There were a lot of different stories of how he was born.
To the public it was an appropriately hyped affair dutifully announced with multi-media coverage.
According to his mom it was the expected normalcy of maternal fluff.
But if you asked his father it was a discombobulated mess of unexpectedness and luck that, according to him, only their family could pull off.
His father had been stuck off planet, – it was Kessel, through he always pretended to have amnesia on this point when his mother was in the room – his mother had gone into labor earlier then expected. His uncle had had to rush from the other side of the planet to sneak into the hospital where his sister was and had ended up looking after his newborn nephew alone for the first two hours of his life since his mother had fallen into a drug induced coma.
His uncle named him Ben and he was born into expectations.
Expectations he had tried to keep.
He really did.
He tried.
The story of his life, that. Trying.
He spent the first ten years of his life surrounded by politics, in the public eye. Son of two of the Rebellion's greatest heroes and the nephew of another, it would be impossible not to be.
The language of diplomacy and public relations were an impossible quagmire to him. He could vaguely remember the first time he had been allowed to attend a press conference. He was five and had never seen so many people before, so he was curious. And scared, because everything was so loud. Then this alien journalist pushed himself to the front of the crowd, drawing his undivided attention. He couldn't remember what species it was (he was sure it was blue, and beaked; with horns or crests, he wasn't really sure.) but what he did remember was the tense and deathly silence after he had declared it 'funny looking'. He could also remember the shame that had burned his face red and being quickly hustled away under disapproving eyes.
His father made it better, comforting him and making jokes, calling them names and other things that made him laugh as he tucked him in to bed.
That was the last time he ever did that.
For the rest of his life he was doomed to have disappointed and disapproving looks follow him everywhere he went.
Except from his father.
At least until his life went to the nine Corellian hells in a hand basket.
It started when he tried to make friends. The only kids his own age were those of senators and other high government officials. Status-wise, the perfect playmates for him.
In reality they were a bunch of twisted, sadistic and spoiled brats with enough charisma and political training to twist him around their proverbial fingers.
He would never forget the look on his father's face when he found him surrounded by the mutilated remains of something or other, his so called 'friends' having evaporated into thin air seconds before being caught red-handed.
The look of disappointment his father shot his way was like a brand, burning and painful and it stuck with him the rest of his life. Turning him from 'Dad' to 'Father' to 'Solo' in a failed attempt to distance himself from the pain.
He was ten.
Three days later his bags were packed and he was on a ship, heading off to be trained as a Jedi.
The family disappointment was now his uncle's problem.
Whatever hopes he might have clung to were dashed three days after arriving.
He was in a class with new recruits his own age who within hours were lifting rocks and other debris with the Force. He couldn't even lift a leaf, much less a pebble. He even said as much, screamed it more like, with tears and stomping feet to empathize his frustration.
Size matters not. That was all his Uncle Luke said, in that blandly intense way of his. No comforting touches or thrice cursed pity.
No.
Not for him.
For the other students, glowing praises and uplifting instructions.
But for his nephew – his own flesh and blood! – he quotes a troll.
The other students laughed at him for his weakness and ever increasing failures. 'The grandson of Anakin Skywalker'; they would say, laughing behind their hands as they tutted and shook their heads sadly, 'of Darth Vader, the most powerful Jedi who ever lived, unable to even lift a pebble.'
It was like some cheep holo-comedy to them.
Every waking moment of his life had become like a hammer constantly beating him down.
Taunts.
Expectations.
Disappointments.
All on his unaided and inexperienced shoulders.
But even Vader had failed, or so his uncle's stories said, he left behind one legacy unfulfilled.
The complete destruction of the Jedi.
So he studied, delving into the history of the Dark Side and the Sith.
And for the first time in his life he tasted success.
In the rain and the darkness, surrounded by screams and wielding a crimson blade that turned the world to blood, he tasted victory.
In the slaughter of his tormentors and the hopeful he came alive. The Force sang and his heart soared as his ears rang with unanswered cries for mercy.
But his uncle escaped, hiding away far better then his cursed namesake ever did, gone like a dissolved specter of the Force. He searched and hunted for him to no avail, giving his life's sole victory the bitter tang of incompletion.
But the universe never cared much for his troubles, oh no!
He had at last killed Solo – Father! – An act that should have opened up the Dark Side and all its power to him – another failure, he should have known – and now a nobody desert scavenger of a girl and her traitorous tag-along were attacking him – with his own grandfather's lightsaber, no less! – While the First Order's precious Suncrusher weapon crumbled around his ears.
Staring at the girl as they stood on opposite sides of a chasm, faltering and frustrated by events that were a slap in the face of his pride and laid waste to all his hard work and efforts, he was shocked to find that for the first time that he was not surprised.
After all, he would always be weak.