The first time I actually become aware of Coruscant, I already read Elric of Melnibone and the semblance between Ymrrir, the Sleeping City, and Coruscant, compelled me completely. Perhaps just a subjective interpretation, but still.
And yes, although this fanfiction is way over the top, I still think the snobbish boy in Ben Solo would really both love and hate Amilyn Holdo. He's both into and not into strong and elegant women. Oh, the torment of it all.
"Why should their pain produce such marvelous beauty? He wonders. Or is all beauty created through pain? Is that the secret of great art, both human and Melnibonen?"
They are a most depressed and depressing group, for they are all, you see, exiles or refugees or travelers between the worlds who lost their way and never found it again.No-one lives in Ameeron by choice." "A veritable City of the Damned." "As the poet might remark, aye." Rackhir offered Elric a sardonic wink. "But I sometimes think all cities are that."
Michael Moorcock, Elric of Melnibone & The Sleeping Sorceress.
She is locked on "Conquistador", a Procurator class II ship. Disarmed, and then placed on a rotating chair near his commanding seat. The First Order personnel, including one blue pigmented and humanoid alien whose species she never saw before, glide across the polished black floor effortlessly, like in a well practiced ballet routine. (The blue alien is full of disdain, but conceals it admirably).
Ren inspects the saber for a moment, mixing both awe and scorn on his face. Only he can summon two complete opposites like that. His upper lip curls up a bit.
Luke.
She'd like to punch that deviant grimace off of his face and he knows it. She'd actually like to mutilate that whole conflicted face until it's reduced to a smudge on the opposite wall. She'd finish the job before the whole squadron comes peeling her off from the mishmash that was once that damn and handsome face.
Oy!
He darts a glance on her. Not the battering ram from Crait anymore – it's more of a charcoal thrown over dying ember.
Breathe.
The urge to wreak havoc on his skull is so compelling that she has to find a way to distract herself, and fast.
What about their destination?
The city beneath them is ancient, a sort of decadent and decaying beauty. Sky-scrappers soaring high, almost touching the belly of the First Order ship. It shimmers in the translucent fog. Rey has never seen anything like it and is awe-struck for a moment.
The city murmurs. She could feel it from the orbit. It is a peculiar place, a capital place, an elitist place – so becoming of him. There are both sides of the Force swirling strongly within it, but there is more evil there than Light.
Truly, so becoming of him.
However, she was a scavenger. She could survive on a bare minimum. And this city, as far as Light was concerned, was certainly not a bare minimum.
She focuses.
Her heightened hearing picks up the murmurs of the city beneath.
Coruscant, a soft voice – her voice – whispers in her head.
But the whisper is interrupted with roaring alarms from the First Order propaganda channels everywhere in the city bellow.
"Citizens! This is a historical moment! The criminals once known as the Resistance are crushed by the efforts of our glorious L…"
Enough, she screams inside of her head, muffling the deafening sound and barely avoiding the urge to plug her ears with her hands.
The ship descends on an impossibly high landing dock.
"Come", he gestures at her.
She despises being told what to do. Ever since Unkar and Jakku. And above all, she shivers at the gesture he makes: both soft and threatening; demanding and pleading all at once. If he had said "Please" at the end of that sentence, she'd strike him down without an afterthought and let everything – Resistance included – go down in the blaze of glory and fire. But he doesn't – he is surrounded by his strongest allies and closest enemies.
"So no handcuffs this time?" She snarls back at him.
What does a man's gray matter taste like?
His face is unreadable. Is he amused? Offended?
"Would it stop you?" He asks.
She is startled with the dark humor in his voice.
She shakes her head.
No.
Good.
They will sign a treaty proclaiming the universal inter-galactic truce. All attacks against the Resistance cease immediately. All Resistance sympathizers will no longer be persecuted. All Resistance members and sympathizers locked and rotting away in harsh prisons of the First Order will be released and their medical needs will be covered.
He's generous – generous indeed. Rey doesn't know what to think of it. Nothing in this galaxy comes for free.
Her eyes slowly slide down the data-pad. And of course, there it is: in case any of the Resistance members or affiliates tries a guerilla attack against the First Order, the treaty will be deemed invalid and all hostilities continue.
It's printed in thick red, deep red, blood dripping red – a crude forewarning. The letters flicker in front of her on her data-pad.
