The Ornament
"It was almost prophetic, you know."
Kylo Ren's voice startled her the instant her finger touched it. It was too late to disguise her tiny spasm of fright - her fingernail had already bumped the colorful, heavy clay ornament hanging from the short yet stalwart bough of the small, potted tree. And she couldn't ignore him this time, like she would usually do when the Force brought them together against their will.
Heh. Against their will. Rey wondered if that's why it was called "Force."
She clamped her teeth over her lips in irritation. She wouldn't sigh, she wouldn't shake her head with reproach or in lament. But she would refuse to look at him. Even when he met her shoulder unexpectedly. She was not going to give him any mixed signals, nor any indication that her feelings had changed since he'd reaffirmed his vile and vilifying pact with the Dark Side on the salty shoals of Crait.
Not since the vision they'd seen when they'd touched across time and space had made fools and liars of them both.
Typically when this would happen he would just sit with his back to her and pretend to meditate, feigning serenity while they both knew she could feel him spying on her, and bottling every single scathing remark he wished he could somehow vocalize. And she would simply wait him out while she busied herself folding her laundry or reading a holonet article about tensions in the Outer Rim, or by making thinly veiled threats while cleaning the power pack chamber on her blaster pistol.
But not this time. Not on the Eve before Life Day.
Not while she was looking at this colorful, heavy little clay ornament.
The thing was crude but sweet. It was clearly wrought lovingly by hand... by small hand. By the hands of a child. The figures painted on its face were drawn with the type of craftsmanship only found in one who'd not even remotely mastered the art of a thin paintbrush... let alone learned how to even pick one up. But though the shapes were primitive and the strokes the telltale, rudimentary caricature of youth, the smooth, confident lines bespoke the gifted potential of a skill yet to come.
And the forms on the face of the ornament could still obviously be identified as a unique, blended family: a mother, a father, a son... and a Wookiee.
The passage of time had taken a small tithe from the thing. It had evidently fallen once, on its left side. Or it had been dropped. But the painted face of the father had been chipped away... and it appeared as if the accident had happened quite some time ago. The years had seen fit to tend the wound in the clay, wearing down its jagged edges into something rounder and more friendly. Someone had even come along and drawn a smiling face in the chip left behind.
But Rey found she couldn't disagree with him. Seeing the face of Han Solo carved away from this still-life memory captured in clay... it did seem oddly foretelling. Something sharp tore into the already hollow place within her and ripped it open even wider.
"You should ask her how it happened," he continued, softly referencing his mother. Companionably, the way he would bait a trap. Shoulder to shoulder, where he stood next to her and yet countless parsecs away, staring at the same steadfast little tree bough. "I'd be curious to know what she tells you...
"Since she wasn't even there."
And then, as quickly as he'd appeared, he faded away. The tone in his voice had left her uneasy, like waking up from a bad dream. What was strange was that she actually had wanted to ask General Leia Organa about the ornament the first time she'd seen it, just the other day.
~*~ A few days ago ~*~
Life Day was a completely different thing on Jakku than anywhere else in the galaxy. Which, naturally, Rey didn't know until now.
On Jakku, Life Day was a day of peaceful simplicity. It was the only day of the year people didn't fight in the tavern at the trading post. They still got drunk on cheap, gritty ale, but instead of haggling and heckling each other and arguing over bad deals they sang songs and played card games. For nothing more than pure amusement - there were no wagers to be placed on Life Day.
The Sand Tribes from the deep deserts would come to set up their tents - they would traditionally ply their wares for one month following Life Day before they would once again disappear beyond the dunes, returning to the fathomless mystery they called home.
Rey never missed the chance to see them. They were like a bright gypsy carnival, and they were irresistible to lonely, simple little orphan girls like her.
Their tents were made of the kind of silk that could almost be described as alive - it was magical and bestial, scarcely leashed and tethered to their tentpoles, longing to tear free and live the life of a bird soaring high on the winds. It was whispery and bewitching to touch, and it sang songs as it moved in the night.
