A/N: This chapter re-write has been a bit of an emotional excavation. In the end, I'm glad I did it. It's really opened some opportunities and connections I am so excited to explore in future chapters and works. In the past few days, I had do trim this bear of an update down a bit. The "final" edition was over 15,000 words. But I think I made the right choice to edit it down to what's below. Thank you all for your faith and incredible patience. I sincerely hope you enjoy and find it was worth the wait.
To give credit where it is gratefully due: dayalillies are once again a creation of the lovely madame. alexandra. With her consent, she's allowed me to run with this detail.
Chapter 3
PADMÉ AMIDALA
The first thought Padmé has when she comes to is that she has no idea where in the galaxy she is.
She takes in the soft brown walls surrounding her. The room is dim, serene, calm. Wall sconces glow warmly with diffuse light, just enough to outline the cot she lays on, a low counter with underlying cabinetry with a sink across the ward, and a monitor currently sleeping in the corner. In spite of its overall utilitarian feel, there is something restful and restorative about this place.
Movement to her left draws her attention, and Padmé winces at the sharp twinge that rockets down her neck when she turns her head.
The second thought she has is, by the gods, why does everything hurt?
After a few seconds, she can focus past the pain to see Dormé's familiar face hovering over her. Despite her confusion, Padmé lips curve into a return smile, her heart swelling with joyous relief at the sight of her handmaiden and friend, alive and seemingly no worse for wear.
Dormé leans forward, her features pinched with unabashed concern. "Hey," she greets, her voice soft and tentative.
"Hi," Padmé replies. "How are…" She chokes on her dry tongue. The coughing fit sends more painful spasms along her back and she swears her heart has suddenly jumped up to reside between her ears, her pulse drumming the inside of her skull like an angry percussionist. She isn't fast enough to stop the groan that pushes its way out of her mouth.
"Easy," Dormé says. Her hand gently guides Padmé's shoulder back to the mattress, while she simultaneously retrieves a glass of water from the small table next to the bed. "You've been out quite a while from what I've gathered."
Padmé accepts the drink, sipping carefully. The liquid slides like heaven down her raw throat. "What happened?" She gets the words out this time, even though her voice sounds horrendously scratchy. Handing the glass back to Dormé, the questions continue to spill forth. "Where am I? How are you… here, wherever here is?"
"You're at the Jedi Temple. Master Yoda contacted Captain Typho to tell us you had returned. They brought you here for recovery," Dormé explains slowly.
"Recovery?" Padmé asks, trying to sit up. Her limbs feel leaden, her movements graceless. The sheer energy it takes to prop herself up exhausts her. Panting from effort, Padmé glances around the room again. Her mind flits like a sparking loose wire, the image it tries to draw from the dots of information forming a tangled mess rather than a decipherable picture. When she realizes the gray hospital gown hanging loosely about her frame is not the destroyed white jumpsuit she last remembers herself in, Padmé feels her blood run cold. Her eyes dart to Dormé. Panic rising, Padmé forces herself to take a controlled deep breath. Amidala can barely hide her own trembling even as she scolds Padmé back into a corner.
"What happened?" she repeats. Her voice sounds unnaturally high to her own ears.
"Let me get Master Che for you," Dormé offers. Her brown eyes continue to watch Padmé warily, like she is a newborn guarlara ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.
Bewildered, Padmé can only stare back as her handmaiden walks to the door, palms the panel, and pokes her head into the hallway. Though she can't see him, she hears Gregar Typho's deep voice drift in from just outside her room.
In less than a minute, Dormé returns to her side, forgoing her previous sit in the bedside chair and easing herself carefully onto the mattress. She reaches for Padmé's hand, covering it gently with her own. Swallowing past emotions she would rather not put names to, Padmé bravely looks up from their clasped hands to her friend, allowing Dormé to see the fracture lines forming in front of her.
"I'm so glad to see you," Padmé says. The swell of emotion shakes her voice noticeably.
"Me too," Dormé replies, squeezing Padmé's fingers and offering a watery smile in return. Padmé's eyes burn with sudden tears. "It's gonna be okay."
Padmé nods, her throat thick and traitorously silent.
A knock sounds at the door before a tall Twi'lek in flowing brown robes enters the room. Padmé doesn't recognize her, but she does know the stricken face who peers in behind the Jedi Master all too well. When Padmé offers him a small smile, Gregar Typho steps into the room and palms the door closed behind him.
"Welcome back, Senator," the Jedi greets, pulling Padmé's attention away from the captain of her guard. The Twi'lek's accented voice is pleasant enough even if her manner and expression is severe. "I'm Master Vokara Che, Chief Healer. How are you feeling?"
"A bit disoriented if I'm being honest." Padmé adjusts slightly on the cot, wincing more from the reminder of razor-sharp claws dragging along her back than the uncomfortable pull of adhesive bandages on her skin. Despite the insistent throbbing of her head, the more upright position makes her feel more in control. "And a bit sore."
Master Che hums thoughtfully. "Between the fall you took and the lingering side effects of the neurotoxin and sedative, disorientation and soreness are to be expected."
"The neurotoxin?" Padmé repeats carefully. She tries not to notice the twin appalled expressions on her security captain's and handmaiden's faces as they struggle alongside her to comprehend the Chief Healer's words.
Master Che frowns, considering Padmé for a moment. The Jedi's scrutiny makes her feel even more exposed than the ill-fitting gown hanging limply around her shoulders. Padmé resists the urge to tug the blanket at her waist higher.
"What's the last thing you remember, Senator?"
"I was making my way to the medical deck to check on Ana-…," Padmé starts to explain, stumbling over her bodyguard's name in an effort to hide the depth of her familiarity. Her heart scales her ribs, clamoring to be freed from its cage. Her fingers fidget uncharacteristically with the edge of her sheet. "When I felt ill, I went to the fresher. That's the last thing I remember..."
"I see," Master Che says, cryptically. She strokes her chin with her long blue fingers, evidently piecing together a puzzle only visible to her. "This is starting to make more sense."
Is it? Padmé feels utterly adrift. She can see Dormé and Typho are inclined to agree with her.
"The Endeavor's medical record says that you were brought to the infirmary after being found unconscious by Master Kenobi and Padawan Skywalker. There, you were given antitoxin for Geonosian neurotoxicity and received submersion therapy to additionally treat claw wounds, a compression fracture of your spine, as well as a concussion. The latter injuries were sustained from a fall from a gunship, I believe?"
Padmé nods mutely. Even if she doesn't remember what caused her fainting, she does remember the nexu and her tumble to the sand dune. It might also explain the stringent smell of bacta seemingly everywhere about her person.
Dormé gasps audibly at her medical report. Typho shakes his head, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
"That boy should never have been entrusted with your security," Typho growls.
The blatant condescension directed at Anakin is the last load to break the eopie's back; Padmé will not sit by and blindly let him shoulder blame for the events of Geonosis when she was equally responsible for dragging them into that nightmare. She shoves aside the tenuous hold Amidala has on her poise and control.
With no regard for her own pain, Padmé inflames to a stand, her slight build brimming with fire.
"That man, Captain, was gravely injured while ensuring my defense and that of the Republic's," she all but snarls. "You will not criticize his efforts when you were not witness to the events that transpired. Am I clear?"
