Chapter Text
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a newly elected queen, being in possession of a slightly paranoid and incredibly stressed guard captain, must be in want of a handmaiden. Lest the aforementioned captain be forced to take an early medical retirement due to an unfortunate psychotic break.
While the Naboo had an established practice of utilizing personal retainers, both as bodyguards and decoys when the occasion called for it, there hadn’t been an attack on a sitting monarch in decades.
Which meant that in recent years, those selected to serve were often relegated to something more akin to a close companion or confidante, than an actual bodyguard.
For Padmé, the girl who would soon become known as Queen Amidala, the practice would mark the beginning of something not even Captain Panaka could have foreseen.
Hands trembling, Obi-Wan stared at the words in shock. This couldn’t be right. It couldn’t! He still had four weeks until his birthday. He still had time.
Yet no matter how hard he wished, the words didn’t change.
Corpsmember-in-Training Kenobi is to report at 0730 to the Monument, in preparation for his reassignment to the Agricultural Corps on Karlinus.
He’d never be a Knight.
Not now, not after the Council of Reassignment had already decided his fate.
He’d…
He’d never…
The words became blurred, pixelated characters obscured. Was something wrong with his pad?
It took a moment for him to realize he was crying.
Fat, heavy tears breaking free without his consent in a manner unbefitting of a Jedi.
Obi-Wan’s chest made a hollow, rasping sound as his breath escaped him in a desperate gasp.
’There is…no emotion…’, he tried. Mind struggling to recall the familiar words.
’There is…there is…peace…’, Obi-Wan bit his lip hard. The pain grounding, though it did little against the aching in his chest. ’There is no…no ignorance…’
Distantly, he heard the dull clatter as the pad fell from his shaking hands.
What was the next verse?
Why couldn’t he remember?
Biting his lip harder, hard enough that his teeth broke through the delicate skin, Obi-Wan ruefully thought it was little wonder why a master hadn’t wanted him.
A sound, like a knock on his door, though he couldn’t go check.
“Obi-Wan?” A gentle voice asked.
It was familiar.
Why was it familiar?
Another sound, this time the sharp hiss of the automatic door lock being released.
Then a warm green robe filled his blurry vision, familiar scent of brine and driftwood invading his senses before two arms wrapped around him gently.
“It’s okay Obi-Wan,” a voice murmured. Bant. “It’ll be okay.”
Swallowing back his tears, Obi-Wan buried himself deeper in his friend’s soothing Force presence. “I’ve b-been assigned to the A-AgriCorps,” he whispered tearily.
Bant said nothing for a long moment, her hands never stopping their soothing motion up and down his trembling back. Finally, once Obi-Wan managed to take a full breath without shaking, salmon-colored fingers lifted his chin. He stared into the Calamarian’s big silver eyes.
Her voice, when it came, was so achingly gentle. “We are not to know,” she said.
Chest aching, though this time with something like fondness, Obi-Wan dipped his head. “We are to do,” he replied back, words bittersweet.
It was a common saying in the creche, a way to remind them that even if they didn’t understand the significance of a task, it was still their duty to complete it to the best of their ability. No matter how unwanted it may be.
Bant’s eyes glistened with tears, though she blinked them back furiously. “Miss you, I will,” she said.
Obi-Wan’s lips twisted into a shaky smile. “M-meet again, we will,” he said.
It was tradition for a senior corpsmember to accompany a reassigned initiate to their new post.
Which was why it was something of a shock for Obi-Wan to take in the intimidating height of Master Jinn, face carved into a stern yet thoughtful mask. One too carefully cultivated to be anything but practiced.
Everyone in the creche knew of Qui-Gon Jinn.
Although a powerful Knight, considered to be one of the Order’s best, Qui-Gon Jinn was infamous to every Jedi initiate between the ages of ten and twelve.
Because, he was the master who’d repudiated his first padawan after his second had Fallen to the dark side.
Despite having made a solemn vow to never take a padawan again, the enigmatic master still attended the annual Initiates Tournament. The man’s silence and vacant stare steering hopeful initiates in the opposite direction.
And every year, as yet another class of initiates either aged out or were taken as a padawan-learner, Master Jinn would leave.
Empty-handed. Determined to fight the darkness of the galaxy alone.
”You’d have to be really unlucky to end up the padawan of a knight like that,” the younglings liked to whisper. “It isn’t the darkness of the galaxy Master Jinn fights, but his own.”
So why was the man standing in-front of the aged Corellian barge destined to take Obi-Wan to his future life?
Speaking of the ship, Obi-Wan was honestly concerned at its ability to complete the trip.
Pockmarked with what looked like meteor hits— indicating a potentially fatal issue with its deflector shields or an incredibly indifferent captain, neither of which eased Obi-Wan’s doubts about its space-worthiness—and riddled with layers of grime and carbon-scoring the Monument was possibly the ugliest thing he’d ever seen.
And he’d seen Reeft after they’d found the one food that couldn’t be processed by a Dressellian’s digestive system.
Visions of that disastrous day haunted his dreams, and he still couldn’t look at a Jogan fruit without shivering. It was forbidden from being anywhere near their clan dormitories, lest the mousedroids stage a strike or more psychological harm be inflicted upon innocent younglings.
Almost as though he’d sensed Obi-Wan’s confusion, Master Jinn turned around. A bushy brow raised inquiringly, making his rough features appear almost serene. “Ah,” the man said.
Obi-Wan waited, but no other words were forthcoming.
Just as he was wondering if he should perhaps greet the older Jedi, Master Jinn was already turning back. Gargantuan frame striding up the gangplank, before ducking through the barge’s open hatch.
Alright then.
Taking a deep breath, hand wrapped reassuringly around the pile of flimsi his friends had gifted him before his departure, Obi-Wan squared his shoulders.
Lifted his chin.
Settled his pack more comfortably on his back, and strode towards his new life.
Obi-Wan thanked the pilot as he stepped off the shuttle, adjusting his pack as he did so.
He wasn’t prepared for the sense of awe that flowed through him as he took in his new home.
Naboo was a lushly verdant world filled with rolling hills and glistening lakes, so different from Coruscant. Even its capital managed to preserve the beauty of its environment, creating harmony rather than disorder. Built on the banks of the Solleu River and overlooking majestic cliffs, the partially floating city was filled with bubbled green domes and flowing, curvilinear forms and looked like something straight out of a creche-tale.
It was everything Obi-Wan could have hoped for, even if he never imagined his life going in this direction.
The Karlinus Outpost had been surprised by his sudden arrival, especially given the fact that they had no official record of his reassignment. After a senior officer for the AgriCorps took the time to explain the variety of options available to him, Obi-Wan ultimately decided to explore the galaxy outside of the Jedi Order.
It was a scary prospect, for a Temple-raised youngling to even consider and yet…it seemed right, for lack of a better word. Almost as though the Force was leading him towards this path.
And even if he would never be a Knight, he would trust in the Force.
With a hasty exit interview and a preloaded credit chit—standard procedure he was told, for any youngling who chose to leave the Order—the Karlinus Outpost offered him passage to any of the planets within the sector. Uncommon, but most initiates had the luxury of being on Coruscant when they aged out, which played a major factor in their transition from Temple life.
While not the largest in the galaxy, the Chommell sector had more than thirty planets and several thousand settled dependencies nestled within it. Karlinus, which was predominantly an agricultural planet, was just one of them. There was Kreeling, which was a mining world, but the thought of living there after growing up in the smog-polluted atmosphere of Coruscant left Obi-Wan feeling nauseous.
Jafan was young, as colony planets went, and a relatively new presence in the sector. They hadn’t done anything remarkably noteworthy in the three-hundred years since its inception, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It meant there was an opportunity to make a name for himself, but Obi-Wan was tired of trying to live up to unrealistic expectations.
Which left Naboo, the chief planet of the sector. A peaceful world, filled with artists and culture.
It was perhaps the most Jedi-like planet he could think of, and Obi-Wan felt drawn to it in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
Now, with nothing more than the few belongings he’d managed to acquire from a lifetime of Jedi training and a credit-chit with enough loaded onto it to help him get by for a few months if he was careful, for the first time in his life Obi-Wan didn’t know what to expect.
The thought was terrifying.
But it was also exhilarating.
Obi-Wan was a week into his stay in Theed when he stumbled upon a job posting.
