he was her calm, so she became the storm

Prologue- The One He Forsook

This is the first story I've written on here. Since it's May, I've committed to rewatching Star Wars again, which inspired this story. I don't own Star Wars or any of its characters—just Elira (aka Vel'Ashra). This story is mostly vibe-driven, so I make no promises about what will or won't be included. I'm letting the characters and emotions lead the way. I also make no promises about when I will be updating as I am in college and working.

bold italics = flashback

bold = different language

italic = thoughts

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the journey!

***Anakins P.O.V,***

Years Ago – Mos Espa, Anakin's Home

The scent of sand and hot metal clung to the air...as always. I hate sand— I couldn't escape from it... even inside our home! Then there was the heat. It was practically a member of the family, an unwanted and unliked relative that never left. I was a little embarrassed to have a Jedi here—I won't lie. The place wasn't a home—just a constant reminder that we were slaves. Somewhere in the back, the moisture vaporator hummed its usual song, and I could hear Mom moving around the kitchen.

"Mom! Mom, I'm home!" I called, stepping inside. "Ahh, dissen cozy," said the clumsy outlander—Jar Jar, I think I heard someone call him—just as Mom came out to greet us.

"These are my friends, Mom," I said. The Jedi started to introduce himself, but I was already turning to the pretty lady. Though if I had to pick, I'd still say Elira was prettier.

"I'm building a droid! You wanna see?" I didn't wait for an answer. I grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the other room. "Come on. I'll show you Threepio!"

"I'm almost finished fixing C-3PO," I said, leading the pretty lady into my workroom with maybe a little too much pride in my voice. I wiped a streak of grease on my tunic and gave her a huge grin. "He's a protocol droid... to help Mom."

Her eyes moved toward the corner where he sat, all wiry and awkward, with his outer shell still missing. "You built him?" she asked, her voice filled with surprise. I nodded. "From scrap parts. He's not finished yet... kind of beat up, but he's got a lot of personality. I just got his vocabulator to work." She followed me around one of the crates, careful where she stepped. "Is this how you spend all your free time?" "...Pretty much," I said after a second, quieter. "Fixing things helps me think." She gave me a small, knowing smile. "That wasn't the full answer." I blinked. "Huh?" "I was a child once, too, you know," she said gently but with a hint of mischief. "I know all the tricks to avoid topics. "I paused, then crouched beside the crate and pulled out the sketch I kept hidden under some parts—flimsi, worn, and curling at the edges, the lines smudged from too much handling. I held it out to her without looking up. "She's very pretty," the lady said, studying the drawing. "That's Elira," I murmured. "She's... my best friend. "There was a pause, and then she tilted her head with a knowing smile. "You like her. "I could feel my ears go red. "I—well... yeah. She's smart. Stronger than most of the guards. And she's not afraid of anything. "It was true. No matter how bad things got... Elira never flinched, not even when she should've. "But you can't tell her I like her!" I blurted out quickly. Just as I was tucking the sketch back under the crate, Mom's voice floated in from the other room. "Dinner's ready. Come wash up. "I straightened, brushing my hands off on my tunic, and led the others toward the table. The outlander—Jar Jar, muttered something about food, and the Jedi stayed back near the window, always quiet. Watching. We'd barely sat down when the pretty lady looked over at Mom. "Back at the shop," she said softly, "Anakin mentioned... you're slaves. But why stay? Why not run? Leave all this behind?" The question hung in the air. Not cruel—just curious. Honest. Mom didn't answer right away. Instead, she rose to refill the cups, her movements slow and practiced. The water pitcher clinked gently against the clay mugs. Only when she set the last cup down did she speak. "They won't let us," she said. "There are transmitters... implanted deep in the body. If a slave runs, they activate it. "I picked up from there, my voice a little too calm for what I was saying. "If you try to run... they blow you up. "The pretty lady's hand froze halfway to her mouth. Her eyes widened, and the cup fell from her grasp, shattering on the ground. The silence was deafening—I hated it. I didn't want anyone to pity us. I don't know why I was telling them this, but as I glanced at the Jedi, something told me to continue. My gaze returned to the table. "Except..." I hesitated, "...for Elira. "That got their attention. The Jedi shifted slightly. "What do you mean?" I leaned in a little, lowering my voice. "Her master's not local. He's from Zygerria—the kind of place where breaking people is a business. "That made them both go still. I'd seen that look before. "He doesn't use implants," I muttered, lowering my head. "Says they're too clean. He prefers shock collars and always carries a remote on him at all times. Says... 'a broken product is better than a dead one.'"