The years on Tatooine flowed by, marked by the dual cycle of the suns and the sand, always the sand. They forged two very different children under the same roof of scrap metal and cloth.
Anakin was a whirlwind. Possessed of an insatiable curiosity and a mechanical skill that bordered on the miraculous, he had become the little prodigy of Gardulla's slave court, and then Watto's. He talked fast, laughed loud, and his presence in the Force was a constant supernova, attracting attention and trouble with equal ease. He built droids from scrap, won podraces in a machine he wasn't supposed to pilot, and dreamed out loud of traveling the stars, of becoming the galaxy's greatest pilot. He was the spark.
I, Aenin, was the calm after the storm.
My "wisdom," as Shmi called it with a tenderness mixed with perplexity, had become my trademark. I spoke little, but when I did, my words carried a weight that far exceeded my few years. I didn't run; I walked. I didn't take engines apart; I observed them, understanding their function at a glance, sensing their malfunctions in the Force like a doctor feels a patient's weak pulse.
My past blindness had been replaced by a different kind of sight. I didn't just see objects; I perceived their history, their wear, the echo of the emotions they had held. I could sit for hours, a piece of rusted metal in my hand, listening to the muffled song of the Force that permeated it.
It drove Anakin crazy.
"Why do you just sit there?" he grumbled one evening, his hands black with grease, as he struggled to realign an ion generator. "You could help! You know how to do this, I can feel it."
I looked up at him, a small, quiet smile on my lips. The part he was desperately trying to install upside-down was vibrating with frustration in his hand.
"Turn it seventy degrees to the left, Ani. The primary connector is asymmetrical."
He looked at it, surprised, did as I said, and the piece slid into place perfectly. He let out a breath, impressed and annoyed.
"How do you do that?"
"I listen," I said simply.
My relationship with the Force was our greatest difference and our deepest secret. Anakin felt it as a power to be channeled, a muscle to be flexed. For me, it was an ocean in which I floated. I didn't try to control it, but to harmonize with it. I used it to perceive, to understand, to soothe.
When Anakin's anger rose, swift and burning after an injustice from Watto or taunts from other children, I didn't need to speak. I would simply sit near him and project a feeling of calm, like a cool blanket on a burn. His inner storm would settle, and he would look at me with those big blue eyes full of unasked questions.
"You should show that to Watto," he said sometimes. "We'd earn more credits. Maybe we could…"
I shook my head before he could finish the sentence. Win our freedom. It was the constant dream, the hope that vibrated within him day and night. "No, Ani. Some kinds of attention are dangerous to attract."
I knew. I knew there were beings who would sense a Force signature as unique as ours from light-years away. My presence was a muffled whisper, easy to miss in the hum of the galaxy. But Anakin was a beacon. And I had the awful certainty that lighting a second beacon would only hasten our discovery. It was better to remain in the shadows, uncomfortable as they were.
I became my brother's shadow. His silent confidant. I secretly fixed the mistakes he made in his haste, I soothed the nerves of those he irritated with his juvenile arrogance, and I sensed the dangers he was too eager to prove himself to notice.
Shmi watched us. She saw Anakin's fire and the quiet mystery that surrounded me. She knew we were special, different in a way that went far beyond simply being twins. She saw the way objects sometimes seemed to move just within my reach when I needed them, or how I guessed her thoughts before she voiced them.
One evening, as Anakin was away racing for Watto, she sat next to me while I watched the sunset dye the dunes orange and purple.
"Aenin," she began, her voice soft but full of a mother's worry. "You… you know things. Things you shouldn't know."
I turned my gaze to her. Her eyes, full of a lifetime of labor and unshakable kindness, searched for a truth.
"Dreams are sometimes strange, Mom," I said, using a fragment of truth to hide the whole.
"These aren't dreams," she murmured. "It's in your eyes. You have the eyes of an old man, my son. As if you've already lived a thousand lives."
I placed my small hand on hers, wrinkled and worn from work.
"I'm just here to watch over Ani," I said, and it was the purest truth I could offer her. "That's all that matters."
She squeezed my hand, her worry not disappearing, but yielding to the love she held for us.
"He has big dreams, Aenin. Too big for this world of sand."
"His dreams are important," I said, looking at the horizon where the first moon was beginning to rise. "They will change the galaxy. But big dreams need strong roots to keep from being swept away by the wind."
I felt her gaze on me, laden with a mixture of respect and fear. She didn't understand, but she accepted.
As night fell over Mos Espa, I heard the characteristic rumble of the podracer Anakin piloted. He was returning, victorious no doubt, full of sweat, sand, and exaggerated tales.
I smiled. Let him have his glory. Let him shine. My role was not to shine, but to ensure his light didn't consume everything in its path, himself included.
I was growing up with wisdom. And that wisdom told me that the shadow could be the light's greatest ally, especially when darkness began to stretch across the galaxy.