Chapter Text
Two men race each other down a country lane; the taller of the two spurs his black steed desperately, shouting in frustration as his companion effortlessly overtakes him on his Thoroughbred.
The winner turns his horse around at the established finish line and trots back to his groaning friend, who has draped himself over the neck of his horse dramatically.
“No one should take such pleasure in beating a man who has suffered such injury,” Ben Solo moans, clutching his shoulder that bears a scar from last year.
“Nonsense, I would have beaten you before your injury. In fact, I recall several occasions where my victory was secured over you,” Commander Poe Dameron, recently returned from sea, grins at his oldest friend, and loops around the stationary horse and rider.
“Watch your tongue, scoundrel, or I shall remove it for you.” Ben’s vehemence is undercut by his vicious eye roll.
“I will not be intimidated by you,” Poe shrugs. He rides up next to Solo and offers him a challenging grin. “Besides, you’d have to catch me first.”
Shouting with laughter, he spurs his horse forward, and Ben barely has time to respond before they are galloping back towards Yavin, where the Damerons have held property for two generations.
When they near the great house, Poe slows his horse, not needing to win this race. Sensing the drop in competitive spirit, Ben relents his pace as well, and they approach the stables side by side. After they dismount, Ben tries to convince him, once more, that the ball at Crait next week will be an agreeable enterprise.
“I despise balls, you know that, Ben.” Poe shakes his head and straightens his coat. “Besides, with me there, you’ll have even less luck with the fairer sex than normal.”
“Oh yes, my desperate desire for entertaining the fairer sex.” Ben’s shoulders are stiff, but his tone is light. Poe immediately regrets his joke; he had not meant to remind his friend of his disastrous, failed engagement with Miss Netal.
“What makes this ball so different from any other we have attended in the past?” Poe asks, not unkindly. “We will dance, and talk to pretty girls, and drink and eat until we can do none of those activities without wincing. And at some point, a person will probably realize that I courted their younger sister, or their cousin, and, in remembering that I am not married to the young woman, will surely challenge me, and then I shall die. Do you wish for me to die upon an avenging relative’s sword, all for the sake of you having a friend at a ball?”
“It is either you on the sword, or me from boredom.” Ben claps his shoulder jovially. “And, forgive my selfishness, but I would much rather not die.”
“You do great credit to the title of friend, Mr. Solo.”
Ben bows ironically, and when he straightens, fixes Poe with a surprisingly genuine look. “I believe that you will find Crait worth your time, should you choose to appear. You have been at sea for so long; perhaps you are merely worried you have forgotten how to use your legs on solid ground?” He does a half-jig lazily, and Poe laughs.
“I can tell you are trying to encourage me to prove you wrong, and I must admit, it is working. Fine. I shall attend, if only to prove to you that there is no more unpleasant event than a ball.”
***
Poe Dameron does not expect to be diverted at Crait; he expects to be bored out of his mind, counting the hours until he returns to Yavin, his beloved father, and his favorite hunting dog Bartleby.
Poe Dameron does not expect to encounter anything of merit or interest at an event that he only attends at the express wish of his close friend and former shipmate, Ben Solo; he accepts the invitation after Ben’s insistence that there shall be reward aplenty for his appearance.
Poe Dameron does not expect to find himself, at Crait, looking upon the most bewitching creature in the known universe.
Here, at this small country ball, he did not expect to spy an angel, a celestial being, descend to the earth and grace their society with her presence. But there she is, greeting children with a delighted smile upon her face, and then greeting gentlemen who dare to approach her with a slightly less genuine, if still dazzling, smile. She stands beatifically at the side of Mr. Han Solo, a long-time favourite of the Dameron family, and Poe feels a part of his very soul drift away from himself and travel across the room to her.
The young woman is resplendent in green and silver, a fashionable gown that does great favours to her already remarkable beauty. Poe does not care for propriety – damn propriety, if it means he cannot admire her openly; and after all, no person would care if he studied art in this fashion – his eyes refuse to move from her, and he wonders at her identity.
She is Aphrodite –
No. He examines her light figure and keen gaze, the intricate hairstyle that frames her lovely face. She is Diana, Artemis, the huntress. And he is a deer caught in the hunt.
“Would you like to be introduced to my family’s ward, Dameron, or would you like to continue to stare at her from across the ballroom?” Poe’s reverie is broken by the deep voice of his longtime friend Ben Solo, whom he had not seen or sensed on his approach.