Made out of actual paper, as that was the kind of place Theed was, in the blue and maroon of the Naboo Royal Security Forces the posting was unobtrusive and easily overlooked. Obi-Wan would have missed it entirely, intent on the freshly baked denta bean bun he’d bought from a nearby bakery and was just getting ready to take his first bite when the Force quite literally pulled him towards flyer.
Frowning, as the Force had never done that before, Obi-Wan took a thoughtful bite. Savoring the mildly sweet, earthy taste of the denta bean, he read the posting. Taking the occasional bite as he did so.
Eyebrows furrowed, he chewed slower and slower as he read it again. And again. Until finally, breakfast forgotten, Obi-Wan read it for a fourth time.
WE ARE HIRING
Join Our Team
We are looking for young, talented individuals between the ages of twelve and fifteen for a junior posting within the Capitol. Further details to be disclosed upon acceptance of potential offer.
For those interested, please inquire with Captain Quarsh Panaka of the Naboo Royal Security Forces.
It was vague, to the point of incredulity.
Were all job postings this ambiguous? And what did they mean by talented? Naboo was a relatively peaceful planet that valued pacifism over martial skill. So what the Naboo considered talent was probably quite different from the Temple’s definition of the word.
Obi-Wan, as an aged-out initiate, was considered average in everything aside from his ability in prognostication. Which the Temple hadn’t actually seen as a worthwhile skill to cultivate. Especially given the unpredictability of Force visions, and the council’s overall preference towards the Living Force as opposed to the Unifying.
He took a vacant bite, eyes skimming over the words in thought.
Sending a soft query to the Force, though it remained frustratingly silent, Obi-Wan took another bite.
Well, he was three weeks to his thirteenth birthday. Making him the ideal age, and the Karlinus Outpost was kind enough to transfer his initiate courses over to a civilian compatible transcript.
Deciding that he would trust the Force, Obi-Wan walked back to the tiny apartment he’d found.
What did you wear to a potential job interview?
Panaka could only stare at the fidgeting boy sat across from him, taking in the white-knuckled grip on his roughspun robes.
He’d honestly forgotten about the flyers, having gone through the rosters of Naboo’s most prestigious schools for weeks before the election, whittling the pool down to a handful of girls.
One was already eliminated due to her poor hand-eye coordination. Others were automatically ruled out once he learned how well-established their reputations were in the Naboo arts community, and realized it would raise questions if they were to disappear for a while.
Panaka wasn’t sure why he’d put up the flyers. There were less than a dozen of them all together, and were limited to Theed. But something told him that it would be worth it, and so he had commissioned a suitably vague job posting and continued with his selection.
His wife, Mariek, had laughed when she’d read one. Telling him that were it anyone else, any passerby who stumbled upon one would question the legality of the position with its ambiguous wording.
Panaka was left with the sinking feeling she’d laugh herself into stitches when he told her about the one and only applicant the flyers had turned up.
The boy, and that probably should have been specified in the job post, was just shy of thirteen and looked nothing like the Queen.
Obi-Wan, at least that’s what is said on the official transcripts he’d provided upon being shown into Panaka’s office, was a former Jedi initiate who’d chosen to leave the Order after nearly aging out of the Knight track. How he’d ended up on Naboo was a mystery, but Panaka determined that was a matter for another day.
According to his records, Obi-Wan was a diligent student but average. He showed no particular talent in any of his courses, though one instructor noted his enthusiasm for languages and another highlighted his ability to work with others. Even his lightsaber skills—arguably the most valuable for anyone hoping to snag a former Jedi for their security team—were average and hadn’t progressed further than the basic forms any youngling raised in the Order would learn.
Glancing up, Panaka watched as bright blue eyes darted away nervously. He generally thought of the Jedi as serene, enigmatic figures in voluminous brown robes. He’d never anticipated an overly anxious pre-teen, who couldn’t even meet his eye.
Holding in a sigh, the captain folded his hands across his lap and leaned back.
“I don’t suppose you still have a lightsaber?” He asked.
The boy startled, eyes wide at being addressed, and hesitantly shook his head.
Panaka worked his jaw.
“Your teachers say you’re diligent, but average,” he said bluntly. The boy ducked his head at the words, though didn’t argue with the assessment. “Your combat skills are more advanced than the average twelve year old, but without access to your primary weapon it means little in comparison to any other candidate. What would you bring to the table, that other candidates wouldn’t?”
He should have stopped the interview. Should have turned Obi-Wan away when it was revealed the only applicant who’d inquired about the job posting was a boy, and completely unsuitable for Panaka’s scheme. However something prevented him from dismissing the boy outright, the same something that had prompted him to post the flyers in the first place.
Obi-Wan didn’t respond immediately, obviously thinking over his answer and Panaka allowed him the time to gather his thoughts.
After a moment, blue eyes hesitantly met his own.
“I’m hardworking,” the boy said, voice high. The Coruscanti accent was noticeable, but only just. “I’m gifted in prognostication, and I scored the highest marks for my tea ceremony in Galactic Etiquette and Protocol.” He bit his lip. A nervous habit Panaka surmised, based off of a barely healed scab. “Even if I don’t have access to a lightsaber, as a Force-sensitive I’m able to anticipate danger and augment my speed, strength and overall reflexes.”
Obi-Wan trailed off, and Panaka pondered on something the boy had said.
“What exactly is prognostication?” He asked, unfamiliar with the term though he’d seen it marked in the boy’s health record.
“Um,” the boy floundered. “It’s—“ he sighed, brows furrowed. “I get feelings,” Obi-Wan said finally.
Panaka raised a brow. “Feelings,” he said. Voice carefully bland.
Obi-Wan nodded his head vigorously. “They’re not visions really,” he continued. “I don’t see what’s going to happen, I only know something is going to go wrong. I wouldn’t see an earthquake for example,” Obi-Wan explained. “I’d only feel that the ground was unstable. I wouldn’t see an assassin coming, only know that danger was nearby.”
That was interesting. Panaka wondered how he might work it into the Queen’s security detail.
There were plenty of uniformed guards, and no-one besides the Queen and the rest of her handmaidens would be aware of Obi-Wan’s former status as a Jedi initiate. The Order was fiercely protective when it came to guarding the identities of their members. For good reason. Force-sensitive younglings were worth a fortune on the black-market.
More than half-convinced, he asked a final question.
“What made you apply?” The flyers had been posted for several months, and not a single applicant appeared in that time.
A shrug. “The Force told me too,” the boy said softly.
Panaka made a decision.
“It’s a security job,” he said. “It would involve protecting one person, which would extend to performing duties around her household.”
Obi-Wan thought it over. “Like tea?” He asked, a hopeful note in his voice.
Hiding an incredulous smile, Panaka inclined his head. “Perhaps,” he said instead. It wouldn’t go against tradition if the Queen were to retain a tea master as part of her staff.
Obi-Wan looked at him, lip caught between his teeth and Panaka knew they’d have to train the boy out of the habit. After a long moment, the redhead finally nodded. “Okay,” he said softly.
Panaka allowed himself to smile. “Okay,” he agreed.
Obi-Wan tried his best to ignore the curious looks he garnered from the rest of his party, trembling hands hidden within the loose folds of his robe as Captain Panaka lead them through the palace. Now he knew why the captain had felt off during their interview. That vague feeling he’d released, something close to frustration mingled with condemnation only to finally settle on resigned. Obi-Wan hadn’t known what he’d done wrong, but when the offer came he thought that he must have changed the older man’s mind.
There were five teens trailing behind Captain Panaka, and Obi-Wan was the only boy.
Each of the girls, with the exception of the blonde, looked similar enough that Obi-Wan wondered if it was intentional. All of them, Obi-Wan included, fell within the age-range the job posting had indicated and all of them glanced at each other with politely inquisitive expressions. Though more often than he’d have liked, Obi-Wan felt those expressions trained on him.
Several long moments passed, their steps echoing on the marble floor, until Captain Panaka finally lead them into an opulent chamber with high-vaulted ceilings and tall, crystalline windows.
There, perched regally upon the throne in a voluminous green gown and an ornate headdress, sat Queen Amidala.
Obi-Wan stumbled, boots screeching as they attempted to find traction on the slippery floor, face a study in mortification as everyone turned to look at him.
“S-sorry,” he squeaked out. Voice embarrassingly high.
The captain looked like he was trying not to sigh, and Obi-Wan bowed his head in shame.
