Chapter Text
The room smelled of jasmine, rose oil, and the subtle, stubborn weight of resignation that seemed to cling in the air, lingering in corners like a quiet, inescapable presence.
Padmé stood in the center of her private dressing chamber, her posture poised yet heavy with the invisible chains of expectation, arms held slightly out as her handmaidens moved around her with efficiency.
The layers of fabric, silk in rich shades of gold and black, threaded with intricate embroidery that caught the light in soft flashes of golden shimmer, were being folded, smoothed, and fastened into proper place.
Morning light filtered weakly through the frosted windowpanes, brushing only the faintest warmth across her skin, highlighting the subtle curve of her cheekbones and the line of her jaw, yet it seemed almost afraid to trespass fully, as if even sunlight must tread lightly here.
Sabé worked behind her, tightening the corset bodice with measured movements. Cordé adjusted the pleats along her shoulders with a patient, almost surgical precision, while Dormé knelt at her feet, smoothing the long train so it pooled around her like a river of shadow, its dark silk contrasting against the cold, unforgiving white marble.
No one spoke.
They did not need to.
Padmé’s gloved hands, encased in the thinnest black lace, hovered delicately in front of her, fingers curled faintly. Her eyes remained fixed on the full-length mirror before her, but what she saw was not herself.
The reflection staring back wore the quiet resignation of someone who had ceased to battle her own heart, the exhausted poise of a woman who had become a ghost to herself long before this moment.
She looked like a widow attending the wedding she had never wanted, draped in the trappings of duty while mourning a freedom now lost.
“I can loosen it, if it’s too much,” Sabé murmured behind her in a careful voice.
“It’s fine,” Padmé replied softly, her tone measured, almost melodic in its calm, “Tighter is better. Makes it easier not to breathe.”
Dormé’s gaze lifted from the folds of the dress, pained and sharp, and she rose to place a steadying hand upon Padmé’s forearm, “You don’t have to joke about this, milady,” she said gently, each word weighted with care and sorrow.
“If I don’t, I’ll scream.” Padmé whispered back, and though her voice carried an undercurrent of weariness, there was no malice, only a distant, frayed calm that hinted at the storm she had already weathered inside herself.
Cordé stepped closer, black veil in hand, its fabric soft yet ominous, ready to drape over the delicate curve of Padmé’s face and mask the woman beneath. “You still have time to say no,” she said quietly, her voice almost breaking under the strain of what she was asking. “You could disappear. We could help you.”
Padmé’s eyes met hers in the mirror, cold, unreadable, and the faintest shadow of a smile flickered across her lips, bitter and unyielding. “And how long before someone disappears you in return?”
Silence fell again, heavier this time, full of the weight of understanding that could not be voiced, that only lingered in the spaces between breaths. The Empire did not thrive on mercy, and everyone in that room knew it.
It had been one month since the message arrived from Coruscant. An invitation, he had called it. A gesture of unification, a subtle hand extended in the guise of diplomacy between Naboo and the Empire.
But no one truly believed it was.
The corridors of the Naberrie estate were quiet at that hour, the silence broken only by the muted sound of her shoes brushing against polished stone, but for Padmé it felt as though every step rang louder than it should, echoing in time with the measured beat of her heart.
The message she had received lingered in her thoughts like a bitter aftertaste. The Emperor himself, requested a private discussion, promising an idea that would benefit not only her, but Naboo, and the Empire as well.
She had read those words twice, once with disbelief and once with weary recognition, before rising from her chair and beginning the walk toward her study.
“Convenient for Naboo,” she whispered, bitterness soft but sharp. “Yeah sure, as if you’ve ever done anything convenient for anyone but yourself.”
It was not cynicism; it was knowledge, carved into her by years of watching him maneuver, years of seeing him play the Republic like a finely tuned instrument until it yielded to the Empire that now suffocated them all.
She knew Palpatine never moved a single piece on his board unless the endgame was already his.
By the time she reached her study, the polished doors slid shut behind her with a hushed finality, cutting her off from the familiar warmth of the family quarters. The chamber smelled faintly of parchment and Naboo wood polish, a space meant to comfort, yet in that moment it felt suddenly smaller, its shadows sharper, the air dense with the weight of what was about to transpire.
She remained standing beside her desk, hands clasped tightly before her, and drew in a slow, steadying breath. Whatever awaited her here, it would not be to her liking. It never was where he was concerned.
With a flick of her fingers, she activated the holoprojector. At once, blue-white light flooded the space, coalescing into the figure of Palpatine.
“Oh, my dear,” he said, lips curving into one of his hollow smiles, “it is always wonderful to see you. How is your time with your family going?”
The words might have sounded kind to an outsider, but Padmé felt the trap wound into them, the feigned intimacy, the calculated attempt to soften her guard. She inhaled carefully before answering, her voice even, poised, every syllable as deliberate as the careful posture of her body.
“It goes well,” she replied. “It’s always good to step away from duty now and then, to breathe in Naboo’s peace.”
“Ah,” he purred, nodding faintly, “absolutely right. Family and rest must never be neglected. Which is why I am so very sorry to disturb you in this moment of respite. But what I have to share with you is of the utmost importance, and cannot be delayed.”
Her shoulders tightened, a subtle shift she hoped he would not notice. Still, her chin lifted, the line of her mouth controlled, neutral. “What is it?”
“As I mentioned in the message, there is a proposal for you, one that will benefit Naboo, the Empire, and yourself. A true alliance.”
At those words, something cold threaded through her chest, curling low and sharp in her stomach. Her clasped hands tightened further, knuckles whitening beneath the pressure. Her expression, however, remained smooth, the voice she summoned a diplomat’s mask.
“And what kind of alliance might that be?” she asked, the neutrality of her tone betraying nothing of the unease coiling within her.
His gaze sharpened, a gleam flickering in his eyes, while his smile broadened, not kindly, but knowingly.
“It has been two years now since the glorious birth of the Empire,” he said, his words slow, heavy with meaning. “And still, there are those who oppose it. Still, there are fools who think to ally themselves with the so-called Rebellion.”
The way he looked at her made her heart jolt. He knew. He had always known. Everyone knew that Padmé Amidala did not approve of this new regime, and she had never pretended otherwise, but the depth of her sympathies, the reach of her support, that was another matter entirely.
If he suspected the truth of where her credits were quietly flowing, then she was already more compromised than she could allow herself to admit.
Her lips pressed together, but her voice, when it came, was steady, measured. “Yes,” she said at last. “I know. And I have never hidden the fact that I sympathize with them. That much, at least, is no secret.”
Her tone was firm, and her mental barriers higher than ever, each thought guarded, each emotion locked tightly away, for she knew the danger of letting him see too much in her mind.
Palpatine’s smile did not falter, instead, it deepened, lined with false patience.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I know well your sentiments toward the Empire. And yet, despite them, you remain an exceptional senator, as tireless in your ideals as ever. Even under this new order, you continue to raise your voice, to protest, to fight in your way for the betterment of the galaxy.”
It was, infuriatingly, the truth. No matter how harsh the regime’s reforms, no matter how brutal the policies passed in the Senate chamber, Padmé had always been there, her voice clear, her protests sharp, her arguments fierce.
She pushed for amendments, she carved out compromises, she sought, within the narrowing space she was allowed, to alleviate suffering where she could.
“That is precisely why,” Palpatine continued, his voice low and unhurried, “because of your devotion to justice, because of your unyielding determination to do what is right… I know you will agree to marry Lord Vader.”
For an instant, Padmé could not move. The words struck her like a physical blow, hollowing out the air from her lungs. She stared, frozen, lips parted but soundless, as though she had misheard, as though her mind had conjured some impossible hallucination to make sense of the absurdity.
“What?” The single word escaped her lips, fragile and incredulous. Her heart thundered, her body refusing to obey, caught in a paralysis of disbelief. For the span of several heartbeats she wondered if she had imagined it, if fatigue had warped her senses.
But no, the Emperor’s smile had not shifted, his gaze never wavered.
“Repeat that,” she whispered, her voice sharper now, though trembling at its edges.
He inclined his head with mock patience. “I know it is as sudden as it is shocking,” he said smoothly, “but what may come of such a union… ah, the benefits are endless. For you, for Naboo, for the Empire.”
Padmé’s mouth opened, then closed again, useless, wordless, like a fish gasping at the surface. The words in her mind spiraled chaotically, each thought striking against the next in a storm of disbelief.
Lord Vader? The Sith? The Empire’s enforcer, second only to the Emperor? The entity who has slaughtered and continues to slaughter without hesitation, without remorse, as though lives were nothing more than dust beneath his boots?
Palpatine’s voice cut through the storm, steady and relentless. “As I have already explained to Lord Vader,” he said, his tone laced with satisfaction, “from this marriage can born a bond strong enough to unify the galaxy. Even the most reluctant citizens will be compelled to accept what they see before them, Naboo’s proudest daughter standing alongside the Empire’s greatest defender.”
Her throat felt scorched, her breath shallow. “I—I don’t…” The words faltered, collapsed, leaving her stranded in silence, her composure threatening to fracture under the weight of it.
“You must know, of course, that this message is not merely social. The time has come to bring certain symbols of our great Empire into harmony. The people need unity, Padmé. They need stability. They need to see that the past and the future are not at odds, but intertwined.”
Those words jarred her from her stupor, and fury surged through the numbness. Her eyes snapped back to his with renewed clarity, and her voice, though hoarse, carried steel. “Stability? What stability? How could a marriage between myself and Vader bring stability? It is nothing but a farce, and no one will believe it.”
To her disgust, his expression warmed, almost delighted, as if her defiance pleased him. “Vader said something quite similar,” he mused, lips curling faintly. “But, as I told him, people are far more naïve, far more gullible, than either of you give them credit for.”
She shook her head slowly, disbelief carving deep lines into her face. She could scarcely comprehend that such words were being spoken, that such a grotesque suggestion had passed his lips with such casual certainty.
Then came the moment she would never forget. His expression shifted, only slightly, but enough, the smile remained, but the warmth behind it evaporated, leaving something sharper, colder, far more dangerous.
