Loki Coloured Glasses

As Rey's lifeless body lay sprawled in his lap, her eyes blankly staring at the ceiling of the stone cavern, Ben remembered what she had done for him. Not only had she saved his life, but she had proved something—something he had already known to be true: that through the Force, anything was possible.

In the end, that was perhaps the one thing that united them. He had embraced that power, where she had been terrified of it. But that terror came from the same place: a place of power, a knowledge of the Force, and an understanding of what that power could do.

He had wanted it, so badly. To make an impact. To make the galaxy the way it should be. Orderly, and predictable. And yet she had feared it.

Why? Why fear power? Why fear the limitlessness ability to shape the galaxy... perhaps the entire universe?

He took a deep breath, gingerly placing his right hand on her abdomen, splaying his fingers over her motionless ribs.

She was quiet. So, so quiet.

Absolutely silent, and utterly still.

His breath was the only sound in the immense cavern, and it reverberated in his mind, even louder than the occasional strike of thunder, or the war raging overhead. He wanted to scream. To drown out everything. But no good could come of that. This wasn't an officer he could intimidate, only the dispassionate spectre of death.

“Rey,” he pleaded silently, between deep, measured breaths. “We need you. I need you. Please.”

Though this was something he had never done before—never even dreamed of doing before, Rey had been an excellent, if unwitting, teacher. He'd been half dead, but even then, every move she made, he had watched with all the attention his failing body could muster.

Ben forced himself with every breath, to fight the panic rising in his throat. The desire to scream, to rage at a universe that would do such a thing to the woman he loved. More than almost anything, he wanted to tear Palpatine apart. Not only limb by limb, but inch by fucking inch, until absolutely nothing remained of the monster. But Palpatine was already gone. Rey had seen to that.

And there was one thing he wanted more. One, singular thing.

Rey had believed in him, when no one else had. He had sensed it. Even when his parents had seemingly given up on his redemption, Rey had trusted that maybe he was not the monster she had pronounced him to be. And maybe... just maybe, this was his chance to prove it.

With every inhale, he willed himself to become what Rey had believed in. On every exhale, he pushed Kylo Ren further from his mind. If being in command of the Final Order was the only thing standing between them, then to hell with it.

He willed himself to become ever more calm, steadying his nerves, and focusing all his energy on the tenuous strands tethering him to his own life. She could have them. She deserved them. If he really was a monster, then there was no point in living. But if he could save her... if he could do just this one, impossible thing...

Ben's heart skipped a beat. Then two. He felt it, but stubborn as he was, nothing could stop him now. Not the fires of Mustafar, nor the frigid tundra of Hoth could stop him.

And finally, he felt her stir under his hand. Not a shudder, but a breath. And another.

And another.

Ben's eyes fluttered open, as his heart skipped yet another beat. He had no idea if he was dying, or if just taken in by the life returning to her eyes. And in the end, it didn't matter. Rey was alive, and in his arms. If he had been standing, his legs would have given out beneath him, Force be damned.

“Ben,” she whispered, her lips dry and cracked.

And, for the first time in years, the name felt right.

Ben Solo, son of Han and Leia. Both of them were gone now, but they lived on in him. He was their legacy now.

Rey placed a hand on his cheek, as if somehow she had understood his transformation. How could she? How could she possibly understand?

But she must have—as, dreamlike, she leaned forward, and kissed him firmly—intentionally, with all the warmth and softness he had imagined, and more.

His arms tightened around her, tears welling in his eyes. Crying was unbecoming of a Sith Lord, but he was a sith no longer. The warm, salty tears rolled down his cheeks, and, for once, he welcomed them. Tears borne, not out of fear, or anger, but ecstasy. Rey was alive, and nothing else mattered.

He opened his eyes, looking into hers, and smiled.