#Shmi isn't the easiest to write bc I don't know a whole lot about her

[smonksthemuse]

I Have to Leave at Midnight (chapter one)

finally, am I right? I decided to split the prologue into two chapters btw. hope you all enjoy! especially you, @liveandletrain and @flaminganakin !

here on my AO3!

Shmi Skywalker lived on the Hutt-ruled desert planet of Tatooine. She was the freeborn daughter of slaves, and the first free person in her family for many, many generations.

Her family, the Skywalkers, had been on Tatooine for as long as anyone could remember, and had likely been slaves for even longer. Shmi’s mother had been freed after her Master’s death, when her ownership had been transferred to his only living relative; a second cousin who didn’t partake in the slave trade. Her mother had then managed to get a job as a hired hand on a moisture farm, where she worked until she had saved enough money to buy the freedom of the man she loved, the man who would become Shmi’s father.

Shmi grew up with as happy a childhood as was possible on Tatooine. Her parents were loving and protective and gave her everything they could. Shmi loved them with all her heart, and she never doubted for a second that they felt the same.

Her father would invent stories to tell her before bed, bringing characters to life with a variety of voices and accents; he would sometimes even act out battle scenes, playing multiple people at once. Her mother would dance with her to music only they could hear, spinning and hopping and flailing through the house like they were the life of an invisible party, and eventually they would collapse into a breathless, giggling heap.

Her parents wanted, more than anything else, for Shmi to be safe. She was free, they told her, and she should always be free. She should never be forced into slavery to lead the kind of life her parents, and their parents, and their parents’ parents had suffered through. And as much as they loved her, they wouldn’t always be able to protect her. So they taught her, from a young age, how to protect herself.

On Shmi’s eighth birthday, they had given her a wicked vibroblade, which she still carried with her to this day. They showed her how to use it without hurting herself, and how to wear it so that others would see and keep their distance. They taught her where the most sensitive areas of the body were for different species, and trained her to quickly dodge grabbing arms and to keep an eye on shadows that seemed to follow her. They told her the signs of those who would trick her, kidnap her, enslave her; if they tried to win her trust too quickly, if they offered her their hospitality too freely, if they paid for something and said she would owe them a favor. If they asked too many personal questions, if they wanted to meet her somewhere alone, if they looked her up and down and she felt like she was being appraised. If they seemed to have little or no empathy for others, if they reacted violently to perceived slights, and if they bragged loudly about being in the Hutts’ employ.

Look at the eyes especially, her parents had taught her. If they look at you with greedy eyes and don’t try to sell you something or buy something you have, run away and stay away.

Shmi knew that her parents’ worst fear was for her to be enslaved. One night, when she was nine years old, Shmi had laid in her bed and made a silent promise to her parents and herself.

She swore that she would always be careful, always be smart, always stay safe, and that she would never, ever be a slave.

When Shmi was fourteen years old, her father had died. A random fight at a cantina, shots fired by half a dozen liquored-up lowlifes, her father caught in the middle. Shot twice; once in the stomach and once in the face. Her mother told her, drunk and mourning one night a few weeks after it happened, that if Shmi didn’t need her she would have killed herself to join him.

When Shmi was twenty-six years old, her mother had died. Mugged in the street on her way home from working, a vibroblade to the throat. Bled out in the sand beneath the setting suns. Shmi hadn’t mourned by drinking and crying; she had mourned by working and staying busy, trying very hard to give herself no time or energy for the kind of thoughts her mother had confessed to when her father had been killed.

When Shmi was thirty years old, she had given birth to a boy, her son who she named Anakin. She loved him more than life itself, and as she held him for the first time and heard his strong, beautiful first cries, she made him a promise.

She swore that she would always keep him safe, that she would never leave him, and that he would never, ever, ever be a slave.

Once she had Anakin, she finally, truly understood the fear her parents had had for her. The worst thing Shmi could possibly imagine, the idea that occasionally kept her awake at night with dread curdling in her stomach, was the possibility of Anakin being forced into slavery.

Her parents’ fear and desire to protect Shmi had led them to isolate their family; they had no friends, only acquaintances from their respective jobs and people they saw often at the market or the cantinas. They feared that any stranger could be a slaver, or that their family could become a target if they got close to someone who wound up angering some underling of the Hutts, or even the Hutts themselves.

