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Dreams are an odd space for ones touched by the Force. For most, dreams are merely series of dulled sensations wrapped in memory. For those touched— or is it — by the Force, they’re full of illusion and distraction intertwined with cloying hope. It’s one of the few places where one cannot lie to oneself as one does in reality.
(That’s not to say lies are not possible in dreams. Only that the dreamer cannot lie in them. Ben Solo knows far too well the false promise of dreams. Kylo Ren seeks to avoid dreaming at all cost.)
Kylo Ren knows the power that dreams hold over the waking lives of others. How they can twist and turn and burn one's soul down until there’s nothing left but a dull broken shell. He hates dreams, but dreams are the only place where their bond runs free and unencumbered. Thus, Kylo takes refuge not in his dreams but hers.
She dreams of the past.
The recent past to be exact. The fear, the blood rush, the viciousness with which she fought come through full force into the dream but through a cracked lens. On Starkiller, she was akin to cold vengeful light, but here in this twilight realm, Rey is a swirling void of darkness fighting a man cloaked in grey.
That man is him.
Or what should have been him. In another life, another world, another choice.
(You could be that again, a whisper slips in. He brushes it away. Just because dreams are cursed with truth doesn’t mean he needs to listen.)
The battle finishes. Rey’s simulacrum of him lies upon the ground. Bleeding. Scarred. She stalks about the body, like a wolf circling its prey. Kylo begins to slowly untie himself from her dream. He knows far too well how this tale ends. And then, the script changes.
She shuts off her blade and sits upon his thighs, pinning his dream-self form to the ground. Draws a finger through the blood upon his face, brings it to her lips, and slowly sucks it clean. Kylo pauses. Dream-Kylo— or is it Ben Solo?— freezes as well.
Rey slowly leans over the man’s large lanky frame, pressing her hand on his throat. Kylo can tell that he’s still breathing but the pressure is such that the ghost of Ben Solo is dancing upon that fine precipice of life and death. Each breath he takes is solely at her mercy. She bites his lip and then draws him into a kiss.
A man whines. He’s uncertain if it’s the dream or him. He doesn’t know which is better.
Suddenly, the false-Ben is gone and she’s standing in the snow in front of him. She crooks a finger and his throat encompassed by a whisper soft embrace. Then she pulls.
He chokes.
A voice whispers in his ear.
“Next time, you don’t need to watch.”
He wakes with his hand across his throat and harder than he’s been in months.
Tonight, she dreams of a graveyard of sand and glass with ships drenched in blood. There’s a dull grayness cascading about the dreamscape of her mind that’s foreign to him. The ground is jagged with shards of glass interspersed with sand. It’s a far cry from the dreams of sweeping plains of green and water that he once gained entry to.
“Gained entry.” A bitter laugh escapes the woman next to him. Her approach is silent in spite of the treacherous paths about them. “Is that what the Sith call blatantly trespassing in one’s mind?”
“Is it truly trespassing,” he muses, “if there was a crack in the door?
He knows all about cracks and whispers in the night. Slowly, slowly blurring the lines between dreams and reality.
She’s paler here, not in a sickly manner though. Her frame is fuller. Stronger. But pale. So very pale. Like a harbinger of death from the tales that a Wookie once told a small child. Death is not someone to fear, but be wary of embracing her with open arms. Let her fight for your soul; it makes rest all the sweeter. Those words rise from a past life.
“Still playing at being Kylo Ren,” Rey’s voice interjects into his reminisces.
“What was that about trespassing into other’s minds?”
“I’m merely leveling the playing field.”
“That’s a new one from Skywalker.” He glances sideways at his uncle’s student.
“Odd, I heard it was favored technique of your father.”
“Han Solo knew nothing of the Force.”
“But he knew plenty of changing the odds in his favor.”
“If you mean running away and abandoning everything then yes, he knew plenty.”
“At least he came back.”
Silence, low and heavy.