When they would build their circles of fires to ward off terrors hidden in the dark, they would hang lanterns of brightly colored glass that threw showers of rainbows all over the glittering sands. And they would sit on plush, woven rugs constructed from strange fibers and adorned with the images of strange creatures, and they would tell tales deep into the wee, early hours of the morning.
These were the first stirrings of her imagination... the first notions of a life outside of Niima Outpost... outside of the whole of Jakku.
Unkar Plutt would let her eat for free on Life Day. So she would dig herself a hole in the sand and munch slowly on her precious lump of soda protein bread and listen to them spin their yarns until long after the suns had set and the constellations had crawled their way across the sky.
Her favorites were about a girl they called "tsindaru," who was a demi-goddess with the supernatural ability to manipulate the world around her. There was one that said she could walk the world between worlds - that she could find the place where the horizon met the sky and step off to wander across the stars. They said she could travel to vast, unimaginable places, like a world made completely of water and another made completely of sky. She once brought light to a world of darkness. She once brought joy to a lonely prince who'd forgotten how to love.
She still remembered these stories. She'd even thought about writing them down, so that she could share them with her own children, someday. On Life Day. A day to celebrate living, and the lives of those who'd lived before.
But the holiday outside of Jakku, as she was beginning to learn, was a far grander affair. There were so many different races and languages and cultures and traditions. And the food... so much more than cheap, gritty ale and stale lumps of soda protein bread. In truth, it was overwhelming how big and... scattered it was.
For the first time since Rey had stepped both feet off the surface of Jakku to leap face-first into a war that had started without her, all of the display screens in the Resistance base were switched off. In stark contrast to the colorful lights she remembered from her youth on Life Day, the base was so quiet and so dark. It was almost as if the war had been put on pause.
There had been a mass exodus from the base. Life Day was a day for home and family, so the people who had those things were gone, leaving behind lonely, silent shadows that fell over cheery garland and forgotten ornaments. Poe had finally been pried away from his consoles and sent packing to his family on Yavin IV, though even as he'd stepped aboard his transport he still had his nose pressed against the screen of a small datapad.
Finn had been invited to join Rose and her family for their annual feast, and the candlelight vigil they'd planned to hold in memory of her sister. They'd invited Rey to join them as well, but the prospect felt more like an imposition - she'd feared she'd feel more like a spectator than a participant. So she'd exchanged small gifts with them and kissed them both on their cheeks before she bid them a good holiday and watched them take to the sky.
Just as she'd been considering a good, long therapeutic evening spent experimenting with a new and curious recipe, having the entire mess hall to herself, she'd happened to come across Chewbacca hastily stuffing a small, colorful clay object into a red laminoid box. When she'd expressed her surprise to him that he wasn't yet off-world like everyone else, en route to his own family and his own version of "home," he'd explained to her that he still had one more gift to give to one very special, very dear old friend.
It was a token of kinship, a reminder of love. A tie that still bound a mother, a father, a son... and a Wookiee.
No matter where. And no matter how long they'd been apart.
~*~ Now ~*~
There was no reason for two fully grown adult women to languish in self-pity on the Eve before Life Day. When they still had each other, they weren't truly alone.
And when Maz Kanata rang them up over the holonet, the evening was suddenly transformed into a pidgeon party for three. So the General and her Jedi threw together a bag full of toiletries, comfy pajamas, and soft, fuzzy slippers and took a massive, wreckless, and horribly irresponsible risk: they skated away on the Princess' private shuttle to the castle on Takodana.
Knowing fully that the First Order did NOT celebrate Life Day.
And the war was still very green-lit for every Star Destroyer cruising the hyperlanes.
Anonymous public transport would have been a better idea. But the queues were so clogged with holiday travelers that there was no telling when they'd actually see a departure. In spite of their terrible and shameful gamble... they'd arrived at their destination unfettered, undetected... and ready to party.
