Healing
Chapter IV
''
The restlessness of the past nights and days had taken their toll. When Padmé woke up that morning, both suns were high in the sky.
She looked around at once for Anakin. He was not with her, although she vividly remembered going back to him in the garage and wrapping herself around him until sleep came. In fact, she was not in the garage at all. She was back in Beru's room and she was alone. She must have been moved; Anakin must have carried her from the garage. Padmé let herself imagine that: being cradled in his arms as he lifted her, her cheek against the not-soft, not-harsh cloth of his robe, his large hands holding her body to him. She sighed pensively; then she mentally shook herself in exasperation.
She was so tired of rationalizing her emotions.
Padmé's grandmother had taught her to take comfort in the soothing diversity of fabrics and the intricacies and symbolisms of garments; but today, her wardrobe mocked her. Red and grey were the colours for calamity, war and death. But Padmé had not allowed herself to anticipate a funeral and all she had were the multi-coloured velvets that had been selected arbitrarily two days ago in Naboo. In the end, she laid out one of her flight suits; it was the least complicated of her outfits and it was, at least, one colour.
When she got out of the fresher, she found a wooden comb under Beru's pillow and started detangling her hair. She had neglected it since her first night at Tatooine; then she had tried to distract herself during the futile wait for Anakin's return by brushing her hair until her arms ached. Afterwards, between the waiting the next day, his eventual return, his story, and the final testimony of her own eyes, she had had no time or thought to change her clothes to say nothing of touching her hair.
She was tugging through a thick knot when Beru entered the room.
"Let me," she said at once and Padmé gratefully conceded.
Beru freed the comb from the tangle and carefully kneaded Padmé's hair with her palms before she started combing.
"Where's … everyone?" Padmé whispered.
Beru looked at the back of her head. "Owen is not back from Anchorhead, he went off this morning to sell the vats. Father Cliegg is in Mother Shmi's room. He … it hasn't been easy." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Anakin is outside now. He brought you here this morning."
Padmé's head bent lower beneath Beru's comb. "How is … has he eaten anything?"
"Yes, with Father Cliegg and me… He asked for some wood … to carve her death mask."
Padmé's head jerked and the comb tugged painfully through a knot. Beru made the hairdresser's universal wordless murmur, that sound that somehow managed to be both rebuke and apology. They relapsed into silence.
''
Padmé had such lovely hair, Beru thought with a little envy. Long hair was rare in Tatooine; the dry climate made tresses brittle. And, as Beru's mother would constantly remind her, even when you managed to grow it long, it was still not practical to keep it. The air in Naboo must be heavy with water to be able to allow such luxuriant growth.
She told Padmé as much as she smoothed out the dark curls.
"That's why my hair is always in these plaits," Beru explained. "I suppose I'll cut it short eventually. But every now and then, just before the harvest when the nights are warm with vapour, I like watching Owen's face when I let it down."
Padmé giggled. It sounded stifled, as if it was not a sound that her lungs had much practice in making.
"I could weave up your hair as well," Beru offered impulsively. "To keep it safe from the dust and the dryness. You should have kept it covered all the while, in fact. You're really lucky that your hair is so strong."
It was only Padmé's ingrained manners that prevented her from declaring petulantly that at this moment, she did not care if every single strand of hair fell out of her scalp. Instead she thanked Beru and sat patiently until the last curl of hair was tucked into the complicated style.
When she finished, Beru fetched her small hand mirror and the two girls stared and blinked in surprise at their reflections.
With their similar delicate features and matching braids; and the aesthetic contrast between Beru's dark skin and pale hair and Padmé's pale skin and dark hair, they looked like inverted matching images - or they might have been sisters.
"Eirtaé," Padmé said softly. She tentatively touched her coils and her face lit up with pleasure. "Thank you."
Beru's eyes twinkled. "See?" she said rhetorically. "Every strand accounted for. Anakin will be pleased."
Padmé coloured and Beru laughed.
''
By the time Owen got home, he had decided what to do. It was remarkably simple really and once he had made up his mind, a bizarre sensation of complete emotional imperviousness seemed to take over his spirits. His mind worked completely and clearheadedly towards his goal.
First of all, he would need some help, specifically help in the person of -
"Threepio, could you come down for a minute."
Not exactly a person.
"Yes, of course, Master Owen," the droid said with no small relief, and it started its careful descent down the ladder of the vaparator. Threepio disliked physical labour of any variety. "How may I be of service?"
"Where's everyone?"
"In the house, sir, unless I am very much mistaken."
Perfect. Unless Father or Anakin came upon them suddenly, this was as good a time as ever.
"Threepio, your recorder is still functional, isn't it?"