“He said there was still light in you.” She turns to face him. Her yellow eyes disdainfully scan his form. He’s clothed in the dull grey robes of another life. “I can’t say I see it.”
Her eyes are yellow here.
It’s a striking contrast to their waking lives. There he plays the villain, the scourge upon the galaxy. She, the ray of light chosen to fight against the darkness. Here… here in this odd liminal space the Force has felt prudent to tie them with, he is far from a saint but not quite the devil, while she is all that he aspired to.
Here, Rey casts herself in raiments of darkness, her blade— a dull orange— the only claim to her allegiances. She’s the nightmare of the Force made flesh. Every time they come across each other in this space he strives to not fall to his knees before her.
(Some nights, he succeeds. Others, he fails. He doesn’t know which he desires more: leaving fingerprints along her hips as she clenches around his cock or coating his tongue in her wetness, her nails leaving phantom tracks behind when he wakes.)
Some nights, they spar. Her fighting skills have improved upon each encounter. Rey’s no longer steadfastly adhering to the stances of Djem So that her teacher favored in his youth but instead branching out to the more aggressive stances of Ataru. She’s discarded his grandfather’s favor for a double-bladed configuration. A deadly choice that’s a testament to her skill.
(She’s a deadly person by nature. She was tempered in heat and blasted with sand throughout childhood. He learns this: first, from the gaps between their encounters and then, from her lips. She’s like a wolf. Vicious and deadly. Teeth bared. He feel something pull at his chest. It’s not all fear.)
Other nights are more reflective. Pensive. Slowly picking at the scars on their souls. Those are odd nights, the mood swinging from soft to brittle in an instant.
Tonight is a rare, quiet mood. They’ve worked out their frustrations from the waking world and now lie curled up upon the grass. Leg intertwined, slow unhurried touches. They can almost believe that they’re an ordinary couple. Not a man who strives daily to shroud the light within him nor a woman with a core darkness.
He doesn’t want to be her downfall.
She’s strong. So strong.
He was considered strong once.
(In retrospect, it was such a simple thing for him to fall. Ben Solo, Organa-Solo he whispered under his breath, was like a sun in full bloom. Heavy and full of promise to those around him, burning himself from within. “The herald for the new era of the Force”, it was said. Legacy intertwined with rose of youth. It was inevitable that a snake would slip into the garden.)
He knows all too well the price of strength.
He dreams of a palace. Dark and forbidding. Hot, molten rock waterfalls caressing the walls of the structure. Sulfurous fumes fill the air.
She fits the setting far too well.
“You certainly know how to set a scene,” she states blithely, walking up beside him. She thumbs the length of her saber. “Are we going to fight, philosophize, or fuck tonight?”
He flushes. She smirks.
“Did Skywalker ever tell you of our illustrious ancestor?”
“The one you’ve decided to emulate,” she states, eyes skimming their surroundings. “Yes, a bit.”
“Your grandfather struck him down here and then as Darth Vader, he made a home here.”
Her eyes widen at this revelation.
“Why would he—“
“Maybe his master wanted to remind him of his choices,” he says darkly.
“I feel being more man than machine would be reminder enough.” She turns to face him. Chin tilted. Lips firm. “Why are we here, Kylo? You don’t want to talk about your grandfather.”
“Why are you here, Rey?” he asks. He’s tired. Tired of this dance of half-truths and shadows. He’s seen her strength. She’s no longer terrified scavenger he stolen from Takodana. “If you wanted to leave, you could. Why do you keep coming?
“Well, someone's a surprisingly quick learner,” she begins with a slight tilt to her lips.
“Rey—“
“I….,” she trails off for a moment, the mask of confidence dropping. “I feel….myself here,” she says softly. “I feel the dark side clawing at me but here…..it hurts less. I feel…”
“Balanced,” he finishes.
He stands in the waking world upon a field of green.
She stands in front of him. Wary.
They both wear grey.