Notes: I've added a very tentative chapter count which may change.

Alcida-Auka was awoken by a prickling sensation at the edge of her consciousness. It was still dark outside the hut, the night still and clear. There was no sound, save for the lapping of the waves on the rocks below and the gentle snores of her daughters. Still, she sensed that something was amiss.

She sat up in her bed and listened, not with her ears, but with her mind. The Lanai did not feel the Current in the way that visitors to their island did. They could not disappear into its flow nor use it to levitate rocks, but generations of Lanai had been born and raised on this very rock. They had evolved alongside the uneti trees that grew here, imbued with the very Current itself. No, they could not bend the Current to their will, but they could sense it. Feel it flowing through all living things.

That was how Alcida-Auka sensed the life form at the base of the island now. Outsiders had been few and far between during her lifetime, and even less common during her mother's time as matron. She had believed the wretched human girl would be the last Outsider she attended before her eldest daughter inherited her position, so the unknown presence in the cave was unexpected to say the least.

Usually, the arrival of Outsiders was heralded by the din of their modern transport technologies startling the wildlife and spewing contaminants into the ocean. The worst of their visitors had no reservations about ditching their spacecrafts into the rocky coves around the base of the island, or worse, setting them alight and leaving the charred, twisted remains for the Lanai to clear up. This made the stranger's silent arrival all the more unusual.

The blowhole that had formed at the bottom of the island was shrouded in darkness, but Alcida-Auka was pleased to find that the presence in the cave was not malevolent. She sensed that the Current was strong with them, flowing with light from their unconscious form. This was most unusual.

Still, Alcida-Auka had learned enough. She shook the remnants of sleep from her mind, and set about rousing the other Caretakers. For as long as the Lanai lived on the island, they would do their duty, following in the footsteps of the ancestors who had gone before them. They would prepare food and lodgings for the Outsider as required, but right now, the stranger needed their help.

o-o-o

He came to with a jolt, clinging to a vague echo of soft light in some all-consuming shadow as it swiftly rushed away from him. The distant sound of wind in long grass, the crash of waves on craggy rocks, and the call of some unknown seabird filled his burgeoning consciousness. With some effort, he opened his eyes.

Stone piled on stone piled on stone towered around him in a dome-like structure. It was cool and dark, save for the beam of sunlight streaming in through a hole in the corbeled walls of the ancient abode. He gingerly pushed himself up from an unsophisticated bed, straining against the ache in his bones to swing his legs onto the floor. Screwing his eyes shut, he waited for the spots in his vision and the ringing in his ears to subside, feeling his heart pound in his chest as it laboured to deliver much needed blood to his brain. He was hurting everywhere. Finally, he looked down at himself and examined the dirt beneath his overgrown fingernails, the rough blanket draped over his naked form, the rudimentary splint secured to his ankle – and found that he had no recollection of anything at all.

Panic bubbled in his chest as he grappled to find some purchase in his mind – any shred of memory that he could grasp onto – and was swiftly rewarded with a sharp pain which bloomed behind his eyes and turned his vision white. Clapping one hand to his forehead, he gripped the rocks beneath him with the other, attempting to steady himself as his world turned upside down. His thoughts flailed uselessly around the shapeless void in his mind, and he imagined that his head might burst open.

Compelled by some unknown instinct, he sought out the strange birdsong he had heard lifetimes ago. Identifying its shrill shriek carrying on the wind, he clung to it like it was a lifeline, his anchor to the real world. The call, at first distant and weak, grew loud and strong, gently pulling him from the depths of his panic. His ragged breaths echoed around him, at once disorienting and grounding him. Beneath his fingers, cold stone refused to yield, and he could almost imagine it as an extension of himself, reaching down into the earth beneath his feet. Slowly but surely, his breathing steadied, and the outside rushed back in – along with an overwhelming, unsettling sense of calm.

Perturbed, his eyes snapped open. The hair on the back of his neck bristled as the stray chips of stone around his feet scattered wildly across the floor, and he jumped up with a curse, gathering the blanket around him. His ankle protested against his weight, but he could not resist the sudden urge to flee the stone hut. Tentatively, he limped out into the sunlight, gulping in the damp bracing air and tasting salt on his tongue. Squinting against the bright rays, the world slowly came into focus and his breath hitched in his throat.

