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From the Diaries of Amidala, Queen of the Naboo circa 1269 OR
Today, a great man died for me.
Now I must face a difficult truth: am I worthy of his sacrifice? And if I am not ... how do I make myself worthy, so that I may honour the gift of my life? I am afraid. I fear that nothing I do, for the rest of my days, will repay Qui-Gon for saving me, and my people, from the Trade Federation's evil warrior, whose identity even now remains a mystery.
Tomorrow Senator Palpatine -- no, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine -- returns from Coruscant, bringing with him the great Jedi Masters Yoda and Mace Windu, and the rest of the Jedi Council. I must greet them as a Queen, with no unseemly displays of emotion... which will be hard, for it seems to me that my very blood has turned to tears and would escape my eyes in a river. Therefore, all I have is tonight. And so tonight, I shall grieve. For myself, who has lost a friend so newly found. For the boy, who has lost the father he might have had. But most of all, I shall grieve for the man, who has lost friend and father and so much more.
"Majesty? Is something wrong?"
Amidala, lawfully elected Queen of the Naboo, known also on occasion as the handmaiden Padme, stifled an inappopriate curse. Said instead, "No, Talya, nothing is wrong. I merely wish to walk for a while."
In the star-pricked darkness of the royal suite, Talya wrinkled her sleepy face in a frown. "Walk, Majesty?"
"Yes, Talya."
The faintest of sighs stirred the outer chamber's perfumed air. "Of course, Your Majesty. Please give me a moment to find my robe and shoes and --"
"That is not necessary, Talya. I prefer to walk alone."
"Alone?" Talya's consternation was palpable. "Majesty, it is the middle of the night."
"Yes."
"And you wish to walk alone?"
"Yes."
She made sure to use the tone that all her staff recognised as Final. Talya knew it, and sighed again. "Of course, Majesty. As you wish."
Closing the Suite doors behind her, Amidala whispered on silken feet down the wide corridors and out onto the third level balcony. The courtyard below was bathed in silver. Night blooming jasmine scented the warm air. A fountain bubbled breathily to the right. The world slept ... and still her ears rang with the sounds of battle. Men she knew, or should have known, cried out and tumbled wildly to the ground, limbs flailing in a mockery of movement. Fell from the sky, their starships like funeral pyres bright about them.
Pyres.
Turning, she stared over the garden at the Royal Chapel. Flaming torches glowed ruddily from the open windows, and in the Watchtower at the end of the Chapel Walk. They burned to honour the Fallen. To honour Qui-Gon Jinn. Tomorrow night he would be cremated in accordance with Jedi custom ... until then, he would lay at peace beneath the domed roof, released from troubled life to Oneness with the Force.
With her mind's eye she saw him, tall and strong and unyielding as truth, striding across the parched Tatooine sands before her. For all his imposing stature and the aura of power that surrounded him, a kind man. Wise, and unexpectedly gentle. Shamed remorse burned her, and she pressed her hands to her face, blotting him from sight.
There'd been no time to think of him, or of Obi-Wan, or even Anakin. No time either for Jar Jar and his Gungan brethren, engaged in bloody battle with the ferocious Federation Droid Army. Every thought, every feeling, had been focussed on the desperate need to capture the Federation ViceRoy and bring the obscenity of his occupation to an end.
If she'd had time to think ... if she'd allowed herself to think ... she would have crumpled to the floor in mute terror. The dark warrior. His red and black face ... his glowing eyes ... the tasteable, touchable miasma of hatred and power emanating from him in drowning waves. An abomination, to be sure.
They had not hesitated, Qui-Gon and his apprentice. There'd been no fear, no exclamation, no exchange of any kind. Side by side, united in single, silent purpose, they had faced the demonic warrior and sent her on her way ... she'd had no time even to say thank you. Or Force be with you. Or anything.
And afterwards, with the victorious Gungans flooding the Palace and her Council exclaiming and praising and examining her for scratches, and Naboo starfighter pilots returning triumphant with the boy, with Anakin, Annie, piping and breathless and crowing with delight and excitement, to her shame she had not thought, had not wondered ... not until that moment, etched glasslike and razorsharp on her inner eye ...
It had started with silence. A slow ripple of soundlessness, beginning at the rear of the gathered throng. Voice by voice it travelled, stilling tongues with the finality of death, until all cries of joy were stifled. Then the crowd parted, a disbelieving stagger of foot, until she looked straight down the cleared path ... and saw Qui-Gon.
