Saga Night and Night / 2023 Fanfiction Olympics

Title: Night and Night
Genre: "Ah, ah, one more kiss"
Characters: Original characters Amilia and Florian
Summary: One night in three (and a bit) parts.

"But I haven't done anything," he said. "Yet."

*This is my entry for the 2023 Fanfiction Olympics in the Triathlon category. It's the moment before the last minute here, but look: I made it!

*The title comes from "Just One More Kiss" by BUCK-TICK.

Spoiler

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Index:

1. Prime-Time Coverage
2. Tennis Match
3. 1500 Word Dash + bonus: 100 Word Sprint

 

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Night and Night



1. [Prime Time Coverage: Minimum 500 words of action, adventure, or excitement with your chosen character, friendship, family or couple as the star.]


As soon as dinner was over, we made our escape into the bluebell evening outside. I told my mother (while my father stood at the patio doors staring down the garden trees) we were going for a walk, and that was what we did. We entered the lakeside footpath where it passes by the front gate, and turned north, following it away from the main cluster of houses. We were the only ones out there, and the one distinct sound was the slap of water touching the shore. The air was still bruised-sore from the long hot day, but it was starting to cool off now that the sunlight had withdrawn. This is as close to peace as I’m capable of knowing, and I knew it wouldn’t last much longer than a moment.

Then other people would enter the scene: and with them, their voices breaking through the silence hovering about us. With my usual luck, it would be the matching little girls from the new Young Family in the cloud-house, all a-giggle merely from existing. Or it would be one of the local elder couples out for their evening stroll.

Before that happened, I took the opportunity to ramble through the clutter of my thoughts. I needed to just think. Florian went along with my wishes, though that isn’t at all what he prefers. He does know how to wait, far more so than you might assume.

(Almost as though he learned so many years ago, he doesn’t remember how: as though he spent hours of his childhood sitting on the end of his mother’s bed while she lay far away in a deepdark sleep, listening to the drone of her breath. She’ll wake up eventually, his grandparents, the occasional other relative, the housekeeper told him. She always does.)

As I walked, my mind began to float. The darkening clouded sky was enormous overhead, and I was but a small insignificant detail moving in the landscape below it. All while I was fully aware of my physical self, without having to feel it as a burden: of the ghost-breeze brushing past over my face, and my feet hitting the stamped-smooth earth of the trail with each step. And of course, I was, in all ways, aware of Florian’s presence next to me.

He fluttered his hand over to me. I could both see it happen from the edge of my eye and feel his movement. I answered by catching it, and he tangled his fingers with mine.

The act of holding hands is acceptable in public. It couldn’t look more innocent: after all, little girls like the ones from the cloud-house, sisters and heart-friends, will go hand in hand as they walk through the world. (Though I didn’t ever like being one half of those pairs, when I was chained up with my younger sister Almira in matching dresses.) Though I haven’t noticed any of the older couples around here doing so. Perhaps they’ve just outgrown any need for it.

It looks innocent, that is. As I held his hand, I brushed my thumb in a little dance over the back of his knuckles. He was pleased. I didn’t have to see him fully to know what I could feel.

We stopped when we reached one of the narrow side beaches. Florian looked off across the lake, and I followed his gaze. The wind had picked up, and the inkdark sprawled waters were thrashing with waves. There was a small rowboat swaying back and forth out in the distance, the last fisherman out for the evening, and I could hear the first lark-pitched warning shots from the little girls I had been expecting just as they ran out across the long arm of the dock.

It would be easy to say the night was beautiful. Lovely, soothing, and yes: peaceful. That the lake was beautiful. And that would be an accurate enough word to use. But like most words I know, it doesn’t truly describe the feeling the night had. I wish I could have snapped a picture instead of babbling on here. But if I had, it would have been only a static-dust holo.

After a moment, I turned back to Florian. I enjoy looking at him. I can admit to that now, but the truth is that I always have. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, and his skin had a moonlight glow in the fading blue light. He smiled at me—that insolent teasing, all too knowing look, that was wasted on our former political studies—before he looked back out at the lake.

He shook his head, and: “Ah, kids. Set free to be their true feral little selves. I’m going to assume those two aren’t on the political darling track.”

“You would be correct,” I said. Their shrieking voices erupted flying through the air as they appeared again, racing chasing each other to the community beach. “No prodigies here.”

The lake hasn’t changed in any notable ways from my memories of my schooldays life here, which is how I had described it to Florian before we made this our first trip together. It’s all old people and little kids, especially these days. Everyone in the old group has moved on. We’ll be the only ones of our kind around, I had said.

Now I gestured over the lake, towards the far eastern lilyweeds, and the tall woods-lights standing at attention amongst the ragged shadowblack trees above the shoreline. “It’s just as I told you. You’re the most interesting event—I mean, person—going on here.”

“Thank you, Amilia.” He took up my hand again and kissed my palm, the pulse on the back of my wrist: and even though this wasn’t at all the first time, I still felt my breath shiver. I blinked myself back to attention. “But I haven’t done anything. Yet.”

I felt myself smile at that. “I see. Yet.”

He stepped down the bank onto the beach, and regarded the lake in front of us for a moment before he turned back to me. He arched up his eyebrows. He dared me. “You know, I’ve noticed no one out here has dared the waters tonight. In that case, I ought to be the first.”

“Yes,” I said. “Be the example we all need.”