“I know what you are thinking,” he said softly. “And I understand. Truly, I do. But your cooperation in this matter will not only secure Naboo’s continued prosperity… it will protect lives. It will ensure the safety of your people. Your family.”
The pause that followed was deliberate, hanging heavy, cruel in its patience.
“After all,” he murmured, his voice lowering to something almost intimate, “we wouldn’t want misunderstandings to affect those you care for. Your sister’s children are quite young, aren’t they? Twins, if I recall.”
The blood drained from Padmé’s face. In that moment, she knew the truth with absolute clarity: the walls of her home no longer belonged to her. Privacy had dissolved into illusion. Her resistance had been charted, her secrets weighed, her vulnerabilities mapped and catalogued.
She was not speaking to him from safety. She was already in his grasp.
The hologram flickered closer, his lined face looming larger, the curve of his mouth stretching in a grotesque parody of reassurance.
“You must trust me, my dear,” Palpatine whispered. “I want only what is best for you, for all of us. We come from the same soil, you and I. The Empire is not your enemy. Lord Vader is not your enemy. In time, you will come to see this union for what it truly is: a gift.”
As if marriage to a man shrouded in fear, known only for silence and blood, was a blessing.
"The ceremony will be taken here on Coruscant and once everything is done, a new life with Lord Vader and his home will attend you."
Padmé remembered the way her fingers had dug so hard into the hem of her tunic that the threads nearly split when the projection ended, how her hands had trembled even as she forced them to stillness, how her breath had come too shallow and quick to feel like her own.
She remembered how she hadn’t spoken for nearly an hour afterward, staring at the carved wooden ceiling of her study as though it could offer her an answer.
Even though she already knew what was going to be.
Not because she agreed.
But because saying no meant watching Naboo suffer, watching the innocent punished for her defiance, watching her beloved planet transformed into a symbol of rebellion to be crushed and displayed as a warning. She could not let that happen. She would not risk her people paying the price for her refusal.
So Padmé’s voice had not shaken when she gave her consent.
She had called her advisors, her tone steady and professional, informed the planetary council with flawless composure, and drafted a carefully worded public statement whose every phrase had been chosen with surgical precision.
Her face had remained calm in every meeting, her spine perfectly straight, her words precise and unwavering, each gesture the mask of a woman in control.
But behind closed doors, where only Sabé, Cordé, and Dormé remained at her side, the mask cracked. She had cried then, for the first time in years. Not loudly, not helplessly, but quietly, tears slipping like traitors down her face as she sat rigid in her chair.
Even in grief she maintained her dignity, because she knew no other way.
Now, as her handmaidens moved around her, adding the final touches to her gown, that memory pressed at her chest once more, vivid and raw. It was not only the memory of the tears that haunted her, but of the weight behind them, the understanding that this sacrifice was not for Padmé Naberrie Amidala.
It was for Naboo. For her family. For lives she would never meet.
This wedding was a performance. A carefully orchestrated illusion.
And yet, it was also real.
“I don’t know how you’re able to stand right now,” Dormé murmured softly, breaking the thick silence as she moved behind her, the cool touch of an ornate comb brushing briefly against Padmé’s hair.
“Years of practice,” Padmé replied, her voice dry, a faint edge of irony in her tone though her lips curved with nothing resembling a smile.
The handmaidens exchanged a glance over her shoulder, the silent communication of women who had lived and suffered together too long not to understand every unspoken word.
Padmé could walk unflinching into war zones, stand unbowed in the Senate while knives circled her from every side, survive betrayal and assassination attempts, and stare down the full force of the Empire itself without faltering. She had always been able to hold herself together.
But what she could never admit to them, not even now, was that this marriage felt like a different kind of surrender.
Sabé moved to stand before her, fingers deft as she fixed a golden brooch at the center of Padmé’s collar. “You’ll be watched every second,” she said in a hushed voice. “Not just by the Emperor, but by the entire Imperial court. One wrong word, one hint of defiance—”
“I know.” Padmé met her gaze, her eyes steady though her chest felt hollow. “Don’t worry. I will do and say what they want to hear.”
“But that’s not you.” Cordé said sharply, for the first time unable to conceal the frustration that had been simmering beneath her careful composure.
Padmé turned her head toward her, and for a moment, something unyielding burned in her expression. “That has to be me now.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any spoken argument. In the corner, R2 gave a soft, tentative chirp, his dome swiveling toward her with anxiety. The little astromech had shadowed her nearly every hour in the past week, refusing to stray too far.
“Is the ring still in the case?” Padmé asked finally, her voice quieter, as though speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile control she still held.
Sabé retrieved the velvet-lined box from a side table with delicate hands, opening it to reveal the gleam of gold. The band was simple but unmistakable, etched with the Imperial crest flanked by stylized stars. A symbol designed not for beauty but for power.
Padmé reached out and took it in her gloved hand. The metal was cold, unforgiving, and heavier than it should have been. She held it for a long moment, staring at it as though it might speak.
“It doesn’t fit you,” Dormé said softly, the words escaping her before she could stop herself.
“No,” Padmé agreed, her tone flat but resolute. “But nothing about today does.”
Sabé guided her fingers gently, and slid the ring into place above the base of her glove. The weight of it feeling alien, suffocating.
Outside, the music had not yet begun, but she could hear faint movements in the halls beyond, preparations like the low murmur before a storm. She knew it would begin soon.
When the ceremonial bells of Theed rang, she would walk through the grand corridor of the palace, flanked by Imperial officers in gleaming uniforms and Naboo delegates who looked as trapped as she felt.
She would step into the ceremonial hall and stand beside a man whose face she had never seen up close, whose voice she had only ever heard through distance.
And she would vow herself to him.
Cordé stepped forward again, this time holding the veil with both hands, its lace delicate and shimmering in the warm glow of the chamber’s light. Tiny black beads glimmered at the edges, catching like dew on a spider’s web.
Padmé inclined her head once, silent.
The veil descended slowly, soft fabric brushing against her cheeks as the world dimmed. She could still see the faint outlines of her handmaidens, still feel the cool marble beneath her shoes, the oppressive weight of silk pulling at her torso, the tightness of her breath beneath the corset.
And yet, it all felt faintly unreal now. As though she were already watching herself from a distance, already severed from the woman beneath the gown.
“Are you ready?” Sabé asked.
Padmé inhaled once, the sound muted behind the veil.
“No,” she admitted quietly. “But I’m going anyway.”
The knock came, three slow raps against the door, the signal that the processional guard was assembled. The doors opened, revealing two members of the Royal Guard, their crimson armor gleaming, their faces hidden, silent as statues. They bowed in formal precision, and the air seemed to grow colder.
Cordé lifted the long train of the gown. Dormé stepped to her left, Sabé to her right. Together, as they had always done, they moved with her.
Padmé stepped forward, crossing the threshold. The veil trailed behind her like a shadow, and she did not look back.
The doors opened with soft music playing in the background. In front of her, the tall ceremonial gates parted and revealed the interior of the ceremonial room.
Padmé stood still at the threshold for one long moment, the veil falling like a dark mist across her eyes. Her breath sat high in her chest. The soft rustle of her train behind her barely registered over the sudden hush that had swallowed the room.
There were over a hundred people present, yet no sound moved. No warm hum of conversation, no hopeful fluttering of anticipation.
The room had been built entirely in the image of the Empire. The ceiling stretched high, vast and vaulted, painted with sheer black panels that gleamed like obsidian, broken only by thin lines of cold white light running in precise symmetry.
The walls were clad in the same dark alloy, seamless and smooth, as if no artisan’s hand had ever touched them. Vertical beams of steel rose like spines, climbing upward to form the skeletal impression of a cage.
There was no softness, no trace of natural light, only the sharp glow of recessed luminators set into geometric patterns, their illumination deliberately stark, casting no shadows that weren’t meant to exist.
At the far end, a raised dais loomed. The altar was a slab of polished black marble inlaid with the crest of the Empire, the cogwheel emblem carved so deeply it seemed to pulse in the pale light.
She stepped forward. Her steps echoed, heel against marble, not loud, but distinct enough that the room seemed to pause with each one. Sabé, Cordé, and Dormé followed several paces behind, silent and close, like shadows anchoring her to something human.
Eyes followed her from every angle.
To her left, rows of Imperial dignitaries sat in uniformed silence, gray and black, gold-trimmed epaulettes, rank stripes gleaming. Officers, governors, planetary representatives from loyal systems. Many of them didn’t know her beyond reputation, but their gazes were heavy with judgment, curiosity, or something colder.
To her right, the delegation from Naboo. Local council members, a few sympathetic senators and old family friends she hadn’t seen since the Clone Wars. Their expressions were more grieving, others just stunned.
And in the very front row, her family.
Padmé’s eyes flicked toward them despite herself.
Her mother, Jobal, sat stiffly with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white around her ceremonial fan. Her hair was pinned in the old Naboo style, elegant but subdued, and her face was carefully composed, the expression of a woman who had screamed into a pillow and emerged silent for the sake of everyone else.
Beside her sat her father, Ruwee, his mouth a firm, grim line, the creases in his brow deeper than Padmé had ever seen them. He didn’t look at her directly. He was staring straight ahead, fists resting on his knees. The pose of a man trying not to shake.
Sola was next, one arm wrapped protectively around her two young daughters. Her eyes, unlike their parents', burned with fire. When her gaze met Padmé’s, it was raw and unfiltered. There was no judgment in it. Only disbelief.
How could you?
How could I not? Padmé wanted to scream back, but the veil softened everything, and no one could hear the storm inside her anyway.
One of her nieces leaned toward Sola and whispered something. The little girl wore white, her dark curls tucked behind jeweled pins. Padmé couldn’t hear her words, but she saw Sola nod absently, brushing a hand over the child’s shoulder without looking away from her sister.
Padmé turned her gaze forward again.
The altar loomed ahead, and standing just before it, tall and cloaked in black, was him.
Darth Vader.
She stopped walking for the briefest moment. Her body, on some unconscious level, resisted the final steps.
