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Today Hux joins the Supreme Council only three and a half minutes early. Not that his punctuality is slipping—he’s been just around the corner for the last seven minutes, scrutinizing the most conveniently located subordinate. Unfortunately for them both, that subordinate had been a member of the janitorial staff.
Now free from trash chute supervision, Hux strides along the conference table. The majority of Ren's hand-picked advisors are already in place, including those on either side of the Supreme Leader's seat. Ren has made it clear that his ascent to Supreme Leader brought an unspoken demotion from Hux's unspoken position as the Leader's closest military advisor. Hux curses Snoke, again, for withholding the title of Grand Marshall; he will continue to curse Snoke long after his filleted remains are forgotten dust.
He takes his undistinguished place in the middle and offers the generals at the end of the table a tight, saccharine smile. Their seats don't tempt him. The one between them does.
Ren's.
It's still empty. Of course it is. Ren is the kind of man to whom on time is early. That's not the reason that Hux purposefully delayed his arrival. He drops the false smile and turns his gaze to the man seated across from him.
Allegiant General Pryde's stony frown does not so much as flicker as he meets Hux's gaze. Allegiant General. Ren could call it what he likes, but everyone on the ship down to the petty officers and troopers knows that the highest military rank under the Supreme Leader belonged to Hux until Ren took power.
Hux would suspect that Ren positioned him across from Pryde just to annoy him if it weren't for the personal caliber of disdain in Pryde’s every glance. How clear it is in those glances that Pryde sees not a fierce and successful young general but a Brendol-shaped façade. A boy playing dress-up in his father’s uniform, the sleeves too long over his slender wrists.
It's for Pryde's benefit that Hux sets a tea canister on the table. He brushes the tag trailing out from the steeping teabag, delicately tipping it with a gloved finger so Pryde can't possibly miss the label.
"Karlini tea." Pryde sits back, raising his chin faintly. Hux smiles politely and follows his gaze to the offending beverage, one brow curled in a question mark.
"Ah." Hux makes a soft sound of feigned recognition, as if his purpose in displaying it is not obvious to him and Pryde both. "So it is. Lovely aroma, quite fresh. A bit piquant."
"Indeed." Pryde’s lips tighten into a line. "You may not be aware, General Hux, but Arcturworthy House was said to be a favorite of the Emperor's. It's been family-run for generations before that. Many regard it as the finest tea that Karlinus has to offer."
"Fascinating. Its reputation would seem to have survived the Empire." Hux’s eyes flit up from his drink to regard Pryde. "Then again, perhaps not."
The lines around Pryde's nose deepen. "It's something of a rare commodity. Rather more so, in light of recent events." His eyes narrow at Hux.
"Well, then," Hux says, stirring the teabag with a languid motion, "I'll be sure to savor it."
Pryde is spared the need to reply by the crash of bootsteps outside. All trace of small talk dies as the door bursts open.
Supreme Leader Kylo Ren sweeps into the meeting room… two minutes late, Hux notes, glancing at the time on his datapad. Practically early, by Ren's standards. Will wonders never cease.
"The Chommell Sector has pledged its loyalty." Ren talks as he walks, gliding past the chair at the head of the table as if he doesn’t even see it.
Ren always starts meetings like this, no preamble, no scene-setting. Inelegant. Hux's entire face tightens with the effort of keeping a neutral expression.
"Momentum is on our side," he continues. "Prepare your fleets to continue further into the Mid Rim." Ren stops at the far end of the table and stares out at the starfield below.
Silence hangs over the conference table. The greatest military minds in the First Order exchange nervous glances. That this happens behind the Supreme Leader's back has no bearing on his ability to sense it. He's still waiting, though, so he expects something of them. Some brave fool will have to be the first to break the silence and ask what. A few weeks ago Hux would have been that fool, but he stills his tongue at the memory of impressive bruises down his side and around his throat. He’ll leave that pleasure to someone else.
"Where do we strike next?" It’s Quinn who breaks the silence. He fails to keep an undertone of frustration from his voice.
Ren tosses a look over his shoulder and stares down at the balding general.
"Where do you suggest, General Quinn?"
Hux's hand tightens around his drink canister. He fights the urge to roll his eyes. Ren doesn't know. Of course he refuses to ask the question himself. A coward's move. The thought has scarcely formed in Hux's mind before Ren's gaze darts toward him.