Fear had always been a part of her parents ' lives; they had feared being sold away from their mothers, they had feared the hand of their Masters, they had feared the transmitters hidden inside their bodies that could blow them up at the press of a button. And then, once they were no longer slaves, they had feared losing their freedom, and the freedom of their freeborn daughter.

They had passed their fear on to Shmi, who carried it both as a girl who feared for herself and now as a woman who feared for her son. Shmi wished she could be as confident in her freeborn status as others could; she wished she could take it for granted, like people whose families had been free for generations seemed to. But Shmi, the first of the Skywalkers to be anything other than chattel, knew no such luxury. She had lived on Tatooine all her life, but not since the short and long-gone years of blissful childhood ignorance had she felt truly safe.

She was the child of slaves, and as she lived her life of fragile freedom she walked upon the same sands where her parents and their parents and their parents’ parents had lived their lives in bondage; how could she ever feel safe?

But Shmi didn’t want that for Anakin. She didn’t want to pass down the fear of slavery to her little boy, even though she knew that doing so could save him from such a fate. If she taught him the lessons her parents had taught her, he would be cautious and wary and canny and suspicious and so, so alone.

Shmi had continued the family tradition of shying away from friendship out of fear, and the Skywalkers remained a family isolated. But Anakin was nothing like that; he was a sweet, friendly, sociable boy. He made friends in a blink, smiled at strangers, and even waved hello to any droids he happened to see. Shmi didn’t want to snuff out that happy little light inside him, much less replace it with an anxious, weary fear of the world. She just couldn’t do that to him, even if it would be for his own safety.

And besides, at the age of three Anakin was already well-known and well-liked by Shmi’s acquaintances, and he even had a best friend; Kitster Banai, a little boy his age who was a slave along with his mother. The two were practically inseparable when they played together, and Anakin asked at least five times a day if they could stop by their hut in the slave quarter.

Shmi always felt uneasy in the slave quarter, even though logically she knew that it was the last place slavers looked to for new victims; everyone who lived there was already a victim, after all. But still, she always tried not to let her and Anakin be seen there for long.

She didn’t know exactly what she was afraid of. Maybe she feared calling down the malice of some beady-eyed watcher, who believed that if they were going to visit there so often they might as well become residents. But she refused to let her fear keep Anakin from having a friend, no matter how on-edge she became when surrounded by what could have so easily been her fate: a hovel in the slave quarter she shared with her son.

It was a blazing hot day, as all days were on Tatooine. The market was as bustling as always, and Shmi kept Anakin’s hand in hers as she haggled ruthlessly with a particularly greasy merchant whose price for the parts she needed to upgrade their home’s external security access keypad was ridiculous.

The man was a truly repulsive specimen; he dropped a lewd innuendo at the end of every sentence like a bantha dropped shit, with half the grace and twice the stench. She was fairly certain he had never cleaned his teeth in his life, so standing nose-to-nose with him as they argued prices was stomach-churning in more ways than one.

“One trugut and two wupiupi, sweetheart,” he drawled. “That’s my price.”

Shmi ground her teeth together and growled. “Absolutely not. Twelve wupiupi is more than what those parts are worth.”

He leered at her. “You want ‘em cheaper, you best be ready to work for it. I can’t take something off the price unless you take something off for me.” His lips parted in a disgusting, half-rotten grin and he leaned into her space. Shmi narrowed her eyes and leaned forward herself, pushing him back a bit and showing how unimpressed she was with his slimy demeanor. She squeezed Anakin’s hand a little tighter, and he squeezed back. She saw through her periphery that he was looking up at her, but she kept her eyes on the vendor.

“I can trade you a partially-restored vaporator patch-in droid if you lower it to eight,” she bit out. One hand came up to grip the strap of her full and heavy knapsack. “Or a small automatic dew condenser for ten.”

He considered it for a moment. “Ten wupiupi and the patch-in droid,” he said, “or both and eight.” At Shmi’s obvious displeasure he tilted his head smugly and purred, “Or we could work out a different sort of trade, and you can have ‘em for four.”

She opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought about that little proposal, and to threaten to walk away if he didn’t offer her a fair deal, when suddenly a terrible feeling of something’s wrong came over her. A chill raced down her spine despite the heat and the pit of her stomach knotted up anxiously. She reached for Anakin, meaning to draw him closer for safety until she could find what the problem was -

Only to realize that Anakin wasn’t there.

