FicWad

In the end, Padmé's funeral clothes turn out so beautifully that Mon Mothma can hardly believe that the labor of her own inexperienced hands helped to fashion such a magnificent and lovely ensemble. In her humble opinion, the garments are just as beautiful as anything she can remember seeing Padmé wear. The all but transparent shimmersilk of the underdress (a simple but elegant garment with long, close-fitting sleeves, a fitted bodice, and long, full skirt falling away in flowing lines from a slightly higher than natural waistline designed to soften the shape of and therefore disguise the convex roundness of the ripening of the former Queen's belly) is a clear, pale, limpid blue, a color that makes her think of running water, the eyes of Qui-Gon Jinn, and the hard, implacable gaze of Anakin Skywalker in the holo recordings of the Jedi's attempt to arrest Chancellor Palpatine as the Sith Lord Sidious. Specifically designed to lend a rippling, dappled effect, as of moving water, beneath the translucent, spidersilk-fine and spidersilk-light, ombré-dyed dark blue and deep turquoise chersilk (the fabric made incredibly thin and soft by boiling) of the more elaborate overdress (with its finely smocked bodice, the yoke edged with designs sewn with iridescent aurodium thread and studded with sapphires, and hand-pleated skirt scattered here and there with more gemstones, flashing in the light like a fine spray of droplets caught in the garment's folds), the lighter, watery blue of the underdress in combination with the overdress' blatantly oceanic palate of dark blues and teals yield a lovely bright azure blue with hints of brilliant aquamarine and sea-green at its edges and the slate-like dark blue of the depths or of restless lakewater beneath the lowering skies of a summer storm in its deep folds.

Overall, the effect reminds Mon Mothma so strongly of the eyes of a smiling Obi-Wan Kenobi that she imagines only those beings blind to color or entirely without sight could fail to see the resemblance, though the addition of the shrouding cloak (its soft Cyrene silk woven into a deeply piled velvet, painstakingly colored with hand-painted applications of various dyes - dozens of different blues, shading in color from darkest indigo to deep lapis to brilliant azure to palest aquamarine and soft baby blue; myriad hues of bluish-green, from the pale green hue of seafoam to bright turquoise to deep teal; and even darker, duller shades of blue-tinged grey, all the colors of twilight and storm, including a navy blue so dark that it almost appears black - and then etched and burned away into wave-shaped devoré patterns, with bright and dark and deep blue jewels as well as iridescent, opaline, mostly bluish gemstones overlaying the material on floating strips of ribbons of palest lilac and deepest amethyst Ottegan silk like the waves of a current and clinging to the cloak's fabric in random patterns like the scattered mist of spume-wrack, all to create the look of flowing water) also calls to mind memories she has of the almost eerily beautiful Lake Country from the one time she visited Naboo - a fact that the people of Naboo will no doubt catch onto first and comment upon sufficiently to see to it that the rest of the galaxy will end up believing that Padmé Amidala went to her final rest clad in the colors of the Lake Country that she so loved and longed to retire to, when the war came to an end and peace had once again been restored to the galaxy. There will doubtlessly be much sighing and romantic daydreaming over the tragedy of Padmé's demise, so close to the war's end, but since sappy holovids are safer than the probably scandalous and possibly vituperative alternative, Mon supposes she has no real cause to complain over it.

They have been finished with Padmé's funeral clothes for about an hour and are nearing the time for their realspace reversion mark in the Naboo system when Mon Mothma notices that Bail Organa is no longer in the goodly sized, center-most chamber of the ship (which they have been using as an assembly room to gather in, while working on that set of clothes) with them. Since she has been passing the time remaining until their arrival on Naboo as the others have - first by talking about what they have accomplished (being careful to avoid any mention of Obi-Wan Kenobi or Anakin Skywalker were Bail Organa or Jar Jar Binks might overhear) and then by simply letting the conversation drift, as it would, to whatever related topic might catch her and her nearest companion's attention, most recently speaking quite happily with Moteé, Dormé, Sheltay, and, surprisingly, Threepio (who has a wealth of information on the subject and is quite pleased to share it) on the topic of just how the peoples of Alderaan and Chandrila and Grizmallt and Naboo are related and the various popular theories as to how three different Core Worlds might have come to be populated by either members of one group of people or else descendants of the same original cultural group - it takes her a while to notice that she can no longer hear the deeply resonant sound of Bail's voice anywhere in the room. A careful scan of the room reveals the reason: Bail is no longer in the room with them. Frowning slightly, Mon waits for a lull in the conversation and then, smiling apologetically, says, "Forgive the /non sequitur/, my friends, but we see to have lost one of our number. Has anyone seen Bail lately?"

"Oh, yes, Senator Mon Mothma! The Padawan slipped out the door and went to the left, down the hall, approximately fifteen minutes ago," C-3PO immediately replies, his voice bright and obviously pleased to be able to answer her question. "He seemed to have a concerned look on his face, but his behavior seemed to indicate that he did not wish to be seen or spoken to, since he waited to leave until everyone's attention was turned away from both him and the door - I myself only saw him depart because of the excellent peripheral vision that my maker gave me - which is why I did not comment upon his departure, at the time."

"Ah. Thank you, Threepio," Mon nods at the protocol droid, frowning slightly, only half listening when he replies.

"You are most welcome, Senator Mon Mothma! I am quite glad to have been of use."

"Mon? Do you suppose someone may have said something to make him suspect . . . ?" Moteé asks before Threepio can say anything else, her voice anxious.

"I'm not sure, Moteé. I'd think Bail would confront one of us about it, if he had cause to suspect. And I know that he has a datapad that was left with him by his Masters, with orders to follow given certain circumstances arising, so it may simply be that the datapad alerted him that his orders have changed and he slipped out into the hallway to peruse them in private for a time. But I think," Mon adds, voice thoughtful, "that perhaps I should go after him, to be sure that all is well and steer him away from potentially dangerous thoughts, if need be. Unless you would prefer to go, Sheltay?"

Sheltay hesitates for a few heartbeats before grimacing slightly and admitting, "I am not certain I could distract him without alerting him to the fact that I did not wish him to think on certain things. He knows me too well, Mon. You should probably go."

