FicWad

Additional Author's Note: b>Please keep in mind that words that appear Gaelic are meant as place-holders for non-Basic words uniquely characteristic of humans springing from one specific shared cultural background, and that the particulars of traditions in the planetary systems colonized by humans from that original specific cultural group are as much dictated by my muse as by the scant information available about such peoples/worlds/traditions in the SW universe, okay?






Bail Organa finally parts company with Mon Mothma (who has been newly nominated to one of the two junior consulships meant to replace the role of Supreme Chancellor within the new government, her election to the post all but all but secured in the wake of Senator Giddean Danu of Kuat's decision to decline a similar nomination) at a small landing platform on the west side of the Great Rotunda reserved for the ruling dignitary of Alderaan. Since his declaration about the proposed peace accords proffered by the Leadership Council of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, the Senate has been in session for nearly nine hours straight - the result of which is that the nominations for both the two senior and the two junior Consuls have finally been confirmed, the election of their nominees all but already accomplished since just one Senator has accepted the nomination for each separate consulship (and it is Bail's sincere opinion that Senator Meena Tills of Mon Calamari and Senator Fang Zar of Sern Prime will doubtlessly prove to be excellent senior Consuls, while Senator Grebleips of Brodo Asogi and Senator Mon Mothma of Chandrila will prove themselves more than worthy as junior Consuls), and the self-proclaimed government of the New Alliance of the Republic has accepted the offered peace treaty in full - and he feels in desperate need of a good long hot soak, not just for relaxation's sake but also to get the oily feel of so much politicking off of his skin. Though he has worked in politics for the vast majority of his life and he more than understands the desperate need both to drastically overhaul the galactic government (so that it should actually function properly and hold together strong as a democratic republic, this time around) and to set that new government into motion as quickly as possible, he cannot help but feel more than a little bit soiled (not to mention exhausted) by the sheer amount of politicking it has taken to make these goals attainable.

It has required the attentive shepherding of a vast majority of the remaining members of the Senate, careful manipulation of the timing for and order and content of the release of new information, and such a sheer volume of behind-the-scenes maneuvering (to get all of the truly loyal as well as the most powerful remaining Senators united behind the best possible choices for such things as the consulship positions) that Bail is almost surprised that his tongue has neither turned black and fallen out of his mouth (on account of all of the partial truths he has been forced to tell and the outright false flatteries required to soothe and chivvy certain recalcitrant members of the Senate along on the proper course) nor simply stopped working due to simple overuse. He understand why he is the one who has had to do most of that guiding, influencing, and scheming. After all, Bail knows what a persuasive speaker and charismatic leader he is, and he also well aware of the fact that he has been carefully building up both the social status and political clout necessary to have a level of personal cache great enough to accomplish exactly the same sort of tasks as he has been asked to accomplish. Though he must admit that the worst-case scenario he had actually been planning for - a need to end Palpatine's de facto dictatorship by overthrowing him, by taking control of the Senate away from him and then removing him from the post of Supreme Chancellor by force, if he would not agree to step down peaceably - now strikes him as both laughably naive (as if Palpatine would allow anything short of a galactic-wide rebellion that placed him in the sights of a weapon that could not be influenced by the Force to actually unseat him from the throne of power!) and quite possibly unattainable in any case (at least not without also resorting to violence to enforce such a political solution), the result of all of that preparation is the same, and it is still just as applicable to the current situation.

Bail Organa has always firmly believed that all ruling dignitaries and political figures should devote themselves to working towards (as well as comport their lives in the support of) one simple goals, if they wish to be and to remain worthy of the trust that has made them the commanders and leaders of their peoples. They should commit themselves to always seeking out what, in the long run, will be best for their people (not only in terms of immediate tangibles, like safety and prosperity, but also in regards to eventual and more ephemeral rewards, like personal growth and the struggle to determine and then strive to live according to a system of ethics and sense of social ideology and responsibility), and then strive to attain whatever task that might be whether it is what the majority of the people think they want or not. After all, sentient beings do not always want what is best for them (indeed, as a rule, many sentient beings suffer from the unfortunate propensity to desire exactly that which will be the worst for them), and it is the responsibility of a truly wise and caring leader not to just give the people whatever whim they may happen to be hankering for at any given moment but rather to shepherd them and coax them along until the majority will at least tolerate (if not want, though hopefully, with enough patience and attention, wanting can be made to follow even the most begrudging acceptance) what will better serve them in the times to come.

Bail has lived according to this guiding principal for so long that it is an integral part of his character. It is precisely because of his adherence to this principal, as an elected Senator of the Galactic Republic, that he has been secretly and tirelessly working towards the creation of a organized and dedicated power base (one strong enough to stand on its own and sufficiently loyal not only to his highest ideals but to Bail, personally, that it might be considered trustworthy when it comes down to putting all of its considerable weight of power and privileged influence behind whatever goal he might choose to direct it to support), through the cultivation of both friends and allies among not just the other senatorial camps, but also the various special interest groups and the remaining powerful nonpolitical organizations remaining within the Republic proper (and therefore within his reach) during most of the course the war. It is also out of service to this principal, as the Crown Prince and Viceroy of Alderaan, that Bail has been quietly building up the reputation of his world (normally dismissed as a haven and breeding ground for pacifists, artists, and intellects unconcerned with the minutia of everyday happenings and the practicalities that help keep the galaxy and its many worlds spinning along at a progressive clip) as the home and educative source of the galaxy's premiere philanthropists, educators and trainers, legal aides and councilors for the needy and those worthy of such support and counsel, economists and ecologists and cultural anthropologists, social and political leaders, activists, and reformers, healers for both the physical and mental as well as the spiritual, and all around social engineers, including all of the many different types of technicians and theoreticians and specialists necessary for the proper building and maintenance of strong, healthy infrastructures capable of supporting even the most rapidly expanding or unconventional kind of organization. This, he has been working towards since the decision naming him heir to throne of Alderaan. And it is from his work as head of the ruling house of Alderaan that he has taken his cue, in his work as a Senator of the Republic.

