secret(s)
The first time Padmé falls asleep in her office, Dormé doesn't think much of it.
While she had initially been startled to see Padmé snoozing with her head down on arms crossed over the Hydenock desk, Dormé's surprise wears off fairly quickly. After all, it wasn't unusual for the Senator from Naboo to throw herself wholly – sometimes obsessively so - into her work. Padmé's genuine dedication to her professional duty was a defining trait Dormé had long since grown accustomed to. In fact, it was a quality she admired most of the time. Though, on certain occasions, the level of zeal Padmé exhibited towards her Senatorial obligations could be downright frightening.
Especially whenever he leaves.
The few days after Anakin's departures are some of the hardest for Dormé to bear witness. Padmé does her best to act like her heart isn't breaking every time he's gone. She tries to pretend she sleeps soundly at night, but extra swipes of concealer still can't quite mask the deep shadows beneath her eyes. She tries to pretend her appetite doesn't suffer, but Dormé notices the smaller portions that don't quite fill her dinner plate. And there's only so many times Dormé can hear how much the Senator really, really doesn't want to overlook even the most trivial of details in the most recent proposal to cross her work queue. As Padmé studies her datapad into the late evening hours, Dormé just nods, offering the banal, "Of course, milady," before bidding her goodnight and pretending not to see the pained glances Padmé throws out the southwestern windows when she thinks no one is looking.
During those bereft days, Dormé knows Ellé and Moteé feel similarly ill at ease, though they now accept their mistress' compulsive work ethic and subdued moods with more relieved understanding and less abject bewilderment than previously. Before they were brought into the select inner circle that knew of Padmé's clandestine marriage to Anakin Skywalker, Ellé and Moteé had once approached Dormé in confidence concerned over the Senator's mental state. After a particularly hard separation of husband and wife, Ellé had heard sobbing so fierce behind closed doors she had fretted over personal demons Padmé was silently fighting. At the time, Dormé could only offer her colleague a sad, appreciative smile, even as she vowed to herself right then and there to convince Padmé that Ellé and Moteé had to be read in.
"We hired them as Senatorial aides, but they are Naboo handmaidens through and through," she had said to Padmé the next morning. "It would be better if you told them upfront, rather than letting them figure it out on their own."
In the end, Padmé, realizing the inevitable necessity of their inclusion, had agreed, if still somewhat reluctantly. When Dormé had wondered openly at her hesitancy, Padmé's response had been poignantly simple: "It's not just my secret to share."
She had turned away then, before Dormé could see the watery sheen come to her eyes. But Dormé didn't need to see the hidden tears to know they were there. After all, Naboo handmaidens are recruited and hired for a plethora of skill sets, though they all indubitably must share one prerequisite: keen observation. Be it for their Queen sitting the throne in Theed Royal Palace or their Senator serving at the heart of the galaxy, handmaidens lent their eyes and ears whenever the lady they serve couldn't use her own. By now, it was second nature to Dormé to identity and decipher the importance in the smallest occurrences of change.
So, the second time she finds Padmé asleep in her office, Dormé immediately the recognizes that this time, something is different. In all past instances, sleep had stolen Padmé from her tasks unwillingly. Whether it was folded uncomfortably over her desk or slumped awkwardly to the side on an apartment couch, Padmé's disagreeable positions were the only rebellious remnants leftover from her struggles to stay awake.
This time, succumbing to slumber had clearly been a conscious choice.
Even with her heavy gown working against her, Padmé had laid down on the longest formal reception couch, the decorative throw that hadn't been unfolded once in her five-year tenure as Galactic Senator pulled cozily over her curled form. Even with Dormé's dramatic ranting entrance – "Forgive me, milady, but that Senator Wallis really won't take no…", Padmé doesn't even stir. Soundlessly, Dormé sneaks around the desk, keying the datapad to access the last file Padmé had been working on. The timestamp on the saved document and current chrono reading differ by more than forty standard minutes.
