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An open flame.
That’s all she can see, watching from the side of the massive crowd as the knight prostrates himself at her grandfather’s feet, his hands held tight in the Emperor’s grasp, his glorious amber eyes wide, deferential and awed, his head but a moment from bowing in supplication and fealty.
An open flame, she often thinks, looking at Lord Kylo Ren, that fierce knight arrayed in heavy unadorned armour that shines in the candlelight. A spark, wild and free, mere moments from flaring to life, held in check instead by an iron will and, perhaps more importantly, a purpose - a potential.
A tiny, wicked part of her soul contemplates what that might look like, Kylo Ren unleashed, what form it might take.
How she might fan the flame that flickers just under his skin into the raging uncontrollable inferno of which she dreams. Of which she needs.
What shape he might take, should she manage it, should she take him at her side. Should she encourage that conflagration of which she dreams.
Should he choose to help her burn it all, down to the ground.
Leave nothing but the cinders. Glory in it.
It’s a pleasant scenario, if an unlikely one.
My Lord Ren has barely glanced in her direction since his return from the wars overseas, not that he’d much reason to.
Despite the generational taint on his family name - the exile of his father, mother and uncle and the lingering taint of his grandfather’s disgrace, downfall and death - despite the knowledge that even his name and knighthood represent a boon granted him by the Emperor and nothing more, yet it remains that the Emperor’s favour has been openly and decidedly conveyed on the man currently kneeling at his feet.
The same cannot be said of her, despite the fact that she rightfully addresses the most powerful man in Christendom by the title of ‘grandfather’.
The small, quiet, long-lost, nondescript, underfed only child - and a girl child at that - of the Emperor’s unmarried, deceased, disgraced youngest daughter, Reyna Palpatine does garner much attention at the imperial court, which is an unrelieved sense of solace to her.
Attention, here, is dangerous for her, a fact forcefully imprinted on her during her first few days at her ‘family’s’ ruthless Court.
At eleven, an orphan, still in shock, still grieving the loss of her parents and the unexpected and violent nature of their deaths, she’d soon found not to expect comfort from those forming the new weave of the fabric of her life.
The man she’d been instructed to address as kin and also to imagine and consider as a god - one almost more powerful and certainly more impactful to her life than the one she worships in the serene chapel steps from this place - seemed if possible even less interested in her pain or her personality than in her presence.
His newly recovered granddaughter - always ‘Lady Reyna’ in that remote tone of his, never ‘Rey’ - seemed of interest mainly for how her future marriage prospects might further advance his legacy. In the years since her arrival, since they day she'd stood in front of his massive throne, stared up at the commanding, intimidating figure of the Emperor, she'd been graced by the honour of being in his company scarce more than a dozen times, his disinterest in her clearly apparent.
The only other reason, she’s sure, he’d even bothered to secure her presence, under his control, under the pressure of his hand, heavy on her soul, was to ensure her mother’s wishes for her well-being were not met.
Even in death, he has decreed, his wayward daughter’s wishes were to be disregarded.
Even after her death, neither she nor Rey’s father - that young squire he’d naturally declared unworthy of sullying HIS family line - would be allowed to win.
Even if it would ultimately be their young daughter who would be forced to pay the heavy price he’d decreed as penance for their defiance.
It is far from surprising, therefore, that the Emperor’s favoured knight, fresh from recent success on the battlefield at his Majesty’s command, would have limited opportunities to notice the barely acknowledged lesser relation of the Emperor's family. Ultimately, she knew, that looking at her, he would see only a small girl who, at most, would be married off to some foreign younger son of a royal house.
‘My Lady Reyna,’ the Emperor has lately sighed, ‘might then repay Our kindness, bestowed this last decade, by strengthening an alliance with a house which might be willing to overlook the anomalies of her birth.’
The favour of being fed and housed and clothed, however begrudgingly, at her grandfather’s grace, while he barely deigned to acknowledge her, called her ‘Lady’ - the mark of a royal bastard - as a result of her mother’s refusal of her father’s command to marry at his direction.
Despite it all, she can’t help but yearn, watching evidence of her grandfather’s favour, poured out on the bowed head of the Court’s most powerful knight.
Almost as much as she yearns for the favour of the knight in question himself.
For as impatient, as reckless, as fiery as the rumours say he is, at times she looks in his eyes - sees the softness, the light, there.
Wonders.
If he might also be gentle.
For her.
It is a danger, of that she is well aware. If she lets herself think too long on the dark knight who overshadows all others present at her grandfather's court, she notices things she's perhaps not meant to.