From this distance, she could see very little. The hood of his cloak was drawn forward, casting his face in shadow. His posture was utterly still. His arms were at his sides, gloved hands perfectly relaxed. He looked like a statue carved out of onyx.
He did not turn to watch her approach, but somehow, she felt him watching anyway.
And that disturbed her more than she let on.
Behind him, slightly elevated, seated upon a raised chair designed more like a throne than a guest’s seat, sat the Emperor.
He wore the deep burgundy robes he favored for formal occasions, trimmed with black and gold as expected. The hoods of his sleeves fell open slightly as he rested his hands across the armrests of the throne-like chair, fingers long and curled like he was playing an invisible game of dejarik.
Padmé’s stomach twisted when her eyes met his, he was already smiling.
Not a wide smile, nor openly cruel, it was that calculated softness he used when pretending familiarity. The same smile he had given her when he offered her ‘a choice’ with no escape.
Now here he was, watching as if attending a garden ceremony on a spring day. There was a slight incline to his head, an unspoken approval. That subtle, insidious signal that reminded everyone in the room exactly who had orchestrated all of this.
Padmé started again at her slow pace, but as she drew nearer, she caught the barest flick of his fingers, a small, slow motion, like a blessing or a dismissal. Her skin crawled.
“You must trust me, my dear…” his voice whispered in her mind, “…I only want what is best for you.”
She hated how those words echoed so clearly.
She had grown up with stories of how Sheev Palpatine, the pride of Naboo, had become Chancellor. She remembered hearing her tutors speak of his early reforms, his dedication to peace. She had even voted for some of his war measures, back when the Separatist threat felt like the greatest danger.
Now, that same man sat like a vulture in ceremonial silk, watching her life be handed over to a man who had no face.
She wondered, bitterly, if he thought of this as poetry.
Two children of Naboo bound together under the new order. How elegant. How symbolic.
How cruel.
She passed beneath the final archway and stepped onto the dais. The crowd behind her faded into soft blur. All she could see now was the altar, the Emperor’s faint smile, and the dark figure standing just to her right, waiting in silence.
The officiant stepped forward with a scroll in hand. He bowed slightly toward Padmé, then Vader, then the Emperor, though the deepest bow, of course, was reserved for him.
Then the officiant raised his voice. “Let the ceremony begin.”
The words of the officiant drifted through the air like incense, slow, formal, ceremonial, but Padmé barely heard them. Her focus had narrowed, sharpened into something tight and fragile, fixed entirely on the space beside her where Darth Vader now stood.
She could feel him, more than see him. The presence at her side was overpowering, not just in size but in weight, as though he carried gravity with him. She could feel it pressing into her skin even though he hadn’t moved a muscle.
His posture was perfect, still, upright, unreadable, and yet his very existence seemed to hum against her nerves like a low-frequency sound only she could hear.
He was taller than she had realized. At this distance, she could make out small details that hadn't been visible from the aisle: the intricate stitching of his cloak, the thin silver piping along the edge of his gloves, the subtle way his breathing slowed just before the officiant spoke.
His hood was drawn, deep and dark, shadowing every feature of his face. It looked like it absorbed light, a void rather than a veil. It was as if the man beneath that cloth did not wish to be seen, or perhaps believed he no longer had anything left worth showing.
“Lady Padmé Naberrie Amidala,” the officiant said, his voice measured and clear. “You stand here today under the eyes of the Empire and its sovereign, before the assembled citizens of the galaxy, to enter into union with Lord Vader. Do you do so freely, and with solemn understanding of what this union represents?”
Padmé’s lips parted, her throat was dry, but she spoke anyway.
“I do.” Her voice was quiet, but clear. There was a tremor just beneath it, but no one else would have heard it. Only she knew what it cost her to say those two words.
The officiant turned “And you, Lord Vader, do you enter this union freely, with the understanding of what this union represents ?”
A pause followed. Longer than expected.
Padmé couldn’t help it, her eyes shifted toward him, though she could see little past the edge of his hood. She watched his gloved hand twitch, just once, before it returned to stillness.
Then, at last, he spoke. “I do.”
His voice was deeper than she had imagined, smooth, low, and impeccably controlled, with no hint of emotion behind it.
Yet it was undeniably human, and that made it worse.
The officiant gestured toward a small pedestal between them, where a thin ceremonial cloth lay.
“Please take each other’s hands and speak your vows.”
Padmé hesitated, only for a second. Then she extended her right hand, the silk of her glove catching faintly in the soft light.
Vader mirrored the gesture, their hands rested atop the cloth, fingers not interlocked but gently pressed together. The contrast was stark: her smaller, pale fingers clad against the darkness of his glove.
The officiant stepped back. “The couple will now speak their vows.”
No script had been given. Palpatine had left it vague, calling it “an opportunity for expression” as if irony were one of his official languages.
Padmé drew a slow breath, “I vow, to honor this union and to fulfill the role given to me with resolve and purpose.”
She paused, fingers tightening slightly around him, the silence that followed was tense, brittle. No one in the audience moved.
Then Vader spoke. “I vow to preserve this union and not to harm what has been placed in my care. I vow not to command what should remain free. I vow presence, even when I am silent.”
The words were precise, measured. There was no sentiment, no softness, but neither was there cruelty. It was as though he were navigating a language he had never learned to speak, trying to form meaning from fragments of thought he barely trusted.
She stared at him now, trying to read through the hooded shadow.
The officiant, seemingly unaffected by the tension, gave a small bow of acknowledgment. “Then let this union be witnessed and sealed under Imperial authority.” His words were followed by an applause from the people in the room.
Palpatine’s hands came together in a slow, deliberate clap, three measured strikes of flesh against flesh. His smile had widened, that sickly imitation of warmth.
Padmé released Vader’s hand and stepped back, veil still down.
The marriage was sealed, and nothing had ever felt more hollow.
The veil clung to her face, heavy despite its delicacy. Her hands fell slowly back to her sides, her arms weighted down by the folds of her gown and by something deeper, something internal.
It was the sensation of a boundary crossed, a door closed behind her without the sound of a latch. And in that sensation, she became aware again of every eye in the hall focused on her. The beautiful, reluctant bride of a ghost in a cloak, the symbol of submission clothed in grace.
She wanted to lift her chin. To reclaim that sensation of control. But even her pride felt muted now, not broken but anesthetized, like a limb that had fallen asleep under too much pressure. Her body stood upright, poised. She had done everything exactly as required.
So why did she feel like she had drowned just beneath the surface of her skin?
Vader remained beside her, silent once again. He did not shift, did not offer a glance. His head remained slightly bowed, whatever he felt, if he felt, was buried beneath the same veil of stillness he had worn since she entered the room.
She had half expected some shifts, a moment of release, a gesture. But he remained frozen in place.
There was no kiss, no binding of hands, no step forward together.
The officiant turned to the crowd and made the formal proclamation. His words were a blur in her ears, she knew the shape of them, but not the meaning.
“…under the eye of the Emperor and the guiding will of the Empire, this union is now recognized as sealed and complete.”
Behind them, Palpatine’s chair creaked as he rose, his hands folded neatly in front of him, robes trailing softly as he descended the steps of the platform with regal ease.
His smile was still fixed in place, gentle and proud, like a grandfather pleased with a well behaved child.
Padmé turned slightly toward him as he approached.
“My dear,” he said, voice warm and indulgent. “How radiant you look. A vision, truly. I knew your grace would carry this day with dignity.”
He took her hand gently in both of his, thumbs brushing over her glove. “You have made Naboo proud, child. And you have made me proud.”
She forced her voice not to crack. “I’m sure you’re pleased, Your Majesty.”
Palpatine’s eyes gleamed with something just behind the kindness. Amusement, perhap, or victory.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, I am. Peace, you see, is not won by battles alone. Sometimes, the greatest acts of strength are quiet things. Subtle. Personal.”
His gaze flicked toward Vader “Isn’t that right, Lord Vader?”
Vader inclined his head, barely. It was the first movement he’d made since letting go of her hand.
Palpatine offered one final smile, then turned and glided toward his private escort of guards and aides, who awaited him near the eastern exit.
She watched him go, and as soon as he was gone, the crowd began to shift. Guests began to murmur in stiff and polite conversations. Officers nodded to one another, a few exchanged handshakes. The program would proceed now to the reception, imperial decorum dictated appearances be maintained.
Padmé gown whispered faintly as she turned.
Vader remained where he was, hands at his sides. Padmé moved past him, her steps slow but unwavering. She did not stumble. She did not look back.
Sabé and the others joined her again, surrounding her like a living shield as they walked back down the aisle.
The people parted as they passed. A few bowed while others avoided her eyes.
As she passed her family’s row, she allowed herself one glance. Her mother’s expression had broken now, eyes glassy, hands clenched. Her father remained still as stone, jaw tight. Sola, however, met her gaze directly and in her eyes was a question.
Is this who you are now?
Padmé looked away. She had no answer to give.
The reception hall glittered with false warmth.
Vaulted ceilings stretched overhead, draped in sheer black and red silks that swayed faintly with the movement of the crowd, catching the light like fire trapped in smoke. Crystal chandeliers hung like clusters of frozen stars, refracting each subtle gesture, every twitch of a goblet raised, every sweep of a gown into fragments of gold and fractured brilliance.
Tables pressed against the walls groaned under the excess laid out for the guests: glistening fruits stacked in precarious towers, sculpted cheeses shaped into delicate flowers, warm breads dusted with spice that released their fragrance when broken, and rich meats carved with precision by silent, masked droids who did not so much as glance at the people they served.
Music lilted through the air, threading itself into the pulse of the evening. A slow waltz, elegant and deliberate, played by a live ensemble positioned beneath a polished arch.
Couples had already begun to take the floor, their movements practiced, rehearsed, almost ritualistic. Dresses flared as they turned, boots scraped softly against the marble, laughter slipped between notes of the song, all of it weaving a performance of celebration.
Padmé stood at the edge of it all, near the fountain centerpiece sculpted from marble. Water fell in graceful arcs that sparkled under the chandeliers, mocking serenity in a place where her heart beat like a trapped bird.