Florian had already begun to unfasten his shirt, his pale dream-blurred fingers darting in motion, and I could feel it once again as he smiled in the light leaking from the wood-light standing off the path behind me. “Thank all that is good and royal that I’m up for the responsibility.”

While he undressed, I sat down on the edge of the bank and went through the process of taking off my shoes, and then my stockings. The beaches here are left to their natural states, and so this one doesn’t have sand so much as crumbled bonewhite scratching-rough rocks. I cringed my toes against it as I walked out. I left my dress in the pile with Florian’s clothes, and plunged straight out into the water—without thinking, or taking the time to adjust myself to the ice-cracking cold of it.

As the waters swelled up around my legs, puffing out my petticoat, I remembered back to one particular time when I was ten years old, on the opening of the midsummer holiday. We had left school early for the party Vernette’s mother was hosting. After luncheon, we all rushed out to the beach. Even though I can swim reasonably well, I chose to merely wade in up to my knees instead of disappearing into the water with the others. I went out locked up inside my dress, holding my skirts up around my knees so only the hem was stained wet. And that had been good enough for me.

But mostly, I remembered the one moment when something brushed against my ankle down in the water, as that one boy in my elder sister Atossa’s class—whose name I would rather not write down even though I have outgrown every thought I had about him—touched me, teasing me in passing as he swam past. His fingers, as his body made that contact with mine, were as cold as the water around us. Then it was over, and I was left flushed with a sickly warm rose-pink blush.

Of course, however it might have felt, I knew it couldn’t be a merman: a mystery I had read about in a few of the stories during our folklore unit, with wild flowing blacker-than-night hair and sleek greywhite skin that was as cold and slippery as the lake itself.

No, the only being that could snatch at me from the waters here would be a Gungan, and our lake isn’t large enough for one of their settlements.

Then I snapped my attention back to the present. The coldness in the water washed the last of the stickyheavy sunlight off my skin, and I pushed in further, walking out towards the young man who was with me now, who was my lover, and not the fantasy I had waiting lying alone in bed.

Florian didn’t so much as hint a warning before he threw a wave of water over at me. It landed with a silversharp burst of stardust, and I was stunned into a giggling hahahha. I splashed him right back, delivering a burst of water that broke into glittering raindrops as it crashed on him.

He responded with a second splash of his own, and I returned with a third. My hair had fallen loose into a tear-dripping rambling mess, and I had to shove it back out of my way.

“How long has it been since you did something like this?” he said.

“My entire life,” I said, and gave him another light slapping splash. “I never had a talent for any joking around. It seems I have finally gotten serious about it.”

It was dark enough by then that I could only just see him through the blurred shadows, but I felt his voice as it came over to me: “Oh, trust me. You are very serious.”

The water seemed to hold me, rolling up around my waist, as I went over to him. When he met me, he was as sleek and wild smelling as that merman would have been, and when we kissed, his mouth tasted of the mountainside snow waters. Only he was warm, and his hips, his back were solid and not made from water-melting bones. Oh, I breathed, as we kissed once again, as we have an endless number of times.

When we slipped apart again, returning to the rest of the world, I almost didn’t take any notice of the small figure of a woman marching, her back held as rigid as a tree trunk, into view. Almost: because I did see her, and I recognized her at once. It was Madame Simas. Of course, it was Madame Simas, out lurking on one of her rounds.

I hadn’t seen her, or given her a first thought, in years. I wasn’t at all pleased to see her in the present, though I can’t say I was surprised either. Madame Simas was a local fixture when I was in secondary school. When our group was out roaming about the lakeshore, she was always and ever crossing our path. Wherever we happened to go, she would soon appear with her mincing primly grim walk, staring us down with her large glowing-blank pastel blue eyes.

Sometimes she would be in one of her more agreeable moods, but that never lasted more than a few minutes. Then one of us would happen to say something, anything—and Garvin had a gift for just casually dropping the most archly outrageous things into our conversation—and she would be off. She would exhale, and: Well, she would snap. Well!

I can see now, with a few years of hindsight, that we were meaner to her than we needed to be. But there was a reason we didn’t like her, and it’s the same reason I don’t care for her now.

She was staring at us through the pathside light, and I could hear her breath rush forth with her customary snorted-harsh outraged gasp. When she deigned to speak, I noted she had a pleased-smug edge to her voice: “Amilia Kergher-Thane! Frolicking away with boys, I see. Surely you can think of at least one higher pursuit to occupy your time with.”

I had opened my mouth to deliver a retort Garvin might have approved of, but Florian spoke first: “Oh, don’t worry about that. We were only just now having a light philosophical debate. On the spiritual merits of frolicking. Sexual and otherwise. I can’t think of any higher pursuit than that.”

“Well!” Madame Simas sniffed, and the glow of her white housegown shimmered a step back. She had begun to make her retreat. “You’re a bold one.”

He offered her a mocking bow I knew she could see. “You’re welcome.”

She sniffed again, as her last response, before she continued on her way. Once her white gown had shivered out of view, we started to laugh. As soon as I could untangle my voice, I said: “I’m going to hold you to that philosophical debate. Beginning this very night.”

“As you should,” he said. “Just be warned I won’t hold back.”