There are those who believe that power, to be effective, must be made obvious in nature and hard, even harsh, in its dealings. Such beings adhere to what Bail has often thought of as the schools of gaudiness and fear, for belief in such systems requires one to either be as flashy and overbearing as possible, relying solely on ostentatious displays of wealth and influence to attract or to outright buy the cooperation and support of others, or else to be as ruthless and totalitarian as possible, depending on deliberate demonstrations of pure power and unmitigated acts of horror meant to terrorize and demoralize others into submission. Bail Organa is not and has never been tempted to become a devotee of either such school of thought. Rather, he believes that a society cannot and will not long survive under such displays of uncaring force and pretensions to power. Bail believes that true power is something that exists because of an unspoken trust that contracts the support (and potentially also the blood) of a society's individuals in the being of a chosen and acknowledged leader whose job it is to govern, school, grow, adapt, and, as necessary, heal that society. He also believes that, for that power to exist, such a representative must encourage and maintain mutual individual respect and self-respect, since the greater the mutual respect between individuals and the respect for the role of each individual within that society is, the more stable and productive the society will be. Such respect cannot exist in an atmosphere of fear, and such self-respect cannot flourish when the pervading feeling is that anything and everything can and will be bought and sold by the highest bidder. Bail believes wholeheartedly that society is based on trust, and so he has attempted to cultivate and maintain the highest level of trust possible, not only between him and the people of Alderaan and his people and the galaxy as a whole, but also between him and the rest of the known galaxy, via the deliberate cultivation of trust among the other members of the elected and appointed representatives of the galaxy among the Senate.

Trust can be a slippery thing to catch hold of, much less retain. For some, the building of trust requires open, painful honesty. For other, it involves a careful dance of flattery mixed with truth, in a not always obvious but nonetheless ever-present pursuit of approval and value. In still other cases, it necessitates a careful binding together of ideology and zeal, in a contract of faith. And in additional instances still, it needs little more than charisma and entertainment value to cement itself. Bail (understandably, or so he would like to think) prefers the first and the third pathways to trust, but has found that all too often it is the second and the fourth more duplicitous routes that result in both the highest numbers of adherents and the strongest ties of alliance. Thus, he has spent the majority of his time, as both Crown Prince and Senator, courting the attention, friendship, approval, respect, and, ultimately, the approving regard and therefore trust of both his social and political peers and the (real or potential) luminaries of the galaxy. Hence, since long before the Clone Wars began, Bail has made it a habit to be well socialized with both all of the right people and all of the interesting and entertaining people: setting up and chairing various types of both open and closed conferences, on both social and political questions as well as for purposes purely meant for entertainment; throwing at turns wildly elaborate and open, cozily comfortable and small, and highly elite, carefully choreographed parties for visiting dignitaries; hosting both unpublished private and widely advertised as semi-private, invitation-only soirees and showings of myriad artistic endeavors; volunteering both his time and that of his most newly befriended (and sometimes also newly introduced into high society) artistic and/or entertainment luminary to various charities and not-for-profit organizations; and essentially doing his best all around to ensure that he never leaves anyone with a bad opinion of him.

It is a tedious and time-consuming way of life, particularly given all of his many political and personal responsibilities, including his never-ending private studies, but his perpetually full schedule of personal appearances, parties, outings, volunteer work, and events has ensured the constant presence of Bail's image on the HoloNet, and that continuous stream of good publicity has assisted in promoting the philanthropic reputation of the Alderaanian people as well as in distracting many of his colleagues on the Senate from the sharp, highly discerning, and extremely dedicated mind that lies hidden beneath that outer veneer of a charismatic, well-bred, exquisitely mannered, and easily distracted but nonetheless quite passionate for life social butterfly, which suits the purposes of both the Crown Prince and the Senator just fine. Bail's status as an apparent socialite has also helped to rather handily divert attention away from the serious business of the Senate Committees on which he has sat, allowing Bail to move about freely between the various and often opposing sides surrounding any given issue without raising suspicion and also letting him become privy to information about the private lives of other Senators and their aides, since he has also been able to circulate freely among the social circles moving at the highest levels of government, overhearing and being told outright about many things that he otherwise might never have suspected, much less discovered, on his own. All of these things have allowed Bail both to uphold his guiding principal and to more easily perform his work and do his duty by Alderaan and the sentient beings of the galaxy, since his reputation has so often led others to either badly underestimate or else trust him implicitly simply because of his social standing.

All the galaxy knows that Bail Organa is a man who lives primarily for two things: the making of friendships and alliances in the pursuit of greater numbers of and more open channels for cultural exchange and the mixing of various cultures into new and exciting forms of art and entertainment; and the alleviation or outright termination of whatever flavor-of-the-month issue of social injustice has happened to catch his eye. So Bail has not only been able to get away with but has been expected to use education, understanding, growth, culture, peace, prosperity, justice, compassion, and love as items of currency to be tendered, bartered, sold, traded, and given away to all of the various worlds and sectors represented by the myriad sentient beings with whom Bail decides to forge an alliance or offer friendship to. For two decades, now, he has not only gotten away with but largely gone unchallenged for his constant meddling and his politicking simply by using his reputation as a known social butterfly and benefactor for the arts and entertainment industries as cover for far more serious and socially aware activities. He has, essentially, worked undercover for the greater part of his life, and so successfully that apparently not even Palpatine suspected the true depth of his commitment to democracy and to ending the war, or else Bail is certain that he would have long since met with a sudden end, rather like that of former Supreme Chancellor Valorum. That kind of unquestioning belief of harmlessness and complete trust in the good heart and even better intentions of a being cannot be bought or forced. It can only be given, or won, freely. And the sentient beings of the galaxy have, by and large, given just that belief and trust into the hands of Bail Organa.

Bail's is a face and a voice that is known and either believed in implicitly, loved outright, and trusted beyond all measure, or else automatically assumed to be guileless, harmless, and honest and so dismissed as that of a nonplayer, of someone who does not seek after wealth or glory or wish to gather personal power. The vast majority of Senators trust that he is truthful and has no greater guiding purpose or underlying scheme directing his words. Those few who know him better believe him to be so dedicated to the ideals of democracy and freedom and peace that they have faith that everything he does is in pursuit or support of those ideals. The people of the galaxy love him for his finery and exquisite manners and eccentricities, trust that he has the best interest of all at heart, even if he is a wee bit excitable and easily distracted, and so they attend to his words and take them to heart, whenever Bail speaks about an idea with passion or gives an oratory on a subject that is troubling to him. In short, Bail is known throughout the galaxy for his zeal, honesty, and integrity - a combination of factors that makes him particularly well-suited to act as both a mouthpiece and a goad, when it comes to breaking the news about Palpatine being Sidious to the rest of the galaxy and making it abundantly clear that while this news is indeed terrible, it is a reason to get to work on fixing the many problems that have allowed someone like Palpatine into such a position of power in the first place instead of a reason for the sentient beings to despair or rage at the ease with which they have been fooled, taken advantage of, and led to the brink of disaster.

