Chapter Text
Ben wakes up slowly, like he’s dragging himself to wakefulness from the bottom of some deep pit. Light stabs into his already pounding head as he peels his eyes open, and he groans and closes them again. His throat feels as rough as the rest of him.
“Ben?” a woman’s frantic voice comes from somewhere off to his side, and he makes another attempt at opening his eyes to see who it is. It sounds familiar, but he can’t place it. Far too young and soft to be his mother or any of his various aunts. He can’t think of any women closer to his age that would say his name with that kind of emotion.
The gentle light still feels remarkably like a blade digging into his skull, but he forces his eyes to stay open until they adjust. The shape of the woman remains fuzzy as she rushes over to him. She blocks some of the light as she leans over him and he sighs in relief. He can’t make out her features, and he still can’t place who she could be. He thinks he should remember if there was a young woman who cared enough to watch over his sleep when he was apparently injured, but besides a nagging sense of indefinable familiarity, he doesn’t have any memory of someone like her.
The vague shapes of the room around him start to solidify as his eyes adjust to the light, and he realizes he doesn’t remember anything about his surroundings either. Sturdy wood walls make up a good sized room, well-cared for if simpler than he’s accustomed to. A window cut in the wall lets in most of the light, and he can make out the shape of trees outside. At one corner of the window, he thinks he recognizes a rune etched into the wood, likely to keep the room warm and free of rain or other weather. A chest of drawers sits against the wall, simple but well-made.
He turns his head, biting back a groan at the shock of pain that runs up his spine and into his head at the motion. Across from the window, a door stands open, showing him a larger main room with a hearth, a work table with books, bowls, and crystals, and herbs strung from the rafters to dry. The door to the outside is open as well, letting in more light and revealing a clearing ringed by trees. A table by the bedside holds a small bottle with what looks to be a spring of nettle on top of another book with a smaller collection of crystals, most of which he recognizes: black tourmaline for protection, clear and rose quartz for healing and affection, amethyst to bind them together. His host is clearly a witch of some talent. One of his mother’s proteges, perhaps?
A cool hand lands on his forehead and he starts, turning back towards the woman who now kneels on the other side of the large bed. None of his limbs hang off the mattress, and there’s still room for her next to him, not something he’s used to. The woman frowns down at him, and the urge to smooth away the worry from her beautiful features overwhelms him. She has a sun-kissed look to her skin and freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose. Her brown hair falls around her face as she leans towards him, and he wants to run his hands through it. He still doesn’t know her name, but he doesn’t want her to be upset over him.
“Ben?” she asks. Her soft voice teases at him, familiar and yet not. She still frowns as her hand smooths over his brow. Her touch sends a wash of soothing energy through him, and he can’t help himself from making a soft noise of protest as she pulls away.
“How do you feel?” she says, and he pauses to consider the question. His entire body aches like he dragged himself through jagged rocks, especially his head, which could’ve been battered by rocks from the inside. His back feels like he’s been resting on something much less comfortable than this bed and his hands feel particularly raw. Besides the head though, it’s bearable.
“Been worse,” he rasps. From the dry scrape of the words in his throat, he must have been asleep for a while. He tries for a smile, and the woman purses her lips in response, though he sees hints of relief in her features as they ease slightly.
“I doubt that,” she says, and retrieves a clay cup from the table on her side of the bed. “Can you sit up?”
He does his best, wincing as he puts weight on his hands to push himself up in the bed. She sets the cup down to help him, her hands cool on his arms and back. He wears only a dark tunic, somewhat stained, with a hole on his side, and he feels her touch almost as if it were on his bare skin. He wants more of it, and lets her assist him more than he normally would to get it. She pulls away to fetch the cup again, but then a hand returns to his shoulder as she brings the cup to his lips. He covers her hand with his to drink, taking note of the feel of her, the bumps and calluses of her smaller hand under his. Cool water fills his mouth, and he drains the cup in three quick gulps. She takes it back.
“Better?” she asks, smiling at him.
Ben smiles back. “Yes. Thank you.” His voice comes out smoother than before, though still a little out of use.
“More?” she says, holding out the cup, and he nods. She slips off the bed and walks around it to the door to the main room. She disappears out of his sight for a moment before returning with a full cup that she passes to him. He drinks this one more slowly, watching her over the rim. She seems comfortable around him, settling back on the bed next to him, with no sense of self-consciousness or awkwardness. She wears a soft white dress belted with a brown sash, sturdy and showing some signs of wear, a comfortable outfit for a woman at her ease, not hosting guests. This must be her house, but she seems to know him and accept his presence without any care but to his well-being. He passes the cup back to her with a little left, and she sets it back on the sidetable.
He swallows, the motion coming easier now. “How long have I been asleep?” he asks her.
She looks down at the bed. “Two days, once I got you back here,” she admits. “I tried everything, every potion or charm I could think of, but they did nothing. If you hadn’t been breathing, I wouldn’t have known you were alive.” Her chin comes up and she glares at him. “Don’t you ever do that again, Ben Solo!”
His heart aches at the emotion in her voice and face, but still nothing about her clicks into place in his memories. “What happened?” he asks, desperate for the answer.
