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The cloaked figure stood silently at the edge of the former Senatorial Tower. Their grey, ghostlike robe snapped rapidly in the winds, blending in with the dark, gloomy, sky. Since the chaos at the Jedi Temple, the sky across the galaxy remained night- the skeptics claimed it was the souls of the fallen gathering for their final trip.
To where, the cloaked figure didn’t know. The Force was no good here; the Empire had already made that very clear.
Below them, the streets of Theed flooded with mourners. People from all across the galaxy had gathered to pay tribute to Padme Amidala, the famed senator from Naboo. The official word from the new Empire was that she passed in the chaos of the Jedi Betrayal.
A rogue Jedi Knight killed Amidala and her unborn children, leaving the galaxy to mourn. The Empire spared no expense emphasizing the tragic nature of Amidala’s death- Jedi involvement was mentioned at every turn of the Holonet and every corner of the radio broadcasts.
The figure shuddered, grasping the railing of the tower. Even before, the height of the Senatorial Tower was always intimidating.
A blockade of Clone Troopers strutted through the street, the lightsaber burns on their armor a stark reminder of the recent tragedy. Their blue and white helmets marked the 501st Legion- a favorite of Senator Amidala’s. Their steps echoed off the concrete streets, and their blasters hit their suit panels in a steady cadence.
The crowd was deathly silent; staring blankly at the Clone legion. They stood like statues, letting the air around them grow stale with fear.
The wind atop the Senatorial Tower picked up, and the hooded figure shivered. They continued their silent sentry of the proceedings- like the crowd, they did not react.
Queen Apailana of Naboo and her royal attendants followed the Clones. The Queen was dressed in elegant robes of silver. A single silver tear dripped down her right cheek, matching those of her attendants. Her attendants wept real tears, dripping down their identical robes. Mon Mothma stood with them, a stoic expression on her face.
Her white robes looked picture perfect, but if you looked closely, you could see the loose threads on the edge of her sleeves. Mothma always had a habit of rubbing her fingernails on the edges of her sleeves, shredding them to pieces.
Padme always teased her about that.
The hooded figure straightened, their back parallel to the increasing winds. Their shoulders visibly tensed up- the worst was yet to come. The grey cloak seemed to grow with apprehension and fear, and for a moment, a terrified look crossed their face.
Then, Padme Amidala, escorted by her family, came through the streets of Naboo for the last time. She wore a dress of blue and silver, resembling the waters of her homeland. Native flowers of Naboo adorned her hair; in her hands, she held a small charm, draped delicately over her pregnancy.
Time seemed to stop. The wails of the mourners and the steps of the clones became distant and it was just the figure atop the tower and Senator Amidala, a ghost and the beloved senator, looking and staring at each other.
The cloaked figure recoiled, backing away from the edge as if they could escape. Nothing could have prepared them for this- how do you look at a ghost?
(what had she’d done this was horrible she couldn’t do this to her people to anak-)
Curling themselves away from the wind and the street, the figure pulled a near-identical charm from their pocket.
This charm was clearly handcrafted- the edges were rough with blade marks and scratches. Intricate swirls traveled to the center of the charm, meeting a square in the middle. The leather cording was frayed- indicating frequent wear.
Even from the tower, the figure could spot the smooth edges of the charm Amidala was holding. It was a replica. Nothing could recreate the hours Anakin spent hand carving the japor and finding the cording.
With that, the figure sank to their knees, their body convulsing with sobs. Their old life was reduced to nothing but memories and a mausoleum. All the people the figure loved most were either dead or in hiding or at risk; Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, Pooja, Sabe, Luke, Leia, all gone.
The figure was nothing but the ghost of Padme Amidala; watching her own funeral.
As Senator Amidala continued down the street to her final resting place, the Ghost watched, tears streaming down their face.
It had to be done; Padme could not safely walk the galaxy, not with Vader. It was better this way, but at what cost? Padme could no longer go home, not to visit her siblings or her mother; she couldn’t safely raise her children, or even live with them under threat of discovery.
As Amidala disappeared around the bend in the street, the Ghost wiped their eyes, sniffling.
Even though Amidala was no longer able to stop the Empire, the Ghost could. It would be the least they could do for Luke and Leia and Anakin. Even if Padme Amidala couldn’t raise her children, the Ghost could fight for them until Amidala could return.
With that, the Ghost turned, sprinting back to their ship. Their grey cloak snapped in the wind, billowing around them.
They had a rebellion to fuel.