#basleia

      there’s something sticking to the roof of his mouth-- it tastes powdery and its making him want to drive his tongue right through it, crack his jaw open and let own blood wash the taste of UNWANTED medicine out. eyes snap wide open, frenzied whites look around and his entire frame jolts up, muscle strands consumed by both turmoil and fever-- a grunt summons him back to the lying position, an unsightly scowl blooms on his marred visage-- injured. that’s right. shot and scarred, suffocated by snow and ash of own burnt skin. defeated-- no, there’s something more. he tries to clear the convulsing mind like the supreme leader has taught him as his body attempts to figure out how to stop those incessant waves of pain in his side, he’s forgetting something important-- eyelids close, teeth grit, fingers curl up like talons-- what is it, what is he forgetting--

                                                                      --han solo. 

Rey padded softly to General Organa’s quarters. She had asked Poe for directions; she was still learning the ins and outs of the Resistance pace- but had politely refused when he asked if she’d like him to walk her there. It wouldn’t be as simple and waltzing into the General’s room and asking for help with the Force. Rey had to figure out how to articulate what she was feeling, what she was thinking, and that required a bit of solitude. Weaving through the hallways and around members of the Resistance, Rey tried to get her thoughts together. What she really needed was advice. Or perhaps a crash course. This wasn’t like learning to fly. Perhaps proper use of the Force was a skill to be earned, but she certainly hadn’t been given much time. It had been thrust upon her, and she, even then, wasn’t sure she was meant to wield such a gift, if it could be called that. When she had finally reached her destination, she knocked a bit hesitantly on General Organa’s door.