Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A small human child, dark blonde hair unbleached by the harsh twin suns, swathed in loose white amorphous garments and every inch of exposed skin white with zinc, toddles through the wastes of the arid dune sea away from the setting suns, occasionally toppling over but quickly recovering herself each time. Accompanying her is a tall Muun, in robe and wide-brimmed sun hat. In concession to the unrelenting suns, both are pale grey, but the lightsaber hilt at his waist is anything but. Their destination is an unremarkable one, and an unmarked one, one more point in the endless sea of sand. It would seem foolhardy to travel Tatooine by foot, yet they have made ample preparations to reach their purpose this way. As the suns sink towards the horizon, glowing a neon red and hazy-outlined through the waves of heat, the desert cools, just a degree, and the heat becomes marginally less oppressive. A shudder runs through the child, though it is anything but cold here, and when she topples over, this time her companion must right her, for she seems highly tempted to cower there on her yet plump little bottom in the sand.

On Coruscant, a young woman in Jedi garb, looking mildly dissatisfied and apprehensive, ducks into a restaurant foyer in the undercity, bumping arms with a Zabrak, who looks at her concernedly and automatically pats at his belt for his lightsaber before recollecting that he has left it elsewhere.

She sighs. "What are you doing here?" she asks, more out of concerned worry and curiosity than because she wishes to accuse him or imply that he should not be here.

"Finding you," he says, and clasps her hands in his for not ten seconds.

She nods slowly and glances towards the maitre'd station, though in this sort of restaurant, here, the position is almost certainly filled by a droid before suggesting, "We should go someplace else."

He places a hand on her shoulder in a reassuring gesture, though whether it is meant for him or her is uncertain.

For a minute she gazes at him sadly. "Dex's?" she asks in an even voice.

He nods, and the pair of teenagers slip out into the misty night.

Chapter Text

Four and a half years ago, Tatooine:

Shmi Skywalker has just had it fully confirmed that she, who has never lain with anyone to get pregnant, nor even had the inclination quite to do so beyond the thought that if she was to one day not be a slave, yes, she would like to have a child, is, in hard fact as real as the suns' heat on her head, pregnant; and there is a Muun in her hovel. His garb is hardly appropriate for the heat of the desert, and it is a humble dwelling where she sleeps and sometimes eats.

"I," he begins--he has a slightly hoarse voice, and a hard one, but nonetheless he sounds polite, more than is necessary for a slave woman, "would like to speak with your owner."

"Gardulla the Hutt," Shmi says automatically, and rather curiously. Isn't it a bit strange to come to a slave when you wish to speak to their owner? And it is quite impossible for the Muun to be responsible for her current state. She suspects it may be some supernatural influence.

He leaves, and she makes herself a cup of herbal tea in hopes of easing her mind towards sleep. When he returns, accompanied by a Toydarian who sometimes aids Gardulla, he carries a slave deed. She cannot quite get past her disbelief that this is happening to react to the chip in her shoulder being deactivated. (Or were they merely transferring it to his control? Rumors, she could not say how credible, said it was possible.)

"You may go," he directs the Toydarian.

And Shmi regards him: tall and gaunt, sallow, unhealthy looking by human standards. His eyes are an amber yellow, which she cannot say seems natural but she knows little of Muuns, and seem almost haunted even as they are alight with a strange passion. He gazes on her, too, not as if he is appraising a purchase, nor a lecher's look, not that Muuns and humans are so compatible, but a sort of marvel, almost as if she is some wondrous thing he has been searching for. She waits for him to speak, to explain, and is soon granted his opening.

"You are?" he asks. This is surprising--if he has purchased her, why should he not know her name?

"Shmi Skywalker," she answers simply, almost without thinking about it resting her hand on her abdomen where she knows that mystery child is growing though there is as yet no visible evidence.

He eyes her hand but nods at her name. "There is something I must tell you, something you will find very difficult to credit."

"Do you doubt me?" she dares her new owner boldly.

A half smile, though a worried one, creeps across his face, and he tells the desert woman, "It is quite an implausible little tale, and I am not sure--no, I do not think its like has ever happened before." A fiery glint creeps into his eye at this, though hardly a malicious one.

