Chapter 1

His bed was suddenly too large, too empty. What yesterday had seemed adequate was now taunting him. He bent forwards, fingers almost tugging at his dark hair. A scream threatens to escape him – but his chords had grown stiff, hoarse with all the yelling and roaring of the last few hours. Even as she… the scavenger… had slammed shut the door to his father's blasted piece of space junk, on their bond… on his heart… he hadn't screamed.

Quiet fury was not in Kylo Ren's nature. Over the years, he had acquired an inventory of crushed larynxes, destroyed consoles and molten metal as he had taken out each and every frustration with his lightsaber. A controlled man would never achieve such notoriety. Was it only the day before yesterday that he had obliterated his own helmet, that symbol of the grandfather he hoped so to emulate? He had smashed it against the elevator wall, cracked it into dozens of shards. Such was his rage, it was only later, when he removed his gloves, that he realised how badly the act had bruised his knuckles. No matter – a visit to the med bay and judicious application of bacta patches had sorted that particular problem.

Now, if only bacta could calm the burning hole in his heart.

You have too much of your father's heart in you, young Solo…

A wave of nausea grips him, and he has to take rapid gulps of air to hold onto the contents of his stomach. Behind his eyes, flashed red and gold and flames. Try as he might, he cannot prevent the assault of memories running through his brain as the enormity of the last few hours caught up with him…

Rey… The scavenger's screams as Snoke tortured her; Kylo trapped on his knees like a pathetic supplicant…

That heart-stopping moment when he knew, even if the thoughts concealed themselves, that Snoke had to die.

That dumbstruck expression on the face of his master, as the cerulean lightsaber cut through him like paper.

And then, the exhilaration of battle; lightsabers slicing through red armour to the flesh beneath; her body pressed against his as they fought together, his brutality and her scrappiness a perfect harmony. The Praetorian guards crumbling under their combined assault. The stench of burning duraplast, flesh, death…

And then, relief. His thoughts once more his own, mind empty of those voices he had grown used to hearing all his life. He was free; free to burn the past to ashes, to truly start anew. His heart feeling fit to burst with the exhilaration of it all. Liberation, sanity, Grandfather's lightsaber within his grasp – all he had ever sought. And her… Rey… the first person to see him. Not the errant son, the failed Jedi, the dark scion of a powerful bloodline. She had peeled back the layers, looked beneath flesh and muscle and viscera to the twisted soul underneath. She had looked into his eyes, his soul, and he had never felt more naked. She had reached for him across battle lines and light years. She had come to him despite it all, and he would convince her to stay.

Until it had all shattered in his hands.

Until she had betrayed him by running back to the murderers, traitors and thieves, those charlatans who called themselves the Galactic Resistance, and slammed the door shut on their bond.

And then, there was Skywalker…

Kylo shudders. He knows, with absolutely certainty that Luke Skywalker is dead; he can almost convince himself it was at Kylo's own hands, rather than some form of wretched self-sacrifice-come-suicide. The humiliation of what happened on Crait would be marginally more bearable.

But he could feel the smirk of the Stormtroopers, hidden within those white helmets, as he strode past them. Hux had not even attempted to conceal his glee at the disaster, and mutters from the generals and officers had skittered across his skin as he stood on the bridge of the Finaliser.

The scavenger… Rey… should be here with him, not fleeing with the pathetic embers of the Resistance to hide on some backward planet.

All in, this had easily been the worst day of his life.

What were you expecting to happen? A chastising voice says into his mind. Not Snoke's oily tones, nor his own bitter thoughts. If anyone, that voice sounds so eerily like Skywalker's, that he spins around, half-expecting to see his blue-tinged Force Ghost wearing a sardonic smile.

The room remained blessedly empty.

And silent.

What did you think Snoke would do to her? See her fire, blazing like a supernova; see her raw power, be moved by her guileless spirit? Take a liking to her, see her as a weapon to be wielded, raw ore to be melted and moulded and shaped into something more majestic? Allow you to teach her, train her, to channel that dizzying and uncultured strength in the Force?

Allow you to keep her?

Yes, Maker be damned, that was exactly what he had wanted.

Of course, he now realises his folly.

Had Snoke taken a liking to the scavenger girl, seen her potential, and opted to train her as he had trained Kylo... There would have been no sweet kisses between them, no gentle arms holding him close, no passionate embraces or whispered words of devotion and love.

