My friends, the people of earth. . .

"So you don't want to help me work on my startup?"

"I didn't say that. Of course I'll help. I promised you, didn't I?" you answered exasperated and poked his forehead.

Nathan scrunched up his nose in displeasure, swatting at your hand. "Then you can take the humanities classes for me. Especially the ones next week."

You raised an eyebrow in suspicion. Nathan held your gaze but his arrogant grin didn't reaching his eyes. You upheld your staring contest for a while before it dawned on you. Quickly you leaned towards him and took a deep breath through your nose, taking in his scent of sandalwood and lime.

It's just as you thought. But-

"I thought you took suppressants?"

Nathan groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Unless Big Pharma manages to make suppressants without bullshit life threatening side effects I can't take them 24/7, you know?"

"To be honest, I thought you'd be making your own suppressants by now," you teased, "Mister Genius."

Nathan gave you a deadpan look.

"Sure, because computer science, engineering and robotics have so much to do with human biology and pharmaceuticals."

You fell back onto your bed with a groan. "OK, I'll take notes for you," you replied. At least he was skipping classes for health reasons. Small mercies. "You need me to get you anything? Stock up on snacks and sports drinks?"

Nathan rested his head against the side of your bed, eyes closed. "Sure, get me some dildos too. Didn't think to smuggle any into the dorms," he mumbled.

"Of course, Mr. Bateman. How about I get you some Alphas for hire too? Are you feeling blonde, brunette or ginger today?" you asked, exaggerating your impression of a secretary from a Hollywood movie.

He turned his head towards you, meeting your gaze through his eyelashes. "That's actually not a bad idea," he admitted, his pupils widening, "Are you free next week?"

You blinked, not sure if you're supposed to take him seriously. "Even if this was a genuine proposition, how am I supposed to take notes for you when I am helping you with your heat?"

Nathan waved off your concerns. "I'll just have somebody else take notes or ask the professor for the material. She seems like the type to help with stuff like that when it's a health thing," he replied, dismissing your argument.

So he didn't even need you to take notes in the first place. That fucker.

"Wait," you pointed a finger at him, "Do you want me to help you with your heat?"

"I mean, you're hot, I'm hot. Why shouldn't we do this?"

He looked at you like you were insane for questioning him. You felt more insane for actually thinking about this. You were friends yes and casual sex is fine and good in theory. You weren't opposed but helping him through his heat? That felt more intimate than just adding benefits to your friendship.

"Have you been thinking about this before?“ you asked instead of answering his question. Nathan seemed to mull your question over for a while. You weren't sure if it was for show or if he actually took his time to collect his thoughts. After a while he simply shrugged his shoulders and made a noncommittal sound.

You're sure your eyes were bulging out of your head. You asked if he thought about having sex with you before and he just shrugged?! That arrogant little-

"As I said," he started, clearing his throat, "You're hot. Can't blame a guy for having thoughts."

"Nathan-"

"And it's just sex and I'm on contraception."

He was serious. Or at least seriously considering. His tone was aloof as always but there was something there. Maybe it's because you were one of the few people he trusted. Maybe it really was just that he found you attractive and more tolerable than the average Alpha. And more fun than spending his time alone with toys that he apparently didn't even have in his dorm.

"What about bonding? Aren't you worried about that?“

Nathan just rolled his eyes as if the subject of bonds was beneath him. He probably thought it was.

"So no biting then? Got it," you replied in a teasing tone, worried you might make this conversation more awkward otherwise.

His lips curved into a smirk, a glint in his eyes as he made eye contact with you again. "I didn't say no biting at all. I mean the chance we bond is pretty low regardless…," he trailed off, clearing his throat again and turning away from you. He wasn't wrong. An actual Mating bond was done with intent and accidental bonding was so rare the percentage rounded up to zero.

"If you're sure."

Nathan just nodded and you had a deal.

You were in charge of bringing drinks and snacks and as soon as his heat hit you'd take care of him. Nathan talked a big game when it came to sex but you were sure he was nothing you couldn't handle.

Nathan in heat was insatiable.

You're not sure if it was just the build up from so much time spent on suppressants or if this was just purely Nathan.

At first he was ridiculously clingy. Every step you took away from him he was whining like a little boy who got his toy taken away from him. There was always at least one of his hands on you at all times.

You knew his heat had fully hit when his touches grew greedier. Fingers slipping under clothes, his nose digging into the crook of your neck and then:

"Alpha," he whined, "Fuck me, please."

And you obliged. How could you not?