Her gown trailed behind her like a drawn curtain, separating her from the world she had once believed she belonged to. The veil had been lifted from her face, yet the serenity she had forced upon her expression was beginning to crack at the edges, fine lines of strain threatening to fracture the mask.
Behind her, laughter spilled like wine.
A senator from Brentaal, cheeks flushed from too much to drink, clinked his glass against a uniformed officer’s and muttered something about the efficiency of the Empire’s diplomatic strategies, his tone oily with false praise.
A noblewoman in green jewels raised her goblet with a wide, bright smile, declaring the ceremony ‘magnificent’ as though it were not a funeral in disguise. Nearby, a couple swayed close on the dance floor, whispering to each other words that would dissolve by morning.
Padmé watched it all with a stillness so sharp it felt violent.
They were celebrating, they were dancing, and she, who had just surrendered herself in an unwanted marriage, was expected to stand there and smile. For them. For the image. For the Empire.
The bile rose in her throat, bitter and quiet. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails pressing crescents into the silk of her gloves. She forced herself to breathe through it, slow, deliberate, mechanical.
Across the room, she spotted him. Palpatine.
He stood among planetary governors and Imperial senators, their bodies angled toward him like worshippers around a pyre. He laughed lightly at some comment, the corners of his mouth curling upward in that familiar, benevolent way, paternal, reassuring, entirely fabricated.
His posture was relaxed, his gestures measured, one hand tucked casually into the folds of his robe, the other gesturing lightly as he spoke.
None of them saw it. None of them saw the predator crouched beneath the silks.
Padmé’s stomach twisted.
“Padmé.”
She flinched before turning, her body betraying her before her face could recover.
Jobal stood at her side. Her mother looked as though she had aged years in the span of a day. Her hair had begun to loosen around her temples, and her expression sagged beneath the weight of helplessness.
“My love,” she whispered, and said nothing more, because what else was there to say?
Padmé’s throat closed around the words she could not give. Silence was all that remained.
Then Ruwee appeared, his frame hunched, eyes dark and hollow. His words came clipped, as though each one was forced through a wall of grief. “You could’ve said no.”
“I couldn’t,” Padmé answered simply, the words flat, unyielding.
“You’re a senator.”
Her lips parted, but the correction was sharp, almost merciless. “I was a senator.”
His mouth twitched, nearly a sneer. “Then you’re a hostage.”
“I’m Naboo,” she said. “And I made the only choice that let our planet keep breathing.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Jobal reached for her hand and gripped it tightly, as if holding her by sheer force might change the truth.
“We’re not angry with you,” Jobal said, her voice trembling, her hand shaking against Padmé’s. “We’re terrified for you.”
“You shouldn’t be.” Padmé murmured.
Sola stepped forward then, fury smoldering beneath the sheen of tears in her eyes. Her voice came sharp, but it trembled under the strain of restraint.
“This isn’t politics, Padmé. This isn’t negotiation. This is you giving yourself to someone whose name you can’t even say without fear.”
Padmé turned to her sister, meeting her fire with an exhausted steel. “I gave myself,” she said, voice low, steady, “to keep the Emperor from taking our home the way he’s taken everything else.”
“You are not a bargaining chip,” Sola hissed, her hands curling at her sides.
“No,” Padmé agreed, “I’m the rope they’re using to bind Naboo to this regime. And if I had refused, they would’ve strangled the planet with me instead.”
The words dropped like shards of glass, heavy and sharp, and none of them moved to pick them up.
Jobal’s hand rose, brushing lightly against Padmé’s cheek. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “Promise me you’ll survive this. Whatever this is.”
“I’m still here,” Padmé said. It was not a promise.
Her family withdrew, not in anger, but because their wounds had reached the point where words could do nothing but deepen them. They left her there in silence, surrounded by people who were enjoying the celebration.
Padmé drifted into the crowd, she spoke only when spoken to, her replies minimal, polite, hollow, a mask pressed too tightly against her skin.
And then, she saw him. Bail Organa.
He stood quietly beside Mon Mothma, both dressed in their usual elegance, Alderaanian silver, Chandrilan green. Their eyes swept the hall with detached calm, the kind only true politicians could manage, appearing disinterested while cataloguing everything.
When Bail’s eyes found hers, he inclined his head.
“Senator Amidala,” he said.
The title caught in her chest, halting her breath. She hadn’t heard it once all day. Not since the vows. Not since she had been stripped and remade as Lady Vader.
“Bail,” she whispered, almost a prayer. “Mon.”
The two of them stepped closer, forming a quiet triangle around her, their presence like a shield.
“You held yourself with dignity,” Mon said, voice calm but tightened by pain. “Though I can’t decide whether to be proud or heartbroken.”
Padmé exhaled, a sound more weary than relief. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Bail’s eyes dipped briefly to her gloved hand, to the gold ring that gleamed under the chandeliers like a shackle disguised as a jewel.
“I tried to speak with the Emperor,” he said softly. “Tried to buy you time, to make him believe this arrangement was nonsense. But it was already sealed.”
“I know,” she murmured. “And I thank you for that.”
Mon’s head tilted, her gaze unwavering. “Why did you go through with it?”
Padmé’s eyes drifted away, toward the dancers, toward the empty joy painted across their faces.
“Because saying no wouldn’t have stopped it. It would’ve just meant someone else would suffer for me. Naboo. My family. My friend. The Empire would have made it a spectacle, a warning for every world still pretending to think freely.”
“So you became the lesson yourself.” Mon said, voice tight.
“No.” Padmé looked back, her eyes sharpened. “I became the lie they needed me to be.”
Silence followed for a moment.
“You still have friends,” Bail said. “Even now. Especially now.”
Padmé’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Then be careful. Because now I’m a symbol and symbols are dangerous to stand near.”
Mon’s hand brushed her arm, feather-light. “Are you afraid of him?”
Padmé hesitated. Her eyes traveled across the hall.
At the far end stood Darth Vader, surrounded by officers and commanders. They approached him one at a time, their tones measured, their bodies tight with caution. He barely moved, only tilting his head now and then, offering responses too distant for her to catch.
“I don’t know what he is,” she said at last, her voice low. “But I don’t think I need to be afraid, not yet.”
Bail followed her gaze. “He certainly doesn’t look like a husband.”
“He doesn’t look like anything,” she whispered.
For a moment, the three of them stood together in silence, then Bail straightened, his voice steady. “If you ever need an exit, a message, a favor without a name, reach us.”
Padmé smiled faintly. “If I ever try to leave, I won’t get far.”
Mon’s eyes hardened. “Then don’t run. Rewrite the story from inside.”
Padmé looked again toward Vader, wondering if beneath the cloak, there was still a story left to rewrite at all.
The flight was short. Silent.
The shuttle was small and privately crewed, its interior clad in soft gray panels with no insignia, no decoration, and no windows. The air smelled faintly of recycled ventilation, sterile and neutral, offering no comfort.
The only sounds were the gentle hum of the engine, vibrating through the floor beneath her boots, and the occasional mechanical beep from R2, who sat at Padmé’s side, tilting slightly as if sharing her tension.
Her handmaidens flanked her, each a mirror of controlled anxiety.
Sabé sat directly across, eyes sharp beneath her calm expression, Dormé at the rear tapped her fingertips against the seam of her gown, the rhythm irregular and jittery, betraying a nervous energy she tried desperately to contain.
Cordé lingered by the panels, pressing her forehead lightly against the cold material, as if searching for relief.
None of them had spoken since they boarded. Words had thinned out during the reception, their weight spent, and now, there were none left that weren’t already understood in silence.
The quiet between them was almost tactile, pressing at the edges of Padmé’s awareness, filling the small cabin with a tension that refused to dissipate.
Padmé’s hands rested in her lap, gloved fingers intertwined. She had removed her ceremonial veil, allowing the air to brush against her face, but the gown remained, clinging to her like a memory, its fabric pressing down in places she hadn’t known could ache, weaving discomfort into every motion.
Wherever they were going, it wasn’t a military compound. Not the cold, gray sprawl of steel and surveillance she had expected.
That much became immediately clear when the shuttle finally began to descend.
The pilot didn’t speak, only activated the descent beacon with a soft tone before the view screen flickered to life. And what it revealed was not what any of them expected.
Below them was no fortress, no gray towers bristling with weapons, no blackened walls or imposing metal gates to announce dominion.
Below them was a palace.
It rose from the landscape like something out of a history book, the sun-warmed stone glowing in soft creams and golds, terraces sprawling outward in perfect symmetry, red-tiled roofs curving elegantly into archways.
Light bounced from every surface, casting the polished surfaces into glimmering highlights that made the gardens below look ethereal.
Gardens cascaded on multiple levels, greenery spilling over stone paths and climbing over colonnades like living curtains. A long, rectangular reflecting pool mirrored the sky, its surface smooth as glass, bordered by columns carved in white marble that caught the sun in tiny prisms.
Flowering trees lined every walkway, their blossoms pale pink and violet, petals trembling slightly in the faint breeze that stirred through the terraces, carrying the scent of flowering jasmine and citrus.
It didn’t look like something that had been built for the Empire. The scene was almost alive, lush, and impossibly serene. It belonged to a different world entirely.
Padmé leaned forward slowly, every instinct told her to believe it was a mirage, that the eye could not be trusted. The warmth of sunlight, though filtered through the viewport, seemed like a lie. The elegance of the architecture felt almost subversive against the backdrop of the Empire style she was used to.
“That’s impossible,” Cordé whispered at last, her voice almost swallowed by the hum of the engines. She pressed a hand to the wall beside the viewport, as though touching the shuttle’s interior might anchor her to reality. “This can’t be... his.”
Padmé didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t just the shock of beauty that stunned her, it was the dissonance, the way every detail of the palace contradicted the man she had just married. He was said to live in warships, in steel halls lined with cold light.
No one had imagined… this.
Her breath caught in her throat, shallow and uneven, and for the first time since entering the shuttle, she allowed herself to feel the fragile pulse of something almost like wonder.
The shuttle descended gently onto a private landing pad bordered by slender cypress trees, their pointed tops swaying lightly in the late afternoon breeze. No guards awaited them. No escort.