How soft is his touch as he soothes his massive war charger, as his nervous horse calms immediately under his gentle, if overly large, hand.
How he focuses on every minute detail of a task, how he moves effortlessly and efficiently to accomplish his stated goal. How the feeling of every sensation seems somehow to flow through his fingertips, even roughened as she knows they are, roughened and shaped by calluses and violence.
They'd touched fingertips once, his hand dwarfing hers, as they had flowed around each other, his eyes on her, hers on how his rich doublet strained at the shoulders. They'd found themselves at the conclusion of a celebratory dinner following the cessation of hostilities (temporary as it turns out) with the Emperor's longstanding enemies. The evening, an overwhelming success, had culminated with her grandfather ordering the court musicians to play, a treat appreciated by all.
'You may dance with the Lady Rey,' the Emperor had directed his tall, taciturn champion, the tone a command even if the words were soft, quiet, and Lord Ren, ever cognizant of an order as his liege directed, had moved from the shadows, stood opposite her, his feet moving gracefully through the proscribed movements despite his reserved demeanour and considerable size.
His hand had grazed her own several times during that single dance. She couldn't help but shiver at his touch, despite the crowd, despite the overstuffed and therefore overheated crowd.
It'd surprised her, the softness of the touch of his bare hand, running along the length of hers and she blushes, when she meets his eyes, now, as she'd done then.
Though she has no reason to think it, though the feeling is doomed to disappoint, she hopes he thinks of that moment as often as she does.
She knows she must be imaging it, his eyes on her. Her loneliness, so strong, responsible for the sense of him, watching her.
It must only be her yearning, the way she feels the heat of his gaze, as it lingers, heavy on her form.
She'll soon find out - her engagement long-awaited and long-overdue is announced.
The Emperor Palpatine wishes to demonstrate both his appreciation for his valiant knight and to ensure to bind his service permanently at a cost he'd deigned pay.
His granddaughter's hand proves of value for both.
It’s an unlooked-for boon and she’s pleased and relieved - at least she knows him, somewhat, this stranger the Emperor’s decided she marry.
She can’t be sad it’s him, to whom she must submit. He, to whom she is to give herself, her future, her will.
As well, it seems her lord and future husband is pleased, or at least, not disappointed.
He smiles, slightly at her, when the announcement is made, and even through her shock, she notices, and breathes just a tiny bit easier.
The weeks that follow are a revelation: she finds that her tall betrothed can smile, and laugh even if it’s quiet, almost rusty, she thinks, when he feels it is needed.
She’s never feared him, not really, but she’s been intimidated by him, and she knows she’s not alone in that. Still might be.
The man she meets in carefully supervised meetings and wanders through the palace gardens is not a man to fear by those who aren’t his enemies.
She finds it disconcerting, to have hope.
Though not to be married until the month is out, the official nature of their betrothal - the sharing of rings, legal documents the priest’s blessing as her hand shook in Kylo’s strong grasp - means that she has just that small extra bit of freedom, and she glories in it, just as she relished the feeling of her future husband’s warm looks and soft respectful touches at her hand and, daring, tentatively grazing her face. Relishes in the relief she feels, knowing he intends to care for her, treat her far more gently than she'd ever dared consider.
It’s the week before the wedding when the news comes, and she curses the omens she should have seen coming.
She should have known she was not meant to live long in God’s favour.
There’s been an assassination.
Her uncle and three cousins, those lucky, privileged kin who had always been known, always lived at court, always blessed by the Emperor’s grace, are gone.
And though she can’t find it in her to mourn in anything more than the most performative terms the family she barely knew and who have, at best, ignored her the better part of this last decade, she does mourn the consequences.
She’s to be Lady Rey no longer.
The Emperor needs an heir and she is the one which remains.
Princess Reyna now, the last of the Palpatines, the heir to the Imperial throne and Beloved of the Emperor, now finds herself in the unrelenting eye of her grandfather’s perusal.
She also finds herself free of her recent engagement to a man now considered beneath her station. It's a freedom she’d not sought nor does she welcome.
As her former betrothed’s eyes burn at the news - the simmering passions in him, as always, barely contained - she knows he feels the same.
Though she shouldn’t, she can’t help but glory at this evidence of his preference, need, desire, for her. For how he would choose her in every way in which she would choose him.
Yet, both must bow to the Emperor’s will.
Or so it seems.
The Emperor is old, some might say decrepit, and decades of tyrannical rule sit heavy on him.