An awkward silence blankets the room. Amidala cautions Padmé that she is perilously close to making a scene.
"Senator?"
Her hospital gown whirling about her ankles, Padmé spins towards the newcomer.
"Master Kenobi!" Vokara Che cries. "What are you doing out of bed?"
Obi-Wan holds up a placating hand to the Chief Healer. Dressed in clean robes, he appears more like the formidable Jedi Knight she greeted a week ago in her Coruscant apartment, and less the broken warrior battling his own monstrous woundings from what was to Padmé's interrupted memory only mere hours ago.
"Forgive me, Master," he says. "I made a promise to my Padawan. This will only take a moment."
Vokara Che clicks her tongue in disapproval but decides against further admonishment.
It is unclear to Padmé how much Obi-Wan heard of her exchange with Typho, but the look in his blue eyes, somewhere between pitiable understanding and quiet reproach, gives her reason to believe, he heard more than enough.
Drawing herself up further, she lifts her chin and takes a steadying breath. "Master Kenobi, how is he?" Even if her voice doesn't, her legs shake beneath the veil of her hospital gown. "How are you?"
Obi-Wan's stare cuts right through Amidala to speak to Padmé underneath.
"We will be fine. It would probably be best for you to go home and get some rest."
"I would like to make sure Anakin is okay first." This time, she doesn't stumble over his name.
"I'm afraid that's not possible right now. Anakin's undergoing prep for surgery."
Padmé opens her mouth to speak again, though Amidala screams at her to stop and consider her audience. Sensing her unspoken protest, Obi-Wan limps closer, cutting her off.
"Padmé, please," Obi-Wan says, his voice so low only she can hear. The abandonment of her professional title jolts her. "I only got Anakin to agree to further treatment because I promised I would come check in on you." He pauses to let the subtext speak for itself, startling her when his cool hand finds her own. "Let me tell him, you were discharged and are home resting."
"If he needs anything, I'll personally cover it," Padmé whispers. "I mean it, Obi-Wan. Anything. You, as well."
Obi-Wan offers her a tired, sad smile. "That is a very gracious offer, but you needn't worry about us any further." He takes a step back, releasing her hand and bowing, though Padmé can see the grimace he tries to hide for the sake of decorum. "Senator."
It's a formal dismissal. And a veiled reminder that she is a guest in the Halls of Healing, one that is fast out-staying her welcome.
She nods once in understanding.
He inclines his head to the others still watching the exchange quietly, and then, Obi-Wan leaves almost as quickly as he arrived.
All the adrenaline rushing out of her like a receding tide, Padmé sinks down reluctantly onto the bed. She barely hears any of Master Che's recommendations before the Chief Healer departs the room moments later to finalize her discharge. Briefly, she wonders if the rapid exit was also so the Twi'lek could chastise Obi-Wan further for not minding his own treatments, so clearly intent was he on convincing his Padawan to come to heel.
Seemingly immune to the growing fatigue straining her body and mind, her heart accelerates with devastating hope at the mere thought of the younger Jedi.
Even though she knows it isn't possible, all Padmé wants is to see Anakin.
I never even got to say good-bye.
Unknowingly interrupting not only the silence that has retaken the room but her melancholy musings, Typho clears his throat. Padmé lifts her gaze to him more out of politeness than interest. "I'll be outside whenever you're ready."
Out of the corner of her eye, Padmé sees Dormé glance between them nervously.
"Thank you, Captain," Padmé replies, the clipped official tenor of her words sterilized by her despondent tone. She manages a smile, though it feels awkward and forced.
He nods curtly, his mouth set into a firm line, then exits the room.
"Come on," Dormé says, gently. She holds up a garment bag that lays carefully folded over her arm. "Let's get you changed."
The Jedi Temple's Halls of Healing were renowned across the galaxy. Padmé had only ever heard of the beauty of the expansive wing and the astonishing tales of the healing that took place here. She had never once entertained the thought that she would be able to see the miraculous wards for herself, let alone be a patient in them.
While she had let her head swivel to appreciate the unique architecture of soaring pink stone columns that punctuated walls a color surprisingly evocative of her origin planet's stunning lakes – some habits of being a Naboo died hard – the anxiety and unease she had woken with seemingly faded to the background of her mind, so enveloping was the tranquil, pacific atmosphere. And yet, there was an undercurrent of harried business to the Healers at work. The last time Padmé had seen this many Jedi, she had been firing blaster bolts alongside them into the closing ranks of countless battle droids. Now, as she moves among the survivors, she realizes that not only are her eyes witnessing the hallowed halls few ever gaze upon, but that she may be seeing a scene not ever known to the Medical Corps since its completion.
The beds are full. The wards overflowing.
As she watches a Healer administering aid to one of her brethren, Padmé feels the aftermath of Geonosis punctures the isolated sphere her private room had afforded her. Most of the faces she doesn't recognize, though she knows she won't forget their grimaces and winces easily. Some of them she does. Or rather one repeating mien that had stared back at her with contemptuous disinterest across an illuminated conference table.
Though these men, some on cots like the one she had in her room, some sandwiched into spaces on the floor, grant her no more than a passing glance as she walks past them, the comparison is still disconcerting.
As are the thousand questions still unanswered regarding their origin as well as that of the Republic's apparent new military might.
After her discharge, Typho had been all too ready to hightail her back to the safety of her penthouse apartment where her every move would be under his watchful guard or the never-blinking eyes of security cameras. In a rather unbecoming moment, Padmé wonders if he would go so far as to station guards outside her office's refresher at the Senate when she eventually returned, just to make sure she didn't stray far from his jurisdiction.
He would have succeeded in his mission to get them home were their trio not halted as they were about to pass through the Four Pillars at the Temple's main entrance by a Jedi youngling. At least, Padmé assumes the child's status given the lack of Padawan braid, though the Togrutan was very much on the higher end of the designation.
"Excuse me, Senator," the girl says, her voice sure and clear despite her youth. "You almost forgot your droids."
Padmé looks up to see a very familiar, silver-and-blue astromech wheeling towards them followed by a very distraught, weather-battered protocol droid. Over her shoulder, Typho huffs in frustration at yet another delay in their departure. Padmé ignores him. There is absolutely no way she is leaving R2-D2 or C-3PO behind.
"It'll be a little tight," Dormé murmurs, quickly. "But we can all fit."
Padmé smiles swiftly to recognize Dormé's acceptance of the situation that had essentially spoken for both employees of Naboo's senatorial staff, then turns back to the youngling. "Thank you…" She lets her voice trail, hoping to entice a name out of the girl standing before her. The young Jedi complies willingly.
"Ahsoka."
Padmé extends her hand, tendering a warm handshake to convey her gratefulness.
"Thank you, Ahsoka."
The Torgruta smiles brightly, bowing deeply once before walking back into the Temple, her stride carrying a proud bounce.
"When you're ready, Senator." Typho stands at attention, his jaw clenched, his eye sweeping the open plaza perfunctorily.
Despite the earlier moment of tension between them, Padmé sympathizes with the guard captain. While she won't apologize for her defense of Anakin, she does understand the less-than-ideal return to Coruscant coupled with the seemingly dire medical readout were likely perceived as tantamount to a blemish on Typho's stellar security reputation in his mind. Even if she returned alive and in one piece, these "faults" on his record opened much deeper recent wounds.
