All Ben knows is that he has to run.
The little boy's breathing is short, his heart racing, his hair falling about his face. The snow crunches and crumbles beneath his feet, the cold biting into his skin. The darkness threatens to take him into its consuming grasp, hold him tight and never let go.
Maybe he should let it.
He does not know how long he has been running, where he is now, or where he will end up. Nor does he know what he is running from. All there is is the act of running, and the fear that set it in motion.
Fear. Fear heightening his senses, making every stagnant shadow into patient monsters; waiting for him to come too close, so they can pick him up, swallow him whole.
He doesn't wait in return, doesn't wait to see if they're real; he assumes they are.
But nothing reaches out with bloody claws, nothing taunts him, or roars in his ears. The only sound in this snowy forest is his own frantic gasps for air—(but he doesn't feel like he's breathing)—and that is monstrous enough.
Ben falls to the ground. He tries to crawl, to get back up, but his legs refuse to answer his commands.
The darkness, at last, now that Ben is on the ground, now that he cannot escape, takes on form, and steps before him.
Ben is just a child; he will never win against the hosts of darkness. Never win.
Or at least, his mind repeats it, like some sick prayer; You're nothing.
The creature—no, the person—'s face is obscured, whether by a cloak, a mask, or his own blurred perception, is itself another unclarity.
Everything is a little off, a little unclear, like he's looking through the dusty viewfinder of his uncle's macrobinoculars. Like he's making it up as he goes along.
In the dim light Ben can't tell whether the cloak is brown or black.
There is a whole spectrum between those two colors.
A sound penetrates the shadows, and with it, a light.
The lightsaber gleams in the dark. It is not, however the warm grace of lamplight come to save him from the surrounding black. Rather it gathers its energy from the dark around it, amplifies the shadows, and the terror they provide. It hums, a crackling, red-soaked lullaby. Like an escaped convict of the old world, singing to himself in an empty cave the words to an even emptier old imperial march, telling himself he will be king again.
Red. Black. White. One day, the only colors in which he'll see.
Ben doesn't even have the strength, or time, to ask; Who are you? What are you? What do you want with me?
It doesn't matter anyways. He knows, he knows exactly why this person has come: they have been hunting him down for a long time, and that lightsaber is about to break his too-fragile heart—the heart he hasn't had time to harden and protect yet.
The only thing he dares to do is shut his eyes, and catch a breath, hold it in his lungs, try to grasp tight enough it won't be stolen away.
"Ben," the shadow taunts with a deep, crackling, familiar, unfamiliar voice, and the figure is so tall …or maybe Ben is just too young…"Oh poor little Ben," it speaks with mock-pity, "Who will save you now?"
The little boy tries to swallow, tries to think of something to say, his tongue and mind searching for one strand of hope to grab with his words.
He has no weapon. His words are his only sword. So he must choose the strongest ones.
So…what are the strongest words? Defiance? Emotion? Insults? Truths? Lies? Will he fight the shadows with light or darkness?
There is power in silence too, but his tongue will not sit still. So, with a nervous sort of pride he says,
"My father will come. H-He'll come to save me."
The figure laughs.
Then, to Ben's surprise, they power down the saber and crouch down. But he soon finds the reason is because worse than their taunts, worse than the violent promise of the lightsaber, is the feeling of their gloved finger on his chin. Their face is indistinguishable even now, close. And they say, with only a glint of empathy, hidden under six feet of of malice,
"Poor little Ben…all alone in the world."
He swallows.
Is he? All alone? What if Father isn't coming? What if Mother isn't coming? What if Uncle Luke isn't coming? What if he, and this thing, and these snowy woods are all that is real?
They take their hand away, the mocking tenderness left behind for slander;
"You think Han Solo will come to your rescue? You think that arrogant wretch will be your savior?" he laughed, "I am sorry to say."—and Ben has been around enough adults to know they aren't sorry at all—"He will leave you on your own…everyone will. Han Solo can't save you."
The boy's hands clench into shaky fists. "N-No! NO!" Ben cries out, so lonely, so afraid, so lost.
The figure head tilts ever so slightly. "You're so sure… why?"
"Because…Because he's my father—"
"And that's what father's do?" they scoff. "Just because he is your father doesn't mean he'll always be there. There are some darknesses we must face alone. Best to realize this earlier on…it'll save you the pain of betrayal later."
Ben's expression is set. His small frame can barely contain all the anger running through him.
They tilt Ben's chin higher, appraising him as some fine item for auction. He swallows. "You cling so tightly to the light. Wouldn't it be easier just to give in?"
"U-Uncle Luke says—"
"Skywalker. I should have known…Did he ever tell you of your grandfather?"
Ben chooses silence this time.
"What if even your uncle Luke isn't the perfect hero everyone claims he is? If even he were to turn against you one day…what would you do?"
"No…NO! Uncle Luke would never do that!"
"Quiet!" The figure barks, looking around wildly, exchanging the gentle touch close to Ben's face for the lightsaber again—at which Ben cries out in fear, and attempts to scramble away but he can't move.
A voice comes from the trees nearby. "You're the one who shouldn't be so chatty."
The footsteps of the new figure fall between the shivering boy on the ground, and the shadow which hovers above him.
"He's just a boy," the newcomer says, empathy for that boy, and anger for the man—(if he can be called that)—dripping from the words, "What do you want with him?"
"What use would you have for him? He is just a boy."
"Use? He's not a tool, or a toy! He is a person!"
The attacker whirls his lightsaber tauntingly, "He has his grandfather's blood in him. Someday he could become something great. But not like this; Not sniveling on the ground."
"He could be something great. He will be. But not led by you. Go. Leave him alone."
"I'm afraid I can't do that."
Lightsabers draw, splash paint across the night, colors flash, sending shocks through him; cracks of sound through the air and ground.
