A/N: April 24, 2024 - The chapter has now been fully posted!
As a side note, there will also be chapter end notes not included today that will explain a few pieces of my head canon as well as Dormé's last name. For quick reference, Parnelli is an ancient noble CANON house of Naboo. More details and backstory to come! :)
Chapter 7
DORMÉ PARNELLI
Something had happened on Naboo.
It is the only possible explanation.
Not once in her three-year employ can Dormé remember Padmé cancelling, well… anything.
As stubborn as a falumpaset, her lady defied all manner of setbacks and obstacles much to the routine chagrin and reluctant admiration of her loyal retinue. When a rare rolling blackout darkened the Senate district, Padmé calmly requested candles, ink, and flimsi, continuing to draft speeches and bills by hand. After a theta storm grounded her task force on Bromlarch, Padmé stayed up late upon her return to watch every missed Senate session's recording. Even when the Corellian flu ravaged the Rotunda, she soldiered on, propping herself up with cold medication and caf, and rescheduling all of her meetings to holoconferences.
In Dormé's estimation, the people of the Chommell sector could not have found a more resilient and dedicated representative to serve them.
A representative that never, ever cancelled.
Once her initial shock fades, Dormé spares no time keying a regretful apology from the Senator of Naboo to the offices of Alderaan. The message is sent before their speeder departs Temple airspace. Turning back to her lady, Dormé awaits further instruction while praying for an iota of explanation. But none is forthcoming. Feigning far too much interest in the passing scenery, Padmé angles herself towards the window, her breath fogging up the glass.
Her effort to hide from her handmaiden is in vain; Dormé sees her tears falling anyway.
The radical shift in her friend is baffling. Just this morning, Padmé had practically been levitating to get to the Temple, her excitement radiating off her in contagious ripples even Dormé felt giddy in their wake. In fact, preserving Padmé's inexplicable effervescence had been the driving reason she had agreed to convince Typho this wayward excursion was a worthwhile endeavor. And now, after the very visit she'd wanted, Padmé pretends she's not quietly crumbling to pieces in the passenger seat.
Something had to have happened between them.
Like a vulture soaring on despondent air, the unsettling thought circles round and round in Dormé's head all the way back to the apartment complex.
By the time they reach 500 Republica, Padmé has all but disappeared, donning Amidala like armor. While a formidable façade, it's still an invisible one. Traitorous salt trails dried on Padmé's pale skin tell a jarringly different tale. If one only knew where to look.
Unfortunately, Typho hadn't been witness to the pathognomonic details. His perspective remains mired in the verbiage of Master Che's clinical summary at discharge and the few vague exchanges had offered him on the way home. "Tired" and "over did it" were hardly reassuring when coming from an expert of burning it at both ends. In Typho's mind, Padmé admitting fatigue was equivalent to her admitting she was on her death bed.
"Milady, I really must insist," he tries again, when they disembark the turbolift. "Let me call an Emdee…"
"For the last time, Captain," Padmé interjects, her voice adopting the deep register rarely used outside a throne room, "that won't be necessary."
Her clipped enunciation and crisp tone chill the apartment's foyer almost as effectively as her cold stare freezes any thought of further argument. From the way his lips compress into a thin line, Typho clearly had been intent on making a few more, though at Dormé's warning look, he wisely holds his tongue. It's hardly the worst rebuke he's ever endured – her fiery defense of Anakin in the Temple infirmary had stunned them all into shocked silence - but two wildly uncharacteristic remonstrations from his normally unflappable charge in less than the same number of days has his wheels turning. Typho's worried gaze hardens and shifts to Dormé, imploring the only remaining handmaiden to vouch for his valid concerns.
Dormé can't blame him even as she chooses to momentarily ignore him and the whispers of suspicion now screaming in her skull at the top of their lungs. Betraying nothing, she merely looks to her friend as if the awkward impasse had never occurred.
The composed move works exactly as Dormé intends. Fatigue and regret unmask the woman hiding beneath the manufactured mien. Sighing heavily, Padmé's stiffened spine slouches.
"I just need to lie down," she says, a shadowy smile not quite reaching her weary eyes. "If you'll excuse me."
Padmé rushes from the living room, a wobble to her stride that Dormé suspects has nothing to do with exhaustion. As much as to honor the private moment Padmé undoubtedly needs as well as to organize the continuing chaos of events ever since Padmé's return, Dormé makes no move to follow her lady's retreat. Something bigger is at play here, even if she doesn't know all the specifics… yet.
Clearing his throat, Typho interrupts her reverie. His eye darts pointedly sideways. "Shouldn't you go with her?"
"I will in a bit," Dormé answers, turning her own head towards the now empty corridor just in case he thinks she missed his less-than-subtle hint. "She just needs a minute to herself."
Typho frowns, clearly thinking her pause tantamount to abandonment of duty.
Her return smile deepens his disapproval, and she bites her lip to keep from laughing. Even if she has no idea what to do about Padmé, Dormé knows exactly how to handle a disgruntled guard captain. Reaching up to cup his cheek, she says, "Trust me?"
The tension in his face melts under her delicate touch, and he sighs almost as heavily as Padmé had.
"I don't like it, Dee," he says, shaking his head. "This isn't like her."
Dormé's smile widens.
Gregar Typho is a capable and intelligent man, one who knows full well when not to push the limits of his jurisdiction. Regarding Padmé, it was often easy to overstep the blurry boundaries defining the duties of guard and handmaiden. Considering security ranked highly in both job descriptions, overlap was inevitable. Yet, despite all that, they both understood that certain lines of the established hierarchy could never be crossed, even more so now that Gregar routinely crossed Dormé's threshold at night, a development that Padmé had happily condoned.
But Gregar Typho is also a kind and gentle soul. It's what drew Dormé to him in the first place. So, while she honors the intimate trust placed in her as handmaiden, she also knows how to toe those lines closely and respectfully.
"You're right. She is acting off," Dormé agrees, her hand falling away from his face to press over his good heart. She looks up at him from beneath her lowered lashes, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But it's my job to figure out why, remember?"