Snoke would have treated her no different to Kylo, given her only pain, invaded and twisted her mind, poured poison into her. He would have shocked her, whipped her, and beaten any care for Kylo out of her, until she was as much a tool for the Order as he was. He would stamp out the weakness that was their... affection for one another.

Snoke would destroy all that was Rey, and leave her as hollow and alone as Kylo. Another acolyte, another rabid cur, held in check and unleashed as a weapon when convenient…

But with Snoke gone, she would be free. An Empress, elevated from the barren wastes of Jakku and slavery and abandonment. No longer a forgotten, unloved and unwanted child, worth only the credits to purchase another bottle of liquor; but something, someone. Everything… A place – her rightful place – in the galaxy, with one who would treasure her.

Instead, she chose to be nothing.

Hours pass – or it is only minutes? - but the tempest within him quiets. Rage burns hot, but fast, and all that remains is aching emptiness and loneliness.

What if she… the scavenger… Rey… What if she were here, truly here? His traitorous mind manages to supply the images for him…

She stands near the doorway, draped in a gown of Cyrene silk. The material clings to every curve of her body. Her throat is encased in a heavy necklace, its emeralds glimmering in the light. He watches her remove it, exposing the tanned column of her throat. She lays it casually upon his dresser, fingers grazing the jewels as though she has never seen such beauty before. Something twists in his chest – her childhood, her life, was plagued by deprivation and poverty. He would cater to her every whim, offer her every luxury until the hunger and want of her past was washed away.

He watches as she begins to disrobe, the dress pooling at her feet. She wears a dark slip underneath, and her long golden legs are bare. Her skin positively glows. He drinks in the sight of her – lithe and strong; muscular yet unmistakably feminine. Her arms are littered with faded scars. A lifetime of pain is engraved upon her beautiful flesh. He vows to caress each one, with tender hands and lips, until her only memory of them is pleasure.

His dream Empress quirks a smile at him. He watches, breaths shuddering his chest, as she steps out of the dress and approaches his… no, their bed. He shifts slightly, and pulls back the coverlet. Then she is with him, curled onto her side, and gentle eyes meet his. His stomach flips as she inches closer, until her breath ghosts across his skin.

"Goodnight Ben," she murmurs, and she leans closer to brush her lips to his cheek.

His arms snake around her, her back pressed to his bare torso, one arm draped lazily across her midriff. Even through the thin silk, her skin is warm. He presses a kiss to her temple, and listens to her breathing steady until she is asleep.

The vision ends abruptly. He curses. The whole encounter had been so… chaste, yet he feels ashamed and dirty.

Snoke's voice had burrowed into Kylo's mind since he could remember. There was never a time without those oily tones whispering continuously in his head. Heat flashed in his cheeks as he remembered when he had begun to… explore his body as a young man. Telling him he was unclean, that he was weak, a slave to base desires… Shame was a potent arousal killer, and his body had not stirred more than a half dozen times in the last decade.

Now, his Master was dead. No longer would his body's natural, healthy desires be a cause of disgust or derision.

And yet, free to explore them, he can't even fantasise a semi-convincing tryst with the woman he lo-

He bites down on the thought, and buries his face in the pillow with a snarl.

He wants to fantasise about her – to kiss her as he had longed to do in that turbolift. Maker, how tempting those lips had looked in the flickering light. How his eyes had flitted to them, trying not to make his gaze obvious. For a moment, he fancied she was doing the same. The notion to kiss her had crossed his thoughts before he could bury it. Kiss her, hold her, want her… love her…

Kylo sits up, rubbing his face harshly. Mere hours ago, he had screamed his intent to destroy her. He had watched, kneeling on the ground like a pathetic supplicant, as she slammed closed the door to the Millennium Falcon, to their bond… to his heart.

Maybe if these last hours had not been riddled with revelations, torture, death and betrayal, Rey might have found Chewie's increasing ire amusing. Over the last hour, his growls had become progressively less coherent. At least twice, he had even punched the console of the Falcon. Between the scores of kriffing porgs who had stowed away on the ship from Ahch-To, to the scarce dozens of Resistance fighters huddled in the corridors on the ship, he was feeling overwhelmed.

Rey sympathised.

From Crait, they had jumped to the Unknown Regions. The Falcon seemed to creak dangerously with that final hyperspace jump. For an insane moment, she was convinced that the ship would be torn apart by the act. What irony, to escape the First Order only to die in an inferno light years from civilisation.