Keep an eye on Mandalorians.
She is given her own personal chambers, but there is really nothing remotely personal about them. The inside of her AT-AT could fit into this apartment at least five times over. She'd be more grateful for a common prison cell, because this whole compound echoes the Throne Room. There are lots of gold and red and there is also that unsettling feeling of a boudoir, if that's the correct term?
If this is the reflection of the inner workings of his brain, she understands the necessity for a narcotic.
Gods of galaxy, she murmurs. What did I get myself into?
The high windows overlook the glistening city. Whatever she might think about the First Order, they have their esthetics all planned out.
Rey rotates Leia's ring on her finger. She reaches out for it when she's troubled. She finds the ring soothing, now even more than ever.
The nameless ceremonial droid breaks her out from her unsettled thoughts.
There is a dress on that monster of a bed.
I should wear this?
"Patch me through to the… Supreme Leader", she commands the droid, trying to sound business-like. But he seemingly has no algorithm to support this.
Still, there is no mention of the Force bond in the treaty (why, of course).
So she reaches out with her mind to his. He is so close now that the bond comes almost completely effortlessly.
Ren.
He is in the middle of a war gathering. He has his back facing her. He is sitting, surrounded with his generals. Across his shoulder, she sees an elaborate map. He is inspecting the Resistance hide-outs. Ah, so that's how the resumed hostilities fit in with his plan. They're now standing naked before him.
He is aware of the intrusion and leans slightly forwards to conceal the greater part of the holographic map – the advantages of broad shoulders are apparently infinite.
What do you want?
She gathers her strength. It's awkward. It's downright bizarre. (Jedi are truly mad.) She comes almost between him and the map slowly to absorb the most of it, but he doesn't look back at her.
You can't expect me to wear this. There is nothing of this in the treaty.
She can feel him struggling to understand what she's talking about. Eyes on the map, eyes going darting at her in her same clothes: he is drinking a strong brew of coffee and there is new clarity to him but nervousness too. Force pushes back at her a bit, and then he realizes.
Just let the droid help you with it. You can't go out in those mock-Jedi rags. You have to respect the other side. That is the part of the treaty.
Rey's ears are burning. This is exactly something a 19-year old wants to hear.
"The dress", she says it out loud to the emptiness of her room and growls mockingly at every syllable. "That dress, if I remember correctly, Supreme Leader, is almost a complete replica of late admiral Holdo's dress. So pray, tell me. What sort of respect are we actually talking about here? I am but a simple scavenger from Jakku, but on my home planet, it's usually quid pro quo – I give something, and then I receive the equal measure in return".
That wasn't actually the truth, but what does this snob know about portion sizes on Jakku?
He replies with a sort of amusement in his voice. And with a sort of strange softness permeating from him – that is the exact moment she notices the freckles. Gods of the galaxy, the freckles of the Supreme Leader – bloody nebular galaxies charted on his pale face.
Focus.
I remember Admiral Holdo. She was a woman of great taste despite some incurable whimsies in her. For instance, her fling with the Resistance, and her hair. But other than that, Amilyn was a trend-setter. Look around you. Half of the ladies of Coruscant wear similar things.
Is he actually lecturing her on fashion in this moment? Is he really that insane?
He sighs, but there is a taunting darkness lurking under his breath. Rey memorizes every single base he pinpointed and every single planet: Endor 2, Tatooine, Kashyyyk, Sullust, the miserable place called Dagobah, even Naboo.
It's just fabric, Jedi. You don't adhere to things material or immaterial, so why do you care?
Rey saw enough – and heard too much.
She waves with her hand – dismisses him this time, practically – and the bond breaks.
It's just fabric.
It's just thin, delicate fabric between you and me.
Negligible stuff. A cobweb of nothing.
She is deeply tempted to tear the bloody fabric apart, but what's the use?
She breaks the ceremonial droid instead.
She'll re-assemble it later and report it as a mechanical malfunction. A skillful engineer she is still.
She has to find something to balance this perversion out, so she scavenges through that walk-in wardrobe, the size of her AT-AT. But her Jedi intuition is drawn to a low energy hum from one of the drawers. She activates it and the drawer automatically pulls out – the thin piece of metal is a holder for jewelry on velvet surface.
Pair of earrings – rich, intricate, with a good feeling about them – strong presence of the Light Side: her lips expand into a smile.