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Our Lady of Sighs 2/?
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com
http://www.demando.net/
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"I got those parts for the freezer!" Luke called by way of greeting. Stepping through the back door, he closed his eyes, momentarily appreciating the small difference in temperature. Stepping around the large vat of cured bantha meat, he smiled at his Aunt over the stack of machinery in his arms. Beru smiled and frowned, she was somehow very good at doing many things at the same time. Shaking her head, she pulled aside the kitchen curtain that was as weathered as her hand and peered out towards the speeder. Luke stood where he was, knowing her sharp eyes would catch the dent in the hull.
"Do I even want to know what that's from?" she put her hands on her hips briefly, then moved to take the parts from him.
Luke grinned sheepishly, "Padme and I ran late in Anchor Head. The place was crawling with Imperials for some reason. I was kind of in a hurry to get back."
"I should say!" Aunt Beru lifted a spoonful of what looked like lunch and sniffed approvingly, "Your Uncle is already out there with the Jawas. I told him I sent you out to fetch me something. If you hurry up, he'll be none the wiser."
"Thanks!"
"Just a second, young man." Luke paused in the doorway, watching as his Aunt plucked a small, brown meyeten from the bowl on the counter and tossed it his way. Catching it with, ease, he took a quick bite. She returned his gaze with mock-severity and a wag of her finger, "I know you didn't have a good breakfast. Eat!"
His 'thanks' was muffled as he trotted out into the hot afternoon.
Uncle Owen broke his lengthy triad with the Jawa trader long enough to mutter a 'there you are', not even looking up to see if it really was Luke. The young man rolled his eyes reflexively-- something he only did when Owen couldn't see it-- and folded his arms, measuring each of the droids with a quick glance. Luke smiled briefly at the sight of the little blue Artoo unit towards the end-- from the blotches of carbon scoring, it looked like that one might have seen some action. Of course, Uncle Owen didn't choose the blue unit, but gestured for an older red model instead, along with a golden upright that looked along the lines of a C2 or C3 model. Nudging the sand with his boot, Luke made a face-- Padme's talk of pods had gotten him thinking about perhaps building one of his own. He knew of an old Y-wing crash the Jawas hadn't raided, and if Owen had bought the R2 unit, then he could have used the astrodroid to rig up the old cockpit and... Distracted, Luke placed his hand on the red droid's cylindrical dome, only to jerk it back in pain.
"Hey!" he cried, blowing on the offended skin. Coughing, he used his free hand to wave off the smoke from the shorting droid and shouted over the sound of grinding gears. "Uncle Owen, this R unit has a bad motivator!" Luke couldn't hear what the older man said in response, but from the anxious movements of the Jawa, he could imagine the temper Owen was launching into.
"Excuse me, sir," the golden droid put in, "But that R2 unit over there is in very good condition. We've worked together before."
"Really?" Luke grinned-- maybe his luck was changing after all. "Hey, Uncle Owen, what about this R2 unit?" Though the young man kept his face blank during the asking, Owen still narrowed his colorless eyes in suspicion. For a moment, the moisture farmer frowned, before finally motioning towards the little blue droid. "Yes!" Luke muttered under his breath. He herded the two droids towards the garage, nodding politely to the protocol droid's enthusiastic appraisal of his smaller companion.
"I guess you two have seen a bit of action, huh?" Luke asked once he'd settled in to clean up the R2 unit. "From all this carbon scoring, I'd say you've been through a war."
"I'm afraid so," the golden droid muttered, sounding almost annoyed. "Sometimes I'm amazed we're in such good condition-- if you catch my meaning, sir."
"I'm Luke," the young man interjected, reaching for a semi-clean rag. "You know if this R2 unit would work with a Y-wing navigation computer?"
"I believe so, Master Luke," came the prim reply, "I am See-Threepio, human cyborg relations, and this is my counterpart, Artoo-Deetoo."
"Nice to meet you," Luke laughed a little, patting Artoo's dome affectionately. "How do you feel about racing?" The little robot's shrill whistles and beeps reminded him of a mechanical bird he'd once seen at the Mos Espa carnival.
"What!?" Threepio asked.
Luke reached for a small micro-weilder, "What did he say?"