A frown creases Typho's mouth again, but then he lets go of whatever thought swirls in his head, nodding his understanding. Dormé pats the leather of his vest in solidarity. Their mutual worry isn't defined by distinct borders. As a matter of fact, the ability to worry was the unofficial number one prerequisite for anyone joining the Senator's staff. Typho had warned her as much her first day on the job.
"How good are your nerves?"
"I don't worry over too much."
"Good. She'll change that."
And change it, Padmé had. After her first month as handmaiden, Dormé's anxiety climbed to the stratosphere. She hadn't come down since.
"You should know she didn't sleep in her room last night."
A leaden ball drops in her stomach.
"I suspected as much," Dormé replies, thinking of the crumpled blanket she had seen at Padmé's feet. The one that Anakin had borrowed when the cold winds of Coruscant whipped through the wounded residence. The blanket that she hadn't found time to launder while juggling roles meant for three handmaidens during Padmé's time off-planet.
Sensing her rising apprehension, Typho shifts uneasily. He swallows what Dormé suspects is pride, his normally strong tenor wavering vulnerably when he speaks again. The mutual worry reflected at her isn't entirely selfless anymore.
"Do you think she asked the Jedi to come back?"
The question behind the question tugs at Dormé's heartstrings, and she rushes to soothe his ridiculous fears, stretching up onto her tiptoes to plant a quick peck on his cheek. They've all been thrown off by the gaping void left by Versé and Cordé's losses, but Padmé sleeping in the living room was in no way a show of her lack of faith in Typho's ability to protect her.
"No," she replies, shaking her head adamantly. "I think she is worried about…"
Careful, Dormé. You only have a hunch, and one that cannot be shared even if you're right. Some secrets must stay with the handmaidens.
While everyone had been distracted by the seriousness of Padmé's physical injuries, Dormé had zeroed in on the mystifying emotional turmoil festering beneath her lady's bacta bandages and medical readouts. She hadn't even really had to look too hard. Not even Master Kenobi could dim Padmé's vibrancy; if anything, his sudden appearance had only inflamed her into a more brilliant existence. Bare toes weren't the only part of Padmé on naked display.
"… the Padawan. His injuries seemed more severe."
"Master Kenobi said he was bringing her an update last night."
Reaching up to straighten his hat, she fixes him with a doleful half-smile. "I believe Padmé wanted to check in on him for herself. You know how stubborn she can be."
"Ahhh, yes." Typho nods again, easily accepting her explanation, yet studying her all the same. Dormé gives him a minute shake of her head. They're skirting the edge of an uncrossable line, and now it's time for her to step back.
"Speaking of check ins and stubbornness…"
Shoving him away playfully, Dormé rolls her eyes. His laugh draw out her smile again as does the "I'll be downstairs" he calls over his shoulder. Amused, she huffs at his departing back. As if there is any other place in the apartment he would be while on duty.
When Typho disappears back into the turbolift, a chill seeps back into the air, threatening to send a shiver down Dormé's spine. She used to relish these transient moments of isolation. Respites were few and far between when in service to a Galactic Senator, especially one as tireless as Padmé. Once, Versé had joked that Padmé might be more willing to take breaks if they told her a handmaiden named Respité required something of her. The fond memory warms Dormé a little, even as the loneliness of the living room presses in on all sides. Not for the first time in the past week, Dormé aches for her fallen sisters. Even if they had all stood around not knowing what in the hells of Theed to do next, she would have felt less alone.
But wishing for the impossible was not going to help Padmé right now, any more than it was going to help her. Pushing down her welling grief, Dormé squares her shoulders and steps dutifully forward.
She isn't sure what she may find at the end of the short corridor, but as she rounds its curve, the plain face of durasteel isn't it. The closed bedroom door halts her train of jumbled thoughts as abruptly as it halts her person.
Padmé never shut her bedroom door. Well, this must be a day for firsts, she thinks, studying its shiny surface with narrowed pensiveness as her nerves flare into the atmosphere. First, an unprecedented cancellation, and now self-imposed seclusion?
As if to criticize Dormé's conclusion, the access panel blinks its soft green light once. She didn't lock herself in, the green says. You just have knock, the blink says. Refusing to be bested by an illuminated signal, Dormé raps her knuckles on the durasteel, calling, "Padmé?"
How is it possible for silence to sound ominous?
A minute passes. Or maybe only a few seconds. In the infinitesimal pause, she almost misses the muffled "Come in" through the pounding of her heart. An obedient sentry, the door springs to the side at her palm's insistent command. Dormé tries hard not to gasp at the sight within.
Curled onto her side, Padmé lies on top of the covers, perched dangerously close to the edge of the bed. She stares out the window, entranced by something beyond the blinds still closed in night mode. Almost mechanically, her fingers brush her slightly parted lips, the back-and-forth pattern the only movement in the room.
If Padmé's behavior in the speeder was baffling, this morose haunted version is downright frightening.
"Milady?" Dormé asks, cautiously stepping into Padmé's field of view. Her brown eyes remain resolutely fixated on the far wall. "Can I get you anything?"
Another pass of fingertips tracing over lips, the silence stretching so long that Dormé wonders if Padmé had even heard her.
"No," Padmé finally gasps, as if the words are a struggle to speak. From the way her side shudders, they probably are. Then, softly, "Thank you."
Heart twisting in her chest, Dormé finds herself wishing for Versé and Cordé again. But she is all Padmé has. Nodding even though Padmé can't see her, Dormé glances around the room for a task, an inspiration, anything to do for aching friend. She's not used to feeling useless, unnecessary, perhaps even unwanted.
Her desperate eyes stop on a puddle of brown fabric. The blanket Padmé had dropped earlier beckons to her, and she latches on to its abandoned pool, as if it might be the key she needs to unlock Padmé's enigmatic demeanor. Moving with purpose, Dormé bends to retrieve the cover, then gathers a sundry of other items. When she grabs a bottle of blockers from the fresher, something scoffs in the corner of her mind that Padmé's not the kind of broken pharmaceuticals can mend. But it's all Dormé can think to do.