"Something to add, General Hux?"
Hux's lip twitches. The whole room’s eyes are on him now, none of them as dark and sharp as Ren's. Like a pin through a butterfly, that look.
"We need to consolidate our power," Hux replies, barely remembering to add, "sir." He chases the bitter taste of that word with a sip of tea.
"General Hux is right." Pryde speaks up. Hux narrows his eyes. Unlike Pryde to support him. "It's all too easy to lose a new acquisition by moving on too quickly, before we solidify our grasp. The Old Empire made that mistake in the early years. A population left under sufficient duress, without a solid demonstration of authority, can easily be turned to the Resistance. Such as the recent food shortage on Karlinus."
Ah, there it is.
"Karlinus will remain docile," Hux cuts in smoothly. "Unless it’s the Allegiant General’s assessment that being struck by a neighboring moon does not qualify as a solid demonstration of authority."
Hux had been particularly proud of that one. He’d had little in the way of military resources to work with after Ren approved Pryde’s plan to blockade Karlinus, but Hux’s involvement at all stages of Starkiller’s production meant that he still had contacts in large-scale construction. Including a neat little off-the-books company that specializes in: a) hauling massive objects through space, and b) not asking questions when the delivery point happens to be in unstable and rapidly decaying orbit around a populous farming planet.
"That demonstration reduced their agricultural output by one third," Pryde insists, "a shortfall which will be felt just as acutely throughout the entire sector, and for which they will now blame the First Order. That includes Naboo, a political stronghold which experienced no such demonstration firsthand."
Hux opens his mouth to add that Naboo has not one but three moons, but Ren's looming figure cuts him off.
"Enough." Ren comes to stand behind Hux's chair. "What sort of demonstration do you have in mind, Allegiant General?"
The hairs at the back of Hux’s neck stand on end. Ren’s proximity is so tangible that Hux swears he can feel it, or maybe that’s just some trick of the Force. As much as he should be grateful to no longer be the subject of attention to the most powerful madman in the galaxy, it still stings that Ren asks Pryde's opinion.
"The importance of soft power cannot be overlooked," Pryde says. Hux goes to great pains not to roll his eyes. "Chommell marks the First Order's most important acquisition in the Mid Rim to date. To mark the occasion is just as important in the eyes of our new subjects as it is to troop morale, if not more so."
"You're suggesting a parade?" Ren says, his voice tart and laced with an undercurrent of mockery. It’s a tone Hux knows well.
"Not quite, sir. A coronation."
The air around the conference table changes. Furtive glances are exchanged; stiff-necked uniforms lean forward slightly. Ren’s bootsteps recede from behind Hux's chair—measured steps, compared to his usual self-important stride. Hux chances a look, but Ren’s back is to him, that too-expressive face unseen. All Hux sees is his irritating mess of dark hair and the curve of his shoulders hunched under a black cape as though the weight of the galaxy rests there unseen.
"It has been almost a month since you assumed the title of Supreme Leader at Crait, Lord Ren," says one of the newly-promoted generals. Insufferable ass-kisser. Hux has been that insufferable ass-kisser in the past and made no apologies for it, but not now. Not when the ass he has to kiss belongs to Ren.
"People in the Chommell sector," Ren says, "don't care about a regime change that happened before they joined the Order. They care how they're governed."
Ren comes around the end of the table. In profile, Hux notes a faint crease in his brow. It’s subtle, something the other advisors likely won’t note given their comparatively recent acquaintance with the Supreme Leader’s features. Hux never thought he would consider familiarity with Ren's face to be advantageous.
"It won't hurt to remind them who's doing the governing," the ass-kisser persists. "And it won't just be Chommell that's watching. You are the Supreme Leader of the entire galaxy. A public ceremony will reinforce that notion."
"Doubly so if it's done on Naboo," Pryde adds. "The historical significance of holding your coronation on Emperor Palpatine’s former homeworld will not go unnoticed."
"Historical significance." Ren's contemplative walk comes to an end at the head of the table, his fingertips trailing along the back of his empty chair. Hux fumes. How like Ren to seize the power represented in that chair and not even bother to sit in it. "It is an... interesting suggestion, Allegiant General. Perhaps you should be the one to lead the ceremony. Do you agree, General Hux? You've been unusually quiet."
