[July 10th] [Star Wars] Making Her Marque
Title: Making Her Marque
Day/Theme: July 10th - flipping tables
Series: Star Wars
Character/Pairing: Padmé (Anakin/Padmé implied)
Rating: PG-13ish (for adult concepts)
Notes: George Lucas may © Star Wars, but Jacqueline Carey © the idea of marques.
The women’s quarters of Theed had always been something of a mystery to Padmé Amidala. They were traditional, mired in a time when Naboo had been an actual monarchy, rather than an elected one, and when women had been bartered among men for great land alliances.
That time was long past, and yet - and yet - the women’s quarters remained. She had been just a girl when Sola had married, but she could still remember the sheer weight of history, the strange solidarity she had felt with every other woman on Naboo when she had passed through the quarter’s gates with the rest of the bridal party.
And now here she was, without the comforting presence of her female relatives, sneaking in like a thief in the night. Face safe in the shadows of her hood, she was just another anonymous customer, another dishonoured girl, and she aimed to keep it that way.
The glow-lamps had been lit a quarter hour ago, but twilight hadn’t completely fallen, and Padmé could still make out a few of the shops’ signs, all written in the futhark, or feminine hand, style of Naboo calligraphy.
Contraceptives, abortives, and all manners of sexual disease repellants announced themselves for sale, and Padmé, feeling every bit the green girl she was - in spirit if not in years - was hard pressed not to blush.
She knew that her extended tour of public service had artificially extended her childhood, and she knew the jaded sophisticates of Coruscant thought her the provincial innocent, but she had been quite content in her chastity. Quite content to serve her planet in the Senate with the pride of a true Nubian vestal virgin.
Until a certain Jedi padawan had entered her life.
And even then, she had not thought, had not dreamed that she would ever be here. Kisses, small flirtations - she had no real experience (barring her crush on Palo and later her desire to have her first kiss that had led her to lead Ian on), but even she knew those things did not lead to the women’s quarters.
Marriage, however, did.
Anakin wanted to be married. He wanted permanency, and she could understand that. Understand that because bastardy on Naboo was still shunned, even after all these millennia, and the lack of a father in Anakin’s life had permanently jaded him to the consequences of intimacy outside of wedlock. Especially its consequences on the woman.
In some ways, in a lot of ways, she and Anakin were cut from the same traditional cloth. They might both try to escape it. She might rail against it in the Senate, just as he, as a Jedi was honour-bound to stamp it out, but the truth of it was, she was here, in the women’s quarters, taking the final step to solidify her very traditional matrimony.
The studio of the limist the Naberrie women had used for centuries was in the next block, and though she did not have an appointment, Padmé knew that damnable tradition meant she would not be turned away.
The limist was old, her gray hair braided and yet still sweeping the ground. But her eyes were still the sharp, brown eyes of the Naboo, and she nodded at Padmé. “I was wondering when you’d turn up,” she said. “Almost five-and-twenty and still unwed.”
Despite her pride in her public service, it still stung. Padmé raised her chin. “I am dedicated to serving Naboo’s interests in the Galactic Republic. After all, Chancellor Palpatine remains unwed.”
“Naberrie women marry young,” the old woman countered. Then, “Though usually not in secret.”
Padmé removed her cloak. “My husband’s name is Anakin Skywalker,” she said.
The old woman bade that she lie down, and Padmé could not help but anticipate the sharp sting of the needles. She had worn a backless dress for this very purpose, and still she could not believe that she was actually here, about to receive her wedding marque.
“An off-worlder name,” the limist said. “I see now why you come alone, young Naberrie.”
“He is a Jedi,” Padmé continued. “I do not know if there are specific marques for that, but I would have you acknowledge it, all the same.”
The old woman laughed. “Oh, there are marques for that, girl. The Ruusan Reformation may have been long ago, but marques are older still.”
The sharp sting of the first needle against her skin was very like the losing of her maidenhead, and Padmé grit her teeth and resolved that she would not cry out for she had not cried for Anakin. To cry now would be disloyal.
“Do not worry,” said the limist. “You shall have a marque worthy of a Jedi bride.”
