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The Naberrie household is a welcoming one. Lanterns sway gently by the open windows, casting soft gold across their interior walls. Skeins of yarn lie in cheerful piles on the coffee table. The scent of simmering spiced shaak stew should have especially put Anakin at ease — but he remains like a statue amidst their hullabaloo, wrapped in what must be the gaudiest garment known to man.
The Winterweave protection cloak drapes over his shoulders with loud, conflicting colours and lopsided embroidery: sunburst orange stitched against storm-blue zigzags, uneven silver stars scattered as if somebody’s well-meaning aunt had sewn them during hyperspace turbulence. Don’t even get him started about the tassels.
Regardless. When Jobal Naberrie knuckles a bit of the fabric flat over his clavicle, Anakin offers her a grateful smile “It’s very… warm, ma’am.”
“Oh, wonderful!” She replies with utter delight “The pattern is much older than it looks. My sister and I made the last set of repairs during our last Winterweave, but I added these tassels myself this year. For good luck.”
He inclines his head. “Thank you. Truly.”
Padmé, hovering nearby, catches his glance and bites the inside of her cheek if only to stop herself from laughing out loud. Thankfully, Ruwee then sweeps into the room carrying an armful of knitted garlands and provides her secret husband with ample enough distraction.
“Anakin! Would you mind helping me hang these by the east window? You’ve got the height for it, son.” There is no hesitation whatsoever as he takes them “I’d be honoured, sir. Your family puts such care into the festival.”
Her father claps him on the back, oblivious of how subtly he angles himself to keep Padmé in his peripheral vision at all times. “It’s always been important to us. Naboo needs beauty, especially now.” Then, more sincerely “We’re grateful the Jedi are looking out for our daughter.”
Anakin clears his throat and manages another polite smile, for the words strike a sore truth despite their good intentions. The bantha only Padmé and himself can see in the room — and that is, if not for his official assignment by the Council, then they would never have found an opportunity to celebrate a real family holiday together.
Watching Padmé glow the way she only does whenever surrounded by Theed’s familiar comforts has been nothing short of magical. This fragile, ordinary quiet? It’s the closest he’s ever come to imagining what life with her might look like once they are finally free from this war.
In saying that, however, any such peace here still scrapes against the sharp edges of his vigilance — an overstrained wire humming with far too much current. Even the popping hiss of hearth logs startles him once or twice.
Sensing this, Padmé draws closer to help him untangle her father’s garlands. “I didn’t realise Winterweave was fast becoming a part of the new Jedi trials.” She smiles impishly at the horrendous garb he has on, to which Anakin just smirks and lowers his voice “If this is the price I must pay to stay near you? I’ll wear ten of them.”
The young woman’s head tilts, unabashed about flirting with her husband even if they’re supposed to be far more discreet around Mr. and Mrs. Naberrie. They’re technically in the other room anyway. “How heroic. Does it help that I find you terribly dashing right now?”
Their eyes meet as he hangs the first garland up. “Perhaps. Though I’ll admit that your mother’s cloak is the least of my worries tonight, Senator.”
Her expression sobers a touch then.
It was just three days ago on Coruscant, after all, that Padmé stepped out of a closed-door meeting with several other Senators only to be met by a stun net from the opposing balcony. They missed her by inches — although said attackers were never caught, having completely vanished before security could give chase.
While Senate leadership demanded that she delay her scheduled Naboo address indefinitely as consequence, Padmé would tolerate no such decision. Thus it fell onto the Jedi Council to ensure her safety and, surprising no one, Anakin had immediately volunteered himself. The two were ultimately good friends in their eyes.
He hasn’t slept more than a handful of hours since.
Either way, the shadow passes when she reaches out and squeezes his hand herself. A silent and grounding reassurance before her mother suddenly interrupts them. “Padmé! Anakin!” Jobal calls from the kitchen “Dinner will be ready soon. Set the table when you’re done in there!”
She smiles, sneaking a kiss to his cheek. “Sure!”
… and just like that, she’s more than happy to assume her role as their youngest girl again because that is what Padmé does best. Fold her fears into neat, invisible corners and tuck them behind a practiced façade. Danger can be dealt with later — after the table is set, after her parents stop worrying, and definitely after she’s reminded herself that normalcy can be a kind of shield too.
