meet her someday. Now I was almost the age she had been when she saved my life, and she was dead.

Cam Deskali:

The whole world had gone crazy. While some of us kept up a back and forth argument with the Palace about how much access we'd be allowed, others began to cover the crowds. The crowds were a story unto themselves. There were people hysterical in the streets. Already there were scores of flowers and candles being placed in front of Theed Palace. "Allé, Ragela," some of the people were saying, "Allé Ragela Amidala, mamasi den kylaa Elsinoreé, ami den Nabooé." Hail Queen Amidala, mother of the children of Elsinoré, beloved of the Naboo.

There had never been an outpouring like this that I'd seen for anyone, and I thought, My stars, who was this woman? She'll be made a goddess, just because people want to believe she's immortal!

Varé Jotira:

I didn't realize why I was angry, truly, until my husband came home with the children. He turned the coverage back on, and asked, "Does it make sense to you? Can you believe any of it?" What he meant was the idea that the Jedi had killed her. He and I had met at the university in Theed, and we'd both been to the Victory Parade after the Battle of Naboo, and we'd always remember the Jedi as heroes. How one of them had been honored equally with our fallen. How impressive they had looked, lined up all together with their impassive faces.

And thinking of the Battle made me think of how the Amidala I knew had been a champion of democracy her whole life, but now Palpatine was calling her one of the greatest supporters of his Empire which, whatever else it might be, was not a democracy. No, none of it made sense, absolutely none of it. I didn't know what to make of that, then. It wasn't a day for being cynical.

My husband continued looking thoughtful. "Do you want to go to Theed? To the funeral? We'll have to leave tonight, but… it'll be good for the kids, won't it? To see something historic?"

I didn't hesitate.

Balen Winar:

I wanted whoever had done this to her—to us—to suffer for it. I was glad, fiercely glad, that the Empire was hunting down the Jedi. I'd have done it myself if I hadn't been too old, with a wife and children and a farm to look after. She fought for us, and the Naboo should fight back for her. I'd send my son to serve this new Empire and Palpatine.

Whatever I might have thought of him before, our Emperor Palpatine was doing Naboo proud now.

It wouldn't be possible for us to make it to the funeral the next morning; the question was never even raised. We did go to the vigil in the village, and we didn't sleep much before we got up to watch the coverage again.

Ami Barana:

My mother was a mess. There was no question about it: we were going to the funeral. We got up well before even the promise of dawn, and still we couldn't get anywhere near the head of the route. I had to comfort my mother the whole way, even though I didn't really know what to day. There wasn't anything to say. Nobody truly understood what had happened yet. I had hoped to wake up that morning and find that it had all been a dream.

The galaxy had changed from a Republic to an Empire, and we would always remember it in these terms: one day Amidala was there, fighting as always for her people, and the next day she'd been murdered. She wasn't supposed to die like this. This was the first time in my life that Queen Amidala (and we still thought of her as our Queen) had failed the Naboo.

Cam Deskali:

Padmé Amidala's funeral was like nothing I'd ever seen. I was sent to cover it with Sila for the entire HoloNet. Overnight, Theed had been draped in mourning colors, and people crowded the entire processional route, holding candles. I had to marvel at it—in one day, the route had been planned and secured, the decorations hung, the flowers and tomb had been readied (we'd do a story later about the stonecutter who'd wept as he stayed up all night to carve it), and all for this one person.

"This had to be a complete nightmare for a whole lot of people," I said.

Sila looked up from the informational data she'd assembled for her commentary on the people who'd be attending the funeral. "You mean like Ruwee and Jobal Naberrie, aged 58 and 56?"

I was an idiot. "Yeah," I said.

We had to climb to a special viewing platform near the front of the Palace to get a good view of the body. Then she appeared, in a gualaar-pulled open casket. Sila grabbed my arm and covered here microphone.

"Shirayamé!" she exclained. "She's really pregnant!" It was true, there was no denying it. We'd been warned about this just before we'd mounted our platform, but we didn't know it'd be so visible. My jaw had dropped. "What do I do?" Sila hissed. "Do I say something? Do I talk about it?"

I looked at her, and then I looked at Amidala's parents down below—Ruwee and Jobal Naberrie, aged 58 and 56. "Not now," I said. "Not today." She nodded and went on with the statement we'd been given by the Palace—yes, she'd been pregnant, it increased the tragedy, in accordance with Naboo tradition there would be no investigation.

Later we'd cover it, of course—the famous Senator's secret pregnancy. We named several different candidates as to the father. But not that day. That day we gave back to her.

Varé Jotira:

The funeral procession was the exact converse of the Victory Parade I'd witnessed so many years ago. That had taken place on a beautiful day, in bright sunlight, with colors and music and every last person cheering. This was in the half-light of dawn, and everything was dark and muted and utterly silent. It felt good to be in the crowd, all of us unified in some way by our grief. There was not a sound to be heard save the occasional sob, or child's voice followed by its parent's hushing, and then the approaching footsteps of the procession.

And Padmé Amidala herself, no longer the girl-Queen I once saw from a distance. This was the form of a woman—a pregnant woman—who lay as though asleep. She looked like she was made of porcelain. My husband was holding my youngest daughter on his shoulders to see her pass.

I'd heard rumors that she was pregnant. It was so sad. After all that we'd each felt like we'd known Padmé Amidala, here was clear evidence that we were wrong; she'd had a secret life of her own. We hadn't known her at all, not any one of us. And it was strange that this only made us love her more.

Balen Winar:

We watched the broadcast of the funeral from our home. All of the people looked so small and faraway. The broadcaster said that Amidala had been pregnant, but you could hardly tell through the holovision. I just thought again, her poor, poor parents. There was a shot of them in close-up as they walked past. They looked awful.

They pointed out her sister and nieces, the Queen and Governor Bibble, all of Amidala's former handmaidens, Representative Binks and Boss Nass of the Gungans. They mentioned several Senators who came, just to inform the viewer that our little planet really was quite the center of attention. But the parents were at the front of the procession, right behind their daughter, where they belonged.

Padmé Amidala was a good Naboo girl.

Ami Barana:

It was uncomfortable, standing so close to so many people. My legs started to hurt after a while, and my candle dripped wax onto my fingers despite the holder meant to prevent this. I kept holding it, though, for Senator Amidala. While people muttered about the fact that she'd been pregnant, I watched the flame dance back and forth in the breeze and hoped my hardest that it wouldn't go out. It was sad that she'd died pregnant, of course, but at the time it didn't seem that important to me. My focus was on my candle.

Then the procession appeared in the distance, and all the talking stopped. Padmé Amidala was traveling, for the last time, through the Triumphal Arch in Palace Plaza. And then she was being brought by us. I saw her, in person, for the first time.

I was named after Padmé Amidala. She saved my life before I was born. I was always going to meet her someday.

Then she was past us, disappearing in the distance. She'd left us.

She'd left us once before when we needed her, when she ran the Trade Federation blockade and some thought she'd abandoned her people, but she had returned, like an avenging goddess, to save them in their hour of need.

Only this time, there would be no triumphant return. This time, when we needed her, she'd left us and she wasn't coming back.

In the early morning light the procession finally passed us by, and I stood staring and my candle and thinking, with growing dread:

Amidala is dead. Amidala, the savior of her people.

Who will help us now?