This is an Obidala-story in 5 parts, which starts off during Revenge of the Sith and with the thought "what if Padmé had refused to believe that the Jedi had turned on the Republic?"

It was written for the 10th anniversary of the Obidala Fan Forum and I'd say it's quite different from most other stories that I've written. The POV-person's name won't be mentioned too often, unless it helps with the pronouns, and also there's a very limited amount of dialogue. The story can be seen as a version of Sleeping Beauty and also as a way of exploring what the real life of a political refugee/exile can be like (you'll see a lot of this in the second part).

Also please note that the rating might change if this is requested!

The sun was setting over Coruscant, giving the illusion of a fire spreading through the city. Perhaps it was not an illusion, though; these last few days she had seen more fires and terrified faces, heard more explosions and screams, and smelt more ash and decay than she had ever had before in her life – and considering the life she had led up to this point that was saying something. However there seemed to be an awful amount of people who did not see what she saw, who did not realize what was happening. People who did not know that the Republic was gone, that democracy was gone, and that the Jedi were gone.

From her balcony she could still see the tendrils of smoke wafting over the ruined Jedi Temple. She had seen the attack when it happened, watched in the night as the well-known building's inhabitants were overrun. It had terrified her to no end and she had feared the worst. Later that night her husband of three years had visited her – Anakin Skywalker. She had been so relieved to see him alive that it had taken her a while to realize that something was wrong with what he was telling her.

The Jedi had tried to overthrow the Republic.

The Jedi were corrupt.

The Jedi were traitors.

Impossible, she had thought. The Jedi were the noblest people she had ever had the fortune of meeting. They were wise, all of them; from the smallest child to the oldest Master. They were not corrupt or traitors, and if they had indeed tried to overthrow the Republic it only proved what she had long suspected; that the Republic had fallen into the hands of a power-hungry man she had once seen as her friend and advisor.

Anakin had stood firm, though; he had insisted that the Jedi were to blame for everything. What this "everything" was he had not told her. Realizing that she could not reason with him on this she had swallowed and tried to approach the matter from a different perspective.

"What about Obi-Wan?" she had asked him. Anakin's Master, the man who had essentially raised him. He had been Anakin's role model and father figure since he arrived in the Jedi Temple and by now she often heard them refer to each other as brothers. If something had happened to Obi-Wan Kenobi, good or bad, Anakin would always be unable not to show it. There would be grief or anger, happiness or admiration shining from his eyes as he spoke.

But now his blue eyes had been cold, unfeeling, as he replied.

"Dead."

"Dead?" she had asked, trying to understand why he did not sound like he even cared.

"Like everyone else who associated themselves with the Jedi", Anakin had replied. "The Chancellor spared me because I spoke out against them. I serve him now."

Cold dread had seized her in that moment. This was not the man she had married, whose child she was carrying and whom she loved. Had loved.

"How can you speak like that?" she had asked him. "How can you speak of Obi-Wan as if he does not matter to you?"

Anakin's blue eyes had flashed with anger.

"He is a traitor!" he had growled.

"He is the man who raised you!"

"My mother raised me", Anakin had spat out, "and then the Republic. I have always served it first and foremost – you and the Chancellor – not the Jedi. I went against them from the beginning and they tried to change that, tried to make me into someone I'm not. They failed – and I survived while they all died."

"I don't believe you", she had whispered and stepped away from him. "How can you say such horrible things? Where is your heart?"

"With you, as it has always been", Anakin had replied and straightened up, eyes gleaming dangerously. "Now I need you to confirm that your heart is with me, that you believe in me. That you love me and will stand by my side when the Chancellor appoints me as his right-hand man, during the birth of the Galactic Empire."

Her hand had gone up to her throat in shock, but he had not seemed to care.

"Padmé", he had said, his voice sharp, "answer me."

Her answer had been a no.

No, she would not stand with him when he was appointed the right-hand man of the Chancellor.

No, she did not believe him.

No, her heart was not with him.

No, she did not love him.

Now, a week later, she almost regretted that answer. She could have pretended, could have faked a smile and nodded along. But that was not who she was, was it? She was Padmé Amidala, born Padmé Naberrie, secretly known as Padmé Skywalker, and if there was one thing she did not do it was let people boss over her.

Anakin had not taken kindly to her answer and thus made sure to lock her in her apartment. There were guards posted outside the door, cameras located in every room; her life was monitored by her husband. No, not her husband; they might not be officially divorced but in her heart she felt that they were no longer a pair. They could not be if he favoured the new dictatorship instead of democracy, what she had been fighting for since she could talk. Anakin Skywalker was no longer her husband. But he was the father of her unborn child.