After a long moment, Captain Panaka cleared his throat. “Your Highness,” he said. “May I present your…handmaidens.”
Each girl bowed as they were introduced.
“Rabene Tonsort, a gifted actress and artist.” This was for the girl with a fox-like face, who’d winked when she’d caught Obi-Wan’s eye in the waiting room.
“Eirtama Ballory, scientist and engineer.” Was how Captain Panaka introduced the blonde-haired girl.
“Suyan Higin, seamstress and maker.” It was the kind-eyed girl in the yellow dress who’d offered him a sweet-smelling salve when she saw the scab on his lip.
“Sashah Adova—“ Captain Panaka hesitated, as though unsure how to continue. It was the only girl who looked to be closer to Obi-Wan’s age, the one whose tranquil expression was scarily reminiscent of the Temple’s masters. The Queen simply nodded, a small half-smile breaking the cool marble mask she’d worn.
Obi-Wan bit his lip when it was his turn. His bow was Temple-perfect, despite the slight tremors. “Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Captain Panaka said. “Prognosticator and Force-Sensitive.” There was a slightly raised brow in response, and Obi-Wan flushed. He hadn’t known how he’d be introduced, and while he supposed it was better that he wasn’t called a Jedi, the stares grew more intense.
He breathed a sigh of relief when Panaka finally allowed him to go back to his spot.
Obi-Wan’s mind drifted as the Queen thanked Captain Panaka, attention being drawn to the nearly invisible presence standing slightly behind and to the left of the throne. Another girl, dressed far more simply yet in a way that complimented the more eye-catching figure beside her. She was a placid, cool presence in the throne room and Obi-Wan felt his brows furrow as he struggled to get a read on her.
Either her natural shielding was immaculate, or she’d been trained to shield the way he had.
He was so lost in his thoughts, that he nearly missed the Queen’s command, had it not been for the brief flare of agitation coming from the direction of a suddenly silent captain.
Obi-Wan blinked, and nervously fell into step with the rest of the party as Queen Amidala lead them upstairs.
Mariek glanced up as her husband entered their shared suite, mumbling under his breath grumpily.
A quick glance at her comm had her eyebrows rising in confusion. “Weren’t you going to introduce the queen to the candidates you’d selected?” She asked.
An angry grumble, followed by a nod.
”And?”
”She dismissed me,” he said. There was a slight pout on his face, one that always made her want to kiss him. She did so.
”She probably just wants to get to know them,” Mariek said soothingly. “Without the intimidating presence of the captain for her security detail.”
His pout deepened. “I don’t like it,” he grumped. “They’re scheming, I just know it.”
Mariek laughed. “I’m afraid that’s the nature of teenage girls, dear. It’s in their nature,” she paused. “Well that and homicide. Just consider yourself lucky they haven’t killed each other yet.” She turned back to her holonovel.
Quarsh slumped deeper into his chair. “I wouldn’t know,” he said mutinously. “She absconded into her apartments with the lot of them, and closed the door in my face.”
Mariek glanced up. “Wait, what happened to Obi-Wan?” She asked. She’d been concerned when her husband had selected the boy, worried he’d feel isolated surrounded by a pack of teen girls.
Her husband looked at her in confusion. “He’s up there with them,” he said, waving a hand in the vague direction of the Queen’s suite.
Oh dear, Mariek thought, they’re gonna eat that poor boy alive.
Padmé regarded her new handmaidens as she pulled off the stiff headpiece, thanking Tsabin as the other girl took it and placed it on a table.
The girls, and one boy—which had been a surprise—all bore a passing resemblance to her, with the exception of Eirtama and Obi-Wan. The girls remained politely interested, a benefit of their Naboo education.
Obi-Wan seemed anxious, bony shoulders hunched and lip caught between his teeth. He blushed when he caught her eye, ducking even further.
“I’m Padmé,” she said, more warmly than she would have in court. While Panaka originally intended for them to serve as bodyguards, Padmé’s aspirations went beyond that. She needed them to understand what she wanted, and couldn’t do that as Amidala. “I’m sure Captain Panaka has dictated the nature of the work you signed on for, but it is not my intention for you to become an extension of the Naboo Royal Security Forces,” she paused, unsure how to continue.
“Not an extension of them,” Sashah observed.
A smile crept out at that, and Padmé inclined her head. “Yes,” she agreed. “Each of you have talents. Talents I don’t possess,” she took a moment to meet each of their eyes. “Separately, you’re each impressive. But if we can work together, I truly think we could build something far more than Panaka could have imagined.”
“You want a collaboration,” Eirtama said. There was a slight hint of incredulity in her tone, though her head was tilted thoughtfully.
“Not seven individual parts working in isolation,” Suyan said. “But in tandem. You want us to learn each other’s strengths.”
Rabene stretched her arms, before flopping back in her seat theatrically. “He wants me to teach you how to cheat,” she said bluntly. “He seems to think you’re incapable of deceit, but I think he’s underestimating you.” There was a teasing quality to her voice, words almost like a challenge and Padmé smile grew at the easy candor.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she answered demurely, eyes shining.
Rabene grinned back.
This was going well, Padmé thought, cautiously optimistic. There had always been the risk that Panaka, in his desire to protect her, would select people who were loyal but not flexible enough to fit her needs. So far, it seemed as though the captain had managed to find individuals who would work with her, rather than for her.
Eirtama had wandered over to the side table where Padmé’s abandoned headpiece was, lifting it experimentally. Her eyes widened. “What the kriff,” she murmured, just loud enough for Padmé to hear. It was said so thoughtlessly, she was sure the other girl hadn’t even realized she’d sworn in the presence of the Queen. The rest of the girls looked like they were trying to smother their smiles, while Obi-Wan’s worried expression turned to shock. “Are they all this unwieldy?” She asked, voice louder.
Padmé shrugged. “It’s an original,” she said in answer. “Most of them are a bit heavy and uncomfortable.”
Suyan was frowning, and held her hands out, a silent demand.
Eirtama passed the headpiece over to her and Suyan’s frown deepened. “Oh no, this won’t do,” she murmured. “We can make more wearable pieces but keep the same overall style. Most of the more traditional regalia was designed before Karlini silk was imported in bulk.”
The blonde cast a considering eye towards Padmé’s dress. “We can see if we can modify your dresses to be more comfortable as well,” she said. “There’s no reason function and comfort should be treated as though they’re mutually exclusive.”
Sashah turned towards Obi-Wan. “You were a Jedi,” she said.
The boy froze.
Padmé was beginning to understand why Panaka had chosen her. She was quiet and easily overlooked, but scarily observant.
“Um,” a trembling hand came up to scratch anxiously at his arm. “I, uh, it’s complicated?” His voice cracked slightly at the end, and his shoulders hunched even deeper.
Rabene was frowning. “What’s complicated about it?” She asked. “You either were, or you weren’t.”
He bit his lip again, and Padmé wondered if the spot was permanently scabbed with how often he did it. Beside her, Tsabin’s eyebrows were furrowed.
“I well,” he trailed off. He let out a shaky breath. “I was a Jedi initiate,” Obi-Wan finally admitted, eyes hidden behind his hair. “But I aged out.” There was something so achingly small about the way he said it, and none of the girls were unaffected.
“Do you still have your laser sword?” Eirtama asked.
Obi-Wan shook his head mutely.
“Panaka said you were a,” Padmé frowned thoughtfully. “Prognosticator?”
Blue eyes peeked out from behind a curtain of strawberry blonde curls. He hesitated. “I um, get feelings,” Obi-Wan said quietly.
“Feelings?” Sashah asked.
“If, um,” the boy stuttered, eyes darting about the room thoughtfully. “If there was an uh, accident,” he tried weakly. “I wouldn’t see what would happen, just know that something bad was coming.”
Padmé could see how that would appeal to her captain’s paranoia.
“What else can you do?” Tsabin asked.
Obi-Wan shot a furtive glance towards Rabene, before looking away. “I can tell that C-captain Panaka thinks he has something o-on her,” he said, voice apologetic.
“You’re not just an artist and actress, are you,” Padmé said. Turning to look at the other girl.
Rabene laughed. “I convinced some offworlders to purchase some classic art pieces I forged,” she shrugged. “After I had assured them they were originals. I also like to play the vioddle,” she tacked on. “I needed to settle on a major before they kicked me out, so I chose—“
“Crime?” Tsabin asked, laughing.
