And I'd want to see what I've seen,
To undo what has been done,
Turn off all the lights –
Let the morning come.
Florence and the Machine, Over the Love.
A lot of going on in this chapter - the Sleeping Beauty moment being the most prominent. And I wink to the EU lore. I know, I'm going on a limb here, but there is strong suggestion something else happened in Ben Solo's past that ultimately tore Skywalker-Solo family apart and pushed him further to the Dark Side. The most possible explanation is that he was wrongly accused of some serious crime he didn't commit, and that his father failed to believe him he was innocent (and he was).
Because internet is dark and full of wild theories.
As the day waxes and wanes, as all his duties and training are over, he has to go and see her, again. It's completely irresistible. It's like both sides of the Force unite with the sole purpose to torment him. At the same time, he wants to go away and never come back; and to stay forever by her side, trying to convey all that regret he has had ever since Crait. He even finds himself sitting in front of his old pen set and a clean sheet of paper. He tries to write it down, all of it. But only a cacophony of thoughts comes floating in. He's exasperated. She makes him feel both exasperated and exalted at the same time.
She is sleeping peacefully. With her hand over her waist, showing his mother's ring. He knew what it represented, but it pained him too much to even think of it.
Beautiful.
Her lips are parted slightly as she breathes rhythmically, showing her glistening teeth and just a small fragment of the shiny interior of her mouth.
How he'd love to stay there for a while: to simply be. Physical contact makes him feel intensely uncomfortable. The battle interaction is, of course, something altogether different. There is no intimacy or humanity there to deter him, to confuse him. Very much like simple fulfillment of carnal desires, there is no need to know or to respond to your enemy. But it is different with her. He remembers the warm and reassuring touch of her hand, the one hand in the galaxy that wasn't outreached with a sole purpose to harm him or murder him. He remembers the pressure of her body against his in the Throne Room, when she used his back as a support to defeat the Praetorians. There is wonderful hope and joy radiating from it, like a sun. How well her name suits her. Probably the only good thing her parents did, except for giving birth to her, of course.
He makes sure no one sees him, threading as softly as he can and sending low energy of the Force to subdue any intruding mind. But the sick bay is empty. This part, at least – he dispatched all of them elsewhere some time ago. It's white and it's silent in there. The skies are again overcast outside – only so much his engineers can do to make a day like that.
He ponders for a moment at her side, calculating on all possible outcomes. He'll go away soon, he can feel it. Rebellion there will be ripe and, by all accounts, Nite Owls are fierce. Dying there would not be such a bad outcome at all. Done in the blaze of glory – swept away by whoever yields the dark saber now. He had visions. He knows death follows him wherever he goes.
Except in this place. This place radiates with life and with promise. But he's so skilled in destroying everything worthwhile that it makes his jaws clench.
He shudders at the prospect of harming her, and then forces his thoughts in another direction: would she mourn him? Would he find that sort of compassion in her? Or would she be immensely relieved the moment she realizes he's done for? Will she feel his loss in the Force?
Melancholy floods him like a wave, extinguishing his burning tension and self-hatred. He actually can't remember he ever kissed a woman. The few concubines he had he took roughly and from behind, loathing every moment except for that numbness that would dampen his tension and his conflict. Tenderness would burn him worse than 10 of Snoke's training sessions. He was accustomed to pain and suffering, but giving in all the while having that sort of passion and shared intimacy (as he suspected tenderness would look like) was a paralyzing thought.
I have to remember you, Jedi. You will be the last image I'll see, I know it.
Before he realizes what he's doing – his body seems to follow another tune since the Throne Room and he almost regrets the lack of masochistic control he had before - he leans in slowly. He presses his lips against hers. His chest hurt confronted with her intense fragility, but her softness and warmth lure him in, soothe him, and control him. Part of him doesn't want her to wake up – the other part so desperately wants for her to respond. Even if to kick him right in the crotch. Pathetic fool he is, indeed.