It was full dark when we headed back to the house, lit only by the hovering moons from the woods-lights, and the occasional buzzing silver fey-light in the sky over the lake. The only other people still out were and about were my mother’s friends Kathé and Min. They took in the full exposed view of our bedraggled hair and sticky wet clothes, and I think they understood. Kathé nodded at us, and Florian did not so much as hesitate. He smiled (wickedly, acknowledging what we all knew) back.


*

 

Great start of your Olympics triathlon with nice characters

 

Findswoman: Ooh, yay, you did it! Very striking start to this triathlon, with a very specific type of action that may well lead into another!

Yes, I did it--and I'm still stunned that I pulled it off there in the last few days.

As for action, I certainly took the genre of "Ah, ah, one more kiss..." seriously.

Man, that Mme Simas sounds like a real piece of work, butting in like that on frolics that don’t concern her. Yet at the same time I can tell that her little remark to Amilia sums up the entire attitude of this version of Naboo culture: girls are supposed to be perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed little goddesses constantly thinking Deep Philosophical-Political thoughts rather than wasting their time with those second-class citizens called Boys.

Oh, she is that. Madame Simas (whose title indicates she was married at one point, and there was a bit I cut where Amilia confirms that once upon a long ago time she was) is actually based off a character from a rambling shaggiest dog story from my sister's and my raging minds when I was about fourteen, where she was the most judgmental "Hmmmph!" ing old lady stereotype ever. Here she's on Naboo and a bit more refined, but still constantly getting on the "young people's" nerves--and I think it's clear from what Amilia relates of her adolescent days that the Madame received plenty of backtalk in return.

(Though unlike "frolicking!" I suspect that backtalk is not only tolerated from the young and pure of heart on Naboo, it's nigh on encouraged. Just not the sort that Amilia and her compatriots were dishing out.)

I do see Madame Simas as being an outlier in both her prudish attitudes (and hopefully I have shown other characters Amilia and Florian encounter as being a good deal more accepting) and her tendency to inflict her opinions on other people's lives. Since Naboo culture is canonically supposed to value personal privacy--in both the old EU and E.K. Johnston's new canon--most people would know to keep any disapproving thoughts they might have to themselves.

Overall, I must admit that I still find it difficult to get a grip on Naboo culture just going by what is shown in the movies--and I have been trying for years. So this is all an ever-evolving work in progress. But there is one thing that comes across quite clearly: what we do see of Naboo are oh yes, perfectly dressed and coiffed goddesses. While the vast majority of girls wouldn't be anywhere near the overdressed levels of the Queens--or even their invisible-in-plain-sight attendants--that would be an ideal, the ideal, to which they would be expected to look up to.

Which is more than a little sad, given that Amilia and Florian clearly genuinely enjoy being with each other and are having genuine fun together on this little impromptu dip. Enjoyment shouldn’t be off limits to a Naboo girl, nor should romance!

It is a little sad, but in the end, Madame Simas' hang-ups are her problem--and Amilia and Florian literally have the last laugh. And presumably continue frolicking.

So glad this series is a go—looking forward to seeing what other ways Amilia and Florian’s romance will buck Naboo culture and etiquette!

Like the Carpenters once sang, they've only just begun...

Thanks for reading and commenting!

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earlybird-obi-wan: Great start of your Olympics triathlon with nice characters

I'm glad to hear you like them. Thanks for reading and commenting!

 

[2. Tennis Match: Write a story of 100 or more words that is dialogue-only to create a true volley of words.]



“Since we’re on the subject, I’m curious now. Did you ever have boyhood daydreams of someday ascending to the throne as King?”

“Oh onk, no. You should know I have a far better imagination than that. Besides, given that we haven’t allowed a boy to sit upon our most esteemed throne as King in centuries, I would have been wasting my dreams.”

“And you wouldn’t ever do that.”

“Never, my dearest and fiercest. I dream and I live my dreams.”

“But why do you think that is?”

“You mean, why can men take the throne in theory, but never in reality? I suspect we’re to just accept it. No need for any introspection.”

“Too late for that now. I’m sure you’ve given it a few minutes’ thought.”

“Five minutes. But honestly?”

“Honesty that might make the Queen on her throne cry.”

“One little dulcet tear won’t hurt her. Honestly, we just don’t make up near as pretty as the most recent gown wearing a girl. Our sartorial options alone are far too limited.”

“Only you would compare the royal elections to a beauty show.”

“Just tell me I’m wrong.”

“Oh, you’re cynical. But no, you aren’t wrong.”

“That’s because my heart is as pure and black as the vacuum of space.”

“Ha ha. You know, with this much honesty, you wouldn’t have lasted too long in politics.”

“It’s my way of rebelling. Trust me, I well learned the true art of lies during my days as Bibble’s intern. Everyone there knows the Queen is a figurehead. That Bibble is the one in charge, for all the good it gets him. But they all pretend that she’s actually ruling.”

“So I take it you’re not planning to vote for the Princess of Theed this go-around.”

“Oh, I’m not planning to vote at all. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Your rebellion is safe with me, Florian.”

“I knew I could count on your discretion. But honestly, the last thing I want to talk about in bed is Princess Amidala’s campaign wardrobe.”

“Our soon-to-be-elected Queen.”

“The election is still weeks away, and she’s already as good as won. That’s the thing with darling prodigies like her. They haven’t ever lost anything they really wanted. It’s just been praise and kissing words and worship since they were little. They need life to punch them down.”

“They do all grow up into the background with the rest of us. Eventually. But I thought we were done talking about the Princess.”