Before him, a vast ocean was an array of colours, glittering in the sunlight and disturbed only by green islands jutting purposefully towards the sky. Above him stretched endless blue, lit by binary stars which loomed overhead, casting a short shadow at his feet. Around him, a stone settlement of huts identical to his own encircled a grassy clearing, teetering at the edge of a cliff face which plunged towards the crashing waves below. Behind him, he counted stone steps climbing endlessly towards the crest of the rocky mound. He made a mental note not to attempt scaling them until his ankle had recovered.

Taking in his surroundings, he felt a peculiar prickle at the back of his mind – that this place was familiar somehow, that he had seen it before. He wondered on it fleetingly before banishing the thought as his migraine threatened to flare once more. He would avoid that experience again wherever possible.

Leaning on the fragile stone walls for support, he carefully descended the steps at the front of his hut and approached the cliff face. Looking down towards the steely blue water which frothed below, a shudder ran down his spine – it was a long way to fall. He hastily turned back towards the settlement, pondering whether he should search the other huts for any sign of life, when, as if on cue, a gaggle of short amphibian creatures with smooth grey skin and narrow birdlike feet appeared seemingly from nowhere. Dressed in off white habits and equipped with all sorts of tools, they conversed in an unfamiliar lilting tongue which fell silent when they laid shrewd, dark eyes on his figure.

Utterly bewildered, he did not know if he should bow or flee as an older specimen shuffled forward to examine him. Her face was weatherworn and wrinkled as she peered up at him, but she did not appear surprised to see him standing there – nor remotely perturbed by the blankets he was self-consciously clutching around his waist. With a nod of her head, she turned and shuffled away from him, gesturing for him to follow as she babbled along in their unknown language. Merely grateful for the proof that he wasn't alone on this rock, he trailed behind her dutifully as her companions set to work brushing the stone steps and tending the old walls.

The old creature led him to one of the huts and turned towards him expectantly. He looked at her dumbly, until she cocked her head towards the wooden door with a squeaky exclamation. He started and, not wanting to offend his new acquaintances, rushed forward as best he could with an ankle he was now quite sure was broken.

He stepped inside out of the sunlight and waited for his eyes to adjust, revealing row upon row of stone shelves, carefully arranged with handwoven kelp baskets. Judging from their bleached appearance, some were distinctly older than others, but each contained various garments and trinkets which he did not recognise. Looking back, he found that the matron had returned to take up tasks with her companions. Chewing on his lip, he cautiously stepped forward to examine the baskets, moving slowly for fear of damaging the artefacts which had been reverently placed in storage here.

From the newer baskets, he picked out a handful of new clothes for himself, shimmying into them as fast as he could within the privacy of the repository. He did not know who these garments belonged to, but he was shivering despite the sunshine. Looking at the weather beaten rockface and luscious green grass, he guessed that this place was not always blessed with such pleasant weather so, along with some tunics and trousers, he gathered two thick cloaks, a pair of waterproof boots, and a leathery poncho. They would not be a perfect fit, but this hut of treasures was an unexpected luxury.

As he made to leave, he noticed a walking stick resting atop the basket nearest to the door. Thinking of his ankle, he pulled the basket down to gaze upon its contents. It was significantly better stocked than some of the other baskets, containing all sorts of oddities including a grooming box, some kind of navigational device, and a peculiar crystal pendant. However, what really drew his eye was the silver cylindrical device nestled amongst a set of cream robes. Inexplicably, helplessly drawn to the gadget, he reached to pick it up.

His fingers had barely made contact with the cool metal before searing pain shot through his skull. Green light flashed behind his eyes, and the echo of some long-forgotten voice rang in his ears. The moment passed so quickly he couldn't even be sure it had been real, but nevertheless, he found himself gripping the stone shelf so hard his knuckles turned white, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. Shot to the core with a fear that bewildered him, he grabbed the grooming box and the stick, and unceremoniously shoved the basket back where it belonged.

He could have sworn he had been in the repository for only heartbeats, but he exited to soft golden light which cast long shadows behind the huts and realised sunset was upon him. With the help of his new stick, he made his way across the now empty clearing towards what he supposed was his home for the foreseeable future.

