In all his dreams he hunted her, sometimes through the new green meadows of spring, but usually through the ice fields, dodging boulders and crevasses with unerring steps. Always he chased, and always he caught her. In the good dreams, he slammed her to the ground and throttled her, watching the life drain from her eyes, heart full of vengeance – finally, finally. In the bad dreams, he kissed her.

In these dreams, she didn't fight him. She laughed as if the chase was nothing but a game, as if she'd known he would catch her, as if she wanted him to and there was no place she'd rather be than beneath him. She was welcoming and perfect in his arms. He kissed her, buried his face in the sweet hollow of her neck. Her curls brushed his cheeks, and he felt that if he could just hold her a little longer, every wound, every hurt, every bad thing would melt away. / Leigh Bardugo, Six of Crows

Her footsteps echo off the stone walls of the dungeon. The guards nod to her and stand aside. Back straight, head held high, Rey passes at least a hundred cells before reaching the end of the corridor.

She stops in front of the last cell. Kylo Ren leans against the far wall, heavy fetters around one ankle, still swathed in yards and yards of black cloth. His eyes find hers through the gloom.

"Lady Rey," he says. With a silent, heaving effort, he gets to his feet, as if he's in the presence of royalty. He doesn't go so far as to doff an imaginary hat, but the feeling is there. "To what do I owe this honour?"

"The date of your trial is set," she says, "two days from now."

"Two days," he repeats thoughtfully. "Why not sooner?"

"The efforts of your mother. She put it off for as long as possible." Rey does not mention that she, too, had dug her heels in and stalled. But there's no evidence that can save him, no clever argument. She was foolish to even consider it.

His mouth slants into an almost smile, as if he knows. But all he says is, "How cruel of her."

"She means to save you," Rey says coldly. "So just … try not to get in the way."

"And what about you, my lady? What do you mean to do with me?"

"Nothing. You're not my problem anymore."

His smile turns rueful. "No," he says, "I don't suppose I am."

An expectant silence falls over them. Clearly, he knows that Rey must leave, and that every second she stays is on her head. But he holds her gaze until she takes a deep breath and asks,

"Do you have a final request?"

He tilts his head. "Is this the council's offer or yours?"

"Mine."

"Then you haven't the power to grant anything, have you?"

"Try me."

Kylo Ren considers, watching her. In that long silence Rey imagines what he might ask for: a final message to Leia, perhaps, or something to read while he waits for death.

Instead, he takes a step forward and grips the gleaming silver bars. "Then tell me this, Rey. Did you think of me at all?"

"What?"

"Did you think of me. During the war. When you were with the Resistance, while you trained with Luke, when you lay your head down every night, were you thinking of me? Did I trouble your sleep like you troubled mine?"

Every damn day. Rey steps back. She cannot answer this. "Ask me something else."

"I thought you wanted to grant me a wish. Does Lady Rey go back on her word?"

"Something else, or I will leave."

"Then ask me instead. I will give you the truth, I swear it." He looks suddenly desperate. "Ask me. Please."

She shuts her eyes and turns to go. But apparently, he's in no mood to wait for permission.

"I didn't sleep much in the First Order. It was a weakness. But when I slept, I dreamed of you."

Rey goes still, her back to him in the darkness.

"That's right," he says softly. "Every time I closed my eyes."

Walk away, she tells herself. There is nothing he can say now that should matter to you. But she doesn't move.

"We duelled each other on Starkiller Base," he says, an odd hypnotic note in his voice. "Over and over, you struck me down and left me to die. And still you were so bright I would've blinded myself to look at you a little longer."

Leave, Rey. She's always fought so hard to stay away from this edge. Leave before he tempts you. Leave before you spill any of your secrets.

"There were others, of course. A meadow, where I knew you lay hidden somewhere with my grandfather's sword in your hands. And when I found you, you'd give me a choice: I could have the sword, or you could grant me a wish. Anything I wanted. Like a djinn in the fairy tales." His voice is so low it's almost a purr. "Sometimes I found you sleeping. The fairy tales came in handy then, too."

Her hands have tightened into fists. "You chose the sword."

"Sometimes."

She turns back to face him. "What else?"

"I dreamed I found you scratching those tally marks into the wall," he says. "Then you traded me in for portions, heap of rubbish that I am … Other times you tried to repair me" – he presses a fist against his chest – "gave me a new heart, and fresh hands without bloodstains. I dreamed you held a saber to my throat and made me repent for everything I've done. Everything I've ever asked of you."

You need a teacher!

Tell me about the droid.

Join me – please …

… don't be afraid …

You're delusional, she always wanted to shout at him; you're a monster, you're my enemy, I would never ever ever.

Oh, but he's not delusional, is he? jeers a cruel voice in the back of her head. You dreamed of him too, after the duel. You dream of him still.

(Of course, it's the snowy landscape of their first battle that replays in dizzying loops. But in between, Rey dreams of a black direwolf stalking her through the forest, his growls reverberating down her spine. She dreams of dancing with a masked partner, the same hand that had gripped her wrist in a contest of strength now fitted to the curve of her waist. She dreams of standing on that red bridge with the Skywalker saber in her hand, and Kylo Ren before her, begging her to put it through his heart.

Sometimes she does and sometimes not, but always, always she asks him to remove the mask first.)

"And I dreamed of your island." There's an awed hush to his voice now, the kind reserved for secrets and sacred things. "The one you imagined on your loneliest nights on Jakku. These were the strangest dreams of all, do you know why?"

If there weren't bars between them, he'd already be prowling closer. Circling her, eyes alight, as he'd done so many times before, and Rey would spin out of his reach and draw her sword, and he would smile as though she were asking him to dance.

But in the dungeon, they stand across from each other in perfect stillness.

"Because you came to me." There's something painfully familiar in his eyes, something almost like yearning. "On the island there was always peace. On the island, you sought me out in return. You touched my face," he says suddenly, almost tenderly, reaching up to tap the scar she'd bestowed on him, "called me kinslayer, monster, mirror, mortal enemy. You had many names for me, Rey …"

His lips tilt into a bitter smile, and she knows why. She has only one name for him, now.

"… but never beloved. Not even then."

Rey forces her voice to stay even.

"And now what do you dream of?"

"Still," he says, "you. Just you."

Monster, mirror, mortal enemy. In two days he will be sentenced; by summer's turn he will die. And when that happens, she doesn't want him to haunt her anymore than he already has.

My beloved.

"Tell me," she says quietly, so her conscience can't hear, "what you did to me in your dreams."

Kylo Ren looks at her with a ravenous hunger.

"Everything," he whispers. "Everything."