Ben looks away.
Thunder and light in the middle of the night, the villain may have fallen, but the child is caught in the middle—between the fire, and the shadows it casts on the wall—
And they die.
And in the moment he dies Ben realizes just how alive he is.
Light from the stars—which they promise he will travel to, someday—pools on the floor of his bedroom, dripping from the window, crawling through the dark to the child.
There is nothing more in the room but cloth and metal; pillows and toys, empty and unliving. The world is silent. But the noise of the dream still fills his head. Tells him—though he knows not what—something is in the room with him. Telling him, no matter if there is a rational reason, he must feel uneasy, even now that he is safe.
And there is nothing more unsettling than a silent room to a noisy mind.
So, with hyperventilating heart, Ben sits up in the quiet.
He does not, however, rest within the emptiness.
He tries not to shiver.
He fails.
He tries to close his eyes, to shut it all out.
He fails.
There's nothing here. I'm alone. I'm alone. Comes the first chorus.
I'm so very alone. I'm all alone, just like that thing said, and no one will save me—! Is the refrain.
He tries to tell himself the darkness is not reaching out at him.
He fails.
As he moves to flee from his nightmares.
Something moves on the shelf.
And he runs.
"Mommy! Daddy!" he cries, attempting to knock down the door to their bedroom with feeble hands, but ends up sliding down it, falling to the floor in a heap of tears.
It's only a moment before light extends its hands in friendly greeting from the threshold. Footsteps, and the door opens to reveal the worried and sleepy face of his mother, brown hair falling about her waist.
"Ben?" she runs a hand over her tired expression, "What's wrong?"
"I-I was—there was—Momma he was gonna kill me—!" Ben heaves.
"Oh...You had a nightmare, didn't you?" Leia kneels down before her son.
Han's face appears in the doorway beside her.
His mother rubs her hand soothingly along her son's back, crooning, "It's alright." She lifts him up in her arms, then runs her hands through his hair as he cries, "Shh…it's alright. You're going to be okay."
"Yeah, it's okay, Ben," Han tries to comfort. She sits on the bed, placing him on her lap. He leans his head onto her chest, continuing to cry, as Han joins them. "It was just a bad dream."
It takes a moment before Ben is able to whimper through the sobs, looking at his dad through the wind and fire:
"H-He told me y-you wouldn't be there…he said you couldn't save me…"
"What?" Han sits down next to him, "Who told you that?" he laughs a little, "Who does he think he is, 'can't save you'?" he scoffs, "You think this asshole"—Leia gave him a reproving look—"er, jerk, would be able to take on the fastest pilot in the galaxy? I bet he'd take one look at me and piss his pants. You really think your cunning, genius, incredibly handsome dad can't save you?"
Leia rolls her eyes. Ben almost smiles.
Han smiles back. "That's not true, son. That's just not true. I'll be there; I'll always be right here." He cups his son's cheek.
"Y-You promise?" Ben asks, sniffling, tear-stained eyes bright and yearning.
"Yeah. Sure. Of course. Of course I promise."
Ben tries to smile but sorrow is so strong in him—as though it's trying to penetrate his soul and claim it for its own forever after.
Ben's mind races, unfinished images falling like rain inside his head. They pool on the dual pathways that lead to Woods of Fear, and the Town called Love, and trickle down into the deepest parts of his soul.
"You're gonna be okay, sweetheart, you're gonna be just fine." Leia smiles, trying to find the antidote the poison of the dream, "When I was little, I used to have all sorts of dreams."
"You did?"
"Yeah. I used to have these dreams about my mother and father all the time. Some of them were nice, but… there were others that scared me."
"I didn't know that." Han spoke.
"I'm grateful we're here to comfort you." She twists a strand of his hair in around her finger.
"But you'll always be there for me, right? You'll protect me?"
"Of course," she kissed his head.
But some nightmares never go away. Not really. Not completely. Not when they're real.
They say the war's over, but, in him, it feels like it's just beginning.
And it is.
Legacy. It always sounds so hopeful to those leaving it. The promise of a better world. But to a child who is this legacy…it becomes quite the toll on the bridge of life. And Ben had this burden worst of all; An uncle who persisted in the light, whose legacy was stars and starships, and saving the galaxy, who made heroism look so easy. A mother whose legacy was kingdoms, republics, who was a princess, though not one in some tower waiting to be rescued. And a father whose legacy was never giving up, always smuggling something, who never checked twice, and always shot first. And a grandfather whose legacy was empires, and black-strewn halls and masks, and bloodstained names, strong with the force, which attuned his heart to darkest parts of it. The blood of all of them spilled beneath his skin, running a race in his veins, pulling him in different directions. And the name of an old hermit whose legacy was the knights and the chivalry of an old forgotten world. He knows not which voice is the tempter and which is the angel calling him home.
All these conflicting legacies, so much pressure to stay in the light, and one single string of dark, there like a rope rescuing him from a cave he's fallen into, and the expectation that he'll live up to them all somehow…What can be left in him but war?
Peace is not as simple as it seems. Peace is often harder, because while peace is easy to shatter into war, it's nearly impossible to pick up the pieces of war and put them back together as peace again. There are always little wars in the cracks. It's unfortunate that he was born on one of those cracks.
If only he hadn't grown up. Every child stops idealizing their parents at some point. If only it weren't those words from the dream that echoed in his head, if only they hadn't started to sound more and more true, until they were the only thing he believed in.
If only he had realized he didn't have to choose just one. Just one side, just one legacy. If only he realized that he didn't have to choose between being the hero, the prince, the rascal, the master, and the lord. That he could be them all at once.
And if only the light hadn't given in to that single moment of fear, proving everything said in his dreams right.
Maybe he'd still be Ben.