[SW fic] And You Finally Understand
Summary: AU. After the death of Anakin and their unborn children, Padmé falls in her own way.
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; talk of miscarriage.
Professional note: Written for hc_bingo; the prompt being "Fall from Grace." The title comes from a Stevie Nicks song called, naturally, "Fall From Grace."
Personal note: I have completely not felt like writing Star Wars for the last few months. And I hate that, because I love this fandom, and because I have several unfinished fics that I'm committed to completing. And I really do need to do an RL entry soon. Tomorrow, maybe.
Honest note: THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN GOOGLE DOCS FOR MONTHS AND I FINALLY FINISHED IT, YESSSSSSSS. AT 1:00 IN THE MORNING. AFTER A LONG NIGHT OF ACTUALLY CALLING OUT TALKING TO THE MODS OF A REASONABLY WELL-KNOWN WEBSITE. WHICH I KIND OF HOPE EXPECT TO BE BANNED FROM TOMORROW.
“My Lady, there are people outside.”
Padmé stares at the ceiling, a perfect, immaculate stretch of white. She wishes there were a flaw, a stain to focus on and twist into pictures or mirages in her mind. “Who?”
“Reporters from all the Holo-Net channels. They want to know what you have to say. The healers advised me not to tell you, but you had asked to know if anyone came…I thought that they would count…” The handmaiden trails off with an undertone of panic in her voice, taking Padmé’s lack of emotion for some sign that the healers were correct, as if confirming what she already knew would lead to some sort of great distress.
“You were right, Moteé,” she says, trying and failing to sound reassuring. “Thank you."
Moteé nods, avoiding Padmé's eyes. "Is there anything...anything I can do for you? Get for you?"
Bring back my children, she thinks. Bring me back the man that I married.
"A communications device," she replies instead. "Something that will connect to the HoloNet." The ward doesn't provide them, and she hates being cut off from everything and everyone. The healers' whispers stop when they enter, but that just makes it worse. She has to know what they're saying about her, if it's as bad as the things that she's thinking about herself.
Moteé hesitates. They've clearly spoken to her about what she can and can't do. "I don't know..."
"Please," she presses. "I won't tell them who gave it to me. You won't be identified with it at all. I promise, on my name."
At this point, her name is probably the worst thing that she could possibly swear upon, if what she's seen from past Senate affairs holds true (and she knows that this fall, this is worse than a few lewd pictures of her surfacing, more heinous than someone being discovered in a compromising position with an aide.) But she has to know. She's never been able to turn away from dirty facts at any other point in her career, and even if Bail has suspended from her senatorial position ("It pains me to do this, Padme, and I wish that I could without our friendship being harmed, but in the midst of what's happened...you'd do the same, I think...") the part of her that refuses to live in a cloud of ignorance hasn't fallen silent.
"I'll try," Moteé promises, and although she sounds reluctant she too is dedicated to her duty, and two days later she hands Padme a small data-pad with HoloNet access and a range strong enough to cover Coruscant and beyond.
“ANAKIN SKYWALKER CONFIRMED DEAD ON MUSTAFAR!
Our sources have revealed exclusive proof that backs up the claims of standing Chancellor Bail Organa that state that Anakin Skywalker, the previously-called “Hero With no Fear” did indeed perish on the fiery shores of…”
Padmé scrolls on through the headlines. She knew that one anyway; doesn’t want to think about it any more than she has to.
“JEDI SURVIVORS DISCOVERED ON FELUCIA!”
“LOCATION OF PADAWAN OF FALLEN SKYWALKER STILL UNKNOWN!”
“A SITH PRIMER: A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE DARK ORDER FORMER CHANCELLOR PALPATINE LORDED OVER…”
She resists the urge to read all of them, learn which friends made it out, which ones were brought down by clones, and which ones Anakin killed himself. Later, she promises. It’s her duty to know, after all. It’s her responsibility as Anakin’s wife to not turn a blind eye to all of the atrocities that he committed. She owes that much to the galaxy.