Rabene rolled her eyes. “Music,” she said, tone long-suffering. “It was the only thing I thought couldn’t be used unconventionally.”
Padmé’s eyes were thoughtful. “Did Panaka threaten you?” She asked. There were many things she would forgive her captain for, but bullying and intimidating a teenage girl was not one of them.
Another shrug. “I let him think he had one over on me,” Rabene said. “There wasn’t anything he could actually do, as no record of the crime exists and any evidence he’d be able to find wouldn’t implicate me in the slightest.”
She didn’t sound worried, but Padmé still resolved to speak to him. There were limits to her generosity, and it was important to establish hard boundaries early.
“The Captain’s paranoid, but his heart’s usually in the right place,” she said. Unsure if the words were for Rabene or herself.
The other girl smiled. “I got that,” she laughed.
“Is there a reason he thinks an attack on you is probable?” Eirtama asked, eyes already doing calculations only she could see. “There hasn’t been an attack on a Naboo monarch in decades.”
Padmé sighed. “There are a few things that might have him worried,” she said. “There’s some taxation laws that Senator Palpatine is strongly opposed to, and relations within the sector have deteriorated with Sanandrassa’s “Naboo First” stance on foreign policy, but I strongly suspect he just prefers to prepare for the worst,” she cast a glance at Obi-Wan. “Unless you’ve felt something.”
Obi-Wan blushed at the attention, but shook his head. “T-too early to tell,” he stuttered.
Rabene hummed. “We’ll just have to keep you close then,” she said. A conspirtorial wink was shot in his direction and the boy squeaked.
He was far too fun to tease.
Smothering her smile, Padmé cleared her throat. “Panaka wants you to act as my shadows,” she said. “I know you’ve all given significantly to be here, and that there was a confidentiality clause in your contracts, but I think we should try and establish some ground rules and a general protocol before going any further. It’s okay to argue about things in private, but it’s important we present a unified front to the public.”
Tsabin nodded. “I will be the primary decoy,” she said. “But all of you will wear the make-up, at least once.” Her usual cool composure broke, grinning at Obi-Wan’s wide-eyed stare. “At least for practice.”
“We should address you as ‘Your Highness’ whenever you’re in makeup,” Suyan coughed. It did little to hide the laughter in her voice. “A good way to help establish boundaries on when we’re attending Amidala.”
“Yes,” Sashah nodded. “Whoever wears the Queen’s face should be addressed with the correct title. It will help desensitize us if we’re ever addressed by the public while posing as you.”
Padmé agreed.
Rabene leaned forward. “I also think we should have new names,” she said. “It will add an additional layer of security, especially for our families.”
Eirtama was frowning, clearly distressed. “Do you have any suggestions?” She asked.
“Well,” Rabene said. “The Queen had to give up Padmé, what if we all chose versions of our names that sounded similar. A group of ehs in a row will definitely be confusing, and make it difficult to keep track of who’s who.”
Eirtama’s frown didn’t weaken, though her shoulders relaxed a bit.
“It’s alright if you’d prefer not to,” Padmé reassured.
The other girl shook her head. “It only works if all of us do it,” she said. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. “Eirtaé,” she said. “I’ll be in charge of communications. That way no one will wonder at a bit of tech being in my hands every now and then.”
Rabene smiled. “Rabé,” she said warmly. “Mistress of the Wardrobe.” It would place her in the perfect position to act as an intelligence officer, as she’d have access to the Queen’s most personal objects—ensuring her safety—while also making sure she’d always have to be on hand.
Suyan twirled a lock of hair thoughtfully. “Yané,” she said at last. “I’ll be your liaison with the palace staff and droids.” Helping her keep an eye on anything and everything that went on within the Palace’s walls.
Sashah smiled. “Saché, the lowly page,” she bowed. As the smallest, it was unlikely she’d ever play Amidala and it would help her to remain unnoticed.
Tsabin, her first handmaiden, grinned beside her. “Sabé,” her dark eyes twinkled. “I’ll be everyone’s assistant. Less suspicious if I were to suddenly disappear.”
They all turned to Obi-Wan.
He hesitated for a moment, fingers playing with the hem of his roughspun robes. “I’ve always liked the name Ben,” he said thoughtfully. He picked at a loose thread. “Bené,” he breathed out. “Um, y-your tea master?” He asked, a hopeful note in his voice.
Padmé couldn’t stop the smile that stole across her face. As the only boy, it was incredibly unlikely that anyone would ever mistake him for Amidala. Even if they did place him in the makeup and regalia. While the others would be able to hide in obscurity, it was more likely that he’d need to standout. As tea master, protocol would demand he be present at almost of all her meetings while occupying a highly visible position within her court.
She nodded.
The problem with being trained in one weapon almost exclusively, Eirtaé thought, is that everything else feels unnatural.
Bené flinched as Captain Panaka snapped at him for the third time that day. Shoulders creeping towards his ears, as the boy quietly accepted the reprimand. He was fast with stellar reflexes, moving faster than the naked could comprehend to the point even the cameras had a hard time capturing just how quickly he moved. He was great at the evasion trainings, helping whoever posed as the Queen escape capture.
But blasters looked clumsy and unwieldy in his hands.
This particular scolding came after Bené attempted to throw his blaster at a training droid instead of firing it. The first had been when he’d tried to club it over the head, and the second for forgetting it entirely.
Watching as the boy grew smaller in the face of Panaka’s ire, Eirtaé frowned thoughtfully. Lightsaber construction was a closely guarded secret, but perhaps there was something she could do.
Yané glanced up curiously, eyebrows raised in question as Eirtaé sat down across from her. Hands never stopping in their quick, practiced motions as she finished pinning a line of pleats in golden-yellow Karlini silk.
“Is that for Bené?” Eirtaé asked.
Yané nodded.
As part of their ongoing collaboration in modernizing not only the Queen’s attire, but creating a cohesive unit, she and Eirtaé had designed an entirely new wardrobe for the handmaidens. While many were made to complement whatever the Queen was wearing, practical considerations for concealing their identities—and potential weapons—was present in all of their designs.
However, after Sabé’s observation that as the only boy in their group Bené was unlikely to ever pose as Amidala, part of their revised strategy was to lean into his obviousness. That way eyes would consistently be drawn towards “Amidala” or Bené, and make casual observers assume wherever he was, the Queen was as well. It placed him in a precarious position. While the rest counted on their anonymity to protect the queen, as the only public face of their unit, his protection rested in his visibility.
Which meant that in addition to the obvious alterations they’d need to make in consideration to his gender, they also needed to ensure his outfit didn’t blend into the background the way theirs did, but was an obvious complement to the Queen. So instead of gowns, Bené’s wardrobe would consist of fitted tunics paired with matching bottoms. Yané had taken inspiration from several historical pieces, crafting a garment made with a front pleated panel and a back panel with a reinforced waist board to provide structure. Each panel would be tied in place, front first then back, creating the desired silhouette and obscuring his exact movements. Some would have a loose central seam so they’d be more similar to wide-legged trousers, while the rest could aptly be described as skirts.
Yane had the sneaking suspicion that with how quickly hoods had become fashionable among girls after they’d seen them on the Queen’s handmaiden’s, Bené’s revised court attire would similarly follow suit with Naboo’s teen boys.
“If we wanted to add a sash or belt to his wardrobe, how much would that weigh?” Eirtae asked. Her pad was out, open to their page of notes on Bené’s clothing schematics. Stylus held in readiness.
Yané felt her brows furrow, but considered the question. “If we were to make them out of similar material,” she began. “And followed a design that would provide further structure but maintain the overall silhouette I could probably get it down to around a kilo.” She tilted her head. “Why? I thought we’d decided to stick with the front ties?”
Humming as she sketched something out on her pad, Eirtaé regarded it for a moment, before she held it out. An offer.
Taking it, Yané eyed the design. “Ah,” she said. A smile creeping over her face as she made a quick adjustment for the dimensions she’d need. “I should have enough material left over for this, though if the prototype is successful we’d have to check to see if there’s enough to add a corresponding piece to each outfit.” She gave the pad back to the other girl.
Eirtaé nodded. “How long do you think it would take you to construct?” She asked.
A considering hum. “Give me a week,” Yané answered.
