No. 29 WHAT DOESN'T KILL ME…
Sleep Deprivation | Defiance | "Better me than you."
My depiction of the krayt dragon here primarily came from the depiction in the Mandalorian, but I also included some aspects of the sandworm from Dune, because I think it's awesome. Also, I made some stuff up myself.
His speeder ran out of fuel when he was almost at his destination, thankfully; if it had run out when Vader was on his tail it would have been the worst thing imaginable. Hopefully, the rocks he dumped on his head back in the Jundland Wastes would slow him down for a little while longer, at least.
There is no escape.
Pity it didn't shut him up at the same time.
There is no use in running. I can feel your fear—your friends remain incarcerated, but we can free them. You have constructed a new lightsaber; use your fear, turn to the dark side, and lay it to bear against the tyrant who once ruled both our lives.
Are you talking about Jabba now, or still Palpatine? Luke snapped back. I can't tell anymore.
Do not be obnoxious.
I'm asking the same of you.
A dark ripple. Vader's anger was building. Luke wondered if those rocks had left an indent in his helmet. They had definitely smashed the speeder he was in. There is no escape.
Yeah, you said—
You cannot outrun your destiny. I know Jabba has your friends. I know where you are going. I know where I will find you.
Luke touched his lightsaber at his hip. The grip was just like Ben's had been—the guide he'd left behind in his old hut was the best approximation of instructions he could find, so of course it was. But it twinged a little, thinking about how different the grip was to his father's lightsaber he'd loved so much. How different he was from the father he'd adored.
I don't care, he lied.
He climbed out of his sputtering speeder and switched it off, putting it out of his misery. He glanced around, pulling the cloak's hood back over the top of his head. His clothes weren't designed for Tatooine, and he was sweating like a bantha—though he was surprisingly pleased at how well they kept out the sand, his old clothes never did that—but at least he had the hood. It was black, but… well. That was to make a statement as well. He trudged away.
He didn't know how long he was walking for, Vader's idle threats looping like a holo at the back of his head, but the homestead finally appeared on the horizon. Luke, unconsciously, picked up his pace. Even after four years away, even after nineteen years of wanting to escape, even after watching his aunt and uncle burn on the pyre there, that stupid collection of buildings still called him home.
It would still have supplies—he knew that. Before he was born, Aunt Beru had operated a pitstop, a place for runaway slaves to get supplies and rest in an underground bunker for a few nights while they healed from their surgery. That bunker had been left mostly untouched when he was a child, and they never let any potential danger come to their door so long as he was there, but they kept supplies for emergencies anyway. Food. Blankets. Clothes, medkits. And, most importantly for him right now, fuel.
The skeleton of the structure remained, years after he abandoned it. He could see that himself. Squatters had no doubt moved in, and he could sense life up ahead of him, but that was no worry. He almost hoped they would be runaway slaves, that his aunt's legacy would be maintained by the home she made even years after her death. His quickened pace continued, sweat clinging to his upper lip.
He hadn't been back to Tatooine since that happened. The homestead had lost its charred appearance, the desert stripping its colour back to white again, so it looked almost fully intact from here, like his aunt would come out and call for him, Uncle Owen waiting to lecture him about losing the speeder. If he kept walking in this direction, he would reach the Darklighters' farm. But Biggs wouldn't be there. His aunt and uncle weren't there.
He had lost so much. All of it. And he'd lost it all to—
Use your anger.
Go to hell.
He hadn't been back to Tatooine in four years, but still: when the sand rippled underneath him, he remembered what that meant. Fear flashed through him.
What is it?
He stopped moving, glancing around. Where was it? What was it after? Him?
After a moment of silence, he started moving forwards again, this time adopting that arrhythmic pace Uncle Owen had always been so good at, but had given him bad hips far too early in his life. He reached down into the sand to try to gauge where it was as he kept moving, scanning the sands for it
What is it, Luke? I sense your fear.
The Force blared. He ran.
Sand erupted in front of him. Luke dived to the side, shouting and throwing up a hand. The vile spray of acid bounced away from him like he was holding a shield, the Force straining to keep that much projectile power at bay, and then he ran again.
The beast dragged itself to its feet. Its roar shook him to his core, almost too high-pitched for a beast of that size. He kept running, away from its snapping maw—and then the sand shuddered as it got its legs under it and braced against the ground, its wide-feet floating on sand far better than his were.
Tell me what this is!
Krayt dragon, Luke got out, even his mental voice sounding breathless, just before it lunged.
He jumped out of the way, desperation propelling him a good ten metres away from its grey, rotting teeth. Its maw barrelled into the sand instead. He lit his lightsaber, spun it—the whir it made was soothing, somehow, helped him focus—and ran at it.
It yanked its head out of the sand to glare at him with its tiny, beady eye. The next spew of acid it shot out, Luke punched right back at it, trying to splatter it on the soft tissue of its tongue and gums, but it snapped its mouth shut, closed its eyes. They shut like blast doors, three layers of armour folding over the fragile goo. It spewed at him again.
Luke didn't bother deflecting. He leapt, out of the way, and landed on its head.