“Pardon?” He asks, still dazed from the appearance of a goddess at their country ball.
“I said, would you like me to introduce you to Miss Kenobi? Or would you prefer to catch flies, as you are wont to do with your mouth agape in its current fashion?”
“You would –” Poe clears his throat and adjusts his cufflinks. “You would introduce us?”
“If the commander wishes,” Ben says drily. “Does he?”
“Yes, Mr. Solo.” Poe still does not move his eyes from the woman – from Miss Kenobi. “I would like that very much.”
Ben laughs, very much at Poe, and walks towards his father and their ward.
Poe follows dutifully and wonders, briefly, at the circumstances that led this faery to be ward to humanity; he still considers her assured place amongst the pantheon when he hears her voice for the first time.
“Thank God in Heaven, I already know this one!” Miss Kenobi’s voice is warm, low, animated, with an undeniable lilt of a northerner; Poe notes with amusement that she has, rather magnanimously, extended her hand out to Ben as if allowing an audience with him. Her eyes are fixed on Ben’s face, her chin tipped up so she can look at him fully.
Poe does not know how to contend with a meeting with royalty, so he decides to continue in the manner in which he is most well-acquainted: humor. He feels her bright eyes land upon his face, and he takes that as his cue to comment to Ben, loudly enough for her to hear, “That is a very warm welcome indeed, Mr. Solo.”
“Commander Poe Dameron,” Ben says, smirking, surely at Poe’s miscalculation – for a red flush has fallen upon the lady’s face in what must surely be irritation at being confronted with a lowly mortal, “May I present my family’s ward and my most beloved sister, Miss Rey Kenobi.”
Han murmurs something to his son, but Poe cannot hear, not when he bows to the lady. Poe chances a smile up at her, and her mouth twitches as if holding back a smile of her own. Her curtsy further emphasizes the graceful curve of her neck, and the candlelight shines upon her hair.
He has not fully understood the phrase in the past, but he finally means it wholeheartedly when he says, “A pleasure.”
Instead of falling upon practiced pleasantries, Miss Kenobi’s mouth quirks curiously, creating an adorable wrinkle in her pert nose. “A Commander? What ship do you captain?” He cannot help the answering grin on his face. She has said but fifteen words in his presence, and he is utterly enchanted; there is nothing practiced or polished about this lady, but he finds he does not care. He has met with accomplished women in the past, and none have been so intriguing. What does he care for manners, when he could have spirit?
“The Black Beauty,” he smiles wider at the thought of his ship, and the thought of this woman standing on the deck of his ship. That, among all of his fantasies of the night, will be the one that will assuredly never come true. His own personal opinions aside, the Navy does not allow women on its ships. He is not thinking when he moves into a shameless brag and even more shameless flirtation. “A fine vessel, finest in the feet, the most beautiful thing upon this earth. Well, I may have to reconsider that opinion, in light of current company.”
Commander Dameron is not used to making miscalculations, but he feels Ben’s elbow slam into his own, and when his eyes dart over, he sees Han Solo scowling at him. She is a lady, he scolds himself. Miss Kenobi’s fair skin flames ever brighter, highlighting a dusting of freckles that, while not fashionable, are certainly endearing. He also spies a scar high on her cheekbone. He is lost in wondering where a high-born lady could have possibly gotten such a mark, when he gets his response.
“Must we doubt your loyalty so soon in our acquaintance, Commander Dameron? If your opinion is changed so readily, with such little provocation, one might wonder at your constancy.” Miss Kenobi arches a single, perfect brow at him, and Poe is suddenly afloat in the vastness of her gaze. “Are your opinions so easily changed, or should we accept that a modest young woman from the country could possibly outshine the finest ship in His Majesty’s Armada?”
The very earth shifts beneath his feet, as he feels his anchor to it detach. He knew Miss Kenobi to be a beauty when he laid eyes on her; he now knows her to be in possession of a formidable mind, a clever wit, and a dazzling resistance to the charms that have so easily gained him the favour of ladies in the past.