“W-what,” Bené stammered, blush high on his cheeks as Eirtaé unceremoniously began manhandling him. She wrapped a bright piece of cloth around his waist, securing it with a simple knot, before she smoothed it out.
The rest of the handmaidens hid their smiles at his reaction, though Rabé’s eyes twinkled and Saché’s nose wrinkled in the way that meant she was trying not to laugh. Eirtaé paid them no mind, her eye critical as she twisted him to and fro. She asked him to try several different movements, which he did without complaint.
He’d quickly learnt that there was no point arguing with any of the girls. He’d inevitably lose, and be forced to do what they wanted in the first place. Accepting it was much quicker, and better for his long term health besides.
Several minutes passed before Eirtaé finally nodded. “Alright,” she said. “Get into the opening stance of Form I.”
Bené frowned. He’d shared the open handed katas with them as a part of their self-defense training, and Form I had been designed with blasters in mind. Captain Panaka was chuffed at being able to include Jedi martial arts to their regiment, while Bené was happy to still have a small piece of home he could share.
Mentally shrugging, he assumed the requested position.
“Alright now,” Eirtaé began. “Grab the end, no the other end,” she snapped. “Good. Now, press the button and draw the belt like you would a lightsaber.”
Frowning deeper, Bené did. Startling as the previously limp fabric turned stiff, unfolding from around his waist to form a rigid line that resembled a sword. There was a slight hum from the material, and he looked back at the older girl in question. “Go through the kata the way you normally would,” she said in answer.
He moved through the kata at half-speed. Expression turning to one of amazement as the fabric responded exactly like a lightsaber would. It even weighed the same.
Blinking, he turned.
Eirtaé shrugged at his expression. “You weren’t picking up blaster training fast enough,” she said in answer. “It should be just as blaster resistant as a regular saber.”
He worked his mouth soundlessly for a bit. “How did you get it to go from belt to sword?” Bené asked.
“Thin pieces of flexisteel and an electromagnetic charge,” she responded. “I read that the gyroscopic effect of the energy transmitter made lightsabers feel heavier and more complex to handle and wanted to make it feel like what you’d be familiar with. Pressing the same button should deactivate it.”
Bené pressed the button, delighted as the rigid fabric suddenly turned limp and lifeless again. “It’s perfect,” he breathed.
Eirtaé rolled her eyes, though they gleamed with pride. “It won’t cut anything,” she said instead. “But it’s supposed to be defensive, so,” a shrug.
Bené couldn’t help the fierce hug he wrapped the older girl in, ignoring her startled squawk of protest as he did so.
Panaka held back a sigh as he watched the former Jedi initiate disregard the offered blaster entirely, hand going to the flame-colored silk at his waist.
In one quick motion, he’d drawn his sash, fabric turning stiff and readied it into something resembling a starting position.
Panaka watched as the boy moved, fabric sword swinging expertly to deflect a blaster bolt before whirling it over his head at a training droid. It collapsed upon impact, durasteel dented from the blow, and Bené moved on to the next target. Fellow handmaidens moving in sync behind him.
Eirtaé looked painfully smug when she met his eye, and Panaka resolved not to tell Mariek he’d been outsmarted by the girls yet again.
Sabé nodded encouragingly at the younger boy, eyes watchful as he took a careful inhale. He held it for a count of four, before exhaling. “Almost,” she said. “The trick is to bring air through your diaphragm, not your chest.” She demonstrated, hand moving towards her stomach to indicate the difference.
A benefit of a conservatory education were breathing exercises that helped control physical reactions, and she could take a deep breath without appearing to actually be doing so. Sabé had already been teaching Padmé before the others arrived, and drew them into their practice.
Though she took additional time to teach Bené one-on-one. All of the girls were concerned with how anxious he seemed all the time, and while Yané had taken over his skincare routine—determined to heal the semi-permanent scab on his bottom lip—Sabé resolved to train him the way she’d been when she began playing hallikset.
“Try again,” she said.
Nodding, Bené closed his eyes, hands moving to his own stomach to feel the muscle move. He inhaled, chest barely moving, and held it for a count of four. Shoulders relaxing, he let it out.
Sabé smiled. “Good,” she said. “Again.”
Bené stumbled out of the tiny closet they’d converted into a bedroom for him, accepting the mug of caf pressed into his hands with a sleepy smile before settling on a nearby settee.
He yawned, eyes half-lidded and a crease-line on his cheek while Rabé and Yané set to work.
The suite initially contained three bedrooms, in addition to a sitting room, meeting room, and a dressing room. While the girls could comfortably rotate through the three bedrooms with an algorithm Eirtaé had designed, there was a question on where Bené would sleep.
Captain Panaka wanted him in a separate bedroom down the hall, but the girls were adamant the handmaidens needed to be together. It had nearly turned into a fight, until Padmé put her foot down. A little-used linen closet was perfectly suited to be turned into a sleeping space, and Bené would need to be dressed by them anyways as his wardrobe was more complicated to get into alone.
Outnumbered, Panaka had grumpily acquiesced.
“Arms,” Rabé demanded.
Setting down his half-finished mug, Bené raised his arms. Shivering when cool air brushed his skin as they removed his sleep shirt before exchanging it for the golden silk tunic. He’d blushed when they done this the first time, until Yané had reassured him that she helped her younger brothers get dressed all the time. Rabé chimed in, saying that with how quickly some costume changes had to occur between scenes, her fellow students would simply change in the wings. There was nothing improper about it, they had reassured. Now it was just part of his daily routine.
Wake-up, stumble out of his closet. Accept the mug of caf Eirtaé made—three sugars and a hefty splash of blue milk—sit down on the settee he was quickly beginning to associate as his, and relax as Yané and Rabé would arrange his hair and slip whatever tunic they’d decided on for the day over his head. His leggings would remain in place while they slipped the paired bottoms around his waist. One working on tying the back panel, while the other tied the front. Then the modified obi, and a touch of make-up.
Never anything resembling the Queen’s face, but as the only visible handmaiden they’d quickly decided that Bené’s court appearance would be augmented to be more visual. A dusting of shimmering powder over his cheekbones. Sometimes a little in the soft curve of his upper lip. A hint of pink to the apples of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. ”The freckles stay,” Rabé said fiercely when Eirtaé asked about something called concealer.
Bené wasn’t actually sure what that was, but the other girl hadn’t argued, so he decided to trust his fellow handmaidens.
Nimble fingers worked through his curls, and Bené relaxed as Yané fixed his unruly bed head into something more presentable.
Bené blinked as he felt something heavy attached near his temple, a twin weight settling on the opposite side. He glanced down. Two fine lengths of orichalc trailed down his head, falling just shy of his shoulders. They were secured by a gold-colored clasp, similar to a headpiece Padmé had. He looked at Rabé and Yané questioningly.
“The Queen has asked that her tea master have suspensas today,” Yané answered. “Her Highness will be wearing something similar.”
Blinking again, silently accepting the mug pressed back into his hands, Bené simply nodded.
He took a sip, nearly falling back asleep as the older girls argued over which highlighter to use.
Saché regarded Bené quietly, eyes tracking the stilted way he prepared a pot of tea. Movements stiff and jerky.
His lip was caught between his teeth, a habit they’d thought had been trained out.
She hummed thoughtfully. “Why don’t you just tell her?” She asked, startling him.
His cheeks were pink when he turned to look at her, a tin clutched to his chest. “W-what?”
Saché looked at the tin. It was the calming blend, the one they’d imported specifically for him to try and soothe his anxiety, though Padmé hadn’t told him that. Simply said she liked the taste.
Padmé did a lot of little things like that for them. Quietly purchasing a new batch of embroidery thread for Yané, stocking their small kitchen with Eirtaé’s preferred brand of caf. Replenishing Rabé’s art supplies. Downloading new holonovel onto Saché’s data pad. She was thoughtful, practical. Never calling attention to the acts themselves. Because she wasn’t Amidala in those moments, and they weren’t her handmaidens. She was simply Padmé, doing something kind for her friends.
Saché was still learning what that meant. Too used to being ignored. Too used to placidly observing.
“Your feelings,” she said instead, watching as Bené stiffened. “Why don’t you trust them?”
