The Supreme Leader

She wakes with a start, flat on her back. Rey's wide eyes wheel in her head as adrenaline floods her system, preparing her to fight or flee. But she detects no movement; no weapon is arcing toward her. She works to slow her panicked breaths as she slowly levers herself up onto her elbows and sweeps her eyes over Snoke's throne room, taking in the burning tatters of the blood-colored curtain, the sparks drifting through the air, and the lifeless bodies of Snoke and his guard scattered throughout the chamber. She must have been unconscious only for a minute or two.

She spots Ben lying on the floor several feet away; he also appears to have been knocked out cold by the energy that exploded from Luke's sabre.

She gazes at him for a moment, trying to determine if his chest is moving. He's so still…

He's fine. If she's fine, he's fine, and could wake any moment. Now would be an excellent opportunity to escape, while there's no one to stop her.

On that thought, she climbs to her hands and knees, wincing as various aches and twinges foreshadow the sorry state she'll be in tomorrow. As she braces herself to stand, her eyes catch on a glint of metal—Luke's sabre. She squints. Part of it, anyway. She spies the other half on the floor near Ben. With a grimace, she pushes to her feet and stumbles forward, bending to pick up the first half; a few lurching steps, and she retrieves the other.

Looking up, she means to seek an escape route—and finally notices the catastrophe outside the viewport. Eyes round, she steps closer and gapes at the—is that part of the ship listing at an angle? Debris large and small tumble through space. Billowing fires rage where the ship appears to have been cut through with a blade. What happened?

And where are the Rebels?

She's tempted to use the magnifying scope to look for the transports, but she's wasted enough time. When she's rejoined Chewie and R2-D2, they'll do what they can to help the Resistance…if they still exist.

Did the Order manage to hit them all? Her heart contracts painfully at the bleak thought.

Finn. Leia.

Stop it. Of course they're alive. She… she would feel it if something happened to them. Yes. She would.

The Resistance is alive, and so is her purpose.

Go.

She turns her head, and somehow, her eyes fall directly on what she needs—an airlock chamber tucked discreetly off to one side of the throne room, so unassuming that she might not have noticed it had she not been looking for it. Inside, she hopes, will be an escape shuttle.

Clutching the shards of the sabre, she begins to run toward the sealed door—but hesitates as she passes by Ben.

The opportunity isn't lost on her. The mighty Kylo Ren, at her mercy for the second time in their short acquaintance. In the dark, snowy forest on Starkiller Base, she disarmed him, maimed him, and with rage roiling in her blood, stared into his dark eyes as he lay before her. She could have killed him then. But she didn't.

Neither will she now. This time, however, it's not because she fears the darkness in herself. This time, it's because she prays for the light in him.

She briefly entertains the notion of grabbing him by the boot and hauling him away with her. He's big, but she's dragged heavy loads of salvage through sand. She could do it, though it wouldn't be a graceful feat.

But she won't. If he won't come willingly, then he's not meant to come. Not yet.

She watches his chest again, and when she's assured that it rises and falls, she turns away—and leaves him behind.

.

Ren wakes with a gasp. Propping himself up with his arms, he blinks at the black tile floor as he tries to grasp one of the thoughts writhing in his anxious mind.

Rey. Lightsabre. Snoke. Guards. Lightsabre. Rey—where's Rey?

He lifts his head, but he knows without looking that she's gone. He would feel her presence if she were near.

Wouldn't he?

"What happened?"

Ren's eyes dart toward the familiar waspish tone. Hux stands over him, his pasty face pinched with displeasure, his gloved hands fisted at his sides. Ren glances at the bodies of Snoke and the Elite Praetorian Guard, then back at Hux. He'd have thought the general would be more upset upon seeing that his leader lies in pieces; maybe, like Ren, he wasn't as devoted a disciple as he seemed.

Something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. Peering through the naked viewport, Ren sees…devastation.

In awe, he pushes to his feet and tosses out a specious explanation that will circumvent any accusations of treason. "The girl murdered Snoke." It doesn't matter if Hux believes it; he has no evidence to prove otherwise. Stepping closer to the glass, surveying the extensive damage to their floating fortress, Ren returns the question. "What happened?"

Disregarding the inquiry, the officer states disparagingly, "She took Snoke's escape craft."