When you finally pushed inside until you filled him to the brim he got this big toothy grin on his face, glee and satisfaction burning through his body. You've never seen a look like that on his face before and it made your stomach flip before pushing that feeling deep down into the depths of your mind.

At the height of his heat the genius' vocabulary was reduced to three words: Harder, Faster and More.

You didn't remember much of it. Maybe it was hormones or by now just the simple passage of time. When you look back on those days there are flashes of memories: the feeling of skin against skin, the scent of his heat, his wrecked voice pleading for more and the feeling of his flesh between your teeth and your flesh between his.

You didn't remember the great flood of emotions or the deep feeling of connection that text books described following a bonding Bite. And from what you gathered after neither did Nathan.

And yet.

The day after his heat ended you could feel him. In your mind. When he got frustrated, when he stayed up for multiple days straight, when he got sick from the sushi he ate way past its expiration date - you felt him like a prickle at the back of your head.

"We're bonded," you exclaimed as you barged into his dorm room. Nathan looked at you bleary-eyed, his hangover not only visible but also felt by you since you woke up that morning.

"Well, fuck," he mumbled and pushed his head back into his pillow as if he hadn't noticed any changes since his heat.

You waited.

Nothing.

"That's it? We are bondmates and all you got is 'well fuck'?"

He barely lifted his head to glower at you with one eye. "It's just biology. It's bullshit," he grumbled, "Just chill and let me fucking sleep."

"You're unbelievable," you responded with a groan and left his dorm room again, slamming the door behind you for good measure.

You're bonded to Nathan fucking Bateman of all people.

And he didn't give a damn.

Having Nathan's moods in the back of your head was infuriating at worst, annoying at best. Thankfully with time and distance his hangovers and overall grumpy demeanor became less and less noticeable, like a fading headache.

So you decided to ignore the situation. Nathan seemed to take that approach so why shouldn't you. You hadn't thought much about romance, dating or even family planning so that was left for future you to deal with.

Not like that was going to happen with Nathan anytime soon. Not in this reality.

Ignoring the bond became a bit more difficult every time Nathan and you met. You were still friends, at least you thought so, and you had promised him to help with his start up between cramming for classes. After every encounter the connection between you flared back up again like a nasty migraine.

"Would it kill you to drink less? Your hangovers suck ass," you grumbled over your takeout. Nathan shrugged his shoulders, his mouth full of spring rolls. You sighed in annoyance, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"So, BlueBook…"

Nathan swallowed down his food hastily, nodding.

"Why that name? Because you like blue and want to make a new Facebook?"

He grimaced and gave you the stink eye. "Don't even put that dipshit Zuckerberg on my level. Fucking hack," he spat out and crossed his arms like an angry toddler.

You raised your hands in defense. "Alright, alright. I won't mention it again," you replied, slightly annoyed by the spike of irritation at the back of your mind that wasn't yours.

"It's a search engine," he corrected you, "Or it will be. The best one. Better than all the shit that's online now." He turns quiet for a moment. "That's only the start. I do have even bigger plans, you know?" he mutters.

You nodded solemnly, very careful not to get him going again just to spare yourself from another headache. Instead of talking you returned your focus back on your food. The silence quickly turned awkward however.

But you weren't the first to break it.

"I'm thinking about dropping out. Focus on BlueBook full-time."

You nearly choked on your fried noodles. "What do you mean? What about your degree?"

Nathan sighed, clearly irritated by your questions. He gave you a deadpan stare before continuing. "You know I am only getting a degree so those idiots take me seriously. I can be as smart as they come but just because I'm an Omega they'll try everything to get my shit and boot me out of everything I built."

You gritted your teeth. He wasn't wrong. Society was still a far cry from treating all genders, primary or secondary, equally. Of course under the law everyone was equal but in the history of mankind that had never stopped people from discrimination or just being plain old assholes.

"So why not get the degree? Why not play it safe?"

You felt his anger before you saw his mouth turn into scowl. "Because I shouldn't have to!" he growled.

He shouldn't have to. You knew that but that didn't change the situation. There was no doubt in you that if anybody, Omega or not, could do what he planned to do, it would be Nathan. But you didn't want him to have to fight his way through all this bullshit. At least not alone.

"Alright. Let's say you drop out. Would having an Alpha with a degree as your partner help?" You looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk on your lips, trying to lighten the mood. He looked at you, eyes blinking in astonishment.

"So you can kick annoying Alphas in the ass while I get to focus on my work?"

"Figuratively speaking yes."

A wide grin spread across his lips, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Deal."

He didn't drop out or at least you didn't talk about it again after that. Nathan was on his way to be an Omega Boss Bitch, degree or no degree.