There was no agony in that stern, proud face. No fear, nor anger, not even surprise. There was acceptance, and perhaps a smudging of sorrow. And only one mark upon him, cold and small and black, like the soul of the man who had stolen him.
Obi-Wan carried him as though he weighed no more than a feather ... as though he weighed as much as the world. And in his face was all the agony of the world, and in his voice, too, as he halted before her and said:
"Majesty... my Master is dead."
Somewhere in the hushed crowd, someone sobbed. A child wailed.
"Nobody can kill a Jedi," Anakin declared, with all the unsullied confidence of youth.
And Qui-Gon, with the charity of age, did not crush the boy. Replied only, sad and filled with memory, "I wish that were so."
Obi-Wan's face was ashen, and his eyes were wild. My Padawan, my Apprentice, Qui-Gon had called him, and in his voice she'd heard such love. Headstrong and wilful but with great promise, this I know. He will be a Jedi such as the Republic has never seen.
Dry mouthed, her heart pounding so her ribs were near to dust, she said, "The dark warrior?"
"Defeated," said Obi-Wan.
"What of you?" she said. "Are you wounded?"
Some terrible shadow moved over his face. "Yes, Majesty," he replied. "I am wounded."
She lifted a hand. "Help here! Take --"
"No," said Obi-Wan. "No one shall touch him."
She stepped closer, using her majesty to shroud them in privacy. "You are exhausted and struck all with grief. Let us help you."
Obi-Wan's breathing was ragged, like a man run to his limit. "No one shall touch him," he said again, and she could have wept for the pain in him.
"You cannot hold him forever," she said, as gently as she knew how. "He must be laid to rest."
"Have you a Chapel?" Obi-Wan asked.
"Of course."
"I will do what must be done. See that I am not disturbed. You must notify Master Yoda ... the Council ..."
He did not know that he was ordering a Queen as though she were a handmaiden, and she did not tell him, but turned a burning gaze on those whose mouths were opened to chastise, and said, "It shall be so. Captain Panaka will escort you to the Chapel, and arrange for what is needed, and see that you are left in peace."
He nodded once. Turned on his heel and marched away between the ranks of silent onlookers, Panaka a pace behind. Only after they were gone from her sight did she feel the small hand in hers.
"Anakin ..." she said, looking down.
His dirt-streaked face was bathed in tears. "Tell me it isn't true!" the boy demanded. "Tell me Master Qui-Gon isn't dead!"
"Annie, I'm so sorry," she whispered.
He pulled his hand away. "No! No! I don't want him to be dead! I won't have him be dead! I won't, I won't!"
Reaching for him, she cried, "Anakin, please, I'm so sorry, I --"
"No!" he shouted, raging. "No!" And then he burst into a passion of sobs. She fell to her knees beside him, gathered him in her arms. Others were weeping, too ... eyes closed, she could hear a peculiar hiccuping sound that she knew, without looking, was Jar Jar. For herself, she was afraid to cry, not knowing if she would ever stop.
Remembering all of that, her eyes filled with tears again and the austere beauty of the nightlit gardens blurred. Aimlessly she began to walk once more, fingers trailing the time-polished marble of the balustrade. When at last she looked about her with awareness, she was on the Chapel Walk, the Watchtower at her back, the Chapel itself before her.
Tremulously, she entered.
Freshly robed, hair brushed and tame upon his great shoulders, Qui-Gon lay on his bier, hands folded calmly across his chest. Torch shadows flickered over his motionless body, and for one insane instant it looked as though he were breathing. Her own harsh breath caught in her throat, then, and her heart leapt. Then she relaxed, and released a sobbing sigh. It was naught but her overstrained imagination. There was no life there. He was gone, with only this facsimile of the man remaining.
The bulk of the Chapel was sunk deep in shadow, pooled here and there with inconstant illumination from the guttering torches. It was cool and dry and profoundly quiet. Hesitantly, she approached the man laying so peacefully outstretched, and rested her fingertips on the stone of his bed.
"Master Qui-Gon," she greeted him. "This is indeed a bad business." In the hush of the night a boona hooted mournfully from a tree in the garden outside. The sound startled her, and she drew her robe more closely around her heart-rattled ribs. "I came to say ... thank you. You said you could not fight a war for me, but you did. And you died for me ... for my people. I don't --" She stumbled, hands clenching. "How can I repay such a debt?" she demanded. "What can I do, to make this up to you? Oh! You bossy, stubborn, reckless ... Jedi! Why weren't you more careful?"
