Chapter 4
Sheev should have stood at her side when she first held their sons. It was his right as well as hers to recognize which features belonged to each of the parents and to choose names.
Instead, the attending physician brought Amne's sons to her and then thoughtfully left her alone. He had probably thought that she would want to grieve in private, but it was more difficult for her to face this loss when the empty room seemed to close in on her.
She lay limp against the mattress of the medcenter bed, her arms holding the children that she had waited ten years to bear. Instead of appreciating the fact that she was finally able to cradle them after carrying them beneath her heart for months, she felt weighed down by them. She could not count fingers and toes or look to see if they had her nose or Sheev’s chin; it was too difficult to look on them and know that it had been her own body that killed them.
Amne should have felt each breath they took and recognized each of them by the way they squirmed when finally free of her womb. Instead, they were as limp as she, dead weights against her forearms. They had never drawn breath, but somehow, she felt more dead than they.
She had cried too many tears during the weeks of her imprisonment. She had wasted them on fear or feelings of bitter abandonment. Now that she was facing a loss greater than any she had ever known, she found herself unable to weep.
She felt absurdly cheated by this—she had suffered so much in vain that she should have been granted the power to grieve, but this was beyond her capacity to feel. Instead of yearning to spend every waking moment with them, she wanted someone to take them away until she could face this with her husband.
As if on cue, a knock sounded at the door. She was too exhausted to respond, but the door opened to reveal Zia.
“Your husband's ship just left hyperspace,” she said quietly. “He will be here in about ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” Amne said wearily. “Can you find ... I can't ...”
She glanced down quickly, but had to look away. It took her several moments before she could steady her breathing and find her voice again. In that time, Zia crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed, her hand resting on Amne's knee.
“I can't see him again like this,” Amne explained at last. “Not with them between us.”
Zia reached out and took Amne's firstborn from her left arm, cradling him with gentleness that only made it more difficult to see her. A moment later, she was relieved of her other son and faced bereavement once more.
“I'll see that they're taken care of until you are both ready to see them again,” she promised.
Amne's throat tightened, but she nodded. “Can you make sure my husband finds his way here?”
For the first time since entering, her old friend smiled. “I don't think we could stop him.”
She heard the entourage first, since Sheev was usually accompanied by half a dozen guards and at least as many staff members. He arrived at a brisk pace, his expression set in stone and his hands tensed as if he were about to claw the eyes out of any person who stood in his way.
Sheev did not approach for several seconds, but she could not tell if he was hesitating or keeping a respectful distance. Amne took a chance on the latter and reached out with her uninjured hand. He approached and took it, pressing a kiss to her palm before crossing the remaining space between them and kissing her gently on the lips as if he were afraid of breaking her. She accepted the gesture, but did not return it. When he finally pulled away, his expression was stricken.
“I thought I had lost you,” he murmured.
“I know,” she replied in kind.
He took the same place that Zia had evacuated only minutes before, close enough to touch, but far enough away that she would not be crowded. She kept her hand in his, but did not intertwine their fingers. She still had no proof that he blamed anyone but her for what had happened.
When he finally lifted his eyes from their hands to her face, his countenance had changed to one that could best be described as resolute. The last time she had seen it was when several Senators had been assassinated four years ago. It was impressive as a political face, but not one that she appreciated; it showed too much fury for her to be comfortable with.
“They were hired by Separatists,” Sheev growled. “Those monsters who had no qualms about sacrificing you to their cause thought forcing my hand would be the best way to achieve their goals.”
That came as no great shock, but it was somewhat disappointing to know that Sheev had been right not to trust the dissenters.
“There will soon come a day when you will wish that you had listened to me.”
He had known all along that it might come to this, that the Separatists were more of a threat than she suspected. If she had simply listened to him, this crisis might have been averted.
If she had not been so stubborn, she would have stood at her husband's side instead of finding a place to hide from her doubts. If she had not been determined to lose herself in work, she would not have insisted on the trip to Corellia.
If she had listened to him in the first place, their sons would not have died. She had to look away in the wake of that realization, but nothing held her attention.
“Dooku?” Amne guessed.
“It would appear not,” he corrected. “Because he was willing to cooperate, the Jedi were within a few star systems of finding you when you were rescued. That is not the action of a guilty man.”