Mon Mothma has told him several times in the past few days that she is certain that it is his calm presence at her side, stalwartly calling for reform and constantly reassuring everyone (Senators and citizens alike) that all will eventually be well, that they can and they will rebuild a strong galactic alliance and galactic-wide government, that has staved off outright panic in the streets. While he's not quite sure he'd go quite so far as to agree, Bail is aware of the fact that his Masters and the Grand Masters specifically requested he return to his former life for a time, here at Mon Mothma's side, because they also implicitly trust in his ability to get the Senate working again and keep the people calm until the rebuilding of that galactic alliance and the smooth running of a new galactic-wide government can both be assured. Bail is also aware of the fact that the trust his reputation has earned for him also makes him particularly well-suited to act as a poster-child for the New Jedi Bendu Order, since his identity as the first of the reborn Order's new Padawans puts an extremely familiar, well-loved, and openly forthright face on an organization whose steadily increasing distance from the rest of the galaxy and the day-to-day wants and needs of the beings its mysterious members are supposedly in service to has led to a dangerously isolationist mindset at the Temple, not to mention a lack of communication and sense of commonality between the Jedi and the rest of the galaxy, both of which are, in the wake of all that has happened, patently no longer tolerable. Still, all the same, when he checks the datapad left for him by his Masters, Bail's first and primary inclination is to groan out loud when he sees that (once he has entered all of the proper information to update the datapad's contents so as to reflect the progress that has been made towards both an end to the war and a beginning for the new government) his orders have once again changed.

As unquestionably devoted as he is to his guiding principal, as willing as he is to act as both the Senate's speaker of truth and the informal pep talker for the confused and worried beings of the galaxy, and as understanding as he is of the need to be the poster-child extraordinaire for the New Jedi Bendu Order, Bail is tired, and hungry, and worried about his Masters - the brief interruption roughly two-thirds of the way through the Senate's marathon session (in which a quietly, fiercely happy Master Windu declared that General Grievous had been slain by Obi-Wan Kenobi and that the team of Kenobi and Skywalker had apparently also found a way to neutralize the entirety of the combined droid forces on Utapau), while reassuring, has not served to quiet all of Bail's fears for his new Masters - and has been looking forward to a nice long hot bath, not the launching of another set of intrigues. Still, duty is duty, and so, shutting his eyes momentarily, he allows himself one deep, calming breath, and then turns his full attention to orders scrolling across the datapad's screen, glad at least that he has discovered the change in his orders before he could go back to his apartments and get any further in his quest for relaxation. After reading the orders left for him, though, he cannot quite keep himself from issuing a small noise of protest as his left hand raises itself to his brow and rubs absently at his temples, automatically trying to chase away the stress that will otherwise lead to a nasty tension headache. He knows that the Force is not an easy mistress, and he knows that much is expected out of him, not only as the first new initiate of the New Jedi Bendu Order but as the chosen, shared Padawan of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker, but great good stars, is just one night's untroubled sleep really too much to ask . . . ?

Sighing, Bail decides that this is one of those instances where discretion doubtlessly would be the better part of valor, and sets course for the block of apartments that not only hold his home away from home, but also the living quarters for all of the people he has brought with him here from Alderaan to help not only with the running of his "house" but also with the various tasks that allow him to do his work, not only as a Senator but also the Crown Prince of Alderaan. Thankfully, it does not take him long to arrive at his destination, or else he might have had time enough to reverse his decision. The towering edifices housing the various senatorial apartment complexes, including the high-reaching crystalline spire containing the Alderaanian residence, surround the Senate Rotunda itself, though, and so little time elapses between the moment of his decision and the moment in which he finds himself exiting the turbolift on a floor only half a dozen levels down from where his own personal household begins, taking a few moments to smooth the front of his tunic before raising a hand to the comm unit set beside the door to announce his arrival.

"Bail Organa, to see the lady of the house, if possible."

The door opens mere moments after he has finished speaking, sliding aside to reveal the smiling countenance of a radiantly beautiful young Alderaanian woman with naturally lightly bronzed skin, enormous soulful brown eyes, and a long, straight waterfall of dark brown hair. Dressed in what Bail has more than once heard her laughingly refer to as one of her early post-pregnancy gowns (an elaborate floor-length off-white gown of heavy slubbed septsilk, with flattering princess seams and a loose second layer of material in the front, falling away in a slender, slightly flared panel from a high empire waistline to a point roughly just below her knees, a matching overcloak with a high neck, sections cut away at the shoulders to allow her lovely tanned skin to peak through, and a brief front allowing a band of that same warm bronze skin to show between the rounded edge of the overcloak and the squared neckline of the gown. Bail is well aware of the many attributes of this particular outfit, having gotten to listen to a mostly idle but nonetheless animated conversation about the gorgeousness of the dress held between its owner and Senators Mon Mothma and Padmé Amidala less than a month earlier, when the four of them and an uncharacteristically quiet pair of Padmé's handmaidens had been forced to wait nearly two hours for an opportunity to speak with Chancellor Palpatine regarding the latest outrages perpetrated by COMPOR - the thankfully now defunct Commission for the Protection of the Republic - against the nonhuman residents of Coruscant. He is even aware enough to notice that the outfit is current missing its matching fingerless, above-the-elbow gloves and the smooth bone-white headpiece that she always wears with it when out in public, to restrain her hair and keep it smoothed back from her face and bared shoulders), Sheltay Retrac practically glows with health as she smiles at him and exclaims, in the slightly husky, low-pitched, deliberately paced, lightly accented voice (part of a heritage of having grown at the edge of the Castle Lands, on Alderaan, at the outskirts of the mountain range named Oroboro in honor of the name believed to have been deeded to the Castle Lands by the original builders of the mysterious petrified mounds) that has won her the fascinated attention of so many men (including that of her husband, Ob Khaddar, who is currently on Alderaan with the couple's first child, a girl a little over a year old, given the name of Winter for her remarkable icy-white hair, inherited from her extremely fair-haired father's side of the family), "Bail Organa, as I live and breathe! There are those of us who were beginning to wonder if you would ever be returning to us from the Senate Rotunda!"

"Sheltay, my dear, you are a sight for sore eyes," Bail declares, smiling warmly at the only daughter of his second-mother's youngest sister as he returns her embrace, bending slightly to allow her to ghost a familial kiss of greeting across his right cheek. (Though taller than both Mon Mothma and Padmé Amidala, Sheltay is still easily a head shorter than Bail.) "It is good to see you. I must admit I was beginning to have some doubts myself, as to whether or not I would make it out of the Rotunda before the day was out."