Commander Dameron has wooed many women, taken full advantage of the happy manners, pleasant countenance, and attractive mien he knows he has been blessed with. Poe regrets the freeness of Commander Dameron; he regrets his attention to other ladies as he stands before this woman whose sharp gaze seems to cut right through him, straight to the bone, seeing his every fault, every vice, and every sin he has committed these twenty-five years. Poe wishes he had come to her free of knowledge of other women, free of the weight of his career at sea, free of obligation, and duty. He would like nothing more than to throw himself into her service, like a knight to his queen, a servant to his lady.
It takes but a few seconds thoughts for him to realize that he is very much on his way to being in love. Poe has never been in love, despite knowing many things of love.
No, he did not expect this at all when he arrived at Crait.
Somehow, he manages to secure the honor of her fourth dance, and he awaits the number with trepidation. He is lucky enough to be stationed near her in the third dance, and she makes lively, playful conversation with him, that Poe is all too eager to return with equal wit.
When they arrange themselves for the start of their own dance, he is dismayed to see her attention slipping, but she assures him she is worried for Ben. She looks embarrassed to use the man’s Christian name in open company, but he smiles at her and reassure her that he too worries for Ben. And this is true: Ben was disconsolate after the severance of his engagement to Miss Netal last year; and, having been close friends with him during their adolescence and studies, Poe has personally pulled Ben out of scores of brawls, fights, and near-duels. Ben Solo is a good man, with too much fire and far too much temper. Seeing him speak with his family’s young ward in the previous dance, Poe had noted that it was the first time he’d seen the man smile without care in years. Miss Kenobi may not realize it, but she is a remarkable young lady indeed, to inspire such affection in his oft-irate friend.
His reflection is broken by the lovely voice of his partner. “May I confess something?” she asks.
Anything, he wants to say. You can tell me anything. I am your vassal wretch. “Do you find me trustworthy enough to confess to?” he asks instead, examining her lively countenance for a sign of trepidation.
“I find there are degrees of secrets,” Miss Kenobi states. “And the one I wish to share with you is not so much one of mortal importance; merely relevant to our current activity.” He finds it only slightly terrifies him that her intellect vastly outpaces his own.
“Ah, a confession about dancing,” He forces his face into one of solemn regard. “Or a confession about attractive men?” He ends with a wink, and Poe feels her stiffen in his arms. Another miscalculation. Miss Kenobi does not appreciate his rakish flirtations. He must learn to inhibit those inclinations in her presence. “Forgive me, I have not been in polite society for very long. I just returned from sea, and some habits are hard to return to.”
She smiles warmly at him at that, and Poe finds himself forced to look away, to avoid making a fool of himself if his face gives too much of his thoughts away. “I forgive you. I have not been in polite society very long either, and I don’t even have the benefit of habits to rely upon. Which brings me to my confession.” He waits, patiently, for Miss Kenobi to continue. “I confess that I may not be as spirited as before, if only because my focus is divided. I fear that I have to count the steps of this dance in my head, or I would lose control completely and fall either on my face or into your arms.”
Without practice, and utterly charming. Lord, may society never diminish her light. “No one could accuse you of being un-spirited, my lady. And I must confess that the latter of those outcomes does not sound entirely unpleasant.” Damn you, Commander, have some control over yourself.
Miss Kenobi does not recoil from his intimation, and it gives him reason to hope that she does not find him utterly repugnant. “Very good then. If it is not entirely unpleasant. Maybe only mildly?”
“Yes, mildly unpleasant.” If you fall, I would happily catch you, and I would every time if you let me.
Regretfully, this brings an end to their dance and their time together, and he watches while she dances with Draven. He forces himself to walk away, knowing that there will be whispers tomorrow if a commander who has made it perfectly clear he has no interest in matrimony is desperately pining over the youthful, beautiful ward of a wealthy family.
Miss Kenobi does not dance the sixth dance, and he breathes a sigh of relief, not quite knowing why. She settles herself near the windows, and he watches her attention drift, now that she is no longer at the mercy of the fool, Draven. Poe snorts, recalling the look upon her face when he’d trod on her toes not three seconds into their dance. Politely pained, and all too forgiving. Would it have not reflected poorly on her own character, he would have thrown the man off the floor himself and taken his place as her rightful partner. Poe shakes his head. It does not do to think of himself as her rightful anything. She is not his.
Not yet, his mind whispers, hopefully. But maybe? Poe shakes his head. This is her first ball. He cannot pretend to have made such an impression on the lady that she would forsake all future social engagements, any other possible matches, just because he, a sailor and soldier who still is under obligation to travel for months at a time, wants to explore the sudden and inexplicable desire he has to allow her to master his soul, and command his spirit. No. Miss Kenobi deserves better than the love of a sailor.