The boy hesitated for a moment, grip tightening before he closed his eyes. He inhaled the way Sabé had taught them, holding it for a count of four before releasing it. Bené repeated the action, then again, and again. On the fifth iteration, he finally opened his eyes. “I was t-taught not to center on my anxieties,” Bené said. His voice was quiet. Small. “I-it’s important to be mindful of the future,” he continued. “B-but not at the expense of the moment. ‘Always in motion, the future is.’” His voice had taken an odd tone, the way he said it so rote that Saché knew it must’ve been something he’d heard often.
Saché considered that for a moment. “Would you disregard my observations?” She asked. Tone curious.
Bené blinked at her. “Of course not,” he said hurriedly. They all trusted her ability at reading people, it was the reason Panaka had selected her.
“But I can’t know what people are going to do, not really,” she said. “I’m basing what I see on my own interpretation of their actions and their behavior in the past,” a tiny shrug. “They could act in a way I didn’t expect.”
Pale brows furrowed. “But that wouldn’t be your fault,” Bené said.
Saché tilted her head. “Exactly,” she said. “Just like if your feelings are wrong, it’s not your fault. Tell her,” she repeated.
Bené’s expression was tinged with worry, but luckily his lip remained free. He tapped the tin. “Okay,” he said.
“Okay,” Saché replied. She waited expectantly. “Well?”
Bené laughed.
Eyes closed as steam bathed his face, Bené opened his eyes.
With soft, precise movements he tilted the kettle, careful not to get any stray droplets on the flame colored tunic he’d been dressed in earlier that morning. There was a soft hiss as water splashed against the thin porcelain of the pot he’d selected.
A moment passed, long enough for one slow inhale and exhale, before he poured out the water.
It was important to heat the porcelain before steeping, it helped awaken the flavor in the leaves.
He added a measured scoop of the Queen’s favorite Karlini blend, his hands steady, and once again lifted the kettle. The motions were soothing in their familiarity, almost like a moving meditation. Once the pot had been filled to an appropriate level, he poured a measure of water into a crystalline bowl.
The custom of a Naboo tea service having tiny companions carved out of a variety of mediums had been a welcome surprise to Bené, who’d been raised with the austere simplicity of the Temple’s tea ceremony. While they served no actual purpose aside from highlighting the artistic talents of Nabooian society, Eirtaé had made the Queen’s ’tea pets’ to be functional as well as decorative. The set Bené selected for that morning’s tea service were a pair of glimmerfish cast in duraresin and painted a demure orange. They were heat-reactive, changing to a bright pink when boiling water was poured over them. They’d fade back to orange when the water cooled, a visible indication the pot would need to be changed. They’d turn black if poison was found, something that had luckily never occurred before, though he appreciated Eirtaé’s forethought.
He set the bowl to the Queen’s left, pouring the first steeping out, and poured fresh water over the leaves.
There was a smile on his face as he served the Queen and the officials who attended her at morning court.
“Thank you,” Queen Amidala remarked, voice low. “Continue governor.”
Bené bowed, before he returned to his place beside the throne. Eyes on the fish in their porcelain bowl, mindful of when he’d need to change out the current brew.
“I want to plan a royal summit and invite the other planetary leaders from across the Chommell sector,” Padmé said one night as they sat relaxing after a busy day touring Naboo’s agricultural provinces. She smiled in thanks when Bené handed her a steaming cup of tea, expression fond as the boy worriedly adjusted the heating pad on her abdomen.
Right before their tour, the boy had gotten a feeling. Neither good nor bad, but insistent enough he decided it should be shared. They scheduled the tour to happen just a few days earlier than originally planned, unsure what he was picking up until Padmé’s period started the morning after their tour had ended. Cramps worse than usual, a product of stress Yané surmised, adding it to her medical profile before asking if she’d consider suppressant shots.
It was common practice among the guards and officials who cycle. Padmé’s usually wasn’t this bad, which was why she hadn’t considered the shots earlier but Yané had a point.
Though the tea Bené had made, a blend he’d created himself filled with ginger, fennel, lady’s mantle, and a host of other anti-inflammatory herbs, was a wonder in relieving her muscle spasms and soothing the slight nausea she’d experienced. “I’m fine,” she assured him. They’d wondered how he’d react to something so alien to his own body, but they should have known that their Bené was as much a handmaiden as he was a worrier. He’d taken it in stride, having already researched the best ways to help manage the pain and what herbs could relieve common symptoms.
There was a stock of each girl’s favorite chocolate tucked away in a cabinet, and a custom-heating pad that he’d commissioned from Force only knows where. He glanced up, brows furrowed slightly and lip once again caught between his teeth. Blue eyes searched her face, looking for any hint of discomfort, before he finally nodded. A tray was placed beside her before he left, a pot of sweet smelling tea on a warmer next to a block of chocolate and a tiny clay Shaak occupying a corner. It was a gift they’d picked up during their tour, and Bené had been enamored with the tiny figurine crafted out of Naboo’s native purple clay. It was unglazed, a more traditional style, and would develop the signature glossy, fragrant patina with continued use.
As Bené settled down on a cushion, relaxing when Yané took the opportunity to braid the boy’s hair, Saché turned the conversation back to business. “A summit,” the other girl said.
Padmé nodded. “Yes,” she said. It was something she’d been mulling over since they’d passed the fields of rotting grain, smell reminding her of rot and ruin. She’d asked Minister Zapalo where they’d purchase replacement grain, who’d dibbled a bit, before admitting that they’d approached a few planets from outside the sector.
Something she didn’t understand, as Karlinus and Jafan were both agricultural planets and their neighbors beside. When did the Naboo begin turning away from others within their sector? When did they begin to disregard them completely? Was it during Sanandrassa? Or earlier, during Queen Reillata?
It was something she was determined to fix, and so she’d turned to her team of handmaidens to plan out the logistics.
Rabé hummed. “Not everyone would come,” she said after a moment. “But a personal invitation from Amidala would definitely go a long way in soothing frayed relations, not to mention it would make them curious enough to at least send a delegate.”
“The matter with the grain would be a good enough excuse,” Yané mused. “But we should pose it as an opportunity to address matters specific to their homeworlds and how the sector can support their neighboring planets.”
That was a good suggestion, and Padmé watched as Eirtaé scribbled into her pad.
“We should invite the Gungans,” Bené murmured sleepily. His eyes were half-lidded in that way they got when he was deep in a feeling, and everyone turned to face him. Expressions patient as the boy drifted through his Force vision. “It’s,” he breathed. “It’s important.”
It was a complex issue, and one that had been festering for generations. Ever since the end of the Naboo-Gungan conflict over a hundred years ago, the two species had grown more isolated from each other. Gungans weren’t even awarded a position in the sector’s senatorial delegation, though Naboo selected their own Republic representative.
No, the Gungans kept to their underwater cities and the Naboo to theirs in the world above, and politely ignored each other. It had been that way for years. No monarch had sought to change it, even when Naboo’s foreign policy shifted with the tide. It was a thought, and one Padmé found herself warming to.
Yes, she decided. It wouldn’t do to invite our neighbors across the sector and not even invite a representative from a species we share the planet with. “We’ll send an emissary to Otoh Gunga,” Padmé said. Although its exact location remained something of a mystery, historical records placed it beneath the surface of Lake Paonga. It would be difficult, but nothing worth doing was easy. The least she could do was try.
Saché eyes were considering, gaze locked on Bené who blinked sleepily as he left whatever trance the Force had drew him in. “What about the Jedi,” the younger girl said. Not quite a question.
A noticeable silence descended upon the room, tense and uncomfortable. It was a topic they carefully avoided in consideration to the deep sadness that seemed to permeate Bené’s entire being whenever he was reminded of the Order he’d been raised in. He still wrote to his friends in the Temple, and had received several letters and gifts from individuals he’d identified as his crechemates. Younglings who’d grown up in the same clan as him, something between friends and siblings, and he always seemed a little brighter on the days he’d received a comm from them. Happy to hear about the progress they’d made in their studies, even if they walked a path no longer open to him.
The boy didn’t seem to notice the weighted silence that hung between them, seriously considering the not-question before he nodded. “There’s the AgriCorps Outpost on Karlinus,” he said thoughtfully. “Which means the Order has a stake in better sector relations, and an independent moderator would help everyone feel like they’re on a more equal playing field.”
Sabé purposely relaxed, making a show of leaning deeper into the sofa. “Are any of your friends or their masters available to play moderator?” She asked.
