𝐒 𝐓 𝐀 𝐑 𝐖 𝐀 𝐑 𝐒 | 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 + 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐬

a broken promise (is just another type of curse)

Anakin hates sand.

The grimy, scratchy, malaise it brought as it chaffed against his skin no matter how long he took to cleanse himself of its deathly grip.

It was inescapable. Inevitable. And so damn uncomfortable.

The sharp burn or the chilling freeze that it inflicted whether it was day or night — it was always extreme.

The endless, rolling dunes that swallowed him and his hope all in one go with its ceaseless, amaranthine encompassment of Anakin's known world.

It's only constant it's volatile nature.

He would never forget the monotonous existence defined only by the acrimonious, callous sea of dunes — an impossible obstacle that destroyed any hope of escaping the reality of his cruel existence. It was a boundary — an open, apathetic boundary that siphoned any hope or resistance left in a near-hopeless place, abating any and all mobility toward an aspiration of a better life.

He would never forget the taunting reminder of the ruthless, paradoxical irony of the endless desert dunes, whispering through the hot winds that scratched and burned at his face: "I will not stop you, but I will make you stop yourself."

The hopeless, agonizing stagnation it invoked through simply leading to nothing and no where.

And the constant, everlasting reminder of yet more bonds — this time figurative — that scratched at him through his tunic at all hours of the day or night. The cruel, apathetic grains that invaded his eyes and blinded him with his involuntary tears even while his eyes were wide open.

It was everywhere.

There was nothing that it didn't have some sort of monopoly over. An arduous dominion of inescapable control.

And he could do nothing about it.

There was nothing to fight; no one to hate; no justifiable, corporal entity that he could blame.

Anakin Skywalker could have climbed to the highest dune and screamed for all he was worth — and there would be nothing but his dissipating echo to mock him in his misery.

It was unforgiving — but it was impersonal. It was hostile — but it was indiscriminating. It was real — but it was intangible in amenability.

What was the point of hating something that couldn't hate him back?

It was infuriating — like an open ended question that left him racking his brain for an answer that should have been on the tip of his tongue but wasn't.

It was demeaning — like having a back turned on him in the middle of his angry, though relieving sentence. Incomplete.

Anakin couldn't stand it.

And so, as he would empty his boots as a boy; shake out his tunic; rinse out his hair; scrub at his face and hands and skin with a raw ferocity, he would wish —

Oh, if only;

There was someplace without sand.

...

He got his wish when he was nine.

"Is it true?"

He let his thoughts wander, voicing his question with lack of forethought in context. His eyes remained glued to the viewport — no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite tear them away, even as the gentle, calming voice of Qui-Gon Jinn reverberated around the ship.