Chapter 21: A Hero's Return, Part I

   CHAPTER 21: A HERO'S RETURN, PART I

   Theed Palace - Naboo

   5:6:7945 CRC

The Prudent Heart descends through the mist that clings to the Great Plains, its engines thrumming low as it cuts a path through the thin clouds. Anakin presses his face against the viewport, watching the waterfalls of Theed Palace come into view below. The city's spires rise through the fog, their edges softened by the afternoon light. Sartili Vennitilini pilots the ship with steady hands, her expression unreadable behind the pilot's console.

Inside the Prudent Heart is a large delegation from the Jedi Order, including Anakin's mother Shmi Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Mace Windu and Qui-Gon Jinn, who adjusts his new prosthetic arm. The mechanical fingers flex slightly in his lap, the servos whining softly as he tests their response. Qui-Gon Jinn looks out the viewport, his gaze distant and reflective. The silver sheen of his prosthetic arm catches the light filtering through the clouds. He flexes the mechanical fingers, feeling the slight hesitation in the servos as they respond to his neural impulses. The arm is a marvel of medical engineering, but it is not flesh. It is a reminder of what was lost, and of the Sith who took it.

Obi-Wan Kenobi sits across from Qui-Gon, his face etched with a mix of relief and fatigue. He watches his former Master with a steady gaze, noting the way Qui-Gon's eyes seem to see through the mist and into the heart of the planet below. Obi-Wan's thoughts are a storm of images: the plasma generator facility, the hiss of Darth Maul's lightsaber, and the weight of Qui-Gon's blade in his hand as he watched the Sith fall into the abyss.

Shmi Skywalker sits quietly, her hands folded in her lap. She watches Anakin as he presses his face against the viewport, his eyes wide with anticipation. She can see the weight of the past days on him, the shadows under his eyes and the way his shoulders hunch with a fatigue that goes beyond physical exhaustion. She thinks of the medal he will receive, the highest civilian honor that Naboo can bestow, and she feels a surge of pride mingled with a deep, aching fear.

Mace Windu stands near the rear of the ship, his presence a pillar of calm authority amidst the buzz of conversation. He watches the delegation with a calculating gaze, noting the tension in Qui-Gon's shoulders and the way Obi-Wan's fingers tap a restless rhythm against his thigh. He thinks of the Sith, of the certainty that they are not gone, and of the weight of the Jedi Order's duty.

The Prudent Heart touches down on the landing pad outside Theed Palace, its repulsor engines sighing as they power down.

> Anakin Skywalker exits the ship with his mother.

The Prudent Heart's ramp lowers with a hydraulic hiss, the metal platform descending into the vibrant colors of the Grand Courtyard. The Grand Courtyard of Theed Palace is a sea of blue and silver, the air shimmering with a mist that drifts from the distant waterfalls. Thousands of citizens and Gungans fill the rows of chairs, their collective murmur creating a low roar that vibrates against the stone pillars. Blue and silver banners snap in the breeze, alternating with the organic, woven flags of the Gungan Grand Army.

Anakin steps off the ramp, his small hand gripping Shmi's. He looks up at the raised ceremonial dais, where Queen Amidala stands in full regalia, her face painted a stark, regal white. Beside her, Governor Bibble and Boss Rugor Nass wait with practiced patience. The midday sun reflects off the polished marble, casting a brilliant light that makes the rainbows in the mist dance across the courtyard. Sartili Vennitilini follows behind them, her expression neutral, her boots clicking softly on the stone.

Governor Bibble steps forward to the edge of the dais, his voice amplified by the courtyard's acoustics. "Citizens of Naboo, allies of the Gungan people," he announces, his tone carrying a mixture of relief and solemnity. "We gather not only to celebrate a victory, but to honor the courage of those who stood against the darkness."

The crowd falls into a hushed silence. Bibble's gaze shifts toward the rows of chairs. "Our liberation was not won by a single hand, but by a coalition of bravery. We recognize those who risked everything to ensure our freedom."

He gestures toward the aisle. "First, we honor the Gungan Grand Army. Captain Roos Tarpals, please step forward."

