Written for Angstober Days 20: Death's Companion and 29: Sand Towers


Building sandcastles with his grandma was a habit that Luke had picked up as a child, when he'd first noticed that someone was leaving toy ships for him to play with at her grave, and he'd never really stopped. She was a great help, sending him love and playful affection whenever he pulled off a particularly elaborate design, or whipping up tiny flurries of wind to demolish them when it was time for them to fall.

He helped direct her, and together they stampeded through the kingdoms they built together, wind tearing the sand through his hair and clothes, until Aunt Beru would find him, tut, and brush his hair for hours until it was all gone. But he always left one—a tiny construction that imitated the homestead—next to her grave, shielded by the gravestone, for her to enjoy overnight. She needed somewhere to sleep, had been his young logic, and then he kept doing it until he forgot why.

It meant that when the homestead had been crushed by a booted foot one morning, he noticed. Noticed, and frowned.

His first instinct had been to accuse Uncle Owen. He'd been curter that day than usual, giving Luke a dismissive look and telling him to stop playing; he had chores to do. But Luke pushed, until Owen saw he was genuinely upset, at which point he reigned in his temper and assured him, brusquely and frankly, that he had not visited Ma's grave in over a week.

That was true, Luke knew, so he let it go. He went to do his chores—but not before rebuilding grandma's homestead and giving her a few more buildings, for fun. Aunt Beru had brought him back another plant pot from Anchorhead market that morning, smiling, and she'd smiled wider when he immediately took it up to show Grandma Shmi. He built a great palace around it, with the plant as the ancient tree at its centre, like in fantastical stories he'd read about temples and kingdoms and knights.

The next morning, the homestead was in one piece, but the palace had boot prints tramping all over it. The plant had been knocked over.

It wasn't Uncle Owen—he'd gone to bed early, too tired to stay up with Beru and Luke and make biscuits. It definitely wasn't Aunt Beru. So, when Beru and Owen said goodnight to him and shut the power down, he waited until they were asleep, then dug up his glowrod and crept out to visit his grandma's grave in the dead of night.

The desert was frigid. He wrapped his poncho around his shoulders and shivered, but forged on, sand scratching in his slippers. His efforts were rewarded: there was a man standing at his grandmother's grave.

Before he could say anything, a voice boomed out: "Leave, child."

Luke's light shivered—or maybe that was his hand shaking. He didn't leave. Instead, he jutted out his chin. "You're the one who's been crushing my sand towers?"

"They are petty and childish. You are surely too old to desecrate a grave with such disrespectful games."

Luke stepped forwards. "She likes them. We build them together—she tells me what she's imagining, and I make it. Then we destroy them together, but I leave one up for her. You don't need to crush them." He saw the plant had been tipped over again under the man's foot. The pot had cracked, even, and soil spilled into the sand. "That's her present!"

"What?"

"The plant!"

"Your sentiment is unwelcome. You have no place here."

"This is my home."

"And this is my mother. Go back to your bed and forget she exists. She is nothing to you."

Luke glowered. "She's my grandmother."

"Lars was no son of hers. But your parents will surely grieve if they find you slaughtered here tomorrow morning because you tested my ire too thoroughly."

"They're not my parents, they're my aunt and uncle!" Luke snapped. "My father was Anakin Skywalker. She's my grandmother."

The man paused.

He turned towards Luke, and Luke lifted his glowrod so he could see his face. It wasn't a face. It was a mask, of black plasteel with red lenses, and behind those red lenses, two irises burned like the suns at dawn. They glowered at Luke, studying him, before softening imperceptibly.

Luke didn't wait for him to speak. He knelt at the grave and gathered sand into a pile. As he worked and shaped it by the gleaming light of the rod, he felt the man's gaze on his back.

"What are you doing?" he asked at last, haltingly.

Luke folded sand into a tower. "Making a new place for her to stay."

He didn't know what shape this was, but he was used to his grandma feeding him shapes, so he followed it. But this didn't seem like something she would have known—it was a tall, two-pronged tower, pointed at the top, with bridges and lava flows around it. The image that rang in his mind was chilling. He made it dutifully, but…

The man beside him staggered back when he saw it finished. "What is that?" he asked, the sharpness in his tone returning.

"A new sandcastle."

"That is not a place for your grandmother to be, child," the man said. "If these are places for her to call home, she would not enjoy living there."

"You destroyed her other home," Luke said matter-of-factly. "She can't be picky."

The man stared down at Luke, then the castle. Luke did get a bad feeling about it, if he were honest. A cold desert wind swept through, almost malicious in its intent, and the castle exploded into it.

The man knelt next to Luke. "She can be," he said. "I will help you build a better home."

"Alright, uncle," Luke said. He rolled his eyes a little, but got to work. That was two destroyed castles, now.

"Uncle?" Vader stiffened.

"You said you were her son. You must be a brother of my dad's. I never met you, but—"

"No, Luke. I am not your uncle."

"I never told you my name."

"No," he agreed. "You didn't."

When he reached out his hands to gather sand, Luke was startled by how big they were. Big, metal, and incredibly strong. But they were good for building with.