But for now, she needs to know what they’re saying about her. It won’t be good, but in the wake of Anakin’s actions, she probably deserves it. She chose to associate with him. She is the avatar of his legacy, and there is nothing that she can do to change it.
“HOW MUCH DID SKYWALKER’S PARTNER KNOW ABOUT HIS SITH INVOLVEMENT? FIND OUT HERE…”
“WIFE OF FALLEN JEDI STILL HOSPITALIZED…”
They used to call Padmé by her name, or just “Senator,” or “Former Naboo Queen,” if they were desperate for an epithet. Now that part of her identity has been smudged into a blur of “wife” and “partner.” She’s now one-half of a set, not her own self: her relationship with Anakin is all that matters.
But Padmé assumed that would happen, and it’s not what she’s looking for. What she has to have is the start of it all, the root of what they know. What they were saying about her when they found out, and how quickly they were willing to turn.
She goes further back into the archives to find what she needs.
“BREAKING STORY: HIGH-PROFILE SENATOR WAS HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH FALLEN JEDI ANAKIN SKYWALKER!”
“SOURCES REVEAL THAT SENATOR WAS ACTUALLY MARRIED TO ANAKIN SKYWALKER…”
Being a queen taught her how to keep her face tight and impassive at all times. She draws from this now as she reads the articles that chronicle her quick fall, from impassioned politician to outcast harlot in a matter of days.
“ONETIME SENATOR FORCED TO RESIGN FROM HOSPITAL BED…”
“TRANSCRIPTS OF CONVERSATIONS BETWEEN FALLEN JEDI AND WIFE LEAKED FROM TEMPLE!”
“SKYWALKER/AMIDALA AFFAIR CONDUCTED OVER AT LEAST THREE YEARS…”
Finally she finds it, buried under a week's worth of newer, more important news: the article that broke it all, hours after Anakin nearly brought democracy to its knees, after Obi-Wan and Yoda had destroyed Palpatine.
"BREAKING: SKYWALKER WAS HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH PROLIFIC SENATOR PADMÈ AMIDALA--DETAILS TO FOLLOW!"
Some would say that it's more important to know what's happening now but Padmé is too seasoned a politician to believe that. To know why things are happening now, you need to know where it all began. If she ever wants to redeem herself, she needs to be aware of everything that they are and have been saying about her.
She opens the article and begins to read.
When the healer comes the next morning, she just has time to hide away the data-pad, although this time she doesn't pretend to be sleeping, like she did when the night shift healers looked in on her. She busies herself with the tray of food that a service droid brought in a half-hour before.
"Good morn, Padmé." Healer Sima, a pretty Noorian woman, nods politely at her. "You're eating well, I see. How do you feel?"
Sick, she thinks, disgusted by all of the assumptions and hatred she's seen directed towards her when she hasn't said even a word on the matter; nauseous by all the people who think she supported Anakin. Furious at the people talking like they know what happened when they don't. They have no idea.
"Healthy. You and your team are miracle workers." She does her best to smile, although whether or not any warmth cracks her face is a mystery to her.
"That's good to hear." Sima checks her chart. "And it seems to be backed up. Also good...I think it's time to start considering transferring you to a different facility."
"Oh?"
"Physically, you're quite healthy, and physical ailments are what we're best equipped to work with. There's no reason for you to remain here. What healing you have left to do will take place over time. We have the names of several specialists to refer to you...the addresses of several retreats..."
"Retreats? I'd rather be released directly." She knows exactly what the healer means, that she isn't in the most stable place mentally, and hasn't been since before they transferred her off of the asteroid base here to Coruscant. But she can't just go off to some wild planet and expect things to be better; can't content herself with taking pills and talking with doctors. She has to do something to try to regain control of her life.
"We can't prevent you from leaving here, of course. I can get you the papers, if you're certain that you've thought this through."
