Hello! Thank you so much for bothering to take a look at my story. I'm so glad you did! This story takes Padme into ANH, and though I know there are a lot out there, I'm hoping that I've added a few new elements to the idea. *cough* And of course, this will have an Ami/Vader slant to it. Please let me know what you think!

Legal Disclaimer:

(to the tune of "Row, Row Your Boat")

I'll write, write, write my fics,

Quickly as I can,

I just have to keep in mind that,

George Lucas is the man.

Personal Disclaimer: I'm a hopeless romantic, but ah... not a very nice one. ^^;;;

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Our Lady of Sighs Pro/?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

http://www.demando.net/

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Luke rose early that morning, before either of Tatooine's suns had a chance to scorch the world with their heated touch. He dressed in the semi-darkness, listening to the sounds of Aunt Beru commanding the kitchen and-- further off-- Uncle Owen shouting a few terse orders to the hired help. On every other day of the week, it was almost impossible to get the young man out of bed; Aunt Beru would start trying to wake him at least an hour before she actually wanted him up. She'd knock, yell occasionally from other areas of the house, then finally come in and tear off the covers. It was a ritual Luke never disturbed-- except in the midweek. Today, he needed to get his chores done and out of the way before Uncle Owen could think to pile on anymore.

If he wasn't out of the house before breakfast, then Uncle would try and keep him from going to see Her.

"You're up early," Aunt Beru observed as he entered the kitchen, her face lit by an indulgent smile. His Aunt always said that, perhaps a little peeved that she had to shout, while the mere idea of Her could wake Luke before the suns had risen. Thankfully, Aunt Beru kept her light teasing down to that single statement-- she wouldn't say anything else about Her until next week. Uncle Owen, on the other hand... Luke grimaced, just thinking about it.

"Yes, well," he shrugged his shoulders, gratefully accepting the energy bar she handed him. He leaned against the counter, watching Beru as she moved with ease in her domain.

"Your Uncle says that the Jawas will be making their rounds early this week," she reminded him, "So, if I were you, I'd be back just a little earlier than usual." She meant, of course, 'back' from taking Her down to Anchorhead. "One of the vaporizers broke down, and it's put Owen in a bit of a bad mood. Try not to cross him today, alright?" Beru's smile was mild, compromising and brief as she looked up from her work. Hers was an older face, not particularly marked by time but, never the less, only livened by the bright of her blue eyes. The young man frowned for a moment-- Aunt Beru was always the most vocal of his two foster parents, but lately it seemed that she said things simply to fill the space. He noted, with some concern, that Beru's hands shook as she cut the sand-radish into neat little squares for boiling. Luke sighed, but gave his word; yes, he'd be back to help Uncle barter with the Jawas. He knew his Aunt understood his restlessness, the current of the universe that called him constantly to Elsewhere, but she wouldn't put up with its interference in everyday life. Maybe she was a little less tolerant of it than usual, though he couldn't imagine why. It was there, though, hovering between them daily. There was something she had in mind to tell him, but she never actually actually came out and said it.

"I'm going to go get started," Luke said, leaning over automatically to kiss her on the cheek, "Do you want me to pick up some replacement parts for the freezer?"

"That would be wonderful, if you could," his Aunt didn't look up, but Luke could tell she was pleased with him for remembering. The kitchen seemed to warm a little, with her small happiness. "Remind me to set aside something for you to barter with, hmm? Now," she moved her hand in the direction of the door, "Scoot, or you'll be out there wrestling with those machines until evening."

"Yes, Ma'am," Luke mock saluted her, then turned and walked out into the chilly desert morning. He did not feel his Aunt's eyes on him as he left, nor did he know she stood there for a moment staring at the place he had been.

"Change is the way of things," she whispered, as if to remind herself, or else to banish the image of someone else-- a Jedi-- who had once kissed her on the cheek and spoken kindly to her. He too had been drown back into the chaos of the Universe, and it had ended poorly. "Very poorly."

With that, Beru shook her head and went back to work.

-----

Owen Lars was not quite so understanding about Luke's relations with Her. He'd opposed the very idea from the beginning, but his head-strong wife (she was only head-strong when he was angry with her, otherwise she was just strong) insisted.

'I'm not a real mother to Luke,' she'd said firmly, placing her hands over her childless belly. Then later, as the argument persisted; 'It's not as if *she's* a bad influence, Owen! Great Maker, it must of taken a lot for her to choose the way she's living now when she could be on Coruscant, pampered and Force only knows what-all.' However, it was her final defense that had 'settled' the matter.