As so often before she placed her hand on her swollen stomach, caressing it and the baby within while watching the sun turn the city red and gold. Anakin had not said anything about the child when he locked her in and even though she did not like the idea of it being born in captivity, she resented the idea of him raising it even more. She would fight until her last breath to keep it away from the man who happened to be its father. Even if that meant killing both herself and the baby. She would be lying if she said that she had not entertained the idea of throwing herself off her balcony during her week in captivity. She suspected, however, that Anakin had placed out nets to catch her if she tried; if he had wanted her dead he would have killed her that night when everything had gone to hell.

"Miss Padmé."

She turned away from the windows, her hand dropping from her stomach. C-3PO was her only companion nowadays. Anakin had sent her handmaid away – or killed her for being associated with his wife – and no one was allowed inside the apartment. Why he had let her keep the droid he had once built was probably not a sign of love or good faith, but because of that he did not see the point in depriving her of it. The golden droid now came up to her and bowed slightly, as he always did.

"Miss Padmé", he repeated, "may I offer you something to drink? Or eat?"

"Thank you, Threepio, but I'm fine", she replied.

"But", the droid said, sounding exceedingly worried, "you haven't eaten since yesterday morning. You must eat, Miss Padmé, or you will not be well."

"I'm not hungry", she said, repeating what she had told him all the other times he had tried to make her eat. "When the babe is hungry I will eat, but not before that."

If a droid could look confused then that was how C-3PO looked right now. He did not understand the fact that there was a child inside her stomach – or perhaps he did, but he did not understand the biology at work and thus he could not understand how she and the baby were connected.

"You must come and eat something, Miss Padmé", C-3PO now insisted. She frowned; usually he left after she brought up the argument regarding the baby.

"Threepio", she said, "I will eat when the babe is hungry."

"No, Miss Padmé, you must eat now."

Her frown deepened. What was going on? Why was he talking like this to her?

"Fine", she eventually sighed. C-3PO bowed again and then led the way from the sitting room to the kitchen. It was a small room, smaller than her bathroom, and before this week in imprisonment it had barely been used; there was always a meeting to attend where food was served or you could order food from any of the restaurants on this side of the planet. Now C-3PO stiffly gestured towards the floor-to-ceiling cupboard-concealed elevator meant for sending up ordered food from the restaurants. They always came in narrow trolleys and the elevator that sent them up consisted of nothing but rails to attach the trolleys on. Other than that the shaft was open.

"Threepio, what is this?" she now asked the droid, who had not spoken since they reached the kitchen.

"You can use this to get out of here, Miss Padmé", C-3PO said. She blinked in surprise and her frown deepened.

"What?"

The droid responded by rolling out a trolley from the elevator, opening it for her. It was void of the usual food trays, making it possible for one person to squat inside of it. Possibly.

"Please, Miss Padmé", he said, "if you get inside this you will be able to get out of here."

She stared at him, then turned and looked up at the camera above the kitchen door. This was stupid, idiotic and would never succeed; Anakin was probably watching the whole conversation, waiting for her to make a decision. If she stepped inside the covered trolley and tried to get down the elevator shaft he would probably be waiting at the bottom, ready to bring her back up here again. By that time he would probably have rewired C-3PO as well so that he would be like a whole new droid – the regular elevators moved a lot faster than this one. In fact he would probably have C-3PO rewired no matter her decision, just to make sure that the droid did not try to aid her again.

"Miss Padmé", the droid now said, "please."

He rarely used that word, at least not in this context. Now it sounded like he was begging her to flee, as if he had a conscience and tried to save her life.

"It won't work", she sighed. "I'm sorry, Threepio."

"It will work, Miss Padmé", C-3PO insisted. "I would not let you try this if I had not made absolutely sure that it would be safe for you. I don't like it, but it's safe."

"Wait", she said, "you didn't come up with this idea?"

C-3PO did not reply, but turned and looked at the trolley again. She eyed it as well. If C-3PO was not behind this plan, that meant someone was aware of her situation and wanted to try to help her get out. Someone with access to the basement floor, where the elevator would stop. Senators had access to it, of course, but very, very, very few ever headed down there; it was a place for servants and droids. Anyone whom she had associated with before, Senator or other, was most likely being monitored; heading down to the basement floor of the Senate would be seen as very suspicious.

In short, she had no idea who could be behind this plan.

It could be a test created by Anakin; present her with a possible escape route and see if she takes the chance to flee.

"Why should I trust this plan?" she therefore asked the golden droid.

"Because he cares about you."

She stared at him in silence. The only man who had ever used the word "care" when speaking to her, and who could possibly be on Coruscant, had been deemed dead by Anakin a week ago. She glanced up at the camera again; if Anakin understood who it was that might be waiting in the basement he would be halfway down there already. Was that the plan? Lure Anakin away from monitoring her so that she might escape in the ensuing chaos?

"Will I fit?" she asked the droid, looking at the trolley.

"Yes, Miss Padmé."

She nodded, then squared her shoulders and stepped forward.