Upon entering the hut, his heart clenched at the sight of a fire crackling away. The dirty blankets of his makeshift bed had been cleaned and left to dry in the heat of the flames, and replaced with fresh linens. A plate of salted fish and dried kelp was perched on a stool, accompanied by a bottle of green liquid. On the floor sat a bucket of clean water, warmed by the heat of the fire, and a washcloth. Despite himself, he found that he was completely overcome with emotion, even if the food looked less than appetising.

Scrambling back towards the door, he yelled a thank you to nobody in particular, knowing that his new friends probably wouldn't understand him, but unable to help himself. His voice cracked horribly from disuse and he cringed as it echoed back to him around the cliffs, reminding him of his current condition and bringing with it a thousand more questions that made his brain ache. There was much to think about, but for now, he would eat and he would rest.

o-o-o

The following days passed without incident. Each morning, he awoke late and enjoyed the breakfast delivered by his companions in the sunshine. As he ate, he watched them potter around the village, pulling weeds from between the ancient slabs, cleaning his clothes in wooden washbowls, and scaling fish on the stone steps. He wanted to help – to give his hands something to do if nothing else – but they were settled into a practised routine that he didn't dare impose himself on. With time, perhaps they would welcome him into the fold, but for now, he contented himself with listening to their chatter as they worked. Even though he couldn't understand a word they were saying, he was simply happy for the company.

After they left for the evening, he watched the sunset from his perch outside the hut, counting the stars as they appeared above him. He watched and he waited, wondering whether somebody was supposed to come back for him – whether somebody had forgotten him. When his head started to hurt and his body began to ache, he retreated into the warmth of his hut, eating his dinner in silence before drifting off into a long, dreamless sleep.

The routine quickly became tiresome. It was almost exciting when, seven sunrises later, he awoke to cloud cover, a brisk wind, and the chance of rain. He dressed in warmer attire, and made his way out onto the steps.

As usual, he watched the caretakers (as he'd come to call them) complete their tasks before, too soon, they packed away their things and disappeared up the long stone stairway which curved away from the huts and out of sight. He longed to follow them, to see what was beyond the village, but there was no way he would make it to the top of the hill in his state. As the last tiny figure vanished beyond the peak, he sighed and turned to look at the heaving grey mass that was the ocean. He eyed the distant islands silhouetted against the gloom and wondered for the first time whether this, too, was an island.

He was struck by how little he knew – about anything. Indeed, there were only a few things he understood for certain.

First, he was injured – badly. Alongside his broken ankle, he counted five or six broken ribs, a number of contusions along his torso, and the lingering effects of a concussion. In fact, most of his body – surprisingly muscular though it was – was battered and bruised in some manner.

Second, he couldn't remember a thing about his life before waking up in the hut. Not even his own name. Attempting to recall anything earlier than the week before brought migraines that were so intensely painful that he was forced to abandon the exercise each and every time he tried.

Everything else was an unknown. He didn't know anything about the land he found himself on and, as long as his ankle was recovering, he had no hope of exploring it in search of answers. Thus, he concluded that he had no choice but to wait for his body to heal before he could do anything at all.

Thankfully, for whatever reason, there were people who were willing to care for him. He would not be short of food and rest to aid his healing, and that was reassuring. However, it also left him with plenty of time to think – but what could he think about if he couldn't remember anything prior to seven days ago? Then again, he didn't really know how many days he had been here. The significant stubble around his chin told him that the past version of himself had been clean shaven, so he must have been unconscious for a few days at least. Aside from that, he had the strange impression that time flowed differently here.

The prospect of the long weeks ahead, confined to his hut with nothing to think about but all the things he didn't know, made his heart sink. Right now, the future was looking bleak. He felt instants away from a panic attack at any given moment, and he knew he would have to keep his mind busy if he was to avoid spiralling into despair.

So what would he do with himself if he couldn't explore his surroundings, he couldn't communicate with the natives, and he couldn't exercise his body?

As though the clouds overhead sensed his defeat, a few spits of rain started to fall onto the stone slabs with a gentle patter. His reverie broken, he looked up at the darkening sky with disdain. The breeze had picked up, whipping his dark hair into his eyes, so he hauled himself to his feet with the help of his stick, not wanting to get caught in the approaching storm. As he turned back towards the huts, a thought struck him.

