He thinks this is what it is like to be alone, only—
He has thought that so many times before.
.
Snoke is gone. It was a brutal, satisfying thing. He killed Snoke the way Snoke would have had him kill his uncle, betrayal at the edge of loyalty.
(That is not the way he killed his father.)
.
Shreds and whispers and an ending that felt so very small. That is the Darth Vader of his childhood. His mother would not say much, and Luke would not explain much.
Mystery breeds dreams, and fear breeds ambition, and sometimes there is hollowness inside a child's heart for both.
.
He kneels on Crait—the air stings like blood here—and he feels foolish. The simplicity of it, of his uncle's final words, of everything that lived in Ben Solo, is what he has tried so very long and hard to escape.
Rey has a simple face and endless eyes.
He knew she'd never come with him.
He'd hoped—
But hope is for the good, and for the dead, and he is neither.
Never again, and not yet.
.
Killing his father was the easiest thing he ever did. An ending, that felt so very small—if the ending and the ease were confined to the time and weight of his gloved hand against the blade.
As a child, learning to fly, death had never been far away. And Han Solo, pilot and vagabond, was always meant to fall.
(Not like this.)
(Easiest thing he ever did.)
.
The mask that is Kylo Ren and the corpse that is Ben Solo and the nameless face beneath too many scars sit hunched in the bay of an Imperial ship, folded small, knee almost to chin, as he used to sit when he was younger, or still young.
Maybe he is still young. He keeps away intruders with his mind, and tells himself that alone is a choice and loneliness must be too.
Rey is with his mother. They both survived. No thanks to him.
He hides from his own rage and is silent.
.
The Jedi, he remembers Luke saying, deny themselves pleasure to train themselves for pain.
I hate you, he hears his mother's voice, but there is laughter in it, and she buries (buried, it is all so long ago) her face against Han's jacket.
Ben. Rey's face is simple, and open like a flower, and he disappointed her every hope and far-flung belief.
(Easiest thing he ever did.)
.
At night, he can shed his rage and grief like so much shrapnel and scrap, and find Rey as man finds woman in every world but his waking one. Rey is sharp angles and soft lips and her hands are warm in his.
At night, he is only half himself. Or less than half.
.
Order after order after order, hunt them down, and kill them all—as though that can banish chaos.
As though, in the end, that is what he wants.
(It's the easy way out.)