It roared again, the sound shaking through him. He clung to one of the spines on the back of its head, hand straining. Spun his lightsaber in his grip again, the green blade as refreshing and relieving to his eyes as grass in the desert, and plunged it into its skull.
The blade bounced off the hide like a toothpick off durasteel. Startled, the lightsaber clattered out of his hand; Luke summoned it back a heartbeat later, but that moment of distraction cost him. The dragon bucked. He fell off, tumbling down its back. Its tail swung around to catch him across the torso and send him flying.
At least the sand cushioned his fall. He spat it out of his mouth and scrambled to his feet—his clothes were not doing a good job of keeping it out anymore—before the dragon descended on him again.
His lightsaber flew into his hand again. As the maw came down, he rolled out of the way, faster than this dragon was clearly used to its prey moving, and brought the lightsaber down on the side of its mouth.
Again, it bounced clean off.
Too late, he realised his father was nattering advice straight into his brain, as if Luke had the mental capacity to split his attention like that. Krayt dragon armour is impervious to lightsabers, my son, do not waste your time on fighting it with that—
I kriffing noticed!
He rolled out of the way of the next strike, panicking. It lunged after him, its front legs actually leaving the ground and booming back down when it landed. Ripples thundered through the sand. Luke gaze stilled for a moment on the thick, dark scales around its ankles. All four of them were rubbed red-grey and raw, oozing something like blood.
His distraction cost him. Its teeth closed around Luke's cape; it strangled him for several long seconds before he yanked it off and let the dragon retreat with its prize.
It did not look happy when it realised it had grabbed the wrapping, not the meat inside.
Do not demean yourself like this.
Huh? What?
Your powers are unparalleled. This is likely the krayt dragon that recently graced Jabba's halls before it escaped. Any beast that can be tamed by the assortment of fools and degenerates who make up that court will be no match for you.
The tail swung around again and matched him. It thumped him across the chest, sending him flying into the sand, stunned. All he could do for precious seconds was stare up at the sky, as blue as his old lightsaber.
Use your hatred. Corrupt your lightsaber. Turn the full might of the dark side of the Force against your attacker and triumph.
I thought Jabba had a rancor, Luke grumbled and got to his feet.
Then you should research your foes more carefully. Draw your lightsaber. Do not lose this—
The acid spray took him by surprise. He only narrowly deflected it. The sand beside him melted into unappealing sludge.
He leapt to his feet. Stop distracting me, bastard!
Do not use such inappropriate—
When the krayt snapped at him again, he slashed his lightsaber into its mouth. Its tongue wasn't armoured the way the rest of it was; it howled and reared back, glaring at him.
It wasn't uncommon knowledge that the only reliable way to kill a krayt dragon was to get inside it, attack its insides instead of the thick armour, like planting a detonator in the soft body of a slave. That was how hunters who coveted the pearl it produced in its stomach got at it. Most of them sent in droids, but a few dived in themselves, emerging from the corpse victorious with a hard white prize in their fist. Krayts were meant to be the only creature with that sort of prize at their centre, and it made them targets. They needed that tough skin.
Luke couldn't escape this thing on foot, and it wouldn't stop attacking him, it seemed; the only way to end this would be to enter it. Carve it open.
He was not doing that.
He ran.
This thing was Jabba's? he asked. How did Jabba control this thing?
It was gaining on him, snapping at his heels. His heart thundered in his chest. The homestead was right up ahead of him, he just needed to get inside, get into the bunker and it wouldn't be able to get him, but the closer he got the faster that thing moved, shooting through the sand like a ship through hyperspace. He could sense its rage, animalistic and simple but so vibrant—sense it mounting with every step, every scratch of sand against its claws.
It flung acid at him. He sucked in a breath and jumped. The circular pit at the heart of his homestead welcomed him.
He landed in a crouch, something crunching underneath him—bone, but not his bone. The acid splattered the wall above his head. He glanced down and nearly gagged. He was crouching ankle-deep in shavit.
A quick look around the homestead confirmed. The whole exposed area was covered in piles of shavit, dotted through with small animals' bones. It stank of excretion, rot, and blood.
Everything clicked.
The krayt dragon screamed again. Luke ran, diving for the bunker room Aunt Beru had always kept separate. It was in her and Uncle Owen's old bedroom: he fumbled for the door and scrambled inside—the place had been ransacked by Jawas, no surprise there, it was empty—and banged on the secret door. It slid open at his touch. He dove in and locked himself there.
The whole building shuddered as the dragon rammed the wall, but the foundations were firm. Luke took in a deep breath, breathing nothing but musty air and the shavit still on his lovely new boots, and let himself sink to the floor.
That thing was Jabba's? he asked again, much calmer this time.
Naturally. I fail to understand your preoccupation with this. It was one of the animals he used to torture prisoners with before escaping—a barbaric practise for a barbaric leader. Have you killed it yet?
Shut up. Luke closed his eyes. Took in a deep breath. The krayt dragon was still thumping, thumping, thumping, trying to force its way in, to eat him. No, not eat him. Just kill him. The bunker walls held firm.
He reached out to touch its mind, hesitant.