He had retrieved the bare essentials from the repository, but there were baskets upon baskets of untold treasures stored there. The storm on the horizon looked fierce, and he could be holed up in his hut for some days. More than that, some dormant part of his brain that he didn't dare to interrogate thirsted for knowledge (perhaps he had been a scholar in his former life?) and he felt quite certain that answers lay within the confines of the stone hut. As far as he could tell, nobody else had touched the place in years, so who would bother if he took a few items for his personal entertainment?

He glanced around the clearing, ensuring that he was alone. He didn't think that his creature companions would mind, considering it was their leader who showed him the repository in the first place, but he still felt sheepish about rifling through the belongings of people who he had since realised had probably died here.

For a horrible moment, he wondered whether all that remained of him would one day be packaged into one of those neat little baskets, too.

o-o-o

He started at the back where some of the baskets were so old that he thought they might fall apart when he touched them. He spent longer than he needed to, giving each basket more time and attention than their contents demanded.

There were more useless trinkets (medallions, crystals, signet rings, stones, pendants, and peculiar polyhedrons that he could make neither head nor tail of) than he knew what to do with. He was mystified by their place on this strange rock, but ultimately, they were of little value to him.

He found more of the cylindrical devices, too, each different to the last and crafted in a variety of materials. Viewing them from afar, he decided that they were weapons of some kind and left them untouched.

Every now and again, he came across ancient tomes and leatherbound notebooks, but most of them were so old that they were illegible – either faded from the passage of time or written in some long-lost language that he couldn't read. The newer baskets contained no such treasures, replaced by antique datapads with power cells that had been dead for centuries.

Here and there, he found ancient writing instruments that he thought he could do something with, but their accompanying inkwells were dry as a bone. He wondered whether the vast ocean might hold creatures from which he could extract ink, but shook away the ridiculous idea as soon as it entered his head.

The storm outside made it difficult to say what time of day it was. The sky overhead was darkening so quickly that he would soon need a light, and the earlier drizzle had developed into heavy raindrops which bounced off the stones, collecting in buckets left out by the caretakers. Somewhere in the distance, the storm groaned and rumbled, mimicking his rapidly deteriorating mood.

His search was proving fruitless. His head was swimming, unaccustomed to such long periods of time spent upright, and his battered body was crying out for a soft place to sit. He fought against them both, determined to find something which would make his suffering worthwhile, but the thunder was getting closer. He knew it wouldn't be long before he had to abandon the search.

Giving in to frustration, he finally turned to the basket near the door – the one he had been avoiding. The silver weapon glinted ominously in the darkness, reflecting the white flashes that had begun to light up the stone courtyard outside. He stared at it in trepidation, swallowing the bile which inexplicably rose in his throat. He realised that it seemed familiar to him somehow, even as the thought shot pain through his skull.

He chewed his lip. Beneath the cream robes on which the weapon sat, there were reading materials – scrolls of parchment secured with lengths of leather cord. He had seen them yesterday and remembered they were here, but his baffling fear of the strange silver instrument had kept him from investigating further until he was left with no choice. He looked out at the storm, getting heavier by the second, and blew out a shaky breath.

Steeling himself, he turned back to the weapon.

'I can do this,' he whispered, his voice rough and his throat sore. Before he could change his mind, his hand shot out to retrieve the weapon.

Once more, green light flooded his vision, and a horrified voice rattled around his mind. It screamed a name which he had already forgotten by the time the silver object fell from his hand and clattered to the stone floor. Breathless, he staggered back in terror. He thought he might vomit, either from fear or from pain. Perhaps it was both.

He raised a shaking hand to his face and realised he was crying. Disgusted by his cowardice, he wiped away the tears with more force than necessary, and snatched the scrolls of parchment from the basket. He looked down at the weapon, lying still on the stone floor, and decided it could stay there. He tucked the scrolls into the safety of his waterproof poncho, and stomped out into the storm as angrily as he could with a walking stick and a broken ankle.

He did not look back, but if he had, he might have seen the old man who stood in the entrance to the repository, staring after him with eyes full of longing and sorrow.

Notes: How did the Lanai transport a naked Ben Solo from the cave to the hut? I'll leave that to your imagination...

The 'Current' is just what I imagine the Lanai call the Force, and the repository is mentioned in the novelisation of The Last Jedi.