Only a single figure: a droid, polished gold, standing perfectly still at the base of the landing ramp like a sentinel fashioned from sunlight.
The ramp lowered with a hiss of pressure, and a rush of warm, fragrant air spilled inward. It was sweet and layered, floral undertones of jasmine, a crisp trace of citrus peel, and something faintly mineral, like water drawn from deep stone.
“Welcome!” the droid called out before they had fully disembarked, its voice bright and precise, startlingly animated in contrast to the quiet descent. “Mistress Padmé, it is my greatest pleasure to welcome you to your new home.”
Padmé hesitated on the ramp.
She had never seen this droid before, and yet it spoke with an almost disarming familiarity, its tone deferential but not invasive. The brightness in its voice carried enthusiasm, etiquette-perfect, touched by the smallest thread of nervous energy, as though it was eager not to fail its introduction.
“I am C-3PO,” he added quickly, bowing stiffly at the waist, “Human-cyborg relations. Fully fluent in over six million forms of communication and assigned to this estate as your personal protocol assistant.”
Sabé moved instinctively closer, her gown brushing against Padmé’s arm, eyes narrowing in silent suspicion as she studied the droid.
Padmé blinked. “You’re… my droid?”
3PO’s eyes brightened as he straightened with a tiny mechanical whir. “Oh, not originally, milady. I was originally programmed by—well, let’s not get into all that. But yes, from now on, I have been fully reassigned to your service. Lord Vader himself issued the order.”
The name struck her like cold metal, even in the warmth of the air, a chill settling beneath her skin.
“I see,” she said softly, her voice barely carrying past the threshold of the ramp.
“If you’ll follow me,” the droid continued, extending one jointed arm toward the arched entrance framed by flowering vines. “Your suites are prepared. Your staff have designated quarters on the west wing, and R2-D2 has already been synced with our internal systems for local access and mobility.”
Padmé raised an eyebrow, a flicker of incredulity breaking through her stillness. “R2 didn’t tell me that.”
R2 gave a low beep, swiveling his dome as though saying whatever .
The four women and the droid descended the ramp and followed the cobbled path, their footsteps muffled on sun-warmed stone. Each step carried Padmé further into the mystery of the estate, into the contradiction she still couldn’t reconcile.
Everything was carefully designed: terracotta tiles radiated stored heat through the soles of her shoes, low stone walls spilled with moss and ferns, fountains with cool water slipped over carved basins lined in green. Wide arches opened onto manicured gardens, lanterns of frosted glass suspended from wrought-iron brackets waiting for nightfall.
An Alderaanian-style spiral staircase carved from polished green marble, glinting faintly like a frozen river. A carved wooden door inset with a sun motif, its gold leaf soft with age.
A library tower capped in leaded glass, its windows still painted with the heraldry of long-forgotten systems.
3PO led them through a tall set of hand-carved double doors that swung open with a gentle groan of old hinges. Beyond lay what he called the central atrium.
The room was circular and vast, open to the sky above. A wide oculus in the ceiling let in the molten light of the afternoon sun, and golden beams streamed down in shifting patterns, dappling the polished stone floor as if the heavens themselves were painting the chamber anew with every passing cloud.
Along the walls, balconies framed by arching windows spilled with green vines that had been carefully trained to grow in deliberate spirals, like living brushstrokes etched into the stone.
At the heart of the atrium rose a fountain, its water spilling in near silence from the hands of a delicate sculpture, figures intertwined in a dance Padmé didn’t recognize, their expressions serene.
Low couches encircled the fountain, their upholstery a cool gray-blue velvet that seemed to drink in the light. Tables of dark, carved wood stood beside them, surfaces polished to a soft gleam. Lanterns dangled from fine golden chains, dark now, but promising warmth when night descended.
The air was alive with the scent of lemon blossom, lavender, a faint whisper of damp earth from the fountain’s base.
Padmé stopped just inside the room.
The tones were calming, yet heavy with richness. The craftsmanship spoke of ancient hands, preserved rather than replaced. This was not simple decoration, it was memory, reverence, refusal to let time erase what once was.
Behind her, Cordé whispered something, too soft to hear, but the awe was evident in her tone. Even Sabé’s composure faltered, her eyes wide with an openness she rarely allowed to show.
“This… this was built centuries ago,” Dormé murmured, trailing her fingers along an etched pillar as though touching its grooves might anchor her to the moment. “This design… it’s part of early Outer Rim trade estate styles. Almost pre-Republic.”
3PO straightened proudly, eyes bright with cheer. “Indeed, Mistress Dormé. The estate was commissioned by a family of scholars and collectors who believed in preserving history from every world they visited. Lord Vader retained the original layout during the restoration. Only minor structural reinforcements were made.”
“Restoration?” Sabé asked sharply, her tone laced with distrust. “You mean this was salvaged?”
“Oh yes,” 3PO said with unflappable brightness. “The estate was abandoned for nearly seventy years before Lord Vader acquired it. It had suffered significant damage, climate erosion, partial structural collapse, and extensive flora overgrowth. He insisted the restoration be done by hand where possible. Authentic stonework only. Original tile design. I assisted with some of the procurement processes, of course.”
Padmé stepped deeper into the room, “He ordered all of this?”
3PO tilted his golden head, “Yes, milady. Every detail was approved by Lord Vader himself. He was very specific. Especially regarding the garden placement, the atrium skylight, and the absence of overt Imperial insignia.”
Padmé said nothing.
Because she didn’t know what to say.
Vader, the shadow figure from her wedding, the Emperor’s blade, the terror of every star system, had chosen this. This place of fountains and vines, this sanctuary that seemed to deny everything the Empire embodied.
The dissonance left her unmoored, as though she had stepped onto ground not meant to carry her weight. None of this matched the image of him hammered into her mind. No weapon of tyranny should sleep among blossoms.
“May I show you to your quarters, Mistress?” 3PO asked at last, gesturing toward a vaulted corridor lined with frescoes dulled by age. “Your bedroom suite has a private garden and balcony, along with a bathing chamber and personal study. Lord Vader requested that your wing remain undisturbed unless otherwise specified.”
“Her quarters?” Cordé echoed, suspicion darkening her voice. “They won’t be staying in the same rooms?”
“Oh no,” 3PO replied “He has his own chambers on the opposite side of the estate.”
The words fell like stones into water, rippling outward into silence. Padmé felt her heart shift in her chest, relief or confusion, she couldn’t tell. Perhaps both.
So he wasn’t going to impose himself. Not immediately. Not like a husband might. Not like a conqueror would.
He had given her space.
Sabé placed a hand lightly on her arm. “You should rest. We will help you take off the dress.”
Padmé nodded once. She followed 3PO into the hall, the handmaidens trailing behind, R2 rolling silently at the rear.
The corridor was wide and lit by natural light pouring through carved lattice windows that cast delicate patterns of shifting gold across the floor.
Artwork lined the walls, landscapes from across the galaxy painted in sweeping colors, abstract calligraphy in careful black strokes, old textiles preserved behind glass, their threads worn but dignified, carrying stories of old empires.
Her suite was at the end of the corridor, tall doors etched with curves that seemed to ripple like flowing water when the light touched them. Inside was a spacious antechamber that opened onto a private sitting room, a raised sleeping area draped in sheer curtains, and glass doors that led out to a balcony overlooking a secluded reflecting pool.
The air inside was cooler than the hall, scented faintly of polished wood and crushed herbs from the garden beyond. Everything inside was quiet, neutral, soothing. Cool stone floors softened by woven rugs. Warm wood beams supporting an arched ceiling. Cushions scattered with beautiful embroidery. The light was gentler here, filtered and amber.
She stepped inside slowly, almost reverently, as though intruding into a space not meant for her.
Removed the gloves first, the silk stuck faintly to her palms before falling away. Then the brooch and the wedding ring, their delicate weight had been almost unbearable.
Her handmaidens were already working behind her, loosening the corset, unfastening the train. The gown fell away like a sigh, pooling on the floor in a cascade of heavy fabric, leaving her in a soft shift beneath that clung to her frame like second skin.
She exhaled without realizing she had been holding her breath, her body sagging as if the gown itself had carried her upright until this moment.
“I don’t understand him,” Padmé finally said, her voice low, nearly lost in the vast hush of the room. “I don’t know what this place is. I don’t know why he gave it to me.”
Sabé met her eyes, her hands still resting lightly on the discarded gown. “Maybe he didn’t give it to you. Maybe this is where he goes when he wants some peace.” The words hung in the air, unsettling and tender at once.
Padmé sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her, looking toward the open balcony and the water beyond. The pool mirrored the evening sky, its surface trembling faintly as a breeze stirred the blossoms drifting down from unseen branches above.
The sun was low now. The day was ending, shadows stretching long and thin, pulling the room into softer tones.
And even though she had been given peace, a heavy feeling remained inside her, a quiet, inescapable weight that no garden, no fountain, no beautiful view could loosen.
The estate was silent.
Not the tense, suffocating silence of the Imperial halls she had walked through earlier that day, but something deeper, organic, a silence woven from still air and slumbering gardens.
It wrapped around Padmé like a fine shawl as she padded barefoot across the cool stone of the atrium floor, the soft hem of her silk nightgown brushing faintly against her thighs.
The atrium was bathed in moonlight. Padmé settled onto one of the low couches by the fountain, drawing her knees close, wrapping her arms loosely around them. The blue silk of her gown pooled softly around her, shifting with each breath she took.
It was light, comfortable, but it clung in a way that made her feel too present in her own skin, every nerve awake, restless, unable to ignore where she was and what had been done.
This was her new home.
This place of warm stone and winding gardens, of restored frescoes and ancient memory, this oasis in the hands of the Emperor’s weapon… it was hers now. Her life had been uprooted and planted here like one of the ornamental trees she’d seen along the colonnade, expected to grow silently in a place that did not belong to her, among roots that weren’t hers.
Why?
The question circled in her mind like a hawk. Why would a man like him, who existed only as fear, keep a sanctuary like this? Why surround himself with beauty, with quiet, with water and light, when he spent his life dealing in blood and fire?