Still, many who’d thought to outlive him, even some who’d thought they’d succeeded, found their plans stymied by fate and his perfidious ability to gauge the loyalty of those around him. Those who'd misjudged the Emperor and his resilience had not uncommonly found their futures, or their lives, blighted by his wrath.
Though his only heir, though his granddaughter, Princess Reyna is not naive enough to doubt her fate should she challenge him. There is still power in the old man yet, the air still charged with electricity and dread as he approaches, as he sits, commanding as always, on his gilded, heavy throne.
He may need Rey, for now, but she fears what he has planned for her, now that his legacy rests with her. Even as strong as she has become, the weight of his gaze is as considerable as his attention and as intense as his eyes.
She’s not to be left to rule alone, she learns in due time, direct from his lips. She’s not strong enough for that, he muses. A mere vessel for his power, a woman, a nobody, it’s clear she’s too weak to be trusted to determine the fate and future of his line, or even of his people, as little as he cares for them outside of their usefulness.
No. She'll need a husband, and soon, he muses, someone to guide her, to mold her, to provide direction for her voice. A sovereign; that’s what she needs. A steady hand at her elbow not to teach or help her, but to steer her true. A strong man to temper her weakness.
Thankfully, he’s had the foresight to arrange for that.
A new engagement is to be announced for her, one more suitable to her revised station and enhanced responsibilities. A foreign prince, one with the iron will and heavy hand she, and the Emperor's people, will need.
“We will be happy to receive your thanks,” her grandfather informs her, graciously.
She seethes.
The only direction requires is her own.
She’s not a ship, an inanimate object to be subject to the corrections of her captain, she fumes, bows, hides her irritation. She will be a Queen.
She means to rule.
But she must act fast.
Prince Snoke, youngest son of her grandfather’s greatest lackey and, allegedly, her future lord and husband, newly chosen, is to arrive in three weeks.
She must act fast, her aim must be true. She needs an ally.
A Hand to act as her own - to be loyal in her service, who might cleave to her form.
Risking it all, she has a message smuggled to the only man she’s ever known to believe in her, rather than in the power of her bloodlines.
She sends for Kylo Ren.
It's the Devil whom she receives.
But then, it's the Devil she needs, late at night in her chambers, and she can hardly complain when it's a Devil who places himself firmly at her command.
The gentle lover whom she'd met in gardens and in the restrained violence of her grandfather's court has been replaced by a man who burns for justice. For her.
An open flame, she'd thought, not so long ago, watching him, even during those early days she'd thought it unlikely to know the fervour of his kiss, and she soon finds she'd been far from wrong.
In stolen moments and harsh whispers, in secret meetings and purloined kisses from each other in decrepit, deserted alcoves, they grow to know each other, and themselves, once again, from a different point of view.
His kisses, they burn, she soon learns, as he warms her body with her own, as he protects her body from the chill with his arms and the heat of his form, even as he presses her into the stone walls, barely covered by threadbare tapestries of the forgotten frozen reaches of her ancestral keep.
She holds him tighter to her than she'd ever thought possible.
Having broken their sacred accord with the Emperor, if only by their words, and their plans, they've nothing more, now, to lose.
It matters not, that their renewed marital pledge, known only to themselves, is one not sanctioned by the Church, by the State, by their kin.
Either their plans succeed, and they forge their own path, or they face their fate at the hands of the Emperor's renowned executioners.
There is no other option or moderation as they grasp at each other's hands, though they do little more yet, but whisper promises of love and fealty into each other's skin.
Perhaps it would've never mattered, regardless, whether their union had been sanctioned, chosen, acknowledged, or sanctioned by the elders of their church or their kin.
They burn higher, faster, hotter, together, have since they'd first met. Tamped down by the restraints of those who surrounded by them and fanned yet contained by the promise of more while awaiting their impending troth, their love had burned slowly, and softly in turn.
With the guarantee of a future together no longer a safe consideration, the flame is no longer tamped down, contained - rather, it's an inferno.
The eve before they're to journey to receive the consort to Her Imperial Highness, Princess Reyna, the flame burns free.
Blazes brightly, as Rey stands, straight and tall and true, in her grandfather's court as the entire company gathers - challenges him for her right to rule.
It's a procedure rarely used for reasons both obvious and practical - those with the right of challenge are usually those with the most to lose - but it holds precedent and legality, nonetheless.
It also requires trial by combat, and for that reason alone, the Emperor had not expected it from her, his granddaughter, someone not versed in violence or trained in the wielding of weapons of war.
