This is an idea I had for a Padmé reincarnation fic... I had the idea, but I asked chatgpt to correct it. Here it is.
What It Feels Like to Be Ena Vieitez
This is what it feels like to be Ena Vieitez. Forever.
The first breath of every morning hurts. Breathing hurts. Being you hurts.
It isn’t physical — not anymore. It’s a different pain, an echo of something a girl from Alderaan should not remember.
But you remember. You carry it stitched into your soul like a scab that never fully closes.
This is what it feels like to be Ena Vieitez: to be born third in a house that decided who you were before you could speak.
Sion, the mischievous baby.
The one who was always “delicate.”
The one who will never shine as brightly as the others.
No matter what you do. No matter how hard you try. In your home, your place is fixed as firmly as a cell in the Imperial Registry.
You can earn the highest grade in your class and it will still be less than Habba’s intelligence.
You can dress up all day, flowers in your hair and a dress that suits you, and Orlyn will still be “the beautiful one.”
You can need help, cry, shake, fall apart… but Sion is the baby, so your needs come after. Always after.
This is what it feels like to be Ena: to exist in the empty spaces between what your parents expect from your sisters.
But that’s not what hurts the most.
What hurts the most are the nights.
Nights when you wake soaked in sweat, gasping, because a nightmare showed you something that isn’t a nightmare at all but a memory.
Children murdered by the hand of someone you— someone you loved.
And you cry. And you scream. And your family calls you sensitive, dramatic, nervous.
They don’t know that when you speak of “dreams,” you’re speaking of something you lived in another skin.
They don’t know that a child-killer once kissed your forehead with tenderness.
They don’t know that his hands — the same hands that held the saber that ended so many lives — were the ones that held you when you were pregnant.
They laugh when you talk about the Royal House of Alderaan.
When you defend Princess Leia with irrational passion.
When you say you’d travel to the palace as a handmaiden, a guard, a… anything.
They joke about you marrying the princess.
Silent because you can’t explain that you know her.
That you felt her kicking inside you before she was born.
That you remember her crying.
That you remember the other half of her soul — Luke.
That you look at the stars searching for him, begging the Force that he’s alive, that he’s safe, that the Empire never finds him.
You stay silent because if you spoke, if you told the truth, they’d call you insane.
Like the mind-healer did when you described your memories.
Post-traumatic stress, he said.
Childhood trauma. Visions born from early illness.
They don’t understand that you began to break the moment you learned who Vader was.
When you recognized in him your lost husband.
When you understood that the man you loved burned alive in a river of fire… and rose from that fire turned into something monstrous.
This is what it feels like to be Ena Vieitez: to hate colors.
Sulfur yellow, for the eyes that turned on you while they choked you, while your children died with you.
This is what it feels like to be Ena: to hear you should marry, have children, build your life.
And to feel your breath ripped away.
Because you already had a husband, and he killed you. You already had children, and you lost them.
And your family will never know.
They don’t know you support the Rebellion from the shadows.
They don’t know you send credits you don’t have to pirates to get information.
They don’t know about the holo of Padmé Amidala’s funeral hidden under your pillow, with the false belly that twists your stomach because you know — you remember — that there was life there.
This is what it feels like to be Ena Vieitez: to live every day terrified that someone will discover who you truly are.
That Palpatine will discover you.
That the Inquisitors will smell it on you.
You are eighteen. Eighteen. And you carry more weight than a High Command general.
And then one day, over Alderaan, a moon appears.
Your family looks at the sky with curiosity, with the blessed ignorance of those who have never watched a world die.
You recognize that glow. You recognize that silence. You recognize the deadly green gathering at its core.
Begging them to flee. Begging them to listen. Begging for Leia. Begging for Luke. Begging for everything you ever loved.
And when the green beam crosses the sky, there is a third color you learn to hate.
This is what it feels like to be Ena Vieitez.
This is what it feels like to remember who you were, who you lost, and who you can never be again.
This is what it feels like to know your world is about to die — again — and no one believes what you see.
This is what it feels like to be Ena Vieitez.
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