Saga Concerto (Intertrilogy, Padmé) Updated 06-09-03

Consider this a string of loose Padmé vignettes all fitting in into one larger story--Padmé's search for something even slightly resembling life after the events of Episode III. All of the headings are musical terms. Concerto means "little concert" with many solo parts and the first part, "Diminuendo" means "growing softer."

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~Diminuendo~

It was the last day of five-month and Padmé Skywalker was reclining in the sunchair at the back of the Aldera palace, her eyes closed. Her light dress was damp with sweat, and her exposed skin was tanning quickly. She'd been lying there for several hours and a headache was starting to buzz between her temples, intensified by the hot red sunlight on the inside of her eyelids. After the first hour, she had fallen asleep and woken up a half-hour later, with a bad taste in her mouth from where her lips had pressed against the synthetic chair. Now she was beginning, slowly, to wish that she had gotten some water when she'd woken up. Her mouth was dry and she couldn't draw any moisture from her tongue. Bail would have a cold pitcher of water waiting inside, condenstation probably still clinging to the glass. She could go in now to get a drink, but part of her didn't want to move. Her skin was sticking to the chair, and there was a certain indolent pleasure in refusing to move. A Jedi could have done it, could have borne out the thirst in favor of the warmth. But Padmé was a former politician, not a Jedi. The water waiting for her directly inside seemed like an oasis. But was even in an oasis worth abandoning this newfound blankness in the sun?

Ten minutes later, she was still undecided, and no nearer a conclusion. Her mind turned in lazy revolutions around the topic, touching on it always from the same perspective, the same arguments and metaphors being resurrected again and again in her mind. Just the next room in. An oasis. A dead smile played at the corners of her parched lips. The smile hurt the edges of her mouth, and she thought she felt a momentary wet warmth on her skin after the expression stretched too far. The dry skin must have cracked. The salty taste of blood sank through her lips.

This was what she had brought herself to, this half-life where decisions that would have taken only an instant took dragging hours as they made their way through a mind trained to close steel traps on political disagreements and to trace transient scandals back to their source. She'd known for months that she was losing her grip on reality, but she hadn't known before that she was also losing her grip on her mind. Why not? Insanity, or indolence, in any case, was easier than thinking about Anakin and what had happened. She had debated with herself over the advisability of going inside for water, and with good, secret reasons that she didn't like to think about. Inside meant Bail and Saché and long talks that she wasn't ready for. Outside, she had found a momentary haven of dull basking in the sun. She'd heard the phrase "secret place" before. Anakin had used it once about the lake house on Naboo. "It's a place where I can be myself," he had said, as his lips grazed the skin on her neck. "With you." The sunchair wasn't a place where she could be herself (she didn't want to be herself anymore), but it was, at the very least, a place where she could forget who she once was.

Inside was water; but outside was as close to bliss as she was going to find anymore. And that was one of the things Padmé was certain about--she was certain about it because Obi-Wan and Bail Organa had taken the liberty of sitting down and drawing lines through the remaining years of her life, charting out a stay on Alderaan here, a visit to Tatooine there, a meeting with the new and wavering Rebel Alliance a week after that. Schedules and plans. Time slots in which she could visit her son and allotted weekends in which she could catch a glimpse of her daughter.

The choice between sun and water was like the choice between heaven and hell, only Pad

 

This well-written one-shot is only spoiled by the fact that you wrote it, Moonbeam.

I fear what else Padmé will have with her juice for the same reason.

 

Oh, sure, thanks, K_A.

"Coloratura" means vibrant and alive.

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~Coloratura~

Leia was five years old and had not yet learned to be quiet. Her voice rose above Padmé's soft instructions, vibrant and pleading. At first, Padmé thought that her daugher was only engaging in childish screams to declare her will, but then she was horrified to realize that Leia had been speaking, talking to her, and somehow, her ears had transformed the lovely, strident voice into shrieks and wails. Padmé was down on her knees in an instant, pressing her bronzed cheek against Leia's softer peach one, feeling the dampness of her own tears. The bangles on her wrist chimed together as she patted Leia's head and smoothed back dark, thick hair.

"I'm so sorry," Padmé whispered. Leia's sturdy hands wrapped themselves around her bony wrists, undoubtedly meaning the gesture as some sort of solace to her obviously distressed mother, but it only filled Padmé with more tears from a darker place. She stroked Leia's cheek and kissed her gently. "I'm sorry."

"Why, Mother?"

It was like a limping, crude joke. How did you explain to a child that you had mistaken their loud argument for animalistic cries? Answer: You don't. It wasn't funny, it wasn't ironic, but it almost made her laugh, and she had to stifle that rising humor by burying her face in hair that still smelled of floral shampoo.