Her fingers curled tighter around her knees as she tried to imagine him here, silent and cloaked in darkness, standing where she now sat, watching the same fountain, the same moonlight.
She could not reconcile the image of him that had shattered worlds with the one that had ordered ivy carved into stone, or flowers placed in vases.
It made no sense.
Her thoughts slipped, unbidden, back to the ceremony. To the moment his gloved hand had touched hers, firm but not crushing, the weight of it like a wall she couldn’t climb, unyielding yet steady, as if it had been pressed into hers by fate rather than by choice.
She could still feel the cool texture of the leather against her skin, a sensation that had imprinted itself deeper than she wanted to admit. His voice, low, controlled, deliberate, resonating with a cadence that was neither rushed nor hesitant.
I vow to preserve this union and not to harm what has been placed in my care.
She had clung to those words in the hours since, replaying them again and again in her mind as though searching for a hidden key. They could mean nothing as they could mean everything. A promise? A warning? A script recited from the Emperor’s design? Or had they been his own choice, his own words?
The ambiguity gnawed at her, leaving her suspended between hope and dread. Did Darth Vader even have choices? Or was he, like her, a pawn shifted across Palpatine’s board, both of them trapped beneath his hand, their fates calculated moves in a game they could not win?
She rested her chin upon her knees, staring at the water’s surface as moonlight bent and shimmered across it. Every ripple seemed to fracture her reflection, breaking her image into countless shifting fragments she could not piece back together.
And then came the other question. The one she hadn’t allowed herself to think during the ceremony or the reception, not while eyes were on her, not while her handmaidens watched her with that helpless ache she couldn’t bear to meet.
Would he come to her?
They were married now, and even in its falsity, the union was official, consecrated by words spoken in front of witnesses. What did that mean for tonight?
Would he seek her out? Would she hear the slow, deliberate echo of boots striking against stone, drawing nearer, inevitable, until he crossed the threshold of her chamber to claim what had been given to him? Would he demand… more?
A tightness spread through her chest as she exhaled slowly, fingers clutching at the fabric of her gown as though its fragile weave could anchor her. She was not naïve. She knew how marriage was supposed to work, how power twisted it into something sharp and cruel.
She had heard the stories of women handed over like spoils, of unions forged in conquest rather than love, and she had seen with her own eyes what men with authority could take without remorse.
But Vader was different, otherworldly in his silence, terrifying in his restraint, unsettling in the sheer absence of ordinary human reaction. He had stood beside her like a statue carved from stone. He hadn’t even looked at her when they left the hall, as if acknowledging her presence required an effort he refused to spend.
Would he keep that distance forever?
Or would the night strip it away, leaving only what he truly was beneath the hood and the silence?
Padmé swallowed hard, the thought cold in her mouth, her throat tight as though the very air resisted her.
Another image surfaced, sharper, more dangerous than the rest, his hood lowering, shadows dissolving, his face revealed at last. For all the rumors that had surrounded him, no one had ever seen it. Some claimed he was grotesque, disfigured by fire and war, his humanity stripped away until only a monster remained.
Others whispered he was strikingly beautiful, his darkness carried only in his deeds, not in his form. Some swore he wore a mask beneath the hood, a second face concealing the truth. Others whispered that beneath the cowl there was nothing at all but emptiness.
What would she see, if he finally allowed her to look at him without the barrier of shadow?
The questions gnawed at her as relentlessly as the fountain’s water fell, each drop an echo that seemed to keep time with her racing thoughts.
She leaned back against the couch, letting her legs stretch out, bare feet brushing against the floor. The blue silk of her gown slipped slightly off one shoulder, loose and delicate, reminding her how little armor she truly had left.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the cool night air trace across her face, trying to imagine she was somewhere else. Anywhere else.
But even in imagined escape, his presence lingered.
She opened her eyes again and let her head fall back against the cushions, staring up through the oculus at the star-scattered sky above. Stars she had once thought of as paths to freedom now seemed only to emphasize how far away she was from the life she had known.
She had survived a war. She had survived corruption in the Senate, assassination attempts, betrayals, and unbearable losses. But this endless waiting, this silence stretched tight as a wire, was something different. A trial without an end, a storm that might never break.
She pulled her arms tight around her, as if they could shield her from what was coming. Or from the possibility that nothing would come at all.
The house was not entirely asleep. Faint sounds drifted through its long stone hallways, the muted glide of a cleaning droid’s wheels, the distant click of shutters stirring in the night breeze, each sound threaded into the silence like a reminder that the estate itself was alive, listening.
Her gaze flicked, almost against her will, toward the corridor leading to Vader’s wing. Earlier, 3PO had explained his quarters lay far on the opposite side of the estate, separated from her rooms by two entire courtyards and an internal hallway designed for privacy.
And yet, when her eyes lingered on that darkened archway, she felt as though distance did not matter. His presence was a weight, an invisible shadow stretching across every stone, every wall, every breath she drew.
She exhaled slowly, trying to smooth the tension from her body, but it stubbornly clung to her. Sleep would not come, not while the questions circled like hunting birds, waiting for her to falter.
What did he intend for this marriage? Was he waiting for her to act first, or did he follow a silent script written by another’s hand? Would he remain a figure in the distance, or would there come a night when the sound of boots on stone were no longer far away but too close to her?
She didn’t know which possibility frightened her more.
A soft whirring interrupted her thoughts, she turned to see 3PO stepping carefully into the atrium, his gold plating glinting faintly in the moonlight.
“Ah, Mistress Padmé,” the droid said, keeping his voice low “I noticed you had not retired for the night. I wondered if you might require anything? A warming tea, perhaps? Or a blanket? I have catalogued several herbal infusions from Naboo that might soothe restlessness—”
Padmé offered a faint, tired smile despite herself. “Thank you, 3PO, but I’m not sure tea will help me sleep tonight.”
The droid tilted his head “I understand. It has been, shall we say, a day of significant transition.” His tone carried a formality meant to be comforting but edged by empathy. “If I may speak freely, milady… change of this nature would unsettle any rational being. Even a protocol droid.”
Something in Padmé’s chest loosened, just a little. It was absurd to find comfort in a droid she just met, yet here he was, offering the smallest bit of kindness in a house that otherwise felt like a monument to solitude.
“Do you know much about him?” she asked suddenly, surprising herself as much as the droid. “About… Lord Vader?”
3PO paused, as though running a thousand protocols before answering. “I am acquainted with his directives and preferences regarding the estate, yes. Beyond that… I know only what the galaxy knows.” A brief hesitation, then softer “He is a being of few words.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Padmé murmured, gaze drifting back to the dark corridor. “Does he ever… Come here? To the atrium?”
“Yes, occasionally,” 3PO said after a moment. “Though not often. He favors the garden paths late at night when he is in this residence.” His eyes flicked toward the arches, then back to her. “Would you like me to relay a message to him, milady?”
“No,” Padmé said quickly, sharper than intended so she softened her tone. “No… I just wondered.”
3PO made a small nod “Of course. Shall I leave you in peace, then?”
She nodded, and the droid retreated, his steps a soft whirr of servos fading down the hall.
Alone again, Padmé unfolded herself and rose from the couch and padded toward the garden arches, drawn by some restless need to move, to breathe air that didn’t feel trapped under the weight of her own thoughts.
She stepped outside, onto the smooth tiles of the courtyard.
The garden was more alive now than during the day. The moonlight painted the leaves silver, fireflies drifted lazily above the grass, and the water in the reflecting pool gleamed like liquid glass. She crouched briefly to touch the stone tiles, cool from the night breeze, grounding herself.
From somewhere beyond the far colonnade, a sound reached her, a distant, deliberate footstep.
She froze, every muscle taut.
Another step followed, slow and measured, the faint scrape of a boot on stone. It echoed through the stillness like the beat of a drum too far away to place. Padmé’s heart stuttered painfully, her breath catching as she turned toward the sound.
But the walkway beyond the garden was empty.
The steps stopped.
The silence that followed was louder than before, filling her ears. She stayed there, rooted in place, eyes fixed on the shadows that clung to the archways and tall stone walls.
Was it him? Was he out there, walking the paths as 3PO had said? Watching her from some unseen corner? The thought sent a chill through her that was neither entirely fear nor comfort, just… raw awareness of his nearness.
Minutes passed, maybe more, but nothing moved.
Padmé decided to retreat slowly to the atrium, every nerve on edge, the quiet now thicker, heavier, threaded with unspoken presence.
She curled back onto the couch, hugging herself, trying to find warmth that didn’t come.
And somewhere, not far from where she sat, she knew he was awake too.
Padmé startled awake to a gentle series of electronic beeps near her. The sound was soft but insistent, pulling her out of a half-dream where sunlit lakes and Naboo gardens had blurred with images of shadowed figures and whispered vows.
Her lashes fluttered open, her breath catching for a moment in that fragile instant between dream and waking, when the mind still clings to illusions. For a fleeting heartbeat, she thought she was back in her apartment on Coruscant, wrapped in the familiar glow of morning light filtered through tall windows, the city’s hum below like a distant lullaby. Safe. Free.
But the sight above her head shattered the illusion. It was not Coruscant’s ceiling she beheld, not the sleek archways or the gleaming fixtures she knew so well, but the oculus of the atrium.
The memory of yesterday returned like a slow ache, each fragment lodging itself into her thoughts, the ceremony, the reception, the journey to this beautiful prison. She had fallen asleep here, curled on the couch beside the fountain like a child too weary to make the journey to her own bed.
The beeps came again, this time with a slightly sharper note, almost scolding, like a nursemaid catching her ward neglecting herself. The sound pulled her fully into waking, and she turned her head toward R2, her lips curving into a faint, sleep-blurred smile that softened the tightness in her chest.
“Good morning, R2,” she murmured, her voice low, husky with sleep, “I must have drifted off here. I didn’t mean to worry you.” She reached out and stroked the top of his dome lightly, her fingers lingering against the smooth metal as gratitude welled within her
The astromech let out a warble that carried a mixture of reproach and forgiveness, as only R2 could manage. It was comforting that even in the situation they are now, he could still sound exactly the same as he had in every chapter of her life.