Still, he cannot wonder where her clever mind has gone. Miss Kenobi studies the windows, her expression lost in thought, hazel eyes glassy while her rosebud mouth stills into a maddening half-smile.
Ben returns to Poe’s side, a healthy measure of liquor missing from his glass. “My friend, may I suggest a less aggressive approach with Miss Kenobi?”
“I know not what you mean, Solo.” Poe denies the suggestion immediately. And the cock crowed the third time, his pastor’s voice intones in his mind.
“Of course not.” Ben takes another draft, and he continues in the same vein. Poe studies the couples in the room, while Ben informs him, “Miss Kenobi loves the green and growing things of this world. She was nervous and shy when she came to live with us, and would not speak a word in front of my father or myself. But she was quite taken with the small garden my mother afforded her, and as she coaxed plants from the earth, life too returned to her. Her spirit charmed us all, and she has become a dear member of our family.”
“May I inquire as to why you are telling me this, Benjamin?” Poe regards his friend curiously.
“Go talk to her of the grounds at Crait. Miss Kenobi has a mind for science and inquiry; she commented on the drive here that she had read of the unique soil on these grounds. I suggest you start there, maybe even ask if she would like to see the gardens? I am positive she would respond well to this.” Ben tips his glass sloppily at Poe, some of the liquid sloshing over the sides. “I could even chaperone.”
Poe barely hears this last statement, his mind already whirring with possible conversations. He sees that Miss Kenobi has quit the ballroom; her small form now stands out on the balcony of the manor. She looks ethereal in the torchlight, and he is drawn to her like moth to a flame. Poe registers Ben slapping him on the back heartily before he is walking across the floor and out the doors to her side.
He sees her shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly upon his approach, and he quickly speaks to put her at ease.
“Beautiful night.” She does not turn her large, celestial eyes away from the grounds and upon himself. He wishes she would.
“It is,” she agrees demurely.
“I was wondering –” if you were inclined to accept my humblest entreaties for your attention; may I call upon you at your earliest convenience; may I throw myself at your feet.
He forgets to continue, too enraptured with the sight of her under the flickering torches.
“Yes?” Miss Kenobi finally turns, to smile at him playfully, surely laughing at his temporary loss of speech.
Say it, man. “I was wondering if you would like to take a turn about the gardens.” I fear that I may perish from the feeling of your hand in my elbow, but I find that I do not care. Poe releases a breath and turns to study the grounds as he finishes his suggestion.
“What?” Miss Kenobi sounds highly confused still “Now? In the dark?”
“Yes. God, I am a wreck.” He murmurs the last part under his breath. “Yes, we could borrow a light, and we could see the gardens up close, and it could be very – pleasant.” Poe understands that he is making a misstep, but trapped in her gaze, he cannot remember why, so he examines the gardens all the more studiously..
“You mean to suggest that you and I enter the gardens at night, with no chaperone, to – to look at plants?” Something sounds different in her voice; colder. It sends an odd chill down his spine.
“I mean we could talk and do things other than look at plants.” He turns to look at her. Miss Kenobi has shrunk in on herself, her arms wrapping around her middle and small shoulders rounding inward. Poe realizes he has made a grievous misstep.
“I apologize, sir,” Miss Kenobi does not look sorry. She looks frightened, and angry. “I fear that would be most improper. You will find some other partner to examine the gardens with. I will remain up here, and I will remember my place. I wish you would remember yours.”
“No!” God above, I am a fool. He lowers his voice when he sees people staring at him. Poe frets over what might be said of Miss Kenobi if people whisper about a naval officer accosting her and shouting at her at a public ball. “I only meant to say – I thought you would enjoy it.”
“You mock me.” Tears shine in her eyes.
Poe is a wretched creature. He is a monster.
“Indeed I do not, Miss Kenobi. How could a mortal such as myself mock Diana?”
Still, the tears form. “A funny joke. You know who I am, what they say about me. The Kenobi orphan, the wild girl raised on the moors, apart from polite society, who has known no gentility nor demonstrated a curbed spirit. Hardly a girl that could be fitting for an officer and a gentleman such as yourself to associate with, especially in the dark, especially without chaperone.”
