She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and submerged herself underwater.
Everything she thought she heard on the surface blurred. She felt the gentleness of the cool water touch her, quite contrasting the way the hot sand made tiny cuts all over her body at Jakku. Time slowed down; whatever happened beyond her at that moment was irrelevant. She felt passion, and it numbed her. She felt him.
...
He laid in his cell, and put his hand to the scar she had marked him with. His nostrils flared as he exhaled with a certain rage- not the rage he felt when he discovered the droid escaped from Hux's men, not even the rage he felt when she escaped from the interrogation room. He wasn't even sure what this rage was caused by. He turned in his bed and looked out the window and saw a dozen moons surrounding the monotonously colored planet. Those moons were the only light anyone could see in the darkness. They pushed and pulled the waves of the ocean; they were the only things that were familiar to those lost at sea. He felt so lost, and it enraged him. He felt her.
...
Rey stepped out of the water, dressed herself and sat on the grassy planes overlooking the ocean. She saw the movement of the water- rows of it curling upwards and hurling themselves full speed at the coast, and turning into foam that slowly creeped back into the mess they were in at the first place. She had heard rumors that it was the moon that caused this repetitive destruction and resurgence of the water. She looked up, and all she could feel was the need to resist the pull to something that *seemed* bigger and brighter. A true Jedi would do that, at least. Master Luke had told her that a true Jedi would never give into emotion. She thought of when she closed her eyes with his red lightsaber merely inches away from her demise. She thought about the surge of power she felt when she gave into her passion of doing the right thing- she marked him, and there was no taking that back.
...
He examined his lightsaber handle. The perpendicular vents existed purely for offering stability to the saber. So much energy must be expelled somehow, but perhaps those menacing vents weren't enough. He got out of bed and took off his shirt. Getting into stance, he turned on his saber. With both hands on its hilt, he circled around and angled his wrists in such a way the saber revolved almost with him- he had grown accustomed to this circular pattern of fighting- and delivered his final blow at a downwards angle. He straightened himself up and looked at his saber. The jaggedness of the light coming through the main and perpendicular vents made the instability of his saber quite evident- it could fail him at any moment. He chuckled and turned the saber off. He felt hatred. Hatred of Han Solo and what he had turned his beloved Ben into. Hatred of FN- 2187 and the life he stole from him. Hatred of himself, for giving into his passion the way Darth Vader had yet feeling like it was all wrong. Han Solo couldn't save him now.
...
The dark ocean only pulled towards one thing- the moon. Without the moon, the ocean would be stagnant. It would be stationary. It would be at peace, to a certain extent. The only thing that makes the ocean live is the moon that looms over it.
...
The moon was the only light in the darkness of night. Without the darkness, the moon would be nothing. It would be simply what it is. The only thing that makes the moon shine is the darkness that surrounds it.
...
He laid in bed again, light saber next to him. She sat in the grass, watching the foam return to the ocean. And all that could occupy their minds was gray.