"Flatterer," Sheltay merely laughs back before turning and leading him deeper into the suite of rooms. "You look tired, Bail. Tired, but well. Being chosen as a Padawan agrees with you, I think. I suppose I should not be surprised at this, seeing who it is that has chosen you. This is a long-held desire of yours, and I am happy to see that you are finally being given the chance to receive it. I just hope you will remember that it was something that you wanted, when you come to receive it in its fullness," she adds, arching a warning eyebrow at him ever so slightly. "But I do not think that you have come to speak about your new Masters, or else you would not look so tired. What is troubling you, Bail? How can your former lowly aide help you?"

"You've never been lowly a day in your life, Sheltay," Bail smiles, taking the offered seat on the couch by her. "But I would greatly appreciate your help in something, if I may presume to ask for it."

"It is no presumption, if permission is given," she replies, her tone suddenly serious. "What may I do for you, Bail?"

"It's come to my attention that there is to be an honor escort for Senator Amidala's body for the journey to Naboo," Bail explains, honoring her offer but getting directly to the point. "I think she would have approved your being a part of this escort, Sheltay. I also believe she would have wanted Mon Mothma to come, but I don't know how to ask her without reopening fresh wounds. Padmé died in her arms, and though Mon Mothma hasn't said so, I know that she feels as if she should have been able to do more to help her."

"Ah. Well, then. You were right to come to me first, before asking Mon Mothma and perhaps hurting her with your attempts to protect her. The Senator is much stronger than I think you are giving her credit for, but I will ask her for you, all the same, and spare you the task. And I will come, of course. Who else will be accompanying us on the journey, if I may ask? And when will we be leaving and how long do you think we shall be gone?" she merely asks in a calm, matter of fact tone.

"Threepio, who is still a part of Padmé Amidala's household, and her current handmaids, Moteé and Ellé. Jar Jar Binks and several of Padmé's former handmaidens - Yané, Rabé, Saché, Dormé, and Eirtaé. Sabé and Jamillia came to Coruscant from Naboo, to offer their services as honor guards, and will also be joining the escort along with four other new handmaidens who, I'm told, were completing their training with a solo mission on Naboo. So there will be eighteen of us with her, if you can persuade Mon Mothma. And I'm afraid that the ship will be leaving tomorrow evening," Bail admits with only a slight wince. "I would plan to be gone for at least two weeks. It will be a state funeral, so there will doubtlessly be several remembrance ceremonies in addition to the actual funerary procession."

"Tsk!" Sheltay makes a small disapproving sound at that before sighing resignedly and remarking, "You still believe in cutting things fine, I see. Very well, then. You should probably go, now, so I can begin my work."

"Thank you, Sheltay," Bail tells her, voice low and fervent as he takes her right hand and presses it between his hands. "You are a life-saver. If there is ever anything I can do - "

But she only cuts him off with a low, smokey chuckle, shaking her head and declaring, "I still wish for you to stand as honor-father to my new daughter, Bail. Becoming a Jedi Padawan will not free you from that particular burden. And if I wish for you to be a good honor-father, then I must help you to make sure that you do not strain your honor by making such a good woman as Senator Mon Mothma cry, now mustn't I? Do not fret yourself, Bail. It will be no hardship to ask her. I would like to go and I am sure that Mon Mothma would regret it later, if she were to miss out on going because of her misguided guilt. All will be well. You shall see. Now, go home and get some sleep, Cousin! You look as if you are in need of a good long sleep."

"I will be able to, now that I know I have your help in this!" Bail laughs back, good-naturedly, and lets her shoo him off of the couch and towards the door. Once there, though, he turns and engulfs Sheltay in an impulsive hug, lifting her off of the floor in his enthusiasm.

"Bail! Put me down, Cousin! I have work that needs doing and I cannot get started if I'm just hanging about!" Squeaking slightly, she swats at his left shoulder until he places her back on the ground. Then, to show that she is not truly upset with him, she offers her open arms for a real hug, laughing a little as she remarks, "It is good to hear you laugh again, Bail. I had begun to fear it was a sound I would never hear again. But you will have to indulge me with its sound later, if you wish everything to be accomplished on time. Go on, now. Go and sleep. We can talk more about how you will repay me for my help on the ship, if you wish. Ob has spoken of bringing Winter for a visit, you know."

"I - will have to return to Alderaan to formally abdicate the throne, Sheltay. If you wish to come with us, so that you can present her to me formally, I'm sure that Raymus would be as glad of your company on the trip as I would," Bail offers, his voice only a little bit hesitant.

"I will keep that in mind, Bail," she promises, smiling. Then, with an apologetic glance, she hesitantly asks, "Cousin? I would not have asked, if you had not spoken of returning home, but since you have brought up the abdication, I feel I must ask. How many days has it been since you have spoken with Breha?"

"Nine - no, thirteen days, counting the time I lost in the bacta tank. I keep meaning to comm her, but," he sighs, runs a hand through his (still overlong) hair, and then finally shrugs helplessly, saying, "there's just been so much happening, since the attack, so much that needs seeing to and doing as quickly as possible, that I haven't had the time, yet. I keep expecting to come home to find a message from her, but she hasn't tried to comm - or at least, she hasn't left any messages, if she's tried to catch me. Sheltay, do you think I should - ?"

"I think you should not worry about this now, Cousin. I think if she has been silent this long that she is resigning herself to losing you to the Jedi Bendu, and you should let her come to terms to with this at her own speed. I think that you should not feel guilty for this, because Breha knows, even as I have known, that this has long been one of the deepest desires of your heart, and so she will understand why you are doing this. And so I also think that you should go up to your rooms now and go to sleep, Cousin," Sheltay interrupts him, her voice somehow both very firm and very gentle. "Promise me you will not dwell upon this, that you will go to bed at a decent hour tonight and that you will actually sleep, and not just lie there and fret. Promise, Bail, or I will not let you leave here and you will have to sit and talk with me while I am packing."

After a long moment of silence in which he finds himself unable to look away from her penetrating gaze, Bail finally whispers, "I promise."

Smiling sadly, she nods, musing, "That will have to do for now, then. Go on, Cousin. I have work. Just remember your promise, for now."

"I will," he promises, voice both much firmer and much louder, even managing to find a genuine smile for her before taking his leave.