Padmé barely notices as she places the glass of water and meds on her nightstand, and her eyes only vacantly flick sideways to track Dormé placing the chapstick nearby.
"You keep touching your mouth like that, and I won't have any lips left to apply lipstick to."
That earns her an almost sullen look until Dormé pulls the blanket out from under her arm. Padmé watches her shake out the wrinkles and fold the brown blanket in half, a flicker of light livening her dark eyes though it sputters and dies the moment she notices Dormé watching her.
"Would you like this?" Dormé thrusts the blanket towards her, trying to coax that spark back into existence.
Transiently transparent, a thousand emotions flood Padmé's eyes, coalescing and fading from view so fast that Dormé fails to identify any single one. There's no voice to Padmé's reply, just a painful swallow and the barest shake of her head. Misery's shroud drapes back into place. Disappointed, Dormé drops her outstretched offering.
"Then I'll just…"
"Don't!"
Padmé sits bolt upright, reaching for the blanket with something like desperation and panic.
"…set this here in case you change your mind," Dormé finishes, slowly placing the newly folded plush at Padmé's feet.
Unmoving at first, Padmé stares at the blanket, her fingertips twitching along the shimmersilk of the cool coverlet. Then, from where they flirt with the fabric's edge, she slides her slippered feet away, her eyes rising slowly as does the bloom spreading across her cheeks.
The look is back. The one she wore when she lashed out at Typho. The one that Dormé saw above a gray gown and bare toes. The one the Amidala mask couldn't veil from view. The one Dormé has been struggling to put a name to because she had never seen it before on her friend's face.
Except now Dormé recognizes the elusive label, the jumble of puzzle pieces that refused to form a cohesive picture suddenly organizing themselves with startling clarity.
Heartbroken.
After too long of a beat, Padmé looks away, pulling her knees further to her chest and rolling back onto her side. A fist curls towards her mouth, and Dormé watches Padmé press the backs of her fingers to her lips, a strident, shaky exhalation quivering out of her small frame, her eyes blinking rapidly against the water welling in them.
"Padmé?" Dormé asks in alarm. Then, an even more startling thought occurs to her. "Is Anakin alright?"
Padmé winces, her jaw clenching and unclenching, her eyes squeezing shut at some invisible memory Dormé desperately wishes she could see. Her breathing hitches a few times, before she grits out a response. "He'll be fine."
It sounds like it cost her everything to say it.
Padmé keeps her eyes closed, and Dormé recognizes the silent plea for her to leave, even as every fiber of her being balks at the idea of leaving her friend alone. Their dynamic had always been a game of affectionate teasing and sisterly sarcasm, but right now, what Padmé needs is Cordé's infinite patience. There's nothing further Dormé can do.
Reluctantly, she turns to leave, but then stops at the entry way, needing to say her peace just so she can be sure Padmé knows, even if she's not ready to reveal her secret.
"You know you can tell me anything. We are brave, Your Highness."
From across the room, Padmé's shallow breathing pauses, and she swallows hard, the hint of a nod her only answer.
Dormé closes the door on her way out.
It's not until later, when night settles over the apartment and Gregar's soft snoring stirs her awake, that niggling worry bests her attempts at patience. Her feet sneak her across the darkened carpet, navigating her from memory as much as womanly intuition, until she's creeping through the living room to peek over the nearest couch back.
Dormé hadn't doubted his report earlier. There were just some things she had to see for herself.
Clutching the blanket tightly about her, Padmé sleeps fitfully, fresh tears falling across her cheeks, glistening in the glow of Coruscant's night lights.
The next morning, Dormé finds the living room empty. When she moves on to check the master bedroom, the door greets her with an open smile. Her eyes sweep the interior of the room, noting the still appreciable divot Padmé's curled form left on top of the shimmersilk duvet - but no Padmé.
Tearing back across the upper floor and boarding the turbolift, Dormé tries to calm her racing heart. Padmé is probably just downstairs. There's no way she could have gone very far. Before the start of his shift, Gregar had risen early to check in on the control room and would have likely intercepted a roaming Senator hellbent on another morning excursion.
With the mental image of another showdown running through her mind, Dormé's ears perk up when the turbolift doors slide open, anticipating raised voices.
Aside from the normal movements of staff going about their day, the lower floor is quiet and serene.
Kove, the youngest guard on Padmé's security detail, gives Dormé a confused wave when she pops her head into the main control room and growls out loud at the lack of captain guard and lady of state. Propelling her forward, her frustration and panic rise again, and she almost bypasses the kitchen in her feverish search, when out of the corner of her eye, she spies a familiar blue velvet robe and skids to a halt.
"There you are!" Dormé exclaims.
Seated at the kitchen table, Padmé looks up from the large bowl in front of her, spoon suspended in air and steaming with a tan mush that Dormé doesn't recognize.
"Where else would I be?"
Dormé gapes, incredulous.
Crying on the couch? Staring out covered windows? Sobbing on the fresher floor? Gungan's hell if I know anymore!
Maybe it's the bizarre whirlwind of emotion and events of the past two days, or the blasé way Padmé shovels in the piping hot gruel like she hasn't been refusing to eat, or speak, or breathe, but Dormé doesn't appreciate the business-as-usual act and almost loosens her tongue to speak her mind when C-3PO totters forward.
"Would you like some overnight oats, Miss Dormé? I instructed the kitchen droids to make them as Miss Padmé's requested: the exact way Master Ani likes them."
All at once, the building tension in Dormé's body deflates like air rushing out of a popped balloon. Ah, the exact way Master Ani likes them. There's the reason for the sudden return in appetite.
Blissfully unaware of his fumble, C-3PO doesn't notice the chagrinned way Padmé drops her gaze and the spoon that had been about to deliver her more breakfast. "Miss Dormé?" their newest member of their staff inquires again.
Sliding into the seat across from Padmé and watching her fastidiously stirring her grains, Dormé replies, "I'd love some. Thank you, C-3PO."
The droid somehow manages to make his static faceplate look pleased. "Miss Padmé adds berries for extra flavor, but Master Ani prefers sugar. How would you like yours?"