Cordé.
Her murdered friend's name strikes through her thoughts with a razor's sharp edge. When she catches Typho's eye, there's a slight sheen to his gaze that she knows reflects in her own. Between their fallen Naboo on that Coruscant landing pad, the unfathomable loss of Anakin's mother on Tatooine, and the staggering slaughter of Jedi on Geonosis, the continuous hemorrhage of grief almost drowns her on the spot.
So much senseless loss.
And Padmé fears, knows that this is only the beginning.
Fatigue drapes itself across her shoulders as she gingerly climbs in the back of the speeder, the rest of her retinue loading themselves efficiently. When Typho smoothly pilots them away from the Temple, Padmé keeps her eyes on the grand building for as long as she possibly can. As it fades out of view, she straightens her aching neck forward, trying not to dwell on the somber and morose thoughts circling in her like a whirlpool of uncertainty. It's not her favorite headspace to occupy, but she can't seem to shake the anxiety gnawing knots in her stomach.
That, and Threepio trying her already frayed nerves by voicing concerns about leaving Master Ani behind ad nauseum, as if their small traveling party hadn't heard perfectly well the first time he had pointed out his creator's absence. The fussy protocol droid had evidently introduced his default demeanor in such a resoundingly definitive manner that Dormé quickly reaches over to manually power him down no more than ten minutes into their commute. A muffled murmur that sounds a lot like the Nabooian words for thank you is the only acknowledgment Typho offers from the driver's seat.
As grateful as she is for the return to relative silence, Padmé is perturbed by the peculiar sadness that suddenly crests within her at the sudden if temporary loss to another tangible connection to Anakin. Mournfully, as if shepherding her silent thoughts to audible effect, Artoo coos at her side, but Padmé only allows herself the soft press of her palm to his silver dome. Even though the astromech was nothing really but wires and metal, his cold exterior is unexpectedly comforting. It's enough to know someone else misses Anakin too.
By the time their entourage reaches her apartment, the weariness of the morning's events extend to all its members, organic and inorganic alike. Convening in the kitchen on the residence's first floor, the somber party is hardly the imagined reunion Padmé ached for almost a week ago.
Had it really only been a week since the executive order from the Chancellor had sent her and Anakin to the seclusion of Varykino? Was it really only several days ago that she and Dormé had been professional packages of mirrored fear and sorrow and worry, concerned for each other's safety and well-being amid the forced separation? In commensurate step with Anakin, she had disembarked the public transport, the only impetus driving her reluctant feet forward the image of a reunion with Dormé and Typho and a hasty return to her tried and true Coruscant existence. The irony is not lost on her that now her week's previous wish has been granted, her heart instead yearns for lake shores and meadow grass and the promise of something unexpected left unfulfilled on Naboo.
Clearing his throat, Typho once again interrupts her melancholy thoughts.
"I'm very glad to see you again, milady," he starts. Dipping his head humbly, he seems to collect himself, his bearing shifting to slightly chagrinned. "Even if my rash earlier sentiments failed to indicate that."
Genuinely moved by his words, Padmé recognizes the olive branch for what it is. For all his loyalty and dedication, Typho wasn't a man particularly comfortable with showing just how deep that loyalty and dedication ran. Moving gingerly but purposefully to stand before him, Padmé offers him a warm smile and extends her hand.
"I'm very happy to see you both again, as well," she says, making sure to not only find him with her earnest eyes but Dormé too. "Thank you for being there to retrieve me and… well, really everything." The sudden constricting of her throat prevents her from elaborating on their sacrifices and diligence and devotion. "And I'm sorry for my own outburst. It was not the time nor the place, nor was my tone appropriate. My only defense is the past few days have been excessively trying and…"
Surprising her into silence, Typho ignores her outstretched hand, instead hugging her in a very atypical display of emotion. Stunned, Padmé returns the embrace, her shock almost enough to dull the chafing of her back bandages. He lets go almost as quickly as it began but not before he assures her, "I will always come to retrieve you, milady."
Padmé can only thank him with a watery smile, the valves for her tears still too easily loosened in her current state.
Sensing her precarious state, Dormé offers an exit ramp before Padmé's emotional turmoil can speed off further down the hyperspace lane.
"Threepio?" The protocol droid totters forward, instantly ready to be of service. "Will you oversee the kitchen droids while they prepare lunch?"
"It would be my pleasure, Miss…" Threepio trails off. The anxious little twist of his wired abdomen between her handmaiden and herself gives off the state of his distress perfectly. "Oh dear, I don't believe we have been properly introduced."
Padmé is still amazed that the static face plate can be so outwardly emotive. Someday she'll have to ask Anakin whether that was intentional or a byproduct of his salvaging scrap programming.
"Threepio, this is one of my dearest friends, Dormé." Padmé forgoes the professional titles of handmaiden, body double, wardrobe mistress, and all of the rest. Given recent events, she has much better perspective on what titles should be focused upon and stressed in the more intimate gatherings. "Dormé, this is C-3PO. He belongs to Ana…"
Padmé feels the blood drain from her face as quickly as it had rushed to color her cheeks yet at again at the mere mention of his name. It occurs to her with overwhelming lateness, that she is unsure exactly of who actually owns the droid at the moment. The young Togrutan Jedi had probably just assumed a protocol droid would naturally be in the employ of a Galactic Senator and likely had no reason to assume that the droid's rightful owner was one of her brethren.
Attachment is forbidden. Possession is forbidden.
Surely, until she had a chance to discuss his wishes, Anakin wouldn't mind this arrangement of her guardianship over C-3PO for the time being.
"He's on loan from a friend."
Dormé accepts the explanation though she does quirk an eyebrow at Padmé questioningly.
"Well, I am most pleased to meet you, Miss Dormé," Threepio continues, failing to read the fleeting undercurrent of the room. "Any requests, Miss Padmé?"
"Something light," Padmé replies. "I'm afraid I don't have much of an appetite."
Whether from anxiety over her expedient departure from the Temple and subsequently Anakin, or her restlessness to get back to the work she has sorely missed, the lack of hunger really isn't all that unanticipated.
Threepio stares at her, clearly wanting more direction than a blithe suggestion.
"Have them fix Jobal's bone broth," Dormé inputs. "There's a recipe pad in the kitchen. The droids will know which one."
"I'll be in the control center, Senator," Typho chimes in, striving to get back to business. "I'm working with some of the staff to get your yacht returned to us."
"Thank you, Captain," Padmé acknowledges. She turns to Dormé. "I'd like to catch up on what I've missed. Shall we?"
At this, their group disperse, Typho disappearing down the lower level's side hallway, Dormé and Padmé leaving C-3PO to his newfound command post and boarding the apartment's turbolift. Though the ride to the second floor of her capital residence lasts only seconds, her handmaiden can't seem to wait for their arrival before finally voicing her astute observations.
"So C-3PO belongs to Anakin, huh?" Dormé says without preamble. "I thought Jedi couldn't own things."
Padmé inhales a deep, steadying breath. "It's a long story. For now, he's in our service."