He would be achieving his goal faster if he didn't keep partying all the time. You were simply worried about his career. It didn't phase you at all that he kept walking around stinking of other Alphas. That he spent most of his time with anybody but you. Having fun with people that weren't you. You weren't jealous or anything. Not at all. Not one bit.

It didn't phase you.

But it drove you fucking insane.

You knew Nathan didn't take your bond seriously. "Fuck Biology" and all that. But before Nathan would rarely seek out Alphas to even casually talk to. And suddenly now that he was bonded he couldn't jump from knot to knot quickly enough?

It felt targeted. A big neon sign spelling out how little you meant to him on a biological level.

You're not special. I can get this from any person off the street. This doesn't mean anything.

And it hurt more than you were able to put into words. Like some unseen force squeezing your lungs and punching you in the gut at the same time. Over and over and over again.

Nathan Bateman would be the death of you. Maybe a clean cut would be better.

You realized that when Nathan crashed your hangout with your friends that weren't accidentally bonded to you.

You had felt antsy all day, the bond acting up again in new and exciting ways. Nathan's heat was close but given how he never asked you to help him through his time again you didn't offer either. Dealing with Nathan could be a headache on a good day. Better to avoid it when possible. So chatting and having drinks with other friends who weren't Nathan was exactly what you needed.

One second you were chatting passionately about the latest movie you watched and the next you had a very handsy, very drunk Nathan plastered to your side.

"Nathan? What the fuck?" you mumbled, confused why he was here all of a sudden, trying to bury his face into the crook of your neck.

"Fuck, you smell so good," he groaned, either completely ignoring you or unaware that you said something. He reeked. Not only of sweat and alcohol but pheromones too. And not just the sickly cloying scent of Nathan's heat, but Alpha pheromones. Your stomach twisted into knots, something between betrayal and disgust clawing at your insides, as you made out the scents of multiple different Alphas clinging to him. A sudden flash of nausea made you grimace, unable to hide your reaction. Without looking you felt the confused and pitying looks of your friends. You quickly apologized to them, promising to make up for cutting your evening short, before dragging Nathan out of the booth.

He followed easily enough even though he stumbled over his own feet multiple times because he refused to let go of you even for a moment. Every few steps he rubbed himself on you like a cat begging for pets. Your anger and nausea was only slightly soothed by the knowledge that this way he would once again smell more like you.

"What the hell were you thinking?" you hissed, dragging Nathan back to his dorm room, "Or were you thinking at all?" Having an Omega in heat, your Omega in heat, pressed against you so closely, did not make it easy to keep a clear head. You were furious at him for suddenly showing up like this after ignoring you and your bond for months after your first (and last) time together. But your anger clashed with the intense arousal boiling up inside you, every whiff of his heat adding fuel to the fire.

"Need you," Nathan mumbled as you not so gently pushed him onto his bed and his ass hit the mattress. He tipped forward, his forehead resting against your stomach. "Those idiots can't fuck for shit. Felt bad."

"What, they couldn't find your prostate?“ you replied sardonically, rolling your eyes.

"Made me feel sick. Wrong," he slurred and you felt a pang of guilt adding to the irritating mix of emotions. Not because you did something wrong but because Nathan's stubbornness didn't hurt only you but himself as well. Of course Nathan would try to ignore your bond and hop on the next available Alpha's knot just to prove he was above his biology. As if your bond was some negligible quirk of nature he could ignore. He'd rather get sick to his stomach instead of spending time with you or even dissolve the bond. Nathan was incredibly stupid for a genius, you had always known that. It shouldn't hurt so much that for all his intelligence he didn't think about your feelings even once.

You felt his face rub against your crotch, your increasingly swelling cock throbbing in response to finally getting the attention you were denied. With every touch more and more blood rushed to your length. With a gasp you pull his face away from you. "No! Bad Omega!"

Nathan looked at you with wide eyes, shiny with gathering tears. The sight opened a pit in your stomach and you felt sick again. Denying your Omega felt so wrong but you couldn't let this game of hot and cold continue. "Please, Alpha. I'll be good. I'll suck your cock so good, promise," he whimpered, his mouth falling open in demonstration, forming a perfect O.

You cursed under your breath. "Nathan, you can't just…you're drunk! I am not going to fuck your face when you're drunk!"

Nathan moaned, only hearing the part he wanted to hear, "Please fuck my face." He tried to push his face back into your crotch but you stopped him. This wasn't going to work. You couldn't handle Nathan ignoring you until he got drunk during his heat and remembered that he conveniently had a bonded Alpha to fuck him like he wanted. It was too much. You couldn't be his friend with benefits. That was clear to you now. Maybe you couldn't even be his friend anymore.