Dormé studies Padmé as she pretends to ponder her answer. "Actually, the two of them together sound wonderful."
Padmé sets down her spoon, a somberness passing over downcast features before she glances back up, scrutinizing her handmaiden as much as Dormé scrutinizes her. Only C-3PO doesn't glean that Dormé might not be talking about oatmeal toppings anymore. He merrily sets down a steaming bowl in front of her, yapping on about how much he hopes the traditional Tatooine breakfast is to Dormé's liking.
In a blatant effort to bury the uncomfortable silence, Padmé tucks back into her breakfast as well.
"I was thinking of keeping my hair down for today's debrief with the Chancellor," Padmé says. "My head still aches a little and I think my back would appreciate less weight." She looks up at Dormé hopefully, shyly. "Do you think you can find something suitable?"
As relieved as Dormé is to see Padmé eating the most significant meal she's consumed in forty-eight hours, she would be lying if she didn't admit the about face is also a bit disquieting. Though Padmé seems set on selling this "normalcy", Dormé wonders how much of the real Padmé had been cleaved away to leave behind yesterday's forlorn and depressed waif. The irony is not lost on her. The purpose and direction Dormé yearned for now seems like a charade to hide deeper and darker truths.
Matching Padmé spoonful for spoonful, Dormé nods obediently.
"Yes, milady. I believe I know just the one."
If Padmé wanted to continue guarding her secrets, Dormé will hold the front line.
For now.
The dress that springs to mind is simple in cut but intricate in design. Embroidered in the same deep maroon of its parent fabric, the Naboo crest shimmers in patterned silhouette, adding subtle detail to an otherwise modest gown. The silver headband Dormé selects to, not only respects the tenderness of Padmé's sore scalp while containing her bountiful tresses, it also highlights the diaphanous brocade and elevates the outfit to appropriate elegance.
As Padmé walks through the harshly illuminated hallways of the Senate Rotunda, the ensemble radiates perfection. Eye-catching, but not gaudy. Comfortable, but not casual. Prideful, but not boastful.
If anyone happened to look beyond the handmaiden in her beautiful creation's shadow, they would see nothing amiss. Schooled behind a neutral façade, Dormé saves her proud smile for a more private moment.
From an early age, Dormé knew she would not be following in her family's footsteps. Hailing from one of the ancient noble houses, her relatives were some of the most revered and decorated artists Naboo - and the galaxy - had ever seen. Musicians, painters, sculptors, actors and authors - Parnelli talent knew no boundaries.
It wasn't that Dormé hadn't been blessed with artistic talents - she had quite the eye for color and design - but rather a different kind of beauty had called to her.
During the Occupation of Naboo, Dormé had watched as five ladies, enrobed in flames, courageously stood beside and strengthened a young Queen who had dared to save them all. The handmaidens became as legendary as their leader. In the following years, infant girls were given names ending with é to honor the six brave souls who championed their birthright to be born free. As she wondered at their legacy, Dormé had dreamed of her own moniker she hoped to someday adopt and wear.
So when Dormé forwent the traditional artisans' path and applied to the Academy of Theed to pursue a career in Security Forces, her parents had been supportive even if a bit surprised. After all, creative pursuits and public service both demand a certain sacrifice of self and commandeered respect.
It had only taken Dormé the introductory class to set herself apart from her fellow recruits. The first challenge was simple. Lighting up the darkened room with two giant holos of the Grand Parade during Naboo's liberation, the professor had instructed the class to find the eleven differences between the two seemingly similar images. After the allotted two minutes had lapsed, Dormé had been one the only one to raise her hand.
"Yes, Miss?" Captain Ahns had nodded towards her, mistaking her need for clarification as overeagerness.
"The task was to find eleven differences," Dormé had said.
"It was."
"Forgive me, if I am mistaken," she had continued, "but I believe I have found twelve."
Fifty pairs of eyes had turned to regard Dormé, the expressions ranging from shock to amusement to disbelief.
The indulgent smile on Captain Ahns's face sharpened to clandestine knowing.
"What was your name, Miss?"
"Parnelli, sir," she had replied. "Dorothea Parnelli."
"Miss Parnelli, please see me after class."
Later, Captain Ahns explained that her astute observation skills had opened the door for an elite training program. If she were to enroll, there would be no going back. Dormé signed on without hesitation.
Five years of grueling training eventually led to a job offer, one that serendipitously blended her family's traditional career with her own modern dreams. The final hurdle to her acceptance as wardrobe mistress and handmaiden to Senator Amidala was not a formidable one.
"And lastly, you will not be allowed to use your given name. Here is a list we have…"
"Actually, I've already chosen one."
And thus, Dormé had been born.
Never had it crossed her mind that she would be the last one standing.
Adjusting the hood of her robe, Dormé shakes herself and tries to ignore the ghosts of her sisters she still feels on her flanks. She doesn't have time for macabre thoughts today. Not when she needs to be Padmé's invisible eyes and ears - a task she is more than qualified for and capable of, even if she feels like she's stumbling in her haste pick up what had been Cordé's mantle.
Her first unspoken assignment of the day waits for her just outside the designated conference room. Considering yesterday's last-minute cancellation on him, Dormé isn't the least bit surprised when Senator Organa pulls Padmé to the side.
"How are you?" Bail asks, his tone soft and sincere.
How lucky the galaxy is, Dormé thinks, to have two kindred souls in the Senators from Alderaan and Naboo fighting for the greater good.
"Better," Padmé replies. Dormé keeps her face neutral though an internal eyebrow quirks upward. Better is relative, she supposes. "Thank you for understanding about yesterday …"
But Bail is already shaking off Padmé's gratitude.
"Matters of health are not to be trifled with," he says firmly.
Of course, he would understand. His own wife battles through considerable health risks every ruling day. Compassion softens Padmé's professional rigidity, and Dormé knows she's thinking of Breha too. But the moment between friends is fleeting as Bail sobers to the task at hand.
"Though I did want to warn you before you walked into a gundark nest."
The Amidala mask slides into place, soft features returning to stone. "Oh?" she inquires. "And what warning is that?"