Her scowl turns to confusion. “What do you mean? After you collapsed?”
He shakes his head, though the movement doesn’t help the ache still pounding there. “Before that, I can’t remember…” He looks around, feeling like something’s missing. His fingers flex on the sheets. “Where’s my sword?”
The woman’s eyes have gone wide. “You told me when you came for me that you’d had a vision and threw it into the ocean. I gave you your grandfather’s sword for the battle.” She reaches out for his hand, her fingers brushing his. That slight touch inspires a visceral reaction he doesn’t understand but can’t resist. His fingers wrap around hers, holding her tight, as if he thinks she could be torn away from him at any second. Far from being startled by his reaction, the woman seems to understand. Her hand grips his just as tightly, and she looks at him as if searching for something, some recognition in his features. He wishes he had something to give her.
“Ben?” she asks, a pleading note to her voice. “Don’t you remember?”
He squeezes her hand, not wanting her to pull away even if he doesn’t know why he needs her touch so badly. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice coming out in a whisper.
The woman’s face drops, though she tries to cover it. “What’s the last thing you remember?” she says, her voice matching his.
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I was training with Luke, I remember Lord Snoke…” He scowls, trying to think past the throbbing in his head. “Bits and pieces. Battles, knights, my sword…” He chances a look at the woman’s face. Her healthy color has faded, leaving her freckles stark against her skin. “I’m sorry,” he says again, wishing he could do better.
Her pink lips part as she breathes shallowly. “And what about me?” she asks, her voice breaking.
He doesn’t want to answer. He wants to pretend that this could be his life, that he lives together with this woman in this house and they share this bed. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, like that could make this hurt less.
“Don’t--” She shakes her head, a few tears escaping and running down her cheeks. “Don’t be sorry. Just tell me.”
“You feel familiar,” he tells her, tugging on her hand, willing her to look at him. “Like a dream I’ve had all my life finally come true. Like the answer to everything I’ve ever needed.” More tears tumble down her face, and she looks into his eyes as if she can see the pieces he’s missing.
“But you don’t remember me,” she finishes in a hoarse whisper.
“I want to,” he pleads. “It feels -- just out of reach. I…” He makes an inarticulate noise of frustration.
She nods, still crying but pretending as if she doesn’t notice. “Darth Sidious,” she starts, and he jolts, not expecting the name. Her lips tighten at the confirmation that he has no memory of what she’s trying to tell him. “We fought our way to him. You fought your knights and we killed all his guards. He knocked you aside, into a pit. I fought him off, used his own power against him, but it drained me. You pulled yourself back and…” She pauses to swallow, her hand squeezing his until he can barely feel his fingers. The still healing wounds on his palms burn in protest, but he could never let go. “You did something that gave your power to me. I was barely conscious, but I remember your essence filling me, bringing me back. We kissed, and then you collapsed. The rest of the Resistance had banded together to defeat Sidious’ army, so I found your horse and your uncle’s old one I borrowed and brought you back here to heal.”
He nods slowly. “If I lost my memories so that you could live, it was worth it,” he tells her, meaning it.
Her face crumples. “You idiot,” she says, and gives in to her tears. She hunches over, sobbing, and his heart can’t take it.
He tugs her toward him by her hand still holding his. She doesn’t resist, letting him pull her against his chest and wrap his arms around her. Her tears soak his shirt, hot against his skin. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling her familiar-and-yet-not scent of earth and sunshine and burnt leaves. A few tears slip down his cheeks to disappear into her hair. He curses the Force, the Fates, every mystical power in the universe that let him escape his past and have this woman only to lose everything he built with her. He’s always considered himself cursed, but never more so than now.
“It’s not fair,” she sobs, words muffled between them. “We won. You came back to me.”
“It’s not, I know,” he murmurs into her hair. He might deserve this, but she doesn’t. Anger fills him as much as grief, the desire to tear apart whatever did this to them, but there’s nothing left to fight. All he has is a vague emptiness and a woman crying in his arms. He holds her tight, trying to give her some comfort. Her hands cling to his shirt, nearly tearing the worn fabric. He’d let her rip it off him if it would help.
Slowly, her sobs ease. He still holds her, unwilling to let go. His mind races for solutions, trying to recall some of his mother’s books he’d studied when he was much younger. Not for the first time, he wishes he’d stayed to apprentice with her rather than his uncle, but he’d been determined to become a knight at that age.
“It may be that my mind needs time to heal too,” he suggests, though he has nothing but hope to back the idea up.
She seems to realize that, but latches on anyway. “Maybe,” she agrees, face still pressed to his chest. “I could brew something for memory. I should have some ginseng or ginkgo left, and quartz.”
“I’ll help, anything I can do, I will,” he swears.
She lets out a watery laugh. “You don’t even know who I am,” she protests.
Ben strokes a hand over her hair and down her back. She relaxes under his touch, and he feels more satisfaction in that than anything else he can remember. Which might not be saying as much as it usually would, given the state of his memory, but he can’t think of any better cause for his life than to make her smile again. “I know enough,” he says.