"But, of course, Master Owen," the droid said, with pride. "My audio circuits are in top functional condition, my receiver has tuning capacities to receive and transmit sounds of multi-frequency capabilities and my audio log program is -"
"Threepio."
"Yes, Master Owen?"
"Shut up."
"Of course, Master Owen."
''
Through the kitchen window, Beru looked into the rock garden and observed the prone sitting figures of Padmé and Anakin Skywalker. They talked very little, mostly just leaned against each other silently as Anakin worked on the piece of wood in his hand. Feeling like a spy, Beru drew away from the window.
A few minutes later, she heard them descending down the steps into the house. They both looked calmer and more at peace than Beru had seen so far, although that was not saying much. Anakin gave her a brief nod as he passed by on his way to Father Cliegg's room. Padmé came to meet her.
"I'm ready."
"Are you sure you want to come?" Beru asked her again. "Father Cliegg usually accompanies me."
"I need to do something," Padmé said simply.
Beru led her to the large cupboard in the corridor where they kept the few tools they used in the house. She opened it, pulled out a blaster rifle and handed it to Padmé.
"No one goes weeding in the mornings again," Beru said matter-of-factly, "or alone or unarmed."
Padmé nodded as she swung the strap of the rifle over her shoulder in a way that showed she was used to handling that kind of weapon. Pleased, Beru turned back to the cupboard; she took a rifle for herself, two sunhats, the few tools that were not on the farm and shut the cupboard door. "Okay, let's go."
They were on their way out of the house when the jingle of the force-field barrier sounded. They literally bumped into Owen at the steps; off-balanced, Beru flailed until he caught hold of her and held unto her tightly. Very tightly. For an unnecessarily long time.
"Ow," she said finally, more for Padmé's sake than her own.
"Sorry," he said and let her go.
She stepped back, blushing a bit and smiling. Her smile almost immediately dissolved into a frown when she took in the expression on his face. Or rather, the lack of expression. Owen had the most open, most honest face that she knew. It was shuttered, now, closed off and secretive.
Something was wrong.
"Owen, what's-?" she began.
"Where's Anakin?" He asked abruptly.
"He's with Father Cliegg," she replied at once. "Owen-?" she tried again.
Owen turned quickly to Padmé. "Good-day, Miss." He slanted a deliberate glance at Beru.
Her mouth thinned ominously but she took the hint and stopped pressing. For now.
"How was town, today?" She asked, instead.
The shutters seemed to close further. Whatever was the matter?
"Fine," Owen said in an inscrutable voice. "I'd better let Anakin know that I'm back. He's been waiting for me." Moving very quickly, he walked down the steps and disappeared into the house.
Beru stared after him, still frowning. He had walked funny, his arm tucked into his side as if he was trying to hide something.
"What is it?" Padmé asked, a look of concern on her face. She, too, must have noticed Owen's strangeness.
Beru shook her head worriedly. "I don't know." She hesitated for a few moments, then she shrugged. He'll tell me when he's good and ready. "There's work to do. Let's go."
''
There was plenty of work to do. After weeding the vaparators, the two young women cleaned out each filter and re-configured the monitoring equipment. It was hard, numbing work done under the blazing hot suns and it was just what Padmé needed. It was only when the whine of the repulsors heralded Father Cliegg's approach that Beru insisted on a break (otherwise, as she said, Father Cliegg would insist on helping them and tire himself out). The three of them went out of the heat and into the control room where Padmé listened quietly to Father Cliegg and Beru discussing plans for the farm and something about the yearly overhaul to be done the next day. Feeling antsy, she finally wandered off ("Not too far where we can't see you." Beru and Father Cliegg ordered). With that internal magnet that seemed to have developed in her these past few days, Padmé somehow found herself within viewing distance of the Lars' burial site - and Anakin.
Anakin had removed his cloak and his over shirt and if Padmé squinted, it almost seemed that he was wearing a darker version of Owen's farmer clothes. At the moment, Owen was leaning against his shovel, not exactly catching his breath but taking a rest all the same. Anakin jumped into the hole and started shovelling out the sand. She could see from the steady motion on Owen's face that they were talking hard.
Padmé removed her sunhat and made herself as comfortable as she could on the sandy ground.
A familiar whirring, stirring noise came up from behind her. She turned around to see the protocol droid shuffling slowly towards her. She smiled. Beru and Father Cliegg had probably sent him.
"Hello, Threepio," she called.
"Miss Padmé," the droid said in its characteristic perpetually surprised voice. "I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, Miss."
"That's okay, Threepio," she said fondly. "I'm glad of your company."
The droid shuffled to stand beside her and bent its mechanical neck to look down at the men beneath them.