"You know what? I can't do this," you sighed in defeat. Even through the heat Nathan seemed to understand the gravity of your words. He looked so lost and helpless. That look in his eyes burned itself into your mind. You did your best to remain calm despite your raging erection and put Nathan to bed, placing a few bottles of water and energy bars on his nightstand where he could reach them. Then you left, feeling his gaze on you. Faintly you heard your name being called or maybe it was just "Alpha" but either might have simply been your imagination.

It hurt. More than you had thought it would. Sleep escaped you and you felt miserable, guilt gnawing at you relentlessly. His helpless expression haunted your dreams.

You didn't see Nathan on campus anymore after that night. After a while, once your anger had passed, you went to his dorm room to apologize and reconcile, to try and explain how you felt and to maybe actually have a conversation about what your shared bond meant to you. But you were swiftly informed that Nathan had dropped out.

Ignoring the bond got easier then even if sleeping didn't. You never thought about breaking the bond, a small part of you cherishing it like a secret treasure. Something your very own even if your feelings were not reciprocated. Breaking the bond felt just as wrong as keeping it in place. But you got used to the aching feeling like a phantom limb.

It hurt a little when you saw his face again years later. Not in person but on your phone screen: The founder of BlueBook, genius and elusive hermit Nathan Bateman. But you were glad, so very glad he did what he had set out to do even though you weren't there with him like you had both imagined. Every time you saw him on the news you thought of that one night. Every touch, every word. You replayed the memories in your head countless times thinking of all the ways it could have ended differently.

That night was the last time you had talked to Nathan.

Bearing this in mind, I ask you to recall that Ben Solo is groomed from childhood by a malevolent entity—Snoke, or Palpatine, if you want to acknowledge the existence of Episode IX—to believe that his strength in the Force is directly correlated to what we, as a modern audience, might recognize as the severity of his disorder. Explosive outbursts, self-hatred, self-harm…each of these symptomatic behaviors is reinforced as crucial to his training in the Dark Side. His identity is broken down and rebuilt into the Kylo Ren we meet in The Force Awakens over the span of years in a vicious and frequently violent reward-punishment cycle by a predator wielding him as a weapon, and his fear of abandonment is used to keep him in line. Whatever else he may be, Ben Solo/Kylo Ren is a victim of abuse.

[AGE OF RESISTANCE: SUPREME LEADER SNOKE: A displeased Snoke strikes his apprentice.]

Of course, none of this excuses the murders. But it does beg the question: Why are some people tripping over themselves to empathize with Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader while insisting that Ben Solo/Kylo Ren got what he deserved?

Because, in case we’ve collectively forgotten, these two are paralleled across the films, novels, and comics more times than I have teeth. Legacy of Vader (Thank you, Charles Soule, for your service.) is the comic equivalent of Lucasfilm grabbing fans by the face and going, “See? See? See?” It does both characters a disservice to love one and hate the other, ignoring that we’re meant to see them as two sides of the same coin.

[LEGACY OF VADER #12: Ben Solo, in the guise of Darth Vader, appears to Kylo Ren.]

Common justifications for this love-hate dichotomy—and my counterarguments—below:

“Kylo Ren is a whiny wannabe-Vader!”

I mean…yes. That’s the point. He’s emotive, much like Anakin in the prequels, and the narrative beats you over the head with the fact that he’s trying to fill Vader’s shoes. (Or helmet, as it were.) What about this makes Kylo Ren a less sympathetic character than Darth Vader?

[AGE OF RESISTANCE: KYLO REN: Decades apart, Darth Vader and Kylo Ren fight to subdue the Benathy.]

While I, personally, would never describe Vader as stoic, this particular complaint reads as a byproduct of attitudes toward masculinity that prioritize stone-faced endurance over anything approaching mental and emotional wellbeing, rather than any kind of meaningful critique. There’s nothing inherently noble about suffering in silence, and there’s nothing inherently ignoble about verbalizing pain. Kylo Ren and Darth Vader are made less sympathetic by their willingness to inflict their suffering on others, not by their “whining” or lack thereof.

“Ben Solo turned to the Dark Side for no reason.”

Ben Solo makes many terrible decisions, several predating his adoption of the title Kylo Ren. It’s not inaccurate to say that he is, to some degree, responsible for his own suffering. It’s also not inaccurate to say that none of his decisions are made in a vacuum.