They dragged inside a small potted tree from the grounds arboretum and swaddled it with ribbons and paper chains and strands of beads and strung berries. They played card games while they snacked on illicit smuggled goods - fine cheeses, expensive candies, and exotic delicacies. They popped the cork on a fruity, fizzy bottle of Bespin Sparkle that gave Rey a nearly incurable case of the hiccups.
But the evening grew quiet when Leia placed the small red box on the table between the three of them. When she opened it, Maz didn't say a word. She only placed her hand over the fingers of her friend and gave them a long, earnest squeeze. Leia returned the affection, kissing her knuckles as she picked the ornament up and stood to hang it in a place of special prominence on the bough of their decorous little tree.
That had been a few hours ago. After had Leia dried her tears, they all had fun applying mud masks and sipping spicy Chandrilan herb tea before the older ladies finally retired to their respective chambers for the night...
Leaving Rey alone to finally get a closer look at the colorful, heavy little clay ornament hanging on the tree.
His voice haunted her in her sleep that night. In her dreams, she touched the thing again, but this time the edge on the little chip in its face was razor sharp, and as it pierced her skin she heard him say again, "It was almost prophetic... you know.
"You should ask her how it happened."
So she awoke on Life Day morning with a mission. A delicate mission... but a mission nonetheless.
A hush had fallen over the castle as it saw a rare day of relative inactivity. The few transient wayfarers that lagged behind claimed tables in the tavern to sip warm caf in sullen, wistful peace... dreaming of long-gone better days or simply enjoying the quiet break before the bustle of jet engines and stuffy markets began again. The lake outside was placid and mirrored with a thin glaze of new ice. The latitude where the castle was situated rarely saw significant snowfall, but a flurry or two on the morning of Life Day was not outside the ordinary.
Rey met her friends at the breakfast table that morning bearing her own personal gifts: juna berry scones she'd learned to make by herself. They weren't as sweet as she would have preferred, and their bottoms were a bit too brown, but the ladies delighted in her endeavor and gladly stuffed their cheeks with them. It wasn't until her second cup of caf, however, when Rey finally worked up the courage to ask the question that had plagued her sleep the night before.
"Leia," she began nervously as she folded her hands on top of the table before her. "I..."
She nibbled her lip, she swallowed, and she went on.
"Leia, I saw him again. Last night. Before I went to bed."
Leia acknowledged what she said with a look but nothing more. She didn't appear saddened or upset, the climate between them hadn't shifted. She merely appeared as if she was waiting for her to continue. So she did.
"He told me I should ask you how the ornament br... how it got damaged."
"Yes," she sighed as she nodded and folded her own hands on the table as well. "I can understand why he would. It happened the first time his heart was broken."
Leia picked up her mug and held the steam beneath her face for a moment, seeking comfort from it.
"It was the Eve of Life Day and I wasn't there. I should have been there. But I wasn't. Instead, I was on Coruscant to give a speech the next morning. It was a benediction, it was an important message of hope and peace, and it reached the homes of millions... but it wasn't my priority, and I know that now.
"I returned home that evening, and I knew something had happened. I could feel it the moment I walked in the door, something had changed. At first, it seemed very innocent. But I should have known..."
She tucked her chin to her chest, and ran a fingertip along the rim of her warm mug.
"I should have known by how reluctant Han was to bring it up. He never liked talking about these things. Things he... didn't understand. But that night... his son had become something he didn't understand.
"He became something he feared."
And then she shrugged, as if the explanation after that were simply matter of fact.
"He had been helping his father trim the tree the night before. He was still little, and still proud of the ornament he'd made for us in class at school. It was the result of a week-long project. It was a labor of love. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen - it still is. Nothing can prepare you for the moment you first see your child express himself through art.
