Apricus ◂ Star Wars

𝐈. petals and roots

〖 °❈° 〗

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 of sweeping fables and venerated lies, there are still some snagging truths caught on the barest needle points and sharpest fragments of devastation - the truths that one knows to exist above all things. Irina's sole reality is this: we are nothing if not vessels. 

Brimming with fears and loves, our heart of hearts is guided across turbulent, wine-dark seas and blistering wildfires by caged instinct alone. Smiles and tears drift through our faces, lined like story book pages or carved wooden bows, as divine as they are human. But held as flowers pressed between silk sheets, these wisps of soul and purpose are carried within a shell, one which can never stop expressing for fear of devolving into lifeless, fraudulent theatre.

But, on this day of all days, Padmé had turned to marble. The vessel of her was momentarily empty, straining against the current yet entirely still. It was frightening how her bittersweet, diamond-pale features could smooth over blankly in an instant, unrecognizable, the opposite of romanticism, as distant as an inglorious moon. It's a politician's trick, Irina would always think, but she could only ever see a corpse's doom - all life and laughter turned to stone by a future too hideous to run from.

It was the same face all three of her older brothers had learned before pursuing their Naberrie legacy of civil service on far away planets Irina couldn't pronounce the names of. It had hurt less then; her brothers were only half her blood.

She pitied them more than she knew them, grateful that they each got an honorable escape (rumors of their mother's fate grew wilder at each anniversary of her death). Poison, suicide, asphyxiation. Even the most austere of Naboo's House nobles couldn't resist the brutality of sadistic gossip and the darkness of shameful secrets.

Perhaps worst of all, Cyril Naberrie had done nothing to ease the defamation of his former wife - he only kept the mother of his two daughters closer, his dearest, living Thaïs, holding her tightly in the palms of his royal hands. (She was everything his former love was not, and for that he treasured her above all other priceless possessions).

A war is beginning, Padmé said, face buried in too-soft hands. The marble was softening into a defeated hunch, caught under the disbelieving weight of grief and warning. This was more than a blockade or stinging rivalry. Naboo had always been a planet of muses, not soldiers. And even the most talented of muses are meant to be docile creatures, their delicately eloquent song and prose ignored by knights and kings. (Muses have little to fear, save for conflicts which tear apart entire galaxies at the seams)

But Padmé, the true heiress of House Naberrie, had never been a dancer or artist, destined to be neither safe nor brushed aside. She simply couldn't bear to embrace the role of a carefree goddess, one who watched mere humans hack each other apart with a vicious smile slashed across her face.

Irina, however, could stand to look on from the sidelines, free from all sense of duty and guilt, still grinning from ear to ear; this was only the beginning of dauntlessly inevitable divide.

At eight, Padmé had joined the prestigious Apprentice Legislature, practicing complicated speeches until they poured from never-faltering lips like quicksilver; at eight Irina had named every flower in their garden after her favorite poems - love sonnets blossomed purple and lush, rhythmic couplets gave way to orange starbursts, epics strung themselves as verdant vines, elegies wilted in tragic blue. At fourteen Padmé was Naboo's queen, crowned by the royal electorate, clad in painted face and regal gown; at fourteen Irina couldn't understand why her older sister had ever accepted the regnal title of Amidala. At twenty-one, Padmé was a senator, passionate and strong-willed with the heart of a martyr. Irina had not yet reached such an age, neither prodigy nor savior.

Now, slumped at a desk bathed in sunlight from the glass ceiling above, Padmé didn't even look up, blind to the chaos dancing through the crest of the sky. Ships darted like flashing fish across well-worn port lanes - they did not freeze or suffocate like humans caught in the dead of space. Instead, their metallic shells prepared for a battle that would strip all to the soul.

Watching each starcraft fade into lightspeed, Irina imagined the news of war must spread even faster than false hope, building into a last gasp before financial systems crumbled. Loyalty to the Republic hung in the air between each of Naboo's glinting moons, like chalk stamped onto blue velvet, unknowing of what would soon try to wash them away.

Irina put a pale hand on Padmé's shoulder for the slightest of moments, as comforting as someone like her could be, then left her sister in the study to grieve democracy's dissolving immunity alone. This devastated heart belonged to the same woman who had wanted to leave politics, who refused a lifelong term as beloved queen only to be unable to forget about the half-helpless people of her planet entirely. Senator was a position she'd accepted readily, without so much as a second's hesitation. Naboo's most sacred daughter hadn't left the fire at all; now she prodded at its roots, pretending that a different kind of flame didn't have the power to burn just the same.

There was another, less mentioned reason that House Naberrie hadn't taken the position of hereditary monarch, despite how the majority begged. If Padmé were to be killed - and it seemed she was always walking into the narrow path of a weapon's fatal scope - Irina would be heir. They all knew of the disaster that would ensue. Lost reputation aside, centuries of political gains and idyllic diplomacy would be reduced to dust if the planet was dismantled altogether.

The youngest Naberrie always seemed to be dancing away on ballerina's toes, disgracefully eager to escape complexities. She breathed the world in far too much to be its disciple, desperate to consume the open air her soul yearned for. 

And the soul was a strange thing, a language no ordinary person (let alone one's own family) could ever understand - Irina's was like Naboo itself. Ever-shifting, carelessly pristine, an unbalanced chemical reaction.

Water straight through the core.

〖 °❈° 〗

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄:

Well well well, it's certainly been a little longer than I thought it would be but I'm back with an update! *gasp*

It's also the first time I've only hit around 1k words (even less before I started editing) since I started writing on this forsaken app and let me tell you, it feels KINDA AMAZING not to be editing for three hours straight :D

Anyways, I'm really excited to keep developing this story and Irina's character... right now she's literally the definition of "sh*t-eating grin"... will that change? we shall see...

Also, ROYAL HOUSE DRAMA ON NABOO?!? I only briefly mentioned it in this chapter, but I have a feeling at some point this book is going to turn into an all-out murder mystery/royal house power struggle so bear with me <3

I hope you all have a nice day, and as always thanks for reading!

- Jynni