Star Wars: This Is My Saga!

Shmi Skywalker watched her son and his sister, Arna, from the corner of her eye as they worked. The bond between the two was palpable, something she had never seen before. They had always been close, but it was as if an invisible force had drawn them even closer together. She couldn't explain it, but she could feel it, a warmth that filled her heart and a fear that gnawed at her soul.

Anakin had always been special, she knew that from the moment she had held him in her arms. But Arna... she had come into the world with a fierce spirit that seemed to burn brighter than the two suns above.

Anakin had always been a mysterious child, even before he spoke his first words or took his first steps (which he did surprisingly fast!)

As they grew, Shmi noticed the way the siblings dynamic was, it was almost as if Anakin was babying her. Always looking out for Arna, teaching her, guiding her. It was almost like he always knew something she didn't. Shmi had seen the way Anakin had looked at her with those intense, knowing eyes when she had held him for the first time, and it was the same way he looked at Arna. She had never seen such a fierce protectiveness in a child so young, even out here.

The way Anakin spoke to Arna, with such patience and wisdom, it was as if he were an old sage in a child's body. Shmi couldn't help but feel a twinge of worry mixed with awe. He had always been a curious child, eager to learn, but the way he taught Arna... it was as though he was her senior and not her brother.

Shmi had noticed that Anakin had never once called her "Mom" or "Mother" in the traditional sense. Instead, he addressed her by, "Ma'am", which was something she found quite peculiar. It was a form of respect that she appreciated, but it also left a strange distance between them. She often wondered if it was his way of reminding her of their place in the world, as a slave and his owner, or if it was something else entirely.

As she watched him now, with Arna by his side, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye. He was always so focused, so driven. It was as if he had a purpose, a destiny that was much greater than anyone could ever imagine. And yet, he was still a child, forced to endure the hardships of a life she never wanted for him.

The twins had become inseparable, working together in a way that seemed almost uncanny. They finished each other's sentences, anticipated each other's movements, and even when they argued (which was always more of a sophisticated debate than anything).

But with each passing day, she grew more and more concerned. Anakin was becoming more secretive, often disappearing into the desert for hours at a time, returning with a faraway look in his eyes. He often talked in his sleep, muttering words she didn't recognize, speaking of nonsensical things that seemed to haunt him even in his dreams. She knew that he was hiding something from her, something big, but she didn't dare to pry, as much as she wanted to.

One evening, as she tucked him into the makeshift bed the twins shared in their small hut, she asked him gently, "Ani, why do you never call me Mom?" His eyes searched hers, as if looking for a truth she hadn't yet told him.

Anakin lay in the darkness, his eyes closed, but sleep was elusive. The question echoed in his mind, a soft yet powerful wave crashing against the shores of his thoughts. Why hadn't he called her "Mom"? The truth was, he couldn't. Not because he didn't love her, but because he knew she wasn't his mother. Not in the way she thought, as his only mother.

He took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the single tear that slid down his cheek. He felt so bad for this, she perfectly followed the archetype of a woman in fiction who despite being in a completely hopeless situation somehow was a better parent than practically anyone he ever met in his old life.

And that was what nawed at him, his own mother wasn't nearly as kind and understanding, but she wasn't awful enough to replace her with Shmi. As he got older, he came to understand that she was simply a human being who had abd days and simply couldn't be 100% all the time. And yet Shmi somehow could.

He felt terrible for denying this kind woman such a simple thing, but to him she was a new aunt at most, cared for her yes, but not to replace another. And she deserved a kid so much better than that. "I don't know," he finally murmured the obvious lie."

Shmi's eyes searched his, a hint of sadness in them. "Is there something you're not telling me, Ani?" she asked softly, her voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words. Anakin felt a pang of guilt for keeping his true identity from her, but he knew the revelation could shatter the fragile life they had built together.

He took a moment, gathering his thoughts before responding. "It's nothing, really," Anakin said, his voice small in the quiet of the night.

Safe to say only maybe Arna got a good rest that night.

Shmi lay in the darkness of their small, dusty hut, the weight of Anakin's words pressing down on her like the twin suns at their peak. Her mind raced with questions and fears, the gentle snores of her son and his sister the only comfort in the quiet night. In her sleep, she dreamed of a world where she had never been a slave, a world where she could be a real mother to both of them.

In her dream, she saw Anakin, not as the solemn child with a destiny that seemed to weigh upon him, but as a carefree boy playing in fields of green, the sky above a canvas of stars that stretched on forever. He was laughing, his eyes sparkling with joy, and she reached out to him, her hand passing through his ethereal form.

Her heart ached as she watched him from afar, knowing that this was not the life she could give him, no matter how much she loved him. In her sleep, she whispered to him, "You are my son, Ani, and I will always love you."

"But I will never love you back." The mimicry of Anakin spoke as it started to decay into the desert wind.

Shmi's eyes shot open, heart racing. The words had been clear as day in her dream, yet she knew they were a figment of her imagination, a manifestation of her fears. The hut was quiet except for the steady breathing of the twins. Anakin was curled up on his side, his tiny frame barely taking up any space on the makeshift mattress. Arna lay on her back, one arm thrown over her eyes, as if to block out the worries of the world.