029. Colour



During her stay on Fedalle— one of the more industrialized Core Worlds of her time as Naboo's Queen, dripping with ores and lavished, wealthy establishments — Padme learned diligence.

Especially among her royal handmaidens.

They're around her height, with similar, round features and naturally thick, brown hair, though one or two years older than Padme. It took a length of time to get used to the rigorous training schedules for their etiquette and self-defense.

She has no complaints — after all, it is required.

Despite better judgment, Padme becomes secretly flattered by the longing, quiet gazes from her royal handmaidens, the admiring and warm and careful touches against Padme's scalp and her neck while being groomed or dressed up. There's no other way to describe the emotions.

Diligence. Humility.

Padme forgoes informing anyone about the small, boxed gift upon her table, picking it up herself.

Within it, a freshly clipped, vibrantly purple lotus.

She had no way of knowing then, but pressing it to her red-rouged mouth and inhaling the fragrance, would complicate matters. Padme chokes lightly on the puff of its yellow-tinged pollen landing onto her face, on her teeth and inside of her cheeks as she breathed it in.

One of her handmaidens cries out for the other girls, ripping the mysterious flower away from Padme, half-catching her fainting, sagging body.

Her skin feels hot, no matter how exposed.

Padme regains consciousness as they drag her to a luxuriously huge cot surrounded by rafters and ivory netting, rushing to yank off her Queen's garments, down to her underclothes.

They attempt to bathe her, washing the sticky, yellowed pollen off Padme's face, her throat.

Little, encouraging kisses spill onto her raw-scrubbed lips and her collarbone. One of her girls murmurs out Padme's name worriedly, kissing her deeply, cradling her side, relocating to her hip.

More kisses on her chin, her ears, on her wrists; Padme fights back a wave of tears, gasping softly.

She's lost to the ecstasy and horror of the rare, untreated spice filtering through her veins, fading in and out of the whirling, glowy colors, listening helplessly to Sabe argue with Yane about contacting anyone outside of the guest chambers, for a possible medic to help, then passes out.

As soon as she's herself once more, sweating out the fever and every ounce of it, Padme accepts a cup of water, murmuring her thanks.

Quarsh Panaka escorts her home with every cautionary measure, handling the meeting with the local government officials, but still requesting to investigate the origins of the gift while Padme recovers. She dismisses it, not wishing to raise any accusations with a shaky alliance as it is.

She lived.

Because of her girls.

(That's all that matters.)



Star Wars isn't mine. I originally planned for this to be much more sexier and to be a different scenario but that's okay! Not everything has to be sexy. Padme/her handmaidens was always a reoccurring thought of mine while in this fandom so I hope other curious minds enjoy this too! Thoughts/comments appreciated!