Six years earlier…
Rain was rare on Tatooine, and when it did come, it came with a vengeance. Lightning painted the sky, and Kellaro would wake his mother Dinui by wailing from his bunk, just audible over the thunder. Other times there would be no sound, but he’d come creeping through the dark house to burrow into her side in the middle of the night, refusing to sleep until she hugged him and chanted a soft lullaby.
As he had grown older, both habits had tapered off, but particularly ferocious rainstorms could still bring them back. Dinui suspected this had something to do with the Sith who had taken Brant away: the terrible bitter-blue lightning they had used on the boy when he had protested the kidnapping too loudly for their tastes.
As she was thinking of this, Kellaro suddenly cried out again, just after another crash of the thunder, and his mother reluctantly pulled herself from bed to go to him.
“Kellaro? Are you awake?” she asked as she ducked in from the hall.
“Mom,” he answered, then gasped when another stroke of lightning lit up the room, making his face look unnaturally pale. He was sitting up in bed, his sheets clutched in his hands. Then it was dark again, and Dinui found her way to the bedside by feel.
“It’s all right,” she said, reciting the old, tired reassurances again. “The lightning is just Tatooine’s way of celebrating the water coming. Like fireworks–”
“Mom, I know what it is,” said Kellaro. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”
Dinui reached out blindly in the dark to stroke his hair. He touched her hand, pulling it away, but squeezing it tight in the same movement. Yes, no matter what he said, Dinui knew what troubled him; moms always knew.
“I was thinking about Brant,” he said.
Dinui nodded. “I know. Was it something in particular?”
Kellaro made an unhappy noise. “It was something Grenjo said. He came from Dromund Kaas, you know? And he heard from some of the troopers stationed there, that the Sith are all alone when they’re taken to the Academy. They don’t eat together; they don’t sleep in the same room. They don’t have any friends.”
“Oh, Kellaro. Grenjo’s just saying that; he doesn’t know it for certain. None of us hayc droten do.”
“But what if he does? It would mean Brant is… well… I don’t like to think of him being all alone. Wi-without us.” Kellaro swallowed.
“Even if it was true, you couldn’t do anything about it,” Dinui said gently.
“I know!” Kellaro burst out in a wail, then bit down on the blankets to quiet himself. “Sorry,” he murmured around them. “I know. I just–”
Dinui’s hand drifted to Kellaro’s knee, patting it as she searched for an answer. “Maybe there is something you can do for him,” she said after a moment.
“What?”
“Do you remember — when your father was still with us — the two of you playing hide-and-seek?”
“Oh yeah,” said Kellaro, and the next lightning flash revealed a small grin. “I could never beat Brant. He always seemed to know where I was.”
“Because he did know where you were,” said Dinui. “It was one of the abilities the Force gives to him.”
Another bolt of lightning flared in the window, so bright this time she could see nothing in the glare; the resulting crack and rumbling boom set off an alarm somewhere out on the moisture farm. Kellaro leaned over to turn it back off with a swat at the strip on the wall.
“Well,” said Dinui when he had settled. “He hasn’t lost that ability, I’m sure. And do you know something else?”
“What?” said Kellaro again. The boy was beginning to relax finally, as the thunder began to die and turned into a driving rain, soft at first, then sweeping closer and louder as if it were a sandcrawler rumbling down the dunes. Dinui sighed. It would probably wash out the road again, but she refocused on what was in front of her, reaching out to stroke Kellaro’s head as he bedded down into his pillows, the sheets drawn up over his shoulders. Dinui leaned in to kiss him, her words gentle, almost like a spell:
“Whenever you think of him, I bet, ver’dika, that he’s thinking of you.”
“You don’t think he’d ever forget us, would he?” said Kellaro. “That was something else Grenjo said.”
“No,” said Dinui firmly. “Not while you remember him. That’s why, every night you go to sleep, you think of him, Kellaro. Think of him, and think good thoughts, so he knows you’re okay. Think of him and think the happiest thoughts you can, so he has something to hold onto while he’s at that Academy.”
“I will,” said Kellaro softly, and Dinui thought he finally sounded sleepy. “Goodnight, Mother,” he finally said. Then he paused and added, “Goodnight, Brant.”
“Hmm.” Dinui smiled, patted down his hair, and when Kellaro didn’t answer, she quietly got up to leave. She didn’t actually know if it would work, but maybe… maybe…
It was the only thing she could do for her other son.