As he lay in the scorching, crackling heat, the blinding light of twin suns in his eyes, he came to a startling realization: this was as good as it was going to get. He was young and whole with a bearable master who rarely beat him and the comfort of his beloved mother. However much the weight of slavery may have pressed down on his young soul, his mind and spirit were unbroken and free. He had seen so many empty shells of beings, walking with vacant eyes, listlessly going about their tasks, devoid of life. To him, such a fate was worse than death.
With this thought in mind, the realization that he would soon be dead was made a bit more bearable, for he would soon be dead, bleeding out on the sand like he was. His heart was still pounding with exhilaration from the race, and a terrible pain was making itself known, a pain so strong that at first he was not quite sure of what to call what he was feeling, as if his brain was incapable of interpreting the level of agony he should be experiencing right now.
Strangely enough, he had the odd feeling that this death was a kindness, that he was somehow dodging a bullet by ending it all here, alone with his thoughts on the hot sand. Things certainly could have become worse: Watto could have sold Shmi or himself, or he could have died and all his possessions, including Anakin and his mother, auctioned and sold off to uncertain fates. But there was something else, some shadow that crawled at the edges of his failing mind, that seemed to curl about his heart whenever he thought what the future could have been. Some phantom pain of an injury not yet sustained, the horrible sound of countless voices crying out, only to be silenced...
As time passed in increments that could have been seconds or minutes for all he knew, the pain was replaced by an icy chill. So much blood. It was everywhere, all rushing to get out of him. His eyes, the only thing that seemed capable of moving, risked a look down. With morbid fascination, he studied his right leg, which was laying at an absurd angle. Cloth and skin alike had been torn from his body, leaving great big patches which were raw and bloody. These were all insignificant next to the pain in his chest. Something was stabbing him, making every breath a herculean battle for air and leaving him lightheaded. He could feel his awareness slowly slipping away.
Yes, it was better this way. Better to end things now, with a brilliantly blue sky above, the memory of the race fresh and unsullied by Watto's disappointment or the guilt of his mother's silent tears- His mother!
The same instincts that helped him survive pod races also told him that his mother had long ago put aside all her hopes and dreams, save one: that her son would one day be free. He had known this for as long as he could remember, feeling a stinging sense of guilt whenever he came home, riding on the high of the race, to face her weary relief that her son had survived. She lived for nothing else, had nothing else, and he knew with dreadful certainty that this would break her.
Although she was still at racing stands, probably bent over and weeping over the image of her son's pod going up in flames (for they could not have missed catching that on camera), he swore he could hear her calling his name. My little Ani, my little star, oh Force, my little boy. Not my Ani, not my little boy.
His mouth did not move, but he still reached for her, summoning the ragged threads of his concentration as he called out. Mom! I'm here, I'm here. Please don't cry, Mom, please don't cry.
With that, his passive acceptance of his fate fell away as he was seized by a belated need to survive, to come home to his mother's embrace. It was too little too late. He could not lift his neck from the ground, let alone find the strength to stand.
The twin suns seemed to burn with the light of all the good things he would never have and the sights he would never see. How many time had he looked that blue sky and seen himself flying up in a ship to meet it, to see what secrets the stars held? A lifetime with no possessions but his unfettered imagination had left him with wondrous dreams of what lay beyond the dusty confines of his harsh existence. What could he have been, if he had been born in any other system in the galaxy? Would he have still reached for the stars?
He felt hot tears run down his face as he mourned what would never be. Embittered by the injustice of it all, he let loose a harsh cry. The indifferent desert was silent.
And then, as if in answer, something began to stir within him, something warm and all encompassing. It was ancient and powerful, seeming to tug at his spirit gently, like a mother pulling her child close. He shook his head softly. His mother was back at the stands, alive and whole.
The mysterious feeling waited a moment, then seemed to extend itself in invitation. After a moment's hesitation, he accepted. The world seemed to slide away with surprising ease and then...
Then there was light. So much light. He had come home.
As the Boonta Eve celebrations started in earnest, a distraught Toydarian began to gather up the remains of his shop. He had lost big today, losing the pod and the boy. With debts to pay, he had no choice but to sell everything and move on elsewhere.
At the empty racing stands, one being stood alone, a women clad in course robes watching the twin suns set on the remains of her shattered hopes. An older man, a recently arrived moisture farmer bearing the weight of a similar burden, noticed her silent grief. A strange impulse induced him to step forward and place a hand on her shoulder, asking if she was alright.
She turned and looked him in the eyes, her soul laid bare by an unimaginable loss.
"I lost my son today."
He nodded.
"I buried my Aika. My boy doesn't have a mother."
The enormity of their shared grief crossed any boundaries they may have felt as a free man with a slave woman. He slowly pulled her into his arms and held tight, as if they both might be blown away if he didn't. Perhaps, between the two of them, they might ride out the storm together.
Across the stars, lying in the dark of a small ship's cabin, a young man startled awake. Sitting up, his hand brushed a strange wetness from his cheek. He had been crying.
Across from him on the opposite bunk came a deep, concerned voice.
"Obi-Wan?"
He could only shake his head, unable to put what he was feeling into words. After long moments, he spoke.
"I think I lost something. Something precious."
The older man was silent, waiting. Obi-Wan blinked rapidly, wiping away stray tears.
"No. It's gone now. I'm not sure- I'm not sure what that was."
"Get some sleep. You'll need it for the negotiations tomorrow."
"Yes, Master."
The Force seemed to writhe in turmoil like the death throes of some mighty beast and then lay silent, charting a new course for the future.
This is my first fan fiction. Leave a review if you can and let me know what you think. This author will certainly appreciate it! And yes, the title is an allusion to Emily Dickenson's "Because I could not stop for Death". It doesn't have any deeper meaning than me wondering what would happen if Anakin was removed from the equation because of the likely scenario of the young boy crashing while racing his pod. Wookiepedia informs me that Cliegg Lars moved to Tatooine after his wife, Aika, died, so I hope the timeline all fits. Thanks so much for reading!