Hux's teeth grind. That makes it twice that Ren has personally called him out in one meeting. Must he rub salt in the wound at every turn? Hux knows that their power dynamic has shifted, Ren knows that Hux knows, but it’s as if Ren wants to be sure that everyone else in the room is fully briefed on Hux's loss of standing. Hux reaches for his tea to take a pointedly drawn-out sip. Halfway through the motion he realizes what a terrible combination hot tea and Force-choking would be, so he stops and awkwardly flattens his palm against the tabletop.
Much as he's loath to admit it, Pryde’s suggestion has merit. History is littered with conquering empires that failed to ingratiate themselves to new subjects and paid the price by crumbling quickly thereafter. A coronation would have been the first thing on Hux's agenda were he in Ren's enviable shoes. He would have mentioned it weeks ago if he didn't secretly hope that the oversight would lead to Ren's own swift downfall. But the mere thought of Ren going through such pageantry stings. That the suggestion comes from Pryde of all people just makes it worse. Hux doesn't know if he could endure such a ceremony.
But he has to say something. He strains to keep his tone light.
"The strategic benefits of a coronation are worth considering." Hux weighs his next words carefully, his gaze flitting to Pryde before sliding back to focus on Ren. "To be crowned by an officer such as Allegiant General Pryde would send the clear message that your reign stands upon the foundations of the Old Empire."
And all its failures, Hux does not say.
"So it would." Ren's grip on the chair solidifies. His lips spread wide, a faint upward twitch hiding in one corner. "It’s time to look forward. Naboo is enough to remind the galaxy of the Empire’s power. They need to remember what the First Order is capable of."
Murmurs of assent pass around the table. Hunger glints in the other young generals’ eyes. Hux knows that hunger, knows he’d feel it too if the subject of the coronation were anyone but Ren.
"The host of the ceremony must be someone who represents the full power of the First Order," Ren continues, his low voice commanding the room. "Who better than the Starkiller himself?"
The room goes as still and quiet as the open vacuum. It takes Hux’s brain a moment to click past his disbelief, but sure enough, the entire room is staring straight at him.
Hux stiffens in his chair. "Supreme Leader. I cannot accept such an honor."
"I have to agree, sir," Pryde adds. "It would be a grave misstep to dwell on the failure that was Starkiller Base."
Hux shoots Pryde a glare. He swallows his retort. What a fiendishly awful position Ren has put him in. He can't defend his honor without volunteering to crown Ren himself.
"It's decided," Ren says. "General Hux, begin preparations for the coronation. The rest of you, prepare your plans to expand our holdings in the Mid Rim. Dismissed."
Ren leaves no room for argument as he stomps out the door without another word. The rest of Hux's tea is bitter and over-steeped.
Naboo is... tolerable. A bit humid for Hux's taste, cool moisture in the air looming in a way that’s all too similar to the portents of rain back on Arkanis. But the sky here is clear and blue. That, too, is a shame. He would have loved to see Ren pout his way through his own coronation with that ridiculous hair soaked and plastered to his skull.
Instead, Hux stands on a raised platform in a sunny square in the capitol. He's at one end of a row of officials that's half First Order brass and half local officials. A freshly promoted line of Praetorian guards flank Hux’s party in crisp crimson armor.
The Naboo have put varying degrees of effort into hiding their sour expressions as they prepare to cede their power publicly. For optics’ sake, a small party of the Naboo royal guard have been permitted onto the stage, a mixed company of human and gungan warriors. They stand around the heavily made-up young queen along with the queen's handmaidens, who as far as Hux can tell serve no practical purpose. But, egalitarian at heart, he’s afforded each of them the same courtesy as the rest of their party: a cloaked sniper perched on a nearby rooftop.
A ripple passes through the crowd as they turn towards an ornate vehicle approaching the plaza. It's a Nabooian design, oddly egg-shaped with transparent but plasma-proof shielding that allows a full view of the passengers inside. Hux had the thing inspected by two teams of First Order specialists to ensure there were no signs of sabotage. Both teams were subsequently subjected to comprehensive mind-probing by the Supreme Leader himself, Hux later discovered through their medical records. It must be the safest vehicle in the galaxy.
