Chapter Text
The Whitesun girl was in her early teens when someone first shared with her the story of the Grounded Skywalker. She had lost her mother, just a few seasons ago, and she would have been alone in all the galaxy if not for her fellows in the household, who were distant at best and kind when they could afford it. The only other company was the stories that they shared amongst each other when they could afford the kindness.
Skywalker was a name not entirely uncommon throughout the galaxy. It was a name from somewhere far away and long ago, many said, presumed to have been adopted by slaves that took to the myths of beings that walked through skies and among stars. What unfree being, after all, didn’t dream of skies and walking boundless into the endless horizon?
The name of Skywalker, however, was a more uncommon one on Tatooine. It tasted a little too strongly of freedom for some folk – that and whatever dangers waited in the dark of space. Especially with the stories surrounding it. It was hard to put a finger on, really, but if one asked anyone who’d thought about taking the name and pressed them long enough about it, and that person stopped for a long moment and truly examined themselves, they might admit that there was something daunting about bearing a name like that. If one had ever met one of the rare Skywalkers that passed through Tatooine, perhaps they could understand that there was something indescribably different about them, something that ran deep even they seemed simple.
The Whitesun girl had heard stories of a Skywalker on Tatooine before. Half the planet at least had heard the story of Anakin Skywalker, the human slave boy, who’d flown and won the Boonta Eve Classic of 32. It was just a podrace, some said, but they didn’t understand that this had been the podrace – the best collection of racers across a dozen systems on one of the most dangerous tracks out there – and it had been won by a young boy… a human… a slave. You had to be there, others answered, awed with memory. You had to see him fly. Ain’t ever seen anyone fly like that. Like they were born to it.
They said he was a Dreamer too, young Anakin Skywalker. He’d had the marks and the words as clear as the suns against the sky, said those who’d known, who’d seen the boy once upon the time. Anakin Skywalker had a Dream that he would win his freedom, they said, and it came true. Anakin flew and won, and then flew away to freedom and a better life far out there in the stars. No one knew what exactly had become of him, but there were a thousand stories. He was a pilot in most of them, a soldier or a smuggler, and sometimes even a ferryman bringing slaves to their freedom.
Once, she’d heard that he now carried Dreams across the galaxy to give them to their Dreamers.
The Whitesun girl didn’t believe most of these stories and didn’t have much interest in the story of Anakin Skywalker besides. She believed he existed and had done what they said he had – she believed he’d been one of those once-in-a-lifetime podracers – but beyond that, Anakin Skywalker was a hero for little children who wanted to play make-believe while driving old carts and rusted speeders. Anakin Skywalker was a story for children who could believe that they might be able to do the same thing if they were lucky and skilled enough. The Whitesun girl was too old for that sort of silly hoping, and she had never flown or driven anything in her life.
The story of the Grounded Skywalker, however, was different. It wasn’t a children’s bedtime story, full of action and adventure and hope, spread all over Tatooine to the point that she was near sick of it. This was a story she was told in one of the darker parts of the evening, after all the masters of the house had drifted off into a satiated sleep and nearly all the slaves and servants were abed as well, by a delivery man while she was washing dishes and scrubbing ovens with another cook. This was a quiet story that held the shudder of a warning.
“Stories say the Grounded Skywalker is headed your way,” the delivery man told the other cook, a broad old grandmother who took the orphaned Whitesun girl under her wing when she could.
He’d said the warning quietly, after closing the door he’d supposed to be leaving through and checking around the dimly lit kitchen for signs of someone other than them three slaves. Gran Sandrunner paused what she was doing, then carefully put the pot she’d been cleaning to the side, and looked at the middle-aged man standing all nervous in their doorway.
“Is that so?” she said, just as quiet and far grimmer.
“What’s the Grounded Skywalker?” asked the Whitesun girl.
She didn’t like not knowing things, especially anything that might affect her, and she was eager to take any excuse to stop scrubbing for a moment. Her arms felt like they were about to fall off, still thick with bruises from an “accident” with one of the masters earlier in the week.
Gran Sandrunner and the delivery man turned to look at her. For a moment, it seemed like they might not tell her, but perhaps something in the steadiness of her stare and the swollen violet rimming her eyes convinced them. Perhaps she looked pathetic enough to take pity on.
Gran sighed, made sure that all the doors and windows were closed, and then told her that the Grounded Skywalker was a person.
The story went that the mother of Anakin Skywalker, as soon as she had seen her son had freed and made safe, finally sought her own freedom and stole herself away under the guise of being sold. Unlike her starbound son, Mother Skywalker hadn’t vanished into the void, but stayed on Tatooine and now sought to rescue all slaves from their masters. She travelled all over the desert and had rescued many slaves over the past five years; she was wise, they said, and clever and powerful; and some had even dared to say she had a Dream.
“And she’s coming this way?” the Whitesun girl said.
“So they’re saying,” the delivery man answered, tipping his hat. “Thought I’d pass on the word.”
“We’ll be ready,” Gran Sandrunner said, and saw the messenger out.
Once the door was closed behind the delivery man, the Whitesun girl looked up at old, broad Gran Sandrunner and asked skeptically, “Was that story real or it just making things up?”