Captain Roos Tarpals marches toward the dais, his spear held upright and his long ears twitching with discipline. Beside him, Boss Rugor Nass follows with a slow, heavy gait, his large frame casting a wide shadow over the marble. The Gungan leader looks out over the crowd, his expression proud as he reaches the center of the platform.

Queen Amidala steps forward, her regal robes trailing on the blue fabric of the dais. She holds the Gungan-Naboo Alliance Medal, its silver surface catching the midday sun. She pins the honor to Tarpals' chest, her movements precise. "Your leadership on the Great Plains saved us all," she says, her voice clear and steady. She then presents Boss Nass with the Naboo Shield, the heavy metal disc reflecting the rainbows of the waterfalls. "For the vision to unite our peoples in a time of need."

Governor Bibble clears his throat, his voice echoing across the courtyard. "We now recognize the Jedi Order, whose intervention was critical to our survival."

Mace Windu steps forward, his dark robes contrasting with the bright blue of the dais. He accepts the Naboo Star of Honor with a brief, disciplined nod. Beside him, Quinlan Vos follows, his expression distant. He takes the same honor, his fingers brushing the metal as he glances toward the crowd, his mind still tracing the psychic echoes of the conflict.

Depa Billaba, Luminara Unduli, Tera Sinube, and Sar Labooda move as a group. They receive their collective citation, their faces serene, though Sar Labooda's grip on the parchment is tight, her posture reflecting the lingering tension of the front lines.

Governor Bibble steps back from the podium, his voice softening as he looks toward the crowd. "There are those who served in the shadows, whose contributions were unseen but essential."

Paril Zannfel walks toward the dais, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looks at the thousands of staring eyes with a visible grimace, his shoulders hunched as if trying to shrink away from the spotlight. Queen Amidala presents him with the Explorer's Medallion, the gold metal glinting against his torn pilot's jacket. Paril accepts it with a quick, awkward nod, his gaze flicking toward the exit of the courtyard as he retreats from the platform.

Beside him, R2-D2 rolls forward, his dome rotating with a series of proud, ascending beeps. A palace technician steps forward to present a small, engraved plaque and a voucher for a high-grade custom oil-bath. C-3PO steps forward to stand beside the astromech, his gold plating reflecting the midday sun in blinding flashes. He adjusts his posture with a sudden, jerky movement, his metallic hands fluttering in a gesture of frantic formality. "Oh dear, oh my," he says, his voice a high, fussy warble that carries across the silent courtyard. "I must insist that the protocol be observed with the utmost precision! The alignment of the medals is nearly three millimeters off center, and the humidity from the waterfalls is simply catastrophic for my joints!"

The crowd ripples with light laughter, the tension of the ceremony breaking for a brief moment. Queen Amidala offers a small, knowing smile, her regal expression softening as she looks at the anxious droid.

Governor Bibble's expression turns solemn, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where rubble and debris from of the Battle of Naboo still stains the landscape. "Before we proceed," he says, his voice dropping an octave, "we remember those who gave everything so that we might stand here today."

A heavy silence descends upon the courtyard. The only sound is the distant roar of the waterfalls and the snap of banners in the wind. Queen Amidala bows her head, her eyes closing as she thinks of Saché. Thousands of citizens follow suit, a wave of stillness that settles over the marble and grass. For a full minute, the air remains frozen, a collective breath held in honor of the decoy who died in the eastern bunker.

Governor Bibble steps back from the podium, the silence lingering like a physical weight before he clears his throat. "We now recognize the bravery of those who faced the enemy in the depths of our city."

The crowd shifts as Obi-Wan Kenobi walks toward the dais. He moves with a measured pace, his dark robes contrasting with the bright silver of the platform. Queen Amidala steps forward, her regal expression softening as she meets his eyes. She pins the Naboo Cross of Valor to his tunic, the metal cool against the fabric. "Your courage preserved the hope of this world," she says, her voice carrying across the courtyard. Obi-Wan bows his head, his gaze flickering briefly toward the infirmary towers where his master rests.

