The King's Wife |Kylo Ren x Reader|

XXV-Tatooine

Hot wind bears down like a dry, scaly hand. It pushes exhausted bodies into the dirt-ridden earth until they are dragging their feet behind them, suffocating in the heavy layers of steel, iron, and leather. Dry mouths are satiated by canteens turned upside down to shake out every last drop of life onto withered tongues. Eyes burn from the dirt and the harsh sunlight that streams down through a cloudless sky. The skin that is not hidden away beneath layers of cloth and armor is quickly reddened and cracked beneath the sun's fiery rays.

A hellscape in the living world.

Blue eyes roam over the discouraging landscape with a hard squint. Vicrul's face scrunches as his brow furrows hard. He watches over the grumbling, heat-exhausted men with a deep frown hidden behind the cloth he had wound over the bottom half of his face, hiding away his nose and mouth from the dust that barrels over the plains with every gust of wind.

Not even the wind is cool enough for any relief. The sun beats down on the armored men and their horses. The majority of which have hidden themselves away in tents or are cowering behind boulders to find some shade.

Tatooine was miserable. What had once been an oasis in the valley was now dried up. The greenery reduced to dead, brown grass and trees jagged with decay. Its rocky terrain makes it impossible to sit or stand comfortably. If the Hutts suddenly decided they had had enough of waiting and wanted to attack, they would certainly overpower Exegol's fatigued soldiers.

What has only been days feels more like weeks, if not months. Though Exegol is hot in the summers, Tatooine's sheer humidity turns it into a laughing stock. Everything simply feels heavy; as if they had all been tied down by anchors and were expected to go about their daily lives.

Reflexively, Vicrul reaches for the canteen he had hung on his hip. His fingers stop just shy of the leather casing as he fights the urge to fulfill his basic needs. If they are not lucky, the water will run out before any progress is made at all. Vicrul swallows hard and every second of it is excruciating.

His gaze travels over the black, brown, and red tents that cover the rugged landscape. The cloth stretched over tent poles snaps and ripples in the breeze, threatening to expose the humiliating display of weakness that cowers away from the sun. Every complaint makes Vicrul's ears ache. He only counts his lucky stars that his king was not here to see this.

From his place atop the boulder, he has a view of the entire eastern side of the island. It is mostly flat--save for the jagged boulders and rocks everywhere--before it crests up to hide the shoreline and the boats all docked below. Behind him, the plains make an abrupt climb. A twisting dirt path of inconvenience shielded only by a maze of rocks and dust. At the top of it all sits the home of the Hutts; their encampment.

Even now, as Vicrul cranes his neck and shields his eyes with his hand to block out the sun, he can see some of their tanned faces poking over the edge and glowering down. They could attack, if they so pleased, but they simply refused. Perhaps they were waiting for the right moment. Perhaps they would never attack at all.

A heavy sigh rips through him--a breath that takes too much effort to expel--and he crouches to slide down from the edge of the boulder he perches on. The dust kicks up beneath his feet and invades his boots. He is quite sure his skin will be black with dirt when he returns home.

Ahead of him, the command tent sits. The intimidating blood red color of its cloth has already begun to bleach in the sun and crust with dirt. Beneath its useless shade stand the Knights of Ren. They have all stripped down to linens, pants, and boots--much like Vicrul--and are equipped with nothing but their swords and canteens. No matter the threat, it is much too hot to be wearing armor.