It's much too far to get a clear view of Ren perched inside, just yet. Hux has to admit this is part of the coronation that he would like to see: not Ren's moment of victory, the glory of receiving his stolen crown, but the excruciatingly slow march for the benefit of gawking commoners. Hux can hardly imagine a situation that would make Ren more uncomfortable. A man who's spent the last decade of his life in a mask, now fully on display for the entire galaxy. Surely he won't wave as he passes? The thought tempts a smirk. No, Ren would sit dead still and glower all the way.
Hux waits for Ren’s vehicle to complete its slow approach. He counts each line of the stormtroopers that precede its arrival in the plaza, their armor polished to a white gleam under the Naboo sun. A few groups of lesser local officials are interspersed between the trooper regiments. The most recognizable have been given First Order flags to carry, and each of these groups is pointedly flanked by stormtrooper escorts. The flags look marvelous under the crimson-tinted smoke trails of the TIE escorts flying overhead.
He really has outdone himself.
The ungainly egg carriage finally crosses into the plaza. Ren's ghoulish knights disembark first, three to a side. Hux wrinkles his nose at their mismatched helmets and unsynchronized, lumbering gaits. Still, they have the desired effect—the crowd nearest to them shivers and retreats as much as their limited space allows.
Then there is nothing left to behold but Ren.
He rises from his seat. The soft, translucent blue force field parts around him as he descends into the plaza.
Ren strides to the raised platform, all eyes on him as his clipped bootsteps echo over the crowd's murmurs. Irritation rushes to the forefront of Hux's mind—would it kill him to slow down? The Supreme Leader is supposed to be regal. Hux has imagined exactly how he would walk these steps, and Ren is doing it all wrong.
Ren's eyes snap up to meet Hux's. The intensity of his gaze knocks the breath from Hux's chest.
Hux had insisted that Ren dress in traditional Naboo finery. For diplomatic reasons—Hux does not care for the style. It's ostentatious, melodramatic, and frankly absurd, which makes it a perfect fit for Ren. Still, Hux never expected Ren to make it look this good.
Ren's hair is done half-up in a pair of braids that curve back from his temples. They reunite at the back of his head, where a handful of iridescent ravens’ feathers nearly blend into the void-like darkness of his half-tail. A black cape flows from the white gold clasp at one of Ren's broad shoulders down the full length of his body. It trails along the ground at his feet, liquid and slinky, lined with more blue-black feathers. The matching tunic, leggings, and boots are not that different from his usual clothing at first glance, but as Ren draws closer the quality of the silk shows in the subtle shimmer that accompanies his every movement. Tufts of sleek dark feathers line the cuffs of Ren's long sleeves, a pleasing contrast to his pale hands. The tunic’s high collar peeks up from behind the swoop of his cape and hugs his neck, forming a narrow V that closes tastefully in the dip of his collarbone.
His makeup is subtle by Naboo standards. Ren has left his lips bare and his complexion unchanged, unlike the queen, whose face is fully painted chalk-white. Thin black lines mark the top of Ren’s eyes, paired with sharp red accents over the top line and on his lower eyelids. Most striking, scarlet paint accentuates the scar down the right side of his face.
Hux wants to roll his eyes at that, and he should. It's only the highly official and public circumstances that prevent him from doing so. He’s in no way distracted by the stunning picture that Ren paints.
Ren reaches the throne, an understated piece of geometry that's all crisp white lines. His dark figure contrasts handsomely. He sits, hesitating a moment before he lays his hands on the throne's arms.
"Knights," he says, simply. "Rise."
His six kneeling knights stand. There's no order or formation in the way their two neat lines of three dissolve, each making their way to the center of the plaza at their own pace. Hux purses his lips.
"The Force speaks through you," Ren says. Hux lets his eyelids close for just a moment. It's the only way he can stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Let it name me Supreme Leader."
Ren insisted on this part. He offered no more detail than that it would legitimize his rule in the eyes of any Force-worshippers who were watching. Hux has a feeling that the six knights performing the ritual make up the full sum of that demographic, but he has no authority to deny the Supreme Leader his bizarre theater. The knights spread across the plaza, their six points forming a hexagon. They raise their assortment of weapons and activate the plasma blades as one.
Karking hells, someone's going to get killed by the end of this. If Hux is lucky, it'll be Ren.
Ren's head turns a fraction towards Hux. It's long enough to remind him that Ren is a mind reader, brief enough that Hux wonders if he imagined it.
