The King's Wife |Kylo Ren x Reader|

XXX-The Lady & The Queen

The nights that follow are ravaged by nightmares. In the darkness of the late hours, you awake each time with sweat shining on your brow and chest, and your chemise clinging to your flesh as you sit breathlessly with your heart pounding wildly.

The nightmares bring images of the violence that had torn through your home. Flames in the towers of the fortress, walls crumbling, Naboo's soldiers mercilessly beaten down by thousands of Hux's men. The screams of Naboo's people tearing through the valley; their terror still echoing through the mountains. Their bodies laying burnt in the streets. Men and women clutching one another, children clinging to the arms of their mothers, with the ghost of their last screams permanently melted into their charred flesh.

You wake up with a heavy weight on your chest and your breathing shrill in your throat and your hands outstretched for your husband. Night after night, he is there to console you. Taking you into his strong arms and holding you until the tremors cease. He never grows exasperated with you or mentions the nightmares during the day. His patience has astounded you, though you suspect it is because he has experienced similar night terrors. 

It has been five days since the slaughters and the dreams are relentless.

Breakfast is eaten silently today. You sit across the table from Kylo, separated by fine silverware and plates of eggs, bread, fruits, and meats. Despite the pleasant aroma, you find it difficult to eat. Your blank stare holds onto your plate below as you mindlessly puncture your cooked eggs and push them around with your fork. Besides the gentle clinking of cutlery and the occasional goblet base hitting the table, it is quiet.

"You need to eat." Kylo's deep voice disturbs the silence.

You can't find the strength or the will to reply. For a moment, you pause, only to move your fork to the next bit of egg that hadn't yet been destroyed. The fork is heavy in your hand, as is the cloth napkin sprawled across your lap. The hand that rests atop your thighs crumples the napkin until it is covered in folds and wrinkles.

"Eat." He says again, less kindly. "Or drink your water."

All you can manage is to mumble, "I'm not hungry."

"Then drink."

Annoyed, your eyes lift from your plate to meet his stern stare. A strange bubble of anger bursts inside of you. You drop your fork onto the plate with a loud clatter and snatch up your goblet, making a point of taking a long drink before you slam the empty cup back onto the table. Kylo's lip twitches as he holds your gaze for a moment, before he pushes his chair back noisily and rises to his feet, exhausted.

Your chin lowers, eyes dropping down to the crumbled napkin in your lap. Your knuckles strain against the white fabric, muscles tense. The iron grip you have on it loosens when you hear Kylo slamming the drawer to the desk shut. The anger quickly fades to guilt.

"I'm sorry," you murmur quietly.

"It's nothing." His flat reply does little to hide his indignation.

Tears sting your weary, heavy eyes. He had shown you nothing but kindness and support over the past few days and you'd been nothing but bitter. The lump in your throat hurts when you swallow and lift your head to choke out, "I'm so sorry, Kylo."

He stands stiffly, watching the tears flow down your cheeks, unsure of how to console you as you mourn your home and what little remains of it. It feels almost pathetic to cry and apologize about crying. To apologize to him about the way you have been acting these past few days, when you have been feeling nothing but grief and anger.