A small dwelling on Tatooine

[Lilla Syrin]

Dusk always took her by surprise. On this two-sun world, it started early, one sun dropping first, then the other chasing behind it in a fast slide to the horizon. Harsh sunlight gave way to long shadows that painted the canyon floors with shades of grey that would eventually give way to the surprisingly myriad hues of black.

Another day gone. Another day to come. Each one the same.

Lilla ducked her head as she exited her newly found home. She’d been spending more and more time away from the spaceport known as Mos Espa – finding tranquillity out here in the desert. She regularly returned to civilisation when supplies were low, but she had simple tastes and a small appetite and found she could go up to two weeks at a time without having to see another soul.

 

[Lilla Syrin]

Of late she’d found the voices in her head were getting worse. She understood these to be thoughts of others and for a while she’d been able to block them out easily enough, unless under duress. But recently they’d been harder and harder to block out and so – out here – she found the need to avoid overhearing other’s feelings obselete.

The only drawback was that she found being part of the crowd harder when she was in close proximity to other people.

But around this time every day. She would make the journey over the arid landscape of the Jundland Wastes. Time to visit a few moisture farms and reassure herself that one more day had passed, and that all was well.

She made sure the door was secure. The Sand People were wary of her – given her ability to expose their one true weakness – but she was careful with security. No one was truly safe from the savagery of their foraging raids. And the fact she had little to steal was irrelevant.

Her dwelling was small and simple, a hovel, really, carved out of the canyon wall. She had made it comfortable – not because she cared about her comfort, but because it gave her something to do. In those first, raging months, it had soothed her to sweep the drifts of sand from the floors, fashion a heating system, repair a cracked wall that let in breaches of sunlight in the early morning and spewed tiny volcanoes of sand during the fierce, frequent windstorms.

Normality had evaded her entire life so far, so even these mundane tasks felt like she was in some way ‘typical’ – whatever that meant by Mos Espa standards.

 

[Lilla Syrin]

She had found the home by accident, by luck perhaps?

It mattered little to Lilla. As she walked, she saw the homestead of the first place she ever called home ahead. A place she’d spent the first few years of living memory. Where she had come to understand she was a slave. A slave without a history. No parents, no birthplace. Nothing.

She stopped for a moment to make sure that nobody was patrolling the perimeter. She had no interest in bumping into her former owner. Or rather her first owner, for the governess was her most recent owner. Now she was a free girl. Or was that woman? And what did free mean anyway?

It was late, the shadows long, the suns slipping behind the hills. She saw what she expected. No-one. The family were always sure to be inside the below-ground compound by dusk.

She walked forward, feeling as much a shadow as the real ones that reached out like fingers from the hills. She bent down, flat against the ground, and looked over the rim into the main courtyard below.

The farmer emerged from the dwelling. That was Lilla's signal to leave. Darkness was falling fast, and that meant the activation of the perimeter droids.

Lilla turned her back on the homestead and felt the chill against her face. Without anyone noticing, Lilla walked away into the growing darkness.

 

[Lilla Syrin]

The next night, Lilla was forced to travel into Mos Eisley. She knew this place less well than Mos Espa and came here only when she had to.

So she threaded her way through the noisy crowd at one of the many cantinas. She’d journeyed on an eopie through secret trails to the spaceport, and under the cover of darkness. This place was a magnet for the worst of the galaxy – itinerant space pilots, adventurers, criminals. Creatures who greedily supped on gossip and rumour as much as bantha stew and ale. And Lilla needed to keep in touch with what was happening – and if there was any word on the slave that had escaped the governess, as well as any news on the governess herself and the warrior that had paid for Lilla, even though she’d run before she could be handed over. If and when they both died, she could breathe more easily. And although she never wished ill of anyone, she was slightly frustrated that neither was showing any signs of dying any time soon.

She wore her hood low over her face and picked a dark corner. A drink of the cheapest ale was brought by a scurrying waiter, who set it down and ran off to service a table of traders almost ready to brawl before their own concoctions arrived.

Lilla had chosen her table carefully. She recognised one of the group sitting next to her, a slave trader – who was bound to know of the comings and goings of those of interest to Lilla.

He sat with a rowdy group, well into a large pitcher of ale.

Lilla had learned to not just receive other’s thoughts – like some cheap radio – but she’d also found the knack of filtering information. As if she was able to scan the frequencies and tune into one person in particular. She actually found it easier in busy places – the effort to block out the background noise making it simpler to isolate the individual. Did she see this as odd?

Given it was not something she discussed, and as she didn’t chat to anyone anyway, the simple answer was no.