Canon tells us that Snoke’s influence starts early—early enough that Leia factors it into her decision to send Ben to Luke for training, even if she chooses not to discuss what she knows with her son or her husband. Canon also tells us that, through some cocktail of fear, shame, and avoidance, Leia, Han, and Luke manage to keep the Skywalker-Vader secret from Ben until his early twenties, at which point he has been struggling with both the influence of a powerful Dark Side Force-user and the suspicion that his family fears him for the better part of two decades.

It’s worth noting here that Leia, Han, and Luke’s actions are analogous to the real-world actions of parents who hide family histories of mental illness from their children. Their decision to withhold the truth further isolates Ben, as he likely believes he’s the only member of his family struggling with a call to the Dark, and it does nothing to provide him hope that this struggle can be managed, if not completely overcome.

[THE RISE OF KYLO REN #1: Snoke communes with Ben Solo in the aftermath of Luke’s betrayal.]

Consider, for a moment, learning that (1) your family has been keeping secrets from you, (2) one of those secrets is your direct relation to the most feared Sith in recent galactic history, and (3) your perceived similarity to said Sith—your grandfather—has been poisoning the well of your family’s love for you since you were a child. Then, consider these revelations being followed in short order by the singularly terrifying experience of waking to the sight of the galaxy’s most powerful Jedi—your uncle—standing over you with his lightsaber drawn and the Force “moving darkly” around him. If Ben previously had any reasons to doubt Snoke’s voice in his head, we can assume they crumble with Luke’s Jedi temple.

[THE RISE OF KYLO REN #1: Ben Solo seeks comfort in the arms of his new master.]

Anakin Skywalker’s fall from grace follows a similar, albeit not identical, trajectory. Born into slavery, separated from his mother (by distance, then death), and thrust into a galactic war at the tender age of nineteen, he experiences significant trauma both before and after Palpatine begins his manipulation. Anakin is both extremely Force-sensitive and extremely emotionally vulnerable, despite the systems in place to support him: a blood brother in Obi-Wan, a lover in Padmé, and a council of mentors in the Jedi. Granted, the Jedi have their problems—the Council is mistrustful and withholding at times, which in turn leads Anakin to lean more and more on Palpatine for guidance—but they recognize Anakin’s potential and nurture his development in the best way they know how.

Where grandfather and grandson differ most starkly is in the immediate circumstances of their respective falls: Ben Solo turns to Snoke for safety after being betrayed by a loved one via an attempt on his life, while Anakin Skywalker betrays his loved ones and turns to Palpatine for the promise of power over death; Ben Solo believes he has no home to return to and will not be forgiven, while Anakin Skywalker has a home in Obi-Wan and Padmé—both of whom have established their willingness to forgive truly shocking acts of violence; Ben Solo tries to flee Luke’s Jedi temple without harming any of his fellow students and only fights when backed into a corner, while Anakin Skywalker leads the slaughter of his Jedi brothers and sisters almost immediately after aligning himself with the Sith.

[Excerpt from SKYWALKER: A FAMILY AT WAR.]

Given the above, if we’re willing to accept the narrative justification for Anakin’s fall, I fail to see why we wouldn’t accept the narrative justification for Ben’s.

“Ben Solo caused all of his own problems.”

Wrong. Or, more precisely: Tell me you don’t understand the impact of childhood emotional neglect without telling me you don’t understand the impact of childhood emotional neglect.

Leia and Han are good people. Leia and Han are heroes. Leia and Han are loving parents. Leia and Han also spend a significant amount of time away from their son, to the extent that Ben spends a solid chunk of his childhood effectively raised by droids.

[Excerpt from SKYWALKER: A FAMILY AT WAR.]

Put simply: Leia Organa and Han Solo have responsibilities to the galaxy that come into conflict with their responsibilities to their son, and little Ben Solo is a child with complex developmental needs that his parents are unequipped to meet. Yes, some of their shortcomings are due to their inability to fully grasp Ben’s connection to the Force, but I would argue that Ben suffers less from a lack of mystical understanding than he does from a lack of emotional support.

Ben Solo is a tender child; he cries easily and often. Even as a toddler, he’s regarded by his father as having eyes far older—and presumably sadder—than his years. His first conscious use of the Force is entirely benign: fetching a favorite plush toy from across a room. He loves his parents and idolizes his uncle Luke. Ben Solo is not, as some Star Wars fans would like to believe, born bad. (No one is. But that’s a post for another day.)

What Ben Solo is is lonely.

