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Date : 30 November 2024

Chapter 2: Echoes of the Force

Jedi Temple, Coruscant

Anakin Skywalker sat in quiet contemplation on the balcony of the Jedi Temple, the vibrant cityscape of Coruscant stretching endlessly before him. The hum of air traffic and distant chatter of the bustling metropolis were muffled against the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind.

It wasn't the first time he'd found himself here, grappling with memories he wasn't supposed to hold onto. Memories of her.

Mom.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and let the Force guide him back to the vision he had almost buried. It had been nearly a year since he'd felt it—sharp and vivid—like a dagger thrust into his chest. A vision of his mother in pain, her voice crying out, echoing in the depths of his mind.

At the time, he had tried to dismiss it. Force visions could be unreliable, after all, and they were often interpreted as warnings, not certainties. The Jedi Code had been his anchor—his reminder to let go of attachments, to trust the will of the Force. And yet, no matter how many times he repeated the teachings, the ache in his heart had remained.

"I should have gone," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

He had told himself that if the vision were urgent, the Force would guide him further. But after that single, harrowing glimpse, nothing came. No follow-up, no clarity. It was as if the Force had silenced itself, leaving him in limbo. Maybe it wasn't a warning after all, he had rationalized. Maybe it was a test.

Even now, he tried to convince himself it had been the right decision. His duties as a Jedi left no room for personal attachments. And yet, as he sat there, he wondered: Had the Force tested me, or had I failed it?

A small, selfish part of him wished he could go to Tatooine now, under the guise of investigating this "Fox Lord." But no. The Council would never approve a mission based on a personal vendetta. Besides, he had no reason to believe his mother was in danger anymore. The vision had come and gone, and surely, if she were still at risk, the Force would tell him.

She's fine, he told himself, repeating it like a mantra. She has to be.

He took a deep breath, centering himself. The late admission to the Jedi Order had always set him apart from the others. He had been forced to work harder, to prove himself more than the others did. The rules were everything to him—a way to bridge the gap between himself and those who had been raised in the Temple since infancy.

Letting go of his mother had been the hardest test of all. He'd told himself that he'd succeeded. I've done what the Jedi say. I've let go. But deep down, he knew it wasn't entirely true. He had buried those feelings, yes, but they still lived within him, as strong as ever.

It was while he was in thoughts when Obi-Wan Kenobi strode through the halls of the Jedi Temple, his usual calm demeanor unshaken despite the undercurrent of unease he felt emanating from his Padawan. Anakin was strong in the Force, a natural prodigy, but his emotions often rippled through it like waves, easily sensed by those attuned to him.

As he approached the balcony, Obi-Wan paused, observing his apprentice sitting silently, lost in thought. The young man's posture was slouched, his hands clasped together as he stared out at the Coruscant skyline. It wasn't often that Anakin allowed his guard down, but Obi-Wan recognized this particular kind of brooding. He had seen it before, every time the name Tatooine was mentioned in the past few days.

With a sigh, Obi-Wan stepped forward. "Penny for your thoughts, my young Padawan?"

Anakin glanced up, startled out of his reverie. "Oh. Master." He sat up straighter, forcing a mask of composure that Obi-Wan could see right through.

"Don't bother," Obi-Wan said lightly, leaning against the railing beside him. "I can feel your distress as plainly as I can see it. The Force is practically humming with it."

Anakin's jaw tightened. "I'm fine."

Obi-Wan arched an eyebrow. "A Jedi must strive for honesty, even with themselves. Something is troubling you, Anakin, and I think we both know what it is."

Anakin hesitated, the conflict playing out on his face. "It's... nothing I can change, Master. Just old memories."

"Tatooine," Obi-Wan said gently.

The name hung in the air, and for a moment, Anakin didn't respond. When he finally did, his voice was strained. "I've done what the Jedi taught me. I've let go of attachments. Or I've tried to. But sometimes... I can't help but wonder. What if I'd gone back? Just once? What if I'd ignored the rules and checked on her?"

Obi-Wan folded his arms, considering his response carefully. He didn't claim to understand the bond between Anakin and his mother. Obi-Wan himself had been raised in the Temple, never knowing his family. There was no parental attachment for him to compare it to. But as a Jedi Master, he understood that such feelings, however natural, were dangerous.

