Chapter Text
Long ago, when Tatooine’s oceans were of water not sand, dwelt Ar-Amu. Newly formed was she, and it was with love that she breathed life into the deep. And it was there she dwelt, and stayed, guarding her brood for eons upon eons.
A mother she was, and she loved each life in her waters deeply.
One day, some of her children crept up onto her shores, braving the greenery and suns. Small they were, and fragile, and they returned to their mother’s arms to bear their young, but live they did. And Ar-Amu followed them, lived among them, for she still was their mother, and they her children. They lived, endured, changed, and grew—and she loved them all the more for it. So she dwelt in the rivers and mountains, watching over her children and always, always, granting them life.
Now Ar-Amu did not leave the depths undefended—for it still teemed with her children, large and small alike. And so she charged her eldest and mightiest daughter, Leyah, the great dragon, to always protect the young and fragile, and be strong when they could not. And from the winds and storms she called forth Lukkah, brother to Leyah, and bid him bear tidings from ear to ear, so she would always hear her children’s voices.
It came to pass that one day, strangers came. They came in great ships and heavy armors and savage cries, and they rained death from the skies. The seas boiled, green withered and died, and Tatooine’s soil was turned to sand. Ar-Amu sank back into her depths, to the scattered oases that still bore life, and wept for the lives of her children.
Winds raged forth on the now-barren surface, kicking up sand in maelstroms of death. Lukkah howled, and ground the great ships to dust—even metal gives way to sand eventually. Leyah rose up with a mighty roar, with wings great enough to blot out the sky, and swallowed the invaders whole, roaring vengeance for her fallen siblings. Together they drove back the horde, swallowed their temples beneath endless sands, and ensured they never returned again.
Ar-Amu, All-Mother, gathered her children to her chest. They were few, and scattered, and she wept as she armored them in coarse fur and rock-hard armor. She coaxed what life remained to blossom forth in the sands—japor, pallies, desert-blooms—and guided her people to where water was buried in hard shells within her seas. For Ar-Amu was still a Mother, and life will always come from her depths.