There's a little boy sitting in the middle of the street, crying. Shmi recognizes him. He's one of the children Anakin plays with. Kitster, another slave. Anakin sees him before Shmi and he squirms out of Shmi's grasp and runs over to him. Shmi is only several steps behind. The rest of the crowd walks around him, but the boy – and now Anakin – is planted right in the center of the walkway, and Anakin grabs his hands, wrapping one arm awkwardly around his shoulder and leading him out of the way. Shmi can hear him comforting his friend in a low voice: "Don't want you to get trampled by an eopie, Kit, do ya?" Anakin stops in front of Shmi, looks up at her with pleading eyes. "He's hurt, Mom," Anakin tells her, like he's telling her a secret. His knuckles are turning white around Kitster's shoulders, his eyes burning with protectiveness and worry. He turns back to Kitster. "What happened?" he asks, before Shmi can.
"My master –" he hiccups. "I had to run. I-I'm scared." Anakin's face darkens, and the air gets heavier around them. They all know what happens to slaves who run. Kitster's tunic is singed at his arms and across his back, his skin burnt and bubbling from where he was lashed. His back is bloody from it, but there's no mistaking the burn marks. Shmi swallows her bile, and is grateful Watto's too cheap to keep such terrible instruments around. The Hutts have no such qualms about keeping their slaves in line, Shmi remembers all too well.
Without thinking, without saying a word, Shmi scoops up the boy. "Anakin," Shmi says seriously. "Go on to Watto's. I'll be there soon."
"Mom," Anakin protests. "Mom, please, I can help."
"I'm going to get Kitster cleaned up," she says, keeping her eyes locked on Anakin. Since he's turned seven, something in Anakin has shifted. He's more aware, more ready to argue with her. He's angry. He's just as kind and gentle and caring as before, but Shmi is afraid that he'll start to argue with her here, in public. She needs to get Kitster someplace she can clean his wounds, where he can rest and calm down. Anakin's anxiety is buzzing in the back of her head and she has no idea if Kitster can feel it too. It won't be long until the Hutts either track Kitster down or kill him, and Shmi has to let Kitster calm down before she sends him back. Anakin can't be there. He'll only make his friend more upset. "Okay?" she says gently. Anakin nods, something clicking. The buzzing in Shmi's ears subsides a little.
"Okay," Anakin agrees. He looks at Kitster again. "I'll see you soon, okay, Kit."
Kit nods and rests his head on Shmi's shoulder. He's shaking against her. Shmi doesn't wait for Anakin to start walking when she turns away, back towards their home.
She ducks through the low doorway, making sure not to jostle Kitster too much, and gently removes his torn, singed, and bloodied tunic. His eyes are watering and his hand is twisted in Shmi's sleeve as she cleans his wounds, applying what little bacta they have left.
"Ow," Kitster gasps under his breath. Like Anakin, Kitster is an optimistic, hopeful little boy, but he ultimately doesn't want to make a fuss. Doesn't want Shmi to notice his pain. Unlike Anakin, he's very quiet. Shmi didn't notice that Kitster's pain isn't hovering somewhere in the back over her mind until she's already finished cleaning his wounds.
"Sorry, Kitster," she says. "It's going to sting for a second longer." He nods his understanding. Shmi gets up, finds Anakin's extra tunic (one she had gotten him from the parts she sold, brand new, not worn even once). "Here you are," she says. "After you rest, I'll bring you home, okay?" Kitster nods and slips Anakin's tunic over his head. He's asleep within the minute.
Anakin comes home still worried about Kitster, but there's something else in the set of his shoulders. Kitster is still asleep in Anakin's bed, and Anakin goes to see him, plays on the floor next to Kitster, keeps glancing at his friend, hoping he will wake up and join him. He doesn't.
"Is he going to be okay?" Anakin asks later, sitting at the kitchen table as Shmi stirs hot mash for Kitster and Anakin.