…..

“We are now. Come closer, Amilia, oh the dream of my life.”

……..

…….

“Please tell me that wasn’t your mother lurking out in the hallway, just checking in on her little girl’s honor.”

“It almost certainly was. But fret not. She knows enough to know you’re in here. Which means she isn’t going to dare so much as knock on the door. Ignore her.”

*

 

Love their discussion about the election and who rules

 

Excellent word picture of the moment when you are having such darn fun in the water, even as you realize you look an absolute fright.

They've seen a queen or two in their lives and can thus judge how queens mature during their reigns. "Electing" a queen goes against all earthly protocols that I can think of; it's intriguing to think of Naboo's customs ...

 

earlybird-obi-wan: Love their discussion about the election and who rules

They have both obviously given this matter a little more than five minutes' worth of thought. Thanks for reading and commenting!

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Findswoman: The most Naboo tennis match I have ever had the joy and privilege of viewing! Once again, you pack much keen insight into Naboo culture and politics into a short space: yes, I can completely imagine where of all planets in the Galaxy, this would be the one where the royal elections would be more akin to a fashion show than anything else.

It is indeed oh very Naboo in nature--though I suspect that Florian and Amilia have been saying what others before them have thought, but chosen to either deny or keep to themselves. (Though they can't be the first to voice these thoughts either in all the centuries of well-dressed girl-children sitting in pure-hearted wisdom on the throne. Etc. Obviously, I was too old when The Phantom Menace came out to take a fourteen year old as an elected ruler of an entire planet seriously, and I can't ever know what I would have thought of Queen Amidala if I had been thirteen or fourteen instead.)

And Florian’s probably right on the mark when he says that sartorial considerations likely figure into the fact that politics on Naboo isn’t regarded as a man’s job. I get the feeling that he has, at base, mixed feelings on that score: on one hand it’s an area he would do well in himself, and I could see him feeling some resentment that the culture would probably no-no it as a path for him. On the other, he’s got enough brains and capability that he’ll go far in whatever area he chooses (and—I say this with all affection—he knows it).

When he says that, he is partly joking--but only partly.

Personally, I see there being two political tracks on Naboo: the child prodigies, who serve mostly as figureheads (like Amidala and Apailana as both Princess of Theed and Queen) and the career politicians (like Sio Bibble and Palpatine). The second track is obviously open to men, and in "The Song of Experience," both Florian and Amilia were at university in what is essentially a political science program--but with that Naboo flair. As Amilia mentions in a few places, they have both since dropped out--and that is a story I should probably write at some point.

It was a field he was good in--and he was well aware of this- but I don't think he particularly liked it. As he said once in "The Song of Experience:" "I need to suffer for my art. This seemed the surest way."

The first track is also open to men--I mean sorry little boys. Technically speaking, at least: there is no law forbidding them from running for the throne or the more minor figurehead positions. They just tend not to do so--and those few times when a boy from the youth legislature does put his bid forward, he does not win. Everyone just knows how it is, no need to wonder why: the people want a Queen.

(I can see similar discussions playing out on Alderaan, even though theirs is a hereditary monarchy: where, as on Naboo, men and women hold equal rights and opportunities in society--and yet only women may hold the throne. And probably other worlds as well. Nothing Star Wars loves more than a well-dressed and idealistic Queen.)

And hey, right now his choice is to be with Amilia and both of them are, ahem, completely confident in that choice, so it’s all good! (What a talk to have in bed, though—but hey, this is Naboo, and hey, they know when to switch gears when it’s time! )

Oh, they are both very confident in that choice. Right now, they're still figuring out their next life/career moves (as you'll see a bit of in the forthcoming story) but they know they have each other.

Keep up the mighty fine work on this series; I’m eager to see where it will go next.

Thank you, and thanks as always for reading and commenting!

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pronker: Excellent word picture of the moment when you are having such darn fun in the water, even as you realize you look an absolute fright.

But you're having such fun, you don't care.

They've seen a queen or two in their lives and can thus judge how queens mature during their reigns. "Electing" a queen goes against all earthly protocols that I can think of; it's intriguing to think of Naboo's customs ...

There have been known elected monarchies on this earth, so it's not original to the Star Wars galaxy. Though I must confess I don't know anything about them (whenever someone brings this point up in a discussion, they never but never include specific examples) but I rather suspect that they don't elect girls of fourteen, thirteen, or whatever unholy age the youngest Queen ever elected Padmé mentions in Attack of the Clones was.

Personally, I think it would have worked far better--even aside from not being an assault on the audience's suspension of disbelief--if Padmé had been a hereditary monarch. She looks and acts just like a girl who was born into power, not any democratically elected leader that I know of. (Though to be fair, that's a Naboo thing--they wanted to have their fairy tale Queens and democracy too, and they got it.)

Finally, thanks for reading and commenting!

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I'm not quite certain how I managed it, but I have done it and I have won: the third story [plus bonus] completing my triathlon is finished and will be posted very soon. Very soon. So keep watching the skies...

 

[3. 1500 Word Dash: An exactly1500 word story about your character, family, friendship or couple with any theme.]

(+ Bonus Entry. 100 Word Sprint: A 100 word drabble about your character, family, friendship or couple using any theme.)