"Alright then," Mon nods understandingly. "Give me an hour. If we are not both back by then, you should probably send someone after us. But be sure to wait a full hour. If I do need to redirect his thoughts towards a safer avenue, he might be suspicious, if anyone shows up looking for us any earlier," she adds warningly before taking her leave and heading determinedly for the door, hoping that whatever it is that has driven Bail from their company isn't anything serious and isn't anything that will require her to knowingly manipulate or, worse yet, lie outright to her friend, to keep the promises she has made. Considering the fact that Bail did not turn towards the direction of his suite, when leaving the room, and that the ship Queen Apailana sent to them is fairly large, she also hopes that, if he only felt the need for a little privacy, that he has not gone far. She has barely had time to finish the thought - and has only made it only a few meters down the ship's corridor in the indicated direction - before she hears a low noise, like a muffled groan of pain. Startled and worried (and suddenly remembering the awful sight of Bail's broken body, covered in blood and thrown entirely clear of the crashed skimmer that had claimed Padmé's life), Mon calls out, "Bail? Is that you?" Her only answer is another low, pained moan, seeming to come from behind the door set in the left wall of the corridor less than a step down the hall from where she has come to a sudden halt. "Bail, I'm worried about you. I'm going to come in the room now," she calls out, warning him, before suiting action to words and stepping forward to reach to palm the door open, taking long, hurried strides to enter the room, in case something has happened and her friend has fallen ill or come to some harm. She sees him as soon as the door starts to slide open: it's impossible to miss him, collapsed in a huddle on the floor perhaps four long strides into the room (an unused conference room, from what she can tell, empty but for a table and chairs), curled in so far upon himself that he is all but bent double to the floor. He is turned away from her so that she cannot see his face, but his posture screams of abject misery and pain, and so she cries out, a sharply frightened, "Bail!" as she sprints to his side.

Mon is still reaching out to touch his bowed back, though, when he suddenly cries out, "No, don't!" somehow twisting himself away from her, gaining his feet and blurring away from her with such rapidity that she suddenly finds herself simply standing there, flatfooted, staring at him incredulously, her mouth hanging slightly open, unable to translate the dark blur of speed she just witnesses into a series of visible motions that could have been responsible for unfolding Bail's tall form and propelling him first to his feet and then to a position most of the way across the room from her. Bracing himself on the back of the third chair up from the foot of the room's rectangular table, Bail raises his right hand, palm out towards her in a warding gesture. His face is flushed, as if from fever, his normally impeccable (if recently somewhat longer than normal) hair a rumpled mess of flyaway strands and wildly disarrayed locks, his formal tunic and jacket hanging twisted and askew on his frame, as if he has been physically struggling with something or someone. "I can't be touched right now! I feel too much already! The Force - it's too much, Mon! I'm not used to this and I can't - I'm having trouble sorting it all out. I'm not hurt, I just - it's sensory overload and I - there's just so much emotion from all of you and so much joy from them that I felt like I was going to fly apart into a thousand pieces. I had to get out of that room. There were too many of you too close to me. I could feel too much of you. Just - stay there for a while, /please/, and don't come any further into the room. This is the longest one yet by far but this should pass soon. It has to pass soon. I don't know how they've managed to sustain such a level of joy for so long as it is. They'll finish whatever it is they're doing, and this will recede. Just don't - don't come any closer until then, okay? Don't aggravate it, please!"

"But Bail - "

"I am not hurt/, Mon. This is the Force. I know it is. I can remember something like this from the first time I met Obi-Wan. The power in him called out my potential in the Force. And it happened again, when he and Anakin cleansed the Force of the taint upon it. They made me their Padawan after that because the power they raised did something to the Force that knocked down all the barriers all of those years without training had put between my potential strength in the Force and the Force itself and it let them truly see me completely for the first time. This is like that. I can't stop hearing or feeling everyone around me. They have to be doing something in the Force, something that uses a lot of power. My Masters, I mean. They /must be. That's all I can think of to explain this. It'll fade, if I just give it a while longer. No - stay where you are, Mon! This will pass and I'll be alright, I promise you! I have been before and I will be again, in just a little while longer. Just - just stay there and give me a little more time. Your emotions are all so loud, Mon - I don't want to hear anything I shouldn't," Bail explains, his words all but tumbling over one another in his haste to get them out and keep her safely at a distance from him.

"But - !" Mon gets no further than that, though, when something suddenly draws Bail's back tight, throwing his shoulders up and back in a painful looking arc and snapping his head back on his neck so hard that she hears the pop of it even at the distance she is standing from him. His mouth squares to the shape of a scream, but all that comes out is a startled gasp when, as abruptly as if he had been roughly yanked back and up by cords attached to his shoulders and neck and they had all been suddenly and unceremoniously cut, all of those painfully drawn and taut muscles relax, dropping him back into the floor. "Bail!" Regardless of what he has said, she runs to him then, throwing herself into the floor next to him and grabbing him by both shoulders.

Relieved laughter, with an edge sliding raggedly towards hysteria, is the last thing she might have expected. But then he raises his head, and the lines in his face have all been wiped smooth with relief. Thankfully, he exclaims, "It's gone! Thank the Force! They must be done, whatever they were doing!"

"Bail - "

"No, it's alright, really! It's over now. I can't feel you all so overwhelmingly now. I can barely sense your emotions at all now. They really must be done. You're so close to me that I'd be able to hear every thought in your head by now, otherwise. Here, just a moment, and I'll help you up. Just - let me catch my breath, a moment, first. That was . . . " Bail shivers under Mon's hands, head bowed and body shaking with reaction, his voice trailing off into strained silence for several long moments before his shoulders give a sudden twitch as he shakes himself, as though to bring himself back from some dark place, and continues, voice low and slightly pained, "it was a lot worse than it was last time. I could sense them, a little, during part of their mission on Utapau. Master Skywalker was absolutely furious, at one point. He drew so deeply on the Force that he blazed incandescent with power. It was like a sun blooming behind my eyes. I couldn't see anything for several moments, after that. It was like being flash-blinded. And something made Obi-Wan - Master Kenobi, I mean - go so coldly determined that it felt as if the air were freezing in my lungs. Everything grew so bright and sharp that for awhile there I thought I'd cut myself on the edge of the podium, as if on a razor, if I got too close to it. But this . . . " Bail barks out a completely humorless laugh, shaking his head, before drawing a deep, steadying breath. Then, unceremoniously climbing back to his feet and reaching down a hand to help pull her up out of the floor, he explains, "I didn't even realize at first what was happening, it was so gradual. I just - I felt warm. And hemmed in, pinned down. Then the light got too bright, the voices too loud, and I realized I wasn't just hearing voices but thoughts as well when Sheltay took a drink of her tea and I could still hear her voice, running through lists of Grizmalltian words and comparing them to Alderaanian ones, so I got out of that room as quickly as I could. I had to, Mon. I don't know how to control any of this yet. I didn't want to inadvertently intrude on anyone's thoughts."