"Why do you wish to tell me a story?" she asks, though she is careful not to challenge him.

Instead of replying, he takes a long step towards her and dangles his hand, elongated and knobbly, towards her abdomen, as if waiting for an invitation to touch her. A chill sweeps through her despite the hot air, not a sense of quite malicious intent, but of something uncanny and perhaps more sinister than it seemed at first. "Has it got something to do with my child?" Shmi asks suddenly.

His voice is regretful, and there is something in it that incites her compassion when he answers, "Yes."

"I'm only two months along; there's nothing to feel yet," she says, not sure why she is taking this business-like manner.

"But there was no man?" he says, mostly statement with only the faintest hint of question, as he sweeps his hand gently, ever so slowly, across her abdomen.

"No, there never has been," she informs him, not sure why she is telling him and, chillingly, how he could possibly know.

He exhales sharply. "I have done a terrible thing," he pronounces, almost to himself rather than to her. "Well," he amends, "a blasphemous one. I have done many terrible things before, but this--"

"You believe you are somehow responsible," Shmi accuses him. She still does not know who he is, her new owner, but she has not known Muuns to linger long here on Tatooine.

"Yes," he affirms in a haunted voice. He abruptly changes the topic, asking in a rather steadier voice, "What do you know of the Sith? Anything?"

"Legend says they are sworn enemies of the Jedi," she comments carefully, and then, as cautiously daring as one gambling for their freedom, "but the Republic cares little for Tatooine, and so we reciprocate the indifference around here." It went unsaid that she herself did respect the Jedi. Yet that in itself was insufficient to lead her to abhor a phantom menace.

He seems to make a decision, removes his hand from her body and offers her it, as an equal, to shake, hardly the action of a slave master. "I am Darth Plagueis, Dark Lord of the Sith, Shmi Skywalker, though mine is a secret order and you are not to repeat that fact. Need I make certain of it?"

Wide-eyed and loosely grasping his hand, she nods mutely. She has heard tales of the Jedi, good though they are meant to be, using mind tricks on civilians, and she very much doubts Darth Plagueis would have any compunctions about doing that or worse (after all, he seems to believe he is responsible for her inexplicable pregnancy) to his new slave.

"To the galaxy at large, I am Hego Damask, respectable, if somewhat reclusive, businessbeing," he informs her, letting a self-depreciating tone creep in. She things, stray thought though it is, that he might be pleasant enough to be around. "Ostensibly I have purchased you to work for my elder daughter Adonna."

"And in fact?" she wonders, hoping Adonna Damask, or whatever her name is, will not prove to be spoilt and rude as are some of the rich daughters she has encountered as a slave to a Hutt.

He makes a wry face which she decides is close enough to that of a small boy who has been denied a desired treat to be quite safe. "Ado--and Ien, Marian, my younger daughter--are convinced I should take responsibility for the child I caused."

"Oh," she says, a little puzzled, and dares to ask timidly, "Master Damask, how old are they?"

He sniffs amusedly. "Twenty nine and almost twenty six, respectively. How old are you?" He still has not let go of her hand, though it is less a matter of his holding here there and more that neither has bothered to let go.

"Twenty seven, I think. It was hard to keep track of when I was born after I became a slave," she informs him. In her experience, it is rare for a new owner to take even this much interest in their human property.

It seems for a minute that he does not know what to say to this. He recovers, however, and politely adds, "Perhaps you will get along, being close to the same age." He pauses for a moment, removes his hand, before announcing, "You are meant to embark with us this night, really. I am prepared to give you an hour to pack up your possessions."

She does not own much. Most of it belongs to her owner. There are a very few things she holds onto, and perhaps she can take some of her tea, no more than she might have consumed anyway, but even her clothing properly belongs to the Hutt. "No," Shmi answers, "I will just take a few minutes to grab my things. There's not much here worth saying goodbye to." Among her possessions are the credits she has been saving up, in hopes of one day buying her freedom, but the stash is meager.

He eyes her curiously, almost with a hint of pity, but he lingers standing there calmly enough while she fetches the satchel and ultimately declines to take the tea.

"I'm ready," Shmi says, clinging to the satchel.

Damask nods, places his hand almost fatherly on her shoulder, and guides her out into the cool night, towards the edge of the city.