The turbolift doors open to her sitting room and makeshift home office. As she walks into the room, her eyes gravitate to the light umber couches in the center of the space. That, in and of itself, isn't surprising given that the contrasting color and strategic position of the furniture naturally commanded gazes, especially when the neutral fabric warmed to a golden glow in the rising or dwindling rays of Coruscant's sun. No, what startles Padmé is that the first recollection her mind reaches for isn't one of the multitude of nights she spent burning it at both ends into the wee hours, or even the reunion of her previous Jedi acquaintances on the heels of the still fresh and raw loss of Cordé, but rather the quiet darkness of the room and the way two blankets covered two people who couldn't possibly grasp how their fate had just been set rocketing into motion.
Shaking herself a little out of hindsight's powerful sway, Padmé falls to a sit. She tries not to dwell on the fact that her feet navigated her to Anakin's previous spot.
"Yes, I suppose he could be quite useful," Dormé agrees diplomatically, unaware of the poignant memory stirring through her mistress' head. Finding her own seat on the soft cushions across from Padmé, she continues with just a bit of mirth. "As a long-distance errand droid."
Dormé's tight-lipped smile cast downward makes Padmé chuckle at the sardonic qualification. She has to concede the point to her handmaiden, though her heart twists with defensive nostalgia.
"We'll find a job for him," Padmé says, wondering as the words leave her mouth if the declaration is meant to soothe Dormé or a far-off recovering Jedi Padawan. Almost of their own accord, her eyes search the Coruscanti skyline seeking out the silhouette of the Jedi Temple. She doesn't realize she's staring until Dormé fepeats herself.
"Are you sure you're up to this right now?" Raising the datapad just above her lap, Dormé knits her brow with obvious concern. "Master Che was very adamant about you needing to rest."
Padmé blinks at her an embarrassing number of times before her presence of mind returns to her sitting room. Trying to cover for her momentary lapse, she straightens her spine, ignoring its twinges of disapproval. "If I don't at least hear the most pressing matters, I'll only stress over not knowing what I've missed, and likely any 'rest' I strive for will be elusive," she replies. "I must admit, I haven't exactly been keeping tabs as closely as I should have."
"Can't possibly imagine why," her handmaiden says softly. Brown eyes so similar to her own glint at Padmé mischievously, so much so that Padmé feels her tongue start to loosen. Her heart pounds with the promise of hearing his name once more. Vacillating with uncertainty, Padmé hedges a bit, but Dormé has already moved on to the task at hand.
"The Chancellor is requesting your presence at a combined brief/debrief on Geonosis this Zhellday."
Closing the memo Dormé just sent her so she could scan the Chancellor's communique with her own eyes, Padmé quickly loads a calendar on her own screen, her brain a little foggy as to which day it currently is on Coruscant. Between planet-skipping, several days of inadequate sleep, and severe hyper-lag it was easy for the days to blur into one infinitely long moment. The digital timekeeper tells her Zhellday is two days from now.
"Please let him know I will be in attendance."
Dormé makes a face that borders on disagreement before she quickly schools her expression back into complacence. Her fingers flash across her datapad's screen, no doubt making a note to draft the return memo. She flicks her wrist, calling up another item of interest.
"Next, Senator Organa would like to speak with you over several matters..." Dormé scans the message, her mouth pursed in concentration. "Though he doesn't explicitly spell those matters out, he does make it clear that if you so much as show a hair in the Senate before you have fully recovered, he will personally escort you back to Naboo himself."
Padmé smiles a little at this. Bail Organa was the epitome of a gentleman. He comported himself with an effortless authenticity and sincerity that Padmé now found endlessly refreshing, even if it had made her leery in the nascent days of her senatorial career. He was suave. He was polished. And he was terrible at making threats.
He also wasn't privy to the details of her recent trip home.
As the realization dawns on her, Padmé's eyebrows raise in alarm, but before she can free her question to the air, Dormé reads her expression as easily as if she were the Aurebesh alphabet.
"When war breaks out in the galaxy for the first time in over a millennium, news travels fast," Dormé says. "Your name was on almost every report the Holonet had on Geonosis. Thankfully, Master Kenobi's comm came just in time to save Typho from having a coronary."
Sighing, Padmé leans forward, pressing her fingers to her temples. She can only imagine what she must now atone for with the Loyalist Party, many of whom were staunchly in opposition to the Military Creation Act. From their limited information on her abrupt disappearance right before the crucial vote to her sudden reappearance at the site of a full-scale military conflict, Padmé had to admit her colleagues likely had no other choice but to cringe in response to the bleak optics.
And what would her defense be? What could it be?
Deepest apologies, Senators, I had no reason to believe that emerging from hiding under executive order to assist a Padawan on a hastily crafted rescue mission to save his Master would thrust the galaxy into civil war. Why did I spearhead this operation instead of shutting it down as any sane being who can calculate that one Jedi lost might have been worth the greater good? Oh, that's easy, because I've fallen hopelessly in love with my Jedi bodyguard and couldn't fathom helping him through another monumental loss of a parental figure right on the heels of his mother's brutal removal from this galaxy.
It wouldn't be the most sagacious response to combat professional ire and dismay of her allies with delicate personal defenses of burgeoning forbidden attachment.
Padmé sighs again. When she looks up, Dormé has a multitude of questions dancing in her eyes.
"We don't have to address everything right this minute, milady," Dormé says. "The Alassa Major-Naboo Accords Renewal isn't imminent despite Senator Wallis' insistence." Padmé doesn't miss the way Dormé hesitates on her word selection to convey her disdain for the pompous politician. Or the way her voice softens to barely audible when she gets to the fourth item on her short list. "And the interview candidates are not expecting a response immediately either."
Padmé flinches at the thought of filling two gaping holes in her staff.
With exquisite timing, Threepio totters into the sitting room, carefully balancing a tray with two steaming mugs. The comforting aroma of bone broth perfumes the air, and Padmé's stomach answers loudly in response.
"At least not until we've eaten something," Padmé allows, accepting her lunch from the protocol droid's proffered tray. "Thank you, Threepio. I'm starving." The warmth emanating from the ceramic cup seeps into her chilled fingers with delectable promise. "But at least inquire if Senator Organa has any time in his schedule tomorrow to meet with me."
Dormé nods, but Padmé doesn't miss the quick downturn of her friend's mouth in a barely suppressed tell of her opinion on that decision. Still ever the consummate professional, she politely clarifies, "I'm assuming you'll be going to him."
"My schedule is likely more accommodating at the moment than his," Padmé replies firmly.
Carefully, she takes a small sip of the soup. The salty liquid tastes like comfort and home. Savoring the fortifying flavor, Padmé's mind conjures the image of her mother stirring a large pot of her favorite broth in the open kitchen of her family's Theed residence. Thinking of Jobal makes Padmé momentarily wish for that afternoon lunch several days prior, where for a few hours her relationship with Anakin had still been confined to the boundary of friendship, the events of Tatooine were still not yet scribed, and the galaxy hadn't been thrown into chaos by those seeking to destroy it. She wanted that innocence back even if it meant suffering through Sola's awkward questions and suggestive goading.
Disrupting the tense silence, their datapads chime the alert of an incoming communiqué. Moving in tandem, both women tap their screens to access the message. Scanning the text rapidly, Padmé reads Queen Jamillia's request for an update on her person, and then also the polite if not pointed petition for an audience via holocall at her soonest convenience to ensure the Royal Palace of their Senator's reportedly returned status and station.
Padmé feels the full weight of the galaxy again taking up residence on her shoulders. Had it always felt this oppressive and stifling in a Senator's shoes?
