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It began the day Kylo Ren was finally able to lay hands on the what remained of Darth Vader. That twisted, warped helmet was unnaturally light in his hands. It should have been heavier, more dense. There should be more to it.
When he laid it on its place of reverence, a shrine constructed to honor the past as well as motivate the future, his gloved hands came away soiled. A fine layer of ash coated his fingertips and he rubbed the stuff between them.
Grandfather.
When he destroyed the academy, he laid Tal on the pyre himself. Tal, whom he begged to join him, whom he assured would find more greatness as one of his Knights than he would ever find as a groveling Jedi.
Tal, who turned his saber on himself, a look of revulsion twisting his dark face as that blade severed more than his friendship to Ben Solo. And as Kylo Ren gathered the ashes into the black satchel at his belt, he rubbed what dust remained between his fingers, remembering.
Friend.
He didn’t know the senator’s first name, only that she was powerful, and that her death meant the allegiance of millions to the First Order. She was brave, and looked him in the face as she died. Something about the strong set to her chin reminded him of a mother he’d rather forget.
So he took her with him, the fine chalk to which even the hardest bravery can be reduced hanging heavy from his belt.
Duty.
Han Solo was lost to him, his ashes now the stuff of space and future stars, mixed forever with the rest of Ren’s failures from that day. But as he lay in the med bay, weary eyes drifting from the window that showed him what remained of Han Solo and Starkiller and his own pride, he noticed the stiffness of the tip of one his glove’s fingertips.
He pulled the thing from his hand, a task that took more effort than it should, and saw that the blood there had seeped through the seams to stain his finger. It was very likely that it was Ren’s own blood---maker knows that he shed enough of it---but he rather believed it was what remained of the man who would still call him son, even after all this. He’d pushed him from that catwalk, and his finger had brushed that searing hot wound still fresh in his chest.
He burned the glove later, thinking it would be enough. Even if it was his own blood, that was still half Han Solo’s, whether Ren admitted it or not.
Father.
The boy who was braver than he could ever hope to be was next. The one who did what he could not, and ran head-on into the Light. The warrior who fought for what he knew to be right, rather than what others convinced him to be so.
Ren hated him, hated the claim he had over the girl, hated the strength he found when he was nothing more than a fucking stormtrooper. He should have been glad to end him, to show him that even the Light has consequences, but he didn’t. He instead saw the peace of a life well-lived finished, and saw how a man died knowing he was right all along.
These ashes he added to his collection, one more link in the heavy manacle that tethered Kylo Ren to misery. The pile was so large now, but it felt less a trophy and more a penance. His life’s work measured in ash. Something that should be dense, but was fine and light as dust.
Traitor.
Tears clumped in dark grey pebbles as they fell to commune with his obscene collection. The remains of lives he thought stood in his way now welcomed one more. He thought these people brave, but misguided. Worthy, but tallied for the lesser side of the scale.
Not this girl, and perhaps not any of the others. But this girl, he knew, was his salvation. He knew she was what he should have been, what he could have been if only he’d been stronger. He loved her, in his way, revered her and wanted nothing but to be near her, the one who was so much like him---but better. One who knew sadness and loneliness and embraced the good in the galaxy despite.
He’d fill a room with ashes if it meant he didn’t have to add hers to his store. He’d do anything if only to not hold what remained of Rey in two shaking hands, mixing black with his tears as he wished the Force could stitch just this one back together.
He smashed Vader’s helmet against the wall and his hair was streaked with the ash that remained as he tore darks clumps of it from his scalp.
Scavenger.
Snoke was practically ash already, and Kylo Ren was pleased with how little of him remained. Barely enough to fill his palm. He dumped him with the rest and abandoned the glove that held him in the pile, not wanting to take a single speck of the creature whom he followed so blindly with him.
Master.
General Organa knew it was his room instantly, as surely as she knew her own name. It smelled like him, like Ben, and she remembered that nothing gave her more joy after a long day at the Senate like the smell of the top of her son’s head. It became more difficult to indulge in this scent the taller her son grew, but she always managed, making him crouch down so she could bury her nose in that thick hair and breathe deep. Lay a kiss on his part and watch those wonderful ears burn pink.
She didn’t need to ask what the pile of ashes was, where a crumpled glove and the remains of two smashed helmets lays scattered throughout. Her son was always morbid, and was keen on ceremony. She allowed herself one shudder before continuing to look about the room for anything that might give her a happier memory of her son. Failing that, she ordered an officer to collect the ashes, very carefully, and deliver them to her quarters.
And later, as she stood on the cliffs of Ahch-To, her brother and her only companion left in the world next to her, she released the great bowl of ashes on the wind, watched as the weightier pieces fell to the rocks below and the fine dust that could never settle drift on the wind to find new life with new earth.
Luke handed her the bag and she reached inside, fumbling because the tears are blinding her so completely that her brother’s robotic hand had to steady her. She grabbed a fistful of what was left of her son, lifted it to her nose, hoping for the smell of his hair and instead finding the smell of his burning, and tossed this out after the rest.
Ben Solo has never been more weightless than in this moment, unburdened by all the wrong he’s done, purified by fire and carried by wind. Leia collapses to the ground, unable to do much more in this moment than streak her tear stained face with ashes.
My son.