It is long after dinner when the garden doors slide shut behind Padmé and Anakin. Outside, their moonlit evening exhales the unmistakable chill of Naboo’s winter-tide; damp earth carrying the faint scent of hardy river flowers stubborn enough to bloom in these colder months.
His Winterweave cloak shimmers at certain angles in the breeze as he follows after her in silence — boots crunching softly against the gravel. Perhaps it would’ve been funny, if not for the heaviness shadowing his face. “Angel,” the fatigue he’d been masking all night finally bleeds through “I need you to reconsider your speech. Another kidnapping attempt isn’t a possibility. It’s a certainty.”
A sigh slips from her lips. He hasn’t exactly kept his feelings a secret, but hearing it word for word settles heavily between them “Anakin…”
“No, listen.” He reaches out to gently caress her arms “What happened on Coruscant was calculated. If you don’t retreat, it’ll only drive them to push even harder.”
Padmé studies him, seeing the truth beneath his fear. Not panic — but terrible clarity. “Ani,” her voice gentles “If they frighten me out of showing up? Then they win.”
“I don’t care who wins,” he shakes his head in exasperation “I only care that you survive.”
She gives him a look at that — chin tipped, brown eyes steady — and Anakin exhales because he already knows there’s no changing her mind. His wife’s stubbornness is a hurricane force of its own. A quality that frustrates him to no end, yes, but also the very same that made him fall hopelessly in love with her. If Padmé believes she must stand her ground? Then she will, no matter the danger.
He presses the heel of a palm into his brow. “Alright, fine… but I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Thus her smile turns radiant, lifting herself up on the tips of toes just so both arms can wrap around his shoulders “As is your duty, Master Jedi… which is also why my mother will expect you to be wearing this. For good luck.”
As broad hands automatically go to her waist, another sigh falls somewhere between resignation and disbelief.
He murmurs “Padmé.”
“Yes, my love?”
“This cloak is a war crime.”
Her laughter instinctively spills like starlight and before he can throw out some other, deeper complaint about the offending garment? She has already tugged him down by his collar to steal a kiss that is as soft as it is triumphant.
The next morning dawns over Theed, sunlight glinting off marble spires like polished bone. By the time Padmé arrives, The Royal Plaza outside is already alive with festival anticipation: vendors setting out trays of candied meiloorun, musicians tuning their chimes and flutes, families wrapped in thick Winterweave shawls pressing toward the barricades for a glimpse of their senator.
Revelry hums in the air — along with something else. Anakin feels it as soon as they move through the palace halls. A shift in the Force. Padmé is too busy greeting aides and reviewing datapads to notice when he falls half a step behind and breaks away altogether.
Indeed, Queen Neeyutnee’s loyal guards seem to have the perimeter covered while preparations proceed around them. Everything appears as it should. Yet it only takes a moment for the Jedi’s eyes to narrow upon a shadow near their staging area. A technician, more accurately, lingering far too long beside a control junction while their gaze flickers toward exits instead of consoles.
Thus Anakin slips behind a curtain, boots making no sound along narrow catwalks and service passages. The rigging overhead is a labyrinth of cables and suspended platforms. He scans every angle, tracing the path of disturbance felt earlier — and then there, tucked behind clusters of stage lights, is a compact detonator clipped neatly to the support beam like an afterthought.
Though fingers twitch to his lightsaber, he doesn’t ignite it. Not yet. A weapon would only draw attention and risk alerting the culprits. This has to be quiet. Inspecting the device with a mechanic’s clarity instead, he notes that it appears low-yield. Not meant to kill, no, but perhaps blast debris onto the stage and create a panicked stampede. That would certainly be enough to scatter security forces.
Enough to give a coordinated abduction team the opening they need. So he brusquely finishes disabling it within moments and, upon rising, the oversized Winterweave cloak Jobal had let him borrow earlier shifts in a cascade of thick fabrics — but he’s oddly grateful for it right now. The garment moves like a shapeless, lumpy tapestry around him; swallowing the lines of his body and hiding exactly when he may reach for a weapon.
Meanwhile, Anakin’s hood is pulled low enough that its too-long tassels obscure his face as well. He looks ridiculous. Harmless. Workers bustle around without sparing him a glance, including the two disguised assailants. They stand partly hidden behind some equipment crates, tension coiled tight around them, eyes tracking the access hallway meant for Padmé.
He’s three paces away when the first of them finally senses him… and it’s already too late.