There was a lone lily-fair light glowing in the darkness of the upper storeys as we walked back up the drive towards the house. My parents’ house—though it seems I have a few years yet to wait before I can refer to it in that way, before it isn’t my one true home. Once inside, I could overhear the dulcet strains of my father in full monologue coming from his study. He was, I assumed, taking one of his many holo calls with either his sister or one of several legal colleagues in Theed. Most assuredly, with a glass of dark woodbrown liquor at hand to keep him inspired.

The foyer was dark with smudged-thick shadows, and I snapped on the lights. My father might have his strongly defended beliefs in conserving energy, but I believe in not relying on my human night vision to see in such light. The room snapped back into reality.

Florian went into the hallway to listen in, and I followed. We were still barefoot, and my feet sounded as hushed as padded paws on the polished wood floors. I held my shoes, with the stockings wedged down into the toes, in one hand. My skirt was wet from contact with my soaked petticoat, and I knew it had dripped several raindrops in my path.

Florian turned to me, with that tell-tale arch of his eyebrow, and I knew: “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “I have wasted years of my life arguing with him, and he has never once been moved. I’m off to see what my mother is doing upstairs.”

“See you there in a minute,” he said. “I’ll let you know if the current and unfortunate opponent ever manages to get a word in there.”

Upon investigating, I found my mother at work in Atossa’s chamber, making up the bed. She had just let the blasted-white sheet flutter down into place, and as I watched, she set about tucking it underneath the plump mattress. She had it sent in order with a few swaying fish-darting movements. She touched it all as though that she were creating a work of art: even though she ceased to dabble in oil paintings in my earliest dream-faded memories, and will tell anyone she isn’t at all artistically inclined. She isn’t domestically inclined, either.

It all seemed predictable, yet unnecessary, on her part. She knows quite well that Florian and I rent our room in the colony house together, and that we most certainly share the same bed. I felt the same old irritated twitching-itch seize over my shoulders, but I let it pass. Knowing her as I do, she may have thought only I would enjoy having one night alone with my own deep thoughts.

When she straightened her back up again, she was not surprised to see me. But then, she wouldn’t be: my mother (as my sisters and I have complained more than once) is attuned to every movement in that house. The woman doesn’t have to sleep anymore, Atossa told the group members once. She’s powered by this inner sun that was born when I was.

“We’re back,” I said.

She took in every detail of my appearance: from my loose water-darkened hair, to my exposed animal feet. A splattered drop had fallen on the floor nearby, and she saw that too.

Then she looked past me through the doorway, and I saw Florian had arrived. His trousers were still rolled up, and his shirt half-way undone, but I could tell she found it charming on him. She smiled, with a fond drooping sigh, and: “I can see that. Did you have a nice swim?”

“It was a most splendid swim,” Florian said. “You have a fine lake to yourselves here. It isn’t any wonder you’ve all chosen to gate it away from the general rabble.”

“Thank you. We like to think so,” she said—deliberately ignoring the second half of his remark. She brushed a few wispy loose ribbons of hair away from her eyes.

“Your sister must have heard our lake’s siren call as well, Amilia,” she said. “Atossa just showed up while the two of you were out. All unannounced, but your father didn’t complain too much. She’s with him right now in his sanctuary. You might have to go in on a rescue mission.”

“I thought he was on one of his holo calls,” I said.

“No, he has a live audience tonight,” my mother said. She sent her charmed smile in Florian’s direction again. “And you know how that affects him.”

Oh, don’t I just: but that night, of all nights, I wasn’t interested in complaining about the art of keeping up in discussion with Lawyer Thane. It might have served me well during the years I spent on the political track, where it helped me win debates, and thrash my opponents’ arguments. But now that I’m figuring out my next move in life—which presently means waiting, waiting to find out if I have secured a place in the playwrighting program—I can do without a refresher.

“I noticed that myself at dinner,” Florian said.

“I think he’s become rather fond of you, Florian,” I said. “He only throws down like that with those select people he considers worth talking to.”

“Oh, Amilia. You don’t have to be quite that cynical,” my mother said. She turned her attention back to Florian: “She’s too much like her father. Her and Atossa both.”

“She’s just honest,” Florian said, and we exchanged a knowing secret look my mother wouldn’t know how to interpret. “It’s one of the many reasons I love her.”


That is one of the reasons why I love Florian, and why I desire him in both mind and body, in spite of who I always thought I was.


The late night hummed outside the window, the air fallen asleep without any breeze. I sat on the side of my bed--the narrow princess-sized bed for a little darling that was still mine--in my slip-dress, wrangling my hair into a braid. It still smelled like lakewater, of the darkness of wild nights. Florian exited the fresher-room on the far side of the room, and sat next to me. He offered a set of ties, and I reached over and accepted them. Once I had my braids secured, I leaned against the side of his shoulder, nudging my hip against him.

When I turned to face him directly, he was so close I could feel, rather than hear, the beat of his breath, and see the tiny details of his winterpale eyes, that are blue in an utterly different way from the more ordinary color of my eyes. Though I know he doesn’t at all agree with that assessment. He has said, and I know he’s speaking his true mind, that I have dark glass-grey eyes like a heroine. Like the Queen of all Hapes. But oh much more superior, because you’re also a real person.

His mouth shifted as he waited, and I felt him arch towards me in the moment before it happened, and I kissed him. That way I could have only imagined, without believing it, during the time I lived in this room. He fell back on the bed, and I landed on top of him.