Her heart stopped.

She whipped around to see him trotting off toward a stall with ripening fruit for sale, utterly guileless and without a care in the Galaxy. Fear spiked through her and she rushed after him, forgetting about the merchant, about the haggling, forgetting about everything except getting to Anakin. Getting to him now before something could happen, getting to him first before someone else could.

She grabbed him and snatched him up into her arms, held him tightly against her chest, ignoring his confused protests. Her heart pounded, and she whispered furiously, fearfully, that he was never to do that again.

“I want fruit,” he complained innocently, giving her a little frown. “Fruit, Mommy.” He worked an arm free of her desperate hug and pointed to the stall. “I want it.”

“We have fruit, Ani,” she said, trying to calm down and steady her voice. “We have fruit at home, we don’t need more right -” She suddenly went still, feeling something tingle at the edges of her senses. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man watching them. She turned her head to look directly at him, and he met her gaze.

She knew immediately he was a slaver. He had the resigned yet patient look of a predator who had missed an opportunity, but was willing to wait for it to return. He had clearly been walking toward Anakin before Shmi had scooped him up, and he made no attempt to hide the obvious greed in his body language as he raked his eyes over the two of them, lingering on Anakin, who was still tucked against her tightly. The more Shmi looked at him, the more she thought she recognized him from the crowds that gathered around slave auctions. But of course, she couldn’t be sure; his kind all looked the same.

The man stared at her, not breaking eye contact, and his expression said clearly, you were lucky this time. Shmi felt the blood drain from her face and her stomach go cold. Slowly, deliberately, she put a hand on the vibroblade her parents had given her all those years ago; half as a message to man - I’m armed, you son of a bitch, not another step -  and half to reassure herself it was there, even though she wore it on her belt at all times and never left home without it.

After a few seconds of their stand-off, the man shrugged lazily and turned to walk away. But before he vanished into the crowd of shoppers and vendors, he gave her a backward glance and an ugly, terrible, knowing smirk.

“Mommy.” Anakin prodded at her shoulder. “Mommy, what are you looking at?” He craned his neck to look, trying to find what was so important.

Shmi felt like she was going to be sick.

She rushed Anakin home from the market without buying a thing, and decided that afternoon that they would leave forever. She couldn’t do this anymore. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t live here, wouldn’t raise her son here, after such a close call.

Anakin deserved better than Tatooine, so much better. Her little boy deserved the stars; she wouldn’t make him settle for the sand.

Shmi had no family she knew of besides Anakin, and no friends. No one she would miss, and no one who would miss her. The only things she would regret leaving behind were her parents’ graves, but she had a feeling that wherever they were now, they understood. Maybe even approved.

So Shmi gathered all of her money and packed up their clothes and cherished possessions, folding and arranging it all into a few small bags, plus her large knapsack and Anakin’s small one. She went to the records office and got a copy of the deed to her house, and walked all around Mos Espa offering to sell it, and everything inside it, for a mere fraction what it was worth. Finally, just an hour before sunsdown, she found someone in one of the many cantinas who was willing to buy and able to pay up front and in full. The individual was somewhat drunk, and their somewhat-drunk friends were egging them on, but Shmi cared more about getting the money than about striking an honest deal.

She explained the situation to Anakin as best she could, and even though he didn’t truly understand why, he knew they were leaving Tatooine and never coming back. He was sad and confused and a little bit scared, so to help make the whole thing a bit easier Shmi decided to take him to see Kitster one last time. After all, they were best friends; and even though Shmi didn’t have much experience in that area, she knew that best friends didn’t leave without saying goodbye.

So they went to the Banai’s hut to say their farewells as the suns set on their last day on Tatooine. Kitster’s mother offers them her best wishes, and says that she hoped they would find safety and happiness wherever they ended up. Shmi thanks her and says that she hoped she and Kitster would one day be free to follow them out into the stars. Anakin and Kitster hug each other tight. “I love you, Kit,” Anakin says quietly, voice muffled by the fact that his face is buried in Kitster’s shoulder. “I love you too, Ani,” Kitster says back, sounding sad and small. Shmi’s heart twists, but she knows she can’t turn back now, and she doesn’t really want to. It’s for the best, she reminds herself. It’s for the best. Even if it’s hard. Even if it hurts. It’s for Anakin.