It sounded like the sort of good-slaves-were-rescued ratshit legend that people made up, something that she should furiously disbelieve. Something in way it been told, however, with the shudder of a warning, in an empty kitchen in the dead of night, made her doubt her doubting.
“Oh, she’s real, alright, but only time’ll tell if she’s coming to for us or just moving by to rescue some others in greater need,” Gran said, picking up her pot again. “Now less talking, more scrubbing, girl. And don’t you go spreading any stories about, or I’ll leave you to sleep in the sand.”
The Whitesun girl went back to scrubbing the oven, raw knuckles objecting, and went angrily looking for holes in the story she’d just been told. One woman couldn’t do all they said she had, surely someone would have caught her. Where would the slaves she’d freed even run to? Maybe the Grounded Skywalker wasn’t any sort of rescuer, maybe she was one of those lunatics who thought starving in the desert as a free being was better than life as a slave. Maybe she was a threat to turn away at the door, lest she “rescue” them to a life on the run with nothing but their names. They could do that sort of "rescuing" themselves if they were silly enough.
A few days passed and there was no change in the house. The Whitesun girl worked and didn’t talk, and it looked like Gran Sandrunner worked and didn’t talk either. The rest of the household worked on, apparently or actually oblivious to the delivered warning. The masters didn’t seem to notice anything coming their way either, but then again, they hardly noticed anything outside of spice and arena sports and the other sorts of things that went on at Jabba and business partners’ parties.
By the end of the week, the Whitesun girl was ready to think that the delivery man had either been lying or that the Grounded Skywalker had passed them by to “rescue” someone else. She was furious. If she wasn’t afraid to get her ears boxed in, she’d give Gran Sandrunner a piece of her mind.
Another week passed and none of them had seen hide nor hair of this Grounded Skywalker. The delivery man had been back twice since his first warning, and every time had nothing new to tell Gran. The eavesdropping Whitesun girl wanted to walk up to him and ask if he yelled sandstorm every time a breeze blew, but Gran Sandrunner kept sending her off to scrub pots instead. Less talking and more scrubbing, girl, and you watch your nose.
Two more weeks passed and the Whitesun girl was sure that the storm had passed them by. The day after that monthly mark, while sent to dust some of the solar panels, the girl made furious and unrealistic plans to be the first to the door when the delivery man came next, so she could ask where he’d even gotten his story. The girl was so caught up in her daydreaming that she very nearly tripped over the person sleeping outside their delivery entrance. She thought they were a large rock at first by the thick, hooded brown robes they were wrapped in from head to toe.
The Whitesun girl froze in fright, uncertain as to how to deal with the situation. They let strangers and travelers sleep in the kitchen often enough, fed them and sheltered them as much as they could, but she was fourteen, small, and hadn’t had good experiences with one-on-one encounters with strangers. She only had a long brush with her, which would snap if she dared hit anyone with it. All her fury didn’t do her much protection compared to the broad shoulders of Gran Sandrunner. She didn’t want another accident.
She wasn’t supposed to go in the front entrance, but better a known risk than an unknown one. The girl made to slink away while the stranger slept. If she talked nice and smiled pretty, she might be able to get away with sneaking in the front with minimal consequences.
“…Wait,” came a voice.
The girl almost ran for it, but the voice made her pause instead. It was a quiet and feminine voice, a little hoarse, and there was nothing urgent or demanding to it. On the edge of fleeing, the girl turned to see the robes get to their feet, dust some sand off a small build, and rise to an unimpressive height. Underneath the thick hood, the girl could see the silhouette of a half a face, and realized that the stranger was a human woman only a few inches taller than she was.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the stranger said gently. “I was waiting for someone to come along and I’m afraid I must have fallen asleep.”
“You could have just knocked,” the girl said, holding her long brush tightly at the ready.
“I didn’t mind waiting. I’m much better at conversations face to face.”
“Strange words for someone who won’t show their face.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the stranger said, and reached up to pull back their hood.
If the girl had been expecting some deformed monstrosity or the like, that was not what she got. The stranger lowered their hood to reveal the face of a middle-aged human woman, with tanned skin that was wrinkled and deeply weathered, with thick brown hair tied in a bun at the back of her head, and with a handsome, gentle face and a kind smile that went all the way to her eyes. She was incredibly ordinary, like any other slave mother or working freewoman across Tatooine, except…
Except for the white marks scattered up her neck and across the underside and edges of her broad jaw. In the dawn sunlight, they glowed like the hundreds of stars they resembled. When the stranger smiled, the galaxy set into her skin stretched and pressed with her wrinkles, and gleamed a little brighter.
The girl nearly staggered back. She had never seen marks like that before, but she had heard about them. She hadn’t heard about these marks in particular before, but she could guess who their owner might be, appearing on the doorstep with all the fanfare of a stray bit of sand. Suddenly the girl was all the more conscious of the motley marks on her face and over her body, still-fading or newish bruises that ached fiercely and looked hideous, which seemed shameful in comparison to the stars set into this Dreamer woman’s humble, bemused, smiling face.
“My name is Shmi Skywalker,” the stranger said, “I’m here to rescue you.”