Before he can stop himself, Ren searches the debris outside for said craft…but there are dozens of escape pods fleeing the doomed flagship, heading for the Destroyers that remain intact. If she's still close, he can't pick her out of the chaos.

In his heart is an ache. He wills it away, but he knows it'll linger. It's been there most of his life. It's the same ache he felt when his parents sent him away; it's the same ache he felt after he destroyed Luke's temple. It's the ache he felt when he watched his father tumble from the catwalk on Starkiller Base.

He doesn't even bother looking around for the Skywalker sabre. She'd have taken it with her. That appears to be all she did—just took the sabre and ran.

What she didn't do intrigues him.

She could have eliminated Ren, eliminated the threat of him. But she didn't.

She should have.

His eyes alight on a dimly lit sphere in the distance—the planet the transports were trying to reach. "We know where's she going," he says, voice hard with resolve. "Get all our forces down to that Resistance base." Turning away from the viewport, he heads toward the lift. "Let's finish this."

"'Finish this'?" Hux echoes with a sneer. "Who do you think you're talking to?"

Ren's steps slow to a stop. Pivoting, he glares at his subordinate.

"You presume to command my army? Our Supreme Leader is dead!" Hux shrieks. "We have no ruler!"

Ren's emotions settle into a cold fury. To allay any confusion as to who is in charge, he lifts his arm and commands the Force to constrict the general's airways. Immediately the man begins to gag and choke; the condescending superiority in his pale eyes morphs into stark supplication.

"The Supreme Leader—is dead," Ren snaps, teeth bared.

Clutching at his neck, Hux falls to his knees. His lips quickly turning purple, then blue, he rasps, "Long live the Supreme Leader."

.

Standing on the bridge of his command shuttle with officers at their stations busily analyzing schematics and relaying orders to officers in other vehicles, Ren studies the landscape as his forces plod steadily toward the mine where the Resistance has holed up.

No one has been able to tell him anything about this planet beyond superficial scans of the terrain. Located in the far Outer Rim, it has evaded official charting; pair that fact with an idiot general who took victory for granted, and the remote, isolated, forgotten planet went unnoticed by the Order until it was too late to stop the Resistance from taking refuge on it. As soon as they're done here, Ren would make sure those oversights are remedied—both the charts, and the idiot general.

The planet appears to be a desolate wasteland of salt flats broken by ridges, low mountains, and deep waterways. At first, he thought the highly reflective white steppes were covered in snow, but his analysts informed him that the climate is warm; the ground is actually coated with a thin layer of halite. Nevertheless, Ren called for the snowtroopers, who are prepared for the dazzling brightness and slippery surface.

As far as they can tell, the colossal blast door is the only entrance to the mine—and consequently the only exit, barring any unintentional outlets formed by nature. But Ren can feel waves of desperation emanating from behind the thick metal door and rock walls; the enemy is cornered. The chase is over.

The Resistance cruiser did no small amount of damage to the Supremacy, but the Order remains more than capable of mounting a successful attack. Aside from a squadron of TIE fighters, Ren commanded several kinds of walkers be airdropped to the surface—as well as the siege cannon designed for a situation precisely like this one.

His strategy is simple. The cannon can easily tear open the bulwark, but the weapon's not invulnerable; while it charges, the fighters and combat walkers will lay cover and target the trenches, taking out the artillery emplacements. He doesn't know what sort of arms the Resistance will have found stored in the base, but any weapons will likely be as old and unmaintained as the rusted laser towers jutting above the ground. He has no doubt the Order's modern and innovative weaponry can handle any pathetic scraps the Resistance might throw at them.

The front line will continue to advance, and when the enemy's defenses are shredded, the infantry will invade the fort and kill any Rebel who remains. If the Resistance manages to contact allies, the Order will destroy the reinforcements in turn. Ren isn't worried about anyone coming to the rescue, though; the Resistance has been short-staffed from day one, because the galaxy is tired of struggling. They have only just begun to recover from the Galactic Civil War and don't want to risk their efforts on such horrendous odds.

By the end of the day, the Resistance will no longer exist, and the First Order will reign; Supreme Leader Kylo Ren will rule the galaxy. He will be more legendary than any glorified scoundrel, revered princess-general, or idolized Jedi. He will have surpassed even Darth Vader in power—for Ren has no master.