Anakin slips his cloak forward and, in one swift twist, uses an overtly long sleeve to yank the drawn blaster out of their grasp. Its knitted fabric loops around the man’s wrist and tangles perfectly — unsurprising since the blasted material has been getting caught on everything else this morning — enough for him to deliver a Force stun that collapses them like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
The second attacker reacts much faster with a vibroblade, however, lunging straight to his side. A motion that would have sliced skin if not for the hideous thick-knit panel slipping into place at random. It snags deep within the looping embroidery and causes them to jerk back as consequence, confused, desperately wrenching at it… but the weave is so dense that there’s no give.
Regardless. He uses that half second of surprise and immediately launches them into the wall with a Force assisted push, rendering both unconscious — therein Anakin takes the opportunity to glance down at a torn, frayed chunk now hanging off one sleeve. He exhales with remorse. Padmé’s mother is going to be so disappointed.
Shortly then do the royal guards arrive, boots skidding to a halt when they see two incapacitated assailants by his feet “General Skywalker! By the stars, what…”
“They’re alive.” Anakin passes over the disarmed detonator “Secure them for questioning and send this to your forensics team. I want to know its make and model.”
Instructions heeded, orders are also sent out to secure the perimeter by tenfold. Their efficiency is commendable. Though Anakin is already moving, attention fixed on where Padmé prepares for her speech — fortunately unaware of how close she came to danger yet again.
Thank the Force for Winterweave.
Senator Padmé Amidala approaches the grand steps as silvery chimes ring overhead, their crystalline tones scattering. Below her, hundreds have gathered in an ocean of colour despite the icy Naboo morning. Cloaks of every imaginable pattern ripple through the crowd. Children twirl mismatched scarves and elderly citizens huddle in veils dyed with berry pigment. They are symbols of resilience.
“Citizens of Naboo. Citizens of the Republic.” Sound projectors carry her voice across, clear and resolute “We stand in a time when fear is used as a weapon. When doubt is cultivated by those who seek power for themselves. When entire worlds are told to shrink back, to protect only what is ours — and let others fall.”
A hush falls over the crowd, who hang onto her every word as she continues “… but the strength of the Republic has never come from hiding. It comes from unity. Compassion. Our willingness to shelter one another through the harshest winters.” Anakin watches from the wings of his wife’s platform, nerves not quite having settled, though seeing her so unbroken definitely helps.
“I am here today, not only to celebrate this wonderful season with you. I’m also here to speak on legislation that will affect every world struggling under the weight of this war.” Murmurs ripple through the masses, attention sharpening even further. “I am introducing the Galactic Sentient Relief and Safe Corridor Act that will guarantee protected lanes for refugee evacuation as well as medical supply routes, even in active war zones.”
The reaction is immediate — shouts of approval, fists raised, scarves waved in the air. Padmé’s expression softens. For a moment, she almost looks overwhelmed by the sheer force of hope reflected back at her. “I know this proposal will be challenged. I know those who profit from suffering will try and silence it… but I am not afraid.” Therein lies the motive behind her multiple kidnapping attempts in one standard week alone. Too many parties stand to gain by starving out planets and tightening supply chains. The Naboo Senator aims to ruin them all.
“Winterweave teaches us that the cold season is never permanent; that even the most frayed scraps can be woven back into something strong and beautiful. We must choose to be that strength for one another and stand together.” Her final words ring through the uproarious plaza “… and to the forces who wish to divide us, know this. We do not bow to intimidation. Not today. Not ever.”
The crowd cheers even louder. Waves of colour sway in celebration as the music swells back to life, festival drums beating like a single pulse. Padmé steps back — breath trembling with emotion, cheeks flushed from the cold as well as everyone’s fervour — and her glittering brown eyes instinctively flick to the wings, where an applauding Anakin already awaits it with his proudest grin.
He feels the Force stir around her, a bright and warm energy that resonates not because she alone is touched by it; rather because the young woman has a tendency to draw it out of everybody near her like gravity.
Thus in that hush between heartbeats, Anakin understands something with a clarity as certain as sunrise breaking through his ribs — hope is not soft. It is a force that pushes back against cruelty simply by refusing to shrink. It is a steady, defiant hand held out in a universe that keeps trying to teach fear. Hope is what keeps entire galaxies from bowing to the darkness.
… and Padmé Naberrie is nothing if not Hope made flesh.