The moons were nearly at their peaks in the sky when Shmi finally found a pilot who would allow them to board her ship for a reasonable price. It was freezing, as Tatooine’s nights always were, so they huddled in the warmth of yet another cantina and worked out the details: Shmi would pay this much for her and Anakin’s passage, these were the rules, this is how long it would take to reach their destination (not long at all), and their destination, by the way, was Naboo.

Shmi couldn’t have been happier to hear where they were going; Naboo! She’d heard about Naboo. It was a beautiful planet with lovely people where they elected their rulers and slavery was abhorrent in the minds of each and every one of them. It was the perfect place for her and Anakin.

They left in the early hours before sunsrise, Anakin simultaneously wired and exhausted from the lack of sleep and the excitement of being on a ship and going on an adventure. Shmi held him as the cargo freighter took off and they flew out into space. The hyperdrive kicked in and they left Tatooine behind, not sparing the desert sands a final look.

They sat together, Anakin bouncing slightly on her lap, and she imagined the planet becoming smaller and smaller as they flew out and away into the stars.

Slowly, the fretful, paranoid tension that Shmi had carried for nearly all her life began to loosen. The fear that had been her companion-by-necessity since she was a little girl began drifting away to the back of her mind, quieted for the first time in years. Her eyes became damp and she let out a breathy, almost disbelieving laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Anakin’s head.

They were getting out. They were leaving Tatooine, and they would never return. It was exhilarating.

For the first time in her life, her freedom, and the freedom of her son, didn’t feel so tenuous.

Throughout the entirety of the trip, she thought forward to the future she would share with Anakin. They would have a good, happy, safe life together, on the kind and gentle planet of Naboo. Far away from Tatooine, and its ever-present threat of slavery.

Far, far away.

With Anakin balanced on her hip, Shmi stepped off the ship’s ramp and onto Naboo.

The air was cool and fresh, pleasant to breathe, unlike the hot, thick, dusty air of Tatooine. Shmi took deep breaths, savoring the lightness of it in her lungs and the slight chill of it against her skin.

The pilot of the cargo freighter they had flown in on brushed past them briskly, her arms full; she and her first mate were unloading the crates and boxes full of something-or-other they had brought from Tatooine. She mumbled something to the effect of, ‘we’re here, good luck to you both’ and gave a polite if distracted nod. Shmi thanked her quickly and stepped out into the middle of the port, taking it all in.

The Theed spaceport was awake, but not bustling. Pinkish-gold light pooled on the durasteel floor, spreading out slowly as the solitary sun peeked over the horizon. Scattered groups of people boarded on and off of various ships, some looking dead on their feet and others bright-eyed and aware. A mouse droid rolled about aimlessly, its little metal body glinting in the sun. It turned to avoid running into a pillar and the reflection of the light caught Shmi directly in the eyes. She blinked rapidly until the colorful dancing spots faded and looked down at Anakin, who still sat quietly on her hip. He was observing the spaceport curiously, drinking in every sight with all the eager fascination of a child who was somewhere new and exciting.

Shmi was just as taken with their surroundings as Anakin, and a smile grew on her lips as she continued to look. The spaceport was clean and airy and bright, the marriage of aesthetics to functionality lovely to behold. It had the feeling of calm that busy places got when they were less busy than usual, and sunrise lit the scene with a peaceful radiance. Shmi couldn’t resist closing her eyes for a moment and simply feeling.

The approaching dawn had a dual nature; it seemed to wrap warmly around those who were tired, who yawned widely and fought off sleep by furiously scrubbing their hands across their faces. To those who were fresh and lively, it greeted with the joyous, distant sound of birdsong and a playful bath of golden light upon their skin. It coaxed the serene durasteel of the spaceport to shine, and the last lingering chill of night gave the scene an invigorating energy.

Shmi found herself caught somewhere in the middle of these two sunrise-induced feelings; as she breathed in the Naboo air she was filled with both steady calm and fiery determination. She knew, she just knew, that she and Anakin would be happy here. She would find a good, stable job, and they would make a home here on this soft, sweet world, where the air smelled of flowers and even the spaceports were beautiful. She would raise her son beneath a single, twinless star that shone upon a planet without slavery, and soon he would forget the dirt and dunes of Tatooine where the institution of bondage stood proud.

The Skywalkers would live on Naboo, in freedom forevermore.

