Story Challenge #27: 4th August 2004
Write three linked five-minute fics. Theme: lightness. [Originally, the three fics were indeed written in five minutes, in a messy mix of Portuguese, English, French and Japanese. However, they grew considerably longer during translation, when the author realised that what she wrote made very little sense. ^^;;]

Feathers
From the Ord Mantell Incident
Three 5-minute SW ficlets by Morgan D.

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I

Just a six-hour walk to the nearest town, the kid had said.

In a straight line, he had forgot to mention. If the path to the nearest town had been smooth and even, instead of bumpy and hilly.

After four hours of climbing-ups and climbing-downs, Han's hands were bruised and sore, his feet were killing him, his hair and clothes were covered by a thick layer of stone dust, and his brain was fighting the realisation that they weren't even a third of the way to their destination. He opened his mouth to comment on Luke's calculations, choice of path and general talent for screwing up, but the kid had stopped responding altogether after his sixty-eighth remark on the subject, and Han was finally getting so tired that even the prospect of hearing his own voice didn't cheer him up any more.

He had had all the intention of being the leader of their procession, but his plans had gone down the drain early in their journey, when they found themselves before the formidable mesa that stood in their way to Tordn'Erom city. Much broader than it was tall, the massive barricade left no alternative but to make their way to the top and come down on the other side, and although Han prided himself on being in good shape, he had no hope of keeping up with the kid's pace. Luke made the nearly vertical climbing look as easy as walking on all fours on a smooth horizontal surface. The Corellian's only consolation was that he at least was making much better time than Chewie; the Wookiee was so behind that Han had taken pity on him and given up the teasing over his slowness.

About two years before, Han had made the mistake of wondering aloud about the origin of Luke's surname, and See-Threepio had instantly punished him with a full history lecture on Tatooine's colonisation. According to the gabby droid, the first madmen to try to harvest their sustenance from that dry soil had been human soldiers that had deserted during the barbaric wars that devastated the Melatmarr sector seven centuries ago. Longing for peace and wishing to start over, they had unreservedly embraced their new lifestyle and buried their old names, adopting new ones that better reflected their abilities and personalities. One could recognise the descendants of that first wave of colonisers by the common pattern of their surnames: Fardreamers, Darklighters, Glassmakers, Starkillers, Windsingers, Nightwatchers, Truthseekers... Skywalkers.

Curiously enough, when Han tried to picture Luke's oldest Tatooinian ancestor and conjecture how he had earned his name, he didn't see a pilot. He saw one of those daredevils he had seen as a child in a cheap circus performance, crossing the air between Talus' skyscrapers by walking on wire. Walking the sky.

That's what Luke seemed to be doing now, gracefully taking his nimble body higher and higher, making feathers and soap bubbles look heavy by comparison.

The top of the mesa, at last. Han irritably dismissed the helping hand Luke was offering and pulled himself up. They joined forces to haul the heavy Wookiee onto the flat platform, though, and took a moment to get their breath and take parsimonious sips from their canteens. None of them bothered with words.

When they got to the opposite edge of the mesa, the auspicious sight of Tordn'Erom city awaited them. Still a long, long way to go, but at least the terrain seemed much friendlier from then on.

Once they had climbed down the damn mesa, in any case.

"This looks like the perfect day for us to learn how to sprout wings," Han sighed.

Luke turned to him with a strange, crooked smile.

Possibly the knowing smile of a guy who didn't need wings at all.

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II

It was as if nothing he did would ever be right, or good enough.

Luke was used to that feeling, of course. Owen Lars had never pretended to have any other opinion of his nephew, and nothing Luke had tried seemed to change his mind one bit.

Even the good things he was very good at were ultimately wrong, according to Uncle Owen. Piloting and racing were inherently bad. And when a twelve-year-old Luke managed to repair a barokiln that had been declared unfixable, did his uncle thank him for sparing him the fortune he would have spent buying a new one? Oh no. The boy's sole reward had been an angry lecture about handling expensive machinery without permission, and the confiscation of his tools for three months. (Aunt Beru had shrugged and muttered that Luke's father had had remarkable mechanical skills, as if that explained everything. But Luke learned early in his life that any mention of his father was a warning not to ask questions.)

However, his uncle's expectations had always been clear: he wanted Luke to become a farmer, and a good person. Now, what Han wanted from him... After three years, that answer still eluded him.

Do things your own way, and he will certainly laugh at your inexperience and stupidity. Do things his way, and he will criticise you for being too bold and careless. Try to help him, and he will reprimand you for meddling in his business. Leave him to his business, and he will glare at you for deserting him. Stay close, and he will scorn you and push you away. Give him space, and he will silently but noticeably resent you for not being there for him. Love him, leave him, it made no difference.

Except that it did.

He, Han and Chewbacca climbed the mesa wall in silence now, after about three hours of non-stop bickering. But Han's sarcastic remarks kept playing in Luke's mind over and over, braiding themselves with other poisonous jokes he had heard from the Corellian in the past, chaining his spirit to a despondent mood.

