Chapter Text

Συνοράω (Synorao)

Chapter 1

Rey drops the screwdriver unceremoniously on the ground, its clatter echoing through the empty hangar while she wipes away the sweat on her face with her forearm. 
She's working on the Falcon again, crouched in front of the last —and particularly stubborn— maintenance panel. The planet's warm, humid climate is making everything harder—she's nearly drenched in sweat, trying to wedge a pry bar into the hatch seam. With a sharp twist, the panel finally gives way and opens with a metallic groan of protest, letting her fix the wire connections behind it. 
Overall, the ship is operational, but years of neglect have taken a severe toll on it, and now even minor maintenance tasks, such as the one she's currently undertaking, are essential for it not to fall apart.
After a while, satisfied with her work, Rey lies back on the ship's ground, stretching her limbs as much as possible in the cramped space. Her knees and back ache from the awkward position, and when she gets on her feet and brushes her hands off on her pants, she smears them with oil. 
Huffing, she straightens and force-summons her bag of tools from its resting spot on a shelf, frightening a nearby porg that squawks indignantly at the disruption and starts chirping as if urging her to leave. 
"Ok, ok, I'll go." She raises her hands in surrender and obliges with a quiet chuckle. 
Usually, Rose drops by at the end of the day to check on her and talk about the repairs, but once outside, Rey is only met with an empty and silent hangar. She sighs. 
Alone and in desperate need of a shower, the Jedi heads towards her room.

At first, Rey wasn't accustomed to the luxury of hydraulic showers. But a few days ago—thanks to Poe and Finn loudly complaining about the sonic ones—she was granted access to one. And stars, did that water feel good on sore limbs. While scrubbing away the fatigue, she's reminded of all the times she dreamed of something like this as a young orphan in Jakku —not just the shower, but the whole situation. Despite being at war and on constant alert, the resistance feels like the closest thing to a family she has ever experienced in her life. Sometimes, the thought brings unexpected tears to her eyes.
Yet, they have been on Ajan Kloss for weeks now, and she's feeling desperately far behind everyone else. All her attempts at being of some use at the base fail spectacularly every time, and thanks to her newly gained fame as the Last Jedi, whenever Rey decides to help, there's a strange sort of embarrassment —almost reverence— that settles over everyone involved, preventing her from doing anything useful. 
So, Rey ends up either training or working on the Falcon, a task she appreciates because it allows her to work in solitude — with the only exception being Rose's intermittent presence. Despite her fondness for a good issue-fixing session, she has recently discovered an ever more profound love for training. 
Tapping into the Force while fighting is easy, for she relies on her instincts, concentrating on nothing but creating a rhythm in her movements, as if meditating—only she doesn't have to sit for hours, coaxing her body into relaxation.