"You were right to trust in the Force," Obi-Wan said finally. "We cannot allow ourselves to be ruled by what-ifs. The Jedi Code teaches us to let go for a reason. Holding onto attachments clouds our judgment and pulls us away from our greater purpose."

Anakin's lips pressed into a thin line. "It's not that simple."

"No, it isn't," Obi-Wan admitted. "But it's what's expected of us. And if you're struggling, you must acknowledge it rather than suppress it. Only then can you find balance."

Anakin looked away, his hands tightening into fists. Obi-Wan decided to shift the conversation slightly.

"Speaking of Tatooine," Obi-Wan said, adopting a more formal tone, "the Council has been discussing the recent developments there. You're aware of the Senate's interest in this 'Fox Lord.'"

Anakin nodded. "I heard they're calling him a liberator."

Obi-Wan gave a faint smile. "Liberator or opportunist, the Senate has chosen a cautious approach. They believe acting too early might provoke the Hutts into joining the Separatists. For now, their decision is to wait and see."

Anakin frowned. "Wait and see? So they're just going to do nothing?"

"Not exactly. The Senate has authorized a ground mission to assess the situation," Obi-Wan explained. "They want a clearer picture of what this so-called 'Free Tatooine' looks like under the Fox Lord's rule. Is it truly better than it was under the Hutts, or simply chaos dressed as order?"

"And we're not part of this mission?" Anakin asked, his tone sharp with disappointment.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "The Council doesn't believe it's necessary to send Jedi just yet. This will be handled by neutral observers—spies, if you prefer. We'll monitor their findings and determine the best course of action from there."

Anakin stood, pacing along the balcony. "So we just sit here while someone else decides the fate of an entire planet?"

"The fate of Tatooine has never been in our hands, Anakin," Obi-Wan said firmly. "You must remember your role. The galaxy is vast, and the Jedi cannot intervene in every conflict."

"That doesn't make it any easier," Anakin muttered, his frustration barely contained.

Obi-Wan placed a hand on his shoulder. "No, it doesn't. But we must trust in the will of the Force. And in the meantime, focus on the battles we can fight."

Anakin nodded reluctantly, though the tension in his posture didn't ease. Obi-Wan could sense the storm of emotions still swirling within him, but for now, he let it rest. The Council's plan might not sit well with Anakin, but it was the best way forward, at least until the Fox Lord's true intentions became clear.

For now, their attention needed to be elsewhere.

"Speaking of battles we can fight," Obi-Wan continued, shifting the conversation, "Commander Cody and the others are already preparing for our departure. The situation on Christophsis is escalating, and the Council has deemed it critical that we intervene. The Separatists are fortifying their presence, and we'll need to push them back if we want to secure that system."

Anakin's expression softened slightly, the mention of action pulling him out of his brooding. "Cody's already waiting for us?"

Obi-Wan nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Patiently, for now. Though I suspect he's wondering if we've forgotten about him. He's had the men running drills since dawn. They're eager to move."

"Good," Anakin said, his voice steadying. "So am I."

Obi-Wan studied him for a moment before speaking again, his tone softer now. "Anakin, I know you're restless, and I know the situation on Tatooine weighs on you more than you're willing to admit. The Force may not give us all the answers, but it can help bring clarity to our emotions."

Anakin glanced at him, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

Obi-Wan gestured toward the meditation chamber just beyond the balcony. "Why don't we meditate together? It might help settle your thoughts before we leave. Balance is key, especially in the chaos of war."

Anakin hesitated, clearly torn. Meditation was never his favorite practice, he preferred action, movement, anything but sitting still. Yet, Obi-Wan's offer carried a weight of sincerity that was hard to refuse.

"Alright," Anakin said finally, his voice quieter now. "But only if you promise not to lecture me about patience the whole time."

Obi-Wan chuckled, placing a guiding hand on Anakin's back as they walked inside. "I'll do my best. No promises, though."

Mos Espa, Tatooine

The sun's relentless heat bore down on the crowded streets of Mos Espa as Shmi Skywalker made her way through the market. She adjusted her headscarf to shield herself from the glare, her woven basket balanced on her hip. The air was filled with the familiar sounds of traders haggling, droids beeping, and the occasional outburst of frustration. It was noisy, chaotic yet normal.

But for Shmi, the bustling streets often brought memories, and today, they crept up on her unexpectedly. As she passed by a junk shop that reminded her of Watto's, the weight of her past came rushing back, vivid and bittersweet.