And of course, she hasn't thought this through, not really, but what other options are there? She's confined to Coruscant ("You won't be imprisoned while they're doing the investigation, I promise you that, Padmé. And I'm sure they'll find you innocent; you couldn't have known about Anakin's...associations.") and she can't stay in the hospital forever. Returning to her apartment is the first step in trying to glue her life back into something whole. Even if it's a sloppy version of what she had before, at least it will be something solid and whole, instead of a pile of dust and shattered pieces.
“I have,” she says firmly, and by noon she’s back in front of the door to her apartment, and pictures of her in her hospital gown as she leaves are already circulating the HoloNet.
Two hours after Padmé has been home, her private comlink rings. She glances down at the number, hesitates, and ends the call. She can’t stand to see him, not yet.
He calls later on in the evening too. She ignores him again.
“Have you received any guests?” asks Moteé hesitantly as she sips her tea. “Has anyone come by?”
“No. Not yet. I don’t know if I’d see them if they did.” She looks down at her own cup. Threepio made it better, but she hasn’t activated him up yet, nor has she seen Artoo. They remind her too much of everything that she lost. The whole apartment does, but she’s managed to make it a bit better, throwing out Anakin’s old robes and what few personal possessions he kept there. It was never his home. She can’t justify getting rid of the golden droid, though-he’s too useful, and maybe one day she’ll be able to look at him without that overwhelming sense of bitterness and loss. The astromech just hasn’t shown up. She thinks he’s at the Temple, but she can’t bring herself to check.
“That’s probably wise. For them, I mean. You know that pictures of anyone who came to visit would be leaked within an hour of them entering your door. They’re dogs, the media these days. They'd be digging through your trash, if you had one.”
She tossed Anakin's Padawan braid into the incinerator. Didn't even bother to be sentimental about it, admire how it was still perfectly pleated, or think about how it was probably the last DNA of her husband's remaining. She just let it burn, like all the rest of him had.
"I know. I'm glad I don’t."
After they finish their tea, Moteé insists on taking Padmé's clothes to the cleaners on her own, and offers to do any other errands she might have. Padmé knows that she should insist on doing these things on her own, start rebuilding her life like she plans to, but she allows her onetime handmaiden and longtime friend to do it instead, because she knows that she isn’t ready to do so on her own.
It’s been exactly five weeks in Coruscant’s time when Padmé glances at the headlines and sees plastered across it, “BREAKING: SKYWALKER WIFE WAS PREGNANT, MISCARRIED AFTER HUSBAND’S DEATH.”
She stares at it blankly as she scrolls down, reads about files leaked from Polis Massa, and from the healer that had been overseeing her pregnancy.
When she's finished, she drops the data pad and sinks down to her couch, frozen. They know everything now.
Before this, maybe she could have gotten away with painting their romance as a wild fling made up of brief interludes between his deployments (and it wouldn't entirely be a lie; perhaps that's all that it was, even if it feels like so much more). But now, now they know that she was pregnant with Anakin's children. She kept them; would've continued his bloodine, if the birth hadn't gone all wrong. The one thing she didn't want them to find out they know.
Moteé calls her later, but she tells her in a flat, surprisingly steady voice that she’s okay, she just wants to be left alone. Moteé says she’ll respect that, but there’s definite worry in her voice, and she insists that Padmé contact her the following morning, just so that she knows everything is all right.
It’s a reasonable request, and Padmé dully agrees to it, although the suggestion that this is “all right” just because she hasn’t yet lost the will to live is completely foolish-practically laughable, although she can’t find much to laugh about these days.
She can’t bring herself to go out; to show her face. Moteé brings her what she needs, and she gets by in her living quarters. It isn’t like the rest of the galaxy holds anything for a pariah such as herself.
Padmé idly watches Bail Organa give his four-month address, and it doesn’t escape her notice how many of the questions are about her. An unexpected pang of sympathy strikes her-he doesn’t deserve this. It isn’t his fault that they were friends.
That day she calls Moteé, who answers seconds after she sends the signal with a concerned-sounding, “Yes?”
“Moteé I’d…I’d like to see you. Just to have a drink together? If you’re free right now, of course.”