Bené hummed. “Garen wrote that he and Master Rhara were finishing up a mission in Chommell Minor,” he said thoughtfully. “And Quin hasn’t said, but it sounds like he and Master Tholme are somewhere nearby.”
Padmé made a decision. “We will invite the Gungans and the Jedi to the royal summit,” she said. A hint of the Queen’s voice in her words. Everyone agreed. “What next?”
Quinlan perked up when his comm chimed, sending a questioning glance to his master who signed long-sufferingly but nodded.
With an excited squeal, he opened the message. Eye widening as he read Obes’ request, before a mischievous grin crept over his face. Opening the group chat with the rest of Hawkbat Clan—the ones he could stand anyway—Quin wrote down the relevant details and confirmed which ones would need transport before he turned wide-eyes to his master.
Tholme turned away, Quinlan pouting at the man’s back, before his master slumped.
“Fine,” the man said. “Whatever you just volunteered us for is fine, just stop that.”
Quin grinned, ignoring the mutinous grumbles about how Tholme regretted the day Obi-Wan taught Quin that tooka-eyed expression, and happily tried to decide which tea he should bring as a present.
Boss Nass was just tearing up yet another petition to exile one exceedingly clumsy Jar Jar Binks from Otoh Gunga when a sergeant came in, a sealed pad in his hands. “What’sa that?” He asked. The model was sleeker than the kinds owned by anyone he knew, in a design more similar to the ones preferred by the Naboo.
“A messenger from da surface, Your Honor,” the sergeant answered. He handed the pad over, and with a growing sense of suspicion Boss Nass read over its contents.
He read it again, a slow smile creeping over his face.
A familiar clamor erupted in the vicinity of the city sewer system, and the Gungan decided this was a better alternative. There was no telling what would happen if Binks was left as a bubble-cleaner for the Zoological Research Facility —his original plan to remove the man from the sewer system. He didn’t have the heart to banish him to a far-off bubble or reassign him to a military post simply because the gods had cursed Jar Jar with a clumsiness few walked away from unscathed. “Captain Tarpals,” he called.
The Gungan saluted. He’d been one of Binks’ staunchest supporters, a remnant of a shared childhood, and Boss Nass decided that this assignment would be his responsibility. “Yousa to be in charge of da security for ours representative to da Naboo,” he commanded.
The captain’s eyes furrowed, mouth working silently as his long whiskers twitched in confusion. “Who’sa being our representative to da Naboo?” He asked.
Another clamor, louder this time. Everyone turned to look in the direction it came from, a familiar expression of tired dismay etched into their faces, one reserved entirely for Binks’ antics.
“Jar Jar Binks,” Boss Nass replied solemnly. He ignored the captain’s horrified groan.
“Obes!” An excited voice exclaimed.
Bené had just enough time to turn startled blue eyes in its direction, before he was tackled by an affectionate kiffar. “Quin,” he said weakly, attempting to put some distance between his face and the other’s robes. Yané and Rabé had spent more time on his make-up than usual, and he didn’t want their hard work to end up ruined due to his overly tactile crechemate. “What h-happened to Jedi decorum?” He asked, voice strained. Since when had Quin gotten so strong?
A deep laugh sounded behind them, and Bené turned desperate eyes towards his friend’s master. Master Tholme simply shook his head. “Normal rules don’t apply when it comes to his favorite crechemate,” the older man replied seriously. They were the last arrivals, the Queen accurately anticipating the need for privacy.
Several more familiar figures swarmed the hugging pair, and a rush of air escaped him as Bené was tackled by Garen, Reeft and Bant. The five of them landing in a tangled heap, though the fall wasn’t too painful thanks to the concussive-absorbent material Yané had lined throughout the velvet, reinforcing it with deep purple embroidery down his chest and throughout the obi tied at his waist.
His crechemates laughed, and Quinlan stuck out an elbow so he could look down at him. “Force Obes,” he said. “When did you get so pretty?”
Bené sighed.
“Oh,” a voice breathed. “Hello there.”
Bené turned wide blue eyes to the boy beside him.
The Kreeling and Jafan delegations had arrived together, and while Bené hadn’t been at the landing pad to greet them, he’d heard that the leaders of each planet had sent their children to represent them. Padmé was delighted, as she thought having others around their own age would make things go far smoother than having to pander to the delicate egos of their adult counterparts.
Governor Kelma arrived with the Director of the AgriCorps Outpost, an elderly togruta with a grandmotherly smile. Several other planets in the sector sent a delegate, while a few would be joining by commlink. To the surprise of many, the Gungans had sent a representative, an orange Otolla Gungan by the name of Jar Jar Binks who was accompanied by a small contingent of warriors lead by a much aggrieved Captain Tarpals.
Bené had been gifted a gooberfish carved out of dolomite, accepting the box after Ambassador Binks nearly brained him with it. Though the smile he wore upon catching sight of the figure’s carefully painted body was softer than what he normally wore in court.
It was the tea pet he’d selected for the afternoon tea service, an opportunity to allow the delegates to relax after a long span of travel. He’d grown used to being seen and ignored, unless the Queen or another of her courtiers had a need for tea. He hadn’t anticipated anyone approaching him.
A miscalculation on his part it seemed, as he regarded the shorter boy. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” the stranger said. He bowed slightly, light catching the dark red of his hair. “I’m Tobruna, my mother is in charge of the Kreeling refineries.” His eyes were the warm brown of freshly steeped black tea, and just as warm. Bené felt himself blush when they twinkled up at him.
He bowed in turn, deeper than the other, as protocol dictated. They weren’t equals, Bené was a mere handmaiden and tea master. But from the way the other boy regarded him, he didn’t notice the difference in their stations. “B-Bené,” he replied. “I-it’s a pleasure, Ser Tobruna.”
“Just Tobruna,” the other boy smiled, dimples flashing. Bené’s ears felt warm. “And the pleasure is mine.”
Eirtaé regarded the Kreeling boy with suspicion, eyes narrowing as the redhead said something that caused Bené to turn a vibrant pink. He said something in reply, voice too soft to be heard at this distance, but the shorter boy laughed warmly and there was a tiny smile on Bené’s face.
She caught the eye of a glaring Calamarian, held back by an equally furious human boy whose dark auburn hair was almost a match for Bené’s starwberry blonde curls. She tilted her chin, the only part of her face visible with the hood of her velvet cloak raised, in question.
Bené’s old crechemates offered a single nod, which she returned.
Dark eyes regarded the Kreeling boy, who’d gotten closer in the brief exchange between the handmaiden and the Jedi, close enough that he placed an ungloved hand on Bené’s elbow. He gestured to something on the tray the taller boy was preparing, and Bené’s ears turned pink.
The problem with having so many teens in one place, Eirtaé thought angrily, was the hormones. She made a mental note to see where their Jedi guests had been quartered, before she turned away. This was going to be far more interesting than I thought.
The first day of the summit was intended to be an opportunity for the various delegates to address the problems specific to their own homeworlds, and the seating had been arranged in such a way to make everyone feel like they were on equal footing. Padmé was dressed in one of her simpler gowns, devoid of ornamentation but for the small hint of blue and green sequins embroidered on the hem that matched the small jewels in her headpiece. She was still the Queen, but this was an opportunity to remove some of the perceived arrogance the rest of their neighbors had attributed to the Naboo in recent years. This morning her only role was to act as host, while Master Rhara and Master Tholme acted as moderators.
Even the throne had been relocated to a side-room, her chair no different from anyone else’s and she could see that Harli—a blue-skinned humanoid from Jafan who was the planetary director’s daughter—and Tobruna, were both pleased at the prospect of being on common ground.
Padmé didn’t miss the way the Kreeling boy’s dark eyes flicked to Bené the moment introductions were finished, mouth turning fond and smile carving dimples in his cheeks as he watched the other boy happily flit about the tea cart. Her handmaidens were dressed in jade green today, and while the girls wore a mixture of materials, their little brother was draped entirely in silk. His tunic was belted at the waist, several folds carefully arranged to create the effect of a bustle over the matching trousers. Bathed in the gentle light coming from the Throne Room’s windows, with his freckled arms on full display, he looked endearingly soft. Especially with his artfully messy strawberry blonde hair that was closer to his regular bed head than Yané usually allowed.
She thought Rabé had planned for them to wear their flame colored ensemble for the morning’s meetings. Why the last minute change? Padmé was attempting to puzzle it out, until the boy turned, tray held shyly as he began offering their guests tea. There, displayed prominently across his chest in a purple so deep it was closer to aubergine, was the Royal Crest of Naboo.