He’s different from his peers; he struggles to make friends. Even before he learns the truth about Anakin, his sense of self is split down the middle: pulled toward both Light and Dark. He carries the twin burdens of his family’s legacy and the galaxy’s great expectations from a startlingly young age and—terrified of their disappointment and rejection—hides his feelings of inadequacy from the people he loves. Ben is afraid, and this fear leaves him vulnerable to isolation and manipulation. When Snoke offers him power and purpose, it works because Ben Solo believes he cannot be loved as he is.

He’s wrong, of course. Ben Solo is loved—and so, impossibly, is Kylo Ren. But being loved is not the same as feeling loved, and none of the adults in Ben’s life, except for Snoke, are able to identify this gap.

Certain fans love to pin all the blame for Ben’s fall on Ben himself while railing against the Jedi for failing Anakin, but multiple parties bear responsibility for the rise of Kylo Ren, and this is acknowledged explicitly in canon.

Select examples below:

Luke

[Excerpt from THE LAST JEDI film novelization.]

[Excerpt from THE LAST JEDI junior novelization.]

[Excerpt from SKYWALKER: A FAMILY AT WAR.]

Leia

[Excerpt from THE LAST JEDI film novelization.]

[Excerpt from THE LAST JEDI junior novelization.]

[Excerpt from SKYWALKER: A FAMILY AT WAR.]

Han

[Excerpt from AFTERMATH: EMPIRE'S END.]

[Excerpt from THE FORCE AWAKENS junior novelization.]

[Excerpt from SKYWALKER: A FAMILY AT WAR.]

If you’ve made it this far, you may be wondering where I’m going with all this. If so, I hope you’ll indulge me just a bit longer as I attempt to land this metaphorical transport.

Anakin Skywalker fears loss, and his pursuit of an end to this fear makes it come true. When we first meet him in A New Hope, his wife is dead, his brother is in hiding, and the Jedi Order is no more. He trusts no one but the master who lured him into the Darkness. Darth Vader survives his past self in a lonely half-life, filled with rage and regret.

Ben Solo fears loss, and his pursuit of an end to this fear makes it come true. When we first meet him in The Force Awakens, his parents are dead to him, his uncle is in hiding, and the Jedi Order is no more. He trusts no one but the master who lured him into the Darkness. Kylo Ren survives his past self in a lonely half-life, filled with rage and regret.

The tragedy of Darth Vader is that he can’t turn back. The tragedy of Kylo Ren is that he can.

So, why doesn’t he?

The answer to this question comes, of all places, from the swamps of Dagobah, where the Cave of Evil confronts Kylo Ren with his greatest fear: not an enemy, or even his own inner darkness, but a vision of his uncle, hesitant to strike, and of his parents, ready to forgive.

[AGE OF RESISTANCE: SUPREME LEADER SNOKE: Kylo Ren receives a vision of his parents.]

This is why Kylo Ren fights so desperately against his own redemption: because if he can be forgiven after destroying Luke’s temple, murdering Han, and terrorizing the galaxy as Snoke’s apprentice, it means his family loves him, still; and if his family loves him, still, it means they never stopped, that the voices in his head—some his own, some his master’s—have all been wrong, or lying, and that he’s never had to be anything but what he is.

Ben Solo, like his grandfather before him, wants nothing more than to go home.

Disclaimer: I’ve seen some less-than-charitable takes on this run. Fans have variously (1) praised it for casting Kylo Ren as a “self-pitying incel,” (2) criticized it for sidelining Hux, (3) loved it solely for shipping reasons, (4) hated it solely for shipping reasons…the list goes on. If you, gentle reader, fall into any of the aforementioned camps, please know that I’m not here to tell you that you have to like Legacy of Vader. You’re not obligated to like anything. I am, however, here to make the case that Legacy of Vader is valuable to fans interested in the interiority of Ben Solo.

Kylo Ren is a liar. He lies to others, and he lies to himself; often, he does both at the same time.

Legacy of Vader spends much of its time on this idea. Issues #1-11 see Kylo Ren receiving and rejecting others’ assessments of his raison d'être, unwilling to do the introspective work required to test their validity, while Issue #12 presents him with a mirror and holds his face to the glass. The sequence illustrated above is from the series’ final confrontation, a duel between Kylo Ren as he is and Ben Solo as he might have been, set meaningfully in (emphasis mine) “Fortress Vader. Within.” This place, we’re told, is true. What might we learn from its honesty?

Interpretations below. Please note that truth is being used here to mean “character’s sincerely-held belief” and not “objective fact.”

“You’ve destroyed your relationships with everyone you could plausibly call family. You’ve methodically destroyed every connection in your life.”