"He says," Threepio began, "that he is the-- well, mind you I don't know *what* he's talking about-- but he says that he is the property of Obiwan Kenobi, and you should release him now so he can find his Master."
"Obiwan?" Luke bit down on his lip, reaching into Artoo's paneling to fuse two wire that had come loose. "Maybe he means old-- where'd that red wire go?--"
"Probably fell between the memory unit," Threepio replied, "It does that, from time to time."
"Thanks," Luke fished the wire out, holding it carefully next to the main connector. "Anyway, maybe Artoo means Old Ben Kenobi. He's something of a hermit, lives up near Beggars Canyon."
"Perhaps it's merely a coincidence, sir," Threepio suggested as the lift removed him from the oil vat. The suns hit off his gold plating, nearly blinding Luke when he looked up, "I really don't remember ever working for--" The sound of metal on metal drowned out whatever else Threepio might have said, and Luke found himself hurriedly opening the compartment he'd just closed. Artoo made several high-pitched beeps of protest, and Luke let go, falling back in surprise when the droid's small holo projector sprung to life.
She was a miniature in cold blue, somehow filled with life despite the fact she was a reproduction made by machine. The expression on her face was the kind you see on statues, fine and beautiful but guarded. She didn't want to let you see anything behind her eyes, and her lips were set in a firm determined frown.
"Who is she?" Luke asked, because he somehow felt he knew. Her eyes, her hurried movements, spoke to him in an old language, one without words.
Tiny fingers touching between wooden bars: what's yours is mine, what's mine is yours.
A warm place, a crimson ocean where the thunder in the distance was really a heartbeat. He was suspended beside her-- they touched and connected, grew.
I am you and you are me.
Neither of them needed to breathe.
"-- a senator of some importance, if I remember correctly."
Luke shook his head, sitting down abruptly. He could feel his lungs fighting for air, so overwhelming had the vision been. It wasn't an else-thing... it had been the only thing he could see. It was real.
"She's beautiful," he said breathlessly. Of course she was beautiful, she was part of-- the best part of-- something so special...
"Help me, Obiwan Kenobi," the miniature entreated, curling her hands around each other, "You're my only hope."
Fear wove in between Luke's ribs, "Is there more to this recording?" The holo-recording went static, then repeated the woman's desperate plea. For a moment, Luke reached out his hand, as if to comfort the stranger (no, I know you, I know you...). He flinched when the image scrambled at his touch.
"Artoo says his restraining bolt is interfering with his memory system," Threepio translated, coming to stand beside Luke, "Perhaps if you remove it, he'll be able to play back the whole thing."
"Yeah, sure." Eagerly, Luke reached for a small lever, feeling as though he was passing through some unknown door. The lever was the weight of the key in his hand. He had always dreamed, lightly, of a reason to leave Tatooine, of some high adventure that would take him past the small scope of his life. A young boy's dreams demanded; give me a reason to fight the world, give me a place to put this rage, put a pretty face to my honor. The princess in distress was a part of that dream, something taken out of fairy tales and myth. And yet, this woman was more than that; she was nothing like the flat, weightless idea of a beautiful woman to rescue. She was-- he couldn't find the word, and it frustrated him. "Alright!" he said happily, peeling the last bit of adhesive off the small droid's hull. He set the restraining bolt aside, turning his gaze to the hologram. Instead, his eyes meant empty air-- the woman's form had fallen in on itself and vanished in a brief flash of blue. "Hey! Bring her back! Play back the whole message!"
"What do you mean 'what message'?" Threepio squawked. "He's talking about the message you just played, the one floating around in your sorry excuse for an operating system!"
Luke rubbed his temples, "Just great. Marvelous."
"Artoo, show him the message!" Threepio ordered, rapping his metal fingers on the astro-droid's silver dome. "Honestly. You can trust him, he's our new master." Finally, the protocol droid thrust his golden arms up in a very human gesture of frustration. "He says it's a private message for Obiwan Kenobi." For a moment, Luke sat on his knees, head cocked as though he could hear something. Slowly, the fear and frustration began to leak away, leaving a mass of fruitless loss shivering in the young man's heart.
"Look," he said, handing the screw driver to Threepio, "Uncle Owen will kill me if I'm late for lunch again. See what you can do with him until I get back, alright?"
"Of course, sir," the droid seemed to straighten, holding the tool between his stiff fingers, "I'll do my best."
