Chapter Text
The war had been going on for so long that it failed to entertain anymore in the salons and parlours of Coruscant. The tedious fluctuations of the frontlines were broadcast on the HoloNet day and night, one moment inching in one direction, the next in another, every shift representing a system that had fallen in or out of Republic control and the lives of thousands of clones—it was just so much background noise for socialites, moguls and politicians. And it was so easy to forget which direction the lines ought to be moving in, it was safer to simply not comment on them at all. The assassination of the Duchess of Mandalore provided only brief conversational respite—there was nothing so dull as expressions of sincerest remorse. So the sparkling dialogue of the Coruscant elite turned to that perennially fascinating topic: the deception and deviance of each other’s love lives.
And nothing was quite so fascinating as the mysterious few among them who were seemingly incorruptible. The holier someone appeared, the more they surely had to hide. Senator Padmé Amidala had looks, youth, influence, and a righteousness her peers were eager to see crack. The leading theory involved General Kenobi—the war hero was too indifferent to Coruscant society not to be noticed by it, too handsome not to be corrupted, too upstanding not to court a highly anticipated fall, and Amidala never hid her smile when she met him in the halls of the Senate. There was a competing rumour of an affair between Kenobi and the late Duchess; it was unfortunate she died before it could be confirmed. Though perhaps Amidala was doing her best to comfort the poor General.
Padmé Amidala was not naive—she was raised in a political hothouse, she knew her life was harvested, cut up and consumed by the gossip mills, though she didn’t know exactly what rumours they spun about her. If she ever found out her face would flash a strange mix of emotions before being masked by her usual regal composure: incredulity, amusement, and suppressed relief that they had come so close and yet missed her real secret—and some pride that she had kept her secret well.
For she did have a secret; it was true that she had tempted a Jedi to abandon his oath, and not just any Jedi—the Chosen One. Yet though she kept their marriage secret Padmé felt nothing so adamantly as the truth that she had done nothing wrong and had nothing to be ashamed of. She and Anakin loved each other—and what was wrong about being in love?
It was love that lifted Padmé’s heart as she left the Chancellor’s office, footsteps falling quickly on dense carpet, careful to maintain a respectable pace and not run down the hall. Those windowless halls were dull and stifling, she couldn’t wait to be free of them, to be in her own apartment—to be with her husband. After weeks apart she was going to see Anakin.
Yet her excitement was dampened by the weight of anxiety. She also dreaded telling Anakin what the Chancellor had just asked of her, what she had agreed to. She dreaded disappointing him.
She reassured herself that Anakin knew and respected her service to the Republic, her devotion to ending the war as soon as possible—which was united in her devotion to him, after all: the sooner the war ended the sooner they could stop hiding and be together for good. Anakin knew this. Surely they wouldn’t have the same fight again. Surely. She put it from her mind.
She thought only of seeing Anakin, and when Padmé thought of Anakin, she still thought of the young man she had spent dreamy days with on Naboo, laughing in tall meadow grass under a sunny sky, away from turmoil and war. She was proud, immensely proud, of the general Anakin had become, but still, she hoped that one day the Other Anakin would return to her. After the war he would return. If he didn’t come back on his own, she would bring him back. She would draw out from Anakin the best part of himself, and they would be as happy as they had been on Naboo once more.
The sun was beginning to set over Galactic City. Through the transparisteel of the lift up to her apartment, Padmé saw it kiss the chrome skyline, turning it from silver to brass.
As her door neared she couldn’t control herself any longer and broke into a trot—Anakin was behind that door.
She rushed into her apartment to see the sunset spilling its burnt light through the windows, and Anakin running into her arms—he had sensed her approach. Tall and dashing, Anakin now had a general’s confidence, but the youthful eagerness and passion was still there, that spark Padmé had fallen in love with before Anakin was a general. The door clicked closed behind her and he swept her into a kiss that lifted her out of her cares.
“At last,” he whispered. “I have you.”
His smiling face was as golden as a sun emerging from behind a cloud. Padmé drank in his smile; she had been starved for his face.
“At last,” her lips brushed his chin, “we have this night.”
He raised his brow and his eyes sparked mischievously. “We have this whole weekend.”
