Kylo -- Ben -- whatever he decided to go by, when he decided -- didn't regret his decision to leave the First Order with his father and uncle, in the company of the scavenger and the stormtrooper. Or, not always, never fully -- his confession to his father that he was being torn apart hadn't been alleviated by the new surroundings, but there was a lighter quality with the knowledge that he made the choice he'd wanted to make. It sometimes felt worse, being back in his parents' orbit, feeling love and understanding that he didn't deserve. It hovered close to cloying, without ever actually reaching it. He knew it wouldn't last, they were where they were for him, and sometimes he still hated them and himself, always himself, especially when he wondered how he'd ever been able to deny the bright burning that was his parents' love for him.
But he knew how. In a way he was still the lonely boy who grew up on war stories and had the weight of generations on his shoulders. He knew why he'd succumbed, and who had been in his head, whispering lies until they felt like truth. Still whispered. Sleep was an enormous risk, whether his own mind preyed upon himself or Snoke slipped in while he was undefended, with the same mixture of blistering vitriol and gentle praise he'd always used and he'd found empty, but craved all the same. He hated himself for needing it.
He couldn't outrun it, but that didn't mean he wasn't willing to try.
Running was like the opposite of meditation; instead of going into his mind and ignoring his physical body he would become purely a physical being, until his mind became irrelevant and an oblivion of breathe, breathe, breathe, steady pace, feet on the ground, breathe, breathe, breathe.
He stops at the bottom of a tree -- the one Rey is in, unknown to him -- when his lungs are burning and his leg muscles are screaming for him to stop, begging for mercy, and his head pounds in time with his heart pounding. He bends over, taking in deep, heaving breaths. But for a minute, there's no one in his head but him.
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Date: 2020-04-06 10:33 pm (UTC)But he knew how. In a way he was still the lonely boy who grew up on war stories and had the weight of generations on his shoulders. He knew why he'd succumbed, and who had been in his head, whispering lies until they felt like truth. Still whispered. Sleep was an enormous risk, whether his own mind preyed upon himself or Snoke slipped in while he was undefended, with the same mixture of blistering vitriol and gentle praise he'd always used and he'd found empty, but craved all the same. He hated himself for needing it.
He couldn't outrun it, but that didn't mean he wasn't willing to try.
Running was like the opposite of meditation; instead of going into his mind and ignoring his physical body he would become purely a physical being, until his mind became irrelevant and an oblivion of breathe, breathe, breathe, steady pace, feet on the ground, breathe, breathe, breathe.
He stops at the bottom of a tree -- the one Rey is in, unknown to him -- when his lungs are burning and his leg muscles are screaming for him to stop, begging for mercy, and his head pounds in time with his heart pounding. He bends over, taking in deep, heaving breaths. But for a minute, there's no one in his head but him.