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The next time they meet, he asks her if she believes in second chances.
Not for murderers, she thinks as their blades meet in a fury of sparks and color. Battle sounds rumble in the distance—explosions from Resistance ground troops, a squadron of TIE fighters shrieking overhead—but she’s focused on him and him alone. His face, stained violet with the light coming off their sabers, looks the same as it did the night on Starkiller, with one jagged exception. Her handiwork splits an angry line across his visage, a scar fit for Han Solo’s executioner, and though she feels a twinge of satisfaction, she can’t help but wish the damage had been more—permanent.
Interesting. His voice rings through the bond, cold and clipped. You have no qualms about killing me yourself, but you’ll condemn me for the same action.
I didn’t murder my own father, asshole, she seethes back, planting her feet firmly and pushing her blade against his with the full force of her weight. Fragments of images flash behind her eyes as she struggles against him—the bridge, long and narrow, a man asking his son to come home, a boy telling him it’s too late. A sudden slant of crimson, darkness as a sun dies in the sky overhead.
A boy on his knees, hands cradling his head, the Falcon growing smaller and smaller in the distance, a speck against the open blue—
“No!” She twists away from him, teeth bared, saber spinning in her hands. The bond shudders, stretches taut. Enemy, killer, monster, don’t let him in don’t let him in don’t let him in—she lunges, sapphire blade thrumming as it cuts through the air in a powerful downward arc—
He ducks, sidesteps, swings to attack her unprotected flank, but she’s faster than she was the last time they crossed blades, and she spins just out of reach, the heat from his saber dancing across her skin. They break apart, eye each other for a breathless moment, then collide again in a whirlwind of frantic, furious movements.
I’m impressed, he says as she dodges another blow, and she can tell he means it. You’ve come a long way in such a short time. Your technique, however—
She responds by leaping away from him, lashing out with a Force push that sends him flying. His saber is knocked from his hand as he hits the ground, and he scrambles to his knees, fingers stretching towards it—
In one swift motion, she raises an arm and renders him immobile, his outstretched hand frozen mid-reach. She can hear his heart pounding furiously in his chest, can see the sweat beading on his forehead as he strains against her, and she feels a tremor of exhilaration ripple through her.
“What were you saying about my technique?” she asks, corners of her mouth twitching into a wry smile.
His eyes flick towards her. Using my own attacks against me, his voices resounds in her head, once again tinged with admiration. We’re not so different, Rey. I can show you—the bond shimmers, tugs at her, and before she can react, before she can close her mind—
—a young boy is raising his tear-streaked face to the sky, hands clenched into fists at his sides, and his lips are trembling as he whispers, “Don’t go, please...I’m not ready...”—
—only those are her hands, her lips, and she’s not whispering, she’s gasping, screaming—“No, don’t go!”—and the sun-scorched desert brightens around her, swallows her whole—
A strangled cry tears itself from her lungs as she severs the bond, charges, releases her telekinetic hold on him. He has only just staggered to his feet when her body slams into his; snarling, she pins him beneath her knees, her blade humming against his throat. She glares down at him, and the darkness teases at her edges. She so desperately wants to hate him, despise him with every atom in her body, look at him and see nothing but the blood on his hands. Maybe if Kylo Ren had been the only thing beneath that mask—maybe then she could succumb to the malice in her heart. But this link between them, this bond, tethers her mind to his like a sphere orbiting a star, and it uncoils as their eyes meet, lengthening, singing with boundless power; and she sees the boy he was before, alone and afraid and unprepared to shoulder the weight of a fallen dynasty, the weight of an entire galaxy. She sees the monster dissolve away until only Ben Solo remains.
The monster, she can hate. But the boy?
“You pity me,” he says aloud, wrenching her back to the present moment. She swears she can hear a sliver of—something—in his voice, but his eyes remain vacant, unflinching.
“I’m disgusted by you,” she hisses, only half-believing it.
A dry chuckle escapes his lips, and his eyes flutter closed. “Do it, then,” he whispers. “End this.”
She could. A flick of her wrist, and it would be over. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? She extinguishes her lightsaber. Well, sorry to disappoint, but we’re not done yet. His eyes blink open, narrowed with confusion—
—and she brings the hilt of her blade down hard against his skull, knocking him out cold.
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Later, she dreams of him. She’s a scavenger again, back on Jakku, and she’s walking towards him across an ocean of sand. His back is to her, dark hair shining beneath a relentless sun, and she reaches out, places a steady hand on his shoulder. He turns, his face smooth and unmarked.
Who are you? she asks.
Ben, he replies, smiling. My name is Ben.
Ben, she echoes, and the word tastes like hope, redemption, starlight. It tastes like happiness, feels like home.
Nice to meet you, Ben.