And the weight of anxiety pulled down on Padmé’s heart.
“Anakin…” she started.
But no.
She would save the news for later. They would enjoy this night first. She kissed him, pressed her lips to his as if there wasn’t a war and they could stay in each other's arms forever.
But it was too late.
He pulled away, brow furrowed over his sharp eyes. “What’s the matter?”
He had sensed her concern. Of course he had. It was always at the worst times that he sensed her feelings.
Padmé stroked his chest soothingly, like she could still bring him back to kissing her. “It can wait, my love.”
“No. Something’s wrong, isn’t it? I have to know.”
Padmé stifled a sigh. She braced herself. “I’m being sent on a diplomatic mission. Tomorrow morning.”
Anakin’s face dropped. Padmé’s heart fell with it.
“I just got back!”
“I know.”
He paced away from her, changing from a sun to a storm cloud, churning and dark. “You…” he turned on her, “you could have asked me.”
Padmé bristled. “Asked you what? Permission?”
Anakin’s posture stiffened and his chin tilted up in a defiant expression. “You are mine. As I am yours.”
Padmé’s insides began to simmer. Anakin being upset, she could understand. Trying to stop her from doing her job, however, that was beyond understanding. “I have a duty to the Republic that I gladly serve—as do you, Anakin.”
“So, the Republic is more important than our marriage?”
“Anakin!” Her chest tightened painfully—he was making her choose between the two things in the galaxy she was most devoted to, when they should all be on the same side.
“Don't lecture me, I know,” he grumbled. He paced the apartment as if searching for something, searching for how he could still get his way. “I could… talk to the Chancellor! Delay the trip!”
Padmé stared at him. “We are supposed to be fighting against corruption! You can't use your connections like that!”
“Why not? What's the point of having connections?”
“Anakin,” Padmé took a deep breath and tempered her voice with rationality. “This is an important mission. If we convince the Gamagari to ally with us we can use their planet as a launching pad for the next offensive—your offensive—outflank the—”
“Gama-Gari?” he interrupted, suddenly worried. “That's dangerous!”
“It's not hostile, I'll be fine,” Padmé shot back. Of course Anakin had found another reason to disapprove of what she was doing.
He stepped forward assuredly. “I should go with you. To protect you.”
“I already have a Jedi,” Padmé snapped. “Obi-Wan is coming.”
“Then I'm going too!” he exclaimed as if the whole thing had been solved.
It was all Padmé could do to stop from sighing in frustration. “It's a sensitive diplomatic mission, Anakin.”
“I can be sensitive and diplomatic!”
“CAN YOU?”
Anakin bristled defensively. “The Chancellor thinks–”
“The Chancellor chose me and Obi-Wan for this mission—and specifically excluded you.”
Anakin's mouth hung open like he had lost the use of his jaw.
If only he had accepted that she was going, if only he had supported her, been happy that she was bringing them one step closer to ending the war, Padmé wouldn’t have had to tell him this, he wouldn’t have ever had to know. “Obi-Wan volunteered you and the Chancellor turned him down.”
Anakin paced away again, toward the windows overlooking the darkened skyline, the sun now sunken out of sight, he was a storm that had worn itself out.
The clouds were building inside Padmé, though, roiling over the thought that invoking the Chancellor could convince Anakin of what she alone could not.
“So the Chancellor is beyond criticism but I’m not?”
“He must have his reasons,” Anakin muttered, looking out at the thick night.
“And my reasons mean nothing?”
“I know he’s on my side.”
Something broke inside Padmé. Like a thunderclap. But the sky outside was black and clear. She ran to her room and slammed the door behind her.
* * *
Three months earlier, it was Anakin who raced to Padmé’s apartment. As the lift carried him up its transparisteel column, Galactic City glinted yellow in the rising sun, sparkling and bright. Anakin glared at the view. He paced in the lift like it was a cage he was waiting to break out of. He was driven by a compulsion to confirm that Padmé was there, to hold her in his arms, to feel her breathing, feel her heartbeat, her weight and her presence, an unrelenting compulsion to reassure himself that Padmé was alive, that she was still his.