Smiling to herself, Dormé slips back past the couches, leaving Padmé to her much-needed rest.
"That was quick," Moteé says, when Dormé returns to her station in the office's antechamber mere moments later.
"The Senator is otherwise preoccupied," Dormé replies breezily.
Moteé's eyes slide up from her screen, a welter of interpretations flitting across her face as she scrutinizes the meaning behind her colleague's words and tone. Dormé reveals nothing, and Moteé accepts her silence at face value, returning dutifully to the task at hand without further inquiry.
Collecting her own datapad, Dormé sits down to resume her work. Though the rest of the afternoon passes rather quietly, Dormé's mind runs amok analyzing the impetus behind Padmé's deliberate nap.
She figures it out long before anyone else. Though she thinks the thought may have crossed Padmé's mind a few times.
Not prone to vanity, Padmé rarely studies her own reflection for much longer than a cursory appraisal during her dressing routine. Yet, as Ellé twists her chocolate locks into an intricate updo and Moteé affixes the necessary accessories to her person, Dormé sees the unblinking way Padmé stares at her middle. Her features are carefully neutral during these quiet contemplations, but her fingers betray her angst in the way they seek out the small charm that always lies nestled over heart, hidden away from prying eyes beneath layer and layers of formal fabric. When Dormé catches her gaze in the mirror, Amidala slides into perfect place and Padmé completely disappears from view.
The strangest tell comes out of the blue.
With warfronts expanding further and further across the galaxy, the entire staff had resigned themselves to accept that the approaching Naboo holiday season would most likely be spent away from home. Moteé, in all her silent strength, had taken it upon herself to adorn the staff's residences with bountiful decorations, even going so far as ordering custom garlands made from Naboo's Hsuberry trees to garnish the entrances and window frames. One look at the festal decor had Dormé instantly appreciating Moteé's clever intention. The warm, spicy fragrance of Hsuberry leaves permeates the recycled, stale apartment air, spreading comfort and cheer to the residents on Naboo's floors of 500 Republica.
Well, to all the residents save one.
"What is that smell?" Padmé asks, upon their return from the Senate Rotunda after another long, trying day. Her scrunched nose and the ashen color to her cheeks make it evident that the question is not meant to be rude, but leaps out of her reflexively. All three handmaidens pause their exit from the turbolift to stare warily at the Senator.
"Hsuberry, milady," Ellé replies gently. "We thought you loved it."
"Is it too much?" Moteé asks anxiously. "I can take it down if it bothers you."
Under their combined scrutiny, Padmé's cheek flush and she shakes her head, bemused at her unbidden visceral reaction to aromas that usually delighted her.
"No, it's wonderful. Thank you," Padmé manages weakly. "I think I might…" The blush on her face fades away again, as she chokes hard against a riotous gag. "Good night, everyone."
Without a glance back, Padmé beats a hasty retreat to her bedroom, where, thankfully, Moteé's festive interior designs had yet to reach.
Collectively, Moteé and Ellé turn to Dormé in bewilderment. After all, she is the one who has known Padmé the longest. Surely, she can explain away the Senator's consternating behavior.
"It's been a long day."
With her own suspicions now screaming for validation like blaring klaxons that once echoed chaotically in her ears on a mile high landing platform, it's all the reassurance Dormé can muster for them. Handmaidens through and through - just as she had once said - they respectfully incline their heads, and bid Dormé goodnight.
Dormé stands in the empty living room by herself for a long time.
The next morning, Padmé doesn't show for breakfast.
"Do you think she's ill?" Ellé asks quietly, when Typho excuses himself to usual station in the control room on the first level.
"Could be," Moteé hums in agreement, chewing thoughtfully on her toast. "She's been working herself to the bone these past few weeks. You know how she gets when…" She trails off, not wanting to seem overly critical, but the sentiment doesn't have to be spoken aloud to be heard with perfect clarity amongst the three women.
You know how she gets when Anakin is gone.