The jolt of sudden fear is both unexpected and unacceptable. Mon knows Bail Organa and she trusts him implicitly; if he says he left the room to avoid accidentally eavesdropping on someone's thoughts, then that is what he did. And if he had heard anything he shouldn't have, then he would have said so. Taking firm hold of herself, she calmly tells him, "That's alright, Bail. It's not your fault. No one would blame you even if you had overheard anything else. We all know that you would have been given to the Temple as a child, if not for the question of ascension - and that you must be strong in the Force indeed, to have been chosen for a Padawan as you were, by Masters Kenobi and Skywalker. We know you haven't had any formal training yet, Bail, but you're our friend. We trust you. It really is alright. You don't need to apologize."

"It's just - disconcerting," Bail explains after a few moments, raking a hand through his hair and then automatically smoothing it back into place before reaching to straighten his twisted tunic and jacket. He sighs then, shoulders drooping slightly in defeat. "I don't know, Mon. I'm not entirely sure I'm cut out for this. I've no idea how the other Jedi deal with these sorts of things. But I get the feeling that this kind of - of sensory bleed-through isn't really normal for Jedi, that they don't have to deal with it because they have better control."

"That's only because other Jedi have years of training to help them gain that control, Bail - most of them starting just as soon as they're old enough to start walk. You've missed years of instruction, but that doesn't mean that you can't learn. Just look at Anakin: your youngest Master is one of the very few Jedi who wasn't given to the Order as an infant or toddler, and he's one of the two most famous and powerful Jedi in the galaxy. He's done just fine, Bail, and so will you," Mon replies, her voice firm with unwavering conviction. "Give things some time to settle out and yourself a chance to adjust to this new life you've chosen to accept before you make any judgments about your abilities or fitness for this pathway, Bail. Trust me on this on, my friend. I very much doubt that Master Kenobi would have chosen you if you were not meant for the life of a Jedi Bendu. And I doubt even more that Master Skywalker would have chosen you if you were not both sufficiently strong and capable enough to thrive in such a life, for he would never tolerate the presence of one who might put Master Kenobi at risk. I'm sure you're just having a bit of a bumpy beginning because circumstances are keeping you from starting your training immediately. Things will doubtlessly get much better when you're with your Masters again. Besides which," she adds, giving him a slightly teasing smile, "wouldn't it make much more sense to wait until you've actually had some real instruction in how to use and control these Force-abilities of yours before you decide if you can control them or not?"

Bail's response is a laugh - a sheepish laugh, true enough, but a real one, nonetheless. Ducking his head slightly and giving it a bit of a shake, he gives a rueful chuckle and admits, "You're right, of course. I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? I'm sorry, Mon. These past few days have been a bit . . . stressful. I know they have been for you as well, but finding myself open so suddenly and so completely to the Force like this . . . it's hard, Mon. Harder than I ever could have dreamed it would be. I used to daydream about becoming a Jedi, you know. When I was younger, before I was declared the Crown Prince. I would dream about visiting Coruscant, and about how I would spontaneously exhibit some kind of special ability with the Force and they would decide they'd made a mistake in allowing my parents to keep me, instead of giving me to the Temple or to the enclave on Alderaan, and that a special dispensation would be granted me, to allow the Order to take me on at such an advanced age. In all those dreams - and there were many - I don't think I ever once stopped to think about how hard it might be, to make up for all of those lost years. I don't want to disappoint anyone, Mon. But I don't want to hurt anyone, either. I need more control over this. I can't just get caught up in every little ripple of power that moves through the Force and blasted open to the thoughts and feelings of everyone around me. And if I'm not really paying attention to what's going on around me because I'm too far gone in whatever my Masters might happen to be doing, I might inadvertently say or do - or fail to say or do - something that could endanger others. I hesitate to think what might have happened if I'd been overcome like this while I was trying to speak to the Senate. There were already some who were looking at me differently, because of the news that I had been accepted by Masters Kenobi and Skywalker as the first Padawan learner of the New Jedi Bendu Order."