Anakin had met Obi-Wan when he had come back to Coruscant not on the Twilight, but on a Mandalorian ship, and wearing Mandalorian armour. Anakin was the first he had told about what happened in Sundari, about the coup, the Sith, the murder. And for all his master’s stoicism, for everything he had ever taught him about duty and attachment and the Jedi Code, Anakin could sense a deep current of regret coursing through him.
He hated that Obi-Wan felt that way. He wanted to go back to Sundari himself, to make Maul pay. In the heat of the moment he might have, had Obi-Wan not told him with a calming touch on his arm and remorse in his voice that he had to report to the Council, and they would decide what happened next.
And Anakin was left alone, feeling the echoes of Obi-Wan’s regret. A cold, frightening feeling.
Anakin was determined that he would never feel regret like that.
Not again.
He would hold tight to every moment with Padmé that he had.
Her apartment, all windows and skylights, was full of yellow dawn when Anakin got there. In the middle, though, was the blue glow of a HoloNet News projection. Padmé was standing before it, as if she had stopped in her tracks, her face appearing eerily pale in its cool light. She was crying.
“Padmé?”
She looked up at him. Tears glinted blue on her face, like she was made of glass.
Anakin went to her, gathered her in his arms. She felt small and light. He stroked her hair to calm her trembling breaths.
Next to them, a voice from the HoloNet intoned about the unfortunate death of the Duchess of Mandalore. The projection cycled through images of Satine Kryze, immaterial and ghostly.
Anakin held Padmé all the tighter. “I love you.”
*
Anakin whispered “I love you,” into Padmé’s ear, and she leaned into him. His embrace was strong and firm, he could hold up all her weight and more.
She had once held Satine like this, when they thought Obi-Wan had died, and Satine was inconsolable. Padmé was her pillar throughout the funeral.
There would be no funeral for Satine. What would even become of her body?
Padmé felt Anakin’s hand on her back turn into a fist.
“They’re reporting on it wrong,” he growled at the HoloNet. “They’re talking about it like it was something that just happened, like it wasn’t a murder.”
Padmé looked up at her husband, perplexed. “What do you know?”
“Obi-Wan was… there. He just told me everything.” He cast the HoloNet a dark look. “I don’t know how they even know about it already.”
Obi-Wan was there. The ache in Padmé’s heart doubled. He must feel absolutely broken.
“We should do something,” she said.
Anakin narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, go set the broadcasters straight.”
Through her tears, Padmé smiled fondly at her husband. He could never be accused of inaction. “I mean do something to remember her. With her friends.”
“Oh.” Anakin nodded. He frowned. “She didn’t have many friends on Coruscant.”
“Just you, me, Ahsoka, and Obi-Wan.”
Anakin shifted uneasily. “I’m not sure he–”
Padmé looked at him with entreating eyes.
He relented easily. “Okay, we’ll do something.”
The next night they gathered in Padmé’s apartment. Galactic City must have been glittering outside in the night, but with the apartment lights turned on the windows showed only blackness, as if the four friends were afloat in space, in a world of their own.
They stood between the low couches while C-3PO served drinks along with condolences.
“I never had the honour of meeting the Duchess, of course,” the droid told them all, “but the HoloNet has been broadcasting such extensive coverage I rather feel like I knew her.”
Ahsoka’s mouth tightened uncomfortably, and Obi-Wan’s distant look seemed to get more distant.
“Thank you, Threepio. You’re excused,” Padmé said.
“Oh. As you wish, Senator,” C-3PO replied with a stiff bow, and shuffled away.
Obi-Wan let out a slight sigh of relief. He stood composed, but remote. His golden hair, turned less gold and more grey with years of war, was neat as ever, not one fold of his Jedi robes was out of place. Only those who were used to his usual subtle animation would have noticed anything was wrong.
Anakin fidgeted uncomfortably.
Ahsoka stared morosely into her drink.
They were dreading something, Padmé thought, though she didn’t know what that could be.
Ahsoka was the one who broke the silence. She raised her head, and said bravely, “I can start. I can say something.”
Padmé was dismayed to realise that they were dreading speeches.