The Emperor himself, though aged and known for his diplomacy than his skill at arms, had been acknowledged as a passable fighter.
He laughs in Rey's face.
Even aged, he expects little challenge, as his broadsword itself, the one hanging behind the throne, weighs more than the Princess herself - he hardly expects her to be able to wield it.
The laughter fades as Lord Otis, the old Chancellor - one of the few in the Emperor's court who'd been kind to the tiny orphan princess from her arrival, heartbroken and overwhelmed - clears his throat. The Chancellor, aged, his heavy frame running to fat, his teeth worn to nubs and his golden-brown hair and beard sprinkled heavily with grey and white, may be past his prime, more likely to be displaced by his rivals than to be displaced. Yet, he reminds respected, his views respected for his wisdom and experience. When he speaks, the Lords and, even, at times, the Emperor's advisors, listen.
So, when he invokes the right of the combatants to choose a Champion, the dynamic changes, as the crowd in the massive room watches in anticipation.
They watch again, in fear, as all turn.
All, it is, other than Princess Reyna Palpatine, Challenger and Heir Apparent to the Imperial Throne.
Turn, other than Princess Rey, to stare in awe as Lord Kylo of Ren approaches.
Dressed in his massive, heavy armour, the burnished steel again almost blinding, he says nothing, looks at no one, proceeds, the armour clanking, the sound echoing with dread, as he proceeds deliberately to present himself to the Princess even as she keeps her gaze on her imperial prey. As the knight slowly kneels at her side, reaching only then to lower with a clang the helmet that has become the stuff of nightmare, an oppressive silence fills the massive hall.
"My Champion," the Challenger announces in a tone of iron.
And none can doubt her will.
The silence that follows fills the great room so completely that not even the shadows might live is terrifying in its menace.
"This is your choice then, my child?" says the Emperor, the aged, godlike figure feared for generations, as he looks out at his granddaughter, his lost knight and the company which surrounds them, a company drawn back in fear or in concern for being tainted by association.
He's old, aged, physically but a shell, is the Emperor, yet though his body might seem to have faded, his voice, his presence and the power that fills it, rings out through the room over, through them.
"Who, then, will take up the challenge that this creature I have raised to a station not befitting her has thrown at my feet? Who, then, will take up the mantle of my champion?"
And there's silence once again, this time of a kind that hangs heavy on those who witness it, no matter how one might struggle to raise one's head.
For, though the Emperor had not required a champion for decades, though his rule had rested so securely, if heavily on the shoulders of his people that no one had questioned his divine right, the truth remains that the most likely candidate for the role is the man currently kneeling, quiet and still, deadly, at the feet of his challenger.
The grandson of Lord Darth Vader - the last Imperial Champion - the Lord Kylo Ren, that honed and deadly blade, had once aspired to the same position. The Emperor, though, has never been a Master renown for his kindness and had never seen fit to raise that man to the high honour for which he'd seemed born.
That man now kneels, ready to explode at his mistress' command, at the feet of the one person who has the will to challenge all that is.
And yet, the quiet that fills the audience represent not only surprise, not only fear of facing the man known as the upstart princess' champion - the knight who happens to be the acknowledged, preeminent warrior of his age - but also ultimately a refusal to step forward voluntarily, in loyalty to their Emperor.
Revelations become clear, with that silence.
The company there assembled will follow their Emperor's directives, will fight for him should he direct.
They will obey him.
And yet - they will not step forward to put their lives on the line for him if it can be avoided.
There is fear and lingering respect when they look at the man on the throne - no loyalty or love.
As a result, they wait for a Champion to be chosen by him wait to be chosen rather than step forward of their own will.
Choose the Emperor must, and choose he soon does, gesturing for Sir Alex Pryde, eldest son of Enric, a man long favoured by the throne, to come forward. It is a wise choice for an Imperial Champion - Pryde is young, strong, skilled, confident, trustworthy - even if it is an uninspired one.
His eyes do not widen as he advances - he is as arrogant as Ren is impatient. The sound of their swords ringing as the steel meets chill all who hear it as they watch - the meeting of the heavy blades done ceremoniously, for the first strike at least.
That ringing alone - of steel on steel done in earnest, is soon all that anyone hears. But though intense, the outcome had been clear from the beginning.
As most had foreseen, it is over almost as it begins.
Kylo lands a particularly vicious stroke - then Sir Alex spins, falls, lands unceremoniously on his rear, clanging, his pretty, shiny armor dented, his sword kicked to the other side of the room by his opponent's disdainful foot. The assembled imperial company watches as the young knight, bested by skill and experience and fury, stares up at and into the gruesome helmet that had been the final sight of too many, as Kylo Ren's broad sword holds steady at his throat.