"It's only been a month." Ellé's face twists with genuine angst. Her compassionate heart may be the only one in the galaxy able to compete with Padmé's endless empathy. "He's been gone much longer than this before."
"I'll go check on her," Dormé says, squeezing the younger girl's shoulder soothingly.
She carries their collective worry the entire way to Padmé's sleeping quarters. Before rounding the entrance to the bedchamber, Dormé calls out cautiously. "Milady?" She doesn't have a lot of reason to be wary of walking into something not meant for her eyes, but two years of circumnavigating usual routines to accomodate a certain spontaneous overnight guest makes the habit die hard.
There's no reply.
Expecting to see Padmé still under slumber's spell, Dormé slips quietly into the still darkened room.
Not only is there no reply, there is no Padmé.
In the three nanoseconds it takes for Dormé's panic to rise unnecessarily, her eyes find the faint rim of light peeking out from beneath the closed fresher door. The sigh of relief she starts to breathe never makes itself known when she hears violent retching emanating from the other side. Immediately, Dormé is at the door, rapping her knuckles roughly against the smooth surface.
"Milady?"
"It's open," comes the disembodied reply.
Without hesitation, Dormé palms the access panel and steps into the fresher, squinting against the sudden brilliance of the overhead lights. Slumped against the wall facing the toilet, Padmé, still in her nightgown, looks absolutely miserable.
"I think I have the flu," Padmé says softly, apologetically. She swallows uncomfortably, her body tensing and then relaxing shakily after what Dormé assumes is another passing wave of nausea. Padmé closes her eyes, breathing carefully, and Dormé uses the unguarded moment to study her friend.
She takes in the pallor of her pale skin. The slight dampness along her forehead and hairline despite the cool air cycling through the vents. The chocolate curls around her shoulders even more riotous than the usual tumble betraying yet another restless night.
The protective curl of Padmé's left hand over her abdomen.
On her way through the apartment, Dormé had debated how far she was willing to press Padmé to confront what she was now very certain was the most likely reason for the spontaneous afternoon napping, the furtive glances and abstract thoughts during dressing sessions, the sudden repulsion to one of Padmé's favorite holiday smells. She had strongly suspected Padmé was existing in some state of denial. Now with all of that evidence spinning through her mind combined with the most blatant symptom of all on display right in front of her, Dormé knows without a doubt that she is.
Is Padmé even aware how her body language wants to guard what it already knows to be true?
"You don't have the flu, Padmé."
Squatting down to rummage through the vanity, Dormé feels Padmé's eyes on her back. It only takes a few seconds for Dormé to find what she is looking for. When she pops back out from under the sink, a long, cylindrical, wrapped package in her hand, she watches the color drain even further from Padmé's face.
Dormé holds out the item with a soft yet stern look. "You don't have the flu," she repeats gently, though her firm tone brooks no argument.
Padmé makes no move to take what Dormé offers her. Her brown eyes hold Dormé's own with unabashed panic that Dormé understands and an unspoken plea that she doesn't. Not until, Padmé attempts to explain her silent entreaty.
"We said we would do this together." Her voice tremors over the simple words that try to convey and contain the complex welter of emotion she's been bottling inside.
Dormé's heart breaks for the terrified woman sitting on the fresher floor. Padmé had always dreamed of someday being a mother; that was not a secret she had ever kept from anyone. Dormé can only imagine the hopeful, excited conversations and promises Anakin and Padmé had likely had about their future family. She can only sympathize knowing Padmé had likely envisioned this monumental moment playing out much differently. Motherhood is something Padmé wanted the most out of life, even as Dormé fears that maternal mantle is the last thing she needs bestowed right now.
In the six years they had known each other, Dormé had never felt the need to lean on her older age to corral Padmé when the younger strayed too far. But this moment was by far too serious to worry about overstepping her mandate as handmaiden and employee. Padmé needed the unwavering support of a friend - the stalwart shoulders of a sister - The goddesses forgive me, Sola.