Shmi shifted Anakin so that he sat on her other hip, eyeing the door annunciator with apprehension.

The door to this rich man’s home was very fancy and very beautiful; dark, polished Laroon wood, a luxury item Shmi had only glimpsed once or twice in the market. Usually it was carven trinkets that went for good prices, but Shmi had never seen an entire door made from it. It was extravagant.

With all her staring at the door, she didn’t notice that Anakin had reached out to touch it. He ran his hand down the gleaming wood, a fascinated look on his face. “Oooh,” he said. “Mommy, it’s - it’s - it’s -” Shmi waited patiently for him to find the word he wanted. “ - it’s - it’s smooth. It’s smooth. I like it.”

“I like it too,” Shmi said gently. “But Ani, I need you to be on your best behavior while we’re here, okay? Mommy’s trading.”

It was the best way she could think of to make Anakin understand what they were doing here, and why it was so important that he was good; this job, if she got it, would be perfect. Cleaning and upkeeping a wealthy man’s house would be a simple, if laborious and time-consuming, task that would require no skill Shmi didn’t already have. Room and board was even included in the pay, should the applicant choose that option. The flimsiplast ad she’d found in the spaceport had only said ‘references appreciated’ and not ‘references required’, so Shmi was hopeful about her chances, despite her lack of previous experience in ‘professional’ housekeeping.

But Anakin… the advertisement hadn’t said anything about applicants with small children; children who would need to room and board with their mother if she got the job. Of course, if it had said such applicants would need not apply, she wouldn’t be wasting her time here, but not saying that didn’t mean small children were particularly welcome. Shmi could easily see herself being turned down in favor of another, childless applicant. Someone who wouldn’t have to split their attention between housekeeping and motherhood. Someone who wouldn’t add an extra person to the room and board.

But Shmi was determined to let her possible employer know from the first that Anakin should not be considered a reason not to hire her. Taking care of her son had taught her many things, she would tell him, not the least of which was the art of getting stains out of pretty much anything. It had shaped her into a more responsible and hardworking person. It had showed her how long she could go without sleep.

Shmi huffed a laugh at that last thought. Abruptly, she decided she had lingered on the stoop too long and pressed the door annunciator button, not giving herself time to hesitate and grow even more nervous. She faintly heard the bell chime that rang inside the house; it was a deep, rich, clear sound.

And of course, she couldn’t help noticing that the door annunciator itself was just as fancy and beautiful as the luxurious wooden door. The little button, which was a pale cream that had glowed bright yellow when she’d pressed it, was set into the wall beside the door and surrounded by an ‘accent piece’ of what was surely hand-wrought silver. The design was a twisting, coiling loop of metal that went in and around itself so intricately that Shmi could hardly follow it with her eyes. In fact, she couldn’t tell if it was one length of silver or many; it looked like a dancing knot of polished, shining little snakes, or maybe just one long snake that was very graceful.

“Trading?”

Shmi looked down at Anakin, hiking him up further on her hip. He was certainly getting bigger. And heavier. “Hm? What?”

“Trading?” He asked again, expectantly and a bit impatiently.

“Oh. Yes, Ani,” she said, smoothing his hair. “I’m trading. I’m trading my skills for a job to give us money. If I convince the man who lives here to give me the job, we’ll stay in his house while I work. But you have to convince him too, okay? You have to convince him that you’re a very good boy who is quiet and doesn’t get in trouble. Can you do that?”

Anakin seemed to think it over a bit, then nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Okay, Anakin, that’s good. Remember, best behavior.” She planted a quick kiss on his forehead, and just as she pulled back the wooden door slid open and older-model droid greeted her with a bow. “Good morning,” it said flatly. “I am RU-N1, housekeeping. If you are here to apply for the maid position, my Master will receive you upstairs in his study. If you are here for another purpose, please inform me and I will assist you in any way I can.”

Shmi blinked. This man had a housekeeping droid? That didn’t make sense; why would someone with a housekeeping droid, even a slightly outdated one such as this, want to hire a maid?

“Uh, Shmi Skywalker,” she answered eventually. “Yes, I’m here for the maid position.”

“Very well, Shmi Skywalker. I will take you to my Master.” The droid stepped aside to let them in, and when she saw the inside of the house Shmi had to keep herself from gasping. Anakin didn’t bother, and his eyes widened as he whispered, “Wow…”