more than a few taz moments have been drawing me in to draw or animate them. for some reason i chose an early season moment i didn’t even remember happened until the second time i listened to the series.
I just keep picturing something like this happening. Like Lance is pretty badly hurt and Allura can’t get him into a pod yet, so she has to keep him from passing out…so of course she brings up the one thing he can talk about for hours. Allura listening to Lance speak about Keith with so much love just makes her tear up.
Okay, so here I am, an innocent lurker, having just found this blog, when I see: "what if the skywalkers were cthulu-type monsters." excuse me??? please elaborate you just wrote that and nothing else im dying ex p la i n y o ur s el f
The Force is everything that ever was and ever will be, every storm and every silence, the hunting krayk dragon and cowering bantha calf: it is huge, all-consuming, completely inhuman. How, then, could its children be anything short of monstrous? (Wonders, yes. But monsters all the same.)
Anakin Skywalker is boy-shaped, but Obi Wan cannot bear to look at him.
A clarification: he can look at him with his human eyes; but he must clamp down the extra eyes his Force-sensitivity gives him, because when he doesn’t – well. The first time he met the boy he hadn’t closed those eyes; he’d open them, wide and curious and seen –
teeth and claws and roiling shadows, a slipslide of features and starfire, the white blur of warpspeed and it hurts –
Anakin Skywalker is the son of the Force, half human and half something extraordinary. There’s a reason the Jedi don’t like him, why Yoda mistrusts him; they all have to close their extra eyes around him; and even when they’re white-knuckled with effort, clamping down so the Force can’t so much as whisper to them (and that hurts Jedi, of course it does, it runs counter to all their training about opening up and trusting in the Force) and even then they still feel the velvet quiver of unseen limbs over their skin.
And more. And worse. When he is angry – which is often – his shadow warps into something awful, and even the least Force-sensitive being quails at the profound wrongness of the sight. His features warp and melt, teeth spiralling out from his pupils, his mouth cracks open wide, his tongue growing scales and feathers and catching fire and he smiles, oh how he smiles and –
nothing like him should exist and
and you blink, lose the moment, he’s just a young man glowering at you, and his shadow is the same, but the memory of that horror is seared into the back of your brain.
It is no surprise that Padme dies in childbed.
The first child’s cry makes Obi Wan’s bones rattle. It – you could not call it anything but an it – is a twisting, squirming mess of light and dark. There’s a wing, a thorned branch: you cannot focus on it. You cannot pin a shape to it. Obi Wan wants to run away, run and never look back. But the Med Droid is offering it to him; and it is a child, of a sort; and Obi Wan takes it, and it coalesces into a soft pink baby girl. He places it – her – against Padme’s white breast. Padme cradles it. “She’s beautiful.”
The second is just the same: pushed out like any human baby, but a roling mess of lightening and thick syrupy cloud, one moment tentacled and the next furred, pure power condensed. Obi Wan takes it in his arms and it solidifies into another fat baby, small and squalling.
He’s not like the other babies, Luke Skywalker. He’s a funny one. When he smiles, you have the sudden absurd impulse that he’s got too many teeth for his face. His hair is corn-gold, but when you see it out of the corner of your eye you swear that it isn’t hair at all, but fire and teeth. Looking at him too long is like staring into the sun.
The other children are scared of him, Behu says to Owen, once. And Owen says: children always know. And Behu says: he isn’t a bad kid. Owen says: he’s a wonder. And that’s the problem.
Jabba’s goons go to the Lars farm to collect water once. Only once. They return to Jabba’s palace gibbering nonsense, with their eyes burned out. Both mumble something about there’s something wrong with the boy and then jump into the ragnar pit.
Don’t do that again, says Owen, but he hugs his nephew all the same, pulls him close, kisses his temple. He feels something hot-cold run over his spine, like something far larger than the child is trying to embrace him back. That night, Behu runs her fingers over the new white scartissue on her husband’s back, and says, he’s a good kid. Owen says, I know.
If I was there I could have saved them, Luke says to Ben Kenobi, years later, and in that moment he has a thousand thousand eyes and all of them are burning, and he has no limbs but a dozen wings bearing him aloft, and each feather is molten gold and each feather drips blood. Ben thinks of Anakin, screws his Force-sensitivity closed. Luke is a monster. A wonder. But first and foremost he is a boy, and he is grieving.
Ben Kenobi holds him while he weeps.
When Leia comes, she turns into a celestial horror with more teeth than Han cares to count. “Huh,” he says, after their first time. She’s so little in his arms, but so vast. He feels something gentle his back. He says, “Next time, I’ll wear a blindfold, princess. Don’t want to blind me, do you? Then I won’t be able to see when you’re doing stupid shit.” She titters, presses her face into the curve of his neck.
I sometimes like to imagine Vader meeting Leia on the Tantive IV and wondering why in the hell she seems so familiar. He’s heard of her, sure, but since Vader is not always directly involved in politics he’s never seen her before and she’s just so young. But it’s not just that, there’s something else…
I think it also bothers Vader that she is completely unbothered by him. Vader is probably used to getting the upper hand on people purely based on his appearance - especially when you consider his suit, his height, and his modulated voice - but Leia is completely unfazed. She openly defies him, she lies to his face, and she’s smug about it, too. And yet, despite all the setbacks and confusion, Vader cannot for the life of him put a finger on why she bothers him so much.
Maybe it’s the way she talks to him, or her lack of fear, or maybe it’s the youthful veracity that tinges her every dissentful remark.
Once Leia escapes the Death Star, though, Vader finds himself preoccupied with the origins of another - a certain Luke Skywalker. Not only is he the pilot credited with destroying the superweapon, but he bears the same name as him, as well as the same tutor: Obi Wan.
Vader thinks nothing of Leia, at least not until his confrontation with Luke on the second Death Star. Luke’s origins are almost a no-brainer. Once he learns of the rebel’s surname, it’s only a matter of time before he confirms that the boy was his… but there was no mention of a sister. After all, Leia was an Organa - he always knew that. Regardless of whether he followed galactic politics or not, Bail Organa had been a contemporary of Padmé’s, and royals have kids all the time, right? There was no reason for him, or anyone else for that matter, to think otherwise. But suddenly, Leia makes sense to him now.
She looks like Padmé. She has her eyes, her hair, her same penchant for politics - but she’s not actually like her at all. She looks like her mother, yes, but she takes after him. She is as passionate and personable as Padmé, but she is fueled by the same fearless ferocity as Anakin. He sees Padmé, but all Vader can sense is himself - but a better self, an old self he left behind long, long ago. And in his son, he sees his older visage - the same youthful face framed by blonde hair, those bright blue eyes - but he senses Padmé. Luke has her kindness, her compassion, and her unending patience when it comes to others and seeing the good in them. Leia is tempestuous and argumentative, and just as impatient with the galaxy as Anakin was with the Jedi Council.
She has Padmé’s eyes, yes, but she is also every bit of Anakin, yet a far better version of himself than he could ever possibly be.