Falling to her knees beside her, Dormé reaches for Padmé's hand, squeezing her fingers once. "I know," she says, then presses the pregnancy test into her open palm. "But you need to know.'
Nodding slowly in either acknowledgement or resignation, Padmé stands, giving Dormé a wan smile as her handmaiden helps steady her ascent on wobbly legs. When she is sure that Padmé is stably upright, Dormé excuses herself from the fresher.
The door hisses shut behind her. With portentous thoughts swirling through her mind, Dormé leans back heavily against what feels like the end of an era and considers the new one yet to be borne.
Being married to a Jedi Knight was already scandalous enough as is, but it was a secret that they had been able to keep successfully so far. It wasn't easy, and they were all paying various prices to make sure it stayed private knowledge. But to hide a child's paternity indefinitely in order to protect those involved? Well, the galaxy, as they know it, might very well buckle beneath all that clandestine weight.
But Dormé will gladly shoulder the burden.
As will Moteé.
As will Ellé.
As will they all.
Dormé can't be sure how many seconds have passed until the fresher door slides open and Padmé stands before her again.
"Will you wait with me?" she asks. She sounds far younger than her twenty-seven years, and Dormé wants to believe that she hears a shy optimism in Padmé's question even as she hears the tremors of fear.
"Of course."
Turning to swipe Padmé's datapad from its spot on the nightstand, Dormé keys in a timer and follows Padmé to their previous spots on the fresher floor.
Shoulder to shoulder, Dormé waits beside a statue-still Padmé for the next five agonizing minutes to pass. With the same resolute expression she had used to scrutinize her reflection in the dressing mirror, her friend stares unblinkingly ahead at the fresher bowl, the only movement to delineate her organic form from frozen marble is the rise and fall of her nightgown's neckline as she breathes. The rhythm is too forced, too controlled, too deliberate. Dormé wonders what sort of future Padmé watches unfold in the blank porcelain canvas.
Unaware of its obnoxious interruption, the timer beeps loudly, effectively shattering the gravid silence that had taken hold of the small room. Exchanging a quick, nervous glance with her, Padmé looks up at the counter, but seems to freeze, making no motion to stand. Dormé begins to volunteer before sees the determined set in her friend's jaw and then Padmé swiftly reaches up to retrieve the proctor of her fate.
For a long while, Padmé just stares at the test in her hands.
Nobody moves.
Nobody breathes.
After granting her several private moments to read its deliverance, Dormé surreptitiously steals a sideways glance at Padmé's face. Tears stream down her cheeks, and Dormé hates that she doesn't know how to interpret this watery sheen cascading over the Amidala mask. Then, so softly, that Dormé almost doesn't hear despite sitting so close, Padmé whispers the damning clarification.
"He should be here for this. He should be here…"
The last two words she tries to repeat blend into a strangled, anguished cry. In an uncharacteristic display of frustration, Padmé throws the pregnancy test across the floor and collapses in on herself, hugging her knees to her chest, her small frame quivering with raw, heart-rending sobs.
Knowing that her arms are not the ones Padmé wants or needs in this moment, Dormé gathers her weeping friend to her, and tries not to feel completely useless. She wraps Padmé tightly in her embrace, offering loyal support as much as reaffirming silent shelter for the not one, but now two secrets Padmé had never and would never formally ask her to keep.
Holding Padmé even closer, Dormé braces herself and looks to the test lying face up on the tiled floor, even though she knows positively well what result she will see.
A/N: I can't even begin to remember when I started this installment for this fic. It sat unfinished for years, surviving several edits and laptop upgrades, and yet I could never bring myself to finish it. I had resigned myself to the fact that it was too sad of a headspace for me to occupy, even though it was one I knew should be included here. In all honesty, while I never intended to post any event in this narrative chronologically in the SW timeline, I didn't expect to post this specific "chapter" until much much later. And then life happened, and real world experience revealed why I never had the ability to finish what I had started. Though Padme and I had vastly differing results, the emotions surrounding our experiences are sadly similar. This is my attempt to cope.