The emotions that slammed into him were overpowering. He wondered if that was where the conception that non-sentient animals didn't feel as complexly as sentients did came from. The sheer power of them overwhelmed him, instinct and reason battling in a cacophony of fury. But anger was not the main thing Luke sense from this krayt dragon. The main thing he felt was fear.
She was afraid.
This bunker was meant for escaped slaves. A stopover on their long journey to freedom, so they could heal and recuperate. The dragon still moved slowly for her kind, on limbs raw and bloodied from her captivity. She had found an empty nest and had made it her sanctuary, and then Luke—another human—had come to find her there.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he murmured through the door. He sent the words pulsing through the Force. The thumps, the sand shivering from the ceiling to fall in fine mists on his hair and outfit, ceased. "I don't want to drive you away. I want to help you."
Her mind was as deep as a Jundland cave, darker and more secretive the deeper he probed. But he tried to send calming pulses anyway.
"Can I heal you?" he asked.
Whatever you are doing, Luke, I can sense that you are no longer fighting it. Have you decided to lie down and be eaten? You must fight. You must draw on the dark side and embrace your destiny.
"I know what it's like to be hunted as well," Luke said, a little bitterly. "Will you let me help you?"
She drew back from him, distrusting. She couldn't see him. He picked up one of the medkits stored in here, opened the door, sand rustling down onto him again, and crept out through the bedroom. In the courtyard, she had curled herself up in her nest. The dark brown scales on her back, gritty with dust, sand, and grime, nonetheless shone in the noonday sun.
Luke stepped out and spread his hands. "Will you let me heal you?" he repeated.
She watched him closely, but he sensed no backlash. He edged slowly, so slowly, towards the leg that was nearest to her, and opened the medkit. Soothing the limb with the Force so she didn't feel pain, he cleaned the wound and bandaged it. There were a sparse few bacta patches, but he wouldn't need that many, so he used them all before finally channelling the Force into her leg.
It didn't heal totally. He couldn't do that. There was so much he had to learn; he wasn't a full-fledged Jedi. Not yet.
But compassion was central to a Jedi's life.
She stirred, opening her blast door eyes to study him as he moved onto the next leg, shifting her healed leg. He sensed awe from her. It only increased when he handled the second leg, and the third, and the fourth, and then he was standing in front of her face, gazing into her sad, pained eyes.
"I'm sorry I hurt your tongue," he whispered. "May I take a look at it?"
Her jaw widened. The stench of her breath nearly knocked him over, but he held his nose and peered in. Her tongue, a massive, sticky, grey thing, had a dark red score from his lightsaber right across it.
What are you doing?
Climbing into the krayt dragon's mouth, Luke quipped back, enjoying getting the chance to use that idiom like this.
Vader's respond was excited and proud. To kill it?
The fact that was the first time Luke had sensed pride from his father both hurt and disturbed him, somehow.
He clambered up, past her thick, armoured lips. Her teeth guarded the entrance to the abyss like stalagmites, her gums rough under his boots. But he dropped down into the squelchy bottom of her mouth, took a breath, and tried not to imagine her closing her mouth behind him.
She did not.
He laid his hands on her tongue and healed it.
Once he was done, she flicked it experimentally. Saliva—not acidic, but with enough leftover acid from the earlier assaults to tingle and burn—splattered his place. He gagged, wiping it off, and climbed out again.
"Are you going to eat me now?"
She wasn't. He could tell. But she needed something to eat, anyway. These small animal skeletons at his feet couldn't have been sustaining her. She was massive. She needed so much more.
But he couldn't help for much longer; he needed to get back to Jabba's Palace, to rescue his friends, and get off-planet before Vader got rescued.
Perhaps…
He tilted his head back, shielding his eyes from the sun, and studied her.
"I bet you don't wanna go back," he said. "I don't want you to, either. If one of us has to, it's better me than you. But you need food, and I need help."
She cocked her head, staring at him.
Animal minds were strange, but he found he understood it implicitly. Instead of trying to describe it, he transmitted the image to her. Jabba's Palace, burning under the suns. All those people who'd laughed at her. All those people who'd kept others like her in chains. Teeth closing around all of them—a feast she would never forget, and freedom of the sort that the others would never regret.
Whatever language she spoke, he spoke it to her, feeling his connection to the Force bend to accommodate his friend's. Her agreement was hot and fierce, even if her courage was small. He couldn't blame her.
"We're powerful," he promised, reaching up to lay a hand on her snout. She lowered her head so he could. "Together, we can do this. I promise. You won't ever have to fear them again."
She hummed with satisfaction at that.
As he climbed up onto her back, clinging to her spines, ready for the fevered trip back to Jabba's Palace, he thought of Vader's offer. His father wanted him to join him in the darkness—to kill Jabba. To kill Palpatine. Any other masters they could find.
Luke wouldn't give up being a Jedi—interactions like this—for anything. But he wondered if Vader would join them in their charge, if he offered. If he would accept that compromise.
Perhaps krayt dragons weren't the only armoured beasts who had pearls in their hearts. He didn't know, but it was possible.
Perhaps he should find out.