The Falcon gives another groan. "Garbage", she had called this ship that day she left Jakku. Only weeks, but a lifetime ago. Garbage, but the garbage was now drifting through space, carrying the last sparks of hope, the final bastion of Resistance against the First Order.

Rey had been wrong about the Falcon – like she had so many things. She had attacked a stranger in the markets of Jakku – he was now the closest thing she had to a best friend. She had sought out a hero whose name had been whispered even in the dark, desolate corner of the galaxy that was Niima outpost, and found only a bitter, fallen idol.

She had even been wrong about herself – inventing a story, a dream, then believing it so deeply and feverently. Loving parents, forced abandonment, a greater purpose and destiny… Instead, she was simply Rey – an inconvenience to be disposed of, a piece of detritus, the means of acquiring more alcohol. Her whole life story the myth of a desperate and lonely child in the darkness.

She was nothing, nobody.

But not to me.

She shivers, and tries to focus on anything but those words.

She needs to start anew. In every possible way. Stars, she had never even changed her hair before today, always electing for those three buns so that her parents, no matter how long it took them to find her, would always recognise their little girl… She scoffs. Foolish, naïve Rey. She will never wear her hair like that again.

(The words let old things die echo in the air, but if surely she can suppress the truth of her past for a decade and a half, she can quiet his voice in her mind.)

Absentmindedly, she thinks of General Leia, and wonders if she might teach her some simple braids?

Then, Rey shakes her head. The General has much higher priorities than hairstyling. She has a rebellion to lead, a First Order to overcome, a husband to mourn…

And even if Leia did not have to shoulder the weight of the galaxy upon her shoulders, how could she possibly want to spend time with the girl who had failed to bring Ben Solo home…

No – the voice in her head is firm. Dragging Ben Solo from the darkness of Kylo Ren is no-one's responsibility but his own. She had offered her aid, but the choice had always been his and his alone. Standing amidst the flames and ashes of Snoke's throne room, that path to the Light so clear ahead of him, he had made his choice. Power, tyranny... He had chosen the Dark.

He had not chosen her.

Rey stands up, begins to pace.

She passes Finn, who offers her a small smile, his hand still cradling the head of the unconscious girl – Rose, he had called her – huddled in one of the Falcon's quarters.

She passes Poe Dameron. He nods silently. The blonde-haired woman in his arms – Leia's aide, whose name Rey thinks might be Kaydel – keeps her head buried against his neck, and the two resume a conversation of whispers.

She passes a group of mechanics and pilots, squabbling over a game of sabaac, as though the world almost hadn't ended today.

Rey finally makes her way to the cockpit. Chewie's harsh growl on sensing the intrusion softens when his eyes fall upon her.

Too noisy, he says with a shrug.

A nod is all the response she can muster. Instead, she settles herself into the co-pilot's chair in companionable silence.

Outside, all is still.

How many hours they sit together, Rey loses count. Only once does he speak to her – asking if she wants to talk about it. Her "No," was perhaps a little too curt, and she brushes a hand against his paw in apology. She does not deserve the hug he bundles her into, but she drinks greedily of his comfort.

One day, she will recount to him the events on The Supremacy; she cannot find it in herself to bring the topic up with Finn, or even with General Leia. But something soft in Chewie's eyes tells her that he alone might understand. One day.

Chewie eventually makes a half-hearted excuse about checking the environmental controls, and leaves her alone in the cockpit. The Falcon's engines hum almost pleasantly in the background. The cabin has grown eerily silent – most of their passengers have fallen into exhausted sleep. Rey feels a weariness in her limbs, her eyes heavy. She too should sleep, but the maelstrom of her thoughts won't allow that.

She leans back in her seat, exhaling the sigh she has held in these past hours. In the stillness of night, there are no more distractions.

What the kriff were you thinking, Rey?

"If I go to him, Ben Solo will turn."

Those words, spoken a few hours ago, a lifetime ago, belong to a different person. A girl who believed in fantasy; that mere words, however sincerely spoken, could turn the heart and soul of a man so twisted that he had committed patricide only days ago.

She reminds herself there is nothing to feel guilt over. But that does not silence the unrest in her heart. She closes her eyes, and tries to block out the words echoing in her head. "You come from nothing, you're nothing. But not to me." She buries the image of his gloved hand as it trembled, the quivering of his lips, the gleam in his eyes she had sought to ignore, even as her own had stung with tears.

