Author's note: Takes place just days after the ending of "The Force Awakens". A short depiction of a training sequence between Kylo Ren and his teacher, whose identity I will leave for you all to decipher. Let's just say I have a certain character and backstory in mind.

I just simply had to get this out of my head and onto paper, so here we are. Sometimes characters are just begging for their stories to be told, you know. And this is the first Star Wars story that I have ever written.

Twilight

A bead of sweat slid down Kylo's clammy forehead. Ignoring the quiver of exhaustion that was slowly creeping up his body, he raised the saber high to ward off yet another offending bolt. The last hour of training was beginning to weight on his arms and the training bot that hovered on the other side of the room kept on firing mercilessly. He clenched his hands tighter around the saber hilt, his knuckles shining white in the pale industrial lighting. The weapon was a flimsy thing: no more than a low powered training saber, a cheap mirage of the power that a true lightsaber held. Once more he cursed the girl. His saber had been special. A reward of countless hours labored unsuccessfully pondering over old schematics of an ancient weapon technology. His master had offered little help; the man had only advised to trust in the force, only thrusting a crimson cyber crystal into Kylo's hand. The result had been an incomplete, pilfered design of a grandiose past. To Kylo, the blade had been perfect.

Anger tinted his vision red. He reveled in it, let the heat of emotion fill him. Frustration brought a furious power to his strikes. He had been weak and that was unforgiveable. Never mind being injured and confused. Weakness had cost him a victory in a battle that should have been easily won. The girl had been untrained and untried; the boy was nothing more than a run-of-the-mill Stormtrooper. Arrogance and overconfidence; it was what his uncle had once scolded him for, what his mother had seen in him and feared. The terror and sadness in his mother's warm eyes, the disappointment in his fath-… Han Solo's gaze.

His lapse in concentration was broken by a stinging pain in his shoulder. He gasped, more in surprise than in pain. An angry red burn shimmered under shredded fabric where a stray bolt had struck him. He bit back the pain. Agony and anger were a wellspring of power. He would reach out to grasp that power. His strikes became heavy and faster with growing rage. Soon he saw only the pale red haze of the training blade.

Five minutes later, the last bolt buried itself into a wall, leaving behind a smoldering burn mark. Kylo doubled over from exhaustion, grasping his knees. His famished lungs drew in air with labored breaths. His left hand rose to caress his throbbing side. The wrapping underneath the tunic still felt dry.

The soft sound of slow clapping thundered across the silence. "An admirable effort." For a moment, Kylo thought it was a genuine compliment.

"You are doing it wrong."

Kylo could not help but flinch at those words. He had always hated criticism. He despised never being good enough, never seeming to exceed the standards. Satisfactory, adequate…. He hated those words. More than that he hated perfection. Why give a name to that which was unreachable, unattainable? The constant drive and effort for something you could never reach. Ben Solo had craved for perfection, yet always ended up being just barely up to par. A boy who had his mother terrified and a father who stood silent at the sidelines. Han Solo's lack of words had never satisfied the son who had craved for praise, for simple words of pride and acknowledgment.

"It is effective. That is all that matters." He kept his tone curt, trying to smooth out the deep scowl that marred his face. "I have no need for your input, master."

The elder scoffed, more amused than disgruntled. "Such disrespect, Ben" The name made Kylo grit his teeth in anger. He bit into his lower lip. A coppery taste flooded his mouth. Always, the man enjoyed edging the youth on by playing with the apprentice's insecurities. It was cruel. Then again, what else was one to expect. Kylo bit back a snarky reply as cold azure eyes nailed his form to the spot. "The Supreme Leader has decreed your training inadequate. I am here to remedy that." Against his better judgement, the sharp gaze and the commanding tone were a familiarity that made the tension in his shoulders ease.

"Form three, opening guard!"

The sudden order jarred Kylo's composure and he hastened to comply. The student silently cursed his clumsy movements as he settled his frame into the familiar, yet foreign posture. His body angled sideways as his left foot slid forward, the right bent in support in the back. Somewhat awkwardly, he raised his saber in a defensive one handed grip while extending the other hand in challenge. Footsteps echoed as his teacher rounded his form, carefully apprising the student's stance. There was no verbal rebuttal. The steps stopped behind Kylo. As expected, he felt a pair of hands clasp his own shoulders.