When he finds himself alone in his bedchamber later that evening, though, Bail finds that he has to cling to that promise like a talisman to keep himself from trying to comm his wife or from brooding over the silence stretching between them, in which he could have so easily imagined so many hurtful, angry, and truthful words . . .

***

Just over three and a half days after they've entered the Utapau system, Anakin takes General Grievous's starfighter screaming up out of the atmosphere, the ship moving so fast under his skillful hands that he pops the gravity well and makes the jump to hyperspace long before the Vigilance could have ever hoped to scramble its fighters, had the starfighter still been a hostile craft. With an excited whoop, he reverts to realspace well beyond the system, kicks the starfighter into a new vector, and then jumps again. A few more jumps of random direction and duration, taken more for the pure joy of it than anything else - though he explains earnestly (with perhaps just a touch too much wide-eyed innocence) to Obi-Wan, when asked, that he's just testing the ship's limits and capabilities, in case they run into any surprises on the way to Naboo - eventually puts them deep in interstellar space.

"You know," Obi-Wan muses, half to himself and half to Anakin, "integral hyperspace capability is rather useful in a starfighter. Why, do you suppose, don't we have it yet?"

"Because of the clones, of course. Smaller crafts aren't considered as useful as the larger transports, since it takes so much room to bunk so many biological soldiers," Anakin absent-mindedly replies.

"Ah," Obi-Wan says noncommittally, shrugging, not entirely sure that he buys Anakin's argument but not quite interested enough in the topic to push the discussion any further. So while the starfighter's nav system whirs and chunks its way through the many calculations necessary to pinpoint their position, he merely waits quietly while Anakin punches in codes to gang his Jedi comlink into the starfighter's system. Eventually, instead of a holoscan, the comlink generates an audio signal - an accelerating series of beeps. Obi-Wan knows the signal, of course. Every living Jedi does. Doubtlessly, most if not all of the Jedi trainees would also recognize this particular series of beeps. It is, after all, the recall code. The signal that means that the war is finally over. The code that signifies that the Order has commanded all Jedi and Jedi Padawans to return to the Temple at Coruscant immediately. It is being broadcast repeatedly on every channel by every HoloNet repeater, and Obi-Wan can tell, from the length of the pause in between the signaling beeps before the signal cycle starts over again, that there is another message - probably a verbal message, being given by the Grand Masters - following the basic General Recall Order, most likely to reinforce the seriousness of the command. Curious about that second message, he reaches out to key the comlink for audio.

"This is Grand Master Qui-Gon Jinn of the New Jedi Bendu Order, in confirmation of the General Recall Order. All Jedi, Jedi Padawans, former Jedi trainees, and indeed all beings who have received any instruction in the Jedi arts are commanded to come to the Jedi Temple at Coruscant upon receiving this message. For those not directly affiliated with the Order, please note that the price of transport will be covered by the Temple."

"This is Grand Master Dooku of the New Jedi Bendu Order, also in confirmation of the General Recall Order and the addendum given by Grand Master Jinn. Please note that those who are not directly affiliated with the Order will be given a second, more personal chance to come to the Temple at Coruscant at a later date, if necessary. However, be advised that any who willfully ignore this summons will be considered separate from the New Jedi Bendu Order and will forfeit the right to the title of Jedi Bendu."

"Simple, direct, and to the point. I like it. Think it'll work?" Anakin asks, turning away from the still softly whirring controls towards Obi-Wan.

"It should. The Jedi will obey out of shock, if nothing else. And a mixture of relief that the war has actually ended and sheer curiosity as to the apparent changes to the Jedi Order will drive many unaffiliated with the Order to comply. There will be some who are unable to respond, for one reason or another, but we should be able to find them in our efforts to recruit new initiates for the Order. I have only seen one actual Jedi who will refuse the summons, and frankly I can't say I'm heartbroken about her decision to renounce all ties with the Order. That woman has been a liability for decades, from what I understand. I am not sorry to know that we are finally parting ways with her," Obi-Wan admits, scowling faintly.

"/That woman/, huh?" Anakin asks, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Why do I get the feeling that you're talking about that horrible sounding An'ya Kuro person?"

"Perhaps because I am, Anakin?"

Scowling, Anakin pushes, "You've never really explained to me why you don't like her, Obi-Wan. Not that I blame you, from what I've heard about her, but still . . . Master, it's not like you to - "

"She ruined Aurra Sing, Anakin," Obi-Wan cuts him off, voice both decidedly brisk and cool. "She nearly succeeded in convincing A'Sharad Hett, Quinlan Vos, and Aayla Secura that they were all doomed to become Dark Jedi. And her obsessive need to expunge the supposed mistake she made in thinking that Aurra Sing could ever be trained as a Jedi nearly got Master Tholme killed on Devaron. I do not dislike her, Anakin: I have no respect for her, which I'm sure you'll agree is much worse."

"Ah. Well. That's true enough," Anakin stammers, clearly taken aback. "But - well, ah - I mean, you always seem to, well, feel bad for people, so . . . you aren't going to get it in your head to try to save her, or anything, are you?" he asks hesitantly.

"I would just as soon offer to kiss a Wookiee as I would be likely to take into my head the impossible notion of redeeming that woman/, Anakin." Obi-Wan's word are sharp, precise, and almost sound as if they are being bitten off, his tone of voice and remote, closed-off expression reminiscent of nothing so much as his mien whenever the unfortunate subject of Ferus Olin happens to be brought up. "She is ridiculously egotistical about her supposed selflessness, cold, heartless, and in general as close as one can come to being the antithesis of everything that a Jedi Bendu should be as it is possible to be without also being a Sith Lord. She has no compassion whatsoever, Anakin, and no love, either. She has no true understanding, even, of such things as compassion or love. A wampa of Hoth is more likely to learn enough of love and compassion to qualify for training as a Jedi Bendu than /that woman is to actually earn the right to the title of Jedi Master that she claims. But I've no intention of spending the entire trip discussing such an unpleasant and unworthy topic, Anakin. I can think of many other, far more pleasant ways to spend our time, even if you cannot."

"Oh." Anakin simply stares at him blankly for a moment, still clearly recovering from his surprise at hearing Obi-Wan speak with such uncharacteristic venom about one of his fellows in the Order (even if, technically, it now appears that not only is the Order she has been a member of entirely defunct, but that the lady in question has no intention of ever becoming a member of the New Jedi Bendu Order that is already taking its place). But then the suggestiveness of Obi-Wan's last few words sink in, and Anakin finds himself turning around bodily to face Obi-Wan, leaning forward in his pilot's chair until he is practically trembling upon its edge. "Oh, really?" he asks then, arching an eyebrow in a fair imitation of one of Obi-Wan's slyer expressions, a faint smile hovering around his lips. "And what more pleasurable pursuits would those be?"