"You worry too much, Bail. Nothing happened while you were speaking to the Senate. And you'll be with your Masters soon, now. I'm sure they'll know how to stop whatever it is that's causing these . . . Force overloads, or whatever they are. And in only another a few days - a week more at the most - you'll be able to go home to Alderaan, and formally resign from your senatorial post and abdicate the throne. Once you're no longer the Crown Prince or the Senator of Alderaan any longer, you won't ever have to worry again about speaking before the Senate as a member. And if I have anything to say about it, /m'caoim'ach/, you also won't have to worry for much longer about how certain biased individuals might or might not look at you, regarding your new status as a Jedi Bendu Padawan. We would not have survived the ending of this war without the Jedi Bendu who are even now creating the New Jedi Bendu Order out of the remnants of the old Jedi Order. The old Republic is well and truly dead and gone, my friend. It had been dying, slowly and painfully, for decades if not centuries, but we are responsible for finally killing it completely, when we elected that monster Supreme Chancellor and allowed him to lead us into a war against our own. There are fragments left that might be pieced together into something new, something stronger, but if that new patchwork of alliance is going to continue to survive, it will be because of the brave example and the unstinting aid offered up so selflessly by the Jedi Bendu and their reformed and reborn Order. The new galactic alliance may or may not call itself by the name of 'Republic,' but it will be a true democracy and it never naturally fall prey to the same divisiveness, corruption, isolationism, and even separatism that killed the old Republic, for we will rebuilt a galactic government free of the flaws that plagued the old Republic, and it will be because of the New Jedi Bendu Order that this new government will embody a true spirit of trust and cooperation and unity. And the many sentient beings of this new galactic alliance will know that. They will know that they have survived calamity - dictatorship and magocracy, an empire of fear totally ruled by the unfeeling hand of the last Sith Master - only because of the bravery and dedication of the Jedi Bendu. They will respect that and the Jedi Bendu or else they will remove themselves from our government and our body. We cannot afford to allow our members to indulge the same kinds of petty grudges and prejudices that keep us so far apart and opened the way for civil war, under the old Republic. And we will not. I promise you that, Bail. It will always be our choice, but we will not be able to do anything else but respect and love the Jedi Bendu, not and still be able to truly justify our actions. For the truly wondrous thing is that it will be the way your Order will help us both to rebuild all we have lost over the course of this war as well as during the dying throes of the old Republic and to fashion ourselves into a new, stronger galactic alliance that will see to it that we will not be able to do or feel aught else towards the Jedi Bendu, rationally, because the new galactic government - and the renewed and even built entirely new prosperity and peace of the individual systems and sectors - will have come about and it will thrive and its peoples and systems will recover and heal and grow directly under the care of members of the New Jedi Bendu Order, and we will all know it. The things that you've shared with me about what your Masters and the Grand Masters intend for the New Jedi Bendu Order and the way that you and your Masters and the Grand Masters have already helped us so much have convinced me of that, Bail. As the Jedi Order dwindled and its members increasingly became cut off from the people - courtesy of the very fact of their concentration upon the Core World and ruling planet of Coruscant as well as by privilege of the Force's mystique - their distance convinced far too great a segment of the overall populace that they were answerable to themselves alone, and so those who were suffering the most under the corruption and bloated bureaucracy of the old Republic did not feel that they could call upon the Order for protection. Instead, they seceded from the Republic - tricked by the very ones most responsible for their suffering that secession was the only path to self-determination and true freedom - and, by their actions, lit a fire that has all but consumed the whole of the known galaxy. The New Jedi Bendu Order, however, will grow not as an elite priesthood or as a band of champions who are seen as able and willing to operate above the law, but instead in the service of the people, based amongst the people and intimately bound to the people. The Jedi Bendu will be part and parcel of the people - and not just the acknowledged citizenry but all of those sentient beings who have the inalienable right to choose to become a part of the citizenry, despite what others might try to claim - and will live and operate among the sentient beings they are pledged to protect rather than outside and apart from them. Is this not so, Bail?"

"You know that it is," Bail agrees, startled enough by the question that his response comes out in a slightly sharper tone than he had intended. Flashing her an apologetic smile, he adds, voice softer and calmer, "We know that Jedi who isolate themselves from the population are dangerous, Mon. It's too easy to forget the ways of ordinary folk if you never experience the things that they do - both the joys and the griefs and the ordinary, everyday necessities of life. The galaxy needs Jedi who are willing to get their hands dirty, who are part of the daily life of the people. Jedi who live in ivory towers might be more dangerous than no Jedi at all. To be a Jedi of the Light, a Jedi must be one with the people. We know this. There will be Jedi Bendu who do what ordinary folk do, who live as ordinary people. There will be Jedi Bendu who work in the fields of education and the arts and law, medicine and security, transportation and trade, business and information brokerage, manufacturing and construction and design, agriculture and horticulture and the growing of stable infrastructures, diplomacy and negotiation and possibly even politics, eventually, though Jedi will never rule over others. The Jedi Bendu will function as working members of the communities they live within and will therefore be seen as gainfully employed and highly productive members of the populace: never again will we allow ourselves to become so removed from the people that we are little more than icons of luck or spiritual figureheads. We will be truly of the people - all of the peoples of the known galaxy, not just those of a few Core Worlds. For far too long there have been far too many Jedi isolated from both the people and the rest of the galaxy on only a scant few Core Worlds. But no longer. After the General Recall has gathered the Jedi to Coruscant and allowed all of the members of the old Jedi Order the chance to rededicate themselves to the Force by joining the New Jedi Bendu Order, there will be myriad new missions issued, many of them involving the establishment of permanent settlements among not only the most war-ravaged populations of the Mid Rim and the Outer Rim Territories, but also in systems in the Colonies and the Inner Rim Territories and Expansion Region. The Grand Masters mean for us to scatter across the galaxy like a fall of sparks from a fire, so that each of those sparks may alight and catch, growing in strength until each one is able to send out sparks of its own to neighboring systems and worlds, and so that is what we will do. One of the primary goals of the New Jedi Bendu Order is to protect this galaxy and its many sentient species by seeing to it that the new galactic government will survive and thrive and be stronger and more closely knit than the old Republic ever was. And in order to do that, we must see to it that there will be enough trained Jedi Bendu to spread us out properly and place some of us on every inhabited planet, moon, planetoid, and station or base in every system that is recognized as being a part of the greater galactic government. My Masters and the Grand Masters are entirely against the notion of only having a few planets with Temples full of Jedi Bendu while the rest of the galaxy is all but entirely without our presence. There will be some planets where the majority of the population is Jedi, of course, because there are some worlds that are populated almost entirely by Force-sensitive beings - such as the Iridonians or Zabraks, the Kiffar, the Mirialans, and the Korunnai of Haruun Kal - but while the worlds of these beings will be as bastions of the Force, they will also help to seed the whole of the known galaxy with Jedi Bendu. It is my Masters' and the Grand Masters' goal to see to it that there will eventually be enough Jedi Bendu for the Order to have a real presence in every major city and population loci in the known galaxy, and they hope that there will be enough of us trained within the next generation or so that we will be able to do more than just work and move among the systems and planets that have suffered the most damage during the war. Master Kenobi speaks of the spread of the New Jedi Bendu Order as the unfurling of a net of light across the galaxy. Though we will of course go where we are most needed, first, the New Jedi Bendu Order will also be recruiting new members by the hundreds and thousands and perhaps even the millions, rather than by ones and twos as the old Order did, and many of these new members will be sent out in groups with a few experienced Jedi Bendu to act as teachers and the necessary materials to establish outposts and praxeum-style enclaves on strategically placed worlds, to aid in the spread of that net and keep us more evenly distributed throughout the whole of known space. Rebuilding can be slow and painstaking work, and rebuilding while reorganizing the very way we think of both ourselves and others will doubtlessly be an even more difficult and time-consuming task, but if we want to make liberty and justice and peace and prosperity real and lasting attributes of the government of this galaxy, then this is the way we must do it. The New Jedi Bendu Order must become not just an elite organization of champions thought of as the saviors and spiritual guides of the more important beings of the galaxy, but as a representative of all parts of the galactic body - even as congruous with or equivalent to the whole of the greater galactic government. You know that, Mon, and you know why, too. We've spoken of this many times already. Why are you asking about it again now?" he asks with a small, wary frown, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Resisting the urge to give in to her exasperation and snap at him, Mon tells him, in as serious a tone as she can manage, "Because I know that you believe in the New Jedi Bendu Order and its goal, my friend, and I wish for you to consider the fact that your Masters and the Grand Masters, who have envisioned this possibility, chose to take the first real step in making it reality by allowing you to very literally join with them, with Masters Kenobi and Skywalker making you their bonded Padawan. There were any number of beings they could have chosen, Bail, but they chose you, instead, because the Force placed you within the Coruscanti Temple that day and brought you to them at a critical moment. You are a Jedi Bendu, Bail, even if you're still only a Padawan. You were always meant to be one of them, /m'caoim'ach/, and in your heart you know that, though your fears may be trying to convince you otherwise," she adds with a soft, only slightly wry smile. "Things are finally beginning to slow down, now, and you have time to think that you didn't before. So doubts are trying to set in. Which is perfectly natural, Bail, but also entirely uncalled for. Masters Kenobi and Skywalker know what they are doing. Trust them, if you're uncertain about yourself. They chose you for a reason. You may lack control now, but you obviously don't lack in raw power, Bail, or else you wouldn't be bothered by such instances. Control can be learned, but power cannot. One is either strong in the Force or one is not. You are strong in the Force, so this is what you're meant for. By myself, I couldn't have kept the Senate together, much less gotten them to not only agree to but actively want to accept the terms of the proposed peace treaty, if not for you. That's why your Masters left you on Coruscant. They knew that you would be most needed there, at the time. Trust me on this, Bail. You're already making your Masters proud of you. You've been a great leader for your people and in the Senate, but you were meant for other thing. You're going to be a Jedi Bendu and do much greater good than you ever could have, as only a politician. So stop worrying so much! You haven't hurt anyone yet and I don't believe that you will. You don't need to hide yourself away from us. We don't need to be protected from you, Bail. Come on. Come back with me. The others will be worrying about us. And we should be reverting to realspace soon. Besides, your Masters will probably arrive fairly soon after us, and they'll worry about you if you're off hiding somewhere again."