Dormé sends her a sympathetic look. "We don't have to address everything right this minute," she repeats.
"I'm all right, Dormé. Let's get back…"
"I saw the jumpsuit," Dormé says, suddenly. Padmé freezes. The overt fear on her handmaiden's face is crippling. She wants to respond but flails for some sort of explanation that doesn't paint the very real dance she had done to defy Death's clutches several times over. Dormé takes her hesitation as confusion. "They handed me your personal effects in a bag. While I was waiting for you to wake up, I took it out to see if I could salvage it." Dormé's eyes glisten and she shakes her head helplessly. "Padmé, it was practically just rags, and there was so much blood…"
Padmé tenses, her hand rubbing absently over her left knee. Though the shimmersilk slides smooth and clean beneath her fingers, she swears she can feel the warm tackiness of Anakin's blood on her skin again. Her recently consumed soup sloshes violently in her stomach.
"It wasn't mine," Padmé says abruptly. Despite her aches, she moves quickly around the table, placing her half-empty mug down, to envelop Dormé in a long overdue embrace. She squeezes her tightly, feeling Dormé do the same, hoping her voice doesn't give her away when she repeats, "It wasn't my blood."
Her words do little to soothe Dormé's worry, but thankfully her handmaiden decides not to press her for more details.
"Maybe you're right," Padmé says, not fully easing out of Dormé's arms as she sits back. "A break sounds like a good idea." Knowing that focusing on a task to help her with will further mollify Dormé's unease, Padmé raises her gaze hopefully. "I'd like to take a shower. Can you help me with these bandages?"
Though Dormé had insisted and worked efficiently to carefully peel the bacta coverings from her back and work the worst of the tangles from her knotted curls, Padmé hadn't wanted to linger for much longer in her bedroom than was absolutely necessary.
There was no visible evidence left. The window pane had been replaced before she had even stepped foot off the capital planet. The comforter she had pulled over herself to ward off the night chill and a certain Padawan's eyes was tucked neatly about her bed. The filtered air was dry and clear. No hint of burnt insectoid or blazing ozone.
Everything was back in neat and tidy order.
Dormé had seen to her domestic tasks with painstaking precision and her usual aplomb. Only a blanket carefully folded and stowed in the corner for its date with dry cleaning hinted at anything other than her normal Senatorial lifestyle.
Yet, it was hard to not dwell on the fact that the last time she had been here, Anakin had been too. Deflecting an assassin's desperate reach with two swipes of his saber. She didn't even have to think too hard to remember the fast passes of scorching heat from a blade so similar to the color of the wielder's eyes.
Normally Padmé excelled at compartmentalizing and separating from emotions that did not assist in decision-making. It was a skill she had honed from a very young age. The few constituents that would criticize her for this skill often deemed her aloof, icy, and inhuman. They couldn't have been farther from the real truth.
But that part of her person that experienced real fear and tremendous anxiety – and resplendent joy and all-encompassing love – was no longer willing to be shoved into a box and stowed away with the vague promise of someday being allowed to roam free.
She didn't want to think anymore of Kouhuns and dances with Death.
With aggressive purpose, she tears her eyes from the blanket awaiting its destiny with dry cleaning and pushes into her refresher. She collects a fresh towel from the small linen closet opposite the sink, spins the shower nozzle to full blast, and finds her usual position in front of the vanity to begin undressing. Her fingers fly over the buttons on her gown with muscle memory, faltering only when Padmé looks up.
The woman who faces her in the mirror is a face she does not recognize.
Her fingertips leave the dress half undone, rising and tracing the pale skin of her cheeks. Padmé studies her reflection with a critical eye more appropriate for the wings of Coruscant's art galleries. The face looks back with haunting exhaustion borne from more than just mental strain and physical fatigue. Her hair floats in unruly curls about her shoulders framing brown eyes that watch her wearily but also… daringly?
Leaning closer, Padmé examines her reflection without compunction.
She watches her hands gather the wayward curls at her temples, before twisting them into orderly coils about the crown of her head. Absently, she reaches for the container of hairpins, securing the strands in her grasp and going to work on the next set. It takes her less than half a minute to recreate the hairstyle. It takes her another minute to understand why.
You should wear your hair that way more often.
The rosy hue erupting across her cheeks isn't a product of the bathroom's rising humdity.
Emitting a cry of frustration, Padmé yanks the pins from their homes, letting them fall to the floor and landing where they may. The practiced ease that her fingers deftly utilized before is nowhere to be found as she clumsily forces uncooperative fastenings apart until she shoves the dress from her waist in apparent anger.
Padmé stomps to the shower stall, throwing herself under the water current without any regard from gentle acclimation. While her bruised spine and aching muscles revel in the rivers of hot water flowing over her, her healing flayed skin shares no such charitable opinion.
Hissing through clenched teeth, she ignores the cuts along her back and reaches for her shampoo. Squeezing out an excessive amount into her palm, the fresh scent of dayalillies fills the shower stall and her nose. She inhales deeply, closing her eyes and surrendering herself to the familiar floral notes of home.
Unbidden, her mind continues its treacherous recollections.
She was glad Anakin had suggested they walk Theed's Grand Plaza rather than take public transport to the palace. It was not often she got a chance to luxuriate in her homecoming and indulge in the beauty of her home world.
Naboo was glorious at any time of year, but especially so when spring bowed its way off the stage to make room for summer's solo. The breezes promised warmth and carried the bountiful perfumes of numerous blooms in the meadows surrounding the capital city.
Walking as if the sun and air had re-invigorated him after the long interstellar journey, Anakin practically vibrated with his poorly restrained excitement. Though she had spent less than a day around him, Padmé was beginning to think that some internal sun powered the young Jedi, so contagious was his exuberance and energy.
"Yep, what I told you before was undeniably true," he said, waiting to continue until he had her full attention. "If I grew up here, I don't think I would ever leave."
"We don't podrace here," she quipped back. "You sure life wouldn't be too boring for you?"
"I could get used to boring with all this beauty surrounding me." Padmé didn't miss the way his eyes sought hers, though she kept her gaze firmly forward on their intended path. With overt exaggeration, Anakin breathed in deeply. "Stars light, it even smells beautiful." The swell of his body to accommodate his dramatic inhale pulled him off course just enough that he had bumped her hip with his.
"Did you just smell me?" she asked as amused as she is taken aback. It wasn't maybe the most eloquent statement to ever leave her lips, but Padmé had decided it was far safer to run with the conversation about appealing aromas rather than consider too closely the sweltering flush blistering her skin from his innocent contact.
Anakin shrugged a little too casually. "Just taking in the fresh air. There's a certain flower, I think that gives off sweet clean scent? That, I always associate with Naboo."
Padmé nods knowing exactly what aroma Anakin was striving to describe. "They're called dayalillies," she said. "They're my favorites." Their essence was also used to scent her shampoo, but that was not a detail Anakin needed to know.
He fixed her with the same winning smile that had made her duck her head when he spoke of compassion and dreams on the freighter. Unlike then, this time she held his intense gaze.
"Want to smell me back?" he asked, angling himself a little closer.
Padmé made a face, but couldn't hide her own amusement at his bold question.
