She filled the water tank on the Hope from a stream on Gannaria; she'd have to trust the filtration system and good luck that nothing too awful made it to human consumption. Then she found a flat rock by the stream and tried to collect her thoughts. She'd need a plan, and at present her entire plan consisted of, as Luke would say, landing on Ossus with a laser sword and hoping for the best. She lay back on the rock, warm from the sun. It was a crumbly sort of stone, the edges giving under her; streaks of dark grey shot through its soft white surface, the grey remaining while the white crumbled. She picked up a pebble between her fingers, held it over her face, and pressed it into powder before her eyes. She'd hurt enough people, lost enough people, that if today was her last day alive, it would be all right. Whatever contribution she had to offer the galaxy, she'd made it. Retrieving Ben from the Netherworld of Unbeing, whatever that was, could be her death. That was all right with her. She was immensely tired.
Rey opened her eyes suddenly, jerking her head up. She'd fallen asleep, on the warm stone with the sunlight blanketing her with warmth and peace. She was an unspeakable fool, wasting time like this – or, if the twisting ribbon were real, there was no such thing as time at all. Her head hurt vaguely from grief and thought and sleeping awkwardly.
She sat up the rest of the way and crossed her legs beneath her, just as her masters had taught her. She couldn't be a Jedi, couldn't live a life without attachment or love, and if she could not have her love, then she was growing confident that there was no reason to live. Or, at least, that there was no reason to fight to live. Her treatment of Alik had been unworthy, cruel even, but not as cruel as staying with him when she didn't love him, she reminded herself again. Everything she could have been, should have been, and never would be. She shut her eyes and begged the Force to watch over him.
The sunlight slid over her shoulders, almost an answer. "Be with me," she whispered. If she could not call on the masters, she could call on the Force itself, the Way of Life, for guidance. Only one face returned to her, Ben Solo fading into utter nothing under her very hands. It was a memory – of that she was sure – and not a vision, but she clung to it. She had to try.
Rey stretched out her left hand, eyes still closed, and the little red book popped into it like a servant answering a summons. She'd called it all the way from the Hope. She held it flat in her left palm and held her right hand over it: it flipped open, pages spinning as if caught on a breeze, and then it was still. She didn't need to see the page to know it was the right one, the one containing the image she needed. It was labeled the Thorpe Theorem, and she'd stared at it for hours on Ajan Kloss. Alik had given her the clue she needed. "Thank you," she whispered to him, though he would never hear it.
In her mind's eye, she saw the image, like phases of a moon. It was, nominally, a hyperspace plotting riddle, but there was more. It wasn't just a key to unlocking hyperspace – any engineer or astromech could figure that out – but a key to the Beyond. The slip of parchment tucked between the pages, with notes scrawled in the margins in that now-familiar hand, assured her of it. She could see it, all of it, opening before her: the lock clanking into place, the door sliding open, the brightness of the light that waited beyond.
She opened her eyes again and the book fell into her lap. She knew. She knew how to get inside, and just as confidently she knew that she didn't know anything more. She'd just have to find out when she got there: the Force wasn't going to show her now.
Her gaze landed on a creature that soared down from a tall tree through the dusk and to a bush off to her left. It landed on a branch and the branch hardly swayed, so light was the little winged creature, and it nibbled lightly on what she could now see was a deep purple fruit. Hunger swelled up in her and it occurred to her that not only was she no longer sure how long it had been since she left Naboo, she was quite sure that she hadn't eaten since she'd been in the marketplace on that planet. So much had happened since then that she could hardly believe it, but she'd gone too long without eating before. She wasn't unaccustomed to ignoring the hunger pangs.
She unfolded her legs and stood up slowly from the rock, her limbs stiff and sore. She moved toward the bush and the little flying creature startled and fled, but she tried not to feel bad. Instead she picked the purple fruit and, with a tiny little prayer that it wasn't poison, popped it into her mouth.
It was sweet and juicy, with a flavor couldn't place. She imagined some culture making dark wine from this fruit. Her fingers were stained just from touching it, but she swallowed and then stood for several moments, not dying. It seemed as safe as she could hope, so she knelt down and began to eat straight from the branch.
Her stomach was full and she still wasn't dead. It was nearly dark now – just how long was a day on Gannaria? – and she had food and water and as much rest as she was likely to get. She had a plan. There was no reason to wait any longer. On the Hope she found an empty drawer, which she filled with fruit for the journey. Should she take enough to return from Ossus? Would she return? She couldn't say, so she filled a second small box with berries and closed the entry door. It would have to be enough. She would have to be enough.