"There's a whole world that lives inside their minds... one you never really see until they open up a window... like that. Oh Rey..."
Once more she reached for Maz Kanata's hand.
"Rey, there was so much going on inside that little mind that I didn't know. How could anyone ever know..."
She set down her mug and pressed her lips into her knuckles. She blinked at the table top for a few moments before she pushed her chair away and stood, crossing the room to tenderly pluck the ornament from its arboreal resting place. She held it and she gazed at it for a long time, without a word.
A window into the mind of a child who was gone.
Stolen.
Grown. And changed.
Robbed from her.
"His father had only stepped away for a moment," she told them. "To use the 'fresher, or turn on some music. Honestly, I didn't think they'd miss me until the next day. Ben idolized his father. He was his little shadow, he practically clung to his pant legs. He hung on his every word. Ben hero-worshipped his father, and an evening spent trimming the Life Day tree, just the two of them, was nothing short of heaven for the boy.
"Until he tried to place his new treasure on the tree and found he was too short to reach.
"And the demon that preyed on him in the darkest corners of his mind convinced him that there was another way."
"He used the Force...?" Rey guessed.
"He did. Except when his father had re-entered the room and distracted him, the thing fell from where it had been suspended in mid-air. Like something out of a horror holovid.
"That was the first time Ben saw the fear on his father's face."
The woman returned to her seat and gently tapped the ornament on the table, only twice.
"And sadly... that wasn't the last."
And now the face that was drawn in the place where the paint had chipped away would show no fear at all. It would only eternally smile - a permanent false sentiment and a young boy's wish that would never again come true.
"If you see him again," Leia beseeched her, "would you please tell him how much I love him."
"Of course I will," Rey promised her, easily. "I do all the time."
The promise was still a promise, though. And a promise made on Life Day was a very sacred thing, indeed.
~*~ Years from now ~*~
The grey in Chewie's pelt was growing more pronounced, and he was beginning to twist and rub at the small of his back more often. He still had strength and dexterity in spades, but he was starting to move a bit more slowly and his eyesight was a fair bit less keen.
In spite of the wear and tear, however, Rey knew he would still out-live her. Which was why he was such an integral part of their family. He was there when her husband was born. He was there when their children were born. He was more than just an uncle or a grandfather. He was their caretaker. He was their heart and soul. He was the tie that bound them.
The modest home of the Solo family provided Chewbacca much needed respite between destinations. Life Day had come and gone, and he'd left his family once more with a full heart and a sated belly. But out of a sense of duty and honor, and in memory of his good friend Leia Organa, he'd agreed to embark on a diplomatic assignment as a representative of the New Republic, undertaking a mission of outreach to a group of worlds in the farthest reaches of the Unknown Regions. He had two more days before he was to set sail on solar winds to cross the leagues of stars.
Two days to wrestle with their rambunctious five year old son. Two days to pry his knotted hair out of the tiny, vice-like fists of their infant daughter. Two days to play games and sing songs and eat scones and celebrate life and living before the galaxy and its responsibilities came back to claim their stake once more.
And while Ben Solo still had his good days and bad days, as he struggled with the emotional burden he would shoulder for the rest of his life, he managed to keep his spirits high while Uncle Chewie was there to visit.
On the last night, while Chewbacca was organizing his things and de-cluttering the special arrangement of picks and combs he used to groom the hair on his face, hands, and brows, Ben Solo brought him a little red laminoid box... one that was very dear. As precious as a piece of the past.
As longed for as an old friend who'd finally come home from a long time spent away.
Inside was a small, colorful heavy clay ornament, given form through the love and imagination of a child. It was a silent, innocent witness of hardship and pain and healing and reconciliation. It was an epitaph for the hopes and dreams and heart that once made up a family.
Not a perfect family. But still a family. A unique, blended family.
And although they were gone, they would always live on, on Life Day and every day.
A mother, a father, a son... and a Wookiee.