Chapter Text
Shmi sighed in worry. This was the second moon in which she'd missed her cycle. Her breasts were swelling and growing more tender, broadcasting a truth she didn't want to believe. The other slave-women would sometimes look at her with pity, doubtless believing the child to be that of the master, but she was certain it wasn't. She had been sure to drink the juice of the black melon rinds every time her master used her. It had never before failed. And yet, her body spoke its own truth. Her master had beaten her as she vomited, then forced her to swallow the vomit. Nothing was wasted on Tatooine. Especially not on slaves. She blinked away tears. No matter. The child would doubtless pass before she carried to term. Between the work loads, the beatings, and the starvation, only about one in twenty slave women held their pregnancy long enough for the child to be born alive.
Her stomach was swelling now, and despite trying to make her tunics as loose as possible, she knew her condition would only be hidden for so long. The other slave women had tried to help, sometimes sneaking her a few extra scraps of food, but that was not enough to satiate the growing life within her. Sometimes the child would kick her so sharply, she gasped, as though it was reprimanding her for not giving it the sustenance it needed. It was strong. A child of sand, heat, pain, and suffering. Yet despite it all, it was strong.
The mistress of the house was glaring at her with pure venom in her eyes as she realized her condition. She flew into a rage, beating Shmi with the whip, screaming, calling her an adulterous whore. In vain, the woman protested, crying under the lash that it wasn't the master's child. The lash tore through her flesh, staining the gritty golden sand with her blood. When the assault ended, she lay curled in the heat and her own blood, fighting sobs. She'd doubtless be sold after this, but more so, she'd doubtless lose her child. She fought her tears - slaves did not cry. She had grown attached to the life growing in her despite the odds against its survival, and she mourned its loss, the desert howling with the agony of her grief.
Strangely, she did not miscarry. She stood on the auction block, chains around her ankles and neck, belly swollen and protruding from her stained, torn tunic. She barely listened as the auctioneer called out her price. Her child would live. He was strong. She knew it was a he. She'd been dreaming of a yellow-haired boy with eyes of blue fire, and last night, as she'd lain awake in her holding cell, she'd wondered about his name. The desert had answered her, whispering through the swirling sand, "Anakin . . . Anakin Skywalker . . ." She'd smiled and rested a hand on her stomach, cherishing the small life within her. Anakin Skywalker. A fighter's name. A warrior's name. The name of one who walked amongst the stars and shone with the brightness of the twin suns. She glanced up, just as the auctioneer announced that she'd been sold to the highest bidder. A representative of Gardulla the Hutt.
The child would come today. She knew. She'd known when the waves of pain began washing over her relentlessly as her womb contracted, announcing the imminent arrival of a new life. She lay in cell with nothing but dirt on the floor and a dirty rag to wipe the sweat from her face. A bored guard watched her from outside as she labored, her screams and groans matching those of the sandstorm outside. Somehow, it seemed fitting that her child would come in the middle of a raging storm. He was born into a world of pain and violence, and he would have that darkness etched into the very fibers of his soul. She screamed again, pushing, and this time, she felt the little slimy bundle wriggle out of her, his wails matching her own. He was beautiful, she realized, raising the filthy child to her breast. He was tiny, hardly more than four or five pounds at most, but he was hers. She heard the clang of the cage door and looked up startled, only to see the guard snatch the child from her breast. He screamed, flailing his little arms as the guard walked away, and a deep sorrow filled her. She clutched the bars of the cell, and allowed the tears to fall.
When they returned him to her, he'd been wiped clean, and the swollen, angry red mark on the back of his neck told her he had already been microchipped. He clutched her finger with a strength that was surprising for a child so small, and blinked with eyes that burned the brightest blue she'd ever seen. She took only a moment to relish in the joy of holding him before settling him into a sling on her chest and continuing her work. She'd been warned that if he distracted her any, he would be sold. She glanced down at the child, who, unlike other newborns, was wide awake, and a great sadness filled her. Odds were, he wouldn't make it to his first birthday. Few slave children did.
"Anakin, no!" she sharply reprimanded. The child was once again sliding out of his sling on her back. He looked at her, then smiled and began crawling away. She sighed and picked him up, delivering a smack to his rear before putting him back in his sling. It hurt her, but the child had to learn to obey. Nobody kept a disobedient slave. He was far too active and far too curious for his own good. Even at six months, staying in the sling was not enough for him. She feared what would happen as he got older. The masters would not keep a troublesome child around. She sighed as he once again slipped out of his sling. "I said, no," she snapped, putting him back. He'd feel much harsher punishment than the sting of her words and occasional smacks in the years to come. She prayed to the suns to watch over him, but slaves' prayers weren't answered.
Shmi froze as she looked at her son. He was staring at the food she was preparing with a strange look. It wasn't hunger . . . she'd seen that look plenty of times on his face. This was a concentrated, transfixed gaze, and for some reason, it scared her. Confused, she looked at the food to see what was so interesting, and to her utter shock, the fruit levitated in the air for half a second before plopping back down. She dropped her spoon and looked at the small boy with a mixture of terror and curiosity. He smiled at her and whacked the pot she'd given him earlier to keep him occupied with a stick. She shivered. Had she imagined it? She was sure she hadn't, but . . . how?
She smiled as she handed him a small cup of blue milk - a rare commodity for slaves. "Happy birthday, Ani," she whispered, holding him close. He cocked his head and looked at her for a minute. "Go on," she urged. "Drink." He'd made it to his first birthday, despite her fears.
He smiled and pushed the cup to her. "Mama," he chirped.
She smiled at his generosity. "No, little one," she said gently. "Today we celebrate you . . . now drink." Still, he would not relent until she'd taken a sip. Then, he'd levitated the cup to the corner before cuddling up to her. Her smile faded. It wasn't right that he had powers. She'd managed to keep it hidden from the masters so far, but she feared how much longer she could do so. They'd deem him a witch and kill him. She shivered. "Oh, Ani . . . you're too powerful for your own good," she sighed, stroking his golden hair.
"Master gonna have me race," he announced proudly.
She almost choked. "What?"
Her son marched up to her and plopped himself down on the sand, scratching idly at a bug bite on his thigh. "Master gonna have me race," he repeated.She shook with rage and worry, and he looked up, concerned. "Mama, why mad?"
She took a deep breath to calm herself . . . slaves weren't allowed emotions, she reminded herself. Besides, she was certain he could feel her emotions. She wasn't sure how, but she felt it was part of his powers that she did not understand. "When did you hear that?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Earlier." She bit her lip. He was two, and they were going to send him to his death in a podrace just so they could watch in amusement. She understood making him work. He was, after all, a slave, and since he'd turned two, they'd been making him help clean and fetch things for Gardulla and her friends. Still . . . podracing. She fought back the emotions again. She clasped the toddler to her chest tightly. "Be safe, Ani," she warned. He only smiled and kissed her.