if I had a "most challenging premise" award,
it would go to chameleon_irony for this. Crap, this was hard. But I've missed challenging myself, so thanks! And for dark!Leia last time.
title: we shall all be changed
verse: dark[ish]!Padmé; prompt: how long have I been walking down this road?
At fourteen, Queen Amidala stood before the Senate and fearlessly denounced the Trade Federation, demanding Republic aid. Even when the rush of adrenaline faded, she didn't falter-though, she privately admitted, it was a comfort to have Senator Palpatine at her side.
Valorum vacillated this way and that, finally calling on the testimony of the Jedi he had sent. But the tangent bought him nothing; Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi dutifully reported what they had seen, and recommended sending a greater force of Jedi to take back Theed. After another hour of dithering, Valorum acceded to the proposal.
Amidala smiled, triumphant.
At twenty-two, Padmé ran for senator. Senator Palpatine had resigned his seat just in time to help Padmé with her campaign.
She smiled up at her old mentor. “I thought you were getting too old for this.”
“Oh, not quite,” said Palpatine, his eyes twinkling. Then he sobered, and added humbly, “I am only too happy to advise you. I hope I may always be of service.”
They crushed the opposition.
At twenty-four, Senator Amidala seethed at her bill's glacial progress. It was all the worse because she probably had the widest support of anyone in the Senate, and remained popular outside it. Even Palpatine, generally so cautious in judgment, suggested that Chancellor Valorum's incompetence was slowing down even the usual bureaucratic processes.
She was even more furious when someone tried to assassinate her. Ineptly.
Chancellor Valorum fluttered over the news. Master Yoda, trailed by Obi-Wan Kenobi-a protégé of sorts-smiled tiredly at her. Even Palpatine, whose unwavering calm had been so reassuring through the years, fussed a bit. They unanimously agreed to send a Jedi to protect her.
“But it's so trivial,” she protested. “Surely any Jedi Knight has more pressing concerns.”
Valorum, Yoda, even Obi-Wan, looked long-suffering. Her eyes narrowed. Before the situation could degrade any further, Palpatine intervened.
“Senator Amidala and I are aware that the Jedi Knights are spread thin on the Republic's business. Yet she cannot be left unprotected. Perhaps an older padawan would be more suitable for this task. Surely there are promising Jedi among their number?”
Half-reluctantly, Obi-Wan said, “You may remember the boy my old master, Qui-Gon Jinn, took as his padawan. He may be-”
“Little Ani?” she cried.
Obi-Wan coughed. “Er. Yes. That is-he must be nineteen or twenty by now, but he is extremely gifted. He and Qui-Gon would be honoured, I'm sure, to protect you.”
She and Palpatine exchanged a glance.
“Very well,” she said.
Still at twenty-four, Padmé fell in love.
At twenty-six, Padmé Amidala heard that Chancellor Valorum had suddenly died.
“We've managed to prevent outright war this far,” she said, pacing in front of her window. “Valorum-whatever his other deficiencies-didn't want it any more than we did. But we can't count on that from his successor.”
“I still have some influence in the Senate,” said Palpatine modestly. “I should be able to affect the proceedings somewhat.”
Anakin, leaning against the doorframe, pushed some of his growing hair out of his eyes, but stayed quiet. He had never been very comfortable around Palpatine.
“Thank you,” she said, and frowned. “We need more than another Valorum. We need a real leader, a visionary, but one who can be decisive in a crisis.”
“Exactly,” said Anakin.
“Hmm.” Palpatine glanced between the two of them. “Yes, I believe I agree.”
The thought entered her mind that he meant to be Chancellor himself. She'd long ago come to the conclusion that his acumen was no more dulled by age than hers.
She and Palpatine left for the Senate, Anakin for the Temple. The day passed in a blur of activity, and by morning the Senate had chosen Valorum's successor.
It wasn't Palpatine.
At twenty-eight, Chancellor Amidala reluctantly agreed to an expansion of her wartime powers. If matters got much worse, entire sectors would be at war. For the good of the Republic, this had to be ended, and ended quickly. She would not stand by why the galaxy burned.
Nobody but the Jedi seemed to share her reluctance. And she had reason to believe that the Jedi were coming dangerously near to sedition-and perhaps worse.
“But not Anakin,” Amidala said swiftly.
Palpatine hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “Jedi Skywalker's first loyalties are to you and to the Republic, as are mine. That is why they fear him. It is no coincidence that he leads all their most dangerous missions.”
Her eyes went wide. “You think they're trying to kill him?”
“I think he will outlast them all,” said Palpatine.
At twenty-nine, Amidala received conclusive evidence of Jedi treason. Not only from Palpatine's agents, and her own, but an anguished Anakin.
When she presented the evidence to the Senate, they fell silent. Even now, the Chancellor alone had little authority over the Jedi Order. Whatever action was taken, they would bear responsibility for it. And there was no time for wavering. In desperation, they might do anything.
After several hours' horrified debate, the Senate agreed to disband the Jedi Order. Too little, she later said, and too late. She returned to her chambers to find the unlikely duo of Palpatine and Anakin fighting off a dozen Jedi.