As the First Order forces draw closer to the mine, objects begin to race across the flat toward them. Clouds of scarlet follow in the wake of the objects, appearing like trails of exhaust. As they near, Ren frowns. They look like podracers, but they're outfitted with small laser cannons. The clouds in their wake are crystalline particles kicked up by a ventral stabilizer strut as it scores the ground. What kind of rickety relics did the Rebels find in there?

From the trenches, the Resistance begins to fire on the line of combat walkers, providing the airspeeders with cover.

"Thirteen incoming light craft," Hux announces needlessly from beside Ren in the cockpit. "Shall we hold until we clear them?"

"No," Ren answers. "The Resistance is in that mine. Push through."

When TIE fighters streak past the shuttle to return fire, the speeders break formation and employ evasive maneuvers—or try to. The movements of some of those speeders are downright awkward; he suspects some of the pilots haven't had much experience.

While a number of fighters pursue the speeders, another group targets the trenches, peppering the enemy's defenses with bright green laserfire before banking to avoid the door and circling around to continue the barrage. Plumes of dust and smoke slant sideways, carried away by the wind.

As the officers at their databanks murmur stats and reports, Ren turns to his own seat, intending to sit while he watches his forces effortlessly overwhelm the enemy.

Then the Millennium Falcon flies into view, and his heart skips a beat as the freighter takes out three fighters with one shot.

For a fraction of second, he stares, frozen. In the back of his mind, he hoped Rey was still out in space in Snoke's escape craft. But he's certain she's there in that laser turret, coming to the rescue like the hero she so desperately wants to be. The hero she felt she couldn't become if joined with him.

Feeling rejected all over again; feeling errant and worthless; he surges to his full height and stalks toward the pilot, thrusting his arm out to indicate the battered starship. His voice rises until it's a roar of unrestrained fury. "Blow that piece of junk out of the sky!" Whether he refers to the ship or its passenger, he doesn't care to contemplate.

Behind him, Hux snaps to the officers, "All fighters!"

The black TIE fighters swarm the Falcon, which leads the entire squadron over the ridge and out of sight.

The very moment Ren's temper cools enough for him to realize he's left the ground forces with no air support, the tug haulers come to a halt—the siege cannon is now within range and ready to begin its firing sequence. Once it does, it'll be vulnerable, and the hulking walkers aren't able to maneuver well enough to track the nimble speeders as they hustle toward it. The Rebels will no doubt try to disable the cannon—and he just cleared the way for them.

"All fire power on those speeders," he commands urgently. Before he's even finished speaking, Hux parrots, "Concentrate all fire on the speeders!" Ren slides him an exasperated gander.

To his relief, the gunners pick off speeder after speeder. When there are only four left, three of them peel off and head back to the base for cover—but one maintains its course. A voluntary sacrifice or sheer stubbornness? Ren doesn't know, doesn't care; he reiterates the order to take it out. It's too close to the cannon for comfort.

It gets closer. And closer still.

His pilot, Lieutenant Tavson, calls Ren's attention to something further afield. One of the three speeders that retreated has again turned around and hastens toward the one still in play. He narrows his eyes, baffled by their strategy.

The returning skimmer goes wide and aims not for the Order, but for its fellow craft, ramming it and knocking it out of the path of the enormous barrel. Both vehicles crash to the ground, fragmenting on impact and tumbling across the plain, stripping the salt from crimson crystal ground until they finally skid to a stop. Dark smoke billows up from the wrecked turbine motors.

Ren's brow relaxes. Well. That takes care of that. If the pilots survived, they won't live for long. He turns his attention to the cannon's tracer beam as it glows brighter and brighter.

"Weapon fully charged, sir," calls one of the officers.

Ren gazes at the door to the mine, vindication straightening his spine. "Fire."

A powerful pulse of energy explodes from the cannon and streaks along the beam. It booms like thunder on impact; a shower of flaming metal arcs through the air as black smoke and fire frame the new hole in the door.

"General Hux, advance," Ren says formally, calm now. He's won. For the first time in a life full of conflict and strife, he's come out on top. "No quarter. No prisoners."