With another sheepish smile, Bail ducks his head and laughs, holding up his hands in a sign of surrender and admitting, "Alright, Mon, I get the point! I'm getting ahead of myself and worrying about things that I don't need to and in general fretting like a nervous child instead of trusting in the Force and my Masters. I am dutifully chastised for my foolishness and I promise I will behave myself from now on. See? I'm going back with you to be sociable, like a proper gentleman," he adds, grinning at her charmingly as he offers her his arm.

Resisting the urge to swat his offered arm away, Mon Mothma carefully places her arm over his, her right hand very small and very white against the caramel-colored skin of his huge but gracefully formed and long-fingered hand. "You just see to it that you are, Bail Organa. You may be my elder, m'caoim'ach/, but you're also a Padawan now, and if you don't behave I'll see to it that your Masters empower me to set you lines to write or memorize or some other kind of chore to accomplish so that I'll have some way of seeing to it that you /will behave!" she warns him, laughing a little in spite of herself.

Startled, Bail jerks his head around to look at her and, evidently seeing something of her determination on her face, nods once, solemnly, acknowledging her seriousness. "I am well warned, then. If you find me worrying about such things again and I have no better reason for doing so, I'll certainly deserve to have the error of my ways pointed out to me. Just as long as you refrain from pulling on my hair, please," he then adds, breaking into a wide and genuinely warm and relaxed smile. "I don't know if they're planning on keeping up the tradition of the Padawan braid, since many of the newer recruits will be taught in groups, in classrooms, and by several different teachers, instead of being chosen as a Padawan by a specific Knight or Master, but if they do, I'd just as soon keep my braid attached to my head!"

Laughing unabashedly at the startlingly vivid image of a Bail Organa with no facial hair and a Padawan's distinctively striking but openly unstylish haircut and braid, Mon simply shakes her head and teasingly replies, "I'll try to keep that in mind! We wouldn't want it to become a regular occurrence for you to have to explain to your Masters why your braid needs reattaching, now would we? They might decide to make you start sporting two braids, then, so you'd still have one in case you managed to lose the other, and that would certainly never do!" Shaking her head, she laughs with him for a little while longer before giving a little tug to his arm. "If you behave, or at least seem to try to do so, I promise I won't ever yank on your Padawan braid, if you get one, Bail, alright? I even promise I'll try to avoid pulling on your hair in any way from now on, if it'll make you happy. Just come along, now. We really should be heading back. And you promised to behave like a properly sociable gentleman, remember?"

"I remember, and I am coming," Bail avers, nodding his head once in acknowledgment, though he still hasn't quite started moving forward yet. Instead, in all seriousness, he tells her, "Thank you, Mon. For understanding. And for your help."

"It's my pleasure, /m'caoim'ach/, and the least I could do. You're a good friend, Bail, and an even better man. Try to remember that, when the doubts start to creep back in. I have faith in you, and so do your Masters and the Grand Masters of the New Jedi Bendu Order. That should count for something," she smiles at him reassuringly in reply, patting his hand comfortingly.

"It does. It means a great deal to me, becc siur. Never doubt that. And I truly am coming. I would not want anyone to worry on my account," Bail adds, lips quirking in a small smile, before finally starting to move towards the door, careful to keep his paces shortened so that she can keep up with him without having to hurry.