"Did you know that Miss Akia and Miss Aki are buried beneath those markers?" Threepio asked.
Padmé turned to look at the droid. "No. Who are they?"
"Master Owen's mother and his baby sister. Miss Akia died during childbirth and Miss Aki a few weeks later."
So Cliegg Lars was now twice widowed. And Owen had lost two mothers. Padmé's eyes filled; she blinked blindly at the hot desert glare.
"Miss Padmé, are you alright?"
She opened her mouth to speak and quickly covered it with her hand.
"Oh, dear, oh dear, I am terribly sorry, Miss. I have upset you, haven't I? Forgive me, Miss? I did not mean -"
Almost despite herself, Padmé laughed. The mechanical fretting voice was too intrinsically comical to resist. She removed her wet hand from her face. "Threepio, you haven't offended me in the least."
The protocol droid was not convinced. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" He wailed. "I don't know what to do anymore! I came to ask you for assistance and now I have alarmed you."
"You haven't alarmed me in the least, Threepio," Padmé said more firmly, and more loudly over the droid's monologue.
"Oh Miss Padmé, are you quite sure?" He wailed plaintively.
"Positive. So what is this assistance you need from me?" she asked, curiously. "How can I be of service?" she added with a small smile.
It took a little while longer to calm the droid down. But when she finally succeeded, Threepio sighed loudly and mechanically and finally declared:
"Well, perhaps, Miss Padmé, we'd best go inside."
Those were the exact same words he had used when Anakin had inquired about Shmi. Suddenly no longer amused, Padmé jumped to her feet and followed the shuffling droid.
''
Bits and pieces of his conversation with Anakin echoed in Owen's mind as he made his way to the house. It was strange to finally realize just how much and for how long he had resented, albeit subconsciously, the phantom image of Anakin Skywalker for what Owen had always understood as the other boy's abandoning of Mother Shmi. A part of him, Owen admitted, would probably always resent Anakin for that. But he understood Anakin better now. Understood now, on so many levels, that the pull of duty sometimes took you away from the people you loved. Just as Anakin had left his Mother in order to be a position to help her, so now would the need to protect his family take Owen from them.
He hoped Anakin would take their offer and stay on. Anakin was needed more here than for any abstract purposes in the galaxy. And the ultimate reason why Anakin was training to be a Jedi - for his mother - no longer existed.
As Owen had anticipated, the house was empty. Beru would be checking the filters now; he had noticed Padmé watching them digging and she had probably gone to Anakin after Owen left. Threepio was nowhere in sight but Owen had given the droid specific orders; Threepio knew from (harsh) experience better than to break them.
He had the house entirely to himself.
The sensation of surrealism, of not being entirely 'there' was stronger now. Owen wandered through the house slowly, remembering, committing to memory. The brick walls were cool to his touch. There was the water mark on the kitchen west wall that demarcated between his handiwork and his father's - they had painted the anti-solar varnish on it together when Owen was twelve. A black ink line that ran from the side of the large window, five feet from the floor, was where Shmi had marked his height on his fourteenth birthday.
He was standing stood in front of his room - when did I get there? - and staring at the carved scribblings on the cemento-ash door. Jen had carved them when he was ten: "Owen loves Jen." She had invited a group of her friends over and told them he actually wrote it. Their merciless teasing had pushed Owen out of the month's silence he had kept after his mother's death. All of ten, with fury twice his size, he had indiscriminately ordered each and every one of them out of his house and had enforced it with the carving knife he had grappled from Jen. When Father had come home that night, instead of the whipping Owen expected, his Father had curtly informed him that Jen would be staying with them for the rest of the season and Owen would be entirely in her care.
Owen smiled now. At that moment in time, he had felt his Father was giving him the worse punishment.
He opened the door finally and stepped inside, walking with the same strange lack of coordination to the other side of the room, he sat heavily on his bed. His eyes wandered around the room: a holo of his mother, the blanket he had owned since his earliest memories, his father's old cloak, a battered pair of sandball gloves - a gift from Shmi and a sport he had only taken up after Shollie Dorr had informed him that Beru Whitesun liked sandball players - the pen knife he had kept from the scuffle with Jen, the pipe that Nathan Kendall had given him on his sixteenth birthday…
, the blood-stained tunic he had removed earlier…
The memories washed over him and he let them. There was no hurry. He had nothing of his that he intended to take along with him; not even a loose piece of thread would follow him into slavery.
He reached into his sleeve and touched the loan shark's bite. It had stopped throbbing long before he got home; it had barely even bled, in fact. He absentmindedly rubbed the tender skin now.
He had fallen completely into a state of semi-stupor when someone knocked on the door.
tbc