Their leader was Mace Windu, who she had once called a friend. He said nothing, but one of the younger Jedi eventually revealed that almost the entire Order was complicit in the assassination plot. Amidala ordered them arrested.
After he was released from the hospital, Palpatine went straight to her office, waving aside her protests.
“There will be time for rest once this crisis is resolved. We may be at the most dangerous point in your career, my lady. There is talk-” he coughed delicately- “talk that the Senate is too corrupt and bloated to lead us.”
“That's what Padmé's for,” said Anakin.
“Yes.” Palpatine looked at her. “They call you Mother of the Republic-some more affectionately than others. But nearly all feel that they are only a disadvantage in these troubled times, and could serve you better in an entirely advisory capacity.”
Padmé paled. “You're talking about a dictatorship.”
“Not I, my lady,” said Palpatine. “I am only telling you what I have heard.”
“I can't believe the Senate would ever consider declaring me-what? Lady President?”
“Empress,” Palpatine said.
Anakin caught his breath. He clearly did not find the idea repugnant-nor did Palpatine, for all his side-stepping. She forced herself to laugh.
“I hardly make a very imperial figure at the moment,” she said, resting her hand on her belly. “Even if-this is impossible! After everything I've done, I can't imagine that they would ask this of me. And I certainly can't think they want a young pregnant woman as Empress, even granting that they want one at all.”
“Mother of the Republic,” repeated Palpatine. “You may never make a more powerful icon than you do right now. And I do not believe it has occurred to them that you might ever abandon what they choose to call your duty.”
He was right. The Senate overwhelmingly voted to grant her this last, final increase in responsibility; she refused. They voted again-seven times in four months, always with the same result. By the end, even Palpatine seemed to find her rejections a sort of selfishness, though he never said so. She couldn't even tell what Anakin thought.
In the end, it wasn't Palpatine or the Senate who convinced her-at least not the regular resolutions to declare themselves an empire. It was what could only be termed unforgivable incompetence, when her government failed to prevent not one but three wide-scale massacres within a single week. Palpatine would have kept the reports from her; Amidala insisted on hearing every detail.
Almost a million people. Three hundred thousand of them children. This wasn't only the Republic's failure, the Senate's. It was hers. She could have stopped this, could have-they were right, all of them. She was neglecting her duty.
Once more, the Senate voted to give the Republic its proper name: the Empire. Once more, they begged her to sacrifice everything she was for her people. All her people, everywhere.
Amidala bowed her head.
Two months later, she gave birth to twins: Luke and Leia, first prince and princess of the Empire.
title: we shall all be changed
verse: dark[ish]!Padmé; prompt: how long have I been walking down this road?
At fourteen, Queen Amidala stood before the Senate and fearlessly denounced the Trade Federation, demanding Republic aid. Even when the rush of adrenaline faded, she didn't falter-though, she privately admitted, it was a comfort to have Senator Palpatine at her side.
Valorum vacillated this way and that, finally calling on the testimony of the Jedi he had sent. But the tangent bought him nothing; Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi dutifully reported what they had seen, and recommended sending a greater force of Jedi to take back Theed. After another hour of dithering, Valorum acceded to the proposal.
Amidala smiled, triumphant.
At twenty-two, Padmé ran for senator. Senator Palpatine had resigned his seat just in time to help Padmé with her campaign.
She smiled up at her old mentor. “I thought you were getting too old for this.”
“Oh, not quite,” said Palpatine, his eyes twinkling. Then he sobered, and added humbly, “I am only too happy to advise you. I hope I may always be of service.”
They crushed the opposition.
At twenty-four, Senator Amidala seethed at her bill's glacial progress. It was all the worse because she probably had the widest support of anyone in the Senate, and remained popular outside it. Even Palpatine, generally so cautious in judgment, suggested that Chancellor Valorum's incompetence was slowing down even the usual bureaucratic processes.
She was even more furious when someone tried to assassinate her. Ineptly.
Chancellor Valorum fluttered over the news. Master Yoda, trailed by Obi-Wan Kenobi-a protégé of sorts-smiled tiredly at her. Even Palpatine, whose unwavering calm had been so reassuring through the years, fussed a bit. They unanimously agreed to send a Jedi to protect her.
“But it's so trivial,” she protested. “Surely any Jedi Knight has more pressing concerns.”
Valorum, Yoda, even Obi-Wan, looked long-suffering. Her eyes narrowed. Before the situation could degrade any further, Palpatine intervened.
“Senator Amidala and I are aware that the Jedi Knights are spread thin on the Republic's business. Yet she cannot be left unprotected. Perhaps an older padawan would be more suitable for this task. Surely there are promising Jedi among their number?”
Half-reluctantly, Obi-Wan said, “You may remember the boy my old master, Qui-Gon Jinn, took as his padawan. He may be-”
“Little Ani?” she cried.
Obi-Wan coughed. “Er. Yes. That is-he must be nineteen or twenty by now, but he is extremely gifted. He and Qui-Gon would be honoured, I'm sure, to protect you.”