Sighing in relief and touched by the sudden resurfacing of a nickname she hasn't heard from him since before the Clone Wars ("little sister," an affectionate reminder of a time when she had not yet been widely recognized as the Senator of Chandrila and the Bormea Sector and had often been mistaken for the wife of Raymus Antilles, because of her red hair and the amount of time she spent in the company of the Alderaanian delegation), Mon smiles up at him and declares, "Then I'm sure everything will be fine. Just wait and see. Things will work out for the best, in the end, if we just have a little faith."

"I'm sure you're right, Mon. Or at least I hope so."

Choosing to let the vaguely ominous tone in Bail's voice slide by just this one, Mon simply squeezes his hand again, reassuringly, in answer, before letting him escort her back to the room where the others are still gathered, waiting for them to return and for the ship to finally arrive at its destination.

***

The great port city of Theed is, in some ways, akin to city-planet of Coruscant, beginning with the many freighters and shuttles that come down from the skies and move across the city and surrounding countryside in constant, regular lines, bringing commerce and redistributing wealth and resources from all across the planet. Unlike Coruscant, though, the Nabooian city is soft in appearance, with only a scarce few towering, imposing skyscrapers of hard metal and shining transparisteel. By and large, the buildings of Theed are, instead, made of more natural materials, including many different varieties of stone and even a few different varieties of wood and other such natural substances, most of the more exotic materials having been brought in from off-world at great cost. Most of these buildings have rounded rooftops or onion-shaped domes and are delicately colored, a thousand different subtle and yet somehow also vibrant shades and hues of mostly stone blending together in a vast, fanciful rainbow, like a net of variously colored and cleverly woven beaded threads, the overall result resembling nothing so much as a carefully planned jeweled mosaic, inset with great care around the wide and achingly blue ribbon of Solleu River, from overhead. It is only as one gets down closer, near to the level of traffic within the city itself, that one can see that this lovely composite is apparently bound together not with mere mortar but rather with flowering vines and climbing plants of all sorts, those vibrantly hued vines - often with both shockingly brilliantly colored as well as pale and delicately tinted opalescent flowers - crawling up the sides or spilling down from the windows and lintels and furthest edges of the rooftops of essentially all of the buildings, the riot of color and sweet sea of scents adding vibrancy and personality as well as enticing perfumes and a surprisingly amount of comfort and welcoming warmth to an already beautiful and inviting city.

By the time they land in the largest of the open hangers at Theed Palace, they have been finished making Padmé's funeral clothes for just over three hours and, because he still has yet to actually see the body of his friend, Bail Organa has actually begun to forget (at least a little bit) the reason he has come to Naboo. Though a part of this growing sense of dissociation can be blamed on his preoccupation with what he has sometimes been able to sense of his Masters (not to mention the people around him) through fluctuations in the Force, mostly it's due to the fact that, while Bail may indeed be a part of Padmé's honor guard, this has not meant that he has been allowed to spend time with the body. In fact, no living being has laid eyes upon Padmé's body since before it was loaded on the ship. This is, apparently, a result of yet another one of the many traditions of Naboo, as it is considered unfit for living beings to gaze upon or touch or in any way interact with a Nabooian body, once it has been ascertained that the person is indeed deceased, until it has been arranged and prepared, properly, by the eldest living relative on the mother's side. Dormé had looked shocked and even a little scandalized - though she had also patiently explained to him both the particulars of this tradition and how Threepio had been intrusted with the task of seeing to it that Milady's body was safely brought on board the ship in its stasis pod, because of this tradition, with none of the handmaidens or indeed any of the other people of Naboo on the ship actually laying eyes on Padmé Amidala as yet - when Bail had asked to see Padmé's body early on the first day of their journey.

Although Bail is quite certain that many would find this tradition perplexing, there are similar old customs on Alderaan - it being thought proper to leave the tending of a deceased's body strictly to first the medical personnel and then the family, with all others waiting until the wake to pay one's respects to whomever has passed on - so he had not been entirely surprised to be refused, thus, though he still wishes, wistfully, that things might have turned out otherwise. Yet, despite the fact that he has spent hours working on her funeral clothes and knows, in the most rational part of his mind, that he survived the skimmer crash that claimed Padmé's life by only an extremely narrow margin, Bail finds Padmé's death oddly unreal, without the sight of her lifeless body to reinforce the fact that she truly is gone now, for good and all, and won't ever be coming back again. That lingering sensation of unreality fades rather abruptly, though, when he sees who has come down to meet them, as they disembark from the ship.

The current young monarch of Naboo, Queen Apailana, is there, of course, in a gown that somehow manages both to seem elaborate and subdued and is very like the one that Bail recalls Padmé Amidala wearing on Coruscant, after she first arrived on the city-planet after the invasion Naboo, when she was receiving visitors prior to the special Senate session that would be called for her so that she could present the facts about the Trade Federation's highly illegal and brutal actions against the beings of Naboo. The color scheme is different: Padmé Amidala's elaborate regal garb on Coruscant had been a soft lilac with an almost ashy gray overtone (the iridescence of the fabric lending itself to odd phantom shades of greenish-gray and steel-gray in different lights), a pale dove gray with perhaps just a hint of lavender showing in its deepest folds, a deep, iridescent rose (so dark it was almost mauve) with perhaps just a hint of steel-gray in the deepest pleated folds, and gold. Queen Apailana's regal gown, which is otherwise almost exactly the same (but for the composition of its headdress and the nature of the symbols woven upon the sleeves and edges of the gowns), is instead all shades of periwinkle and amethyst and silvery-white platinum, a more subdued color scheme hinting both at mourning and an almost penitent sense of grief, and, while the white makeup is the same, the traditionally red beauty marks and Scar of Remembrance have been rendered in a shade of almost indigo blue. Yet, despite those differences, in the first moment that Bail catches sight of her, Apailana's resemblance to that specific memory he has of Padmé Amidala is, nevertheless, quite startling. In an attempt to cover his surprise and regain his shaken composure, Bail allows himself to lag slightly behind the others as they stride out to meet Naboo's extremely young Queen, his gaze sliding across the mass of courtiers and advisors who have accompanied Apailana to the docking bay in an attempt to distract himself from the disconcertingly familiar and yet not quite right sight of the young Queen, and it is because of this that he catches sight of them, standing together in a huddle near the back of the attending crowd.