“Only if you want to!” she intervened. She took Ahsoka’s hand and spoke intently, “This isn’t a formality. It’s just us. We don’t have to say anything.”
Tears came to the Padawan’s eyes. Padmé threw her arms around her and hugged her tight. She was so bony and slight for a warrior.
“We’ll just be here.” Padmé could feel Obi-Wan’s gaze on her. She spoke to him as much as to Ahsoka. “We’ll be here for each other.”
Padmé released Ahsoka. Her vivid blue eyes were moist, and she offered her friend a weak but grateful smile. They sat on the couch together, hand in hand, and both looked up to Obi-Wan and Anakin, an invitation to join them.
Anakin glanced at Obi-Wan, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Threepio was acting kind of glitchy,” he muttered. “I should check his wiring…” He shuffled away to find the droid.
Padmé almost called after him. Didn’t he understand she needed him? They all needed him?
Ahsoka squeezed Padmé’s hand and brought her back.
Obi-Wan was looking at her, and not in that distant way anymore. His eyes had the softness of a smile in them, though he couldn’t bring a real smile to his face. He sat down across from Padmé and Ahsoka.
“I…” he started, but stopped short. He seemed to choke on his words. It was a moment until he was able to speak again. “I’m grateful to have you both,” he said softly.
The three of them, Padmé, Ahsoka, and Obi-Wan, sat together for hours, sharing the quiet, and sharing memories in turn.
That was three months ago. Padmé missed Ahsoka, she missed her friend. She wished she hadn’t left, or at the very least, she wished she would visit. She'd lost so many friends.
* * *
Padmé spent the night continuing the argument with Anakin in her head and choking on her tears. Every moment Anakin didn’t come through the door to apologise made her tears boil hotter. Finally, she fell asleep against her will, when her head was heavy and the night was turning to day.
She woke up to knocking on her bedroom door.
“My lady? My lady, are you there?”
Padmé opened her door to her handmaiden, Rabé.
“Everything all right, my lady? You’re to leave in an hour.”
Padmé groaned. The mission. She would have to be at her best for the mission.
“I’m fine, Rabé. Same as always.”
Rabé’s eyes travelled quickly over Padmé, taking in her rigid posture and the shadows under her eyes. Rabé’s mouth tightened to a thin line. “Did you fight with Master Skywalker?”
Padmé shot her handmaiden a warning look. Rabé had been with her since she was Queen of Naboo, she was among her most trusted handmaidens, but Padmé was not in the mood for her personal commentary.
Rabé, however, didn’t see any reason to be less forthright with the Senator than she had been with the Queen. “Again?” she added disapprovingly.
Padmé tried to look stern and replied in a voice that would have reminded anyone else of their place, “I require your assistance getting ready, Rabé. I’m meeting Master Kenobi shortly.”
“Yes, Senator,” Rabé replied obediently. But then the thin line of her mouth curled slightly and her eyebrows raised an infinitesimal fraction. “We always liked Master Kenobi.”
Padmé rolled her eyes, sighed heavily, and got on with packing.
Rabé had been among the handmaidens on Naboo who, when the official duties of the day were done, made Padmé feel her young age. They would stay up late, laughing at Governor Bibble’s pretensions, and whispering about which of the Royal Guards looked best in their uniforms. After the Trade Federation’s invasion was repulsed, and the Peace Celebration was done, and Naboo was safe again, their late night talks were occupied by the handsome young Jedi who had come to the rescue.
Wasn’t he brave?
Wasn’t he bold?
He seemed so serious.
But didn’t you see the spark of mischief in his eye?
And they made elaborate plans to “kidnap” Padmé, to lure him back to rescue her again. He was such an ideal Jedi, surely he would come to her aid.
It was an airy fantasy, one that was always brought down to earth by the reality: ideal Jedi are devoted to their Order, not to love.
But wouldn’t it be romantic if…
If… if… if…
Rabé was Padmé’s most trusted handmaiden, and she deserved to be, but there had been many participants in those frivolous late nights, and being a Queen’s handmaiden opened paths to many places, including in Coruscant society.
The rumours about Padmé Amidala weren’t spun from nothing. Still, that didn’t make them true.