Afterwards, we lay there close together under the cool moonbreeze from the window. “Just let me know if it ever gets too crowded,” I said. “Almira’s room is still available if you need it.”

“Never think it,” he said. “We have all the room here we need.”

While I was physically tired, my mind, and my wits, remained wide awake. I stretched out, shifting my legs against the crumpled creamsoft sheet underneath me. Underneath us.

Florian was awake with me. “No complaints,” he said, his voice brushing my face. “I would rather be here with you, oh my ferocious Amilia, than bedding down in the Queen’s chambers.”

“Well, considering that you would do so with a handmaiden on either side…” He grinned, especially when I continued. “You wouldn’t enjoy it either.”

“Alas,” he said. “But with that sort of mind at work, the dramatic gang need you in their program. Though I fear they might not be ready for you.”

Florian read over my application sample, so he knows they have been well warned. “All of which shall be revealed soon enough,” I said.

After another few minutes, he spoke again: “You know, I’m surprised your father didn’t ever make a play for the throne.”

“Who knows,” I said. “He was already years too old for that when I was born. Perhaps he did aspire that highly, once upon a time. I can easily say I never did.”

“You were always wasted on politics,” he said.

“So I have learned,” I said, and then: “Since we’re on the subject, I’m curious now. Did you ever have boyhood daydreams of someday ascending to the throne as King?”


That is another of the reasons why I love him, and why he knows I do.

Sometimes, I think we’re getting away with being too happy, in the sort of rule-breaking life the protagonists in stories pay for before the end. I want to think I won’t use any of my political training as I go forth to make my dreams into stories, but I also know better. That politics is itself a story.

This can’t last, I said.

Nothing ever does, he said. But I’m not going to worry about it. We’re happy now. The end hasn’t happened yet.


*

 

Amilia and Florian being happy that counts whatever they will do in the future.
Congrats on finishing this triathlon

 

I like how Amilia's political career crystallized the ways she differs from her parent. It sounds like a maturing moment. Good character study!

 

I just caught up with this amazing story, and it is, well, amazing. And it's also very bittersweet because, having read the stories featuring these characters from your Kessel Run collection, I know how Amilia and Florian came to be a couple, but I also know that Naboo's least favourite son will be out in the galaxy with Brienne – and without Amilia – in the not-too-distant future (rather soon, actually, if this is taking place around the time of Padmé's election and the bar brawl takes place just around the beginning of TPM). The Amilia in this story seems to be truly enjoying her liberation from the stifling formality of Naboo customs and society, and that's something that Florian is allowing her to enjoy with his impertinence and even outright rudeness: between telling Madame Simas that they "were only just now having a light philosophical debate. On the spiritual merits of frolicking. Sexual and otherwise" and throwing in Amilia's mother's face that the family has "a fine lake to yourselves here. It isn’t any wonder you’ve all chosen to gate it away from the general rabble", he doesn't hold anything back, and it's clear that she finds his bluntness refreshing and liberating. I hope you intend to write more about both of them, because I'm curious to find out how Florian found himself off-planet, but even more curious to know what Amilia evolved into after he was gone.

And a tiny titbit that stood out, for the connection to the movies:

If only he knew what the next queen will be doing!

Congratulations on completing this triathlon! I'm really happy that the muse came back after her solo hike so you could give us this story.

 

Findswoman: Oh ho, I think I see what you did there—very cool and clever dovetail back around to your Tennis Match! That was almost a “reverse narrative” approach right there.

If nothing else, it gave me a good way to end the scene--and make it clear that this is all one narrative taking place on the same night. (Whenever I get to posting it on Ao3, all three parts will be posted together, so it will be more clear there.) I sort of think of it as a circular narrative, where it jumps ahead, and then jumps back, and then meets like a snake biting its own tail. Over the last few years, I have been thinking that my narratives tend to be too linear, and I should endeavor to mix it up a little on occasion.. (Though that was also my own defense about my more experimental attempts back in the day: "But at least it's linear!!!") That said, this particular narrative just came naturally. No experimenting necessary.

Anyway, I probably drifted a little too far away from the subject there.

This story takes really expands on the themes of that earlier vignette, and what the latter hinted at the former makes very clear indeed: even though these two are seeking other paths in their lives, politics really is all around them all the time and infusing itself into what they are (or thought they were)—because, well, look what planet they’re on!

Well, there was a reason they went into politics to begin with--even though in Florian's case, it was because he had a talent for it that his teachers had encouraged, and he didn't have any better ideas. (Does that qualify as a spoiler? Maybe.) And if politics is just life itself, then of course, politics will always be around them. Their society will not change its ways for them, as Florian has no doubt been made well aware.

I think for both of them the key will be not eliminating politics altogether but making it work for them, or finding their place vis-à-vis it without being directly in it (if that makes sense); as Amilia says, “politics is itself a story,” and I’m going to guess it will find its way into the plays she writes.

Politics is all about stories--telling the story people want to hear, and knowing what that story is--and on Naboo, being very well dressed whilst doing so. I have noticed over the years that certain people online relish telling anyone who objects to stories being too "political" that all stories are political. Which is in my view isn't so much missing the point as deliberately ignoring it: there's a big difference between didactic lecturing in fictional form (which is what those who object to too much politiking are reacting to) and politics being a natural part of the storyworld--and I think these people know that.