The older woman is extremely tiny, obviously shorter of stature and slighter of form than even the smallest of Padmé's former handmaidens, so petite that she might almost be taken for a child if not for the heavy plait of hair falling over her right shoulder and down her side so that its tip just brushes against the bottom of her knee, the whole of the braid a uniformly light silvery-white with age, the dark brown of her eyebrows and eyelashes contrasting sharply with that aged paleness. If pressed, Bail would guess, from that braid and her oddly smooth face, with only a fine crinkling of laugh lines around her eyes and mouth to betray her age, that she is in no more than the seventh or eighth decade of her life. The shape of that face - a fragile, almost attenuated oval - is different from Padmé's, but her eyes are the same deep, rich, almost earthy brown, and she exudes a sense of calmness and an all but overwhelmingly vivid presence that reminds Bail painfully of his late friend, and he is immediately certain that this must be Ryoo Thule, the mother of Padmé's own mother. Ryoo, like Apailana, is wearing a gown similar to one Bail has seen Padmé Amidala wear (in holos of Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn's funeral, anyway), though without the elaborate headdress and scarves and with the scheme of mourning colors utterly unbroken, nothing at all visible but shades of lavender and amethyst and plum. To her right is another woman, well over half a head taller and seemingly just about to enter into middle age, with glossy nut-brown hair and the same dark chocolate eyes, the shape of her face closer to that of Padmé's, though the features are all either much softer or more roundly plump (either way lacking the delicate, more refined planes and precise angles of Padmé's features) and the chin is both slightly shorter and rounder, her gown all but identical (though the lightest and darkest colors in it are all reversed) to the older woman's, and Bail knows that he is gazing upon Jobal Thule Naberrie, Padmé's mother.

Bail's gaze, tracking on to his left, immediately finds a stocky, bluffly hearty-looking man of short to average height (probably a little over half a head taller than his wife, who is perhaps just a hair shorter than Bail remembers Padmé having been when she'd reached her full adult height, though it's difficult to say for sure), with dark grey hair, touched with brown still only at the temples, a lined, tired, somewhat weatherbeaten, and obviously grief-stricken face, and shockingly blue eyes. Ruwee Naberrie - for of course this must be Padmé's father - is wearing loose trousers, a longer formal tunic with long, loose, wide bell-like sleeves and a distinctively Nabooian V-shaped high double collar, a wide sash carefully wrapped so that its ends are not visible, and a full-length cloak of heavily quilted fabric, all of it carefully dyed to precisely match the three shades of mourning purple in the gowns of his wife and mother-in-law. Bail, aware of the fact that the Naberries had two daughters and that Padmé was the younger of the two, automatically allows his gaze to keep moving to the left, expecting to see the familiar sight of Sola Naberrie (the only member of Padmé's family Bail has been privileged to meet face to face, on one of his trips to Theed to meet with the then still Queen Amidala of Naboo) standing with her blood relatives, and the empty space to Ruwee's right is as startling as an unexpected blow, almost making him stagger in shock. An ominously foreboding feeling immediately curls up from the pit of Bail's stomach, the hollow sense of fear coldly informing him that, without a doubt, something terribly wrong has happened, something so awful that nothing but pain and suffering will follow, and he finds himself coming to a complete stop, as if he might somehow be able to avert some of that trouble simply by refusing to continue moving on to the inevitable meeting between him and the Naberrie family.

Sheltay, caught off guard by his abrupt halt, can't quite stop quickly enough to keep from bumping into him. "Bail? Cousin, what's wrong?" she asks, laying a steadying hand on his right arm as she looks up at him, dark eyes full of concern.

"Sola Naberrie isn't here with her family and she should be. I've got a bad feeling about this, Cousin," Bail admits quietly, gaze still locked on the worrisome sight of only three figures where there should be four.

"Her children are still small, aren't they? The eldest, Ryoo, isn't even ten yet, and Pooja is - what, seven? Perhaps she is simply at home with them. They may have taken the loss of their aunt very badly," Sheltay offers, though the deepening creases in her forehead hint that she finds this possibility unlikely.

"They would have stayed at home with their father, then," Bail only insists, voice hollow with shock and fear. "No, Sheltay. This is something else. Something much worse. I don't like this, Cousin. Something bad must have happened, to keep Padmé's only sister from being here, as her remains are returned to the planet. You were standing next to me when Dormé explained this tradition. The immediate family - the entire immediate family, including all living siblings - is supposed to take charge of the body, though it is the eldest living maternal relative's responsibility to arrange the actual burial. Sola should be here and she is not. I've got a really bad feeling about this - and I don't think I'm going to like it, when I hear why she's not here."

"Well, we won't know anything for sure if we don't ask. And we can't begin to try to fix whatever may be wrong if we don't know what it is that has gone amiss," Sheltay firmly declares after a few moments of silent thought, her shoulders squaring determinedly. "If it is something that can be helped, then we should offer our aid. Come along, Bail. We can't stand here forever and they will notice that something is wrong if we hang back like this. We don't want to add to their worries."

Silently, Bail lets his cousin guide him forward, until he is once again standing with the others, waiting his turn while Queen Apailana continues to acknowledge and speak a while to every one of Padmé's honor guards, her head tilted carefully (so as to not unbalance the beaded and feathered arc of her headdress) at the moment so that she can offer up a sad smile to C-3PO. His gaze, though, never completely leaves that of the three figures in their carefully coordinated and bleakly unremitting mourning attire. And when Ruwee Naberrie's brilliant blue eyes cloud over with pain under his steady regard and Jobal's proud head bows low until her gaze is fixed on the floor while Ryoo Thule simply closes her eyes tight and holds very still, as though silently willing herself not to cry, cold certainty sweeps through Bail like the rush of an ice flow, and he knows, without doubt, that whatever reasoning is behind Sola Naberrie's inexplicable absence, it more than supports the panicked fear he had felt, when Obi-Wan and Anakin were about to leave him on Coruscant and he had been sure that something horrible was coming and would happen while they were off on Utapau and unreachable. And in that moment, Bail Organa is not at all certain that anything he might do will be able to help set things to rights again. Still, Sheltay is right, so far as it goes. Whatever it is that is wrong, it's bad enough that he doesn't want to do anything that might add to it. So he steels himself to wait with the others and, when it's his turn, he listens attentively to the softly, sadly smiling Apailana, bowing low over her small hands so that the young girl will not have to try to crane her neck back to look up at him. "Padawan Organa! It gladdens my heart to see you here, Bail, though I am still adjusting to your new title. You will be happy to know that your Masters have left Utapau and are on their way here as well. They should arrive before too long - about an hour or so before sunset, according to Master Skywalker's calculations. We have set aside suites for you all, here in the Palace, but it may be that the Naberries will ask the Jedi to stay with them, and I am sure that they will understand if you wish to stay with your Masters." It is the same sweetly earnest young voice Bail remembers from countless holocomm discussions, having often been asked by Padmé to sit on her council sessions with the new and extremely young Queen, but there is a sadness and an anxiousness there that he neither remembers nor likes overly much, and that, coupled with the uncertain look in her eyes, worries him immensely.