"Of course," Shmi assures him. She doesn't know for sure, but she says it like it's the truth to stop Anakin from rattling the bowls on the table. More and more, the Force wraps itself tightly around Anakin, slipping out of his control. Shmi just tries to ignore it, hopes he'll learn, hopes everyone will just ignore the strange things that happen around her son.
"Watto was angry," Anakin says, his tone suddenly dark. Shmi doesn't turn to look at how stormy his eyes are. "He said you're gonna get it."
Shmi presses a warm bowl into Anakin's hand. "Go bring that to Kitster," she says seriously. "Then we'll talk about it." Anakin nods, hops off the chair. He returns in a few minutes, the storm in the Force cleared away a little, and Shmi gives him his dinner and sits across the table from him, watching him eat, thinking about what to do about him – his temper, his power. Just the other week, he pushed another child clear across a room. No one cares much about children on Tatooine, no one said anything to Anakin or Shmi or Watto about it later. But still. Every few months, he lets go a little more, and every time he lets go, he can't quite get the same grip he had before.
Ten years ago, Shmi didn't even believe in the Force.
"Kitster's fine, by the way," Anakin tells her. "He says thank you." Shmi smiles at him. Anakin meets her eyes, looks at her empty space on the table. "Aren't you gonna eat, Mom?"
"I'm not hungry," Shmi lies. But all the little slave boys she knows are. Anakin looks like he doesn't believe her and pushes his bowl almost imperceptibly closer to her.
"You're a really good cook, Mom," he says nonchalantly. "You should try it." Shmi ignores a nudge at the edge of her mind, reminding her of something she doesn't believe. But the Force isn't Anakin's only power, and he holds his spoon out to her, blinking up at her with his too-big, too-blue eyes.
She gives in. "Thank you, Ani," she says, tasting Anakin's dinner.
"We can share, Mom," Anakin insists.
"No, Anakin, I'm fine."
"Why're you helping Kit?" Anakin asks, moving the bowl inches closer still to Shmi, as if she wouldn't notice. Shmi can't help but smile at his effort. "You're gonna get in trouble."
"You would help him, wouldn't you?" Shmi says idly.
"Yeah, but he's my friend," Anakin says. "He's not your friend," he points out.
"No one looks out for us here, Anakin," Shmi says seriously. "So we have to help each other. We can make the Galaxy a little kinder by just helping each other."
"Even if we might get hurt," Anakin whispers like an echo.
"Sometimes, even if we might get hurt, we should still try to help each other."
Anakin beams up at her. "I think I can do that," he says confidently. "I can help people, whenever I see that they need help. Even if it's hard."
Shmi leans across the table to plant a kiss on the top of his head. "Then you will be a better man than almost everyone in the whole Galaxy," she says.
"Not better than you," Anakin assures her, pushing his bowl another inch closer to his mother.
Kitster is fine, and Anakin doesn't think much more about it. Watto looks at Shmi sternly, like he would like to beat her or sell her, but Watto is too cheap to dispose of her entirely, and he has been slow to lay a hand on either of them since the incident with Anakin last year. Shmi tries not to feel too smug as she herds Anakin into Watto's workshop and heads out to go sort through the parts that Anakin brought back from a different junkyard last week to see which they could sell and which had to be sent to the incinerator.
In the afternoon Anakin comes out to help her. He's got a black eye and scraped knuckles but Shmi doesn't say anything, in spite of the tightening in her heart. He picks through her pile of metal that's too useless to even be used as scrap, looking at pieces like Shmi was crazy for thinking they were garbage.
"Did Watto send you out here?" Shmi asks lightly, watching Anakin pocket rusted and bent machine pieces.
Anakin shakes his head. "No," he answers, his voice soft, his eyes far away. "I have a few minutes before I have to go watch the shop again." He looks at her, as if daring his mother to ask him about the bruise forming on his face. "I'm building something. Watto won't miss these."
"He might," Shmi warns him. Anakin rolls his eyes and sighs, plopping down on the hard stone, drawing his knees to his chest, looking up at Tatooine's twin suns.
