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The ship is no longer at full capacity. Surviving Resistance fighters are dropped off in discrete locations, swapping ships, going deep undercover. There isn’t another option; they have to rebuild. Rey can’t keep up with the layers of stories and covers and missions. It all blurs together—and it’s unimportant to her, which sounds callous, but she can really only think of one thing lately. It consumes the crowded days and nights on the Falcon. Every time she swallows a bite of a stale ration bar, the lump in her throat grows. Every time she shuts her eyes, he (don’t think about him) is behind her lids. Staring. Waiting.
You are nothing.
How to describe these frantic days that upturned her life and poisoned her reality? As the panic rises, and it does often, she wishes that she never left Jakku. When her heart thuds too loudly in her chest, she silently swears she would take solitary over this. Then the guilt seeps in, and she feels selfish and silly. But how can she explain this to her new peers? What would Leia say? What would Finn say?
They have bigger issues to deal with and so Rey keeps her internal battle to herself. She pilots the Falcon and hands out ration bars and sits silently with Leia as she mourns (‘So many loses in so few days.’). She stares at her (Luke’s) broken lightsaber, a piece in each hand as if she could put it back together herself. He did this (don’t think it don’t say his name). This was a borrowed possession, a trinket from an age she doesn’t understand. And now it’s nothing. All its history (it was always so cold to the touch, even ignited, why was it so cold?) was gone in a flash of blinding light. Its story is over. Perhaps that’s a good thing.
But Rey’s story continues, and she doesn’t know in what direction. She has the ancient texts. Texts she can barely read. Leia mentioned briefly that she had picked up a thing or two from Luke, but it had been a long time ago. It’s been a long time for everyone. The Jedi, over barely two generations, are a dying breed, and likely always would be. There was no master left to guide her. Would they want to, given her curiosity towards the Dark Side?
The Dark Side.
Thinking about it, mouthing the words to herself, sends chills down her body and bile in her mouth. She knows nothing about it, not really, other than Luke’s few words on it and what he (don’t think about him) said about it. It frightens her, the utter power, the chilling sensation and, more than anything, the temptation. She imagines it easily, giving in, letting it fill her, oozing into her empty insides.
When she lays awake on her tiny bunk, and the ship hums too loudly around her, she thinks about it: the alternate choice. She felt it, through the bond (that insidious word), the satisfaction, the passion, the rage, the lust. It keeps him (stop) full, even if only in temporary bursts, even if the tug of the Light is blinding. He’d seen a vision (he was probably lying) of her by his side, shrouded in darkness, with a red blade. Her imagination runs off without her, so clear and fightening.
Her skin prickles; it’s too tight. Lights dance around her, and she can’t tell if it’s coming from the ship or behind her eyelids. Are her eyes even open? Is she even on the ship?
She sucks in a deep, rattling breath and the emptiness swirls inside her like a hurricane in a chasm. She’s as void as space, she’s back on Jakku, scratching days onto the wall, time trickling like molasses. As wretched as… his (don’t think of his name) thoughts were, as sickly as the connection was, it was something. As tangible as feeling could be. It had snaked around her like prickled vines, it had grounded her, rooted her in reality, despite the reality-bending nature of a Force-bond. It was confusing and dangerous and uncomfortable, but the loneliness was gone.
Rey.
And now, everything had shifted again. Not back to the way it was, but something newer. A new emptiness she could never have fathomed. Each staggering breath leaves her hollower than the last. Does she deserve this? Is this punishment for following the elusive lure of the Dark Side? Maybe the bond isn’t severed at all. Maybe this is him (don’t think of his name!) coaxing her into returning, filling herself up again, whole and alive.
‘Rey.’
You are nothing.
Would it be worth it? Just to feel something. Even if it’s him (please don’t think of his name), as vile as he (don’t) is, as empty as she is, as confusing as these feelings are (she can’t breathe, there’s nothing to fill). What is her course? Where are her next steps? Her senses are robbed by (just breathe) (don’t think it), by (stop!). By Ren—
‘Rey,’ Finn says, standing in front of her, filling her vision.
Oh.
She sucks in another deep, but less-rattling breath. She’s still on the ship. Reality (actual reality—not Force-bond, space-bending reality) crashes into her, filling her insides like the tide coming in. She doesn’t remember how she got to the galley but here she is. Finn, as bright a moon on a clear night, smiles, awkwardly, hesitantly. He’s worried but polite enough (or concerned enough) not to comment yet. His hands remain by his sides, though he shifts his weight slowly, forcing patience.