Such faith in a person was out of character for Sheev, but she could not question his judgment. She had done that too many times in the last months.
“But they were working for the Separatists,” she amended.
“We do not know which of the ringleaders were involved, yet,” Sheev stated. “Your rescuers have agreed to give a full debriefing, but only if we grant them immunity.”
Of course. Even with their change of heart, the people who had brought her back to safety had conspired to abduct the First Lady of the Republic. The penalty for that would be enough to make them cautious.
Sheev’s free hand grazed her cheek, drawing her attention back to him. She held his gaze for a moment and then lowered her eyes. In response, he slid his hand beneath her chin and tilted it slightly until she was forced to meet his gaze.
“This is not your doing,” he said gently.
It was what she had half-hoped and half-expected to hear from him. It was the diplomatically sound response and what a compassionate husband should say, but it rang hollow with her. It was as if he were so practiced at telling reassuring lies that he had no reason to tell the truth. He could not understand that this might as well have all been her fault.
“That's hard to believe,” Amne muttered. “Far too many things went wrong for them all to be the fault of my captors.”
His eyes darkened and his mouth pinched. It seemed as if he had grown a thousand new worry lines since she had seen him last or maybe the crisis had made them both old before their time.
“I do not want to hear such nonsense again,” Sheev said sharply. “I was under the impression that you were an honest woman.”
Fury rose in her throat as an instinctive response to his mandate. He had no right to tell her what she could and could not think. He could not expect her to shunt away her feelings as if they had no worth and no truth in them. He could not expect ...
Amne looked away yet again, jerking her chin free of his grip. “Don't,” she said instead of lashing out at him. “I need my time to make sense of this.”
He looked ready to dispute the matter with her, but after a long moment's consideration, he nodded. He leaned in for a kiss that was bound to express more acquiescence than passion, but she turned her face away again so that he instead caught her on the corner of her mouth. She was too exhausted to feel anything in return.
“You have not seen your sons,” she observed.
When he drew back, his expression had hardened as if he were profoundly angry at her continued refusal to accept his ministrations. He drew away to a safe distance, his features set in stone.
“Who are you punishing, my dear?” he demanded, his tone rasping from either frustration or grief. “If you intend to punish me, you are doing a marvelous job of it. If you are trying to act against the criminals who did this to you, you need to choose your artillery more wisely.”
Without further comment, he stood and left her. In the entire conversation, she had not been able to explain that the only one worthy of punishment was herself.
*****
By the time Amne was released from the medcenter two days later, she had grudgingly allowed Sheev back into her personal space. He had finally realized the virtues of letting her express her needs rather than imposing his own needs on her. It was, of course, more of a tactical maneuver than reaching an understanding, but it allowed them to do more than tacitly tolerate each other.
The first night of the journey home found her alone in their quarters while Sheev worked on the upcoming inaugural address on his own. It was a task for members of his staff, but he had chosen to share this journey with only her, one aide, the two Jedi and the usual plethora of guards.
She awoke late on the second morning according to the bedside chrono. When the knock on the door sounded a second time, she recognized the reason for being awake at all and slapped at the door release built into the cabin wall.
She had expected one of her Jedi protectors, since Sheev had better things to do than fret over his overemotional wife. Sheev himself entered, to her surprise, pushing a breakfast tray in front of him as something of a peace offering.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asked.
“I could ask the same thing of you,” Amne countered, glancing at his side of the bed.
He grimaced. “There are three sets of guest quarters on this half of the ship,” he pointed out. “I thought it best not to disturb you.”
Of course. Then again, she had hardly invited him into her bed.
“So you managed to sleep, then.”
“I did not say that,” Sheev admitted. “I have much to do when we reach Coruscant.”
It was a familiar refrain, but one that she did not want to hear today. “When do you think we will arrive?” she asked instead of allowing herself to be argumentative.
“We are scheduled to touch down in approximately six hours,” Sheev supplied. “I wanted to speak to you before then.”
Amne accepted the tray and set it next to the chrono, shifting slightly so that he could take his familiar seat on the edge of the bed.
“There will be many people who want answers,” he began quietly. “My staff is attempting to control the media exposure, but I cannot guarantee our privacy.”