"Despite its passage, there are still quite a few Loyalists upset with your proposal. I tried to assure them that you had your reasons, but I must admit it was more difficult to defend once the leader of the Opposition turned up on the battlefield."
"My proposal?" Padmé asks, confusion furrowing her brow.
"The Emergency Powers Act," Bail says, then upon seeing her mystification, "The one you had Representative Binks propose?"
A jolt of alarm vibrates through Dormé as she recognizes the shift in Padmé's wide doe eyes just before Bail does. His olive skin pales considerably.
"By the stars' light, you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"
Padmé purses her lips, too tactful to openly throw Jar Jar under the speeder, but her proxy's unsanctioned actions have seemingly left her a tempestuous inheritance, and her frustration bubbles readily to the surface.
"It was advised that I not contact anyone unless it was dire, so as not to betray my location."
Padmé speaks as if she's reciting the instruction from memory, the lilt of her words adopting the postured consonants and vowels Kenobi had used when he bestowed his unwelcome advice. She had not taken the recommendation of her Jedi counselor well, only ceding the point when Anakin threatened to create another awkward disagreement with his Master's orders on her behalf.
Ever the diplomat.
Pulling a hand through his goatee, Bail clears the flabbergasted expression from his face.
"Well, be prepared for some uncomfortable questions," he sighs, sighing heavily. Dormé notes the dark shadows beneath his eyes. "I'll do my best to help."
"Thank you, Bail." Remorse graces Padmé's voice but before anyone can dwell on the short conversation, Mas Amedda calls the stragglers loitering outside the debriefing room to order.
As both Senators turn to obey the Vice Chair, Dormé springs into action. Her fingers fly over her dapata pad, throwing datafiles to Padmé's device as quickly as her mind can think. If she's quick to her seat, Dormé can type a bullet point list outlining the events around the EPA and send them to Padmé before the questions come fast and furious. Already pulling the key details from recent articles, Dormé fails to see the woman she is trying to save come to an abrupt standstill and collides directly into Padmé's injured back.
"Milady, I'm so sorry," Dormé starts, clutching at Padmé's elbow to steady her from the accidental jostle.
But no stagger or yelp is forthcoming. Padmé's spine is strong and rigid. Her small frame immoveable and unyielding like the grand wroshyrs that refuse to bend Kashyyykian winds. Tensely so. Unnaturally so.
Peeking over her shoulder, Dormé spots the reason for Padmé's sudden halt.
Only two seats are still available at the middle of the long conference table and Bail is sliding directly into the one across from Master Kenobi, leaving the only other vacancy to Padmé.
She can't see Padmé's face, and for an infinitesimal moment Dormé wishes she could. Then she glances across the table and realizes she doesn't need to.
Because Anakin Skywalker cannot hide a damn thing on his.
Beneath lowered lashes, Dormé watches the riot of emotions ricocheting over the Padawan's face as she and Padmé find their chairs. His eyes brighten with an impulsive light the moment they find the Senator from Naboo, but when Padmé stiffly turns her attention to the Chancellor something intense darkens the handsome features.
Palpatine clears his throat, but neither Anakin nor Dormé look away.
"I regret to inform any of you who may still be unaware that we are officially at war. By recent powers vested in me, I signed the declaration only an hour ago."
Almost everyone present turns to regard the Senator sitting at the middle of the table. To her credit, Padmé does not fidget in her seat despite the few rumbles that erupt. If Palpatine observes the ocular witch hunt taking place, he ignores it. Steepling spindly fingers, he scans the glowing datapad in front of him before glancing around to call final order over his dominion. His surrounding subjects fall quickly into line.
"The purpose of this meeting is to understand how we got here and what might be done to rectify this unfortunate circumstance. Master Kenobi, I believe your report is the best place to start."
Padmé is the last to turn her attention back to the Jedi across the table. As she does so, Dormé is blessed with the perfect view of the intricate braids she swiftly threaded through the headband that hadn't been too tight against Padmé's scalp. For once though, Dormé's eyes aren't searching for stray tendrils or loosening pins.
Obi-Wan Kenobi weaves a tale of a forgotten world, a century-old secret contract, and an army born out of test tubes and thin air. Along the way, Dormé learns the assassin who ruthlessly murdered her sisters wore Mandalorian armor, operated under Nute Gunray's vendetta, and provided a genetic template for the soldiers now tasked to preserve the democracy he was trying to kill.
"Thank you, Master Kenobi," the Chancellor says, "for the illuminating context." Swiping at his screen, he pauses to let the deluge of information sink in. "Senator Organa, as head of the Intelligence Committee, what developments do you have for us?"
Bail's recounts statistics and movements from the few teams still left on Geonosis. Halfway through his briefing, a hologram of Master Yoda appears on Palpatine's right. Even in ethereal blue form, the Jedi Master's presence weighs like a security blanket on them all, easing the spiraling tension in the room.
That is, until Ask Aak's guttural growling interrupts Bail. The translation streams across Dormé's datapad.
"If Senator Amidala was sent to negotiate Kenobi's release, how did a prisoner transfer escalate to full scale war?"
"Dooku had no interest in diplomacy when it came to Master Kenobi," Padmé answers. Despite her smooth deliverance, Dormé picks up on the biting undertone of her words. "My choice, if you can call it that, was to sign Naboo over to the Confederacy or condemn two Jedi and myself to death."
"Bloodshed."
Thirty sets of eyes shift to the other side of the table. Anakin takes no notice, keeping his stare hotly fastened on Padmé. After a moment, her silver headpiece glints in the light as she finally turns toward him. Anakin's blue eyes darken with the melding of her returned gaze. "All Dooku wanted was bloodshed.
"Unfortunately, he got his wish," the Chancellor says. It's a statement meant to douse the potential outrage Anakin's blunt claim almost awakens. But no one seems to know what to make of the electrifying exchange happening mid-conference.
At his Padawan's impetuousness, Obi-Wan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, although he remains quiet.
"Padawan Skywalker is it?"
Anakin doesn't blink.
"It is."