Lie: Kylo Ren is content to be alone. The only relationships he’s interested in are those that aid his pursuit of power. (Legacy of Vader #3)

Truth: Kylo Ren has betrayed everyone he’s ever loved. Despite his ongoing pursuit of power, he’s lonely. He has no one to blame but himself.

“You brought destruction, chaos, and death to everyone you met. At least Vader had reasons for the things he did. You…you’re just an explosion.”

Lie: Kylo Ren's actions are justified by his pain. The galaxy deserves to suffer because he's suffered. (Legacy of Vader #2)

Truth: Kylo Ren doesn’t know why he does the things he does. He thinks he might be cursed, or broken.

“You’re so scared. Scared of moving forward, scared you have no future because of how thoroughly you’ve ruined everything you’ve ever done.”

Lie: Kylo Ren has defeated everything and everyone that once held power over him. He has nothing to fear. (Legacy of Vader #10)

Truth: Every choice Kylo Ren has ever made for himself has been wrong. Without a master, he feels paralyzed.

“That’s why you’re obsessed with your past. That’s why you want to kill it. Because maybe if you weren’t who you are, maybe if you could just erase it…then the Jedi girl would have taken your hand.”

Lie: Ben Solo is nothing but the sum of Kylo Ren's mistakes. Once Kylo Ren removes the memory of who he used to be from the galaxy, he'll be able to move on. (Legacy of Vader #5)

Truth: Kylo Ren spares his mother and his rival—both of whom know him more intimately than anyone still living—because losing them will mean he's truly alone.

“You can’t kill your past. But you already know that, don’t you? It’s the truth you can’t escape.”

Lie: Kylo Ren's past is something external he can kill. (Legacy of Vader #1)

Truth: Kylo Ren's past dies with him, or not at all.

“This could all be over. I could make it all stop for you. But that's not something I would ever do. I'm a Jedi.”

Lie: Kylo Ren has no limits. Nothing is forbidden to him. (Legacy of Vader #4)

Truth: Kylo Ren wants to die. He cannot kill himself.

Kylo Ren spends the majority of this comic run demanding a worthy opponent. Why? Because he wants to lose. Vader’s legacy, Charles Soule reminds us, isn’t glory—it’s this: “Dying to fight. Dying to die.”

It’s a shame that Disney/Lucasfilm couldn’t conceive of an arc for Ben Solo that didn’t boil down to “passively suicidal character is better off dead,” but I’m curious to see where this next installment will take him.

Shame pools like oil in his throat, recognizing the casual cruelty in it, but that doesn't steal the truth from the statement. Some part of him had believed, had hoped, even, these desires would wane once sated—that, at some point, he would no longer feel so starved of you, for the brush of your lips against his, the caress of your fingers at his neck.

But this is a hunger that has him clinging to the bunched fabric of your skirt with the kind of grip he'd normally reserve for the hilt of a blade, so transparently desperate in his attempts to keep you close.

You sigh at his lips, your breath almost chill compared to his feverish skin. At the fear of your absence, Armitage slips a hand from where it rests at your hip, encircling your waist until he feels the press of your chest against his own.

And in response, you shift more fully into his lap, kissing him deeper than before, your thumb brushing over the expanse of his cheek. If a there will be a day when Armitage stops craving the feeling, he cannot bear to think of it. He's becoming more and more certain that this need will be insatiable long after he meets his grave.

The shape of you is distorted by the layers of fabric between his body and yours, but the pressure is enough to bring a gasp to his lips when he feels your hips meet his, the welcome weight of your body against his quickly-stiffening cock.

There's a little pause in your movement, and the smile that comes after burns like a brand against his cheek as your kisses drift further from his mouth, across the contours of his jaw to the space just below his ear.

The trace of your tongue along the edge of his earlobe, the sound of his name, your voice thick with suggestion. Armitage cannot help himself.

His hips shift upward without any command, and a groan he can't suppress forces its way between his teeth at the feeling of it, at the friction, even through the layers of your skirts, the drag of his uniform.

Your ribs flex under his palm with a heavy gasp, stunned maybe, at his boldness. And yet it cannot shame him out of the subtle pull at your hip, encouraging you to follow suit, to feel the effect you have on him.

You sit back as much as he'll allow you, meeting his gaze, eyes wide for a moment before your lids flutter closed, hummed moans breaking from your lips in time with the movement of your bodies. Armitage has let himself forget again—that you enjoy this. Being with him. Feeling him.

And so your husband makes no apology as he allows the hand at your hip to drift upwards over the silken bodice of your dress, thumb just brushing over the stiff peak of your nipple. The moan that breaks through your lips carries the sound of his name.