“Have you ever?” Amne retorted, not bothering to mask the edge in her voice.
“You married me knowing that this would not be a private life,” he reminded with some of the same edge. “I am doing my best to keep our grief within the family, but I am not the only one who feared you might be lost to us.”
A bitter thought rose to her mind in response to that, but she would not dishonor him with such ideas. Something must have shown in her expression, however, because he gathered her into his arms a moment later. For the first time since the night he had struck her, she allowed the intimacy of the embrace. It was the closest they had been physically in weeks, but the familiarity of the gesture had disappeared. Instead of the way they had fit around each other so perfectly for ten years, it felt as if they were a puzzle with mismatched pieces.
“Do you want me to speak for you?” he asked.
Amne had so many things that she wanted to say to both him and the people of the Republic, but at this point, she could not even explain her loss to herself. It would be best if she withheld any comments until she was more sure of what she would say.
“For now,” she requested. “I have no words for this.”
+He pulled back and regarded her with a weary frown. “I have words enough for the both of us,” he assured her. “I will see to it that you do not have to speak until you are ready.”
Six hours later, she left the Chancellery shuttle at his side, battered and hollowed by grief, but standing tall. The First Lady of the Republic could have no space in her life for weakness, since she was sometimes the last support of the Chancellor himself.
Instead of remaining in the nightclothes that had been her cocoon since leaving the medcenter, she was dressed in a dark-green velvet gown of simple elegance that she had often worn as a newly minted Senator's wife. It was unlikely that any of the holoshills would fail to notice that her bones were more visible beneath her pale skin and that the fabric drooped over her body rather than draping over it. It was appropriate, however; Alderaanians chose green as the color of mourning in place of black. Sheev had also thought to bring her something familiar in this time of utter disorientation.
She could not keep herself from flinching when the first holo fired in a familiar flash of blinding light, but by the time the second holocam focused on her, she was composed and the first journalist might have thought he had imagined her moment of weakness.
Amne Selrieen Palpatine, the woman who had risen from her place as a merchant's daughter to be the wife of the leader of the free Galaxy, was not uncomfortable in front of crowds. She was neither gunshy nor quavering, even in the face of such a terrible loss. She was strong and had been courageous enough to survive a prolonged imprisonment with dignity.
At least, that was the story. She clutched her husband's hand with her good hand while greeting the press with her casted arm. She showed no smile, but was not showing the quavering weakness that many of them would have seen as normal. She took refuge in her husband's embrace to hide her emotion when the gathered press, human, alien and droid alike, greeted her appearance with deafening applause.
The conference room at Eastport was one they often used when they needed to make a statement before or after a journey. It was standing room only for the press who thronged like tsu-flies around them, but it was the best they could do without agreeing to hold the conference in a Senate audience chamber. When the applause had died down, she pulled away as graciously as possible, still maintaining the appearance of a sound mind, and allowed Zia to return her to her seat.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, of the Republic,” Sheev said, “I spoke from this podium at the beginning of this crisis, when we had few answers and fewer options available to us. Over these past weeks, I have become more intimately acquainted with the Republic's investigative services than any husband should have to. I have known fear beyond what I had thought of as my capacity to feel.
“I would be yet another dishonest politician if I claimed that I never doubted her safety or that I never feared for her survival. I should have never doubted that my wife's courage would bring her home to me.”
Amia's hand found hers from her other side. Sheev was waxing poetic on horror, and she could no longer focus. Instead, her eyes moved past her husband to the familiar faces in the crowd. It was a practiced effort, since she had to look attentive through every speech and press conference.
She had just moved past Sei'lya from the Bothawui Network when she finally landed on a face so familiar it brought tears to her eyes. She had no idea where Delani had found press credentials, but it made no difference.
“... if there are any questions, they can be referred to the Chancellery Press Office,” Sheev concluded. “We thank you for your concern.”
He crossed to Amne and she released Amia's hand to clasp his. He kissed it gently before helping her to her feet.
“I have asked the young woman next to the representative from Bothawui to join us for the ride home,” he murmured.
“I appreciate that,” she responded. “And I appreciate your words.”
It was not quite a lie. She could not deny that it was easier for her to support his public face than to invent one of her own.