‘Finn,’ Rey breathes. She swallows and tries again, ‘Finn. I’m not. I’m alright.’
‘It’s okay if you’re not,’ Finn says, a rehearsed line he probably heard from Poe or Leia. Finn carries weariness too; he’s slightly better at schooling his features but he can’t hide the eyebags and heavy shoulders. He spent most sleep cycles by Rose’s side until she woke and was able to move on her own again. Rey still hasn’t introduced herself. She wants to but her nerves outweigh her desire for new company.
‘But I am,’ Rey says, lying to Finn, her stomach tensing. How can she tell him without frightening him? Or is she underestimating him?
Regardless, Finn’s unconvinced. ‘I know it’s hard,’ he says carefully. ‘We were taught to bury any feeling. All that mattered was loyalty, servitude. That’s no way to live.’
Finn adapted quickly. He fell into honour fast and absolutely; he embraced love and compassion as easily as breathing. The First Order bred totalitarianism and hatred, and against all odds, Finn escaped. Perhaps out of cowardice at first, but once Finn tasted life (and love) on the outside, he couldn’t turn back. And he didn’t. Heroism suits Finn well, and Rey knows that will only further blossom in him.
Then what of her? Is she a hero too? She rejected him (but the temptation was there, however minute) and she saved the final scraps of the Resistance. She made rocks dance like cascading stars. Was that enough to be a hero? Did she have to feel like a hero to keep doing the right thing? She’s sure Luke would disagree.
You are nothing.
‘I’m just very tired,’ Rey says, and it’s true, but it’s also elusive. She’s falling apart at the seams, as she does at least once a day, and she needs to hide it, like a dark curse. ‘I’m going to head to the bunk.’
‘I’ll walk you there.’
Rey doesn’t refuse. She walks with Finn by her side. When she’s with Finn she’s safe and whole, mostly. It’s a struggle to verbalise her woes but having him close eases the fear weaving into her bloodstream.
They arrive at the bunk that she, Finn and Poe share. It’s been very strange sleeping with others near and if either of them is woken by her silent sobs, they haven’t mentioned it. Poe is outspoken and headstrong, so Rey thinks he’d say something if he heard. Though come to think of it, she isn’t sure he’s slept yet.
Rey opens the door and for a second, she sees him, sees Ren, standing in the darkness, eyes glowing, hand outstretched.
It’s an illusion; she blinks and he vanishes, but the terror remains. Every time she sleeps, that’s what she sees. Him, waiting, wanting, hunger burning in his eyes and pain pulsing between them. The bond (what a horrid thing) is still there, Rey knows it must be, even if she can’t quite feel it, not like before. So many things she can’t describe, and even if she could, no one is left to understand. Except for him, perhaps.
Finn steps inside but Rey lingers in the threshold, heart thumping, head spinning. She grips the doorframe and shakes. The galaxy is so cruel, and the Force is so unknowable. What chance does she have against the power blazing inside her, connecting her to every rock and tree in the galaxy, distancing herself from anyone she could hope to love?
But that just isn’t true. She repeats that in her mind and wills the walls to stop shaking around her. She is loved—Finn loves her, Leia does too. Poe likes her enough, and she really should introduce herself to Rose; they will be good friends, Rey knows.
You are nothing.
He’s stuck in her thoughts, echoing sentiments she tries so hard not to believe.
‘Are you going to come in?’ Finn asks.
Something has to give.
Rey crosses the threshold. She can’t hide her festering emotions anymore. She crashes against Finn, gripping his shirt in desperate fists. She isn’t sure what she wants but she can’t think of him anymore, she can’t imagine him hiding in the shadows (was it her imagination or was he really here?).
Finn catches her, staggering once, then resolves. He holds her tightly, arms clasped around her back. He knows, somehow. It’s like they’ve known each other their whole lives—for several lives. Rey cannot imagine life without him, and she’ll keep it that way. That isn’t the Jedi way, according to the texts; it’s cruel to position someone above death itself. She’d have to work on that, but for now, she clings to Finn like she’s drowning. She needs to learn how to swim.
They don’t speak right away. Rey pants and almost sobs but can’t get it out. Finn rubs her back like she’s choking on rehydrating protein chunks. It doesn’t help but the contact is nice, regardless. His hands are warm and firm. He doesn’t treat her like she’s fragile; he embraces her with all his strength and crushes her to his chest. Rey can barely breathe but she never feels more whole than in Finn’s arms (is that normal?).