'We owe it to whatever's left of Anakin.' Owen remembered flinching, in the memory of that name, and all that had happened because of it-- both the name and the man who'd forsaken it. So, he had (foolishly) agreed. His only consolation now was that Beru wasn't as comfortable with the arrangement as she'd once been. The moisture farmer heaved a sigh of incredible annoyance and began taking out his foul mood on the unfortunate vaporator he was trying to fix. As he tugged harshly on the fray wiring, he considered leaving the machine alone and delegating its repair to Luke. It would be an unfair, but effective, way to keep the boy out of trouble and away from Her. Upon further consideration, Owen realized he would only make himself into more of a bad guy, heightening Luke's attraction to things and ideas outside the realm of Tatooine.

It wasn't so much that he didn't love the boy-- he did, as much as one can love while they continue to push away-- but he was afraid of what Luke was capable of. He'd seen his foster son use the Force without thinking, without the boy even realizing that it was his will behind the incredible luck that sometimes fell his way. In Owen's mind, the safest place for Luke to be was as far away from Coruscant, and Vader, as possible. At least, he reflected, She never encouraged Luke to leave the planet (not that Owen knew of), unlike a certain crazy old Jedi turned hermit. There was something that never failed to rouse what passed for Owen's temper; every so often, Ben would come slinking up to homestead, always with the same song.

'Luke's been reaching out to touch the Force, hasn't he? He's far past the usual age for training.'

'He should be trained-- the less training he has, the more likely he is to fall.'

'One day Luke will need to tear down the monster his father has made.' That last bit would bring a gasp from Beru and a wild, harsh look in her eyes that clearly said 'Luke must never know'.

As if he was reading her mind (and probably, probably he WAS reading her mind, damn Jedi) Ben would remark, "He'll have to find out someday, Beru. Even you can't shield him from this." The argument would devolve from there, Owen defending his wife, Beru withdrawing, and the Jedi stubbornly retaining composure. In the end, however, it was Beru (not Owen, as Luke often thought) that sent Ben away. Until the next time, which was always far enough away to give the desert woman time to feel poorly about her behavior. Mother's pride, he'd once overhear her mutter. It was strange to think of it that way.

"I don't know which is worse," he muttered at present, eyes focusing on the vaporator components as it was all *their* fault, "crazy Jedi or deposed monarchs." He snorted, "I never get a moments peace between them."

Owen continued to repair the vaporator, slipping into a state of simple ease once he discovered what the problem was. He was a man who thought perhaps more than anyone imagined, but he never considered himself as anything aside from a farmer. Still, as the chilly predawn turned to blazing morning, he felt as if the rest of the Universe was beating at the edges of the homestead, trying to disrupt his way of life. He brushed it off as stupid fantasy, finished with the vaporator and stalked towards the kitchen. As expected, Beru had breakfast prepared in her familiar, well worn pattern, but Luke was not present. Owen thought he could hear the boy loading up his speeder out in what was loosely termed 'the backyard'.

"I suppose Luke's off to take Her to Anchorhead," he grunted as he shoved his hands in the sonic washer. Even after years in the desert, Beru had a very low tolerance for sand in her kitchen.

"Of course," his wife's voice seemed more weary than usual.

He grunted again, "Better that than off at Toshi Station with those friends of his who want to be Stormtroopers, I suppose."

"The girl, Camie, she seems sensible enough," Beru replied, her expression unreadable, "It's almost a shame."

"A shame?" he asked as he seated himself.

Her expression became suddenly amused, "Oh, I don't know what's gotten into me anymore. I guess I'm getting old."

"If you're getting old, what does that make me?" he asked, half-remembering a pattern of teasing from long ago.

"Oh, gee, I don't know," her smile became genuine, but only for a moment. "It would be nice if Luke would settle down here, though. Have kids, you know."

Owen paused in mid-bite, "Who says he isn't?"

"Oh, Owen, he's not going to stay here forever-- you know that. He has too much of his father in him. And besides," her expression became one of strange, sacrificing love for a child, "it means so much to him."

"Yes, well, that's what I'm worried about."

Silence descended, but Beru reached across the table to place her hand over his.

------

Luke wasn't unaware of the tension between his foster parents, but he generally chose to ignore it. If he let their slight displeasure dissuade him, he'd never even leave the house. Thus, he listened with only half an ear, and never really noticed when their voices lowered in a conspiratorial hush. He busied himself with loading the things for barter into the back of the speeder and checking his chrono repeatedly. With everything at last in place, he hopped into the vehicle and revved the engine, feeling that particular thrill that only came at high speeds or behind the wheel. He guided the craft expertly through the deep desert canyons, pushing the engine to its limit. There was something strangely comforting in the sensation of barely contained danger.

And besides, he didn't want to keep Padme` waiting.