She and Palpatine exchanged a glance.
“Very well,” she said.
Still at twenty-four, Padmé fell in love.
At twenty-six, Padmé Amidala heard that Chancellor Valorum had suddenly died.
“We've managed to prevent outright war this far,” she said, pacing in front of her window. “Valorum-whatever his other deficiencies-didn't want it any more than we did. But we can't count on that from his successor.”
“I still have some influence in the Senate,” said Palpatine modestly. “I should be able to affect the proceedings somewhat.”
Anakin, leaning against the doorframe, pushed some of his growing hair out of his eyes, but stayed quiet. He had never been very comfortable around Palpatine.
“Thank you,” she said, and frowned. “We need more than another Valorum. We need a real leader, a visionary, but one who can be decisive in a crisis.”
“Exactly,” said Anakin.
“Hmm.” Palpatine glanced between the two of them. “Yes, I believe I agree.”
The thought entered her mind that he meant to be Chancellor himself. She'd long ago come to the conclusion that his acumen was no more dulled by age than hers.
She and Palpatine left for the Senate, Anakin for the Temple. The day passed in a blur of activity, and by morning the Senate had chosen Valorum's successor.
It wasn't Palpatine.
At twenty-eight, Chancellor Amidala reluctantly agreed to an expansion of her wartime powers. If matters got much worse, entire sectors would be at war. For the good of the Republic, this had to be ended, and ended quickly. She would not stand by why the galaxy burned.
Nobody but the Jedi seemed to share her reluctance. And she had reason to believe that the Jedi were coming dangerously near to sedition-and perhaps worse.
“But not Anakin,” Amidala said swiftly.
Palpatine hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “Jedi Skywalker's first loyalties are to you and to the Republic, as are mine. That is why they fear him. It is no coincidence that he leads all their most dangerous missions.”
Her eyes went wide. “You think they're trying to kill him?”
“I think he will outlast them all,” said Palpatine.
At twenty-nine, Amidala received conclusive evidence of Jedi treason. Not only from Palpatine's agents, and her own, but an anguished Anakin.
When she presented the evidence to the Senate, they fell silent. Even now, the Chancellor alone had little authority over the Jedi Order. Whatever action was taken, they would bear responsibility for it. And there was no time for wavering. In desperation, they might do anything.
After several hours' horrified debate, the Senate agreed to disband the Jedi Order. Too little, she later said, and too late. She returned to her chambers to find the unlikely duo of Palpatine and Anakin fighting off a dozen Jedi.
Their leader was Mace Windu, who she had once called a friend. He said nothing, but one of the younger Jedi eventually revealed that almost the entire Order was complicit in the assassination plot. Amidala ordered them arrested.
After he was released from the hospital, Palpatine went straight to her office, waving aside her protests.
“There will be time for rest once this crisis is resolved. We may be at the most dangerous point in your career, my lady. There is talk-” he coughed delicately- “talk that the Senate is too corrupt and bloated to lead us.”
“That's what Padmé's for,” said Anakin.
“Yes.” Palpatine looked at her. “They call you Mother of the Republic-some more affectionately than others. But nearly all feel that they are only a disadvantage in these troubled times, and could serve you better in an entirely advisory capacity.”
Padmé paled. “You're talking about a dictatorship.”
“Not I, my lady,” said Palpatine. “I am only telling you what I have heard.”
“I can't believe the Senate would ever consider declaring me-what? Lady President?”
“Empress,” Palpatine said.
Anakin caught his breath. He clearly did not find the idea repugnant-nor did Palpatine, for all his side-stepping. She forced herself to laugh.
“I hardly make a very imperial figure at the moment,” she said, resting her hand on her belly. “Even if-this is impossible! After everything I've done, I can't imagine that they would ask this of me. And I certainly can't think they want a young pregnant woman as Empress, even granting that they want one at all.”
“Mother of the Republic,” repeated Palpatine. “You may never make a more powerful icon than you do right now. And I do not believe it has occurred to them that you might ever abandon what they choose to call your duty.”
He was right. The Senate overwhelmingly voted to grant her this last, final increase in responsibility; she refused. They voted again-seven times in four months, always with the same result. By the end, even Palpatine seemed to find her rejections a sort of selfishness, though he never said so. She couldn't even tell what Anakin thought.
In the end, it wasn't Palpatine or the Senate who convinced her-at least not the regular resolutions to declare themselves an empire. It was what could only be termed unforgivable incompetence, when her government failed to prevent not one but three wide-scale massacres within a single week. Palpatine would have kept the reports from her; Amidala insisted on hearing every detail.
Almost a million people. Three hundred thousand of them children. This wasn't only the Republic's failure, the Senate's. It was hers. She could have stopped this, could have-they were right, all of them. She was neglecting her duty.
Once more, the Senate voted to give the Republic its proper name: the Empire. Once more, they begged her to sacrifice everything she was for her people. All her people, everywhere.
Amidala bowed her head.
Two months later, she gave birth to twins: Luke and Leia, first prince and princess of the Empire.