Leaving the cannon behind, the line of combat walkers lumbers forward while the command shuttle quietly keeps pace above them. Idly, Ren surveys the battlefield—the smoldering piles of scrap that used to be speeders and TIE fighters; the crisscrossing paths produced by the skimmers' halofoils; the wider, blackened path where the cannon's energy scorched the ground.

His eyes return to the door and the flaming fissure they created.

Something moves in the opening, something that has Ren's instincts rearing and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. "Stop!" he calls. What is that? The Resistance wouldn't seriously send an envoy, would they? They're too proud to negotiate, certainly too proud to surrender. Besides, there's nothing to negotiate; their surrender would change nothing. The Resistance will be eliminated.

As the walkers rock in their haste to obey his command, Ren stares fixedly at the humanoid figure that steps out of the mine and casually strolls toward them.

He knows that pretentious swagger.

But it can't be. He's light years away, waiting for death.

It would be just like him, though, to show up at the eleventh hour and make an entrance. To play the savior.

The robed figure moves closer, and Ren goes very, very still.

Skywalker stops and looks up expectantly at the command shuttle. Looks at Ren.

Refusing to be intimidated—his stomach is not quivering, his confident is not shaken—Ren takes a deliberate step closer to the viewport; he wants an unobstructed view of the moment he's craved since the night he woke up to find the Jedi Master—his beloved uncle Luke—poised to kill him in his sleep.

Their positions are reversed now. Ren hovers above his would-be murderer, armed not with a mere lightsabre, but with an army. And he's going to use it.

"I want every gun we have," he orders softly, "to fire on that man."

Incredulity suffuses the air in the cockpit.

"Do it."

In low, careful murmurs, the instructions are relayed. The AT-M6 closest to the shuttle adjusts its stance to better withstand the recoil—and after another moment of hesitation, it fires.

The laser bolt strikes the target. A geyser of crystalline earth spews in all directions.

And before the dust clears, another walker fires, then another—then all of them are spitting laser bolts at the man Ren once trusted to help him make the right decisions. The man who was supposed to embody everything that was light and hope and goodness. The man who was supposed to guide Ren when he didn't know which way to turn, was supposed to protect him from his nightmares. The man who shared his blood, who should have loved him, who should have understood—

The man who should have been better, so that Ren could learn to be better, too.

"More," he commands. The quivering has spread from his stomach to his limbs. His heart careens in a wild tattoo. That deep, familiar ache gnaws at his ribs, and his gloved hands ball into fists. "More!"

A pillar of smoke and vermilion dust rises above the crater his gunners have carved into the ground.

In the distance, beyond the ringing in his ear, Ren hears Hux speak. "That's enough." But Ren can't tear his eyes away from the scene.

So Hux steps forward and takes charge. "That's enough!" he bellows.

The barrage ceases, and, dazed, Ren gracelessly drops into his seat. Enjoying the shift in power, Hux turns to him and sarcastically inquires, "Do you think you got him?"

Ignoring him, Ren sucks in a shuddering breath. Skywalker's dead. After all these years, he's finally gone, destroyed…and Ren sits in shock, hardly able to believe it's over. He feels…free, somehow, unsettlingly so, as if he's been dragging around a heavy weight and the sudden loss of it has set him off balance.

"Now," Hux declares to the bridge at large. "We're ready to get moving. We can finish this."

Captain Peavey, who's been silently standing by, takes an abrupt step forward and squints through the transparisteel.

"Sir?" Lieutenant Tavson issues tentatively.

Hearing the odd note in the pilot's tone, Ren looks up sharply. Hux gapes at something outside, and Ren's stomach pitches, already knowing what's bemused them. Surging to his feet, he marches to the viewport—and watches Jedi Master Luke Skywalker climb out of the crater without so much as a scratch.

Inwardly, Ren staggers. The muscles in his thighs go weak, and it's all he can do to remain upright.

How?

There's no way the old man could have used the Force to deflect all those shots. He couldn't have gained power on that godforsaken island.

Could he?

He doesn't know what Skywalker's capable of, and that scares him more than watching the man climb out of his grave.

Staring up at Ren, the Jedi lifts one hand to the opposite shoulder and casually—pointedly—brushes his fingers against it as if swiping off a speck of dirt.

That all you got, kid?

As insult knocks away the shock, Ren scoffs. He's not a kid anymore. Neither is he an apprentice.

He'll prove it.