The trolley was as narrow as she had suspected; her shoulders were jammed against the sides and, with her swollen belly enabling her to pull her legs flat against her chest, her toes curled up against the door. Her height at least kept her head from being locked in position. Once C-3PO had closed the door she was surrounded by darkness and the narrow fit did not exactly keep her from feeling claustrophobic. The bitter taste of panic intensified when the trolley was rolled back into the elevator. She tried not to think about the fact that, except for the thin metal trolley floor, there was nothing but an empty shaft beneath her.

The elevator was designed to move silently, as to not disturb the Senators hosting meetings in their apartments. Despite moving relatively fast it also did not shake too much, since shaking could harm the food delivered in the trolleys. In short, the ride down from her penthouse apartment was as smooth as it would have been if she had gone on the regular elevator. The difference was the claustrophobia, the feeling of not being able to move a limb, the fear that she would be discovered, that it was all a trick to test her loyalty, and the taste of bile in her mouth. She wished for the ride to end so that she would dare to breathe again, but also did not wish for it, because if it ended badly she would pay the prize. Despite the urge to cry she did not; crying would cause sounds and in the elevator shaft they would certainly echo, eventually causing someone to check what was going on. So she remained quiet, tense and afraid but quiet.

The elevator pulled to a halt and she felt the trolley being rolled out. She wondered if she should alert whoever was pulling it that she was in it or if she should remain quiet. If there were more trolleys being collected at the same time, perhaps it was hard for whoever was here to free her to even find the right trolley. But the fear caused her to remain as she was; quiet, immobile and with the ever rising urge to vomit. That last thing was probably caused by both her panic and the baby moving about inside of her.

The trolley was rolled around for a long time, at least according to her own estimate. She doubted they were at the apartment complex anymore, but she could not be sure. After all, she had no idea of the basement layout. Perhaps it stretched between several buildings in the Senate District. Perhaps she was being brought before the Emperor, the former Chancellor, as punishment for trying to flee.

The trolley suddenly tilted backwards and she had to brace herself as to not tumble about. She was being rolled up something. A ramp, perhaps? She did not know and she still did not dare to make a sound. Perhaps it was still possible for her to avoid detection.

The trolley suddenly seemed to travel a lot smoother, as if the surface it was being rolled around on had changed. She must be inside, then, but where? The Senate? Or another building? Muffled voices spoke around her, but she was unable to make out familiar voices or individual words. The trolley changed direction, turning a corner somewhere, and then another. More corners were passed until they finally pulled to a stop. She held her breath and looked at the door, bracing herself for whoever was outside.

Nothing happened. The trolley remained closed and she was left in the darkness for she did not know how long. Her panic rose to greater heights than it had before. Her limbs were going numb from being stuck in the same position for so long. The baby was practicing somersaults inside her stomach, doing nothing to keep the urge to throw up at bay.

She had to get out.

She moved her hand a fraction, preparing to bang on the metal wall, when a door nearby suddenly hissed open. She froze again. The trolley was in a room somewhere and someone had just entered it; she could hear the soft fall of boots against the floor. They were coming closer. She held her breath as someone grabbed onto the trolley and slowly eased the door open, making sure that it did not make a sound. It did not matter that the lights in the room she was in were dimmed; she still squinted after being held in the darkness for so long. Then strong arms reached into the trolley and pulled her out, careful not to harm her any further. Her legs refused to carry her weight and she crashed against a broad, muscular chest that smelled vaguely of sweat, ash and something she could not quite pinpoint, but that calmed her considerably. Slowly her eyes adapted to the new light and she could make out the contours of a bunk bed and a sack dumped on the floor. She had seen this kind of room before, when fleeing from Coruscant three years ago under the guise of a refugee. Anakin had been with her then, but the man holding her now was not Anakin. Slowly she turned her head to look up at the face of her rescuer, but found it shadowed. She therefore reached up and touched her fingers to a bearded jaw, running them up his jawbone to his cheek. He was warmer than she was. She opened her mouth to speak his name, or the name she thought belonged to him, but found her throat too dry. Perhaps it was a good thing; with no food or fresh fluids in her body she was less likely to throw up anything but the air she breathed. It would hurt, she knew that perfectly well, but at least it did not stain.

The arms that had held her standing gently moved so that they could pick her up. She wondered if he found her light and easy to carry, for he did not voice any complaints as he moved her to the lower bed. He did not speak while pulling the comforter up to her chin, or when she grabbed his hand to keep him from leaving. No word passed his lips as he obeyed her wish and lay down next to her on the narrow mattress and allowed her to curl up against him. He did not make a sound until she laced her fingers with his, because then he let out a soft breath that might be relief. Despite the narrow fit she found herself far more comfortable in this position than she had felt sleeping in her large bed back in her apartment for the past week and, for some reason, she thought he felt the same. A silly thought, of course, but it was what slowly lulled her to sleep.