It probably didn't last for more than few seconds, and then he retracts. Enough.
He turns to leave, feeling as if his sternum will be split in half. Mandalore. Send the troops. Lead. Be the first to lead them. Die when the chance is presented. Kill many and get killed when the body count is high enough.
But as he tries to make the first step away, he feels just a slight tug on his sleeve.
Butterflies.
Then the tug swiftly moves to his belt, the one that keeps his scabbard in place.
It becomes firmer and he lets himself being swayed.
"Ben", she murmurs even before she opens her eyes.
Oh, that name. He'd destroy that name the same way he destroyed the man under that name. But somehow, and for some reason, he doesn't want for this tug to stop – both inwardly and outwardly.
Call me again. Tell me.
She now looks directly at him, and her hand finds his.
"Don't go", she whispers in her low, dark voice.
He was never attracted to female voices with that bright, ringing quality to them. Perhaps that's the effect of growing up near Leia Organa– her voice a sort of husky velvet.
Hers was different – oh, so much different, but still so similar in a way.
He leans in to inspect the place from which that sound comes from. He sucks the air out of it. He makes her moan shortly and his tongue reverberates under that deep, tender music. Her apparent yearning steadies him and invigorates him. He wants to go deeper. He wants to have more of her as he feels, quite rightly, that the gates have been opened.
Let me undo what has been done, she almost sounds apologetic.
Lips still locked, he raises his eyebrows.
What that has been done – and how?
And the images of the Throne Room come softly in. She is pushing them in: images of him, being trained by Snoke – training meaning physical and mental torture after which he's left half-insane and broken; and him being awakened in the middle of the night to the image of his own murderous uncle. She somehow picks up all the other poignant memories from the pre-history of his dysfunctional family and of his pathetic childhood too: the ancient memories of him as a very young child, being left alone for long spans of time under the care of professional tutors – responsible and wise, but nothing more. The endless marital battles between Solo and Leia, after which something is usually left trashed and broken – and it's always another piece of his mother's heart. She even picks up that lost child from somewhere; from beneath the mental rubbles he has buried his sister underneath – Jaina. She means to undo everything, all of their faults – she wants to make amends. She wants to take that pain away. But as he almost recoils at the thought, both disgusted by the idea of sheepish reconciliation with the Jedi and ashamed that she'll perceive him as a weakling and before he almost breaks that bond again, he realizes just how she plans to make it right.
He is startled by the shapes that emerge. Something changed in her sleep. She saw something and it moved her. It moved all the broken pieces of a puzzle into the correct order.
The exact details are blurred, but the blueprint seems so enticing.
"Are you alright? Do you feel strong enough"? He whispers to her pillow.
She nods and sits up in her bed, strong and steady. But before she lands her feet on the floor, he takes her in his arms again. He likes the sensation so much so he seizes the opportunity. Perhaps he fears she'll run away again. Perhaps he fears she'll summon the saber to herself and make a run of her life, and he'll just have no other option but to – let her go, pretending that he didn't.
What is he thinking?
He has to keep her occupied, that's certain for both their sakes and for the sake of his sanity.
Not to his room – it is nearer, and it was sanitized for sure, but he recoils at the thought that she'll sense the filth in that room.
To her room then – it's more remote, but it's more lonely and he dispatched the guards since she was in the sick bay, so less Force manipulation for him to perform there. He needs all of his strength.
Mandalore is forgotten now.
She squirms a bit in his arms as she realizes where they're headed.
Comfortable?
Yes.
Her room is dark and warm and full of pure scents. It seems so welcoming. It is clean, unlike his own dirty cave. The light activates automatically as they walk in.
He pauses for a moment in the doorway.
Do you want this?
She squirms some more and looks at him with her deep amber eyes with fireflies of gold and emerald – he saw that already – it is the Butterfly Nebula.
The realization doesn't surprise him. The only thing that surprises him is that he didn't notice it before.