"Bring me down to him," he murmurs. "Keep the door covered, and don't advance until I say."

Hux turns to give him a look rife with mistrust and impatience. "Supreme Leader, don't get distracted. Our goal—"

Ren waves a hand and uses the Force to throw Hux against the bulkhead. With a pathetic little squeal, the general tumbles over the bank of monitors and lands in a heap on the floor.

Lieutenant Tavson immediately chirps, "Right away, sir," and begins the landing sequence. Having shifted his focus to the imminent confrontation, Ren leaves the bridge.

Destroying the Jedi has been his mission for years. He should have known killing Skywalker personally is the only suitable conclusion. This time, the victory won't feel so hollow. This time, he'll have earned it.

The shuttle quakes delicately as it touches down. With a hiss of hydraulics, the ramp lowers to the crystal floor, exposed and scored by battle. He doesn't allow himself to hesitate, propelling his feet forward and striding down the ramp. Without pausing, he begins to close the distance between him and his former master.

Several meters away, he stops and studies his adversary. A strong temperate wind ruffles Ren's inky hair, flaps his long black cape. The current swirls around Skywalker, too, gently batting at his dark robes. His very clean dark robes. Everything about him is clean and well-kept; he doesn't look as if he's aged a day since Ren last saw him.

The observation infuriates him. By all accounts, the Jedi has been wallowing in self-pity on a lonely spit of land in the Unknown Regions for years. He should be dirty and decrepit and despondent, half-crazed.

He should look like a beggar—because beg is what he'll do.

"Did you come back to say you forgive me?" Ren jeers, his voice dripping with contempt. "To save my soul?"

His frowning features completely devoid of pity, Skywalker shakes his head. "No," he negates firmly.

Then he came to finish what he started that night.

Ren shrugs off his cape so it won't hinder him, then unclips his sabre from his belt. Bringing the red blade to sparking, spitting life, he lithely assumes a combative stance, low and aggressive, ready to spring. Skywalker takes his own weapon in hand and calmly ignites it; a bright blue shaft emerges from the hilt.

Aim directed at the man across from him, Ren slowly lifts his sabre to eye level; his world narrows to one man, one purpose. How many times did he envision this moment? He adjusts his stance, grinding salt under his heel. How long has he hungered for an opportunity to avenge himself?

Skywalker smirks, as if amused by Ren's angst.

His pride stung, Ren shoots forward and brings his sabre down in one strong stroke—but Skywalker evades. Ren immediately compensates with a smooth backhanded swing—which also misses its mark.

Ending his run in a ready crouch, he stares at the Jedi in disbelief. How can an old man move so quickly? It defies logic.

But then, so does the Force.

Adjusting his stance, his features set in determined calculation, Ren studies his opponent. A blow that can't be dodged…

Charging, he slices his blade through the air in a low sweep, angled downward to thwart any attempt to duck. But Skywalker crooks his knees and bends back further than Ren would have thought possible for any man—and again he misses. Teeth clenched in frustration, he smoothly pivots and delivers another swipe—but the Jedi spins away in a move that's almost unnatural. Most definitely a move that shouldn't be possible for old bones. Back to his original position, Ren glares at him, irritated because he feels like a baffled apprentice rather than a competent master.

Tense and wary, Skywalker holds his sabre at the ready. "I failed you, Ben," he acknowledges with gravity, brows lifted earnestly. "I'm sorry."

Hands fisted, feet spread, Ren snaps, "I'm sure you are!" As if a few empty words could equal Ren's life, or the loss thereof. As if a few empty words could erase a nightmare of a memory, could soothe a festering wound of deepest betrayal. Tossing out meaningless sentiments will not undermine his drive for revenge.

"The Resistance is dead," he snarls, his voice hoarse in his raw throat. "The war is over. And when I kill you, I will have killed the last Jedi." He spits out the name as if it's the foulest thing to have ever touched his tongue.

"Amazing," Luke drawls. "Every word of what you just said was wrong. The Rebellion is reborn today. The war is just beginning." He pauses, holding Ren's gaze steady. "And I will not be the last Jedi."

Unbidden, a series of images pass before Ren's eyes. Rey, uncertain but hopeful, holding her hand out to him. Rey, gazing up at him as if he could be the solution to all of her problems. Rey, frightened for his life, giving him her weapon.