"I don't understand, however remarkably fortunate your timing, how you and Senator Amidala got your Master's side so quickly," Senator Coorr interjects. "A flight from Naboo to Geonosis takes roughly…" He scrolls through his datapad as if he doesn't already know the travel time. "Ten hours?" The diminutive Senator from Iseno looks up at Anakin expectantly. "I believe your Master reported that you arrived on Geonosis only a few hours after receiving your Master's message."
Anakin, Obi-Wan and Padmé all stiffen. From her position behind Padmé, Dormé sees the quick shift of Anakin's eyes away from Padmé's to Senator Coorr. In the sparse seconds, he morphs into a nervous child, rolling his hands beneath the table to pull his robe tighter about him.
"We made good time because…" he starts.
"Padawan Skywalker, if I may?"
Padmé's voice rings out, less question and more implied request.
Wide-eyed, Anakin nods mutely. He looks shocked to be addressed directly. He keeps his eyes trained on Padmé, even when she turns abruptly back to Ronet.
"Senator Coorr, your calculations are correct using standardized star charts," Padmé agrees. Dormé would almost feel badly for Senator Coorr and his hasty victory smile if she weren't on edge, sensing a trap from her normally reserved mistress. "However," Padmé continues, "Naboo is on the southern rotation around our star and makes us closer than usual to Geonosis."
Bail aims an amused smile at his datapad. Obi-Wan regards Padmé with renewed interest, and something like appreciation tinged with relief wipes the starstruck look off Anakin's face. Even Chancellor Palpatine appears suppresses a smile at the uncharacteristic barb thrown by such a champion of diplomacy. Dormé wonders if anyone else notices the cover story.
"That may be so, but you still made remarkable time."
The smile on Padmé's face is dangerous, though she leans back in her chair when she addresses him again, her body language almost dismissive despite the challenge she throws onto the table.
"Perhaps you need a better pilot, Senator."
Poorly concealed laughter erupts around the conference table, and Dormé watches fascinated as maroon rises in two faces that are not as entertained. Anakin wears his maroon flush much better than Senator Coorr.
"Perhaps this would be a good place for a short recess," Chancellor Palpatine intercedes before chaos runs away with the assembly.
As the congregation rises to their feet, Padmé practically bolts from the conference room, barely collecting her handmaiden on her way out. In her haste to keep up, Dormé notes Bail engaging Obi-Wan in a conversation, considers if she should hang behind to listen in, and in her moment of indecision collides with a solid frame trying to squeeze out the narrow entry just as quickly.
"I'm so sorry," she begins, but the apology lands uselessly.
Anakin doesn't even acknowledge her.
In three long strides, he covers enough carpeted hallway to put him within an arm's length of Padmé. Given the simmering tension observed mere moments ago, it shouldn't surprise Dormé when Anakin boldly reaches for Padmé's left hand to stop her. What does shock her is the vicious way Padmé yanks her hand out of his barely there grasp and wheels on him.
"Not here," Padmé hisses. She holds his stormy stare with an equally angry warning in her own, only dropping the cloudy front when Dormé approaches. Forcing a polite smile to her lips, Padmé gathers herself, nodding curtly once in Anakin's direction before turning on her heel and retreating down the hallway as if nothing untoward had just happened.
As if Anakin would accept the terse dismissal that unsurprisingly he outright ignores.
As if Dormé's intrigue hasn't skyrocketed to dizzying heights.
The Padawan was bold to be sure, but this was a new level of brashness that was startling in its impunity.
Schooling astonishment from her face, Dormé scurries after the feuding couple. The rational side to her warns her not to brandish that qualifier too lightly, but after the demonstration in the hallway, however fleeting it may have been, Dormé doesn't know a word more fitting to describe what she just witnessed.
What on Naboo...?!
Her mind reeling, Dormé scampers forward in pursuit in case there are more acts to this inexplicable drama. She rounds the corner leading to Naboo's offices, and for almost the third time today, runs straight into another ramrod back. Her feet screech to a halt, long gown swirling with the sudden change in Anakin's momentum when she hears Padmé exclaim, "Senator Wallis!"
Oh, kriff!
"Padmé, my dear, you wound me." Bowing obsequiously in their direction, Alassa Major's insufferable Senator brandishes a bouquet of vividly red flowers from behind his back. "I've only brought my favorite colleague her favorite flowers to celebrate."
"Thank you," Padmé replies, accepting the outstretched offering, her return smile thoroughly strained.
Inwardly, Dormé sighs.
When he first was elected to the Senatorship, Senator Drayk Wallis had painted himself a slovenly fool, implying heavily and often that there were perhaps better ways to secure the longevity of the trading relationship between Alassa Major and Naboo. Unflattered and unamused, Padmé had politely rebuffed his gambit, but had not found the courage to stop what unfortunately had become somewhat of a tradition. With every renewal of the Alassa Major-Naboo Accords, Senator Drayk Wallis had presented Padmé with flowers from his homeworld, a gesture Padmé accepted with a smile only to ensure her planet's lucrative trade agreement remained intact. Somewhere along the way, Padmé had inadvertently implied that the blood-red tropical vriesea were her favorite flower.
Anakin's scoffs audibly and steps forward. "Those aren't her favorite," he snaps.
At his obvious offense, Dormé can't help but raise an eyebrow. Only those closest to Padmé would know otherwise.
Interesting.
Falling back into her role as silent sentry, Dormé rolls her lips together, thankful for the shroud of her hood. Padmé's jaw clenches, clearly noting her handmaiden's astute perception. Fortunately, Wallis lacks the social awareness to recognize the venom Anakin just spat at him. Unfortunately, his pompous obliquity also prevents him from not further upsetting the enraged young Jedi.
"And who exactly are you?" he sneers.
Straightening threateningly to his full height, Anakin steps forward, or rather closer to Padmé, suddenly looming over the shorter male.
"Senator, this is my Jedi bodyguard, Anakin Skywalker." Padmé's word grit like sand between her teeth. "Anakin, this is Senator Drayk Wallis of Alassa Major."
When Drayk shoves forth his right hand, Anakin makes no move to shake it. Instead, he rolls his right shoulder and fold his arms across his chest. There's something empty about the way his left hand settles across his right elbow, but his thunderous mood leaves Dormé no room to investigate the observation further.
