XXXV

He can't feel her. It doesn't strike him at first as odd—he's so used to closing himself off from others that, when she's not there, he sometimes falls into old habits—but even he can't miss the gut-wrenching surge of panic that hits him like a fist from two systems away. It's adrenaline, concentration, reliance on the Force…and then it's acid, corroding fear, burning away everything else.

Fear for herself. Fear for him.

Like a psychic shriek between the stars, she calls for him once. His name in her thoughts as a terrified warning. Then there is nothing but silence.

He has an instant to feel her terror, her longing for him and his safety, before a blaster bolt nearly shears his skull in half. Tarek, a lieutenant of no particular note, so mild-mannered Ben had doubted he had a pulse, let alone any murderous instincts, fires twice more before Ben seizes him in an iron fist and snaps his neck like a twig.

He regrets it instantly. A prisoner, especially a failed assassin, would be a useful source of information. Information he sorely needs. As it is, the abandoned corridor he finds himself in is pregnant with menace, every nook a possible hiding place for another assailant.

He draws his saber, keeping it in his hand and his thumb on the trigger. If he can preserve an illusion of ignorance of the plots that swirl around him, he might have a chance. A chance to save Rey. That chance is all that matters, one possibility in a million that, even if he dies, she might live.

Stalking up the corridor, heart hammering and energy spiking, Ben curses under his breath at how easily they'd been fooled. It's easy to put the pieces together in hindsight. The hunters have become the hunted. Hux must have taken his strategy of eliminating all the Marshals at once and turned it upon them instead. How much of a threat could two Jedi be—

He pauses. Except it's not two Jedi. The Knights. His Knights. The ones he'd led here, sworn to protect, sworn to redeem. Hux would know, though Ben had never said as much, but he would know that they would avenge their master. If he and Rey are targets, they certainly are.

Through the Force, Ben reaches for them, but only a vast, cold echo of silence rings in his ears. He's alone.

Completely alone.

His hands shake with a weak, shivering tremble of fear. He could cut through the entire crew of the Primacy, slaughter man after man until they're nothing but piles of wet flesh squelching under his boots. He could tear through the galaxy until his fingers were around Hux's throat and his bones shattered…but for what?

Without his Knights, without Rey, what does any of it matter?

A jogging squad of stormtroopers cuts him off at the end of the next hall, blasters raising as one as they sight him. His saber bisects them neatly in three strokes, their screams cut off before they begin. Ben looks up at the camera that tracks him and breaks into a run. Secrecy no longer matters. All that matters is what he does next, and how fast he can pull it off.

There's no question. Rey. He knows where she was flying, where she was when she called for him. He'll find her, he'll find her, and anyone who laid a finger on her skin will lose their own in return. Rage warms him, fires his blood, burns fear away—

And blinds him.

A line of pain sears from his shoulder to his wrist, laying him open to the bone. Just an inch further and he would have lost his arm to the blade that cuts him. As it is, he roars in agony and slams the body that wounded him against the wall until it resembles the bloody pulp of a quarril, not a man.

But the damage is done. He's lost his sword arm; even holding his saber makes him want to scream from the pain, and his fingers are quickly losing sensation as blood leeches from him onto the deck below. Another minute of this and any chance of escape will fade with his consciousness.

Experience has taught him—kriff, how it has taught him!—precisely what needs to be done. Gasping, Ben braces himself against the wall, grasps his saber in his left hand, and lays the naked, searing blade against his wound.

Once, he would have used the pain of his blistering skin to fuel his rage. Once.

Now, it nearly makes him vomit.

Wheezing, tears burning in his eyes, Ben forces himself upright and hobbles down the hall. He cannot let his anger blind him again; if there is to be any hope for any of them, he must see clearly and calmly. With a breath to center himself, he reaches for the Force.

Why does Uncle Luke come to mind as he practices those age-old techniques to calm the mind and heighten the senses? He used to loathe them, despise the hours Luke insisted he spend in meditation, using the Force to soothe his tormented spirit. He had not practiced in over a decade, yet despite everything, when he reaches for it, the Light is there. Waiting within him, a bubbling, abundant wellspring. Like a rush of cool water, it cradles him in an enveloping wave and lifts him up. For an instant, his vision washes bright blue and he fears he is about to faint.

Instead, he finds certainty. Support.

The Knights. You must go to them.

The thought is not his own, but he doesn't question it. Rey has told him of her experiences being guided by the Force; perhaps it is trying to help him save her. He won't doubt it, not now that it's finally there when he's asked it for help.

Force, he prays, guide my steps and my hand.

I am one with the Force. The Force is with me.

Assurance rises with each step. The Primacy has been his home for months; he knows its ins and outs like he knows the freckles on Rey's face. With an upraised palm, he sends a surge of power running through the security net that fries all the cameras and intercoms in a burst of sparks. With no eyes to watch him, his next moves are secure, and he catches the next three ambushes before they know he's on them.

It becomes harder and harder to dodge the patrols. The entire ship seems to be rallied against him; Ben had forgotten how much he and Rey depended on Hux's honor to keep his significant number of allies in check during these maneuvers. Ben has never been popular, has never been the mouthpiece for the Order that Hux is. No wonder they are seizing the opportunity to turn on him like rabid dogs, curs let free at last from the strangling leash of fear.

Once, he would have torn them apart in his hatred. Now, all he feels is sorrow. Sorrow that this is his legacy, that this is all that he will leave behind him when he leaves the Order. That this has been the sum total of his life's ambition. People turning on him in disgust and fear, eager to do away with him at the first chance.

No. This is not the only thing. Every instinct tell him the Knights are still alive, and he will not lose them to his own folly. They will not be sacrificial victims to appease Hux if he cannot lay hands on Ben.

The corridors stretch, seemingly endless, between himself and them. Desperate for strength, for wisdom, Ben reaches out once more.

This time, he recognizes Rey's voice.

You wouldn't believe, she'd laughed at him once, studying the plans of Abaloe's vessel, how wastefully your ships are designed. All that extra space to carry your comms' cables? No wonder Star Destroyers guzzle fuel like camels at a waystation!

The cables, running through the walls. Rey had confounded his pursuit…by hiding in the walls.

Once, his pride would have stopped him. Once, he would have preferred to die in open combat before lowering himself to sneak like a rat in the vents.

But his life was not all that mattered to him. Not anymore.

He finds a console, pulls it out, and folds his bulk into the wall, wiggling into the space like a molting caterpillar.

Whether the laughter in his head comes from Rey, Luke, or the Force itself, he can't tell.