Rey, her features heavy with disappointment as she realizes he's not what she wanted him to be. Rey, fighting him.

Abandoning him.

Choosing to be his enemy.

Rey. Who feels her purpose is to become a Jedi, restore the Order, and bring peace to the galaxy. To become everything that Ren has spent years trying to erase from existence.

As the wind tosses his hair, Ren gazes at the man opposite him—and fatigue begins to tug at him. Not physical fatigue; his body is trained to fight until the battle's won. No, it's fatigue of the spirit.

For years, he's had one goal: kill Skywalker and destroy all traces of the Jedi Order, so that the corrupt, hypocritical institution could no longer wreak havoc on the galaxy. Now as he stands poised to accomplish that coveted feat, as he stands before the man whose death has been his foremost motivation…he realizes his greatest challenge is yet to come.

And he's not ready for it.

Denying the thought, he quietly asserts, "I'll destroy her. And you. And all of it."

He wills himself to believe it. But he doesn't.

He's imagined this confrontation. Imagined dueling Skywalker, disarming him. Imagined standing over him as his former master begs for mercy. Imagined slashing down with his blade, just as Skywalker meant to that night.

He can't imagine doing that to Rey. His mind shies at the idea of harming her. Has since the first moment he saw her.

Disgusted, infuriated, by his weakness, he glares at Skywalker, who deactivates his sabre and relaxes his stance.

"No," the old man says, shaking his head wearily. "Strike me down in anger, and I'll always be with you."

He thinks Ren will regret killing him? Arrogant old fool. Ren can't regret something he wants so badly. It won't be like—

"Just like your father."

Ren jerks as the words pierce his heart.

He—he dares mention— He dares mock—

The memory of Han Solo's craggy countenance—illuminated in a sanguine glow, contorted with pain, gaping with shock—flashes through his mind.

Skywalker grins with satisfaction. And blind fury consumes Ren.

Rushing forward, he raises his sabre high. A terrible cry claws its way up his throat.

He won't regret this. He won't regret it at all.

Skywalker doesn't move; doesn't duck, doesn't dodge. And the vivid red beam cuts clean through his middle.

Ren skids to a stop, breaths heaving, and lowers his weapon.

It's done. It's finally done.

He killed Luke Skywalker.

But the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen. Stomach twisting with dread, he gradually turns.

Skywalker stands in one piece. One whole, tidy piece.

How?

Then it clicks in his mind.

By an act that requires more power than most Jedi ever possess; an act so rarely performed there's almost no record of it; an act that would demand such an extreme amount of energy that the Jedi would be left in a state of severe exhaustion—if not death.

Disbelieving, Ren lifts his sabre and steps toward the Jedi, who doesn't move, doesn't so much as twitch. Where the tip of his blade meets Skywalker's chest, a light shines bright, reminiscent of a hologram. But it's not a mere hologram, not a reproduction. It's an extension of Skywalker's being.

He looks into the incorporeal face of his former master. "No."

Skywalker was never actually here. Ren was never going to win. He was set up to fail.

When he numbly steps back and lowers his sabre, Luke says meaningfully, "See you around, kid."

He bows his head, and a moment later, he's gone, without ever actually having been there. Trying to process what just happened, Ren stares at the spot where the Jedi Master stood.

Fake. All fake. Why? What was the point? To humiliate Ren? To—

Wheeling around, he gapes at the mine, at the hole rent in the massive metal door.

A distraction.

The Rebellion is reborn today.

A noble sacrifice to buy time so the Resistance could get away.

The war is just beginning.

They're gone. They escaped.

And Ren let it happen.

"No!"

.

His long, black cape secure about his shoulders, Ren leads the infantry of snowtroopers through the breach in the door, feeling more humiliated than ever before in his life.

A ruler who couldn't keep the bigger picture in view. A leader who selfishly succumbed to emotion. A self-proclaimed master of mystics who didn't recognize a Force projection when it stood before him.

And he should have recognized it. With the clarity of hindsight, he realizes Skywalker all but shouted it from the mountaintop; Ren just didn't pay attention.

The fact that Skywalker didn't appear to have aged. The fact that he avoided direct physical contact. The fact that he wielded a weapon Ren had helped tear apart mere hours earlier.