Ren floats his ridiculous cross-shaped lightsaber out to the center of the hexagon. It hovers perfectly still at the focal point between his knights. He closes his eyes, tilting his head upward ever so faintly. Hux has seen him like this a thousand times, his prominent profile angled up to receive Snoke's commands. But he's different now, somehow, without that shadow looming over him. Eyes closed, he looks peaceful but for the theatrical red line of his scar. He could even be called handsome.
Ridiculous. Hux returns his attention to the knights.
The ritualized combat that follows seems to involve Ren's lightsaber as some kind of proxy for himself, or perhaps his facility with the Force. Hux is unclear on the deeper meaning of it, if there is any. One by one the knights charge Ren's saber and lash out at it. Ren's saber spins in midair, dipping and clashing and deflecting each blow in increasingly quick succession.
There is a kind of spectacle to it which Hux can appreciate. Nothing compared to the TIE and artillery show which he orchestrated, of course. Hux's gaze keeps darting back to Ren, looking for some sign of exertion, but he remains still as his blade twirls and slices. The only sign of effort is the way his hands have curled into talons clutched around the arms of his throne.
After some time of this, Ren's saber deflects a particularly brutal blow from one of his knights. Visibly panting, the knight backs away to his starting position and raises his weapon in the air. The others follow suit. They power down their weapons in unison.
"The Force is with you, Lord Ren," one of the knights says.
"We recognize Lord Kylo Ren as Supreme Leader," says another, the one whose checkered mask looks like a kriffing Dejarik board. He picks Ren's saber out of the air and kneels before him, offering it up.
"Do you pledge your loyalty to myself and to the First Order?" Ren says.
In that order, Hux thinks bitterly. Six uncoordinated vocoder intonations of "I do" and "Yes, sir" must surely mark the end of this miserable portion of the proceedings.
Ren accepts his saber. "Then take your place at my side."
The knights, these creatures even more ghastly than Ren was in his awful mask, ascend the steps and fall into place on either side of Ren's throne. Hux feels the muscle twitch in his cheek as one of them pushes past him. He keeps his feet planted, earning him a glare from one of those creepy masked faces. Hux has more than enough practice with Ren not to flinch.
"Continue." Ren stares at Hux.
Hux holds his gaze and steps forward with only the faintest inclination of his head.
"Bring out the crown of the Supreme Leader," Hux orders, raising his voice to echo through the plaza.
An officer in full parade dress brings out a black crate. He carries it to the front of the platform, past Hux, and stops before the Naboo queen to open the box. The queen retrieves a velvet red cushion from inside. A slender crown rests atop it, woven from sharp lines of white gold and iron. She carries it towards Hux with impeccable posture.
A faint smirk tugs at Hux's lips. This part was entirely his design, and the defiant set of the queen's chin just makes the moment more delicious. He takes his time to retrieve the crown, making sure the holos have plenty of time to capture the obvious symbolic visual of this transfer of power. There's little subtlety in it, but this is not a time for subtlety. His gloved fingertips trace the lines of the crown as he meets her glare with a look that he supposes must be as smug as he feels. This queen took the throne only recently. Her predecessor's reign was cut tragically short along with the final session of the New Republic senate on Hosnian Prime.
The moment his fingers have completed their languid journey to grasp the crown, the queen steps back. Hux stands in place, waiting as the officer retrieves the velvet cushion. He knows she's been briefed on what's expected of her now. Still, she stands motionless for a long moment after the officer has gone. Hux fancies that he can see the sniper reflected in her eyes, though his troops are far too well-trained for that.
She raises a clenched fist in the First Order salute.
Ah, won't the holos love that. Almost as much as Hux did. He watches her all the way back to the rest of her party, each of them glaring at Hux with eyes as sharp as knives. But if looks could kill, Hux would have been cut clean out of the galaxy long before he ever had a chance to earn their ire.
Crown cradled in his hands, Hux steps back into his place for the ceremony. The significance of this moment, and of whose head this crown will grace, return to him with an unpleasant twist like a cheap liquor’s aftertaste. He steps slightly to one side of the throne, angling himself out so that he's facing both Ren and the holo recorders. That's all this is for, he reminds himself. For the holos.
Steeling himself for further undesirable emotional backwash, Hux meets Ren's gaze.
