The Art of Broken Pieces

One Porg

Ben whirled, lightsaber crackling in his hands, and faced the last standing soldier of the fallen First Order. The Force sang in his blood, dark power that roared in a torrent through his mind. It surrounded him, called to him, made him feel alive and invincible.

He laughed at the visible fear behind the other man's eyes, even as the soldier lifted his weapon and charged. That fear was a beautiful thing, raw and wild and proof of Ben's power. It was too easy. He stepped aside like a dancer and the man's armor and body made a simple, futile resistance against the blade which cauterized even as it killed.

The air filled with the scent of burning flesh. No one ever mentioned the smell in their epic tales of lightsaber battles, as though it were too graphic to support the romantic idea of righteous Jedi. But it was part of the battle that Ben breathed in, along with the hiss of blood that seared away along the edges of the wound.

The song of the Force was deafening now. His body hummed with it, with the power of the universe at his fingertips just waiting to be released. He could feel the villagers, bright points of light in his senses, the fear and determination sparking off them as they closed around him.

They should be thanking him for saving their tiny lives from the First Order holdouts who had been hiding here, but no, the spreading lies of the new government had raised in them some self-righteous fervor to 'do good', to throw themselves away for the sake of the universe. It was propaganda; it was shit.

The citizens crawled like ants from the doors of their homes, from their rooftops, from the mouths of narrow streets, faces filled with the determination of those who refused to see how irrelevant they were. Their numbers meant nothing to him. The darkness that crackled through him hungered for their destruction.

A group of them charged from the side alley. He threw out a hand, sweeping them back, both hearing and feeling the snap of bone as several of them struck a wall. Life still flickered in them and the roaring tide in him called for their death. This was power, his power, and they should fear him like all the others!

A face flickered into his mind, through the fury and the pain that he ignored. Weathered, lined, grey streaking her hair and sadness and loss haunting her eyes. Even in death she watched him, hoping for something he was incapable of.

With a rough cry he stumbled back, fist closing as he struggled to reign in the power that fought to break free. Holding back the oncoming attackers with a wall of Force, he closed his eyes and fought to find the center that Luke had once forced him to practice.

He had made promises, to himself, to the dead... promises that were so hard to keep. Why bother? The power in him whispered, frustrated. What is the point? You were meant to rule the galaxy... They're nothing....

Searing pain ripped through his side, a blaster shot that had gotten through while he was distracted, tearing through jacket and skin and dropping him to one knee as he cried out in pain and anger. The calm that he had been struggling to find shredded away and raw fury burned in its place. He should not have come to this! He was their better, should have been their ruler, not hunted for the good of their arrogant leaders! He could see it in his mind as though it were happening, the fires of ruin as he burned their miserable city to the ground and spilled their blood out on the colorless earth.

His center was gone, and in its place a tide of darkness and anger driven by pain crashed over him. A small and desperate fear screamed in the back of his mind where he could always feel Rey's silent connection, held closed stubbornly. Perhaps it was enough to have tried? The Force rose in him and he pulled himself to his feet, feeling the crowd draw back even as they steeled themselves to come at him again.