"Your actions are not so secretive as you might think, Anakin. I'm well aware of the fact that you enlisted Tion Medon's aid, in stripping out the contents of this ship's main cabin, and that the refurbishment of said cabin included the installation of a much larger than normal bunk - one might even dare to name it an actual bed, rather than a mere berth, without exaggeration. I had assumed that you meant this as a surprise - perhaps even a romantic gesture, of sorts, since you know how much I dislike those far too narrow, far too short, far too hard regulation bunks - but of course, if you'd rather delay fulfillment of the promise I made to you earlier, to reward you for your cleverness in saving my braid, because you'd rather sit out here by yourself and play with your new toy," Obi-Wan's left eyebrow rises almost mock-questioningly in the direction of the ship's controls, "while I see just how comfortable this new bed is - "

"Oh, no, no, that's quite alright! I'm all done here! Our course is laid in and everything!" Anakin cuts in hurriedly, all but babbling as he leaps up off the edge of his seat in his haste to reassure Obi-Wan that he is finished with the ship, for now. "Of course, it was supposed to be a surprise," he adds, just a hint of reproach creeping into his voice, "but I suppose I should know better by now than to try to hide anything from you. We can retire now, if you want. We're far enough out towards the border between the Unknown Regions and Wild Space that it'll be at least a day before we need to worry about getting to where we're going, even with the modifications to the drive that make this ship so fast."

Gazing up through his eyelashes at Anakin with what can only be called a smouldering look, Obi-Wan merely says one word, before rising and leading the way directly back towards the fighter's cabin: "Good."

Anakin, finding himself swallowing against a sudden desperate tightening of and dryness in his throat, simply wordlessly follows.

***

When he first became aware of his new orders, Bail had been worried that he might feel out of place, as the only male human among the honor guard escorting the body of Senator Padmé Amidala Naberrie of Naboo, former Queen of the Naboo, back to her world and her resting place. Surprisingly enough, though, Bail finds himself feeling oddly at home among the ranks of the mainly female human attendees - possibly because the grief-muted but obviously still largely affectionate and sometimes even light-hearted discussions of the many handmaids and former handmaidens of the previous Queen and Senator of Naboo remind him in some way of the bright, loving, cheerful chattering of his sister and second-sisters and many female relatives. He has one relatively minor awkward moment, when a round-faced, full-figured, petite young woman with hair and eyes so dark as to almost appear black and burnt umber skin comes towards him with a sad smile and her hands outstretched - out of her traditional white and red makeup and the regal finery that Bail grew accustomed to seeing her wearing, in the holotransmissions he was privileged to see, as a first a political ally and then a friend and confidant of Padmé Amidala's, it is almost impossible, at first to recognize her - but the tilt to her head, as if she were still unconsciously compensating for a heavy, elaborate coiffure and headdress, gives her away in the instant before she reaches him, and Bail smiles and takes the barely twenty-year-old former Queen of Naboo's small hands in his own, bowing low over them and speaking warm words of greeting to the tiny Jamillia (whose given name is, if he remembers correctly, Ayesha, meaning that she is the first-born child of her parents). Afterwards, he has only one more real moment of concern, when he notices Mon Mothma hanging back from the others, her head ducked shyly, her stiff posture and the flush in her cheeks betraying her anxious awkwardness as she stands somewhat aloof from the others, clearly not sure what to say or do and unsure of her welcome in this place, but Jamillia moves over to her side after greeting him and gently pulls the Senator in amongst the other woman, talking to her in a low, soothing voice until Mon Mothma begins to open up, until soon she is speaking comfortably with the other women, as if they were all old friends.

Unlike Mon Mothma - who, despite her keen intelligence and not inconsiderable personal charisma, is still often shy in the presence of others, her relative youth and the initial shunning she had experienced, upon first joining the Senate, having unfortunately taught her to be hesitant in joining in the discussions of others - Sheltay, Bail is wholly unsurprised to see, strides over to the other women without hesitation, slipping in amongst the ranks of the former handmaids, bodyguards, and body doubles almost as if she were one of them. With her dark hair and eyes, so similar to that of all of the one-time handmaidens, save one (the blonde, blue-eyed Eirtaé, whose hiring as a handmaiden had, as Bail recalls, been due more to the fact that she had unsuccessfully run against Padmé in her first campaign for the position of Queen than her ability to convincingly play the part of a decoy, her acceptance as a handmaid having helped to smooth over lingering tensions and firmly consolidate political power behind Amidala and her household) it is entirely possible that she could have been one of them, under different circumstances, and in fact Sheltay has, in recent years, in the carrying out of her duties as Bail's chief aide, often found herself in the company of Padmé's handmaids, so much so that she counts the two current handmaidens - Moteé, who so greatly resembles a slightly older and sharper-featured Padmé Amidala that she has often filled in as the Senator's body double and decoy, with the assistance of some facial paint, more elaborate than usual hairdressing, and distractingly magnificent robes, to disguise her sharper features; and Ellé, who with her soft, round features and darker skin almost could have been mistaken for Sheltay's or perhaps Rabé's or even Jamillia's baby sister - amongst her closest non-Alderaanian friends. Indeed, as Sheltay opens her arms to Dormé - who, with her fine, soft features, also often played the same role as body double and decoy, at least during the early days of the war - to engulf the former handmaid in a huge hug, Bail remembers, with a pang, his young cousin's disconsolate sobbing, upon learning that Cordé and Versé had both been killed in the blast meant for Padmé, in those final days before the Clone Wars began.

"Yousa face givin yousa away, Senator Organa. Yousa thinkin like me, mesa thinks - that wesa lost way more than wesa ever been thinkin wesa would, in dis war," Representative Binks quietly announces from his elbow, startling him out of his sad reverie.

"That's true enough, Jar Jar. However, it's also true that this war has served to bring some of us closer together than we otherwise would have been, and it has given us a chance to change many things in our various ways of life that have needed changing now for a very long time, as evidenced by the existence of the war in the first place. I must think that these things will go towards balancing the scales, at least somewhat, or else I fear I would tumble into the trap of despair - and despair would be a poor reward, indeed, for those whose many sacrifices have allowed us to see an end to this terrible war," Bail replies, his voice firmly convinced.