Day/Theme: July 10th - flipping tables
Series: Star Wars
Character/Pairing: Padmé (Anakin/Padmé implied)
Rating: PG-13ish (for adult concepts)
Notes: George Lucas may © Star Wars, but Jacqueline Carey © the idea of marques.
The women’s quarters of Theed had always been something of a mystery to Padmé Amidala. They were traditional, mired in a time when Naboo had been an actual monarchy, rather than an elected one, and when women had been bartered among men for great land alliances.
That time was long past, and yet - and yet - the women’s quarters remained. She had been just a girl when Sola had married, but she could still remember the sheer weight of history, the strange solidarity she had felt with every other woman on Naboo when she had passed through the quarter’s gates with the rest of the bridal party.
And now here she was, without the comforting presence of her female relatives, sneaking in like a thief in the night. Face safe in the shadows of her hood, she was just another anonymous customer, another dishonoured girl, and she aimed to keep it that way.
The glow-lamps had been lit a quarter hour ago, but twilight hadn’t completely fallen, and Padmé could still make out a few of the shops’ signs, all written in the futhark, or feminine hand, style of Naboo calligraphy.
Contraceptives, abortives, and all manners of sexual disease repellants announced themselves for sale, and Padmé, feeling every bit the green girl she was - in spirit if not in years - was hard pressed not to blush.
She knew that her extended tour of public service had artificially extended her childhood, and she knew the jaded sophisticates of Coruscant thought her the provincial innocent, but she had been quite content in her chastity. Quite content to serve her planet in the Senate with the pride of a true Nubian vestal virgin.
Until a certain Jedi padawan had entered her life.
And even then, she had not thought, had not dreamed that she would ever be here. Kisses, small flirtations - she had no real experience (barring her crush on Palo and later her desire to have her first kiss that had led her to lead Ian on), but even she knew those things did not lead to the women’s quarters.
Marriage, however, did.
Anakin wanted to be married. He wanted permanency, and she could understand that. Understand that because bastardy on Naboo was still shunned, even after all these millennia, and the lack of a father in Anakin’s life had permanently jaded him to the consequences of intimacy outside of wedlock. Especially its consequences on the woman.
In some ways, in a lot of ways, she and Anakin were cut from the same traditional cloth. They might both try to escape it. She might rail against it in the Senate, just as he, as a Jedi was honour-bound to stamp it out, but the truth of it was, she was here, in the women’s quarters, taking the final step to solidify her very traditional matrimony.
The studio of the limist the Naberrie women had used for centuries was in the next block, and though she did not have an appointment, Padmé knew that damnable tradition meant she would not be turned away.
The limist was old, her gray hair braided and yet still sweeping the ground. But her eyes were still the sharp, brown eyes of the Naboo, and she nodded at Padmé. “I was wondering when you’d turn up,” she said. “Almost five-and-twenty and still unwed.”
Despite her pride in her public service, it still stung. Padmé raised her chin. “I am dedicated to serving Naboo’s interests in the Galactic Republic. After all, Chancellor Palpatine remains unwed.”
“Naberrie women marry young,” the old woman countered. Then, “Though usually not in secret.”
Padmé removed her cloak. “My husband’s name is Anakin Skywalker,” she said.
The old woman bade that she lie down, and Padmé could not help but anticipate the sharp sting of the needles. She had worn a backless dress for this very purpose, and still she could not believe that she was actually here, about to receive her wedding marque.
“An off-worlder name,” the limist said. “I see now why you come alone, young Naberrie.”
“He is a Jedi,” Padmé continued. “I do not know if there are specific marques for that, but I would have you acknowledge it, all the same.”
The old woman laughed. “Oh, there are marques for that, girl. The Ruusan Reformation may have been long ago, but marques are older still.”
The sharp sting of the first needle against her skin was very like the losing of her maidenhead, and Padmé grit her teeth and resolved that she would not cry out for she had not cried for Anakin. To cry now would be disloyal.
“Do not worry,” said the limist. “You shall have a marque worthy of a Jedi bride.”