It was a claim, visceral and public, with an elegance that was entirely Naboo. Padmé caught Yané’s eye.
The other girl offered a demure smile, and Padmé fought the urge to snicker.
“Honored delegates,” she began. Clearing her throat when Tobruna’s eyes remained locked on Bené’s back. “It is my honor to host you this morning—“
Quinlan frowned as the shorter teen from Kreeling stared after Obes with heart eyes like he was the romantic lead in some mushy holo-drama. He didn’t think the other boy had even blinked since Obi-Wan entered his line of vision. Taking a break from his staring just long enough to greet their host, before his dark eyes were once again trained on the slender form of Quinlan’s best friend.
He grit his teeth, hand clenched within the confines of his robes, before meeting Bant’s eyes.
Beside her, Reeft took a threatening bite of pastry while Garen’s stare would put a lesser being six feet under. Large silver eyes met his, and she offered a single, sharp nod.
Hawkbat Clan would take no prisoners.
Jar Jar thanked the slender human, accepting the cup of tea with clumsy hands. It smelled good, steam drifting in lazy spirals, with someting almost like pepper but sweeter. He regarded the lightly green tinged water with a skeptic expression, before shrugging.
He moved to take a sip.
“Wait, A-Ambassador Binks,” the boy said hurriedly. “It’s still ho—“
Whatever the human was going to say was lost as Jar Jar’s tongue blistered, his eyes welling up with tears at the heat consuming his mouth. With a pained squeak he lost his grip on the teacup, hands going to flap widely at his gaping mouth and missed the fact that in his hurry to relieve the burning sensation he had thrown the still scorching cup of liquid towards the red-haired boy beside him.
The shorter boy yelped as it fell in his lap.
Bené’s eyes widened when he heard Tobruna’s cry of pain, mouth falling open as he followed the teacup’s descent. Oh no, he thought worryingly. Face scrunched in sympathy. This was a disaster!
This is hilarious, Quin thought gleefully. Watching as the best-friend ogler jumped out of his seat, hands going to his pants before darting away. His face was a deep red, brown eyes watering as he excused himself. Quinlan watched as the shorter boy did an odd waddle-limp out of the throne room, fighting the urge to snicker.
He’d be more sympathetic if he hadn’t been forced to listen to the lecherous thoughts directed towards his best friend—fine it was nothing actually scandalous, mostly holding hands and one brief fantasy about kissing, barf, but Obes was Obes. Quinlan refused to believe anyone was good enough for the other boy, especially short red-heads with twinkling brown eyes and kriffing dimples.
He shot a look towards the Gungan who’d potentially, and entirely on accident, saved the life of a best-friend/handmaiden obsessed teenager.
“Ice,” he said, when pained yellow eyes turned to him. The Gungan had done him a solid, as Master Tholme had told him homicide was not an acceptable de-escalation strategy after that mission on Nal Hutta.
“I-ice?” The Gungan whimpered.
A nod, heavy black braids rattling at the movement. “Ice,” Quin agreed.
Tobruna smiled as he walked back to the rooms assigned to him.
The summit was just coming to an end, and despite the disastrous beginning where he’d been convinced that he’d blown whatever shot he might have had with the other boy, he’d somehow managed to get Bené’s comm-code.
Thinking about the taller boy, with his soft blue eyes and shy smile sent his heart racing in a way he’d associated with grav-ball, and Tobruna let out an ectastic laugh. Jumping into the air, and clutching the flimsi to his chest. This had been a good idea, he thought dreamily.
Only to yelp as a pair of hands shot out of a dark room, pulling him inside.
Tobruna could only blink as he was pressed into a chair, legs unable to support his weight, as his eyes took in the obscured figures across from him. One of them, the shortest, pulled off their hood to reveal the Queen’s page. Her eyes were narrowed, and she leaned forward threateningly.
“So,” she started, melodic voice at odds with the hint of promised pain in her words. “What exactly are your intentions with our little brother?”
Tobruna gulped.
Viceroy Nute Gunray whimpered as the Jedi ambassador outlined the terms of the treaty, Queen Amidala’s face placidly neutral while her counterparts across the sector regarded the Neimodian stonily.
He’d been assured that the Queen would sign the treaty, legalizing their occupation of the planet and force a settlement that would essentially indenture the Naboo to the Trade Federation. Naboo had no weapons and no allied, there would be nothing they could do to stop them. It should have been laughably easy.
Which was why it came as a shock when the thirty planets within the Chommell Sector responded in hours of the attempted blockade. Ships arriving in numbers that far surpassed his own, and with Jedi of all things!
His invasion was halted in its infancy and he could only whimper as he watched his trade franchise disappear before his very eyes.
The boy once known as Obi-Wan Kenobi—a Jedi initiate, then a farmer, and now a handmaiden—settled sleepily within his nest of blankets in the converted linen closet that had become his sleeping space.
When he had first learned about his reassignment, about the impossibility of ever fulfilling his dreams of knighthood, of being a guardian of peace and justice within the galaxy, he’d felt lost.
Adrift and untethered in a galaxy that was far wider than he could have possibly imagined.
Even with the Karlinus’ Outpost kind dismissal, he hadn’t known what he was meant to do now that the only dream he’d ever had was forcibly ripped away. Who was Obi-Wan Kenobi if he was not a Jedi? Where did he belong, if even the Temple didn’t want him?
Bant had whispered that they were not to know, they were to do.
An oft-heard expression in the creche, said by masters to younglings who complained about an undesirable task.
Most younglings interpreted it to mean that they were meant to trust in the wisdom of their elders, but Obi-Wan knew differently.
It meant to trust in the Force. To have faith in it.
And Obi-Wan, a Jedi to his fingertips even if he didn’t live in the Temple anymore, even if he would never be a Knight, or hold a lightsaber, or train a padawan, had faith in the Force.
It had lead him here after all.
Surrounded by girls who’d accepted him despite his flaws. Who loved him in the simple, uncomplicated way he’d never known love could be. He was theirs, and so they loved him. He was a part of them, so of course he belonged.
He was Bené, the boy with raging bed head and a fondness for tea who often experienced crippling anxiety but still did his best. Still tried, despite everything. Who knew the Queen’s favorite tea, and listened to Saché’s quiet observations. The boy who helped Yané deliver blankets to Theed hospital’s maternity ward. The boy that sang along with Rabé to Neurotransmitter Affection, both of them hilariously off-pitch despite Rabé’s artistic education. The boy who meditated quietly beside Sabé, their breathing in sync as they quietly commiserated with one another on being second-best. The boy that was the only one who could calm Eirtaé in a rage with a pot of tea and wide blue eyes.
He was Bené, and he was enough.
And so the boy once known as Obi-Wan Kenobi, a former Jedi initiate, farmer, and now a Queen’s handmaiden, smiled. Because he had trusted in the Force, and it had lead him home.
Not to plan, this was, Yoda thought glumly. Listening in mute silence as Master Tholme outlined the Jedi’s intervention with the Trade Federation’s attempt to blockade the Naboo system following the successful summit of the Chommell sector.
When he’d first reassigned Initiate Kenobi four weeks before the boy would have officially aged out, arranging for his grandpadawan to be the Jedi to escort him to the AgriCorps Outpost on Karlinus, he’d assumed Qui-Gon’s penchant for adopting pathetic life-forms would cause him to offer the boy a padawanship. Kenobi was known for being an anxious, somewhat pitiful youngling who could, at best, be described as painfully average.
Few masters had shown an interest in him, and it was easy enough to turn their attention towards better initiates. He’d even managed to circumvent the Council of Reassignment from meeting with the boy to discuss a preferred placement for the possibility of aging out of the Knight track.
Everything was perfectly tailored to create a situation where a miserable, potentially tearful youngling, would cling to the last hope of knighthood presented to him and Qui-Gon would finally have the possibility of healing after the disastrous events on Telos IV. Except Qui-Gon had returned from Karlinus without a padawan, and Kenobi had disappeared with nothing more than an Order provided credit chip and the sparse belongings he’d been allowed to take from his creche room.
Not to plan at all, Yoda thought again. Listening in growing dread as the failed initiate had somehow come to be in the service of the Queen of Naboo.
Perhaps he should try Initiate Chun.