As for Amilia's move into play writing, she concentrated on the theatre arts in school before she switched to politics, so this is a reasonable next move for her. She knows the literature of the theatre quite well--at least that of her culture--and once you know the narrative rules, you know how to break them.

I’m intrigued by her ambition to be a playwright—I am starting to see how that connects to some of your other recent pieces—and I’m curious to see what direction Florian will choose as well. I’m so glad “the end hasn’t happened yet” and I look forward to seeing more of what you do with Flormilia; congratulations on finishing this fabulous triathlon!

It's generally considered to be just too gauche for writers to have their protagonists also be writers, as the audience, who are readers alone, can't relate. But I most emphatically do not care--and considering that I once told one of my co-workers that certain online critics could take my angsty artist characters from my cold dead hands, I never have. I'm not getting paid one cent for anything I write, and if I'm doing this for free, I'm going to write as I please.

That's the out-of-universe permission, which, as you noted, I have made use of--with Amilia (whatever happens next with her playwrighting ambitions) and my other character Caterina. All of this is still a work in progress, so we'll just have to see how I develop these characters as I go along.

Finally, thank you, and thanks as always for reading and commenting!

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earlybird-obi-wan: Amilia and Florian being happy that counts whatever they will do in the future.
Congrats on finishing this triathlon

Happiness is probably one of the most difficult states to write about--unless there is that shadow of knowing it won't last hanging overhead. And it never does. But for now, they are happy.

Thanks for reading!

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pronker: I like how Amilia's political career crystallized the ways she differs from her parent. It sounds like a maturing moment. Good character study!

This is probably the first real time she has considered that her father might have once wanted something he couldn't have--he was the parent who encouraged her in the direction of politics, though not so early and fervently that she made the Youth Legislature Program with the prodigies, and while she's always known him as a lawyer, he might well have been one of those prodigies himself years before she was born.

Thanks for reading and commenting!

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Chyntuck: I just caught up with this amazing story, and it is, well, amazing. And it's also very bittersweet because, having read the stories featuring these characters from your Kessel Run collection, I know how Amilia and Florian came to be a couple, but I also know that Naboo's least favourite son will be out in the galaxy with Brienne – and without Amilia – in the not-too-distant future (rather soon, actually, if this is taking place around the time of Padmé's election and the bar brawl takes place just around the beginning of TPM).

This could well be from a happier, better AU for them. You never know!

But as the author, I can tell you it's not--so you're right to pick up on the bittersweet aspect that comes from knowing where Florian will be in the not-too-distant future, and that Amilia will not be there with him.

(As for the overall timeline, that's something I still don't have completely figured out. I may have to return to the first story in which Florian--then known as Angel--appears, which takes place one year after the Boonta Eve where the little slave boy won the race, and work it out from there.)

The Amilia in this story seems to be truly enjoying her liberation from the stifling formality of Naboo customs and society, and that's something that Florian is allowing her to enjoy with his impertinence and even outright rudeness: between telling Madame Simas that they "were only just now having a light philosophical debate. On the spiritual merits of frolicking. Sexual and otherwise" and throwing in Amilia's mother's face that the family has "a fine lake to yourselves here. It isn’t any wonder you’ve all chosen to gate it away from the general rabble", he doesn't hold anything back, and it's clear that she finds his bluntness refreshing and liberating.

It's not that Florian lacks a filter between his brain and his mouth--he just refines it differently. "Impertinence" is definitely the word.

As for the lakeside community where Amilia's family lives, it is actually based off a real-life place in northwest Montana, Big Sky Lake. (Though it is hardly the only place of this kind, merely the one I am most familiar with.) The entire lake is a private gated community accessible only to residents and their guests. The residents are the only ones who have access to unlock the front gates--so that whenever my mother's ladybookclub meets up there, the ladies all car pool so they can get in at one shot.

Needless to say, I have never once been there (so I don't know how much the lake in my mind and whatever appears on the screen resembles it rather than the lakes on public land I do know and which were my visual inspiration)--and honestly, I think they can take their McMansions and shove them. I don't believe that anything so large as a lake should be privitized in this fashion. Full stop. And though I have never told anyone who lives on Big Sky Lake what Florian does--one part of getting older is realizing it's never worth the fallout--believe me, I have thought it.

I hope you intend to write more about both of them, because I'm curious to find out how Florian found himself off-planet, but even more curious to know what Amilia evolved into after he was gone.

As it happens, I do have a few ideas in both of those directions--and if I had been able to go through with the pentathlon I had originally planned, I would have touched on one of them. (As it turned out, the tennis match would be the only part that made it into the triathlon I did write.) I hope to write the stories I didn't get to still, but I don't know when that will happen.

And a tiny titbit that stood out, for the connection to the movies:
"Trust me, I well learned the true art of lies during my days as Bibble’s intern. Everyone there knows the Queen is a figurehead. That Bibble is the one in charge, for all the good it gets him. But they all pretend that she’s actually ruling."
If only he knew what the next queen will be doing!

At this point in time, I don't think anyone--including the next queen herself--knew what she would be doing.

But yes, I do think the Naboo Queens have to be largely figureheads, and that the Governor does the actual ruling (behind the scenes, behind the curtain, pay no attention to him). It's the only explanation that makes sense, given that the Naboo are "normal" baseline human beings--even in the EU as far as I know--and the government and the culture both seem to function without so much as a hint of anarchy. When people in their early teens do rule, the result is Lord of the Flies.