And then the tears came, hot and plentiful. She sank to her knees beside him, forehead pressed to the cool stone of the bier, fingertips touching the fine roughness of his robe. She wept without restraint, unpenting all the fears and pains and griefs of the long day, and the days before it. Her eyes burned, and her throat, and she wanted to wail, to howl, to scream her rage and despair to the uncaring stars.
Behind her, in the inky blackness, something moved.
She whirled, overbalancing so that she sprawled awkwardly on her backside, spine rigid against Qui-Gon's bier, fingers flat to the stones.
Obi-Wan. White faced and scoured hollow with grief. Sitting on the floor opposite his dead Master. Wrapped in his brown Jedi cloak, until he moved he'd been swallowed by the shadows.
He stared at her. Then his lips parted, but he said nothing. Frowned instead, as though struggling to remember how to speak. She cleared her throat. Eased herself to a more dignified position and said, "You startled me."
He nodded, a vague, disconnected gesture. "I was always telling him that, you know. Telling him to be careful. He never listened. He chastised me often for being reckless, and headstrong, for being impatient. Yet time and time again I saw him plunge into danger, heedless of his own safety, disregarding the Code, and all because he thought that someone needed his help. The Council gave him formal reprimand, more than once. Master Yoda shouted at him. It never made any difference. He'd just shrug, and smile, and say: I will do what I must. As though he were surprised that anyone could think he'd do otherwise. His personal code of honour was more important to him than anything ... election to the Council, even."
"Not more important than you," she said. "He loved you."
Obi-Wan quivered, like a target struck clean and true with an arrow. "We will not speak on that," he said, and drew his cloak more tightly about himself.
"I'm sorry," she said. He nodded, and silence claimed them. As he stared into the burning flame of the nearest torch, she considered him. He was a mystery to her, this young apprentice. They'd hardly exchanged ten words since meeting. All she knew of him was his cool authority in a fight, his startling speed with a lightsabre, his fierce devotion to Qui-Gon ... and what the Jedi Master had said to her about him.
They'd discussed Obi-Wan the night before the podrace, she and Qui-Gon. She'd not intended to pry, was intent only upon learning the Jedi Master's plans for the boy, Anakin ... because it was as clear as the suns in the Tatooine sky that Qui-Gon was hatching some great plot behind his beard.
She'd gone to him before retiring to bed, joined him outside the tiny baked mud-and-sand shelter Anakin and Shmi called home. Overhead the stars were scattered like carelessly flung gemstones, and Qui-Gon was staring up at them with a dreamy look in his eye and a musing expression on his face.
"Still awake?" he asked her, large hands clasped easily around an updrawn knee. "My, but you royal handmaidens are a hardy bunch. I know grown Jedi who'd be dropping in their tracks by now."
It was a tone of voice she'd swiftly come to recognise ... teasing and not to be taken altogether seriously. "I want to know what you're planning for Annie," she said. "And please don't tell me you're not planning anything. That would be too insulting."
"I would never be so rude," he replied.
"I think you would," she retorted. "If you thought it might get you what you wanted."
A raised eyebrow acknowledged the hit, but all he said was, "Is this your first adventure away from Naboo, Padme?"
The question threw her. "What? No. Of course not." Then, prompted by the glint in his eyes, admitted, "But it is my first time beyond the Inner Rim. Beyond the reach of the Republic."
"And what are your thoughts, so far?"
She frowned. "That you are attempting to distract me by playing Jedi Master. I wish that you wouldn't. If you have thoughts of involving yourself with this boy and his mother, I must be told. The Queen will want to know."
Again, the lifted eyebrow. "Ah. Yes. Of course. The Queen."
Something in the way he said it jolted her. Did he know? Or suspect? It was impossible to tell by looking at him ... his expression was as bland as custard. "Yes," she said. "The Queen. Whom you are sworn to aid during this crisis. So you are honour bound, aren't you, to answer my question?"
His teeth showed briefly in a smile. "When you put it that way, it would appear I have no choice."
"None."
Heaving a great sigh, he shifted his position on the retaining wall. Unfolded his right knee and drew up his left, instead, to rest his chin and contemplate the dark ground below. "What do you make of him? Of Annie?"