Padmé stretched her legs slowly, feeling the cool bite of the stone floor on her bare feet, the sensation anchoring her more firmly into the reality she wished she could resist. Before she could say more, the sound of steps clicking lightly against the stone reached her ears.
It was 3PO, hands folded primly in front of him, his polished plating gleaming in the morning light. “Ah, Mistress Padmé! Good morning, indeed,” he said in his usual earnest precision, his tone bright “I trust you slept well? Or at least… sufficiently? Oh dear, perhaps not, judging by your location.”
He glanced at the couch, “Nonetheless,” he continued briskly, “it is a fine morning, and breakfast has been arranged. If you would be so kind as to follow me, it shall be served promptly in the eastern garden.”
Padmé blinked at him for a long moment, still caught in the haze of waking. “Breakfast?” she echoed softly, the word slipping from her lips with disbelief, almost surprised by the idea of something so normal.
“Yes, milady, Lord Vader’s instructions were that you be made comfortable in every regard. The eastern garden offers a most charming spot for morning meals, a shaded veranda overlooking the smaller reflecting pool, with the aroma of lemon trees drifting through the breeze, it is quite idyllic this time of day.”
Her heart gave a faint, inexplicable stutter at the mention of Lord Vader’s instructions . The idea that he had dictated even this, the where and how of her breakfast, coiled uneasily inside her.
Was it care, some strange attempt at courtesy? Or was it simply control? Perhaps both, perhaps neither. The ambiguity unsettled her more than cruelty would have. Cruelty, at least, she could prepare herself for.
She sighed quietly, gathering herself as she rose slowly to her feet, “Very well,” she said, her voice steady despite the knot that tightened in her stomach. “Lead the way, 3PO.”
R2 gave a soft, confirming chirp and rolled closer to her side, his presence a small reassurance. Together, they followed the protocol droid out of the atrium.
The corridor leading east was long and sunlit, lined with arched windows that opened onto the gardens. Morning light spilled in golden streams, catching motes of dust in the air and scattering them like tiny constellations that shifted with each step she took.
The polished stone tiles beneath her bare feet reflected slivers of that golden glow, making her feel as though she were walking along a path of liquid light.
Servant droids moved silently along the walls, gliding with efficiency, some tended to towering potted plants whose broad green leaves fanned outward like banners of life against the cool stone, others polished fixtures or adjusted drapery folds with precision.
When their tasks were done, they slipped through side doors without a sound, vanishing back into the hidden arteries of the estate, leaving no trace save for the faint scent of oil and polished metal.
Padmé glanced outside as they walked, for the first time, she saw the estate’s eastern grounds bathed in daylight rather than moonlit shadow. The smaller reflecting pool shimmered like liquid glass, disturbed only by the occasional ripple of a breeze.
Low lemon trees ringed the water, their branches sagging with fruit, yellow globes glowing like captured suns. Their blossoms perfumed the morning air, the sweetness drifting in through the windows until it tangled in her senses, impossible to ignore.
Ahead, a carved veranda extended from the main building, its columns wrapped in ivy that crept upward like emerald lace. Between the foliage, patches of sunlight dappled the stone, breaking into shifting patterns with the wind.
At its center stood a shaded table, already waiting for her. A white linen cloth draped elegantly over the surface, the fabric so crisp it seemed untouched by human hands. At its heart rested a modest arrangement of fresh flowers.
It was beautiful. Warm. Peaceful. Everything in the morning was supposed to be.
3PO stepped aside near the table and gestured with his polished hands, “If you please, Mistress Padmé,” he said “The chef droid has prepared a selection based on Nabooan breakfast customs, fresh pastries, fruit preserves, herbal tea and a few Alderaanian delicacies, should you wish to try them.”
Padmé lowered herself slowly into the chair, smoothing her nightgown across her knees. Sunlight brushed her skin through the open veranda, golden and soft, coaxing her into ease.
R2 wheeled close to her right side and stationed himself firmly, his dome swiveling, a quiet guardian scanning for threats that would never announce themselves openly here.
For a long moment, she only sat, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze lingering on the arrayed plates and the porcelain teapot releasing thin curls of steam into the air. It was not until the scent of warm bread, laced with honey and citrus, reached her that she realized how hollow her stomach had become.
“Thank you.” she murmured softly, glancing at 3PO.
“It is my honor, milady,” he replied “Shall I remain nearby in case you require anything?”
“No, you may wait just inside,” she said.
3PO bowed with a neat inclination of his head, retreating to the threshold, where he lingered just far enough not to intrude, close enough to respond should she call.
Padmé reached for the teapot, pouring the golden liquid into the porcelain cup, watching the swirling patterns that rose with the steam, delicate and ephemeral, like smoke signals vanishing into the air.
She lifted the cup to her lips, letting the first sip wash over her tongue, the warmth spreading through her chest, easing, if only slightly, the knot of unease that had coiled there since yesterday.
Her eyes strayed to the garden beyond, It was, objectively, a perfect morning.
She took another slow sip of tea, closed her eyes briefly, and inhaled the fragrant air, then she broke a piece of soft bread, its crust warm beneath her fingers, and drizzled it with sweet honey.
Then, a low voice broke the stillness. “Is the food to your liking?”
Smooth, deep, and deliberate, the voice carried a weight that was not loud, yet it seemed to fill the entire space, curling around her like smoke.
Padmé jolted violently, her hand jerking so sharply that tea nearly sloshed over the rim of her cup. Her breath caught as her head snapped toward the source. How? She hadn’t heard footsteps.
Not a whisper of movement across the stone, no shift in the air, no warning of another’s nearness. One moment, she had been alone with R2. The next, he was there.
Darth Vader.
His dark figure stood several paces away, half drowned in the shadow of the arch despite the strong daylight that spilled across the veranda. The sun struck the edge of his cloak, glinting faintly on folds of black fabric that seemed to drink in more light than they reflected.
His hood cast his face in complete obscurity, the darkness clinging stubbornly to him as if even the morning refused to touch him.
Padmé’s pulse leapt painfully in her chest, so forceful she feared he could hear it, could sense the frantic rhythm thrumming through her blood.
How long had he been standing there? How close had he crept without a sound? The realization sliced down her spine like ice. Her breath trembled as she dared to take in more of him than she had the day before, when fear and chaos had blurred the edges of everything.
In the clean light of day, he was no less fearsome, if anything, the clarity made him worse. Vader was tall, towering even at a distance, with the kind of stature that seemed to warp the air around him.
His frame was long-limbed but far from gaunt, every line of him speaking of contained strength. Shoulders broad, chest firm beneath the fall of his tunic, his body was lean but unmistakably built for endurance and power, a figure carved not for vanity but for battle.
There was a readiness in his stillness, as if even in quiet repose he could strike, the violence already rehearsed in his body. It was the stance of someone who had trained so long that movement was unnecessary to project threat.
Padmé’s gaze slid lower before she realized, tracing the cut of dark trousers over strong thighs, tucked into boots heavy and firm against the stone. There was no softness in him. No excess. No ornament. Every line was efficient, purposeful, and dangerous.
For a single, shameful moment, some traitorous corner of her mind,severed by exhaustion and the rawness of her situation, registered the sheer physicality of him. The kind of strength that could crush with ease… or shield, if he chose.
She wondered, against her will, what it would feel like to stand within reach of that force, to feel it radiating close, unshackled. The thought turned her stomach in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
Her cheeks flushed hot, mortification striking as swiftly as the recognition of the thought itself. Stars. What is wrong with her? That man is the Emperor’s enforcer. A stranger with death wound into his very presence. And she was noticing the way he was built?
Padmé tore her gaze away as though burned, her spine straightening against the chair’s back, the very air scalding against her flushed skin. She forced her voice into steadiness, smoothing it into the calm tone that had carried her through the Senate.
“Yes,” she answered, her words level though her pulse thundered. “The food is excellent. Thank you.”
The pause that followed seemed to stretch the air itself. The silence was no longer the peaceful hush of morning but something altered, weighted. He gave nothing away.
At last, he inclined his head in a motion so slight she might have doubted it if not for the subtle shift of the fabric of the hood. “Good.” The word resonated low, even, and unhurried, vibrating through the air like the aftershock of distant thunder.
Padmé dropped her gaze back to her plate, unable, or unwilling, to meet the abyss beneath that hood. Her fingers tightened around the teacup until porcelain pressed against her skin, its warmth the only anchor against the creeping chill that slithered through her veins.
She tried to breathe evenly, to maintain the illusion of composure, but the air was heavier now, Vader had not moved closer, had not raised his voice, yet his presence filled the space so completely it pressed against her skin.
Padmé forced her grip to ease on the teacup, her knuckles pale, reminding herself that she was still here. Still present. She swallowed, her mind scrambling for composure.
She had spent a lifetime in political arenas, holding her own before senators, generals, and warlords alike. Yet here, alone with this silent, cloaked figure, she felt stripped of every shield she had ever learned to wield. But she could not let him see that.
Setting her cup gently on its saucer, Padmé cleared her throat softly and raised her chin just enough to meet the shadowed outline of his hood. “Would you like to join me?” she asked, voice calm, measured “There’s more than enough breakfast prepared.”
A long pause followed, stretching until the sound of birds in the nearby lemon trees seemed to grow louder, filling the void where his response should have been. Then, finally, his voice came, “No, I’ve already eaten.”
Padmé arched one brow ever so slightly, though she was certain he could see the disbelief flicker across her face. She didn’t believe that for a moment. From yesterday’s long ceremony, the reception and then the late arrival at the estate, she doubted he had touched food at all.
But then she wondered whether eating was even something he needed. Did he sleep? Did he drink water? Was he, beneath that hood, anything like other living beings?
Her mind betrayed her with images: him removing the hood, face pale, eyes bright but inhuman, a creature sustained by whatever dark power bound him to the Emperor’s will. Or worse, perhaps the hood hid nothing but emptiness, a shell of a man kept alive by hatred alone.
