Notes: It's been a while since the last update. I got in a bit of a rut with this fic, and there are so many other things I want to write at the moment. I'm still determined to finish this fic, and I'm hoping that getting back to Finn next time will spark some new ideas. For now, let's spend a short but sad time with the 'stranger'.
He was in a foul mood. After the incident in the repository, his migraine was raging like the tempest outside, and his cold, damp clothing wasn't helping the deep ache in his bones. To make matters worse, he'd been gone so long that the fire had died, and – against his battered body's protests - he'd had to crouch in the darkness to get it going again. It took far longer than he cared to admit, and by the time he'd produced a tiny flame, his chattering teeth and growling stomach were loud enough to hear over the din of the thunder.
He ate his cold meal in stormy silence, perched on a stool that was far too small for him. He vowed that, as soon as he could walk unaided, he'd find something to cook over the open fire. He imagined roasting a fresh, juicy fish or even one of those odd-looking birds he'd seen flapping around, and didn't bother to stifle the longing groan that bubbled up in his throat. As grateful as he was for the caretakers' hospitality, he didn't know how much longer he could stomach rehydrated kelp.
Barely sated, he tugged off his damp clothes and laid them out to dry by the now crackling fire. Then, he retrieved the scrolls from where he had rescued them from his damp poncho earlier and clambered into bed, pulling the covers up to his armpits to ward off the chill of the storm. He counted out four scrolls and arranged them on his lap.
It was difficult to say how old they were. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he understood that calligraphy was an ancient art. The scrolls were crushed and torn in places, and the edges of the paper were thin, as though they had been handled many times. Even so, he felt that they were not as old as they looked, though he didn't know why that was.
He chose the least tattered of the lot and, carefully, untied the leather cord wrapped around the parchment. His heart leapt as he watched handwritten words unfurl one by one, then sank again when he realised the scroll only contained one sentence. He turned the parchment this way and that, holding it up to the firelight for a better look, but there were only five words neatly inscribed in black ink.
'Darth Vader was my grandfather.'
He frowned. He did not know who Darth Vader was, but the name sent a shiver down his spine. Something stirred deep within him – something disturbing enough that he felt compelled to cast the parchment away. He watched for a moment as the paper, held in position by the leather cord for so long, slowly curled back in on itself near his feet.
He eyed the other scrolls dubiously. He wasn't sure he wanted to read ghost stories before bed. Yet, even as he considered rolling over for the night, he found himself unravelling another scroll and devouring the words on the page.
'There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no passion, there is serenity.'
Fourteen words written like a mantra, over and over, each repetition more hurried than the last. He scanned down the page to where the words broke off mid-sentence. What followed was troubling.
'Sometimes I hear voices. I don't know if they're real or if it's all in my head.
I don't know what would be worse.'
Reading such an intimate confession felt like a violation. Whoever wrote it had clearly been struggling with something – a past resident of the village gone mad with isolation, perhaps. The thought concerned him, so he opened another scroll.
'Everyone thinks they know me. Everyone thinks they know my life story before it's even begun. Because I'm Ben Solo. Because I'm a Skywalker.
I don't want to be a Skywalker. I don't want to be an Organa, and I definitely don't want to be a Solo.
I wish I didn't have the Force. I wish I was someone else. I wish I was nobody.'
The storm overhead seemed to fall silent as the words washed over him. An uncomfortable weight settled in the pit of his stomach, along with the strange sense that fate was in motion around him. The pounding in his skull – momentarily forgotten – returned in force, and he swept a hand over his face in a futile attempt to be rid of it.
Questions flooded his scrambled brain. Was this written by someone from his past? Was he the one who'd pored over the pages so long that the paper had worn thin? Better yet, was he the one who'd written it?
Was he Ben Solo?
The idea seemed momentous. He sounded the name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue and half-hoping that his memories would come rushing back to him, but there was no grand moment of realisation. Just the rain hammering down on the stones above, and the fire crackling away in the hearth.
Perhaps not, then.
Still, the broken man in the bed felt as though he knew the writer. Maybe even intimately. Once again, he wondered how long he'd been in this place. He had assumed that he did not belong here, but then again, this strange rock was familiar to him. Perhaps this was his home after all. Perhaps he'd merely had a nasty fall while scaling the cliffs… without clothes or shoes?
No, that didn't feel right. There was something he was missing – something locked away in the deepest recesses of his mind. He opened the final scroll with shaking hands, and his lips parted in a tiny gasp as he read the words scrawled there.
'He's watching me.
I have nowhere to turn. I don't know what to do.
I just want to go home.'
He set the paper down in stunned silence, chasing the fleeting sense of comprehension that was already retreating from his mind. He had not been looking for answers when he collected the scrolls from the repository, but he also hadn't been expecting them to raise more questions. His brain grappled with the paradoxical sensation of understanding everything he had read whilst simultaneously understanding nothing at all.
Weariness fled his body. He knew that, if he wanted to leave the village any time soon, he should try to get some rest, and yet he knew he would not sleep that night. He pushed himself up on aching limbs, and brushed strands of dark damp hair off his forehead with a sigh, resigning himself to the long night ahead.
For the first time he could remember since waking up in the hut, he felt intensely lonely.