Clearly, this was not going to be a short conversation. With a sigh of her own she sat on the wall beside him. "I think there is something most unusual about him," she said. "He's like no other nine year old boy I've ever known. He has an intelligence and maturity far beyond his years. There's -- I don't know -- there's an aura about him I can't quite explain." And then, shockingly, she blushed. "I expect that sounds very silly."
Qui-Gon shook his head. "Not silly at all," he said. "On the contrary ... it's a most perceptive assessment. There is indeed something highly unusual about young Anakin."
"But what does it mean?"
He shrugged. "Just now, I'm not quite sure. But I intend to find out." And then the gravity of his face melted into a smile of pure mischief. "What I am sure of, young Padme, is that my poor long suffering Obi-Wan is not going to be very amused when we return to the ship tomorrow with a nine year old boy in tow."
She stared. "Surely, as your apprentice, he has no say in the matter? It's not his place to question your decisions. You are his Master, and there the matter rests."
Qui-Gon let out a soft bark of laughter. "Ha! You might try reminding him of that sometime! I tell you now, Miss Royal Handmaiden, that mere Apprentice status has yet to curtail the forthrightness of my Padawan's opinions. Oh, no. Tomorrow, when we return to our ship with our spare parts and our spare boy, Obi-Wan will sigh. He will shake his head. And then he will look at me -- he has this look, you know, it's most eloquent. Another one, Master? he will say. Another one?"
"Another one what?" she asked, grinning at his affectionate mimicry.
"Oh. You know. A stray," Qui-Gon said. "A lost soul in need of guidance, a chance met stranger along for the ride."
"Like Jar Jar?"
He nodded. "Exactly. Yes. Like Jar Jar."
"I take it you make a habit of collecting strays?"
He thought about that. "Well, no, I wouldn't say habit, exactly. But I help where and when I can. More often than the Council would like, or Obi-Wan. Very correct, very mindful of the Code, is Obi-Wan, for all that he's even more headstrong, in his own way, than I am." He shook his head, smiling. "My Padawan, my Apprentice. You musn't judge him too harshly, young handmaiden. He's been putting up with my whims and my causes and my strays for a very long time now. I'm afraid I'm a great trial to him at times, so I make allowances. Headstrong and wilful, he can be, but with great promise, this I know. He will be a Jedi such as the Republic has never seen."
"Greater than you?"
He laughed. "I am many things, young handmaiden, but alas ... a great Jedi is not one of them."
Puzzled, she said, "But you are a Master. You were sent by the Supreme Chancellor himself to aide the Queen in her time of crisis. How can you not be a great Jedi?"
"It's true, I am a Master. And a fine warrior for peace, strong in the Force. But it's not exactly the same thing," he replied. And added, infuriatingly, "When you are a little older, you will understand."
It wasn't the first time she'd heard that and likely, for all she was a Queen, it wouldn't be the last. Pointless, to protest. Instead, curious, she said, "How long have you and Obi-Wan been together?"
"A dozen years or so."
"That seems a long apprenticeship."
"It is. Long and arduous and not for the faint-hearted," Qui-Gon agreed. "Many do not complete their training. And those who do are ... changed. For ever. It's a hard life, entailing much sacrifice. Suffering, of the spirit and the body, as we struggle to learn the ways and the will of the Force."
She stared. "And this is the life you would choose for Anakin?"
"Did I say that?" The question, his tone, were mild ... but his eyes were sharp, and there was a sudden tension in him.
"You didn't have to," she retorted. "I can see it's what you're planning, though how you hope to free him from Watto is beyond me. But even if you do succeed, what then? You'll have two apprentices?"
A strange expression clouded Qui-Gon's face. Staring into the cool desert distance, he shook his head. "No. My days with Obi-Wan are numbered. His destiny lies along a different path to mine. I've always known that. Soon he will be freed to follow wherever it leads him." He turned his considering gaze to her, then, and the force of it struck her into silence. "I tell you this, Padme. Should a time come when you are in desperate straits and sore in need of help, call upon Obi-Wan Kenobi. He will never fail you. This I swear, as a Jedi Master and one who has known him for most of his life."
The conviction in his voice was absolute. "I will," she said, startled and little uneasy at the intensity in him. "I promise."
