In her nightclothes and robe, she would run to him and throw her tiny arms around his neck. For someone so small, her embrace was so warm and safe that it always brought him comfort. “Tell me a story, Papa!” she would plead. “Isn’t it time for you to be in bed?” “Well….I just wanted to see you before I go.” He would always reach out and tousle her hair, and she would crinkle her nose and giggle. Then, she would climb onto his lap. “Just one story, Papa, please? I promise I won’t be too tired in the morning.” Then she would look up at him with her wide brown eyes framed with thick lashes that even at that age she artfully used to get exactly what she wanted. “All right, poppet,” he would chuckle, “but then it’s off to bed.” “I love you, Papa.”
It was a day like any other, despite the chaos that now engulfed the Galaxy at large. Somehow, Naboo always seemed immune, even when it was not. Ruwee Naberrie had arisen from his bed and stretched his arms high above his head as he looked out his window to see the morning mist still hanging in the air. He made his way downstairs, following the smell and sound of sizzling shaak steak and peko-peko eggs. Jobal had smiled at him warmly and accepted a quick kiss on the cheek before returning to her cooking. Just as they both sat down at the table, the door chime sounded. They looked at each other curiously, wondering who in the universe would be calling on them at this early hour. Jobal rose and answered the door. Ruwee heard muffled conversation coming from the foyer, and cocked his head to listen hard. Without explanation, an ominous feeling came over him, his appetite disappearing as he went to join his wife at the door. He arrived just in time to hear her scream in anguish. And then, she collapsed. Ruwee cringed as the unwanted memories assailed him. It had been so simply stated. “I am sorry sir, but your daughter is dead.” The messenger had said it with such ease, as if announcing the weather forecast. Dead. “There…there must be some mistake….” “No sir. The Queen has asked that her condolences be extended to you and your family.” “I…I don’t understand….” “It seems that she…perished while on a mission,” the messenger concluded. “I am afraid I have no further details, but the Queen has asked me to assure you than a full investigation is ongoing.” All Ruwee could do was stand there with a vacant expression on his face and nod. Dead? “Sir?” “Yes?” “Naboo has suffered a great loss. The Senator…she was truly a hero.” Ruwee nodded again. Dead? Dead?
I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where you come from. And I pray to the gods that our paths will never cross, because if they do I am not sure that I can be held responsible for my actions. So why, do you ask, am I bothering to write you? It is because you have taken something away from me that was more precious to me than anything in the Galaxy. I want to tell you about a girl. A beautiful, vibrant little girl with ribbons in her hair. When she came into my life, I never knew it possible to love another being so much. Oh, I loved my older child, but I never understood how I could love a second one as much as I loved the first. Surely my heart did not have that capacity. But it did. She never cried. She just sat around with her fist in her mouth, brown eyes wide with curiosity as she contemplated in wonder the new world around her. I can see her toddling around my parlor on chubby little legs. She fell so many times. One time, she fell and hit her head on the corner of a table. It bruised and bled. But my little girl did not allow her misfortune to keep her from doing what she knew in her heart she could do. That single-minded determination gave me more than a few gray hairs, I assure you. But it also allowed her to become a staunch defender of the rights and liberties of all beings. When she was six, she stood for hours on end as my husband and I helped prepare baskets of food and supplies for refugees. My daughter was probably just as helpless as those poor souls. The top of her little head, now full of chestnut-brown curls, could barely be seen behind the table, even when she stood on her tiptoes. Yet she diligently worked to fill those baskets, and willed everyone else to continue despite our aching backs and feet. And she never complained. Even then, my daughter had dedicated her life to the service of others. By the age of fourteen, when she began her reign as the Queen of Naboo, my daughter had already accomplished so much. By the end of her reign, she had saved our planet from certain devastation at the hands of greedy warmongers. No one would have beguiled her had she stepped out of public service and into a life of her own. But she did not. Her duty to serve her people as long as she was capable took precedence over all else. And despite numerous threats and attempts on her life, she stayed the course, as brave as any soldier on the field of battle. Her compassion and loyalty and concern not only for the citizens of Naboo, but for all beings compelled her to carry on with her mission. That was Padmé Naberrie the public servant. I want you to know about Padmé Naberrie, the human being. She was beautiful. She was strong. She was the light of our lives. She had two little nieces. A sister. Cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. When she laughed, the room would light up, because her smile was a ray of sunshine. When she cried (which was rarely), everyone would want to cry along with her. And this is something I did not know until it was revealed to me yesterday. Padmé Naberrie was going to be a mother. A mother. My baby girl was going to have a baby of her own, the family she so desperately wanted. And you took that away from her. I have to wonder something. Did she beg for her life? Did she beg for the life of her unborn child? Did she plead with you to spare her just long enough so that her son or daughter might live? She would have gone in his or her place, certainly. Just as I would have gone in hers. I know that I shall never receive the answers to my questions, the biggest of which is why this happened. Padmé—my Padmé—would never have hurt anyone. And despite what you did to her, what you stole from her, I am certain that she would ask me to forgive you. I am not as strong as my daughter was. I cannot bring myself to forgive the person who took it upon himself to end her life in an act of deplorable violence. I cannot find it in my heart to pardon the person whom, in destroying my daughter’s life, also ended the life of my grandchild before he or she could take a single breath. All I can do now is pity you, and hope that the gods will have mercy on your soul as you live every day with the sound in your ears of Padmé imploring you to pardon her life for the sake of the precious, innocent baby she carried. You may have overpowered her when you strangled the life out of her, but you are not strong. You may think that what you did was for some greater good, but you are not good. You may believe that you have courage, but you are not brave. Those are the things my daughter was. Those are things that you will never be. Jobal Naberrie