Callused, tanned hands kneaded down the tense muscles until they felt them relax. Satisfied, the hands moved down to reorient the arm holding the blade, guiding it down to just above waist level. The training saber hummed softly in the silence.

"Emotion, yet peace."

Form three, Soresu or the way of the Mynock. With its tight bladework and subtle dodges, it was considered the ultimate defensive form of lightsaber combat. The Resilience Form was the way of the survivor, as his teacher had once described. A master of the form could outlast any opponent, turning their opponent's strength and blows against them. Exhaustion would lead to fatigue, and fatigue would inevitably lead to recklessness and misjudgment. A lapse in concentration from the opponent would guarantee a defeating blow.

"Ignorance, yet knowledge."

Kylo could not understand why his teacher favored such a defensive form. True, the man was a master of Soresu, but Kylo knew he was just as well – if not better – versed in the more offensively oriented fourth form. Yet most of the time when they dueled, the man would drop back into his passive fighting style, unnecessarily drawing out the conflict. Perhaps it was simply a teaching tool; somehow Kylo doubted it.

A prodding foot at his ankle made him widen his stance.

It had to be something more. The effort, care and consideration that he had seen his teacher pour into his third form katas could not be faked or half-hearted. And then there was something else in the man's eyes whenever he wielded his yellow bladed saber; it was something Kylo couldn't discern but still envied. At one time Kylo had thought it to be passion, though that did not quite capture it.

"Passion, yet serenity."

The touch of his teacher's hands disappeared from his left hand. He could feel the man's satisfaction silently shimmer in the Force. He listened to the man's steps scuffle across the floor. His teacher was facing him, waiting for him to complete the final step. A sharp hiss told him the man had finally ignited his blade. The sound made the hairs on the back of Kylo's neck stand up on end; the beast of battle reared in his chest making his heart race. He breathed deeply through the nose.

He tore through the Force to reach the eye of the storm. The calm at the heart of the tempest, that was the feeling he was searching for. Yet, somehow it always evaded him. He had to open himself to the Force. Kylo bit his lip as he reached out his senses further, hesitant to loosen his grip on the physical.

And then the air was alive with sound and noise. Ethereal humming and voices filled his head; screaming and shouting deafened his ears. He was back in the deepening shadow, with two pairs of hands grasping for his lightsaber. He felt the awe as he levitated a small stone inches above his palm, while the warmth of the Force gently caressed him. He stood amidst the thunder and the pouring rain, the smell of iron suffocated his sense of smell. Seven candles flickered out on a lifeday cake as his father stood beside him recording the moment on a holo. He stood in the corridor, ears pounding with the arguing voices of his mother and father. He pulled away, shuddering and sweating from the effort. He rapidly blinked away the tears in his eyes.

"Chaos, yet harmony."

He threw himself against his opponent's guard, forgoing strategy for brute force. The blow was deflected without any effort, yet Kylo did not care. He threw himself at his teacher three more times before the man reacted, lashing out with his own blade and swiftly disarming the young man. The training saber clattered across the room several feet away. Kylo's knees bruised against the hard floor. His teacher had not moved a single step from where he had started.

"Arrogance, overconfidence, recklessness, aggression. You let your sins and flaws drown you, Ben."

Kylo snarled at his teacher. Bloody spit dripped down his chin. "Keep your light side ramblings to yourself, old man. They make you weak, made the Jedi weak. I slaughtered the Jedi, scoured the temple as my grandfather did." Ben Solo was of the Light. Ben Solo was a Jedi. Ben Solo was weak. Ben Solo was dead. Kylo Ren would be strong. "I care not for the Light, for it has forsaken me." He felt like throwing up. The throbbing of his side was quickly morphing into a crescendo of agony.

He heard a snap and the yellow glow disappeared. There was the shuffling of robes and the squeak of leather as his teacher lowered himself onto his knees before his student. Kylo stared at the floor, counting the miniscule cracks in the duracrete. "A Jedi cautioned me against anger. A Sith goaded me to embrace it." The voice had a hard edge to it, yet at the same time it felt close to cracking. Kylo's jaw tightened in surprise. His teacher had met a Sith? "I learned to reign it in, to control it." Kylo yearned for that control. Ben Solo had lacked the control, been without discipline. And his parents had feared him for it, washed their hands of the far too emotional boy. Hands clasped his quivering shoulders. Bracing himself for the look of disappointment in his teacher's eyes, Kylo glanced up.