Before the awkward refusal bleeds onto the plush carpet, Padmé turns to Dormé.
"Please escort Senator Wallis into my office. I'll be right in."
Dormé nods, even if she wants to refuse. She'd much rather be a fly on the wall for whatever is about to go down between her lady and the Jedi apprentice. No doubt the smile of satisfaction creeping along Anakin's lips will remain smug for very long.
For someone who apparently knows about her flower preference, it's a bit comical he can't correctly identify her rising ire.
But Dormé is the consummate professional, and gestures for the nepo baby diplomat to follow her.
"Right this way, Senator."
Despite her best effort to eavesdrop through durasteel, Dormé gleans nothing from the sanctuary of Padmé's internal office. Whatever the exchange, it clearly hadn't been pleasant. For the sake of appearances, Padmé does her best presenting herself as warm and welcoming when she enters her office, but there's a distance in her eyes, a vacancy under the reign of distraction.
After Wallis' departure, she picks at her lunch, ignoring Dormé's silent pleading looks to sidebar, and marches back to the conference room like she's going to war. From the openness of Anakin's scowl, maybe she is.
Bail's prophetic warnings at the beginning of the meeting ring true. Try as he does to help, Padmé has her hands full with angry accusations and interrogations, the informative discourse breaking under the bureaucratic agendas of affronted Senators. Interestingly, Chancellor Palpatine seems all too willing and ready to assist their defense, redirecting squabbles and cutting off insults oftentimes before Padmé and Bail can even respond.
When the conversation stalls for the hundredth time, Palpatine dismisses the meeting altogether. Begrudgingly, the assembly files out of the conference room, Dormé rising more slowly to shadow Padmé once more, when the Supreme Chancellor restricts their retreat.
"Senator Amidala. Master Kenobi. A word please," Palpatine says. Spoken with the intonation of a request, Palpatine had a way of instilling his words with undeniable command. Surreptitiously, Dormé appears at Padmé's left, a perfect mirror image to Anakin's hovering at Obi-Wan's right. The entourage resembles something akin to an unwelcome family reunion.
"I couldn't help but notice your differing arrivals," he continues. "I must admit I am not familiar with such a security tactic."
"Chancellor, the bounty hunter responsible for the assassination attempts on Senator Amidala was eliminated on Geonosis," Obi-Wan begins.
"Yes, Master Kenobi, I heard your earlier report," Palpatine interjects. His smile is friendly, even if his tone suggests the Jedi is treading on thin ice. "While I appreciate Fett's elimination, I must point out that you, yourself, stated Nute Gunray is behind the assassination request on our dear Senator. Not to mention Senator Organa's report that the Separatist Council, on which Gunray has a seat, has named Senator Amidala and you two to their own hit list. Lastly, I was unaware I had lifted my own executive order."
The ice that Obi-Wan treads slams down like a blizzard freezing everyone in its frigid path.
"With all due respect, Chancellor," Kenobi replies, "The Senator was under executive order to leave Coruscant, not stay under the protection of the Jedi. After our injuries sustained on Geonosis, the Council relieved my Padawan and I of our assignment."
Padmé holds her tongue but glowers openly at Obi-Wan.
"I wasn't aware of your concerns regarding their abilities to provide security for you," Palpatine redirects back to Padmé.
She doesn't remove her unblinking stare from Obi-Wan.
"That's because there are none," Padmé responds coolly.
Ignoring his Padawan's nervous shifting behind him, Obi-Wan holds her challenge with impressive calmness.
"The Jedi Council feels the threat to Senator Amidala has passed."
Obi-Wan Kenobi may be the only person present to believe that statement.
Dormé has no doubt that Palpatine is perceptive enough to untangle the thread Master Kenobi is spinning, but she seriously suspects that he is picking up all the unspoken threads she gathers from the subtle undertones and less subtle glances. To be fair, Dormé also has the advantage of context afforded by Padmé's morose behavior after not one, but two Temple visits as well as the brazen reckless standoff she had partially witnessed during the debrief respite. The angry heat emanating from Padmé and Anakin had been strong enough to thaw a wampaa's den.
"I see," Palpatine says. His grandfatherly visage melts under failing patience. "I will speak to Master Yoda regarding the matter."
Hope practically blooms in Anakin's eyes before Obi-Wan squashes it in a fell stomp with his next words.
"If the Council reinstates our assignment, I'm sure they will find a suitable Jedi to take over for us while we are off-planet."
"Where are you going?" Padmé's voice is high with dismay.
Dormé winces as Obi-Wan's eyes glint with recognition. His bearded smile is as cool as her prior scorn had been to him.
"Ilum, milady," he explains. "My Padawan needs to replace the lightsaber he lost during the droid factory escapade."
"I'm certain Master Yoda and I will arrive at a similar opinion during your hiatus." The Chancellor's word choice is striking. His nonchalant closure makes it seem as if the reinstatement of their guard assignment is inevitable. "
Padmé bristles, but she offers nothing more than a polite nod. "Safe travels," she whispers.
Obi-Wan bows graciously and departs with Anakin in perfunctory tow.
No Jedi appear for the rest of the afternoon, nor do any show up unannounced in the evening. Padmé works diligently, feverishly until weariness wins, and Dormé forces her to be done. In what is rapidly becoming the new routine, Padmé steals away to the couch with her brown blanket when she thinks everyone else is asleep, though this time, Dormé bravely resituates the slipped fabric about her shoulders without disturbing her.
The morning rises with Padmé seemingly unaware of Dormé's motherly intervention. The puffiness under her eyes challenges Dormé's ability to mask the midnight tears' traitorous marks, but when Dormé works up enough courage to press Padmé, the fritzing young woman just plows forward into the day.
Sooner or later, you're going to break.
Dormé worries she won't know how to navigate the aftermath.
The dam gives way the moment they enter her Senate office.
Wafting along the currents of filtered air, the floral fragrance hits them first.
