AUTHOR'S NOTE: This one is from Beru's perspective. Again, me and my artsy metaphors.


With hybrids, and wolf-dogs, it is always a question of which genetic competitor will win out: canis familiaris or canis lupus? Even pups of the same litter will vary wildly in their temperament. The desert dwellers of Tattooine know well this gamble when their stock has mixed with the wolves that roam the plains of the desert. One could just as easily get man's best friend as they could get a monster.

There is one thing one can never trust. And that is the temperament of these hybrids.

And now, there's a wolf-dog in Beru's entryway, led along by its mad master. Its body is scored and ravaged, particularly its belly, blood oozing from a gash hidden beneath the layers of bandaging. Its lips are crusted with dried rabid froth, and its natural eyes seem to glow supernatural gold when cast in the shadows of the night.

The master begs her, entreats her to help, to aid, and to give shelter.

Help to the wolf that went mad? Aid to the wolf that raged and slaughtered its fellows? Shelter to the wolf who would've slain the young one that lies oblivious beyond the doorway in its bed?!

She'll sooner burn than allow it!

The wolf was once more friend than brutish beast; she knew it when it was but an adolescent, awkward and gangly, just coming into its strength. It had been a beautiful creature, all tawny and tempestuous. But now, it is nothing but ragged and piteous, its once gleaming frame gone dark and lank.

It limps and leans upon its master, its breaths lengthening into a continuous whine. It looks as wretched as it does powerless. But Beru is no fool. It could still tear out their throats like it had so many before.

Its master begs them to listen, even as her husband's blaster takes aim at his throat.

It is then that a piercing cry wails in her ears, and her eyes widen.

This is impossible!

And yet it is not.

There is another young one, cradled in the crook of its master's arm, all wrapped in rough blankets.

The mutilated beast straightens at the sound, focus drawn to the squalling creature. A soft keening echoes from the wolf's throat as it turns to weakly nuzzle the blanket that engulfs the young being. She cannot believe that the master allows it. But allow it, he does. The keening sound it emits is no cry of pain; it is a melody, she realizes, such as a ruined throat can carry. It sounds, dare she think it, nurturing, paternal.

Tentatively, the old man holds out the bundle, offering it to them and the sight of their eyes.

It is then that all becomes clear: it is not for the wolf's sake that the master pleads; it is for the wolf's offspring, the impossible new life that whimpers in his embrace. She is sent back suddenly to a burning night many moons before when another squalling babe was laid in her arms.

Beru's heart melts like wax beneath the white sun for which she was named.

And suddenly, she understands. The master can no more abandon its charge than she could refuse the children the old man has twice now laid at her feet. And so, with a steadying hand upon Owen's shoulder, she takes the bundle and allows the pair to melt back into the darkness.

The last thing she sees are tears glistening in blue eyes, eyes that look back longingly over its shoulder as the dog limps away until its shadow is consumed by the night.


END NOTES: If this is worth continuing in this style, let me know. This is an experimental thing I'm working on, so lemme know. I just threw this here because I was messing around with it and thought it better to post than leave it to die in my brain.