"No, I do not want to smell you back," she scoffed. Her light tone danced dangerously along flirtation's cliff edge. Without her blessing, her lungs expanded fully, as if to direct an exasperated sigh at him, but the scent of sandalwood and smoke and something intrinsically Anakin, made her head dizzy. She told herself it was solely from the sudden influx of fresh oxygen, and not because of his alluring masculine aroma.
Alluring? When had that ever been a word she used to describe the company she kept?
She had looked away from Anakin then, pretending not to see his knowing smirk. She remembered thinking the next time she brought him to Theed Grand Plaza, she would make sure it was in the dead of winter. Aerial elixirs didn't travel as well in the cold atmosphere.
Opening her eyes, Padmé fails to suppress an aggrieved noise an anguish.
At the time, subconsciously placed though it may have been, she hadn't even considered that she had already been planning for an encore stroll with him. In hindsight, it was painfully obvious to see how she had already been in far over her head when it came to Anakin Skywalker. By the Force, would absolutely everything remind her of him?
Shaking the wisps of memory clear and the water from her eyes, Padmé blinks at the inquisitive knock on the refresher's door.
"You sure you're okay in there?" Dormé's voice sounds strained with the effort to not sound strained.
Spinning the shower's dial to closed, Padmé waits for the last trickles of water and her heart rate to fall before answering.
"Yes, I'll be right out!"
Carefully, she wraps herself in a towel, tucking it under her arms and coming to stand before the mirror. Satisfied, she allows herself one indulgent inhale of scented shower steam before exiting the fresher and packing all thoughts of pleasant plaza strolls and enchanting smells away.
Everything was back in neat and tidy order.
When she exits the fresher, she pointedly ignores the corner with its patient laundry.
Feeling restored after her shower, Padmé places a holocall to the Royal Palace after she's sure her image will be much more presentable than the tired and haunted reflection that had stared back in the fresher mirror. One of Queen Jamillia's handmaidens answers, apologizing for her majesty's indisposal at the time of the Senator from Naboo's hail. Padmé waves off the older woman's fretting with the necessary civilities. She assures Freya – learning the handmaiden's name after a few minutes into the call – that she will follow-up as soon as she is able.
She and Dormé spend the next hour pouring over the Alassa Major-Naboo Accords. For what should have been a routine renewal of the trade agreement between two planets of the Enarc Run route, Padmé always read the text over with a fine-tooth comb. Senator Drayk Wallis was known for his last minute addendums, most of which were minor additions generally superfluous and mildly irritating to strike at the eleventh hour. But every once in a while, he would add conditions of an egregious manner, the last of which was a very forward and obtrusive overture for a very unwanted change to the status quo of their professional relationship. Padmé still bristles at the very notion of his impudence. This time her heart clenches with a different flavor of indignation.
Near the end of their appraisal, Minala, Senator Organa's assistant, sends a return reply indicating that her boss would be in his office for most of Taungsday afternoon. Dormé zips off an immediate response that Senator Amidala would comm before her intended arrival.
Her arm covering her eyes, Padmé slumps backwards onto the couch, recoiling when she momentarily forgets her newly replaced bandages. "If I keep at this any longer, I'm going to need caf."
Dormé frowns at her slightly.
"Did you hear anything Master Che told you?"
Padmé raises her forearm to peek at her peeved friend.
"You need to rest, not medicate yourself with stimulants to push through," Dormé scolds. "I'll finish this memo to Theed, and you'll wind down. I've already given you too much liberty as is."
Padmé opens her mouth, but the wisecrack about Dormé sounding like her mother fades when a sudden chime signals an arrival at the apartment. Sitting up again, Padmé swings her slippered feet to the floor and makes to rise.
"Oh, do allow me, Miss Padmé," Threepio interjects. Before she can deny the droid his offer, C-3PO hastens as quickly as he can to the upper level's foyer.
"He's also very useful as a doorman," Dormé murmurs conspiratorially.
Padmé hums in agreement, thinking fondly of the droid's ingratiating way. Ruminating over the almost seamlessness with which C-3PO has folded into daily Senatorial life, she stands to greet the visitor with a lightness in her heart.
The moment her late-night guest steps into the sitting room, the lightness is dowsed with worry and fear's crippling darkness.
"Master Kenobi!" She knows the shock is evident in her voice. She prays the trembling hope that shakes her to the core is not.
Obi-Wan folds his hands into the sleeves of his dark brown Jedi robe, his disposition austere to the fullest.
"May I speak to the Senator alone?"
Dormé inclines her head at Obi-Wan, but turns instead to Padmé. Her brown eyes search Padmé's earnestly waiting for her lady's tacit dismissal.
"Yes, that will be fine," Padmé says more to her handmaiden than to the Jedi Knight. She watches Dormé bow slightly once more to each of them before collecting Threepio and making herself scarce.
Turning her attention back to Obi-Wan, Padmé forces a polite smile to her face. She gestures to the couches. "Please sit."
Mirroring their reunion almost two weeks ago, both Senator and Jedi take their respective seats opposite each other. The third member of the previous meeting is glaringly absent. Neither of them seems to know where to begin for this late hour meeting.
"I'm glad to see you up and about. How is Anakin?" Padmé starts. Nothing like tackling the bantha in the room. She hopes Obi-Wan hears the concern in her voice as nothing more professional courtesy, and not the desperate need to know plea she fears it sounds like.
"Anakin will be fine, Senator."
Though her face doesn't flinch, she cringes internally. Senator. That isn't good.
Obi-Wan continues, his eyes on her but his stare not really meeting her own. He seems to be searching her person for some unseen clue as to how she will react to his further news. Anakin's missing presence looms even larger in the uncomfortable silence, yet she remains quiet, patient.
"He is being fitted with a prosthetic limb as we speak."
Padmé swallows hard once. Oh, Ani.
"Good, I have been concerned about him since our return to Coruscant." Then somewhat belatedly, "I am also happy to see you are on the mend as well, Master Kenobi."
She doesn't miss the slight raise in Obi-Wan's brow at her own formality returned at him. But she isn't a seasoned politician for nothing, so she is not likely going to give him any more ammunition to use against her until he reveals his reason for his unexpected intrusion.
"Yes, thank you, milady. I -," he pauses, seemingly ill at ease, but he straightens a bit before soldiering on. "We are most appreciative of your concern for the Jedi, but I can assure you that is no longer needed on our behalf."
"Oh," she says neutrally. "Are you and Anakin to be assigned elsewhere?"
"We are," Obi-Wan responds with equal reserve.
"Has the threat against my life been neutralized then?" She knows full well it hasn't. She knows he knows this as well.
"Not entirely, though since Master Windu dispatched the bounty hunter responsible for the assassination attempts against you, we feel the threat against you specifically has diminished."
He doesn't offer anything further and Padmé interprets this as the blatant sidestep that it is. Fine then. She'll play along for now.
"Then might I express how deeply indebted I am for your service and sacrifice while protecting me. When he is able, I would like the chance to thank Anakin, as well."
"I will tell him for you," Obi-Wan says.
On the surface, the Jedi Knight's words are polite, seemingly relieving an esteemed person such as befits her station of the unnecessary time spent on a pupil of the Order. Decorum would dictate that she gracioeusly accept his offer.
Instead, Padmé is infuriated.