For all the noble regalia and pageantry, he does not look like a man about to be crowned ruler of the galaxy. Ren's plush lips too closely resemble a pout. Behind the crisp eyeliner those brown eyes are too soft, too wide, and suddenly Hux remembers exactly where he knows that look from. He wonders if he's the only one left alive who's seen it: the way that Kylo Ren would gaze up at his master, his pupils dark, desperate, and grown large to drink in the validation his insecure mind so ardently craves.
And damn it, Ren has earned his insecurity more than most. True to form, Hux made sure that every moment of the coronation was rehearsed to death and back again... except this one, because—true to form—Ren ignored every single meeting request that Hux submitted to him for this exact purpose. Even worse than Ren’s characteristic negligence, though, Hux resents the way that the look on Ren’s face affects him. In spite of his proud bearing, Hux feels it, too. For an instant they are clumsy, awkward children who have forgotten their lines in the class play, except that their stage is the entire galaxy and they are the two most powerful men in it.
By the time Hux has a chance to process that he's now on the receiving end of that searching gaze, it's gone. Ren’s eyes are dark, the flat line of his mouth slanted up in a smirk that only Hux is close enough to see. It's as if suddenly Ren has remembered that the approval he sought just moments ago is now his to bestow.
Ren tilts his head. Hux understands his meaning as surely as if Ren had planted it in his mind with the Force: Go on.
"Sir," Hux begins, the word bitter on his lips, "is your Majesty willing to take the Oath?"
Ren lifts his chin up. "I am."
"Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the peoples of the galaxy, including but not limited to the Unknown Regions, Outer Rim, Mid Rim, Inner Rim, Core Worlds, and of your possessions and other planets, moons, stations, or territories, according to the laws and customs of the First Order?"
"I will," Ren says. Hux purses his lips. The script says, I solemnly promise so to do, but attention to detail never has been Ren's forte.
"Will you by your power cause law and discipline," Hux says, "to be executed in all your judgements?"
Ren’s lips twitch, slanting away from smug and dangerously close to pouting territory. Hux at no point questioned Ren's discipline. Not explicitly. Whether he’s referring to the galaxy’s discipline or to Ren’s is entirely up to the listener’s judgment. Hux waits.
"I will." Ren’s low voice rumbles with the faintest suggestion of a growl. A tremor runs through Hux’s stomach, not unpleasantly. He drowns it out by launching into his next lines:
"Will you to the utmost of your power maintain in the galaxy the sovereignty of the First Order established by law? Will you maintain and preserve inviolably the rightful order and stability of the First Order's dominion, and the doctrine, discipline, command, and government thereof, as by law established throughout the galaxy? And will you preserve unto the integrity of the First Order, and to the systems committed to its charge, all such rights and privileges, as by law do or shall appertain to it or any of them?"
Hux's voice echoes and dissolves into the dense Naboo air. The plaza is silent as he waits for Ren's response. Ren draws it out, and it's ridiculous that it should have any effect on Hux at all when all of this is such superficial pageantry, but in the weight of Ren's gaze Hux feels his last question resonate in his very bones, not so much a query but a plea: preserve the First Order. This regime which has been Hux's life, his everything, now cradled in the hands of this chaotic man-child on a stolen throne. But there's a lucidity in Ren's eyes that seems to see into Hux, and hells, maybe he does. Ren's answer is as much a promise as it is a challenge.
"I will."
Hux nods to himself and takes a stiff step forward to hold the crown over Ren's head. His greatcoat flaps in the breeze.
"Be you crowned with a crown of glory and victory, that your domain may endure forever."
Hux forces his hands to remain steady, clenching them around the crown as he lowers it onto Ren's head. He does not know how long he actually stands there, his hands glued to the crown, Ren smirking up from between the frame of Hux's arms, but he knows it's too long. He can practically feel his knuckles cracking as one by one he pries his fingers off the metal. He adjusts the crown over Ren's head—it fits perfectly. Of course it does. It was made for him alone. But it's not the dimensions, the physical fit of circumference and diameter that surprises Hux. It's the way it looks like it fits, looks right on Ren. The realization is agony. It’s even worse to separate from the crown, as this is likely the last chance he'll ever have to touch it. His fingertips trail along lines of metal woven together in crisp, dignified simplicity, and he doesn't even care that they grace Ren's dark hair with a gentle caress as he finally, reluctantly releases the crown.
He pivots sharply on his heel to face the crowd and put his back to Ren's insufferable, smug look.
