The Lady of Ren

Evanescent

You spend the rest of the night observing the molasses of his dark irises and the sparks that glint in them. He watches you without voice and barely breathes, chest only rising to fall silently. Occasionally, he reaches for your face with his nimble fingers.

The room is silent.

He brushes his knuckles against your mouth and your eyes instinctively close, lingering in his embrace. You knew what was about to happen. You knew the separation that was to come. But against all odds, you pleaded with the gods to stay with him; to stay in this grip, in this bedroom, in these fervent arms.

Sleep was threatening in your lids but it would be said before the night ends.

Kylo whispers your name and you exhale, preparing yourself for what he's about to say.

"You have to go," he begins, voice barely above a decimal. "You have to go to Baleine."

You know this. "Yes," you breathe. "I understand."

Kylo takes ahold of your hips and guides you closer to him. Your face presses against the front of his chest, your nose rubbing against the tautness of his skin. He's cold and it feels brilliant against the heat of your cheeks.

"Your childhood nurse," he mumbles. "Is she still alive?"

You weren't sure. Orion had been at least a century old when you were a youngling and her reserve shown with great transparency. Her age was apparent, not only in wisdom, but physicality. What was once a youthful gaze turned elderly and worn. You'd seen holo-photos; she'd shown you during long, quiet nights underneath the canopy of your bedframe. Afterwards, she'd purr a tune until you'd fall asleep in silk.

You pray she is.

"I don't know," you reply. You inhale his scent and it's clean, though metallic – like iron.

Kylo hums in acknowledgement. You feel his throat vibrate, your face now in the crook of his neck. "Would she deliver the children?"

Immediately, you say, "I always hoped she would. I wouldn't want anyone else to." You yawn loudly, your mouth forming into a perfect "o". "I wouldn't trust anyone else."

You feel his fingers slide to your belly and they linger there, tracing a pattern against your flesh. You suppose he'd make a habit of this – not intentionally, of course, but unconsciously. "What's her name?" he asks you, his voice cutting through the darkness.

"Orion," you tell him.

He nods against your skull, tangling your hair.

"A confident name," he decides.

As though to mirror internal concerns, you say, "She's very old. Very wise." Great despair shows in your tone; it is low and miserable.

"Is she human?" he wonders.

You shake your head, nose rubbing against his skin. "No. She's Pantoran."

He's silent for a few moments before you understand his hesitance. "The Pantoran supported the Republic."

A great sigh fills your lungs. "During the Clone Wars, yes, but that was decades ago." You wrap your arms around his torso and lift a leg to drape along his waist. You feel like an Ewok hanging from the limb of a tree. "I'll miss you."

Kylo (the tree) responds with great control. "I don't want you to go but..." he stops and takes a deep breath. His chest balloons and you move with it, clinging to him like tape. "I don't know what will happen on base. We can't take that risk."

You nod, fully understanding the situation. After all, you were the main piece in this game; you knew this now.

"You'll come around, right?" you whisper to him.

Kylo splays his hand around the growing bulge of your tummy. "Of course. A month apart at most."

He reaches for your chin in order to direct your eyes to his. And despite the only light irradiating the room being two moons in the sky, you see every "imperfection" against his face. The scar that puckers his skin was intimating to others but, to you, it is the very characteristic that entitles him to one word: fortifying.

The scar isn't a sign of terror, but it represents the chaos within – an immortal battle between the desire to be good and to be the latter. He is a fortress and he commits his life to protecting whatever it is that he has left.

That was you. And the three within.

"I don't think I can bear it," you whisper.

The darkness has gone from his eyes. "You're doing this for our children." He lifts his chin proudly. "They will be strong...powerful."

You can't help but smile a bit. "It's triplets, Kylo. Not an army."

The commander smirks, mouth curling slightly at the joke. He was so sure of them. His hand, still resting upon your belly, gravitates to the back of your neck. He pulls you in for a kiss which lingers until you run out of breath. When you pull away, two pairs of lips hover only inches apart.

"Sleep," you tell him, palming his cheek. Your thumb strokes the fleshy scar. "Sleep, my love."