Smiling, the gangly Gungan slaps his right hand against Bail's shoulder and exclaims, "Dissen true, tis very true! Padmé Amidala was a grand fine lady, but always workin and hopin for more, for better tings for the peoples of the galaxy, and mesa not thinkin she would want us to just give up and cry, because a havin lost her. Mesa thinkin she would want us to carry on her work, instead, and mesa hopin to help Dormé and Sabé become grand fine ladies too and do just that. Coma wit mesa, sir! Yousa becomin a Padawan, mesa hears, and always been a wise man; mabbe yousa able to help us, in plannin for the grand fine lady's legacy?"

Smiling agreeably, Bail allows the excitable but good-hearted Gungan to steer him over towards the quietly chattering and laughing women, more than ready to volunteer his aide for such a worthy cause.

***

It is apparently a custom of Naboo that those who act as honor guard for the dead are also those who are responsible for clothing the dead, as a part of their duties in caring for and tending the dead. Though Padmé's actual burial will, as dictated by tradition, be overseen by her eldest living maternal relative (her mother's mother, in this case, Ryoo Thule), it is the responsibility of her honor guard to create the gown that will be used as Padmé's burial dress and shroud. The moment Mon Mothma is told about this tradition, her blood runs cold within her. The protocol droid, C-3PO, doubtlessly had not meant to reveal it, but his dismay and confusion over learning of Padmé's death had prompted him to let slip the fact that Padmé Amidala had been pregnant with twins (both a son and a daughter, though she had apparently thought she carried only one child, since she had utterly forbade both the med-droids attending her and her own protocol droid from telling her anything about her pregnancy aside from whether or not it was progressing normally and what she needed to do to keep the progression of her term safely regular) at the time of her death. After a bit of careful thought, Mon Mothma had been able to determine that Padmé must have conceived during her illicit husband's last stint on Coruscant, before being sent to the Outer Rim with Obi-Wan on a mission that would last over half a year, meaning that she would have been well over halfway through her pregnancy (between five-eights and two-thirds of the way along, actually, given that the standard period of gestation for most humans is roughly eight standard months or two hundred and eighty days). Mon Mothma had noticed, about three months earlier, that Padmé's already quite elaborate Senatorial clothing had begun to grow steadily more and more impressive, while also gaining a bit in overall bulk as well as richness, but because she had not known or even suspected that Padmé might be married (and to Anakin Skywalker, of all people!) it had simply never occurred to her that such a change in clothing style might reflect a sudden awareness of an eventual need to be able to both successfully camouflage a thickening waistline as well as to draw attention away from other such physical signs of pregnancy.

Given what she remembers of the state of Padmé's body at the moment of her death and what she now knows regarding the Senator's marriage and pregnancy, Mon Mothma is quite sure that anyone bothering to take the time to examine Padmé's body now - either to measure it for a burial gown or to prepare it for the actual funeral - will not be able to avoid noticing evidence of her pregnancy. And because she meant every word she had said to Jedi Master and High General Obi-Wan Kenobi both about keeping Padmé's unlawful marriage to Anakin Skywalker a secret and not wanting to see either one of them suffer because of this plainly ill-considered as well as forbidden union, this knowledge fills Mon Mothma with a sense of looming dread so strong that trembles, for a moment, on the edge of panic, sight blurring and tunneling as her pulse thunders in her ears and her breath catches painfully in her throat.

" . . . Mon?" It is the concerned voice of Moteé, one of Padmé's last two handmaidens (their ranks having been mercilessly thinned out over the course of the war), that recalls her to herself, gasping a little as her lungs remember to work and her gaze refocuses on the classically refined face of the Naboo handmaid, the characteristics of which are rather similar, if slightly sharper overall, than Padmé's own lovely features. Moteé does not resemble Padmé nearly as closely as Cordé had or as Sabé still does (her first sight of Sabé, on the ship, had made Mon Mothma's heart freeze in her chest with shock. The two have always resembled each other, of course, but Mon Mothma has not seen Sabé since Padmé's election to the Senate, and somehow she's managed to forget the true extent of that resemblance. If not for an almost infinitesimal difference in hair color, a few beauty marks that are not present or at least not present in the correct places in one or the other, a slight difference in height - with Sabé being the taller - that would only be readily apparent given certain types of clothing and footwear, and perhaps an ever so slightly different overall shape to her eyebrows, Sabé could have easily been Padmé Amidala. In fact, Sabé looks so much like Padmé that, if it had still been possible to stand the two side by side, it would have been entirely reasonable to mistake them for identical twins), or else Mon might have done more than simply gasp a little bit. As it is, there still must have been something in her face to give her away, for Moteé sighs, puts an arm around her to steer her a little ways away from the others, and then says, in a voice that is so small and pitched so perfectly so that only Mon Mothma will be able to both hear and understand her words that it takes several long moments for their full meaning to sink in, "It's alright. Most of us know and those of us who do are all sworn to secrecy. Moreover, we would not speak of it, in any case, for tradition forbids speaking of any unborn child whose mother has not formally declared both the father and her intent regarding the issue of family rights. There are many different kinds and levels of marriage in Naboo society, some meant as temporary alliances, some meant as permanent partnerships, and some meant only as contracted unions. A mother traditionally holds all rights to her child when a union has not been made public, and it is not unusual for such a child to be declared the blood issue only of her mother, arrangements having been made so that the family line might be continued even when a suitable marriage has not yet been possible. No one from Naboo or on Naboo would ever think to speak of such a thing. There will be no malicious gossip and no excessive wondering about her state, no one trying to dig up rumors or evidence linking Milady Amidala to any likely fellow. And she was barely showing at all yet, Mon. The traditionalists of Naboo will be able to read the signs that we will incorporate in her burial robes and they will know that we are laying to rest not one but three, but no one not of Naboo who was not already aware of her condition will have reason to suspect a thing. Be easy in your mind, sister guardian. This is not a battle that you will have to fight."

She is so stunned that all she can manage is a shocked and stammering, "B-but h-how - ?"