"I was just thinking," Padmé lied, "that we shouldn't be arguing. We have so few days together that it isn't worth it to disagree."

Leia nodded enthusiastically, taking to this idea with the same passion as she had their argument. Soon she would no doubt become more opinionated and vocal, just like her parents, but for now, almost every idea seemed like a good one.

"Right!" Leia's sunny smile was like turning on a glowlamp in a pitch-black room. Padmé touched the corner of that mouth in wonder, the same thought rising in her mind, always the same as she viewed this child that she loved so much and saw so little--How could she come from me? "I miss you, Mother."

"I miss you too."

And she did miss Leia. She saw her infrequently, the palace was large and Bail carefully orchestrated mother and daughter apart so that no one he did not trust would see the resemblance between them. She sent gifts, expensively wrapped chocolates and soft stuffed animals, and they were always together for holidays, but no matter how many brightly-colored packages made their way to the princess's room, Padmé still felt (still knew) that she was less of a mother to Leia than Saché was. But she couldn't bring herself to say it or to act as if it were true. Saché may have been like her sister, but Leia was her daughter and Padmé couldn't help but selfishly begrudge Leia's affections for her surrogate mother.

"I'm sorry we quarreled." Leia's look was all open-faced honesty. Hopefully she'd learn to disguise her emotions if she was going to follow the path of Bail and herself into politics. Padmé suppressed a smile and didn't know why.

"It's okay, honey." Padmé stood and saw the slight indentations in the carpet where she had kneeled. "I barely remember what we were quarrelling about."

This was true and a lie at the same time. She didn't barely remember, she simply didn't remember at all. She had been saying things out of habit of making words with her mouth and throat, her mind knowing instinctively what was right to say, but she had not truly been apart of making those decisions. She had the faintest suspicion that Leia had wanted to go and play in the gardens, when Padmé could hardly be seen in public with her daughter. But that was only her estimate of the fight, a guess formed on logical reasoning. It made her sick. Two days a month with her daughter and she had been vacant for around ten minutes of those precious hours.

"Me neither." Leia's mouth drooped. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know," Padmé said. "Didn't Bail give you a new simulation recently

 

wow, what a cool idea! Love all the music references... Very cool description of Leia, and her screams... guess Padme doesn't have much life left...

 

Thanks, bobill. No, she doesn't have much life left, but she's going to get some of it back. Eventually.

A short one this time. "Berceuse" means "lullaby."

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~Berceuse~

Padmé had been to a thousand diplomatic meetings and hundreds of socialite parties, a drink in her hand as she listened to the bands, Bith if the hosts could afford it, strum corded acoustic instruments and breathe air in and out of long hollow flutes. Music had been part of her life since her father pulled her onto his lap and placed her small little-girl fingers on the strings of his favorite aqui, and let her rub her hands against them, making friction, making notes. Music had been there when she saw Anakin for the first time, tight chords drifting in through Watto's window as a slave played outside. A familiar tune had been cycling through her head when she gave birth to the twins, only the solos were replaced by her screams. She had known about music, but she had never in her whole life found anything so fine, so delicately wondrous, as Alderaanian songs.

They were visually stunning even though no one had ever captured them in an image that she knew of. It was just the summoning of pictures through her mind, some cataclysmically large, others falling snapshots of her own life. There was little she could do but stare in awe at the instruments the bands played, watch their fingers dancing over harp strings, and feel the pulse of the music overflow from within her. The music wasn't coming from them but from her, a silvery waterfall of sound and delight.

When they were brilliant with the tones of springtime, she laughed; when dropping into lower registers and slowing down to melancholy, almost defeated tones, she cried; when played vibrantly, to celebrate, she died a thousand times but lived those thousand lives and hundreds more.

She had a recording by her bed on a table. It had been a gift from Saché, who had noticed how eagerly and with what little-girl manner Padmé clasped her hands and directed her attention to listen to the musicians. Padmé accepted the gift with fervent thanks but the recording went untouched and unplayed. She placed it beside her bed and professed extreme love for the songs Saché had chosen, but she had never listened to it a single time. The slim bands of silver woven through it, embedded with electronic memory, grew dusty.

Yet she heard Alderaanian music every night as it streamed in through her window, just like it had that day on Tatooine. It was a young boy, accomplished with his harp, and with a young voice that had yet to crack and grow into the deeper tones of manhood. He serenaded her with childish songs, breaking up her normal mental pictures with those of faerie tale queens and kings, and the Jedi Knights that never, ever turned.

