Disclaimer: Not mine. None of it.

Author's notes: On the eve of her coronation Padmé prepares for the oracles blessing. What she receives however is nothing short of a warning.


She sat motionless before the soothsayer. Her face painted white and void of expression, her hair tied back into thick braids, bound into an elegant bun. A perfect image of a mask, only her amber eyes revealed the truth of her emotions.

Perfectly porcelain palms rested carefully in the folds of her finely embroidered gown. Many little hands bled and sweat to make the ritualistic gown she wore, a silent reminder that it would take more than just rules on a paper to end the corruption that existed.

No one needed to know her fingers were shaking or that her palms carefully painted white were clammy to the touch. Within hours she would be coroneted queen of Naboo and none of this would matter anymore. Padmé Amidala knew she had to be flawless, untouchable and deadly. Everything about her had been carved, moulded and chiselled into the role demanded of her.

The role she believed was her destiny.

Tonight Padmé was to receive the blessing of the high priest of the goddess Asherah. Padmé was not excited for this reason for she never had much use for religion or the petty gods it offered.

She was excited because she would finally be embracing her destiny. Everything she had experienced, underwent, and learnt was meant to bring her to this place, to this moment. Now that she was here Padmé wanted the ceremonies to finally end so she could begin her life's work.

The oracle watched the petite woman intently his black eyes shining with unnatural fire. His slender body hunched over an ancient leathery and blood stained scroll. Bone runes rested neatly over it, while lit candles adorned the corners.

Padmé wondered what it meant but didn't have to wait for long. The wrinkled old man reached out and smeared away the pasty white make-up that covered her only birthmark, a small mole that decorated her cheek. His frown deepened at the sight of it.

"You are the mask; the one who knows no truth, only lies. You mimic and mock the one the people believe you to be."

His words were calm, tranquil even but the potency in them could not be ignored. Padmé had no idea whom this elder man was comparing her to but she didn't put it to heart. Rune casters always spoke in riddles to hide the fact they nothing of what they claimed to understand.

But before she had a chance to speak further the man grabbed her left wrist and raked a small ornament blade across her porcelain skin. Padmé gasped in shock and glared at him in silent defiance not caring or noting the blood that freely trickled down her wrist. He said nothing but turned her wrist downwards his expression thoughtful as he watched the stream of blood trickle onto the leather canvas.

Once satisfied by the bloodshed he released her hand and grabbed the bloodied runes, shook them, and tossed the bones into the small pool of blood. The stench of the incense, fresh blood and candle wax was made her nauseas, while the loss of blood made her light-headed.

Another moment of silence passed between them as the healer studied the runes before him carefully. His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts but his eyes that now met hers spoke volumes.

It was his words that caused her blood to run cold.

"You hold the scales of life and death.

"In your hands rests the balances of light and dark.

"In your lust for power, your need for control you will embrace that which is not yours to have.

"Many will pay the price for your greed, many more will for it as well.

"Through your peace you will usher in an era of war and chaos. Through your wisdom you will unleash an evil so terrible, entire planets will crumble in its wake."

"How dare you!" Padmé stammered in disbelief not understanding why this man she had never met until tonight would bear such ill will towards her? Towards her hopes and dreams?

He was not finished and continued as though she had not spoken.

"You are the herald of destruction, the mistress of chaos. They must not follow you. He must not follow you."

The strange man continued to murmur these words softly to himself as though chanting, begging the goddess he served to protect him, and the universe from the threat he believed she was.

Padmé confused and annoyed rose to her feet and quickly grabbed one of the clean pieces of cloth that rested nearby. Wrapping her bloodied wrist with it she made her way out of the private chambers and into the grand halls where her handmaidens to be waited for her return. She spoke not a word to them and instead swiftly departed from the temple.

The birthmark was covered during the coronation and soon after was removed. The words of the oracle could not be so easily buried and would later return to haunt her with a vengeance.