"Hold," says his mistress, quiet, sweet and deadly, and Sir Kylo Ren stills his heavy hand at once, though his blade, steady and true, remains at the younger man's throat as his helmet remains firmly engaged.
The only sound is the ragged sound of the breath of the two knights, the exertion of their efforts clearly overwhelming.
"Yield," says that quiet voice again, and though she's looking at the Emperor, not the boy he'd sent to fight for him, she nods as the young knight chokes out his assent.
"Yield," she says again, looking still at the Emperor, her grandfather.
Exerts every ounce of her will upon him, that man from whom she'd once hoped for comfort and love and guidance.
That man who'd taken her need for family and loyalty and had twisted it, turned it, until she could bend to his will no further. No longer.
That man who'd seen her only as a vessel for his will, for his legacy, at best for his line, and had so underestimated her potential of this remarkable young woman, fierce and proud as she stands in judgment.
The man who, today, would pay for a failure of foresight so monumental with the kingdom he'd held for generations.
"Yield," she says - a third and final time.
He rises, unsteady, a little, she thinks, his hands clearly clenched into fists and trembling at his side.
His response is lost to time, though, as he falls back into his throne without a word and with barely a gasp, and as she rushes to his side, uncaring of potential deception and her Champion's shouts of concern. Caring only, despite it all, for the health of her kin, she reaches for the man she'd longed to love.
In any case, he is beyond any and all considerations of empire and thrones and futures, as he lies there, barely breathing, on the symbol of that dominion for which he'd happily and purposely given so much - family, love, health.
"Hurry - my grandfather is indisposed," she tells the assembled nobles, and it is indeed the case.
It matters little, in the end, her concern - he'd chosen power over all else throughout his life and it is power he clings to, at the end.
He's beyond noticing as they convey him to his room, beyond comprehension as she spends his final days there, with him, hoping, despite herself, that he might awaken, that they might come to an understanding on his death bed if they never could as she'd come of age.
Yet - power is all that he'd chosen, and power it is that accompanies him at the end.
The funeral is, as he would have preferred, regal, symbolic replete with symbols and trophies of all he'd been, during his decades as the premier ruler of the Western Realm.
Triumphant, powerful, emblematic, suiting the final procession of the Emperor Palpatine.
Cold.
The Empress wears black, unrelieved black, ornate, heavy, oppressive and powerful, for the final rites of her predecessor both beloved and reviled.
Wears black as the prostrates only the tiniest degree before his funeral procession, weeps only the tiniest bit so that none can see, as the coffin is at long last sealed with lead.
Turning, she's greeted with the booming voices of her subject before her most Beloved and Loyal Champion steps forward, kneels with more force than grace, accompanied by the sound of steel clanking on hard, cold stone.
"The Emperor is dead; long live the Empress."
Her court repeats the phrase, over and over and over again, repeats it times three, following his leadership.
She holds her head high, tilts her head in acknowledgment, graces her Champion's shoulder with her dainty hand as a sign of her regard as she passes. Walks out the door to that great and mighty cathedral of her ancestors.
Doesn't look back.
Buries her grandfather in black, buries her regrets and her remorse along with him.
She wears that black, unrelieved and ornate, to meet her council, confirm her decision to send the Prince chosen for her back to his land, sending with him her insincere thanks and barely mentioned regrets even as he seethes at the reality of the spoils of her kingdom snatched from his grasp.
The Empress, once known as the Lady Rey, and before that, simply Rey, wears the black she'd like to be well rid of, the day she marries, finally, the man to whom she'd given her heart earlier, much earlier.
The compatriot, the beloved knight, the champion in whom she'd found a kindred spirit, a supporting presence, a gentle hand and a warm heart.
The man in whose arms she'd finally found that family she'd thought all but lost, when she'd still been but a maid, small, innocent and naïve, and he but a restless and impetuous warrior.
The kingdom can't help but rejoice at the prospect of stability and prosperity the regime of their new Empress's new reign promises.
Fair and open and just is all I can promise you; she'd told those in a position to listen, during the first days of her reigns, and it is a promise she does her best to keep, keeping all her people first in her concerns.
Just as her consort keeps his, forged in blood and love, to act always as her champion.
To treasure her, as she treasures him, all the days of their lives.
Fulfills those promises in every way, pays their love back to each other in kind.