Qui-Gon smiled, and reached out a hand to touch her knee. "Good. Now we should be seeking our beds. Tomorrow promises to be a busy day ... and I will need all my strength to face Obi-Wan's displeasure upon our return. Sleep well, Padme."
"And you, Master Qui-Gon," she replied.
There were no more such conversations after that ... events tumbled one into the other with the swiftness of mountain rapids, bearing her with them like a twig in a torrent, bruising and battering without mercy until at last she was flung free, to land winded and breathless in this place and at this time.
Should a time come when you are in desperate straits and sore in need of help, call upon Obi-Wan Kenobi. He will never fail you, Qui-Gon had told her. But it seemed to her now that it was Obi-Wan himself who needed help. For all that he was a man some ten years her senior, a fearsome Jedi warrior with skills she could barely comprehend, he was also a fellow human being. One in terrible distress, filled to overflowing with an anguish she prayed never to know for herself.
A whisper, faint as a summer breeze: Help him, young handmaiden.
Startled, she stared about the silent Chapel. "Did you hear that?"
Obi-Wan stirred. "Hear what?" he asked, dull and uncaring.
"I thought I --" She stopped. Shivered. "Nothing. It was nothing."
With an effort, he sat a little straighter. "It was good of you to come," he said. "He liked you. Admired you. He would be touched, that you are here now as ..."
"As Padme," she said. "My simpler self."
"As Padme," he echoed. "A clever ruse. He liked that about you, very much... your wit and your kindness and your courage. Your willingness to take risks in return for knowledge. Fine qualities in a Queen, he said. And he was right."
To know that he'd approved of her ... pleasure blossomed warm and bright. "I envy you, Obi-Wan," she said.
The look he gave her was incredulous. "Envy me?"
"He was a great man. I liked him so much, and I looked forward to getting to know him properly. To learning from him. To ... earning his friendship. Now that will never happen. But you were his friend. You had his trust, his companionship, his love, for many years.. A Queen has many companions and attendants, but few friends. These past days have shown me what that can be like. To have known the friendship of a man like Qui-Gon Jinn ... that is a rare and wonderful thing. So yes, I envy you."
"And do you envy me the responsibility for his death, as well?" Obi-Wan demanded bitterly.
"It wasn't your fault."
His voice and face were scathing, of himself, of her, as he retorted, "Foolish girl! You know nothing! I wasn't fast enough. I gave the Sith an opening and he took it. By the time I recovered it was too late, he and Qui-Gon were at the other end of the corridor and I couldn't get past the security fields. All I could do was stand there, useless, and watch as my Master was cut down before my eyes! I should have been faster! I should have been better! All his training, all his teaching, his wisdom ... the fault was mine! The failure was mine!"
It seemed to her impossible that flesh and blood and bone could contain such pain and not be torn apart. She wanted to reach out to him, to hold him, but feared that if she touched him with even her barest fingertips he would fly asunder and never recover all the pieces of his sorrowing self.
"He was my Master, my father, my brother, my friend. I owed him everything, my life, a hundred times over. And I did not save him!" he cried. "How do I live with that? What do I do?" In a single fluid move he was on his feet. Had caught one of Qui-Gon's hands between his own and pressed it to his breast. "Please, Master, tell me ... what do I do? What do I do?"
Never in her life had she heard a man weep so, with such abandoned despair. Her own tears returned, clogging her throat and flooding her vision. Staggering to her feet she went to him, put her hands on his shoulders. "Don't, Obi-Wan, please don't," she sobbed. "It doesn't help, it won't bring him back, and he would hate to see you like this, you know he would! He loved you so much, it would break his heart to see you grieving so! I know it hurts, I know, but you cannot change what has happened. Think what Qui-Gon would say to you, if he could. If he were here. He'd say that this was his destiny. This was the will of the Force. And that one should always bow to the will of the Force, and be joyful in surrender."
She had no idea where the words came from. They just appeared on her tongue without conscious knowledge or volition.
Obi-Wan was struck to silence. Wonderingly he turned to look at her, ghost pale in the dim light. "That is exactly what he would say," he whispered, his voice raw. "How did you know?"
Helpless to explain, she just shrugged. "Anakin needs you, Obi-Wan. You have to be strong, for him if not for yourself."
After a long moment, Obi-Wan nodded. Released Qui-Gon's hand and replaced it reverently on the still chest. "I promised him that I would train the boy," he said. "And I will. No matter what the Council says."