Oh, no. Armitage can feel his pulse throbbing, insistent, through his dick, and the spike of fear in the front of his mind cannot stop the end that is quickly approaching.

"Sh-should we—" Armitage can hardly get the words out, and you show no interest in helping him, your lips back at his neck, the drag of your cunt right where he needs you most and where he cannot stand to feel you as his toes curl in his boots, thighs aching with this final attempt to restrain himself, if you would only give him a moment, he could—

Fuck. Too late now.

Armitage groans, low and deep, breath feathering through the soft hairs by your ear as the embers of his release course through him. Before the pleasure has even subsided, humiliation follows. He would run if he could manage it, if you were not still perched in his lap, frozen, with your fingers carding through his hair.

"Armitage?" He hears the question hidden in the way you say his name, and he cannot bear the weight of it, cannot bear to meet your eyes, burying his face in the palms of his hands—a weak attempt to hide from you, with the cum-soaked fabric of his trousers pressed against your thighs.

You try again, repeating his name, softer this time, your fingers slipping into the space between the edge of his gloves and the sleeve of his uniform, gentle, as you tug his hands into your lap.

Stars, he cannot face this—the little dip in your brow as you watch him, those curious eyes and your flushed lips, waiting, still, for him to explain to you how imbecilic he has been, how selfish.

"My apologies," Hux just manages to spit out the words as his fingers curl into fists, "I hadn't meant for that to- to happen."

He watches you, anxiety tugging at his every nerve, taking in the little twitch at the bridge your nose as you process his words. And when the smile begins to form, Armitage attempts weakly to avoid your gaze, but you will not allow it.

"Really?"

You release your grip on him, let one of your hands press into his chest, traveling upward until you take hold of his jaw, stealing the breath from his lungs, and there's no shadow of disappointment in the path of your fingers, no trace of reproach as you lean closer, your lips hovering just out of reach of his own.

"Because of me?" you whisper, and you must find your answer written in his red-rimmed eyes and pathetic expression, because your smile only grows wider. Armitage lets his head fall back against the couch cushion, eyes shut tight to you and your indefatigable ability to see the best in him when it is not deserved.

"I had hoped to—" You must already know, of course, heard those whispered words—inside you, please—every time you had granted him the privilege to feel you beneath him, beside him, above him. Armitage stalls, at a loss. He doesn't have the language to map the caverns of his disgrace for you, to make you understand that it was his own lack of restraint that had deprived both of you of the incomparable delight.

And yet you are undeterred, once again taking his wrist in your grip, guiding Armitage's hand beneath the sea-foam ripples of your skirts, (like your eyes, you had said, when he complimented the color, the words that had started this whole mess), pressing him nearer and nearer to the apex of your thighs until his fingers just brush the dampened lace that covers your cunt.

"I think we'll manage," you whisper, your wet lips pressed up against his ear, and for a moment Armitage forgets those wells of shame surging inside him, pressing at your core until he hears you gasp, stroking his fingers along the soft valleys of your body.

"And you're not—" he shouldn't even speak of it, shouldn't give the idea any weight in your mind, and yet his fear will not allow him to let those insecurities fester inside him, "disappointed?"

Your brows pull together, confused, but only for a moment before pleasure overtakes it, soft moans spilling from between your lips, your fingers tightening their grip at his shoulder as he pets at your folds.

"I had never hoped," you whisper, "for something like this. I never thought I'd know what it feels like to be so—"

Armitage cannot help the terror that grips his lungs at the thought you might say it—the word that has been on the tip of his tongue from the beginning, the word that could tear him apart to hear it in the open now, as vulnerable as he feels, as undeserving as he is.

"Admired?" he supplies, before you can complete your thought, and his suggestion brings a laugh to your lips that quickly dissolves into a sigh as Armitage shifts the wet fabric out of the way, tracing your slit with his leather-clad fingers.

You shake your head as your eyes roll back at the feeling of him, at the pleasure he can bring.

"I've been admired more than enough," you respond, and even with his fingers thrusting in and out of your pulsing cunt, Armitage feels a spark of jealousy.

It's quelled quickly enough—you press your forehead against his own, his breaths coming almost as hard and fast as your own, and he knows you're close, the heel of his hand grinding insistently against your clit.

He tastes your words sooner than he hears them with the way you whisper against his parted lips.

"You've shown me what it's like to be adored."

Oh. The truth of it rings through his body, through his fingers as he works at your core and his chest where it meets yours and the flush of his cheeks. Armitage adores you, his wife, the singular joy his blood-stained hands and repugnant soul will ever be allowed.