"I'm tired of Tatooine," he whispers, mostly to himself. Shmi hums. Anakin runs his hands through the pieces of hot metal. "I'm tired of the dessert."
"I know, Ani," Shmi says. She doesn't know what else to say to her son.
"Will you tell me about your home planet again?" he asks, brushing sand away from his boots. "About the water?" Shmi's heart sinks. She barely remembers it, can't even remember if it's a memory or only a dream. And it does Anakin no good to hear about such things, when they're so far away, when it takes his mind off his work, when it puts him in danger. "Or about the stars?" His eyes are bright with something Shmi might think is hope, if she didn't know any better.
"Okay, but you must tell me a story later, too," she says, hoping she'll be able to get Anakin to tell her about his tussle.
"Yeah, okay," Anakin concedes, like he knows what Shmi has up her sleeve. "But not now. Watto's going to be looking for me soon." He stands up, brushes the sand off his pants and walks back to the shop, parts clinking softly together in his bag.
Anakin may be smaller than a lot of the other boys his age, but he's much stronger. If he notices, Anakin doesn't let on, except in his quiet skulking later as Shmi makes him eat a little bit of food. To bribe him (into eating, and into talking), Shmi repeats the same stories she has since Anakin's been a baby. Some legends that she heard growing up on Tatooine, some of them less than memories of a planet elsewhere in the galaxy and Anakin listens with rapt attention until he finally crumbles, scowls into his bowl.
"I didn't mean to hurt him," he grumbles, not really to Shmi. She sees from the corner of her eye that his gaze is shifting between her and the warped surface of the table. He's scratching a pattern into the table with his nails – his initials maybe. Shmi continues to look busy in the kitchen to keep Anakin talking. "He said I'm a liar about the podraces. That there's no way I could fly. He called me –" Anakin hiccups a little, this time looking at Shmi until he catches her eye; there's tears forming in the corner, threatening to fall. "Shag kung." It's not earth shattering, but Anakin is taking it hard. "I told him he could eat my dust next time, if he thought he could do better."
"Who, Ani?"
Anakin shakes his head and wipes his tears. "I hit him, we fought, but I – I didn't mean to…he's really hurt…I didn't mean to…" Anakin sniffles, trying to stifle his sobs. "He's not a slave, Mama, don't worry," Anakin mutters into his hands. "Watto won't have to pay for him." Shmi gathered as much, but her heart won't unclench. "I didn't mean to hurt him so much. I'm sorry. I'm –" He looks at Shmi like he wants nothing more than to climb into her arms but he's too afraid of what he might do if he even touches her. It's the third incident in as many months. If people haven't started to notice by now, they will soon. Watto will notice, sell Anakin back to the Hutts or just kill him himself. Either way, her son is dead. And Anakin shouldn't live in fear, of the Hutts or himself. "I'm sorry," he chokes past a sob.
Shmi steals herself to look for help first thing tomorrow. "You're just stronger and faster than you look, Ani, that's nothing to be ashamed of," Shmi tells him, pulling his hands away from his face before he wipes sand into his eyes and grease all over his face. "And if you're sorry, it means you won't do again, right?"
"Yes, Mama," Anakin agrees.
"You can apologize to the boy tomorrow," Shmi says. "And then it will be over with."
"Yes, Mama," Anakin agrees. His shoulders stop shaking. The moment of shame has past. He returns to his dinner, but Shmi doesn't have much of an appetite anymore.
"Will you be staying?" Shmi starts at the sound of the voice. Anakin is holding the old woman's hand, looking at Shmi with wide eyes. Shmi collects herself, gives Anakin a small smile.
"Yes," she says. The woman gestures to an old, warped chair in the corner of the dark room and Shmi sits on it, uncomfortable, watching her son and the woman intently. The woman leads Anakin to the other side of the room and squats on the ground with him. She lets go of his hand, smoothing her skirts as Anakin folds his legs underneath himself, casting anxious glances at Shmi every few seconds.
"Your mother tells me that you've been having trouble with some of the other boys in Mos Espa," the woman says matter-of-factly.