With a small, sorrowful smile, Moteé whispers back, "We were her handmaidens, Mon, her guardians and helpers and closest friends. There is little of her life that is not known to us. As for the other . . . well, it is a combination of things that, if by themselves, would not be nearly so telling. You were there when Milady died, Mon. And afterwards you were not only permitted the use of Milady's protocol droid on the word of Obi-Wan Kenobi, who vouchsafed for the wishes of Threepio's maker and proper owner, you were the first that they contacted, after they had unmasked Palpatine and defeated Sidious, even as they were rushing to the defense of the Temple and their brethren. More, those two wonderful but nonetheless horribly blind men suddenly seemed to see the light, almost as soon as they had returned to the planet. And there is also the matter of a small item that Milady always wore when she was out and about, which was neither on her nor with her possessions when her body was returned to us. I think the conclusion is fairly obvious, but I will not push for an answer. I understand the meaning of the word loyalty quite well, Mon. Just please, tell me this much, if you may: I know that Master Skywalker would move heaven and hell alike, if necessary, to be there for the funeral, so that he might see her one last time and say his final farewells; but will Obi-Wan come with him? Master Kenobi is Milady's am'chara and he should be there, her /cariodal/, to walk beside her this one last time."

"Master Kenobi? But - but I - I thought that - "

"Anakin Skywalker has been infatuated with Milady since the cusp of his ninth and tenth years and, since she in turn cared for Anakin a great deal, he was privileged to tarry with her a while, by mutual decision and right of a contract that she specifically choose to be unbinding. But Milady has loved Obi-Wan Kenobi since she was fourteen. I don't know if you are familiar with the meaning of the word am'chara or /cariodal/, Mon, but - "

This time, it is Mon's turn to interrupt. "I believe I know enough to hazard a guess at their meanings, Moteé. I know the meanings of the Alderaanian word anama-chara and its Chandrilan counterpart, an'm'chara/, just as I know the Alderaanian word /cariad o'ngariad and the Chandrilan word cariadwyn/; I know that Chandrila was originally populated by either the same humans who first settled on Alderaan or else early pioneers from Alderaan, though unfortunately the exact truth has been lost to us; I know that pioneers from Chandrila helped to populate Grizmallt; and I know, too, that Naboo was populated by human refugees fleeing violent revolution on Grizmallt. /Cariad o'ngariad or cariadwyn is the best beloved of the heart, the keeper of the heart, while anama-chara or an'm'chara is the sibling or mate of the soul - the outside breath that stirs the soul to its brightest light. Is this not also so, with your am'chara and cariodal/? I believe that it is so for the Grizmalltian counterparts, /anm'chara and /cariadagh/."

"It is exactly so, though I had not realized that we were all, Alderaanian and Chandrilan and Nabooian, distant kin, since we of Naboo trace our lineage to Grizmallt, when we bother at all, and look no further. Perhaps I should have realized our kinship before now, though. There is much alike in our cultures and even more qualities shared amongst us, I believe," Moteé muses in response, her voice and gaze suddenly distant, lost in thought.

"I'm sorry, Moteé, but you still haven't answered my question," Mon quietly declares after a few moments of thoughtful silence, breaking in on the former handmaiden's reverie.

"Ah. Well. One does not choose the mate of one's soul, Mon, nor is there anything of true choice in the nature or resting place of one's heart. The heart is what it is, just as the soul's twin and mate resides where it will. It is a terrible tragedy, but it is nonetheless true that Milady Padmé recognized Obi-Wan Kenobi as both her am'chara and her cariodal on the same day as she first met him. The tragedy was compounded by a learned and unnatural fear and a resultant lack of understanding, on his part, and a horribly reckless folly, on her's, but for all of that he should still be there, Mon. Do you know if he will come?"

Mon Mothma simply stares at her for several long moments, trying to process what she has just heard, not quite able to believe that Moteé could say these things about Obi-Wan with such absolute surety and still be able to question whether or not he will come to Padmé's funeral. After a while, she finally says, voice both a tad sharper and louder than she might've otherwise wished, "Obi-Wan Kenobi is the most honorable man I have ever met. His Master literally just returned from the dead; he and his former Padawan have defeated the last of the Sith; he and his former Padawan have all but formally declared themselves handfast - and not only their lives but their souls as well, joined not just for this life but for all time to come, sworn to be together in life, in death, and in all that lies beyond both - after a lifetime of chosen celibacy on Obi-Wan part; he and Anakin and Master Qui-Gon and Master Dooku have flown deliberately in the face of their Order's traditions, challenging both their ruling High Council and their Code, and they have not only convinced the Jedi to either do away with or change many of the rules governing their Order and their lives, they have demonstrated their commitment to those changes by taking on a Padawan learner far beyond the previously acceptable age for the Order to even agree to take in a Force-sensitive being as an initiate in the Temple crèche; they volunteered to be the ones to lead the task force sent after General Grievous, who is currently the most feared and reviled and dangerous being in the known galaxy; and yet still you honestly wish to know if I think that somehow, after all of that, Anakin Skywalker will find a way to be present for the funeral of Padmé Amidala while Obi-Wan Kenobi somehow will not?"

Instead of being alarmed by her less than quiet demand or offended by her words, though, Moteé, surprisingly enough, grins at Mon Mothma with delight and all but laughs as she says, "Ah! Good! Then they will both be coming to Naboo when they're done with Grievous. That is what most of us had thought, but I wanted to be sure. And because of what you have been told and permitted to see and hear, you are both better informed about such things and more likely to guess aright in such matters than any of the rest of us are, with the possible exception of Padawan Organa. Bail doesn't exactly seem to be aware of these things, though, so we could hardly just come out and ask him. I'm glad we've been able to discuss this, Mon. Your certainty will lay many lingering doubts to rest. Please, don't be offended for Master Obi-Wan's sake. I, for one, have never doubted that he would find a way to come to Naboo. But enough of this sort of talk! We have a gown we should get started on. Will you come with me? Sabé and Dormé will have sent for the bolts of cloth and patterns by now. This will require much deliberation and planning. We should get started right away! With all of us working together, the gown and shrouding cloak should be done well before we reach Naboo."

Mollified (at least in part), Mon Mothma sighs and follows an already retreating Moteé back towards where a clearly visibly speaking Threepio, surprisingly thoughtful looking Jar Jar Binks, and slightly anxious looking Bail Organa are standing, surrounded by a knot of chattering women who are, indeed, already consulting datapads displaying myriads of differing patterns and considering bolts of rich fabrics (the many different shades and types of cloth all being patiently being help up for their perusal by several of the various members of the Royal Naboo Security Forces who came to Coruscant with the ship on Queen Apailana's orders), a different kind of nervousness starting to take hold as she realizes, with a slightly sinking sensation in her stomach, that Moteé is quite serious about making the entire set of burial clothes, and that this means she is going to have to admit that (much like Bail Organa, or so she would guess, judging from the look of nervousness on his face) she's never sewn an item of clothing before in her life . . .

***