If Dormé's eyes weren't soaking in the unbelievable sight in front of them, she could have sworn Naboo itself had somehow crammed its entire atmosphere into Senator Amidala's office.
Yellow, pink, and white flowers adorn every available flat surface in the sparingly furnished workspace, the varying levels of desk, caf table, and shelving adding considerable dimension to the dramatic display. It was as if someone had uprooted Theed, transported it across the galaxy, and planted the luscious landscaping all over Padmé's enclave.
"Who in the heavens?" Dormé exclaims, following an equally astounded Padmé through the doorway.
"How did he…?" Padmé gasps simultaneously.
Briefly, Dormé throws a bemused glance Padmé's direction. While "how" had made the list of questions to be answered, it hadn't been the first one to cross her mind. Unless of course, Padmé was assuming that Senator Wallis had taken her snub the wrong way and had taken it upon himself to proposition her more pompously than ever before. He had definitely not appreciated Anakin's towering and lingering presence yesterday, though Dormé knows Anakin liked Wallis' even less.
Floating forward into the sea of dayalillies, Padmé approaches the nearest bouquet, bewilderment and wonder all over her face. Tentatively, as if afraid the delicate petals might dissolve at the faintest touch, she strokes one of the star-burst blossoms. The flower trembles, betraying the quiver running through Padmé's own fingertips.
Dormé watches the smile slowly split the Senator's lips, her eyes still soaking in her favorite flora, until her brow creases suddenly. Peering closer, she darts a hand into the center of the arrangement and removes a small piece of flimisplas, her befuddled eyes glossing over the small card, her lips silently mouthing the single word of the short note again and again.
Curious, Dormé moves closer until she can see the handwritten scrawl for herself
Each.
As Padmé flips the message back and forth, studying its blank back with as much consternation as the solitary Aurebesh on its front, Dormé's flimsi assumption falters. Upon closer inspection, the card is made from actual paper, extremely rare and extremely expensive in an extremely digital galaxy.
As a matter of fact, the last time Dormé had handled actual paper was when Gregar had made an overture for her attentions. She still remembers the excited squeals of Versé, Cordé, and Padmé when they had seen the garlands draped over her bedroom doorway.
Old-fashioned yet highly romantic, elaborate floral displays were rarely used anymore on Naboo as a formal inquiry for dating. The custom was still seen on occasion among members of the ancient houses, mainly because tradition and nature were so intertwined in Nabooian culture. While Gregar hadn't been able to gild the stone steps of her planetary home, he had made do with her Coruscanti residence just fine. To ensure Dormé knew the gesture was from him, he had even splurged to include a paper card with his handwritten inquiry and signature.
Surveying the stunning flora embellishing Padmé's office, Dormé puzzles over who would have gone to such lengths for this antiquated and expensive custom. Even with his deep coffers and bombastic arrogance, Senator Wallis wouldn't have possibly been put out enough to research this extravagance. She doesn't have to wonder long when Padmé finds another paper tucked away in a different bouquet.
"Dying…" she reads. "Dying."
Then realization drains Padmé's skin to ghostly white. No longer moving in dream-like slow-motion, she flies about, rummaging through each bunch of lilies, a growing collection of paper slips in her hands.
Dormé finds several in the flowers nearest to her and almost loses her fingers to Padmé's snatching grip. When every bouquet is thoroughly searched, Padmé spreads twelve tiny papers over what real estate remains unclaimed on her desk. The dayalillies sitting at the corners vibrate as she frantically orders and re-orders the little notes on the Hydenock wood.
Just as quickly as her frenetic energy began, Padmé freezes, her eyes the only movement to be seen. They scan rapidly back and forth and back and forth before her head starts a shake of disbelief and denial. Burying her face in her hands, she collapses backwards into her chair, almost missing its edge with a heart-rending sob.
Dormé bolts forward in alarm, only slowing when she is close enough to read the twelve cards splayed over Padmé's desk. Even upside the bold scrawl is easy to decipher.
Twelve little cards laying in a line.
Twelve little cards that detail a scrambled message that unscrambles Padmé.
From now on, I'll be dying a little bit each day too. - AS
With more calm than she feels, Dormé looks up and considers the woman shaking like one her gifted dayalillies. Her heart squeezing at the uncharacteristic display of unhinged, she asks because now she has to know.
"What happened on Naboo, Padmé?"
A/N: There you have it! That's the entirety of Chapter 7! We are about to descend the first plunging hill of this roller coaster ride, and I am beyond excited to write what comes next! In the words of Taylor Swift, "Baby... let the games begin, let the games begin!" I hope you all are "ready for it!" ;P
Some house-keeping notes, as promised.
Dormé's Backstory: I decided to give Dormé the last name of Parnelli since it is an ACTUAL CANON ancient noble house of Naboo, much like Naberrie and Palpatine. It was a little known factoid that I picked up years ago perusing Wookieepedia and the name has stuck with me ever since. However, I do acknowledge that I am taking liberty with canon facts by applying it to Dormé. For my own headcanon, the association was only too perfect; the Parnelli family donated the funds for the construction of the Parnelli Museum of Art in Theed, so I ran with the idea of this family being steeped in artisan history and tradition. It made too much sense to blend that lineage with Dormé's canon position as handmaiden and wardrobe mistress. What is also taken from canon is Typho's recommendation of Dormé for the position of handmaiden. While I usually subscribe to the movies, the novelizations of the movies, and the Legends universe as primary canon fodder, I have cherry-picked from some of the Disney canon provided it jives with what I've marinated with.
Dayalillies, as I have noted in previous chapters and my other works, is the creation of madame_alexandra (AO3) (same penname on FFN but replace the underscore with a . - if I try to type it up in this note, FFN strikes it as potential spam *rolls eyes*) and she has blessed me with her permission to use the flower. I only hope that I've expanded its story with the same reverence I harbor for the detail.
Some readers have wondered how I am going to reassemble this narrative to comply with AOTC-canon. I am hoping that some of the clues I have written thus far are popping forward and your brilliant eyes and minds may be figuring out how these pieces come together. I assure you, they do. :)
As always, thank you for reading and any reviews you may be so inclined to leave. They are always appreciated!