"I don't know why she would say that," Anakin mutters to his hands, but Shmi can hear it, and judging by the woman's laugh, so can she.
"Our mothers say the craziest things, don't they?" she whispers. Anakin cracks the smallest of smiles, sparing the woman the briefest of glances.
"Last week," Anakin admits hesitantly. "I didn't mean to, but I got into a fight with another kid and I broke his arm."
After the incident last week, Shmi scoured the dessert for someone who could teach Anakin about the Force discreetly. She found this woman – Stryka Torpoli, who lives alone outside Mos Espa, beyond Beggar's Canyon – who told Shmi not to worry. No one cared much for Force-sensitives out here, on Tatooine, but Stryka would take care of her son.
"He's powerful," Shmi had told her. "He doesn't – he has no father."
Stryka looked at her, then, but she didn't say what Shmi knew she was thinking. Her lips parted in an almost smile, her eyes miles away.
Now, she faces Anakin in her dark little hut, and just talks to him. Listens to him. She says nothing about the Force, but she smiles when Anakin talks about it, even if Anakin doesn't have the words to name it.
"Why do you live out here?" Anakin wonders suddenly. "Aren't you lonely?"
Stryka laughs again. "I've made an enemy out of Jabba the Hutt," she says. Shmi doesn't know if it's a confession or a joke, but Anakin smiles like she hasn't seen him ever do; there's something devilish behind that grin. "Besides, how could I be lonely, when I've got such nice visitors?" Anakin's grin melts into something less mischievous, something kinder and softer. Then, Stryka leads Anakin through some meditation exercises. Shmi doesn't understand half of what it's supposed to do, but Anakin listens intently, follows her instructions. When Stryka asks if he can feel it, Anakin nods, an excited glint in his eyes that Shmi can see from here in the low light.
Stryka's knees crack as she gets up. Anakin opens his eyes to look at her, but Stryka ignores him, gestures for him to continue his exercises, and walks over to Shmi and leads her outside. It's starting to get light out again. Shmi couldn't figure out how to explain both of their absences from Watto, so she took Anakin at dusk. Nights are short on Tatooine, and it had been a few hours. They could get going soon enough without fearing the night on Tatooine.
"I'm glad you brought him," Stryka tells her. She speaks in accented Basic like many on Tatooine. "It's difficult to be like him all the way out here."
"You can help him, keep him safe?" Shmi presses, some of the weight lifting from her shoulders. She doesn't mean to be prematurely hopeful, but Anakin seemed responsive to whatever Stryka was doing with him.
"Most children his age have started to innately control their power," Stryka says. "Or else the Jedi have taught them. But not him. I can help him control some of his power without him even knowing he's doing it. But I can't –"
"I don't need anything else," Shmi insists hastily. "I can't have the Hutts find out." Stryka humphs sympathetically. "I'm afraid of what they might do to him. I'm afraid that they'll see him as something more than just a little boy."
"I'm tempted to," Stryka admits. Her face is weather-worn, lined with years of loneliness and sun, but she casts a glance back inside to where Anakin is meditating restlessly, and when she looks back at Shmi, she looks years younger. "But if we can't get him to step back from the Force, then…" Stryka sighs. "He's very powerful. More powerful than anyone I've ever met."
"I know."
Stryka motions for Anakin to come outside and joins them. Anakin slips his hand inside of Shmi's. He feels the same, if a bit calmer. Styka bends down to look him in the eye, resting her hands on her knees. "Remember what I showed you. Do it every night."
"Yes, Miss Stryka," Anakin says somberly. "Thank you."
Shmi throws Stryka a last grateful smile and turns her back to the suns.
A/N: shag kung is huttese for slave scum, or something along those lines. I had this like brilliant idea of how Anakin and Shmi never speak Huttese to each other if they can help it because it's not their language and so being called a Bad Name in Their Slavers Language would be Particularly upsetting, but mostly, I think including other fantasy languages in fic makes you look Sophisticated so...