Carefully infolding her tiny hands in his, Bail reassures her, "I am sure that either way will be fine, Your Majesty. But may I ask why you haven't simply asked the Naberries?"

"The Naberrie family has not spoken with us overmuch, since the news came of Padmé Amidala's death," Apailana explains sadly, her head bowing so far forward that her headdress almost brushes against Bail's chin. "I - I should have never asked her to return to Coruscant, after that last attempt on her life. I should have insisted that she remain here, where she could at least be safe from enemy troops," she adds miserably, pain and regret choking her voice until it is barely even a whisper.

"Oh, Keiana, no," Bail insists, pressing the thirteen-year-old's hands tightly, reassuringly, between his. "This is in no way your fault, child. Do not, for a moment, blame yourself for what happened to Padmé. Padmé would certainly scold you soundly, could she hear you. She always chose her own path - you know that, young one. You are Queen now because she brought you with her a part of the way along the path she had chosen, whether you thought yourself entirely ready or not. Padmé has always done what she thought she must, for the greater good, and damn the consequences and never mind the dangers to herself. She was the first of us to try to organize the search that kept us in the Senate Rotunda after the evacuation order had been sounded and the last one to agree to go. She would be most unhappy to learn that you are blaming yourself for her death, young one. That was no one's fault but the Sith Lord's himself. It was Darth Sidious who planned out the attack on Coruscant, he who set the very war in motion that could give rise to such a battle, and it is at his feet that the blame will forever and squarely fall. I swear to you, on my honor as a friend of Padmé's and an Alderaanian and a Jedi Padawan as well, that this is indeed the truth. Never let another tell you anything differently, Keiana Apailana. Anyone who claims otherwise is telling you a blatant falsehood, child. And Padmé Amidala herself would be the first to tell you this, if she only could," Bail firmly adds, squeezing her hands again until the tremulous smile and pleading expression changes, belief and certainty rising in her until her bowed head and shoulders rise and firm and tilt proudly up again, her smile blindingly bright.

"Thank you, Bail. Your words are a great comfort to me." She raises one palely-painted hand, her palm resting a moment against his left cheek, and for a moment her wide smile gains a mischievous glint as she adds, "I suppose I shall have to become accustomed to calling you Bendu, now, for your wisdom, won't I?"

Bail surprises himself by uttering a small but genuine chuckle, shaking his head slightly as he raises his own hand to cover her's, for a moment, before letting go and allowing her to draw back. "I think you'll have a long time before you need to get used to calling me by that title, young one. But I thank you for the sentiment."

Bail is still smiling as he steps aside, so that Keiana Apailana can move on and greet Sheltay as well, when he senses movement behind him and, startled, turns rapidly around -

- only to be faced with the prospect of the three mourning-clad relatives of Padmé Naberrie present in the docking bay, their expressions ranging from sorrowful yet amused (Ryoo) to wistfully sad (Jobal) to grimly approving (Ruwee).

"Padawan Organa?" The voice is surprisingly deep, for such a small woman, and husky as though either through long disuse or far too much recent use. Given the shadows under Ryoo Thule's eyes, Bail rather suspects the latter, along with quite a few recently shed tears and too little sleep.

"Yes, Milady Thule?" he asks back, warily polite.

"Our good sons will not be here yet for several more hours, as you have been told, and there are things that we should speak of together. Will you come with us, back to the Naberrie home?" she only asks him politely in turn. "Between the deep friendship you shared with my daughter's youngest and the ties you now share with Masters Kenobi and Skywalker, you are all but a third good son to us."

"I - beg your pardon?" Bail blinks at her, not at all sure that he's heard her correctly, for surely she can't mean to imply that Anakin and Obi-Wan are -

"This is part of the reason why we need to speak privately, child," Jobal quietly answers him, her words effectively breaking his train of thought. "Please, Padawan Organa? It has been a rough - how many days? Fourteen? No, three weeks. No - sixteen days, now," she adds, her gaze upon him drifting in and out of focus as her attention wanders ever so slightly, her exhaustion so complete that she doesn't even seem to notice that she is speaking her musings about the proper number of difficult days - the number of days since the full-out planetary attack on Coruscant. The number of days since the skimmer crash that had nearly claimed Bail's life. The number of days since Padmé's violent and untimely death - they have had to weather. "We need your help, Padawan. Your help and that of your Masters. And there are things that you will need to know."

"I would be glad to render any aid that I can," Bail finally agrees helplessly, after several long moments of silence, unable to think of anything else to say that would be at all acceptable and yet gripped, once again, by a feeling of dread so complete that he wants nothing more than to refuse both the request for help and for his presence at the Naberrie house, to just turn around and get right back on the ship and order it to take him as far away from Naboo as quickly as it possibly can. Instead, filled with the certainty that he inevitably will live to regret agreeing to this and an equal sureness that anything else he might try to do would only result in even more pain and suffering (and likely disappointment in him from his new Masters as well, for failing to agree to help Ryoo Thule and the Naberries, even in the face of such absolute conviction of wrongness about this entire situation), Bail follows the three quietly out of the docking bay, his stomach a roiling mass of nerves and his pulse thundering erratically in his ears, feeling the unmistakable coldness of fear settling over him like a lowering curtain and fearing that it might never lift again.

***