Anakin stands beside his mother, his small frame dwarfed by the towering columns of the Grand Courtyard. He does not look at the cheering crowds or the rainbow-tinted mist of the waterfalls. His eyes are locked on Qui-Gon Jinn.

The Jedi Master moves with a slight, rhythmic stiffness, his gait lacking its usual fluid grace. As Qui-Gon ascends the blue and silver steps of the dais, the midday sun catches the silver plating of his new prosthetic arm. The metal looks cold and clinical against the organic folds of his brown robes. Anakin watches the mechanical fingers flex, a subtle, repetitive motion that betrays the Master's effort to calibrate the neural link.

Governor Bibble speaks, his voice booming across the plaza. "For his unwavering commitment to the defense of Naboo and his endurance in the face of unimaginable adversity, we honor Master Qui-Gon Jinn with the Cross of Naboo."

Qui-Gon reaches the center of the platform. Queen Amidala steps forward, the heavy fabric of her regal gown brushing against the dais. She holds the Cross of Naboo, its intricate silver filigree shimmering under the midday sun. As she reaches out to pin the award to his chest, Qui-Gon's prosthetic arm remains still, the servos emitting a faint, high-pitched whine as he maintains the position. He does not look at the medal; his gaze is fixed on Anakin, a look of profound, quiet pride crossing his pale features.

"Your strength served as a beacon for us all," Amidala says, her voice steady and resonant.

Qui-Gon bows his head, the movement slow and deliberate. He shifts his weight, the mechanical joints in his shoulder clicking softly. The physical toll of his injuries is evident in the slight tremor of his frame, yet his presence remains a grounding force on the platform.

Governor Bibble steps back from the podium, his expression shifting to one of genuine warmth. "And now," he announces, his voice echoing through the courtyard, "the bravery and courage of a child who saved our world, we honor Anakin Skywalker of Tatooine with the Medal of Naboo."

The crowd erupts into a roar of applause, a wall of sound that vibrates through the marble floor. Anakin flinches slightly at the noise, his small hand tightening around Shmi's fingers. He walks toward the dais, his boots scuffing the blue fabric as he ascends the steps. He looks tiny beside the towering columns and the regal figures of the Queen and the Gungan leader.

Queen Amidala steps forward, the Medal of Naboo held in her hand. The gold disc catches the sunlight, casting a bright reflection across Anakin's wide eyes. She leans down, her movements graceful and slow, to pin the honor to his tunic. "You have shown us that no one is too small to change the course of history," she says, her voice a soft but clear anchor amidst the cheering thousands.

Anakin stands frozen, the weight of the medal pulling slightly at his fabric. He does not look at the crowd or the flashing holocams of the reporters. He looks up at the Queen, his expression a mixture of confusion and pride. "I just wanted to help," he whispers, the words lost to everyone but her.

Beside the dais, Shmi Skywalker watches her son, her hands clasped tightly over her heart. She stands near Paril Zannfel, who leans against a marble pillar with his arms crossed. "Kid's got more grit than most of us combined," Paril mutters, though his voice is quiet enough that only Shmi hears. Shmi turns to him, her expression softening.

The applause slowly fades into a rhythmic hum of conversation as the guests move toward the palace halls for the reception. Anakin remains on the dais for a moment, his small hand instinctively touching the gold medal. He looks at Qui-Gon, whose silver prosthetic arm glints under the midday sun. The Master offers a slow, tired nod, the mechanical servos in his shoulder clicking as he adjusts his stance.

The reception hall of Theed Palace is a cavern of polished alabaster and gold leaf, where the air remains cool despite the midday sun. Long tables groan under the weight of Naboo's finest delicacies—sliced fruits from the southern groves and chilled nectar in crystal flutes. The chatter of a thousand voices blends into a steady drone, punctuated by the occasional clink of glassware and the rhythmic thud of Gungan boots on the marble floors.

Anakin walks beside his mother, his small hand still gripped tightly in hers. He feels the eyes of the guests on him—curious, admiring, and some simply confused by the presence of a nine-year-old boy adorned with the highest civilian honor of the realm. Shmi moves with a quiet, graceful dignity, her gaze sweeping the room with a mixture of awe and a lingering, protective caution.