"That is very kind, but the Naboo believe it is of the utmost importance to convey gratitude whenever possible in person and…"
"The Jedi Council does not believe any further contact between you and my Padawan other than the necessary civilities is…" Obi-Wan pauses, searching for the right word. "…advisable."
Though Padmé's heart lurches menacingly in her chest, clawing her ribs inside to take its turn at him, Padmé feels her Amidala mask slide into perfect place. Her voice almost carries the clipped inflection from her monarch days. "I'm not sure I understand your tone, Master Kenobi."
"Padmé, please don't take me for a fool," Obi-Wan says, a hint of warning in his tone. "You must know that he has strong feelings for you. And to allow him to continue to serve as your bodyguard does nothing to dispel those feelings."
"He is clearly very dedicated to his assignments and…"
"Dedicated to his assignment?! He is willfully disobedient, sometimes arrogant and even rash. His attachment to you distracts him and clouds his judgement. You have to look no further than Geonosis to see how dangerous this can be…"
"So you're blaming Anakin then?"
"No, but his actions likely increased an already tense situation when he got involved and it put you directly in danger."
"No, Obi-Wan, I suggested we go to Geonosis to save you. Anakin was very against this and wanted to obey Master Windu's orders to stay on Tatooine. But in order to protect me, he had to come along."
"Very creative of you, Senator," Obi-Wan said flatly. "Did he follow you to Tatooine as well, or was that his own decision?"
"Obi-Wan! His mother needed help! He couldn't just leave her!"
"He should have!"
Padmé gasps.
"You don't really believe that," she says, softly, mortified.
Obi-Wans deflates a little.
"I know it is hard for Anakin to overcome his history with his mother. I can overlook his side trip to Tatooine if it involves her. But this is why you must see that attachment is something Anakin cannot afford to indulge. Despite whatever may be between you."
Padmé stiffens at his final remark.
"There isn't anything more between Anakin and I than friendship," she says, guardedly.
Obi-Wan looks at her again, his eyes dancing with something that is decidedly not amusement.
"You and I both know that is not true. I am not blind. Your feelings were quite on display in the hangar and the transport back to the command center…"
"My feelings do not concern you."
"They do when they involve my Padawan!"
His raised voice stuns them both into a strained stare-down. The tension in her sitting room zips around like wayward arcs of electricity, albeit a current of a distinctly different variety than the rousing brand she had learned to crave like a drained power cell.
Forcing herself to breathe slower, to think more rationally, she tries again. "Obi-Wan, can't you understand, I am worried about him? After everything that happened on Tatooine and then when I bullied him into following me to Geonosis…"
"What happened on Tatooine, Padmé?"
"Anakin hasn't told you?"
Obi-Wan shakes his head.
Padmé sits back, and presses her lips together while digesting that information. She considers for a moment, but then ultimately decides that it is not her place to share such private information if Anakin hadn't already done so.
"Well, I am sure he will speak about Tatooine when he is ready," she says, a bit cooly.
For a moment, Obi-Wan doesn't say anything. She can see that her refusal to elaborate shocks him, and angers him. Sharp focus blazes to life in his blue gaze. She can almost hear the remonstration building with the swell of his shoulders. Instead, Obi-Wan exhales a long weary sigh. Collecting himself, his right hand pulls briefly once through his beard before his eyes lift to hers again.
"What do you remember about Anakin's acceptance to the Jedi Order, Padmé?"
Padmé blinks once at Obi-Wan's sudden drop of formal titles and the seemingly sudden detour in the conversation. Sitting a little straighter, her eyes find the far-off glow of the Jedi Temple out one of the living room's large panoramic windows before she turns back to him. It doesn't take much for Padmé to remember the sandy haired boy who had smiled proudly up at her during the parade at Theed after the liberation of Naboo.
"His acceptance?" she repeats. "I remember the Jedi Council testing him when we finally made it to Coruscant. I remember there seemed to be some deliberation but all I knew was he was ultimately accepted."
"The deliberation was over his advanced age," Obi-Wan says. "It was an extremely unorthodox decision to allow him admittance so late in his life."
Late in his life? He had been nine-years-old. She wouldn't exactly consider that an advanced age. But in truth, while she was aware of the standard infant recruitment usually employed by the Jedi, she also had never paid close enough attention to know of anomalies to their way if they did arise. It was almost impossible for her to have known that Anakin Skywalker flew in the face of millenia of Jedi protocol.
Nine. Years. Old.
"If it was so unorthodox, why allow Anakin to join at all?"
"His midi-chlorian reading was off the charts. The initial reading Qui-Gon ran on a field screening exceeded the limits of detection of the test."
Midi-what?
Her expression must give away her bewilderment, because Obi-Wan collects himself
"What do you know about midi-chlorians?"
Her shoulder rises swiftly in a short shrug, her head shaking back and forth in the negative.
"Midi-chlorians co-exist within all life forms, but higher ratios per cell seem to correlate to the Force potential of an individual."
"I'm not sure I understand."
She's not dense. She can hear the importance of what Obi-Wan is trying to convey; she just lacks the barometer to gauge the magnitude of this revelation.
"To put it in context," he continues, "in recent history, the highest count ever recorded belongs to Master Yoda. His sits at eighteen thousand."
"But Anakin's is higher…" she offers, trying to show her attempt to comprehend their discussion.
"Much higher." Obi-Wan leans forward, his elbows on his knees, willing her to understand. "Later when he returned to Coruscant with you, his test was re-run at the Temple lab for better qualification. His final test result was thirty-eight thousand per cell."
Obi-Wan pauses to let that sink in. She feels the words buffet her like pieces of driftwood that scrape along the lakeshores, rushing in and fading back out with the tide until finally they stick, burying themselves deep in the sand to interrupt the ever-flowing movement of the water.
"There's more."
Of course, there was.
"There is an ancient prophecy that predicts a Jedi would be born with unmatched potential. Destined to become the most powerful of all the Jedi, this individual is said to be the Chosen One capable of bringing the Force back into balance."
Her brain swimming, Padmé cannot help the way her voice trembles. With disbelief. "And you believe Anakin is this… Chosen One?"
"Qui-Gon believed it. The High Council believes it." Padmé is quick to note that Obi-Wan remains mute on his own belief, though he does sigh audibly, bowing his head in an uncharacteristic show of vulnerability. "He has a great destiny before him. It is my belief that it is imperative that he achieves it."
"I see." Though Padmé isn't really certain she does.
"No one really knows what Anakin is capable of."
Externally, Amidala gives away nothing. Internally, Padmé flinches violently.
Angry words spoken through the infinite agony of nascent grief ricochet through her memory, re-painting a gruesome confession that she has sworn to purge from her mind and heart. The goosebumps erupting across her skin laugh at her for such naïve promises. There is no desert air here but that doesn't mean she will forget the chill that night left in her bones.
I will be the most powerful Jedi ever! I promise you!
Padmé fiddles with her hands in her lap.
No one really knows what Anakin is capable of.
She might know.
Anakin! Her heart speeds up treacherously at the sound of his name, even as it breaks for him. Why didn't you tell me any of this?
Unaware of her inner lamentation, Obi-Wan continues to unload his gloomy information.
"I realize that I have no authority over you, Senator, but if you truly care for Anakin the way you claim, you must understand that any relationship between you other than civil cordiality not only jeopardizes his future, but could ultimately have far-reaching catastrophic consequences… for you both."