"Announcing his Majesty, Supreme Leader of the galaxy Kylo Ren." Hux's stomach squirms at the next words, but he's determined to deliver them without wavering. His throat is tight with barely concealed anger that he hopes the press will interpret as conviction when he bites out, "Long live the Supreme Leader."
Pristine rows of stormtroopers raise their fists and voices as one in a salute to their new Supreme Leader. It too closely recalls Hux's finest moment on Starkiller Base; this, now, must be his lowest. The taste is sour.
The plasma cannons fire on cue, rows of red columns that frame the stage and rise into the sky as far as the eye can see. The celebratory maneuvers of perfectly synchronized TIE fighters spew fireworks and streaks of red smoke over the plaza. Hux should savor the moment to appreciate the spectacle he so carefully orchestrated, but the moment passes in a blur, the sounds dulled by a hollow ringing in his ears.
An eerie quiet settles over the plaza as the last TIE fighters pass. Behind security lines, the civilians look on with dour expressions. As much as he would like to, Hux can't fault them for it. He feels too much the same. But his part is over. His bootsteps echo over their heads as he makes his way back to the line of First Order brass at Ren's right hand side.
"General."
Hux freezes. Ren makes no effort to raise his voice, but it unfurls across the plaza all the same. What more could he possibly want? Hux takes a moment to compose himself, glancing off of fleeting eye contact with a stony-faced Allegiant General Pryde before he faces Ren again.
"Your Majesty?" Hux's voice is barely more than a whisper.
"You have an oath of your own to make." Ren leans forward, resting his chin on his folded hands. His posture is far too relaxed for the occasion.
Hux's mouth falls open, a protest half-formed before he has the sense to swallow it. Yes, the time has come for the oaths of fealty, but there is an order to these things, and Hux is neither the senior officer nor did his previous position as Snoke's unofficial advisor come with the title to secure it. In theory, this is a high honor. But Hux trusts Ren approximately as much as he trusts an invitation to tea with a pack of rathtars.
He also has no room to argue. Hux kneels before the throne.
"Go on." Ren's eyes glint.
Hux bows his head and glares at Ren's knees. His oath is a thing of violence, every consonant a dagger.
"I, Armitage Hux, General of the First Order and Commander of the Resurgent-class Star Destroyer Finalizer, do become your liege man of life and limb; and faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and die, against all manner of beings," Hux says, and he hates each word in its own special way, but none so much as the last: "So help me by your grace and mercy."
Hux waits.
Ren says nothing. Like he revels in the silence. He’s supposed to tell Hux to rise. Fury bubbles up in Hux’s chest. Did Ren even read the script? He didn't, Hux is certain, because of course he didn't, Supreme Leader of the galaxy Kylo Ren thinks he doesn't need to read the karking script—
Ren extends his hand. For one bewildered moment Hux thinks he's offering to help him stand. Then it comes to hover, palm down, just below Hux's face. Ren's fingers twitch, drawing Hux's eye to the simple charcoal-colored ring that rests before Hux's lips.
No. No, no, no, this was not in the script. This isn't happening. Not in front of the entire kriffing galaxy.
Hux looks up, trying so hard not to let his desperation show on his face, but Ren has forced Hux's hand, or rather, forced Hux to his hand—there is no choice but to beg. Even if only with his eyes. Ren’s smirk brooks no mercy. He stares back with the eyes of a man fully aware that Hux’s chest is bursting with all the fire of the suns he's snuffed out. Ren meets that fury head-on and drinks it in, as fueled by it as Starkiller once was.
Ren raises his eyebrow a millimeter as if to say that he'll wait and enjoy every second of it. Hux hesitates until he can stand it no longer. Halting and awkward, he takes Ren's hand gingerly between his fingertips, barely touching it, like the contact will burn him.
I hate you, he thinks, not even caring if Ren can hear it—hoping he does.
I know.
Ren's smirk widens, his eyes shining with a curious glimmer that was not there before. Hux maintains eye contact, channeling years’ worth of animosity into his gaze as he brushes his dry lips against the ring. The stone is a chunky, rust-colored thing that feels coarse. It tastes like salt.
"You may rise, General Hux." Ren watches him back to his feet. He pauses a moment, presumably to savor his victory, and dismisses Hux with a wave of that same hand. He beckons to the other officials. "Next."