I did not know any of that, my lady. “I meant no offense, I assure you. I humbly entreat you for your pardon.” Please, forgive me.
“I do not give it, for offense was taken. Save your easy smiles and pretty words for a girl who can afford to be swayed. I will not bring further shame to the Solo house.”
“Further shame? I do not pretend to know what you imply, Miss Kenobi. The Solo name is a fine one.” Poe has no idea of what she speaks; perhaps this ‘wild’ upbringing she seems to have such shame for?
“My being in their house sullies their name, good sir.” Miss Kenobi pauses to wipe her eyes, and Poe is transfixed. An angel weeps in front of him, and it is his fault. He has never known terror like this. “The things that are said about my upbringing; the implications of my ruined state. Surely you must have heard the rumors. Surely that must be the reason for your attempt to isolate me from the other women.”
Ruined state? Surely she does not mean… It matters not. He cares not about reputation, has never placed high stakes on a woman’s worth being so united to her knowledge of men, so he tries to tell her. And of course he makes it worse.
He tries to tell her that her brother had suggested the walk in the garden – remembering all too late that Ben had offered himself as chaperone, that’s what I forgot – when Ben appears and leads Rey away. Poe is astounded when she invites him to call upon her. He does not understand why a woman he has so insulted would want to see him again. But he thanks every star in sight for her largesse, and he eagerly awaits the next week, when he can see her again.
***
On his first visit to Alderaan, he brings flowers. Poe spotted them in his father’s garden, and secured a bouquet that he cut himself. He imagines the blue blooms in Miss Kenobi’s hands, a gentle smile playing on her lips, a happy expression to replace the one of misery and shame he had been responsible for the next week.
He has faced pirates and enemy soldiers and terrible thirty foot waves – but he cannot manage the nerve to give them to Miss Kenobi. Instead he hands them to Mrs. Solo, and while fumbling for conversation, is exposed to Miss Kenobi’s staggering intellect and wit once more.
Poe Dameron is a doomed man; his affection for this woman his eternal torment. How could she want him, after he had injured her so?
***
On his second visit to Alderaan, Miss Kenobi politely greets him when he enters the room, and then returns to her book. The older Mr. Solo sits at her side, reading through a report from town. Poe regrets not being able to study Miss Kenobi’s profile fully, as her guardian seems to sense whenever his eyes begin to rove through the room, whenever his glance so much as passes over her figure. In those moments, he catches Poe’s eye, and the look exchanged between the men cuts Poe to the soul.
Mr. Solo understands that Poe is not worthy of the young lady’s presence. Poe wishes to relay that he understands this fact as well, but he wishes to defend himself with the knowledge he cannot help the magnetic pull he feels to Miss Kenobi, the deep-seated yearning he has for her attention, no matter how brief.
He cannot help but reflect on his damnable mistake at Crait, when he had insulted her honor. He knows this to be the reason for her disinterest in his company. Poe intends on proving his worth to her, if only to gain greater access to her quick wit and sharp mind, the likes of which he has not been met with in the opposite, or even the same sex. To do this, though, he must first demonstrate that his intentions are decent. And if he continues to stare at her like a leering cad, then he cannot do this. So Poe dedicates himself to conversation with Ben Solo, and tries to keep his eyes from the corner of the room where the most beautiful woman he has ever met sits upon a chair, unaware of how she blesses the object, and the room, and the county, and his life, by her very presence.
An hour before dinner, Poe experiences another shift in his world. From his seat across the library, Poe watches Miss Kenobi laugh behind her hand at a comment made by Mr. Solo. If you asked him an hour later, he would not, for all the stars in the sky, be able to recall what Ben was saying in that moment when Miss Rey Kenobi laughed.
His entire focus narrows in on the light, musical sound that emerges from the goddess of Somerset. He knows now that he was wrong, utterly wrong, to think her Diana at their first meeting. Diana was the goddess of the moon, after all.
Miss Kenobi is not the moon. She is the sun, and he cannot believe the source of his fortune in being blessed in his proximity to her warmth, her light, her perfection.
Poe readily accepts Mrs. Solo’s invitation to dinner that evening. He shall be damned if he must quit Miss Kenobi’s presence a moment before he has to. Sure enough, when he departs from Alderaan that night, he finds that he cannot abide to turn his back upon the most glorious sunbeam to bless the earth as he rides down the drive.