‘It’s okay,’ Finn says lowly. ‘I know. It’s rough. But it’ll be okay.’
Rey nods against his shoulder. He’s so soothing, so easy to believe. Even in the dark room, he’s a light spot, guiding away from her waking nightmares. Finn doesn’t need to understand everything; he knows when she’s uneasy and he extends his compassion. He’s special (Rey knows that). Very special. Few in the galaxy blossom into such kindness after such a harsh adolescence. His shift to freedom fighting was inevitable. A hero. Her hero.
You are nothing.
She just has to hold herself together. For Finn. For Leia. For Chewie and Poe and Rose. For the galaxy.
There’s a bang on the door.
‘Finn, bud, you in there?’ Poe’s voice is too loud, even behind the door. ‘The General wants to talk to you.’
Finn sighs and waits another beat before he gently draws Rey back. ‘Will you be okay if I head off for a bit?’
‘Go to Leia,’ Rey says even if she can hardly bear it. She’s sure that isn’t a normal response, and perhaps when her life is in less peril, it is something she can assess. But for now, she wraps her arms around herself to keep her insides in place.
Reluctantly, they move to the door. Finn opens it and reveals Poe tapping his fingers against the doorframe (always so impatient). Finn pats Poe’s shoulder as he passes and turns to give Rey a goodbye smile before vanishing around the corner.
Rey doesn’t step outside the bunk. She presses her lips together tightly.
Poe looks after Finn and then back at Rey. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ Rey says, too automatically to be convincing.
Poe is suspicious. Not in a cruel way, but a little nosy. In the extremely short time of knowing him, Rey discovered that Poe did not like to be left out of a conversation. He likes seeing the bigger picture. Along the journey so far, Leia has chastised him in a fond, forlorn way. They have a bond Rey can’t understand but the sick guilt of jealousy clings to Rey whenever she notices it. Rey doesn’t like to be left out of a conversation either, but she doesn’t have the confidence to probe anyone for more information.
Rey smiles and hopes it's convincing. She should probably practice in a mirror when she gets the chance (she makes others frown more often than not).
‘Um, so,’ Poe said, scratching his neck, ‘it’s been a helluva week, huh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How’re you holding up, kid?’
Rey scrunches her nose. ‘It’s Rey.’
‘I know. I remember.’ Poe gives a lopsided smile and raises his brows.
She still needs practice with conversations. Should she lie and say she’s fine, or should she burden him with her anxieties? Should she mention him (of course not) and her fears surrounding that?
Instead, she says, ‘I’m going to join Finn.’ It’s not something she should do. Leia didn’t request her. She should give Finn space—but she’s been doing that when he was nursing Rose. And Rey still hasn’t introduced herself. Maybe she should do that, instead of following Finn once again. Rose would like her. Why wouldn’t she?
Poe’s expression falls into a grimace. ‘I mean, I think you,’ he cuts himself off and sighs, ‘no, go ahead. Go find him. Leia was in the cockpit with Chewie. Finn’ll be there too.’
Rey isn’t sure why Poe gives in. Is he treating her like she’s fragile or is she not worth his time? (Always so many questions swirling inside her). Or maybe he’s dealing with his own issues. Rey knows a little of what he went through from Leia’s anecdotes. She senses the guilt; it weighs him down. Pain is relatively easy to hide from the average person, but Rey sees right through him, to the broken pieces. Is that what the Resistance is—broken beings fighting their demons? Is that why they want to recruit her? Broken beings who mend each other by mending the galaxy.
No one is whole, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t hopeful. Oh. Is it really such a simple revelation? She doesn’t need to hide her fears. No one else is. No Resistance fighter is infallible; they’re flawed, they’re hurt, they’re angry. And they’re stronger together.
You are no—
Rey leaves the bunk and walks to the cockpit. She doesn’t pass anyone, thankfully, and sure enough, Finn, Leia and Chewie are all there. None of them are surprised to see her. It doesn’t mean she should be there. She should work on that. Her attachments hit her hard and fast and she’ll do anything to hold onto them. That probably isn’t normal, though neither is she. She’ll work on it. Surely, she’ll grow and change and adapt. The future is very unclear and frightening but at least there’s a future to fight for. Will she ever see it to the end? Who knows.
It doesn’t matter all too much because Finn smiles at her.
She is known and she is cherished. And that is enough for now.