She had lived a harsh life, one defined by endurance and acceptance. Having spent most of her life as a slave, enduring as best she could. Born to a life of servitude, she had grown up knowing what it meant to belong to someone else. Being sold into slavery wasn't a fate she chose, but one she accepted because there was no alternative. Tatooine was harsh, and its masters harsher. Yet, even in the harshest circumstances, life had given her a gift, a miracle, really.

Anakin.

She still remembered the moment she held him for the first time, her "gift of the desert," as she had called him. The circumstances of his birth had been strange—there was no father, no explanation—but she hadn't cared. He was hers, and for the first time, she felt that the universe had granted her something truly precious.

When the Hutts lost her to Watto, she hadn't expected much better, but fate had been kinder than she anticipated. She wouldn't say Watto was kind, but compared to what she had seen of other slave masters, he wasn't as cruel as he could have been. Watto wasn't a good man, but he wasn't needlessly cruel either. He saw her and her son as property, but valuable property, and for that, she and Anakin had been spared some of the horrors that befell others. More importantly, he saw value in Anakin. That value kept them together, for which she was forever grateful.

Anakin had been so curious, such a clever child from early on. He picked things up faster than she thought possible. Whether it was fixing broken machines or understanding complex ideas, his mind was always racing ahead. She'd nurtured his spirit, guided his curiosity, and loved him fiercely. And somehow, despite everything, he had stayed with her. She wasn't sure if it was Watto's greed or something more that had kept them from being separated, but she thanked the stars for it every day.

Then, almost a decade ago, everything had changed.

The Jedi had come. A strange man with young woman and another alien in tow—a Jedi Master and his companions somehow had landed on desert planet. They had upended everything in a matter of days. It was like a whirlwind—the pod race, the negotiations, and finally, her son's liberation. Anakin was free.

Free.

The word had been like a song in her heart. What mother wouldn't rejoice at the thought of their child escaping slavery? He would have opportunities she could only dream of, a life beyond the confines of Tatooine's harsh sands. She could still feel the way her heart had leapt and broken in the same breath. Her son, liberated from the chains of slavery, destined for a life far beyond the sands of Tatooine.

But even as her heart soared, it broke. She knew freedom for Anakin meant separation from her. The farewell had been the hardest thing she'd ever done. She had hidden her tears when they said their goodbyes, smiling for him even though her chest felt as though it would shatter. She had watched him leave, his face alight with hope and wonder, and then she had cried for days after he was gone. The farm, the machines, even Watto's grumbling—all had felt emptier without him.

Life had gone on, though. It always did.

The years that followed had been quieter, filled with the routine of life under Watto's ownership. Until Cliegg Lars appeared. A kind farmer with a quiet determination, he had done what she thought impossible: he bought her freedom, giving her a chance at a life she had never thought possible. Their relationship grew naturally, and in time, she became part of his family. Becoming part of the Lars household had been an adjustment, but it was a happy one. Cliegg treated her with respect, and his son, Owen, had welcomed her in his own reserved way.

Life on the moisture farm wasn't easy—nothing on Tatooine ever was—but it was stable. She had a husband who cared for her and a stepson, Owen, who treated her kindly. For the first time in her life, she wasn't someone's possession. She was a person, a wife, and a mother.

For the first time, she had found peace.

But that peace had been shattered again almost two years ago, when she felt an inexplicable pull one fateful afternoon. It had been a normal day on the moisture farm, with Cliegg repairing a broken vaporator and Owen tending to the eopies. Shmi had been hanging laundry under the harsh suns when the feeling struck—a strange instinct, a powerful and undeniable pull. She couldn't explain it, but it had been powerful, almost overwhelming

She hadn't hesitated, hadn't questioned it. She had simply walked.

She wandered through the desert for hours, her feet sinking into the hot sand as she followed something she couldn't name. Then, five kilometers later, she saw him—a boy lying in the dunes, battered, bloodied, and barely alive. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, just a few years younger than Anakin would have been. For a moment, her heart sank. She thought he might have been a runaway slave, punished and abandoned for some imagined slight. But when she examined him more closely, she found no brands, no marks of ownership. He was a mystery.

Dragging him back to the homestead had been grueling. The desert sands resisted her every step, but she refused to give up. By the time she reached home, Cliegg's worry turned to anger.