“Of course,” she replies, surprised. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
They say their parting remarks, and it occurs to Padmé that this is the first time in a long while that she’s called Moteé over instead of her dropping by without being invited-and that it’s been even longer since she’s asked her over as a friend, instead of as a handmaiden, a connection to the world outside her doors.
It’s odd: there isn’t one great big event that makes Padmé feel like she did before all of this happened. There are just a series of small events that slowly begin Padmé’s healing: the first time she ventures out of her apartment since she came, finally overcome with a claustrophobic sort of boredom. When she’s able to walk outside without being hunched over and draped in a heavy robe. The moment when she actually wants to see Naboo and her family, who have distanced themselves from her-not out of hatred, she understands, but because once Anakin fell and their marriage was revealed, she turned into someone who they didn’t know. Although, to her credit, Sola did try to contact her-it was Padmé who refused; unwilling to face anyone she doesn’t absolutely need.
She goes there almost a year after her miscarriage, walking past the hoards of reporters with her head held high. They ask, demand, that she say something, but she doesn’t give in. They’ll never know who she was, and at this point it isn’t worth trying to show them.
Her family is wary, but welcoming, Sola the most. They listen to her side of the story, what she’s willing to talk about. And they give her a place to stay, with them. She’s thankful that Naboo doesn’t have the same sort of dogs that follow her with demands for her to tell them what they want to hear, to look in the recorders just like they need.
Moteé accompanies her there. Padmé is eternally thankful for her and her friendship, and she pays for her to have as much time as she wants in a small, beautiful lake house. Moteé insists that it was no trouble at all, that any loyal friend would have done the same, but eventually she accepts the vacation, promising that she’ll be back within a month.
Padmé knows that she couldn’t have made it with no one to stand by her. She’s glad to reward Moteé; would give her whatever she asks-but secretly, she’s glad that she’ll be back soon.
A few weeks into her time on Naboo, she’s watching a broadcast from Coruscant when they abruptly switch to what she instantly recognizes as the Jedi Temple. It isn’t what it used to be; burns still mar its highest towers, and its presence somehow seems diminished. The security that was taken from it probably won’t ever be replaced.
But she doesn’t let her thoughts dwell on that. Instead she focuses on the figure on the highest step, wearing a calm that’s a clear façade woven from years of practice. He looks so different from when she last saw him: his face is no longer covered in ashes and tear streaks, his hair no longer matted with sweat. Obi-Wan looks like the immaculate Jedi Master that she knew years ago as she listens to him talk about the Temple’s progress in growing beyond what happened, and becoming even greater than it was before Order 66 was executed.
Eventually he’s asked about her, about whether he was aware of her involvement with his Padawan, about whether he can shed any light on what she was doing all those months that she spent inside her apartment.
He doesn’t hesitate, and his response is so firm and crisp that she would think he’d prepared it beforehand, if there wasn’t something behind it that seemed completely sincere. “Anakin’s affair is over and done with. Padmé Amidala no longer has any connection to the Temple, and anything that I know about her current situation is private, and will be kept that way.”
“Did she force you into a contract of sort? Something to swear that you won’t talk?” presses the reporter, a particularly man with blond hair and pale green skin.
“No,” Obi-Wan says, and this time there’s an edge to his voice, a reminder that he spent years as a warrior. “It’s based on the confidentiality of friendship. Are there any other questions?”
The rest of an interview passes in a blur, and Padmé is too lost in her thoughts to properly listen. He still considers her a friend, even after he finally stopped trying to contact her. Even after she ignored him, staunchly refused to speak to him because she couldn’t stand seeing him, even though his quickness was probably the only thing that kept her from slipping away with her children.
She contemplates this until the interview is over and he’s gone inside, retreating to the privacy of the Temple.
A few hours later, Padmé picks up her com-link and dials a private number, hoping that it hasn’t changed.
“Padmé?” says a warm, worried voice. “Is this really you?”
“Yes. Hello, Obi-Wan.” She swallows hard, but at last she’s ready to speak to the only other person alive who really knew Anakin before he fell.
It’s a long way up, but she can do this. She can heal.