"Control your anger, your hate, and your pain." Rarely had he heard the man use such a soft voice, barely a whisper. There was no irritation or judgement in his teacher's blue eyes. The Force whispered in understanding, and for the first time Kylo did not bat it away. "Do not run from it or let it drown you, for you will become reckless. Become the master of your emotions." Perhaps that was the answer. All his childhood, he had been told to let go of his anger, his hate. Ignore his frustration and shove it into a dark corner of his mind. His mother would simply wipe away his tears, tell him that it would be alright. His father would punch him on the shoulder, tell him to lighten up. His uncle would assign hours of meditation practice. It had not helped; the beast had only grown in the darkness.

The man's eyes wandered to Kylo's side. The corners of his eyes tightened ever so slightly. "Pull up your shirt." Kylo stared at his teacher in silence for a while, hesitating. No one knew about the wound, his weakness. He had refused to see a meddroid, insisting that he was fine. It had taken a while, but he had awkwardly disinfected and bound the wound in his own quarters away from prying eyes. He knew the work was shoddy and messy. He rolled up the hem of his dark tunic slowly, carefully separating the glued fibers from the puss and blood that smeared his side. It stung. The makeshift bandage had slipped and was partly soaked through.

Blue, soft eyes met his and with a nod from Kylo, gentle hands began to probe at the wound. Slowly and tenderly, his teacher peeled off the filthy bandages. The man seemed not to care for the blood that stained his hands as he worked. Kylo's side just below his ribs was a mess of crimson and throbbing flesh. There was the sharp sound of fabric ripping. The young man flinched as he felt cold liquid splash against his side. Water, he realized, after spying the open canister in his teacher's hand. With a makeshift rag in hand, the man began to slowly swab away both the dried and fresh blood smeared around the wound. There was silence as he worked, slowly exposing the pale flesh underneath the grime.

"I can see the light in you, though you deny it." Kylo shuffled backwards, about to spring onto his feet; pain be damned. A strong hand clasped his wrist halting the movement. All the while, his teacher did not look up from his task. "He senses it as well."

"A temporary setback. It will not last. The Dark side is stronger." Kylo tried to convince himself. He felt desperate. No matter what he did, the atrocities he committed, the Light continue to pull at him. He had pillaged the temple, sworn himself to the darkness, slaughtered an entire village and killed his own father. It clung to him like a resilient stain. A soft chuckle interrupted his turbulent thoughts.

"You are rather lucky, Ben. Unbelievably so.", His teacher remarked lightly. The man set down the stained cloth and half empty water canister. Experienced eyes and fingers inspected the injury. "No serious internal damage or bleeding." The man reached for his saber, igniting the blade. The warmth made Kylo's exposed skin tingle.

"Bite down on your shirt."

Kylo gathered the collar of his tunic into his mouth between his teeth. His body tensed as he braced himself. The man did not allow him to dread for long. The heat spiked at his side and he saw white. He tried to stifle a scream by biting down hard into the sweaty fabric. It was unsuccessful. The shock made his breath escape his lungs and he found himself gasping for air. It was over as soon as it had started. Only the smell of cauterized flesh and an intense burning feeling at his side lingered.

"The light side and the dark side; the Jedi and the Sith. You are so quick to separate the two." His teacher smoothened a cooling patch of first aid bacta onto the now closed wound. Why he would carry such a thing around, Kylo could not fandom. The pain was slowly ebbing away, leaving his side feeling rather numb. "There is no death, there is the Force. And the Force shall free me."

"Truth is the common narrative."

His teacher rose up. A moment later hands scooped under Kylo's arms, pulling him to a standing position. The world swayed for a few seconds. Dimly, he felt his teacher reach out through the Force. There was a soft cling and a silver metal cylinder flew into his grasp. The man eyed the training saber with distaste, running his hands along the dents and scrapes along the hilt.

"You'll need a new blade." Kylo felt some of the overbearing tiredness slip away at the statement. The idea of forging a new saber filled him with unexplainable warmth. Ben Solo cheered quietly in childish excitement. A soft smile curved Kylo's lips upward. He did not feel like smothering it even as he saw his teacher stare at him in amusement. "Get some rest, Ben. We leave for Ilum in the morning."