Title: New Hope, Only Hope
Authors: Kateydidnt and Laura of Maychoria
Category: Angst, Action
Timeframe: Pre-ANH (Big, fat AU)
Summary: With Owen and Beru dead, Ben Kenobi finds himself overwhelmed with unexpected responsibilities and dangers. Meanwhile, Darth Vader has become aware of a bright young Force-presence on Tatooine.
Characters: Luke Skywalker, Ben Kenobi, Darth Vader
Disclaimer: If we owned Star Wars, Obi-Wan would have a lot more screentime. We don't, so he doesn't. :massive sigh:
Authors' Note: During the Writers Race Challenge #6, we were bitten by an enormous plot-bunnyzilla. It has refused to let go. Rather than fighting it, we decided to get excited and see where it goes. Do follow us down the bunny-hole, if you dare. We promise the dark can't hurt you . . . permanently.

Prologue: Morning Has Broken

The creature squeals and fur sticks to blood-stained jaws. The krayt dragon yawns widely, displaying straight white teeth, watching the suns rise over the bones of the Tatooine desert. Morning has come like broken glass, shattered and bright, sharp to the touch, painful and compelling at once. Luke is still alone, yet he is pleased, both with the taste of the blood and the wetness as it soothes his scorched throat.

Luke squints toward the suns, wiping the blood from his mouth. He isn't sure why the morning makes him think of broken things. Perhaps he is now a broken thing. He remembers little . . . was there smoke, fire? Death. His aunt and uncle, broken things in the corpse of their home.

His memory is like shards of glass as well. There was . . . light. Dawn. Then red laser blasts, shouts and calls, the percussive thunder of blaster fire. Uncle Owen shoved Luke into the garage, ordering him to get down and keep quiet. Luke, lanky for his eight years, was still small enough to hide behind a pile of broken droid parts. He tried to keep quiet, tried to stifle his whimpers, and succeeded for the most part. The red laser blasts hadn't found him, hadn't pierced the fortress walls he'd erected.

Broken. He rolls the word on his mental tongue, tasting it as he tastes the blood that slicks his lips as he sucks it off his fingers. It is good word. If he voiced it, even the sound would be like shattering glass. He mouths it carefully, silently, feeling the shape of it on his tongue.

Luke shudders suddenly and hunches in on himself, his vision hazing as he remembers another fragment of that terrible dawn. The harsh sound of breathing, a swirl of darkness . . . a sense of overwhelming power and malevolence, a black flowing cape, a man without a face . . . . Hidden behind his inadequate shelter of shattered pieces, Luke curled into a ball and thought desperately, "I'm not here, I'm not here, I'm not here, I'm not here . . ." until the darkness receded a bit.

He shakes his head and throws it off. It does not do to think about that, to think about anything, really. Life is in the moment now, in the rising and setting of the suns, in the spill of bright blood on the sand, in the cool of a shady rock. He will not think about that red dawn.

Since then Luke has been driven to seek something that is not broken, driven into the wilderness of jutting red peaks and yellow wastes. No doubt he would have died, had he not discovered that blood is like water.

Water, it has been many days since he has tasted water. Blood is good. Blood satisfies. But it isn't clean. Luke crouches in the sand and rubs the grit on his hands, trying to scrape off the red. There was little blood on his aunt and uncle, only black scorch marks. Still, he doesn't like it on his hands.

He is a krayt dragon now, small but mighty. He has learned to stalk, to pounce, to pierce the neck. Krayt dragons sleep during the day and hunt at night. Luke glances around, searching for a good rock to hide under.

Not far away, a canyon of red-brown rocks rips into the desert. Luke knows he must hide. The little creatures of brown robes and shining red eyes, the big ones of masked faces and long rifles—none must see him. He finds a crevice to wait out the day, deep in dry shadows, and soon falls into a light doze.

"Luke. Luke, I've found you."

A new voice. Luke opens his eyes warily. He's been found. They've come to finish the job. Perhaps now he'll be broken indeed.

It is a man, no longer young, his hair streaks of red and white. A kind face, half sun and half shadow as he leans near the crevice. An elegant voice that tugs gently at deep memories, memories of hiding, seeking safety, leaving one place for another.

He reaches a hand into Luke's hiding place, but not too far. Not threatening. Offering.

"Come with me, little one. I'll set you right."

Luke studies bright blue eyes, so sad and old. He looks at the callused hand, waiting patiently for his decision. It's been a long time since he's seen another hand besides his own small, stained one.

He blinks, his vision wavering strangely, as he realizes that he is not a krayt dragon. He is a human child, and he doesn't like being alone. Luke squints at the man's face, trying to remember. No name comes to him, but he has seen this person before . . . before the morning of breaking.

His head reels and he leans it against the rock, closing his eyes, fighting vertigo. His chest heaves for air, almost like sobbing, but there is no moisture for tears. Somethings surges about him, something that is warmth and peace and light, and it gently prompts him to accept. You are safe. This is the right path.

Luke opens his eyes and stares steadily at the stranger. Slowly he reaches out, touches that warm, open hand. It closes gently around his small fingers and draws him out of his hiding place.

"All is well, young Luke. I will take care of you."