Part VIII
They rarely ever convened like this.
For starters, it was far too dangerous. When several of the Rebellion's leader - Obi-Wan, Mace, Ki-Adi-Mundi, Luminara, Plo Koon, Yoda, Anakin to mention a few - gathered in one location, they lit up the Force like a brilliant homing beacon. Detection was only a matter of time.
For another, there was always something elsewhere in the galaxy that required at least someone's attention. But exploding planets required a certain demanding urgency, regardless of the other fires burning or the increased risks those by merely being in attendance.
Anxiously rubbing at her swollen and stretched skin, Padmé listens to the intense chatter around her. Pregnancy had not bestowed her with any ethereal gifts, but her belly, for once not shrouded by heavy cloaks and voluminous gowns, buzzes with the powerful presences and nervous energies in the room. It's a futile attempt at relief, by now, she's learned this feeling isn't an itch that can be scratched away.
Everyone present is committing treason. Well… from a certain point of view.
Even Bail discussing with Mon how to best aid the Chandrilan refugees scattered amongst the stars is guilty; after all, humanitarian efforts for the destroyed world had recently been classified as criminal acts against the Empire. Despite Anakin's recent warning to keep quiet, Padmé had tried offering Naboo's experience and assistance with the displaced. Mon, still grieving from the annihilative atrocity, had declined in unfathomable fashion.
"Do not think offering your home world will absolve your husband's decision. Chandrila may be gone but those left will always remember."
Leaving Bail to speak on her behalf, she retreats to the other side of the room. With her friends now considering her foe, Padmé sits alone, trying to ignore isolation's chilling company.
Worriedly, Anakin watches her move, scowling in her direction though not directly at her, his displeasure at whatever his brethren discuss in hushed whispers painted as clear as daybreak across his face. Her ears perk up, eager for something to distract her from her misery, though she tries her best not to be obvious about eavesdropping. The remaining Jedi take up her husband's lead, eyes turning to regard her at the sudden lull in their conversation. What she manages to overhear does nothing to relieve her growing angst.
"Either way, we are running out of time."
The way Obi-Wan says it - weary and resigned, the way Anakin glowers darkly at his former master's words, and the way regret graces the myriad of their faces leave no doubt that the reason behind their ominously approaching deadline lies solely with Lady Vader.