She shivered faintly and pushed the thought away, realizing too late that she had been staring at him in silence, lost in her own grim speculation. Vader shifted slightly, not a step forward, just the barest tilt of his head, as if he could feel the weight of her thoughts pressing on him.
Before she could stumble into some awkward remark, his voice came again, deeper this time, measured. “Is the palace… to your liking?”
The question caught her off guard, and for a moment she simply blinked at him, unsure whether he was offering courtesy, assessing her reaction, or baiting her into honesty she might regret. But there was no mockery in his tone, just a calm inquiry, as if he truly wanted to know.
“Yes,” Padmé said finally, choosing her words carefully. “It’s beautiful. Unexpectedly so.”
“Unexpectedly.” he echoed, the faintest curl of curiosity in the word.
“I didn’t imagine… this,” she admitted, glancing briefly around them “I suppose I expected something… different.”
“Different.” Vader repeated, not as a question, but like a man turning over a stone to see what lay beneath. He remained perfectly still, waiting, and Padmé felt the weight of his silence urging her to finish her thought.
“I imagined your home would reflect… the reputation you carry. Something darker. Colder. Less… alive.”
The words hung between them, vulnerable and perhaps too honest, but she didn’t retract them. Letting him know she had expected a lair for a monster, not a sanctuary.
For a long moment, Vader didn’t respond and she wondered if she had overstepped. But then, unexpectedly, a sound escaped from beneath the hood, a low, short exhalation that could only be described as a laugh. Not warm, not kind, but edged with amusement, as if her assumption had genuinely entertained him.
“You imagined,” he said slowly, and there was a faint note of mockery threading through his voice, “that I lived in a cave, huddled by a fire, like some primitive warrior out of the past?”
Heat rushed to Padmé’s cheeks before she could stop it, indignation warring with embarrassment at the picture he painted. “That’s not what I said,” she said quickly, her voice a touch sharper than intended. “You know exactly what I meant.”
The silence that followed felt different now, lighter somehow, as though he were savoring her discomfort with quiet, restrained satisfaction. And a thought darted through her mind, dry and incredulous, the fearsome Lord of the Sith does know how to joke.
She tore her gaze away from him, reaching for her teacup as if its presence could shield her from the strange shift in energy between them. She took a measured sip, the tea now lukewarm, and focused on steadying her breath.
Vader remained where he stood, motionless, silent once more. The sunlight played over the edges of his cloak, revealing nothing of the man beneath, yet his presence was a weight she couldn’t shake.
After a long pause, Padmé forced herself to break the silence. She set her cup down carefully, porcelain clicking faintly against the saucer, and lifted her gaze toward him. Her voice, when it came, was calm, steady, tempered with the kind of practical composure she had mastered long ago in the Senate.
“Will there be a… schedule for us?” she asked, her words carried the faintest hesitation, as though she were treading on unfamiliar ground. “Events, appearances, anything expected as… a couple?”
The last word slipped from her lips with difficulty, tasting strange and metallic, like something forced and unnatural. It did not belong to her, It was foreign and unwelcome, a label pressed upon her.
For a long heartbeat, no answer came, then, slowly, Vader moved his head, tilting with a deliberation that made the gesture feel sharp, predatory. Almost feline in its patience, as though he were assessing prey.
“My master,” he said at last, the words deep and resonant with a rasp of disdain woven into every syllable. “Has insisted that I take a month of respite from my duties.”
The pause that followed was subtle, but the air around it seemed to darken, “He called it,” his voice shifted into something so disturbingly false that it almost chilled her more than his silence “a honeymoon.”
The parody in his tone was uncanny, the imitation of warmth and fondness, twisted into something hollow and sharp, so deliberate in its mockery that it scraped against her skin.
Padmé blinked, momentarily robbed of speech. Her mind stuttered over the absurdity of the word, “A… month?” she echoed, disbelieving.
“A month,” Vader confirmed, unhurried and inexorable “We are to remain here. Together.”
The sentence landed like iron shackles, each one clicking into place with finality and the way he said that it made it sound like a punishment rather than a gift.
Together.
The word reverberated in her chest with a weight that pressed down until she struggled to breathe evenly. A month. Thirty days. An entire cycle of mornings and nights in this palace, with him.
No official appearances, no carefully orchestrated distractions, no interruptions from the Senate, the Republic, the galaxy itself. No escape.
The thought coiled in her lungs, cold and suffocating, until it pressed against her ribs like an unseen fist. How was she supposed to endure thirty days with no interruption under the same roof with a being whose silence was more terrifying than most people’s rage?
Her hands betrayed her before she noticed, fingers twisting, restless, clutching at the fabric of her nightgown.
In the silence that followed, a familiar sequence of beeps and whistles drew her attention downward. R2, who had been sitting quietly beside her chair until now, turned his dome toward Vader with a sharp twist.
The little astromech let out a curious chirp, followed by a short, sharp trill that sounded not merely inquisitive but laced with challenge.
“R2…” Padmé’s voice came low, the warning clear, but the droid either didn’t hear it or, more likely, chose to ignore her. With surprising boldness, he rolled forward across the smooth stone, stopping just a meter away from the towering figure of the sith.
The mechanical clicks of his servos echoed faintly in the quiet garden, small yet unyielding, and then another burst of clipped tones erupted from him, fast and insistent.
Padmé’s breath caught in her throat. For a heartbeat, she braced for an explosion of temper, for that infamous violence to uncoil at the smallest provocation. But instead, Vader bent his knees and sank down in a slow, measured crouch until his hooded face aligned with the astromech’s dome.
The folds of his cloak spilling around him like black water across sunlit stone “And who are you?” he asked at last. The words weren’t sharp, not even hostile, yet they carried the weight of a question meant to be answered.
R2’s response came as a volley of indignant trills and beeps, sharp as blasterfire, the droid’s meaning unmistakable even without translation. He was issuing a warning.
Padmé’s lips parted in disbelief, she had seen her little astromech brave countless dangers, had relied on his loyalty through battles and blockades, but never had she witnessed him confront a figure so lethal, so infamous, with such unflinching defiance.
A low chuckle emerged from beneath the hood. It was faint, almost inaudible, but the unmistakable rhythm of amusement lingered in the air.
“A brave little machine,” Vader murmured, his tone dry, threaded with something close to admiration. “You threaten a Sith Lord without hesitation. Loyal to your mistress to the very end.”
R2 let out a confirming beep, the equivalent of standing taller, and if droids could puff their chests, Padmé was certain he would have.
Vader tilted his head slightly, a gesture that might have concealed the ghost of a smirk if she had been able to see his mouth. “You don’t need to concern yourself,” he added, the faintest edge of mockery curling around the words. “No harm will come to her… not from me.”
The droid answered with a skeptical warble, unwilling to trust words alone.
Another low chuckle slipped from Vader, but did not push further. Instead, he straightened to his full height with slow, unhurried grace. He looked down at R2 for one last moment, something unspoken passing between them, before turning that hooded gaze back toward Padmé.
The message was clear, the warning had been heard, acknowledged, and, most shockingly of all, not punished.
Padmé’s heart hammered painfully in her chest. He had not dismissed the droid as scrap metal, nor destroyed him for insolence, but spoke to him. It was a small thing on the surface, trivial even, yet to her it shattered something fundamental.
Because it meant there was a man beneath that hood, one who still possessed the capacity to choose, to engage, to refrain, to recognize loyalty even when directed against him. And that made him infinitely more dangerous because it meant he was unpredictable.
The garden fell silent again, settling like a heavy shroud. Only the hum of R2 returning to her side broke it, his dome swiveling back toward her in a show of pride.
Padmé forced herself to sit upright, folding her hands in her lap as though composure alone could keep her balance. Across from her, Vader remained still, as though weighing whether to speak further or vanish into the shadows of his estate.
The silence stretched until he broke it, his voice calm, deliberate, cutting the air with finality. “You may go wherever you wish in this palace,” he said, tone even but edged with command, “Except my private wings, they are not to be entered under any circumstances.”
The abruptness of the declaration made Padmé blink. A part of her bristled at the restriction of being told what she could or couldn’t do in what was her home now. Still, something in his tone told her the boundary was no formality, it was a warning, one she did not doubt he would enforce if not respected.
She nodded slowly, masking defiance with composure. “Understood,” she replied, voice even, though somewhere deep inside, the spark of rebellion flared.
Vader gave a single nod of satisfaction “If you require anything,” he added, “Inform 3PO. I will not be far, but I do not wish to be disturbed.”
Her brow furrowed faintly, curiosity rising despite herself. “You’re leaving?”
“For training,” he said, “I prefer to keep my skills sharp.” He offered no elaboration, no hint of what such training entailed, and then, without waiting for her reply, he turned.
His stride was soundless, the long folds of his cloak sweeping across the stone floor. For a man of his height and build, he moved almost spectrally. In moments, he disappeared into the shaded corridor, leaving behind only the echo of his presence, vast and suffocating in its absence.
Padmé's eyes locked on the empty space he had occupied, her shoulders slumped as she released a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding, her chest aching with the slow exhale.
Beside her, R2 let out a chirp of triumph, rocking back and forth on his treads, smug in his small victory.
She turned to him sharply, exasperation sparking. “What were you thinking?” she hissed, voice fierce but hushed. “He could have torn you apart in seconds, and you—” her hand gestured helplessly, “you rolled right up to him as though you were going to start a fight!”
The droid beeped defiantly, unrepentant, his tones stubborn and proud, indicating that there was no regret in what he did.
Padmé pressed a hand to her face, torn between fury and affection. “You’re impossible,” she muttered. “Absolutely impossible. One day that bravery of yours is going to get you into more trouble than even I can’t get you out of.”
R2 whistled a sharp, confident note as if to say it was worth it, and spun his dome toward her in stubborn determination.
She sighed heavily, her anger softening into resignation. “Fine, have it your way,” she conceded, “But stars help me, R2, if you provoke him again, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
The droid chirped back, defiant and utterly unapologetic.
She shook her head, determined to salvage what was left of her morning. The food before her remained delicious, fragrant and warm and she would not let a Sith Lord, husband or not, ruin that for her.
Vader be damned.