Disclaimer: Star Wars and all its merchandise does not belong to me. Yet.
When he was young and dreaming still, in the lazy days of youth, he used to imagine that he would go off one day and save the galaxy.
He sits there, hair tousled, eyes glazed, as fantastic adventures blaze through his head, images of himself, rugged, tall, handsome, with a beautiful girl at his side and admiration from everyone else giving him courage to go on and do the impossible.
He doodles, catching the attention of his instructors, who keep him after to write sentences proclaiming he will never draw again, and then, upon seeing the subject of the picture, they call in his guardians.
Uncle Owen is furious, Aunt Beru pale, calm, and contemplative. He sits there, wondering why he's in trouble for what he drew, rather than the fact that he'd been drawing in class and not paying attention to his lessons.
"I want you to put these visions out of your head once and for all Luke," Uncle Owen snaps, exasperated, weatherworn and tired. "They'll bring you nothing but trouble."
And Aunt Beru pleads, eyes full of some nameless and unexplained worry, "Please, Luke."
They might as well have asked the suns to stop scorching the Tatooine desert.
He restrains himself, if only for the desperation in their eyes, because he doesn't want his loved ones to worry. He does not doodle in class anymore and he tries desperately to banish himself of visions of flashing swords and space battles.
The instructors are pleased with his progress and they leave him alone. His guardians relax and give him encouraging smiles that say, "See? That wasn't all that hard now was it?"
But in the end, it is useless.
He learns to fly soon after and it adds to his problem. He dreams now of having his own space fighter, of blasting away from his planet and taking down the enemy. He imagines himself swooping in to save the day at the last moment, calm and confident, the last hope for everything. He grins as he imagines the stunned looks on his friends' faces, of the sure respect they'll have to accord him. He longs for the proud glance of his guardians, who frown on this essential part of his being.
He digs out the doodle and he stares at it one day after he's been punished for wrecking his first speeder. He wonders again why they won't let him fly, what they're afraid of, why they're holding him back.
He knows deep down that they love him, but he knows they fear something too.
He had hoped, as they had, that he would stop dreaming as he grew up. But that too, was unattainable.If anything, the dreaming gets worse as he gets older. He becomes more and more restless, gaze landing on the twin suns as they set, as he tries to figure out exactly who he is.
He does not stop to consider the possibility that he will never fully know the answer to that question.
He hides the doodle in a different place soon after, resigned to the fact that he'll never know why the image of a cloaked figure with a mask and blade caused so much uproar when he was a child.
Bright innocent blue eyes seek to find the truth and fail.
And once more, he falls into his dreams, waiting impatiently for the day when they will become reality, never dreaming of what they will bring.