"Please…"

Please…

Please…

Rey jerks, feeling a stiffness in her neck, and groans. Her temple is pressed against the headrest, and she can feel the imprint of leather against her cheek. I must have dozed off. As she lifts a hand to knead sore muscles, her eyes drift to the shape now occupying the pilot's seat.

But it is not Chewie smiling back at her.

The Force signature is unmistakeable, even if the man is so different that she barely recognises him.

His garb is still dark, but loose, casual. Gone is the oppressive tunic and leather gloves. His hair is ruffled, and she spots the shell of his ear poking out from those riotous dark locks. Even his posture is relaxed, one leg resting lazily on the control panel. A book rests in his lap, and he twirls a stylus between his fingers.

Rey stiffens as he turns. There is an almost bashful smile on his lips, dimples visible on his unmarred cheeks. A false name springs to her lips, but she silences the words.

This man is not Kylo Ren, though they share a face. Gone are the haunted eyes, the dark circles, the scar she had branded him with on Starkiller Base. Kylo Ren is but a phantom, a nightmare to never see the light of day, and there is no sign of him in Ben Solo's eyes.

Ben carefully lays the stylus down, and straightens his posture.

"You feel asleep," he says, sounding almost apologetic. "Didn't seem fair to wake you."

This is a dream, she wants to say; but her throat is dry, scratchy. Only hours ago, she had sworn not to fall into dreams again. The truth had been sharp and throbbing as a whip against bare flesh, but the pain had afforded her some clarity.

Hadn't it?

Then, Ben Solo turns from her. His teeth worry at his lower lip as he dips the stylus into an inkwell and begins to draw. No words pass between them, but the silence is broken by the scratching of a nib against the paper, and the gentle purr of the engines.

"What are you drawing?" Rey is surprised to hear the words escape, that her voice had chosen now to restore itself.

He shrugs. That gesture reminds her so much of Han that something twists in her chest.

"Just a star chart."

"May I see?"

He nods, and Rey rises to her feet. She stands behind the pilot's seat, and watches him in silence for a moment. Watches those hands that have wrought violence and pain move delicately across the page, creating something beautiful.

"Ben?"

"Mmm?" he looks up from his work, and gives her another soft smile.

Rey has no idea where her next words come from. "Will you teach me?"

"How to draw? Of course," he says. "I'm no artist-"

A soft laugh escapes Rey, and she quirks her eyebrows in response.

"Well, no great artist," he concedes. "But I'll do my best. We only have black ink at the moment – but if you wanted a trip, we could go to Chandrilla. There was this little shop in Hanna City that Dad used to take me to – inks of any colour you want, and perhaps we could even get you your own set of styluses as well…"

The next moments shift to a blur. Suddenly, Rey finds herself in Ben Solo's lap, the sketchbook falling to the floor with a heavy thud. Her head is on his shoulder, and he lifts ink-stained fingers to card through her hair. There is another ink-stain on his brow. Rey giggles, lifting a thumb to her lips to wet it before rubbing at the smudge marring his otherwise alabaster perfect skin. His eyes flash comically upwards.

"Oh, kriff," he mutters, and she watches the tips of his ears flame.

She leans closer, until she feels the heat of his breath dance across her skin. His eyes flicker downwards and settle upon her mouth, in a gaze too close to reality that she freezes for a moment. But the caress of his fingers through her hair soothes her, and she relaxes in his arms. This is only a dream…

She leans in, and their lips meet. Just a graze at first, a moment of shared exhalations, before a smile blooms on her face. She shifts slightly, pressing another kiss to his mouth, lips brushing against one another, soft, moist and achingly tender. Heat blooms in her belly, and she tugs a hand to his shirt to pull him closer.

Not close enough…

When they part for air, his eyes are lidded and he gazes upon her with something akin to wonder. Rey can feel herself blushing at the intensity of his gaze.

"You're everything to me, you know that?" he whispers as he buries his head in the crook of her neck, peppering further kisses to the skin there.

A metallic groan roars somewhere in the engine, and Rey starts awake. Fingers move to her lips, half-expecting some taste, some lingering mark of him upon her skin.

Then, nausea rises within her, and she gives the console a kick in frustration.