"And I promised him that if ever I were in trouble, I would come to you," she replied. "Because you will never fail me."
For a moment she thought he would weep again... but with a great effort he mastered himself. Offered her a bow. "Majesty. I am your man. Whenever you have need you may call, and I will come. And I will never fail you. This I swear, on the memory of Qui-Gon Jinn, and in the name of the living Force."
Standing on tip toe, with a hand braced lightly on his shoulder, she kissed his forehead. "So be it," she said.
He managed a faint smile. Glanced through the Chapel windows into the night beyond and said, "It still wants several hours until dawn, your Majesty. You should return to your bed."
"No, I don't think so," she replied. "I prefer to stay here, and keep vigil with you. I want to honour him, too. That is ... if you don't mind."
Another faint smile. "No, Majesty. I do not mind."
She frowned, considering. "It is not necessary, I think, for friends to stand upon ceremony," she pronounced. "In the eyes of my people, of the Republic and the galaxy at large, I am Her Majesty Queen Amidala of the Naboo. But in private, with those whose company I choose for myself ... I am Padme."
A glimmer of warmth flickered in his still-grieving eyes. "Padme it is." Then he took off his Jedi robe and draped it about her shoulders. "We can't have you catching cold, after all," he said. "A runny nose would rather spoil the effect of all that face paint, don't you think?"
After a startled moment, she laughed. "That's a disgusting thing to say!"
"Yes, it is," he agreed. "It's also true."
He seated himself once more on the floor of the Chapel, and she seated herself beside him, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder. "Tell me about him," she said, glancing briefly sideways. "If it doesn't hurt too much."
So, as the night wore on minute by minute, he spoke of Qui-Gon Jinn. More tears came, and went, but they were healing tears, this time. Cleansing. There was laughter, too, gentle and joyous. At some point her hand crept out from the voluminous sleeve of the borrowed robe, and took his, and that is how the dawn found them. Side by side, hand in hand, celebrating the life of the man who slept so peacefully before them.
As rosy light spilled into the Chapel she said, "I should go. Before a great alarm is raised at my prolonged absence."
"Yes," Obi-Wan replied. "And I must prepare myself for the arrival of the Council."
Something in his voice alerted her. "You expect trouble?"
He sighed. "I expect ... the Council."
They exchanged swift smiles. Then she frowned. "Last night you said something ... something about a Sith."
That sobered him. "I should not have," he said. "Please ... forget what you heard. I spoke out of turn."
"I can't forget it," she said. "But I have something of the knack of guarding my tongue. It will not be repeated by me, unless I have your leave to do so."
"Thank you," said Obi-Wan, taking back his robe. "Now go. Quickly. I'll see you again later."
At the Chapel door she turned, and glanced back at him. He looked tired, and worn, shaken to his bones ... but the frantic edge of his grief was dulled now, and in its place a growing peace. Or so she hoped. "Obi-Wan? You'll be all right?"
He nodded. "Eventually. Yes. Thank you. I won't forget last night."
"Being a friend is as important as having one, I think," she replied. "I won't forget it, either."
She hurried on her way, taking the various staircases to her Suite two steps at a stride. By the time she slipped into her sumptuous room Padme was a memory, and once again she was Her Majesty Queen Amidala of the Naboo.
The face paint was but the finishing touch.
From the Diaries of Amidala, Queen of the Naboo circa 1269 OR
I said farewell to Anakin today. He is to become a Jedi Knight, as Qui-Gon wanted. Obi-Wan, no longer an apprentice but a full Jedi Knight himself, now, will be his master.
I will miss them both, very much.
I will also miss Senator Palpatine, whose staunch support throughout the recent crisis helped more than he will ever know. It is of course a great honour for the Naboo, to have him elected Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. He will do a fine job, of this I am sure. He will return strength and order to the Republic, which I fear has become weak and is represented by beings without principal or courage. Supreme Chancellor Palpatine has both.
Now it is my task to help the Naboo rebuild, to heal the wounds caused by the Trade Federation. I have great hopes for us, especially now that we seem to have come to a better understanding of our neighbours the Gungans.
I forsee great things ahead, for ourselves and for the Galaxy. A new era of peace and prosperity. A new beginning.
But of course ... only time will tell.
In the meantime, I shall do my best for my people.
I wonder if I shall ever see Anakin again.
I hope so.
There is just ... something about him.