"We can't afford this, Shmi," he had said, his voice tinged with frustration. "We barely have enough for ourselves as it is. And if he's a runaway, bringing him here will only bring trouble!"

Cliegg wasn't wrong. Their farm already struggled to meet its needs, and if this boy brought the attention of a cruel master—or worse, the Hutts—it could mean ruin for them all.

But she couldn't leave him. Something deep within her refused to allow it. She couldn't explain it, but something about him compelled her. He had remained unconscious for a month, his injuries healing slowly under her care. She had cleaned him, fed him, and waited, praying for him to wake and spoken to him softly as she worked though he never stirred.

She had begun to lose hope, and Cliegg had grown impatient, deciding one day that they could no longer carry the burden, even deciding at one point to leave the boy in the desert again. But on that very day, when she feared she'd have to watch helplessly as Cliegg carried him away, the boy had opened his eyes.

Shmi had been kneeling beside his cot, wiping his brow, when it happened. Her breath had caught in her throat when she saw him awake. His eyes were a striking shade of blue, brighter than the skies of Tatooine, and they looked at her with a mixture of confusion and intensity. The boy didn't speak, his expression dazed, but his gaze locked onto hers with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. There was something powerful about him—something she couldn't explain.

"Thank the stars," she had whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. She had stayed by his side, gently stroking his hair.

Her musings were broken by the sound of a voice behind her, familiar yet edged with humor. "You don't need to buy and spend time on grocery shopping, you know."

Shmi turned, and the crowded marketplace seemed to part as if by command. The people around her instinctively moved aside, giving space to the figure now standing at the edge of the throng. He wore a striking outfit: orange pants and a black jacket, both covered by a dark red coat that swept down to his boots. His face was obscured by a fox-faced white mask with sharp red markings that seemed to grin mischievously under the harsh sunlight.

His golden hair caught the light, glowing like the twin suns themselves. He stood with a relaxed confidence, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. The whispers of the crowd were hushed, but she could feel their curiosity and reverence.

The figure was none other than the Fox Lord—or at least, as far as most believed, one of his many identical soldiers. Shmi allowed herself a small smile at the thought. She knew better.

Hardly anyone on Tatooine knew the truth, but she was one of them. This wasn't some mysterious army or a network of elite fighters dressed in identical garb. No, this was Naruto's doing—his clones. She didn't understand much how he created them but each one carried a piece of him, yet they acted with surprising individuality. Over time, she saw some clones had developed quirks, personalities, and even names of their own.

"I like to buy my groceries myself, Naruto," she answered, amusement lacing her voice.

The masked figure huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Kaa-chan, I'm not Naruto. That's the boss. Call me Yamato," he said, his voice carrying a tone of frustrated yet playful exasperation.

Shmi chuckled softly, her heart swelling with love at the word 'Kaa-chan,' which he had explained meant mother in his language. "Ah, Yamato. My apologies," she said, tilting her head slightly as her smile grew. "You're one of those, aren't you? Naruto's clones with their unique personalities."

"Not clones," Yamato corrected, his tone mock-serious. "We're independent beings. Completely original." he spoke, pushing his thumb towards his chest.

"Of course," she said, her amusement clear. "Whatever you say, Yamato."

The masked figure grumbled under his breath but didn't argue further. Shmi could see the gleam of affection behind his antics. Naruto's clones were often like this—quirky and humorous, but like the original fiercely loyal and protective of her. They had become part of her family, just as Naruto himself had.

"Still," Yamato said, his tone softening, "you shouldn't be out here alone, Kaa-chan. The market's crowded, and people are nosy. Boss would lose his mind if something happened to you."

Shmi placed a gentle hand on his arm. "You worry too much. I've been navigating Mos Espa long before any of you came along." Her voice carried a motherly warmth, and Yamato's shoulders relaxed under her touch.

"Well," he said after a pause, "at least let me carry those for you." He gestured toward her basket, his tone almost pleading.

Shmi laughed, handing over the basket. "Fine, but only because I know you won't stop nagging until I do."

Yamato accepted the basket with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Smart choice, Kaa-chan." He turned, clearing the way for her as they began walking back toward her speeder. The crowd, sensing the departure of the Fox Lord's representative, gradually resumed their business, though whispers continued to follow them.

TBC.

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