This applies to Amidala too: in the throne room scenes at the beginning of The Phantom Menace, she clearly looks to Governor Bibble, and Captain Panaka, for guidance at a few points.

I still think the whole democratically-electing-a fourteen year old stretches the suspension of disbelief like it's a rubber band and breaks it, and it would work far better if she had inherited the throne. And even then, even in cultures that do not have the modern first world concept of adolescence, the land/planet/etc. would be ruled by a regent until the ruler has come of age.

Congratulations on completing this triathlon! I'm really happy that the muse came back after her solo hike so you could give us this story.

Thank you, and thanks for reading and commenting!

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devilinthedetails: Ah, it's another beautiful and evocative trip to Naboo with this triathlon focusing on your well-drawn OC's and nothing could make me happier

It's also a dark and a cynical trip (courtesy of my brain) so I'm honestly glad you enjoy it.

Your descriptions always manage to paint a picture in my mind of the scene and the setting right from the outset.

Thanks! I also see flower descriptors as being common in Naboo culture--and that "bluebell evening" is a way to referring to a particular type of evening in late summer.

I love how creative and accurate your descriptions like "bruised-sore" can be. I am continuously in awe of that whenever I read your work!

That's just how the air has always felt to me at those times.

And this is a lovely way to introduce some tension into the story after that first paragraph setting the scene and laying the stage. Well-done!

Well, you've got to have some tension, or all you have is a pretty photograph in prose. Though that isn't necessarily bad.

I love the little aside and flashback to childhood, especially because it rings so true to how a child would think and feel. Not wanting to be tied hand in hand to her younger sister.

This is also drawn from my life: my one sister is 1 1/2 years younger than I am, and we weren't just treated like twins growing up (and there was this one time in a public restroom when a woman asked me if we were) with matching dresses and matching everything, we were treated like the same entity known as The Girls. Which we both loathed, and openly resisted, to the tune of adult amusement.

And Amilia and her two sisters even have matching names to contend with.

You do a good job of capturing that sense that sometimes words can fall short of describing beauty, and that even a picture can't always capture it either. This part feels very profound.

That's very true: the eye can always capture more than the camera can. Capturing beauty in words is even more fraught. It's always a struggle to pin down the ineffable, the feeling of a place as well as its description, but try and sometimes succeed many have done.

And this got a chuckle from me, yes, indeed

"We're having a deep conversation. About sex. Yes, sex."

I love how mocking he is and how offended Madame Simas is. More laughter from me

As the author, I'm impressed they both held back until she had huffed off on her way.

Ooh, now that is some swoon-worthy romantic banter all right
I'm loving it!

Debate is their love language.

You do a great job fleshing out the world and its politics as well as the individual characters we are following and their voices here. An excellent bit of dialogue!

Probably the most blasphemy that has ever been on display regarding the noblest of all the arts on Naboo.

An interesting and incisive political take. Though maybe Padme in time will prove that she is the one in charge. Because it can be dangerous to underestimate her, as the Trade Federation ultimately learns.

To be fair, at the time Padmé appeared to be just another political prodigy coming out of the Youth Legislature Program. No one knew what she would be capable of, probably including her. (It's one of those twists of fate that the Trade Federation invasion, and how she responded to it, made her legendary reputation--if that hadn't happened, I suspect she would served out her two terms in a more or less conventional fashion.) It's clear that Florian and Amilia think of her that way--and that neither of them find her all that interesting.

[They have actually met her, though it was but briefly, in "The Song of Experience," where she is identified only as the Princess of Theed. Blink and you might miss it.]

And this is definitely an interesting perspective and take on Padme and prodigies in general. I like how you have your characters speculating on politics here and not being afraid to be irreverent about politicians and prodigies.

They were, only recently, studying to become career politicians. (The epitome in rank and personality of which would be Sio Bibble.) So they don't share the general public's awe of the pure hearted and well dressed. But as Amilia says, life gets everyone in the end--and as we the audience who have the advantage of seeing the movies know, Padmé will know human pain and suffering in her time.

This part was just brilliant and again got a great laugh from me

"And then they ignored her."

What a perfect, humorous note to end this Tennis Match on!

Thanks! Apparently, for this story, I left my usual haunts on the dark side of Naboo, and moved on to the impertinent and oh too human side of it.

This is so poignant and heartbreaking.

Yes: even as it is happening, she knows this state cannot last.

What a way to end the story and the triathlon! With that tension between the reality that this relationship and happiness can't last like she says (because nothing can last as he rightly points out) but also that they should enjoy their happiness now and not worry about the inevitable ending that hasn't happened.

It's very carpe diem in its approach. All about seizing the moment.

Indeed. Enjoy the moment, and let the future take care of itself.

And it feels like a happy conclusion to the story and the triathlon although not a happy ending because as he notes, the ending hasn't happened yet. And there is something very poignant about that as well!

As Margaret Atwood wrote in her story "Happy Endings," (provided I remember it correctly) there is only one ending to every story: John and Mary die.

As for their relationship: as seen in my other stories, eventually, within a year at the most, Florian will have left his homeworld to make new mistakes on Tatooine--and Amilia will not be with him. But what led to that, and what happened next, are yet to be told.

A very moving and meditative triathlon, all in all! One that I will be thinking about for awhile after I read it, and there can't be a higher compliment than that in my book

Thank you, and thanks so much for reading and commenting!