The fact that the Jedi survived a volley of cannonfire.

Ren should have known. But at the sight of his former master, all reason went out the airlock.

Inside, the dimly lit, cavernous mine smells of dung; no doubt the wildlife made themselves at home while the Rebels were absent. As his eyes adjust, Ren scowls at the transport shuttles that the Order failed to hit. Lining the rock walls are clusters of crates and equipment, some covered with dust, some covered with sheets and dust. Anything that had been left exposed is rusted and worn by decades of salt corrosion.

After telling the troopers to scour the maze of tunnels, he strides toward a room that he expects is the command center. Two troopers accompany him, but he makes a minute gesture with his hand, wordlessly commanding them to wait outside.

The control room is as outdated and filthy as the rest of the base. The layer of scum on the viewport was hastily wiped away; through it Ren can see the entrance of the mine and the compromised door. Crates and cases were stacked to form makeshift tables and benches on which to set up portable comm systems and computers for battle analysis. Black cords and tubes lie on the floor like dead serpents.

Something else lies among them; something gold that glints in the light. Stepping closer to it, Ren sees a pair of dice that look remarkably similar to the ones that used to hang in the cockpit of the Falcon.

Sinking onto his haunches in the quiet room, he picks up the two small cubes connected by a short gold chain and studies them.

They are the dice from the Falcon. What are they doing in here?

But he doesn't have time to ponder on it.

He feels her, like a warm ray of sunlight touching his cold cheek. And despite everything, he lifts his head quickly, eager to see her again.

.

The entire Resistance can fit on the Falcon with room to spare. As Rey ushers the last member aboard, she tries not to let her mind linger on that distressing fact. It doesn't matter how many of them there are; the concern now is getting them away safely. Though she replaced the boulders to block the exit, it won't take the Order long to find them.

She reaches toward the control that will close the ramp—

And he's there, crouched on the ground at the bottom of the ramp as if waiting for her permission to board. Or waiting for her to disembark. Or—

Waiting, wanting something. She doubts even he knows what that something is.

The urge to go to him, to help him, hasn't diminished. Her hand itches to reach out—but he wouldn't come, not like this. Pressing her lips together decisively, she tamps down her sympathy.

Though time is of the essence, she gives him one precious moment, two, to let him know she still cares. That she's willing to take risks for him; that she'll wait for him.

Then, with that point made, she proceeds to demonstrate another: Deliberately, firmly, she presses the button to close the ramp.

She'll help him—but not when he's trying to kill people.

Once the ramp's secure, she hurries to the cockpit to tell Chewie to take off.

.

Ren flinches when the ramp shuts with a firm mechanical click.

She had a wisdom, a maturity, about her that she didn't have before. She's committed to her decision not to join him, faithful to the beliefs by which she defines herself. She's found her identity; she refuses to be anything but a Jedi, and consequently, a Rebel.

He can respect her conviction, even admire it. He was just as determined to be a master of the dark side of the Force. But time and again, he failed to quell the conflict inside him, to achieve the necessary indifference—as evident in his behavior today. And he's struggled long enough to know he'll never be indifferent; not even when he wears the mantle of Supreme Leader.

Despite what she thinks she knows, she's still naive. She'll never be a Jedi. Never a true one. And someday, she'll figure that out. Perhaps then, she'll understand.

He hopes that someday comes more quickly for her than it did for him. He looks down at the golden dice in his hand—just as they fade away.

Before she's left with nothing but an empty fist.

Fatigue pulls at him; consequence weighs on him. He bows his head…and wonders what the hell he's going to do now.

Note: So that's it! I've novelized all of Ben's scenes in TLJ and then some. I don't plan to novelize anything else from the movie, but, believe it or not, I do still plan to work on the Ben Solo character study. Just not quickly, or soon. These things consume huge chunks of time, and while I don't at all regret writing any of this, I do need to focus on other things right now. Thank you to everyone who checked these out and left amazing comments or sent me very touching messages of encouragement–you can't know what they mean to me. I'll be around, reviewing books and posting the occasional Star Wars thought.

If you liked this, let me know. If not, well, constructive criticism has its uses, too. Feel free to share excerpts on Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, etc.–just please be sure to credit me and link back to my site: noapologybookreviews . com. Thanks, guys!