Padmé just stares back at Obi-Wan. The rigidness of her posture makes her bruised and battered spine scream, its agony only drowned out by the shimmering rage and defiance screeching from her heart. Her nails bite into the soft skin of her palms hard enough to draw blood. With immense difficulty, she forces herself to relax her clenched hands. Though the movement is almost infinitesimal, Padmé sees Obi-Wan's eyes dart down to catch the betraying tell.
She considers him and this game of emotional holochess they are playing. With painstaking clarity and resignation, Padmé realizes she may be out of moves. Well, except for one.
"You have to let me see him," she hears herself say, the brazen plea in her voice damning in its honest yearn.
Obi-Wan frowns, already shaking his head in denial. "I'm not sure that's…"
"I need to put an end to what has started," she admits swiftly before she loses her nerve. She swallows hard, letting Obi-Wan see the genuine pain this is costing her. "But he'll never believe it if it comes from someone else. It has to come from me."
The Jedi Knight's eyes widen with blatant shock, whether at her unexpected capitulation to his original request or her sudden acknowledgement of forbidden feelings, Padmé can't be certain. He recovers quickly though, blue eyes narrowing at her with suspicious scrutiny. She manages to hold steady under this ocular cross-examination, even when her heart falters precipitously, before turning inward and releasing all its vitriolic fire at her and this outrageous deal she is brokering.
Though she doesn't understand fully what she is witnessing on his bearded face, she sees enough to presume he is internally warring with something. Patience, Amidala cautions Padmé. Just wait.
Inexplicably, Obi-Wan softens. For a moment, she doesn't recognize the hollow man sitting before her as a formidable Jedi Knight. He looks, for all intents and purposes, lost.
"If you can get to the Temple tomorrow morning, I can get you in to see him," Obi-Wan finally relents. Despite his hard-won victory, he seems utterly defeated.
"Thank you, Obi-Wan," she says. The simple words feel more like a death sentence than the farcical verdict hurled at her and Anakin from a Geonosian court. How ironic that she signs their own relationship's death certificate with customary Nabooian gratitude.
Standing to leave, he touches her shoulder in what she assumes is meant to be a comforting gesture. She fights hard not to pull away. "Have a better evening, Senator."
Vaguely aware of C-3PO fussing over the Jedi Knight's departure, Padmé lets Obi-Wan see himself out.
Seconds or minutes or hours pass before she blinks herself back into immediate awareness. Glancing about, the apartment around her is a quiet as a tomb. She thinks she may remember dismissing Threepio, but the specifics if she had are obscure.
Numbly, Padmé comes to a stand, her brain engaging a self-protective sort of autopilot. She lets the override guide her across the living room carpet, through the hallway to the bedrooms, only hesitating for one moment at the short passage that leads to Dormé's room. The narrow corridor appears cavernous in the dark.
With considerable effort, her mind reins in her almost successful departure from its prescribed course, turning her back towards her bedroom. Her feet follow blindly. Her heart follows unwillingly, but its whine to be heard and felt echo in its drawer where instinct and self-preservation stand on steadfast guard.
Somehow, her hands find her nightgown and robe. She pours herself her usual glass of water from the bathroom sink and places it in preparation for the evening on her nightstand. Her body performs all the necessary tasks of her bedtime routine until she finds herself staring at the turned down covers on her bed.
At the sight, her heart revolts full scale and manages to wrestle her unseeing eyes to the far corner of her room.
The last time she had been here, Anakin had been too.
A dark room illuminated by a brilliant blue blade and brilliant blue eyes.
Her skin joins in the coup. The ghostly sensation of hundreds of legs skitters over her left upper arm.
Her nose supplies the smell of scorched keratin.
Emboldened by its sensory allies, her heart rips her body from her mind's ultimate control.
She rounds the bed, her feet moving in such a rapid sprint, her knees almost collide violently with the bench at its foot. Adjusting her balance to avoid the sudden wobble in her path, Padmé practically throws herself to the corner. Her knees, spared the assault of the bench, are not as fortunate to escape the abrasiveness of her bedroom carpet.
In a mindless frenzy, she reaches for the blanket, pulling it to her chest and burying her face in the folded fabric. She inhales deeply, desperately.
Sandalwood and smoke and something intrinsically Anakin still emanate from the plush fibers.
Her sob of relief sounds so pained to her own ears, Padmé is grateful the cameras in her room don't convey audio. She's sure the noise she made would have brought half her guard running in abject terror.
Knees still tucked under her, she slides sideways into a sit, her body shaking with the sudden emotive liberty her numb existence had fiercely tried to suppress. The stowed blanket in her lap, comforting in its weight, is too distant to enchant with its secret ghost. Motivated to recapture his aromatic presence, Padmé scrambles to her feet, unfolding the orderly square with gusto and flinging the blanket about her shoulders to replace the robe now pooled in a dark blue puddle at her feet. If she closes her eyes, she can almost strong arms about her.
Mind no longer hellbent on its routine, she starts to shuffle from the room, realizing other furniture may be harboring scently specters of their own. Even if they don't assist with furthering the illusion of his presence, she can't make herself sleep in that bed. At least not tonight.
Passing by her dresser, her feet halt seemingly of their own accord, deciding to demand their own contribution to this dangerous fantasy. Padmé turns her head, her eyes staring at the centermost basket and instantly locating the delicate tissue enveloping the hidden item. Before her mind can protest the foolhardiness of this charade, she snatches the wrapped object and retreats to the sanctuary of the living room.
The lights are still bright, unwelcomingly so, as she re-enters the space. Blinking against the glare, she passes the wall where the control panel lives, sliding the switch to a dimmer setting. The wall sconces brim conspiratorially with a soft glow.
Retracing her steps from moments before, she moves to a very specific couch, thrusts an arm from under its security blanket to retrieve a very specific pillow, and sits down with a very specific purpose. Securing the wrap around her shoulders so that it doesn't fall, she uses both hands to unwrap tissue. She stares at the trinket that falls into her left hand as if seeing it for the first time.
Even though it hasn't felt the heat of its origin planet in over a decade, the japor snippet feels pleasantly warm in her palm. The cord she had strung it on spills across her fingers like a black waterfall. Padmé's eyes trace the etchings on its surface again and again, as if recreating the movements his hands had journeyed to carve them.
It'll bring you good fortune.
Padmé smiles at the innocence in his young voice.
Good fortune would be a pleasant bonus. Right now, she just needs it to bring her comfort.
Setting the tissue on the table next to her discarded datapad, Padmé dons the necklace, refolds herself into the warmth of the blanket. Her hand wraps itself around the japor, seeking the innate warmth on the charm once again.
With Anakin's gift stowed by her heart and his blanket draped around her, she eases herself down on the couch and pillow he had used and surrenders herself to this memory for one last time.
She wishes the indulgence was enough to stave off the dread she faces in the morning.
In the end, it isn't. Despite his phantom embrace, Padmé still cries herself to sleep.
A/N: Zhellday and Taungsday are lifted from SW canon.
The specific numerical values for Yoda's and Anakin's midi-chlorian counts have been extrapolated and calculated based on interviews from George Lucas and some pretty compelling discussions from other fans in several Star Wars forums. To my knowledge, they are not specifically canon, but they fit well given the clues and context we have.