Evenstar ✶ Anakin Skywalker

v. the third daughter

V. THE THIRD DAUGHTER
word count: 3292



Alana’s family was dead for less than a month before her coronation and formal adoption. She always believed such events took months to plan, but the Queen had seemed to have been making arrangements since the second Alana agreed to join her family. She had spent scarcely any time around her new family and the Royal Palace — Ianthe told her that a Princess should be sheltered and protected until she was ready to be presented to the galaxy. That was how it was for her children, that was how it was for her, and all the queens before.

Now Alana stood in her temporary quarters for the last time as she was prepped to make her entrance into the royal court. Palace staff blew around her like a blizzard: bathing her, dressing her, arranging her hair. Alana hated being prodded and poked so much. She was ten years old and perfectly capable of getting herself ready. She attempted to explain this to the servants, and was quickly humbled when she failed to tie the tiny bows on the back of her bodice. Artoo was her only solace in these moments. Alana desperately hoped no one around her could understand Binary as the droid had a rather foul mouth and kept complaining about their company.

Finally, Alana was sat down at a vast vanity table and a young woman began curling and braiding her hair into the traditional style for royal Apheli coronations. Alana stared at her reflections in the three mirrors. She had never liked having her hair up. She tilted her chin upwards and the woman tutted before resting her hands on the sides of Alana’s head to keep her facing straight. Only her mother had ever styled her hair before. Altia was so much older, so Arwen had not had a little one to dress up for years. Alana’s mother always sat her daughter in front of her lap (before the fire in the short winters, and more often in front of the open windows in summer) and was gentle in braiding the long, brown strands of Alana’s hair, and they would sing little lullabies to each other. Alana tried humming to herself now, her voice sounded too small, and the memories made her sad.

“Don’t look so glum, Princess,” the woman told her as she stuck pins in Alana’s hair. “Sadness makes winter come faster. And no one wants that.”

Alana sighed. She’d never seen a real winter on Aphelion. Visits to Naboo and Alderaan in their winters were always beautiful. Apheli winters lacked wonder but made up for it in fear. There had been a freak winter six years ago that lasted eight months — but there was no snow, only storms and rain. Alana could hardly remember it, only recalling the disastrous floods that devastated the rural villages in the aftermath. Before that, there had been another short but terrible winter that Alana was not alive for. Lasting less than a year again, the snows were the worst Aphelion had seen for centuries. The northern borders had advanced fifty miles south that winter.

“I’m not a princess,” Alana stated. The woman pinned a crystalline star at the back of Alana’s head. The star was pearl-white with thirteen points: one for each of Aphelion’s deities.

Her hairdresser smiled and patted Alana’s shoulders. “You will be soon.” And Alana knew it was time.

Alana was left alone to find her way to the throne room. Artoo, and other droids, were not permitted to enter the throne room for the ceremony, but he trailed alongside Alana for as long as he could. Thankfully for them, Artoo had already acquired a blueprint for the Palace and could easily guide them. Alana supposed the disorientation was supposed to be a way to prove herself — if she could find her way, she could find her way a million times in the future. Artoo beeped and trilled to motivate her as they moved and did his best to quell Alana’s nerves.