The rest of Ren's advisory council follows suit in order of rank and seniority. Hux watches, still in a daze, though he notes that Ren does not prompt any of the other advisors to kiss his ring. He's beginning to think he'll be the only one subjected to that humiliation when Ren resumes the practice for the Nabooian officials. An honor reserved for enemies, then. The flattery rings hollow.
Now Hux's part in this bit of pageantry truly is over. The rest of the proceedings pass quickly in comparison, and before long Naboo has run out of bureaucrats important enough to participate in public groveling. It's a relief to get out of the public eye and back onto the Upsilon-class command shuttle that descends to collect the First Order party. The moment the ramp is up and the hydraulics hiss into silence, Hux stalks away from the rest of the brass.
He finds himself in the cockpit, settling into parade rest before the transparisteel viewport. Hux stays silent as the crew guides their Upsilon spaceward. There's comfort in the company of subordinates too frightened to address him as he awaits the dark, star-speckled embrace of the void.
"General."
Speaking of dark and speckled. Hux doesn't bother to turn. An all-too-familiar presence settles into place beside him.
"Supreme Leader." Hux knows how tired he sounds. He should put more effort into disguising it. But what does he have to hide from Ren, of all people? The psychic bastard has already stripped him of his dignity in front of the entire galaxy.
Hux licks his lips at the memory of Ren's awful ring. So plain. An eyesore, unbecoming of a Supreme Leader. What was that broken, asymmetrical fragment worked into its setting? Probably a piece of his dead grandfather.
"Not him," Ren says. "Crait."
Hux turns, surprised, though he shouldn't be. When he focuses, he can feel the absence left in the wake of Ren's mind-touch.
"Do you commemorate all of your losses?" The words are out before Hux can stop them, his mind still raw from Ren's presence.
"There’s strength in loss. Lessons in failure." Ren sounds unconcerned, as though they're discussing the weather on the planet and not his greatest military defeat.
"Did Snoke teach you that?"
"No." Ren pauses to stare down at the ruddy, salt-encrusted stone. "I failed many times that day. Many ways. I remember so I won't repeat them."
Hux’s mouth falls open, whether from shock that Ren would admit to his mistakes or the overwhelming urge to rub them in his face. He seals his lips in a thin line. Until recently his neck bore its own memory of that day in nasty purple and yellowed bruises, and that’s one he does not care to relive. Ren’s gaze drops to the floor.
"And you? Hux?" Ren meets Hux’s bewildered look with his typical unsettling intensity. "Your greatest failure."
Hux’s face tightens. A month ago he would have shouted Ren down for his sheer audacity.
"When my father was alive," Hux says, "he often said that any question to which the answer is obvious is a breath wasted."
Hux faces the dark of space. Ren’s pale, transparent reflection in the viewport remains still, his profile turned toward Hux as if he’s waiting for him to elaborate. Hux does not. If Ren is unsatisfied with his response, he doesn’t voice it, remaining silent as he turns toward the viewport. The two of them fall into a silence that's not so much companionable as it is... tired.
"It went well. The coronation," Ren says. His pale-faced reflection in the transparisteel shifts, the faintest flicker in the light as Ren's dark eyes flit to meet Hux's.
"Yes," Hux says. The sound of his own voice so soft and defeated tweaks a nerve that turns him reckless. He adds, "We should have these more often."
A firm grip clamps down on Hux's shoulder. The muscle in his cheek twitches; it's all he can do not to flinch. But the hand is solid and warm, not like the ghost-touch of the Force that once sealed around his neck. Ren pulls Hux to face him.
"It's your job, General, to ensure that we don't," Ren murmurs. "To preserve the integrity of the First Order. Are you going to honor your oath?"
Ren's eyes bore into him, searching, but for what Hux isn't sure. It echoes the entreating look he glimpsed during the coronation, the one previously reserved for Snoke, but it lacks the pitiful quality of a student seeking his master’s approval. He might be looking for weakness, for treachery, for submission, but whatever it is, Ren is Supreme Leader now, and it's in Hux's best interest to show him what he wants to see.
"With my life," Hux says.
Ren holds his gaze for a long, inert breath. At last, he releases him.
Quiet settles back over the two men as they return their attention to the viewport. Side by side, they watch the stars stretch into bright strings of light and draw them forward into hyperspace.