AN: Apologies for the lack of updates, lately. School/work/health issues have taken their toll, haha.
Character-deathy angst in this one, folks. Also potential trigger warning for some mentally ill inclinations of a sort?
The first dream is terrifying, although not entirely unexpected.
She looks peaceful in the serenity of Takodana's forests, and it is a stark contrast to the terror he'd seen in her eyes during their first encounter. Her fingers look deceptively delicate (although he knows they are not, not with her fierce battle stance of a well-trained warrior) as they twine around a low-hanging vine, and her expression is one of incredulity.
Even his subconscious can identify how awestruck she is by the plethora of greenery surrounding her, and his heart is a dull weight within his chest.
The small smile turning her lips upward is earnest, and it seems a violation of privacy to peer in on such a private moment. He watches her from a safe distance as she meanders over to a bushel of small, pink blossoms, and despite the haze of a dream he can feel his mouth quirk at the action. She carefully, gently tucks one above the shell of her ear, and begins collecting a small bouquet of the flowers.
Before his eyes, a large beast emerges suddenly from a thicket of bushes, and in her idle admiration of greenery, she is caught unawares.
Time slows, and every millisecond is startlingly clear through his eyes as the enraged creature protects its territory. She doesn't stand a chance, not weaponless and against those overlarge tusks.
Blood smells the same in dreams as it does in the waking world, and he doesn't make it to the refresher in time.
Dream two disgusts every fiber of his being even as his hands slide over the warm expanse of her back. He splays one hand across the bare skin of her hip as his other trails down each individual vertebrae of her spine, and he pauses only when she tenses and a soft gasp of laughter fills the air.
Resisting the temptation to draw such a reaction from her again, he softens his touch and is pleased to hear her responding sigh. It's intimate, more intimate than any sensual coupling could ever strive to be, and she relaxes into the heat of his hands.
Her skin is tanned by the desert sun, and he cannot help but press soft kisses to every inch of revealed flesh. It is far too easy to get lost in such a task, and he only comes back to himself when, in the dark of the room, his lips press against sudden wetness.
She's gone silent, no longer gracing the air with quick hitches of breath or giggles, and he shuts his eyes, hard, as he presses his cheek into the slippery stretch of her stomach.
He has no choice but to look, to take in what is being offered, but the realization does not soften the blow as his eyes lay upon the sharp shard of obsidian the rests in her breast.
All of it is cruel, but it would be a lie to say he does not deserve it.
He is thankful for his mask, after the second dream. Not only does it provide the emotionless modulation of his wavering voice, but it also conceals the dark bruises underneath his eyes. It is his only saving grace in a universe that is quickly descending into madness.
By the fourth dream, he's run ragged by the lack of sleep. Perpetual exhaustion has him weary to the bone, but it is a prettier alternative than what surely awaits him if he should slip into unconsciousness.
She cannot haunt him in this world, and although his movements are automatic and jerky, they're real, and he savors the slump of his shoulders and the fine tremble of his fingers.
Sleep catches up to him, eventually, and she's drowning in the wrecked cockpit of an X-wing as it sinks down into the murky depths of an ocean planet's waters. Her fists beat a frantic tattoo against the framework of the ship.
It is a cruel death for anyone, and the water weighs him down too greatly to make a significant impact on the transparisteel of the starfighter.
He still tries.
His favorite – and isn't that dark, that he can favor some of the ghosts haunting him – is the seventh dream.
In it, she is a vision of grandeur. They're situated precisely in some sort of ballroom as other participants blur around them, and her regal gowns of blood red are a vision of ethereal beauty.
It's the only dream that he takes in his own appearance, and although he is still dressed in black it seems more form-fitting and less coarse than his typical garb.
They dance. She always dies, he knows this by now, but in the silk and finery, his subconscious, or the Force, or whatever has bestowed this upon him, has granted her a swift, painless death.
He knows the glass of wine she brings to her painted lips is tainted, but he also knows by now that his objections are fruitless.
The dream is as close to joy as he will ever feel again, he fears. Twirling round and round with her as her dress flares out, holding her close to him as she grins and his heart flutters, it almost feels real. She never speaks to him, and he is unsure as to whether or not it is a blessing or a curse, but in this dream she does not need words to convey her feelings.
Her eyes twinkle with pleasure, and she's smiling so hard that he's confident that any alien in the galaxy could comprehend her expression. The heat of her slim, gloved hands pressed against his hips anchor him to the moment, and as they dance, he feels fit to bursting.
But nothing good lasts forever, and between one dancing step and the next she's gone slack and unmoving in his arms.
He tells himself that because he expects it, it does not hurt as much. The sleep realm and the waking world blend together into a dizzy blur, and he soon finds himself starting at every flash of brown he sees from the corner of his eye.
When he closes his eyes, the searing image of a blue lightsaber burns into his retinas.
It is the ninth dream that he fears his sanity is truly replete. He has no idea where they are, this time, because his field of vision is compromised entirely by her presence. There is no flirting with the cessation of life, here: he's thrown directly into the thick of it, and she's smiling at him even as blood bubbles past her lips and down her chin.
Something's changed, in this dream. It feels wrong, this death, as though some unwritten law has been violated.
She is trying to speak, he realizes. Wet gurgles spill out of her throat along with thick ichor, and he shoves her away as the dissonance hits him entirely.
There are no visible wounds, and the irrationality of it has him in a panic. He has always been granted the luxury of viewing the instrument of her death, and the violations are meaningful in their vulgarity.
She takes a step toward him, staggering with wobbly movements, and when her body falls against him he can clearly see the blaster wound rending the flesh of her back. His arms shake as they envelop her, and around them, night falls. The slick, wet sound of blood dripping onto the ground intensifies along with the absence of his vision, and he is not sure how long they stand there as her vitality drains away.
He wakes with a jolt, and immediately registers the presence of a disgusted General Hux. It is appalling, he considers idly, that he could not register the man's invading Force signature, but truly, he is more concerned with his pounding heartbeat.
"The Supreme Leader requires your presence immediately," Hux says, voice clipped with annoyance, and he offers a stiff nod of understanding in return. It's rare, that Hux should catch him bereft of his mask and defenses, although he should not be so surprised that the man would spring at the chance to catch him in vulnerability.
The General spares him no mercy, and any vague hope toward him ignoring the situation dwindles when the redheaded man turns toward him and narrows his eyes.
"It is pitiful to watch you wallow around because of a single girl's death," he says, nose upturned, as though Kylo Ren does not already know.