Luke smiled dryly, "Thanks. Be back in a bit."
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The long white kitchen table, white curtains, the air from the desert pouring in through the open door-- well, that was white too. When Aunt Beru was preparing meals, the kitchen seemed full to the brim, bustling with possibility; but when meals were taken at the long stone table, the same room seemed horribly empty. Uncle Owen was already sitting at his place, eating without enthusiasm.
"Sorry," Luke said, taking his seat.
Aunt Beru smiled as she sat his plate down, "You're not late." She didn't take it back, even when Owen glared at her heavily.
The sound of limestone spoons on limestone bowls, the hum of the generator out in the courtyard, the cascade of blue bantha milk as Beru poured herself a drink. No one said anything.
The fine lazuli clock-- Beru's prize possession-- chimed once, twice, and then again.
"You fix those droids?" Owen's voice was rough, the words dropped from his mouth so he could fill it with food.
"Yeah, they're almost ready."
A pause. Beru passed a bowl of dried meyetens to Luke. Her hands were cold and warm when they brushed against his.
"I suppose you went out with Padme today."
Now the silence gained a new texture as Beru's clear sapphire eyes sought Luke's gaze. She seemed younger, almost, in her desire to protect him. Never before had Owen broached the subject of Padme with such obvious carelessness. The kitchen itself seemed to drew inward, awaiting harsh words.
Luke took a bite, feeling Owen's gaze on him. "Yes." Expectancy hung just behind Owen's eyes, so the young man continued: "I took her out to the ruins near Mos Espa so we could test my speeder. She says I'm a great pilot." The last bit said with pride, a slight raise of the chin.
Bitterly, like the red weeds poking out of the sand, "She would."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Luke let his spoon clatter down into the remains of his soup, looking over at his Uncle with eyes that said who he really owed his heart to.
"You shouldn't listen to her," Owen went on, studiously looking away from his wife, "Just putting damn fool ideas into your head."
In a voice hushed with anger; "How could you say something like that about her?"
"I clothe you and I feed you, hell-- and you always jump to her defense!" Owen brought his hand flat onto the table and the dishes leapt high.
"Owen," Beru's voice was a hiss, a mother lion's warning.
"She always stands up for you," Luke moved his hands, as if to convey how much that meant, "She always says 'your uncle is a good man', or 'your uncle tries'. She gives you the benefit of the doubt. You never extend the same courtesy to her!"
"You're accusing me of being unfair?" Owen rolled his eyes, "Maker. Maybe I am unfair." Suddenly, the familiar face was vicious, mouth wielding words like a weapon. "By all *fair* terms I should have turned you out to die in the desert after your father--"
The truth flashed briefly and darkly in the eyes of Luke's foster parents.
"After my father *what*?" the young man stood, pushing his chair in harshly. "Why don't you tell me the truth, for once?" He searched their faces, which were bloodless and white with something like fear, finding nothing. "Fine, fine. I'm going to finish up with the droids." He stalked towards the door before turning suddenly, looking on his Aunt with a smile that said there was nothing for him to forgive. "May I please be excused, Aunt Beru?"
Quietly, "Of course you may."
His footsteps retreated out into the garage; Owen ladled out more soup into his bowl, stirring it pointlessly with his spoon. He could feel Beru's quiet anger growing around him like black thorns. He finally looked straight into her eyes, surprised as always at that inner... something... she possessed. What she owned had no name.
"I shouldn't yell at Luke like that," Owen admitted. Beru nodded, silent as the statues of angels near the confessional. "I'm not angry at him."
"He's the only son you'll ever have," Beru whispered.
"I love you, Beru. I didn't marry you to have kids."
They held hands across the table, tentatively, like teenagers.
"I know." She looked down, smoothing her faded dress, "But I wanted a baby."
"He's grown up now, I guess." A pause, "It's Anakin I really want to yell at."
A light laugh like the wind through a canyon, "So would I. We'll never have him back." A heavy sigh, "It's not Padme's fault."
"No, it's not."
Hush, hush; the lazuli clock chimed a quarter to evening.
"Something is going to happen, Owen. I just... What are we going to do?"
They sat silently for a while, drawing comfort from their long time together and listening to the wind cry as it came in from the Dune Sea.