Something… the Force, maybe… is taunting her, of that she is certain. Or perhaps she is simply tormenting herself.

Will these be her dreams from now on? Haunted by the spectre of a man who never was, never will be? Clutching at smoke tendrils, trying to grasp at the mirage of Ben Solo; a Ben Solo untouched by the malignant influences of Snoke, who never fell to the dark side, never wore the mask of Kylo Ren? Is this simply the latest exquisite torture and lie she had designed for herself?

Seeking a distraction, anything, she fumbles for the book of star maps Chewie keeps beside the pilot's seat. It feels solid, heavy. Though the Falcon has a decent enough nav holo, Chewie seems attached to the book. Though after the destruction of the Hosnian system, the book is probably now so out-of-date as to be obsolete.

Nevertheless, she opens it, and flips to a page in the Western Reaches. Her eye lands on the Jakku system. She lets her fingers hover over the planet that was her home, her prison.

It might be easier to forget if she were back on Jakku.

The thought sickens her. Go back to scavenging, fighting for survival, half-starved and waiting? Lonely nights huddled in her bunk in Hellhound Two, scratching more useless marks into the wall? (She pushes away the image of herself lashing against that wall with a lightsaber and making it bleed molten metal.)

No, she tells herself resolutely. She will never go back to Jakku. Not now that she has a purpose.

Not now that she has the truth.

Would you go back to find their graves?

Back at Niima outpost, there were plenty of scavengers who turned to alcohol as a comfort. A poor one, as she had seen the harsh reality of that in those who succumbed to their demons: hands trembling when they couldn't rustle up enough credits for a bottle; sweating and hallucinating, clawing at phantom insects under the skin and unseen monsters lurking in shadows. She had seen them grow sluggish, desperate. She had seen their eyes and skin grow yellow and sickly, bellies swelling up though they were starving. When she was ten, one of the older female scavengers had ushered her away as a man clutched at his stomach, vomiting horrible black blood into the street.

She never saw that man again. Another victim of the cruelty of the scavenger lifestyle.

But, when your daily grind was risking life and limb for a few portions, she understood why so many took to drinking to anaesthetize the pain of their cruel lives.

Was that what her parents had tried to do?

"Rey?"

She looks up from the book. "General Organa."

The woman smiles weakly. "Leia is fine," she says, one hand still gripping a walking stick. To Rey's eyes, Leia looks both superhuman and yet impossibly frail and fragile. Her eyes are that of a woman who has endured centuries of pain; yet, she has a heart of durasteel and more courage and resolve than anyone else Rey has ever known. "Care to keep an old woman company?"

There was something sardonic, too knowing, in her tone. A smile crosses Rey's lips. "Of course," She murmurs, and watches as the general settles herself into the pilot's seat… Han's old seat…

Leia's face is a mask, impenetrable, but Rey can perceive the frenzied emotions within her. This cockpit, this ship, carries a trove of memories. Of war and of peace; of love, and of loss. Yet, the way she brushes her fingers across the console is almost casual. This could be any ship in the fleet, in the galaxy.

Rey's eyes flicker to Leia's hair, in a complex and immaculate braid. The notion again takes her to ask the general about hair-braiding, but the question dies on her lips.

"May I?" Leia asks, pointing to the book still nestled in Rey's lap. Wordlessly, she passes it to her.

Leia flicks through the pages in silence, her expression unchanged but a thousand emotions flashing in her eyes. She lingers over one chart in particular, when Rey vaguely recognises as being part of the Core Worlds. Her fingers draws small circles over the same empty patch. When she lifts her gaze to regard Rey, those eyes are damp.

"I can't believe this is still here," she says with barely a tremble in her voice. "He drew every one of these by hand – some of them from memory alone."

"Han?"

Leia shakes her head, and something coils painfully in Rey's stomach. "Given his penchant for destruction, you would never have guessed that my son was quite the gifted artist. Calligraphy too. I saved most of his sketchbooks, everything… Although after Hosnian Prime…" Leia shook her head. "It's all stardust now. Han must have saved his from before…"

Before he became Kylo Ren. Before I lost him, lost them both.

Rey blinks, wondering if she can feel Leia's thoughts, or if she has simply read the change in her expression. The grief of a widow, of a mother.

"The last thing I said to Han," Leia says softly, "Was that if he saw Ben, to try and bring him home. Even then, even after," her voice grew hoarse, and she had to clear her throat. "I still held the hope that he might come back to us. Even now, I still do. There's part of me – the rational part – that knows he is lost forever. But hope has little to do with rationality."