Delani was already at the door of the speeder by the time they arrived and Sheev simply released his wife. Amne did not bother to wait until they were inside. She buried herself in her friend's embrace, face pressed against her shoulder.
“Jes and your family wanted to be here,” Delani whispered, “but they have business at the mansion. We'll get you home soon.”
Amne curled against her for the entirety of the ride home, while Sheev tactfully allowed his staff to brief him on the opposite seats. The unashamed comfort recalled some of their most difficult days, but it was part of what she had been missing since her capture. Sheev loved her as he professed, but he had always left this sort of selfless interest in her well-being to those who had more on-the-job experience.
When they finally arrived at the mansion, Delani straightened and looked to Sheev as if asking for permission.
“May I see my wife inside?” he asked formally.
“I thought you'd never ask,” she said flatly. “I will be in the guest quarters with the others.”
She followed the staff members inside without further comment. Sheev sat in perfect silence, his eyes hooded and his expression guarded.
“We have not spoken since Bilbringi,” he stated.
“We have had several conversations,” Amne countered.
His expression turned knowing as if she were a stubborn political opponent. “We have not spoken since Bilbringi,” he said.
“You asked me who I was punishing,” she reminded him.
“Yourself?” Sheev guessed.
She rested a hand on her abdomen, her mouth compressed into a thin line. “It doesn't take much effort.”
“I told you that it was not your fault,” he insisted. “Do you not trust me?”
“I have always trusted you,” Amne snapped. “You have never doubted my feelings before now. What has changed?”
“You have spent weeks under duress,” he rejoined, his voice still modulated and calm. “I would doubt my own feelings after that.”
She looked away out of instinct, but he hissed and reached out to seize her wrist. “Do not avoid me,” he requested. “I have already lost my sons and I cannot lose your trust.”
Amne forced herself to meet his gaze and saw the same dangerous darkness that had struck her in the medcenter. It was the same angry intensity that she had glimpsed during the Naboo crisis and too many times since for her own comfort. It promised that he would get his way, but did not imply that it would ensure a favorable outcome.
“You would be a dishonest politician if you claimed to not be angry with me,” she accused.
His sigh was more exasperated than regretful. “I cannot be angry with you for the crimes of others, nor the frailty of life,” he defended. “I am angry that you refuse to put the blame where it belongs.”
Her free hand, the one still encased in a cast until they could have her examined by the family's personal physician, shook. She looked away, hiding her eyes to cover the tears of profound frustration.
“I don't know what to do about it,” Amne confessed. “I prepared myself for complications as anyone would, but I never prepared myself for this.”
“It should have never been required of you,” he said more gently, his tone returning to the more diplomatic one. “And there will be others, if you want it.”
Her laugh escaped her in a sob. “I wanted it badly,” she replied. “I wanted it for ten years. If it took this long in the first place, who knows how long it will be before we are given another chance?”
Sheev was quiet for a long moment, but he finally tightened his grip on her hand. When she finally met his gaze, there was nothing left in his eyes to frighten her.
“As long as it takes,” he promised. “For now, Knight Marakesh conveyed a message from the Jedi Council. They have mind healers who may be able to help you. If you would like to speak to them, I will not stand in your way.”
She would have to consider that after seeing how much good Delani and the rest could do.
“I'll think about it,” she assured him. “Can we go home now?”
Sheev nodded approvingly and pulled Amne to her feet. “After you.”
Notes:
A slightly better setup for this arc was under discussion, but never written.
To me, this is the most realistically crafted section of the entire volume. Amne, wracked with grief and inappropriate guilt, needs to be held and comforted, and the avoidantly attached Sith who was raised entirely without comfort simply doesn’t know how. When she doesn’t respond well to the best he can do (and his veiled admission of the truth), he gets angry at her. One gets the sense that he actually does try, but real human companionship in which one is held and loved in times of need is simply a world he’s never lived in. One disparaged and outlawed in the Sith Order.
For those wondering what Palpatine’s original intentions were, Kaki said he did indeed plan the kidnapping to force Amne back into line and draw sympathy to himself, but he did not intend for her to miscarry.
Coming from a writer who always wanted a husband, children, and a family, yet lost her only pregnancy in circumstances not too dissimilar, this section is especially heartrending.
Isn’t that quite the image of Palpatine? The image credit says “alekseyertnov.”