Chapter Text
In a galaxy far, far away there is a planet riddled with the bones of annihilated Destroyer ships and Rebel fleets. A place where a desert consumed the surface, and sparse moisture rods jut out from the sand to sustain the little life that did remain. A perfect dune infested battleground to bury secrets, and leave behind a past best forgotten, but nonetheless a scar on the Galaxy’s history. Beige and hot, seared into the fabric of life that continues to move on. An echo of regret.
Not far from this planet is an uncharted moon; a fortune that favored a refugee and the stranger with her. The moon was gifted a healthy atmosphere, its humid climate an indication of the fiercely beautiful rainstorms that cycled through the floating isles. They wet the rich soil beneath, and lathered the air in sweet, musky aromas.
There was no intelligent life there, save for the seemingly aware N’ung; an arthropod life form. So it was foreign to the native species, to see a docked ship hidden in an alcove carved out by a hastened landing. Splintered trees and rivets carved from the landing gear into the dirt, an echo of desperation.
The N’ung’s iridescent wings beat communally about their round bioluminescent bodies, making it a wonder they could fly at all. There was a shift in the air, and they hummed a little louder. A soothing song; a stark contrast to the wails of childbirth below.
Sweat beaded on the swells of sharp cheeks and on a forehead broken only by soft brown hair. Brown eyes spark to life as a wet babe heaves out with a final push. Blood and amniotic fluid gushed onto pale, emaciated thighs.
Fear rippled through the mother’s being when no cries are heard; her frightened eyes connecting with the cloaked man before her. The anxiety burrowed in her chest only to be assuaged when he raised the baby into her arms and it was simply wide-eyed and quiet, gazing at the N’ung sweetly floating above. Their wings silent now.
The mother could only hear one thing. The steady breaths and beating heart of a child that was never supposed to exist.
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“No!” Rey springs forth, grasping about her for her staff. Master Luke doesn’t come running anymore; the night terrors are an accepted constant of their cohabitation. He has simply moved to the dwelling furthest up the island, where the Force steeps in a comforting warmth, drowning out her screams and unbalance. She almost wishes he would yell at her to grow up, to quit screaming of nightmares; she certainly reprimands herself.
It is always the same dream. The Force vision from before. A long, dark, mechanical corridor of an unknown ship or base; one that she holds no memory of. It melts away into fire and sand, ‘til she is knee deep in sludge and rain. There is a whooshing above her, and then Kylo Ren’s saber is tearing a hole through a masked man’s torso. Suddenly he is further away, and something in the middle of her strained from the distance. It exploited a fear she’d rather not voice, even in her sleep. A connection better kept unacknowledged. But he swivels to see her, and Rey couldn’t help but feel this is different. She must have said something; there is a piece she has yet to find. Her fear drowns those musings, and he is coming for her. They are in the forest again, snow glittering dully in the darkness, and she can feel him. He is closer. The strain slacked a little, and before she knows it, his saber is ablaze nearly touching the tip of her nose.
And she screams herself awake: rinse, repeat. Every night it is the same. Yet every night it is different.
She’s been training for weeks. And she is strong. Rey stretches her tense muscles and palms her calves to soothe them with a little Force therapy that Luke has taught her. He has taught her little else.
There is an unkempt resetment billowing within her, and regret for coming here. For leaving Kylo Ren in the snow alone to die. She shakes her head, and stands to run drills. Her legs bend in front of her in a graceful lunge, the four corners of her feet plant firmly on the ground. She is centered and focused, and she can do this. A flick of her forearm just so, a spin and she has the staff balanced perfectly for a fatal blow to a phantom foe before her. She envisions a mask. Trimmed with tarnished chrome and an infuriatingly monotonous vocabulator.
It is a dangerous game she plays. Rey skirts the phantom opponent. His mask, as always, crumbles; his long freckled face was revealing itself to her again, and it makes her want to scream.
She returns to her drills immediately; over and over she exerts herself. Like a beating fist to the ribs. He isn’t a nightmare at all, but a dream.
Rey wants to wake up all the same.
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He sees her. Every night. Kylo feels her fear, and he turns, the mask thankfully shielding the rain from his eyes. She was standing there, drenched to the bone and wielding the staff. A sentimental weapon of choice. A weakness. She is exposed and outnumbered. But the dynamic has shifted. Where he should want to tear her down with his brothers, he feels the itch of apprehension. Where Kylo should see this as a blatant victory, he feels the weight of her impending loss. And when his comrades urge him forward to finish the deed, he finds himself staggering toward her. The biggest horror of all is that he is going with the intent to protect her. Abandoning the twisted masks and cloaks of darkness behind him. They scream his name in abject horror and Kylo startles awake, his being shaken to the core. Her face echoes in his mind’s eye, like a flickering light flooding warmth into the cracks of his resolve.
He feels another shift then. A dark slithering thing pushed itself into his mind. A familiar discomfort that never dulled in its abrasiveness. Always the brutal jamming itself into the fissure of his cranium.
Kylo Ren, come, as sleeps seems to burden you; let us begin today’s training.
Snoke always makes sure to molest his words with nuanced hatred. Especially when he mentions training.
Kylo may be dark and irrevocably vile, but he is not stupid. He is well aware of the contempt Snoke holds for him. A resentment spawned from the fact that Ben Solo is his apprentice. A half-blood, Force-sensitive who consistently undermines his authority. The only powerful child of the Force, willingly trained in the dark side. Kylo can never escape this. Even if he wanted to be an equal, he has proven more than once that his unchecked temper makes him a target for faux respect. Going to the light, a chronic ailment he seems cursed to suffer, was out of the question. Kylo will not belong anywhere other than where he is now: a subservient child who had run from home and killed the man who named him.
Suddenly a ripple of context slips past his initial awareness. A piece of the dream his subconscious had skimmed over.
A word.
Not a spoken word. No, it was like an emotion had manifested itself into in his consciousness, calling out to him. He had turned to her because he had felt it. A single word, one he now realizes he needs to hear her say more than he needs to breathe.
Ben.