Rey bows her head – the gleaming in Leia's eyes is threatening to spill over, and she wants to offer even a modicum of privacy if she can. And if it means the general doesn't see the same pain in Rey's own eyes…

Leia sighs a moment later. "I remember Han buying him this book. He used to take him to this little shop on Chandrilla…"

Leia's words become distant – Rey can see the movement of her lips, but no sound. Chandrilla… The star maps… That dream, a twisted parody of their last interaction…

Pain blooms at her temple, and she barely suppresses a wince.

Then, there is a soft hand at her shoulder.

"Rey, are you all right? You've gone pale. Do you want me to fetch Dr Kalonia?" The tenderness in Leia's eyes is almost too much to handle.

Rey shakes her head, which only makes the pain worse. "I think," she says tightly, "I think I'm just tired."

Leia's hand lifts, and she brushes it across Rey's forehead. She can see a frown cross the General's lips. "Is something…?"

"You have ink on your face," Leia says almost absentmindedly. Rey lifts her own fingers, and finds a small smudge on her thumb.

The thumb her dream-self had used to wipe the same stain from Ben Solo's brow.

A growl of Shriiwook from behind pulls Leia's attention from Rey. Chewie enters the cockpit, and quirks his head at the two women. Everything all right, Princess? He then lays a hand on Rey's shoulder. You need sleep, Little One. Long day, and you already carry many burdens. Go rest. Princess and I will take over navigation. He lets out what must pass for a chuckle.

Rey nods, and bids a polite farewell to the General. Chewie wraps her in his large arms. His fur is soft and ticklish, and she breathes deep of his scent. The scent of belonging, of knowing she is loved.

She makes her way through the Falcon; sidestepping snoring Lieutenants, past mechanics slumped over the Dejarik table, and a small family of Porgs who had nested in the wiring. The chicks were asleep, but the mother Porg seemed to look at her quizzically.

Rey finds the room she had seen Finn in earlier – he is currently slumped against the bunk, snoring loudly. Someone has thrown a threadbare blanket over him. His head is almost touching the brow of the still sleeping Rose, as though to check she is still breathing.

The bunk above Rose remains unoccupied. Rey has made difficult climbs in her time as a scavenger; making her way to the bunk without disturbing Finn is easy enough in comparison. He gives a loud snort, and she whispers his name. But he merely turns his head and continues to sleep.

Hours pass, but sleep proves too elusive a beast for Rey to tame. Her thoughts are too turbulent to allow her any respite.

Rey's mind drifts back to the sketchbook, and those beautiful, hand-drawn star maps. A pang of jealousy snapped at her.

There was no room for art, for beauty, for indulgence in the childhood of Rey of Jakku. No expensive calligraphy sets, no luxurious hobbies, no leisure time. There was only loneliness, the hunger pangs of an empty belly, aching muscles from another day of scavenging. The years only brought blistering desert heat, fewer portions, less love…

"You had a father who loved you! He gave a damn about you!"

A father who walked out onto that bridge offering love, forgiveness, a path home… and was cut down by the child he had ventured halfway across the galaxy to save.

The boy who would become Kylo Ren had never known starvation; had always had warm arms to hold him. He had the kriffing Force, and an instructor to nurture his skills from a young age. He was the son of heroes, the product of an illustrious bloodline…

"You come from nothing, you're nothing. But not to me."

Ben Solo had everything, and he had still fallen into the dark.

How easily that starved and lonely girl on Jakku could have fallen. The promise of a full belly, agency, and power, ought to have been too much for her resist. But Rey had stayed true to the Light, to her friends, to herself.

But even if she had fallen, no-one would have come to pull her back. A scavenger from epicentre of nowhere, a neglected and forgotten child, a slave – from whence would a saviour have come for her?

Ben Solo, with his sad eyes and haunted gaze… He would not earn a drop of pity from Rey ever again. Tears were the luxury she could not afford. When every drop of water was an exertion, tears were a waste, and on the Supremacy, in the ashes of Snoke's throne room, she had already cried too much for him.

Just as her lids grew heavy, and sleep began to claim her did she remember the mysterious ink stain on her brow…

Thank you for reading.

Kintsugi is also being cross-posted at AO3 under my other username, Andrina_Nightshade.