Yes.
He goes to her bed gently and lowers her there. It appears she has a special place she likes the most. She sinks into it a bit, that ludicrous bed (what was he thinking?) accommodating her shape.
In that moment, she is transformed into the exact image of her that possessed his dreams that morning: His Empress in her pearly gown spilled around. But reality surpasses the fantasy by a long shot – his brain cannot fathom all the extent of that yearning, gentleness, compassion and care permeating from her. It's like the ocean- calm surface and brilliant lukewarm water rolling over fine sand.
They look at each other for some time, synchronizing their actions.
Would you -?
Do you want me to -?
It's easier for him, he supposes. He only needs to unbutton the belt, to kick off his boots, to unzip his shirt from the side… and the trousers he'll keep to himself for a while. He knows the sight of his erection might scare her or even worse, disgust her. She never saw a man completely naked. He inadvertently scared a female Jedi student once in the Academy, while he was taking a shower. It was a comical misunderstanding and she visibly shunned him afterwards to his outmost embarrassment. But shunning him wasn't enough – the Knights of Ren put her to their sword.
He pauses for a moment.
He was waiting for her to either break the bond completely or to understand the bits that made him redeemable in her eyes. He recoiled at the thought of the former, and ached with yearning for the latter.
The way she said his name in front of that fiend of his dead master:
You underestimated me, and Luke Skywalker, and Ben Solo, makes him shudder again.
He felt, for a first time in a long time, that he really is someone. He is someone to somebody else – he was something important for her. Someone she looked up to. His name gained a new life on her lips, so much so that it made him wish painfully he was indeed what she saw in him.
The heart of his hearts does not want to fail her, but his rational mind is sneering at his face: you'll fail, you always do, you deviant, pathetic boy.
Something akin to trust and faith in her, that was already rooted in him since so long, resumes its stunted growth. The moment he saw her, he knew she would be his undoing.
But he is strangely patient. He is only patient with her, and even then he is not entirely consistent.
Breathe.
As he observes her peeling off the layers of the delicate fabric (steering a light freighter would come easier to her), he starts picking up on something – not quite a sound, not quite an energy signature, but something completely ethereal, hard-to-detect even to his heightened intuition.
The bed under him, the mattress – they hum with weak energy, no more than a memory. He focuses, perplexed. The compound is built on top of the old palace that Darth Vader destroyed previously. Roughly around here, Padme Amidala would have her quarters. But this is not placed so distant in the past – this is something much more recent and fresh.
The images start shaping.
Oh, Rey.
Her awkward masturbation makes him want to smile, but he doesn't want her to notice. He doesn't want to insult her. He feels so less alone and guilty of pleasuring himself to her image.
She removed the fine woolen overcoat after some struggle with the silver ornament on her waist. He jumps to her side and helps her with the rest. The fabric feels like crisp snow and even makes the same noise.
It makes him feel playful, if not slightly whimsical even. Let's take away the snow, he thinks and almost giggles. Let's melt the snow from the Starkiller Base, he thinks again but his playfulness overwrites his regret.
She is left with a single layer of chiffon acting like an undergarment on her.
That's enough.
He observes her barely covered body with outmost admiration, her form both youthful and feminine: narrow waist, hips perfectly rounded and strong, long slender legs with curved thighs. Her whole body resonates with pure and inviting energy. So much longing it makes him feel intoxicated. Her body is full of uncharted regions and every single one of them beckons him with trembling and anticipation. He'll go back to those lips to open them petal by petal (she pressed them harder against each other while she looks at him half-timid, half-inviting) but there is another part of her he wants to taste and suck in gently.
He lowers his lips on her tender nipples over that soft cobweb of fabric with a sigh. They harden and she arches instinctively. He engulfs them with his mouth again and she yelps, surprised.
Gods, Rey.
He ceases being Kylo Ren or Ben Solo – Skywalker. He is just hers – and that is enough and so much more than he could ever hoped for.