That same evening, she's sparring in the forest when she feels it. A sudden wave of pure, unbridled wrath seeps through the Force and into her mind, so uncontrolled she has to stop —her weapon forgotten— and kneel, placing a hand on the ground for support, trying to center herself. 
She knows that when she fights the connections, they become rougher, sudden, and unpredictable. She's been doing it a lot since Crait, closing off to his mind, detaching herself for as long as she can, but the surges of emotion that drown her senses so vividly can only be his doing. 
She inhales as deeply as she can, focusing on the feeling of the forest, the grass under her palm, and the trees around her, buzzing with life.
She feels it flow through her and follows the small traces of life with her consciousness, brushing them, caressing each mind in the immense net of souls that inhabit the planet.
The rage becomes silent, and so does every other sound around her. She's still kneeling, eyes closed, yet she feels it —the thread that connects her to Ren is alive and burning in her chest. When she raises her head, he's there, towering over her in a wide-legged fighting stance —lightsaber crackling in his hand and chest heaving with effort, as if he'd just brought it down in a brutal arc.
The Supreme Leader sticks out as a sore thumb against the forest of Ajan Kloss, his dark helmet and heavy cloak jarringly out of place in the humid and green environment. Silence stretches out between them, uneasiness cladding her stomach at the apathy of his mask. For a split second, she feels like she doesn't know where to look, unable to see his eyes. 
She scrambles to her feet, the absence of her staff a pang of nakedness to her soul —unarmed in front of what is her main enemy. 
He tilts his head, but whether he's trying to decipher her or simply uncertain, Rey can't tell.
He reaches up toward the mask. 
Alarmed by the movement, she quickly calls to her staff, which comes flying into her outstretched hand almost immediately. Ren doesn't seem to mind the gesture —like he doesn't even consider her a threat— and a moment later, the helmet hisses into his hands as it opens. He drops it to the ground, where it lands with a thud, and extinguishes his lightsaber. His dark eyes set her skin on fire as he stares at her, and she feels herself dropping the defensive stance, if just a little.
She doesn't want this. The charged silence is loud enough in her ears, and she cannot bear the weight of his staring. That's how all the connections after Crait had been, Kylo Ren silently looming over her, occasionally studying his surroundings like he could locate her just by collecting scarce information on the environment. She knows he can't see anything but her, yet it unsettles her, and Rey briefly wonders if that's the whole point of his demeanor. 
It's either that or strenuous fighting. It's ironic how often the Force connects them while she's training, perhaps because she's so concentrated on her actions that her mental shields drop. Unfortunately, she cannot avoid it — she must train to improve.
"Stop it." she hisses, punctuating the words with a swirl of her saber staff, stepping ahead.
That seems to snap him out of it. 
"Stop what?" he grits out, fists clenched at his sides. "You think I want this?"
Rey lets out a dry laugh. "So the mighty Kylo Ren does have limits."
Her lips curl in a bitter smile. "How humbling that must be."
The rage returns—raw and familiar— and it hits so deep she's unable to tell if it's his or hers. 
He's quick to reignite his lightsaber and lunges forward, growling.
Great. Rey thinks. Let's fight. 
She doesn't know if she's getting used to his technique or if his rage is making his strikes sloppy, but she keeps up — ducking, dodging, leaping between trees and branches. She knows this terrain, and she's determined to use it against him, but the lack of a real lightsaber weighs heavier as he slices through obstacles like they're nothing. Her staff cannot compete with his weapon. 
She dives deeper into the forest. The lush green clearings she knows are gone, replaced by towering trees stretching their long, thin limbs toward the sky, a beautiful landscape yet unknown to her.
She curses under her breath. Another swing — too close. She ducks just in time, her advantage gone.
As if he senses her distress, he intensifies his attacks, and while trying to avoid one particular blow with a jump, she lands on a hidden root and stumbles, losing her balance. 
Kylo sees the opening and strikes down.
A flash of red thunders over her head, and fear clenches her gut as she aims for the hilt of his saber, trying to stop its descent with her staff, avoiding the plasma blade. The weapons clash with a metallic sound, and for a fraction, there seems to be an impasse. 
Neither of them moves, and they stall in that position for a heartbeat that stretches long enough for Rey to realize how close their faces are. So close she can make out the edges of his —or should she consider it hers?— scar illuminated by the angry red light of his saber.
She's staring into his eyes, full of fury and anger, when something briefly flickers behind them, but the moment is gone so quickly she cannot catch what it is. 
He draws back his weapon quickly, effectively slicing the spell along with her staff.
It feels like something in her breaks, too. Rey sees him retract, taking a step back as if burned, her own stupor reflected into his eyes. She stays there, crouched and heavily panting, the broken halves of her staff scattered beside her, and just stares at him.
Her weapon adds to the —long— list of things lost to Kylo Ren.
She tears her eyes away, staring at the forest behind him as angry tears pool and blur the leaves into meaningless green. She stays there for Force knows how long, only to realize that the connection has broken, and she's alone again.
She hates him. Hates him for being the heartless monster who killed his father and an entire star system, who hunted her friends, who made his mother suffer.
And she hates him for this Bond between them—because even if it isn't his doing, she still blames him for it.
But what she hates most is the connection itself, for it allows her to sense that, despite his horrific actions, there's still some light in him. There's conflict inside him, born from bringing this monster, Kylo Ren, together with Ben Solo in an abstract puzzle that doesn't quite line up. 
When Rey finally gets up, the sun hangs low and orange in the sky. Collecting the broken pieces of her staff, she goes back to the familiar training clearing, only to be met with an eerie silence.
She crosses it with long, irritated steps. Something catches her foot — she stumbles, and a dark shape skids into the open.
His helmet. He left it there.

Chapter Text

Συνοράω (Synorao)

Chapter 1

He blinks— she's gone.

Kylo's alone, staring at the empty black wall of his training room while he regains awareness of the low hum of the Finalizer's engines. For a heartbeat, the girl's absence throbs so painfully in his chest that he wants to scream. Instead, Kylo shoves the feeling aside and lets out a frustrated sigh, wiping a hand across his face, and when he's met with the soft leather of his gloves, he freezes.

The mask is gone.

A deep, cold feeling of nakedness sets heavily into his stomach as he realizes the gravity of this mistake.

The mask is gone.

Kylo ignites his saber with a growl, and a raw and uncontrolled blow carves a jagged gash in the wall. The rage explosion is short-lived, though, and dies out as quickly as it came. Drained, he drops his weapon and sinks to his knees, motionless until his ragged breathing begins to steady.

He could get it back.

He raises his head, and the scar on the wall stares mockingly back at him.

He could—maybe, if she lets him.

Right after Crait, Kylo had tried to thrust the connection open, only to find out he couldn't force his presence into her mind. And even if he had needed to know —to reach out, Rey had always been closed off to him, a rejection that stung fiercely in his mind.

This time, he will not relent.

Kylo hates that it's always like that with the scavenger, how easily he forgets himself around her.

Never in his life had he been as reckless as the times he spent in her company.

Yet, nothing else can compare.

The thought comes uninvited from the deepest recess of his mind, and he pushes it away. It doesn't matter how he feels, how the call to the light is heavier to ignore after each of their connections. He cannot— he won't give in.

