Once there were many of us.
My father wanted me to be Queen. I suppose I must have wanted it too. It is hard to know for sure, now. After what has happened. After what is left.
It is hard to put it into words—like trying to catch the lakewater in your hands. When you close your fist, its cool wetness is nothing more than memory. But I must try.
For my children, I must try.
My father wanted me to be Queen, but Naboo did not. Instead they chose a tiny slip of a girl from a family even older and more wealthy than my own.
As some sort of symbolic gesture, I was offered a place as one of the new Queen’s handmaidens. I wanted to say no, but my father answered first.
Of course it was my family’s name—my great-grandmother’s legacy—that provided me with the invitation at all.
After all, my hair was pale as the morning sun reflecting off the still, blue waters of Lake Varykino, and the new Queen had long braids of dark brown.
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