She has talked to him once, when she found him waiting for her as she left her room, just past the tangled limbs of the rose-trees. She spoke to him and he answered back in a cheerful, piping voice, replying to her inquiries that he liked her, she was beautiful, and he wanted to sing to her.

She told him he would be excellent one day, and wished that she had said he was excellent now.

But she didn't know his name and she didn't know what family he is from. It would ruin the good, sweet dream feeling that happened when she heard his small voice. In her mind, she called him Luke, and that was enough. That soft daydream was enough to get her through the day. Maybe even enough to make her live, if it came to that. Enough.

She patted her pillow down beneath her fingers and listened to Luke sing.

 

A beautiful, melancholy story.

 

These are wonderful, Mooné. The idea itself is very creative and highly orginial. I love it.

They're so sad!!!! You can really see the hell Padme is going thru.

Keep it up!

::Windstar Out::

 

Thanks, Dally. Bri, you've given me a thrill! I hope I can live up to the idea's originality.

Here's today's post, another shortie, but we're coming up to the beginning of a plotline, and this is the set-up.

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~Agitato~

Sometimes Padmé didn?t know if she was dreaming or awake.

The snippets of her life blended together into one long, continuous wind of yarn, the threads of her identities twisting together. As if by combining her experiences, she could come up with one answer, with one definition of herself. Senator? Queen? Wife? Mother? Surely none of those, because they were gone now. She hadn?t been a senator for years and she hadn?t been a queen for longer. She was a wife to a ghost and a mother to children she barely saw and did not know. But loved. Yes, loved, because it was so much easier that way. She loved them out of self-defense, because if she went to bed knowing that she did not love her children, she might go insane.

She might go insane anyway.

The snippets tie her together and give her, if not sanity, at least a blessed break from having to think about how far she?s gone from it. Remembering politics and intrigue stops her from remembering the Empire, and thinking about her first meeting with Anakin bricks up the memories of Vader?s cold armor and colder hands. When people asked her questions, and she stayed silent, she didn?t know if it was because she was too much in the past or too much in the present.

Who am I becoming? She wondered this when there were no memories to fill her head and no nightmares to haunt her. Who am I becoming, this former queen, former senator, former wife, former person? What do they see when they look at me and notice how thin I am, how I could be broken by the next chilled lake wind? What do they say when the dark circles under my eyes can?t be covered up with paint anymore? What will they say when I die?that I don?t look like I?m sleeping? That I don?t really look dead because I looked that way when I was alive, too? Will they pray to their gods that I have rest after I?m gone because I couldn?t find it here?

Who am I becoming? or more importantly, Who am I?

She would have said, if anyone would have asked her any of these questions, that she was at a standstill, caught in the sand. She was between identities and things to cling to, but she would find herself soon. Soon she would be in full color again. Maybe even beautiful again.

But that was the diplomatic answer, and she?d started to care less and less about democracy. Because the truth was that she didn?t know where she was, and couldn?t understand anything that was happening to her. She had been strong before, she had known who she was and what her life meant to others. She?d valued herself, and that had all been taken away in the most perverse sort of thievery.

So Padmé was adrift, and in truth, the strongest ties holding her to the worlds were not love for her children or a belief in the light. They were twins of hatred.

Because sometimes she hated Anakin, and sometimes she hated herself.

 

NOOOOO!! Don't let yourself die, Padme!!!! Gosh, this is so sad... comparing her almost dead self to a dead self... really good comparison... Ep 3's gonna have to be a real tearjerker to live up to this!

 

I love it Moon. I really do. I almost feel what Padme feels like, you write it so well. The haunting she must feel.

I'm curious, what does "Agitato" mean, musically. You said what all the others were, and i want to know this one too! It helps set up the post.

I cant wait for the plot to come.

::Windstar Out::

 

I'm so glad I stopped to read this - its so original and well written.

 

I discovered this just after reading the last chapters of one of my favourite ongoing fics and I can't express how delighted I am at your work. The idea of this story reminds me a lot of Meredith Mallory's From Wherever I Am - Padmé's prison diary. Here, she is also in a sense in prison - the prison of her mind, which is recoiling from reality because of her personal trauma. She is also in a sort of limbo - suspension, neither coming or going, no longer in a position of authority, relying on others for her welfare and life... At least, from what I can read between the lines...

I guess my favourite post would be the last one.. where she says that loving her children is an act of will and her motivation to live is hate. The use of imagery all through out - music, Leia (her screams and the leather straps), a glass of water vs. baking in the sun, etc., etc. is extremely well done. What I am trying to say is that I like this very much and I sincerely hope that I'm not finding another abandoned masterpiece!