Clipping the saber to his belt, he straightens, storming from the training room. Maybe hot water will help him sort out his problems.

Unfortunately, even as he turns the shower on and steps in, letting himself get drenched, Kylo finds it hard to keep his mind from wandering back to what happened.

What if, when the connection opened, he hadn't been in the training room —conveniently— adjacent to his chambers?

If the Bond had flared alive anywhere else on the ship, he would have had bridges to cross before coming to the safety of his room, his bare face exposed for any officer to see. He shivers at the thought.

He has to get that back — and quickly— because wandering unmasked among his subordinates is out of the question.

He braces himself against the wall, eyes closed as the water runs over him, letting the tension in his body slowly unwind.

An image of her face flashes behind his eyelids, rosy cheeks against the green forest, loose strands of hair escaping her buns and framing her features. He had caught the subtle movement of her lips when she'd raised her head, they had parted just a fraction upon seeing him there, yet her eyes hadn't betrayed a single trace of surprise —she had expected the Bond to activate.

Does it mean she's aware of that slight tug in his chest just before their consciousness touches? Does she feel it, too?

He dives deeper into their whole exchange.

Again, he sees the girl, undeniably overpowered under his saber, and the moment something in her had snapped—when he had slashed her staff in two. Her hurt had resonated so deep in his core that he had taken a step back. Had the Bond not been interrupted, he firmly believes he would have made a fool of himself, maybe by trying something as stupid as helping her to her feet. Because the urge to do something had felt so intense and raw, he knows he wouldn't have resisted it.

He's never been good at resisting .

He spends the following day trying to meditate and reopen the connection with Rey. He locks himself up in the training room, and suddenly, it feels like Luke's temple all over again. He's incapable of meditating—of staying still, and with one unsuccessful attempt after another, his frustration grows quickly, making it even harder to concentrate. He tries taking small breaks in between sessions, using them to pour all his rage and restlessness into a flurry of saber strikes.

Despite his efforts, her end of the Bond remains quiet, the thread of their connection abruptly cut off by an impenetrable wall of resistance that keeps him outside. There has to be a crack in her defense, a weakness he can drive into until the whole thing falls.

"Scavenger."

His tone is commanding, but it's not working.

He tries again. " Rey. "

At that, Kylo feels something—a reaction, an oh-ever-so-stifled shiver, crosses their connection. And his mind roars in success, feeling her concentration slip.

He's on his feet at the realization, ready to dive deep into the crack in her barrier, when a familiar faint signature nudges at his own, distracting him. Acting on pure instinct, he quickly turns, lightsaber ignited and ready to strike.

"Mind if I interrupt you, Supreme Leader?" Hux arches a brow at his reaction. "We have new developments to discuss."  

Kylo keeps the weapon trained on him.

"What is it now, General ?" he growls, punctuating the words with a slight movement of the red blade.

The redhead's smile is sardonic.

"As we're already acquainted, the Resistance has been methodically stealing and attacking our fuel sources in the Outer Rim," he pauses, regarding Kylo intently. "We've been able to track them during one of their attacks and follow the thieves right into their nests."

The information sinks in slowly, and he lowers his saber.

"Go on."

"I suggest, Supreme Leader—" he spits the title like a curse "—that your Knights handle this. Force users are better suited."

Kylo weighs his words.

"Send me all the details via Holopad; I'll see to it," he hisses. "Anything else you need my presence for?"

He presses an invisible hand to his throat—delicate but deliberate, a silent threat, inviting him to leave.

"No, Supreme Leader. I'll leave you to your important ministrations."

Hux finishes the sentence with an exaggerated bow, steeped in insult, making Kylo's irritation flare. He doesn't wait for him to straighten. With a flick of his wrist, he hurls the General against the far wall, the door slamming shut behind him.

Unable to resume the connection with Rey after his encounter, Kylo gives up.

Hux is a pain in the ass.

That much Kylo knows—a self-entitled and egomaniacal pain in the ass.

But a traitorous one—unlikely. Not on his own, at least.

Yet, he decides it's best to keep a closer eye on him, and just in case Hux is feeding him misinformation, he opts for summoning Vicrul Ren. He is a good choice: loyal to Kylo, not powerful in the Force, and overall an unquestioning spy.

"Vicrul Ren," he calls, deep and commanding, reaching out for his Force signature.

"Yes, master?" the Knight's answer comes straight away.

"I have a mission for you on Sullust."

He hates how bare his face feels. It takes effort to remind himself that Vicrul isn't really there.

He flicks through the intel Hux provided.

"Infiltrate the Nixan Cell on the planet, find the rebels, and send me all the details. Do not attack them unless the order comes directly from me." He pauses, then adds, "Don't trust Hux. On anything."

For a moment, silence stretches between them.

"Yes, Ren. Is that all you need from me?"

Kylo hesitates.

"If you find the girl, report to me. Immediately. Stay away from her."

He drops the connection immediately after that, trusting his Knight to know his way from there.