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Bail usually accompanies her—or rather, they take his personal ship. An annual pilgrimage of grief and mourning. This is the first year their schedules are completely incompatible. Mon didn’t want to go alone. He’s not even sure she asked Perrin.
This is how Erskin finds himself returning to Naboo for the first time in decades. He’s not too sure how to feel about it. (Except for the certain amount of gratification that she asked him in the first place. That she wanted him with her. That she would make herself vulnerable enough to ask. That feels good.)
The shrine for Queen Amidala (one of) is in lake country. He grew up nestled in the foothills of ancient mountains older than life on the other end of the continent. He’s…grateful for that. (She’d asked if he’d like time to visit, either on his own or with her; he’d politely declined both and she didn’t push the subject.)
She visits the shrine alone. Perched on a terrace overlooking one of the many lakes, he watches her leave, a veil of midnight blue—a few shades too dark for Chandrilan blue—glittering behind her like the night sky. (She is a shining star with her own gravity, the soft light of sunset catching her hair.) Aside from the veil, she’s as unadorned as he’s ever seen her. He still can’t take his eyes off her, only looking away once the speeder is out of view.
After that his eyes return to the water, a datapad held loosely in his lap. Forgotten. His thoughts are elsewhere, years into the past. Drying fabric snaps in the wind of memories, the scent of dye carried on its eddies, rhythmic sounds of loom and spindle among its whispers. Maman never spun Ghorman silk again (a rare export too costly to obtain) but she never stopped making the most exquisite fabric. To him, it had been something akin to magic, the artistry she made of it. (Sure, he’s biased but nothing he’s seen from Chandrila can compare. And he’s seen the finest.)
There’s a well worn ache in his chest when he’s pulled from his memories—the sky is dark, the moons in the sky reflected in the waters below, their light caught in the silk of Mon’s veil.
“Am I interrupting?”
A smile pulls at the edges of his mouth and he shakes his head. Gestures to the lounge chair next to him. “Good that you did; I might have been out here all night.”
Her eyes are red rimmed and puffy. He doesn’t remark on it, though something sharper weaves around the edges of the ache between his ribs. “Glad to keep you from catching cold.” She settles at the end of his seat rather than take her own so of course he shifts to give her more room. Her hip presses to the side of his knee.
They fall into silence and he watches her unclasp the chains in her hair. One gets snagged. “Here,” he murmurs, leaning forward and offering a hand. “Let me.”
“Thank you.”
It’s difficult, and it takes longer to do it by feel but he frees her hair without pulling or breaking. And when the chains hang free and the veil is folded in her lap, neither pull away. Close as she is, his gaze is still pulled to the silk—how it shimmers even when still.
“It was a gift,” she offers, voice barely heard over the lapping waves. “From Padmé.” That’s all she offers. He thinks he hears the weight of all the grief in the galaxy in that one name.
He hadn’t planned to but, “May I?” It’s a lot. Erskin is asking for her heart.
Mon gives it to him.
It drapes across his hands like water, lighter than air. Impossible. He swallows hard, his pounding heart all he can hear. He closes his eyes, feeling the weave against his fingertips. The chances that he’s holding something his mother wrought into existence are slim. Even still, he feels closer to her than he has in…
“A fine gift,” he whispers, voice thick enough he chokes on the last syllable.
Mon doesn’t ask and he doesn’t offer. They’re both mourning tonight.