Uncle Owen used to compare Luke to lonnixuors, the erratic birds that crossed the skies of Tatooine from one side to the other, never resting more than two hours in one place, continually hunting for food — the meat of recently dead animals, mostly — and a cool spot in the shadows for a quick nap. Luke didn't feel much identification with them, though, and not only because those creatures were so damn ugly. The way they soared in the air, their broad grey wings taking them so high as if they were ready to merge with the sky, shamelessly flaunting their freedom and weightlessness... He, on the other hand, had always felt stuck to the ground, his feet weighing a thousand tons, anchoring him to that dreary feeling of not belonging. It had been like that on Tatooine. And now...

Now he was free to fly. He had a ship, an entire galaxy waiting — begging! — to be explored, and even people who genuinely appreciated his skills... and yet he still hadn't been blessed with the lightness of belonging. Not really. No matter how much he enjoyed the friendliness and companionship of the Rebels, he still missed that special somewhere. Or maybe that special someone.

Before the attack on the Death Star, Han had intended to leave, and invited him to join his crew. Luke sometimes wondered what it would have been like, had he accepted. Would the Millennium Falcon have become his home, as it was for Han and Chewie? Would his relationship with them — with Han — have been different? Clearer? Closer? Better?

Pointless as they were, those conjectures filled his mind even as he stood at the edge of the mesa, gazing at the distant towers of Tordn'Erom city. Only when he heard Han's weary sigh close to his ear did he manage to return to the present. "This looks like the perfect day for us to learn how to sprout wings."

Luke glanced at the complicated man who never left his thoughts, wishing that the day would come when he would be good enough. "I guess we'll just have to keep on trying."

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III

Finally, the captain had shut up.

That was one aspect where young humans were not that different from little Wookiees: the tendency to roar loudly and constantly to get others to respect them. They all had this natural craving to prove themselves against their elders' scepticism and their own fears. They all looked for unnecessary trouble just to test their courage, and tended to overstate their own deeds too — silly habits that the captain would also display time and again. Whelps were noisy; there was no way around it, and Chewbacca tried to accept that with good nature.

The captain always claimed that he was no child, of course. All children did that.

Sometimes youngsters could try the patience of the most serene adults, though. After hours of listening to pestering remarks like, "Move those slothful limbs of yours and hurry up, fuzzball, or we'll leave you behind to babysit Luke's droid!", Chewbacca had been seriously tempted to show him what those 'slothful limbs' were capable of. One would have to kill him before harming the captain, but that didn't mean Chewbacca wouldn't gladly hold him up by the scruff of his neck and give him a peace of his mind when the teasing went too far.

Climbing the mesa was relatively easy; his claws weren't very helpful against the hard rock, but the hillside was reasonably stable, full of flakes, knobs, cracks and edges to hold on to. Besides, that mesa was but a midget if compared to the kilometers-tall wroshyr trees back home.

Then again, humans hadn't been blessed with bodies as perfect as the Wookiees', and probably for that very reason usually avoided environments as challenging and monumentally honing as Kashyyyk's. Despite their frank efforts, his friends were setting a tediously slow pace to their journey up to the top. And unlike certain human brats, Chewbacca knew better than to hurry someone hanging from a hillside by toes and fingertips. He would give them all the time they needed to examine the rock, study possible routes and choose the next move. If that meant taking ten hours to get to the other side, so be it.

He stayed behind, ready to grab his companions in mid-fall if necessary. The way the captain's mind tended to wander aimlessly these days, it seemed like a good idea. One needs excellent balance and steady limbs for climbing, qualities that the captain would invariably lose when a certain young, blue-eyed human was in the vicinity.

Chewbacca had seen it happen before, although probably not this badly. And ironically, he was certain that the blond cub's presence would not be so distracting to the captain if the latter didn't worry so much over how letting the cub near him might distract him. The Wookiees had an old proverb that could be roughly translated to Basic as, 'It's okay if you don't have solid ground under your feet, as long as you know where you are floating to.' A joke whose meaning was lost on those who didn't know that the Wookiee word for 'floating' is the same as the one for 'being in love'.

Chewbacca often wondered if the captain had ever noticed that his steps became lighter when the cub was around.

Even tired, the two humans helped him onto the flat top of the mesa. Nice kids, both of them. Chewbacca waited patiently as they rested and regained their strength.

Tordn'Erom city was visible from the other edge of the mesa, and he groaned inwardly at the memory of the last time he and the captain had been there. He sincerely hoped he would be able to get out with his fur intact this time.

"This looks like the perfect day for us to learn how to sprout wings," the captain sighed, his brow covered in sweat.

The cub gave him a sad grin. "I guess we'll just have to keep on trying."

Chewbacca shook his head, and informed the silly youngsters that they did have wings already. All they needed was to master the co-ordination to fly together.

As his friends puzzled over the meaning of his words, Chewbacca moved to the edge and started his descent. Someone had to be the safety net for those two.

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