There’s no evening aboard the Finalizer. No night, no day, no time at all, besides the standard First Order timekeeping. There’s no suns to rise, no moonlit shores, no inconvenience, no sunburn. Just clean efficiency, structure, order. It is, after all, the very name, the very purpose, to their cause. Order.
This has never bothered Hux before. In fact, he found it rather comforting, the idea that all across the galaxy, each pinpoint of their widening reach was another source of steadiness, of surety and the truth they fought diligently to convey. Rising in the early hours with purpose, charting a course throughout each system. Leaving the embers of rebellion in their wake.
But the night of his greatest triumph, Hux feels the unmistakable creeping burn slide like molten wax across his chest. There had been a mark there, of course—a cluster of seven stars, a birthmark, nothing more. It had always been a faded brown against his pale skin, but as he stands before the mirror and gazes upon the inkblot stain that spreads across his chest he feels the pain of it, and he understands.
And it aches.
Hux is not a superstitious man. For all of Kylo Ren’s fearsome, mystical powers, the Force has always been nothing more than some distant, unknowable thing. A tale told to frighten children. And the very idea of… of soul mates? Finding that singular individual, across all galaxies and systems, across all species and races? Preposterous. Even if he had met whomever was supposed to match him, what room was there in his life for a husband, for a wife? What if they hadn’t understood his mission, the delicate balance he walked, bringing truth, restoring the shards of a once-great Empire, re-making it in his own image? There was no room in his heart for dissent, and certainly none for love.
But the new mark is much, much larger than the old cluster ever was. Sometimes, in the darkness, he finds himself dreaming strange dreams, walking corridors of a home that seems familiar, looking down at hands (warm, brown, tactile, precise) as they work. They are not his, and yet they are, in those dreams. He knows the home through which his dream-steps take him, but upon waking he cannot remember ever having been there.
He finds himself discreetly searching the index for information about soulmates. About marks, and what causes them to change. A conversation with the on-board med-droid reveals that there is no disease or ailment, no nerve damage, nothing to account for the aching he feels.
It is only when he draws the old pattern—seven stars, how often did he look at them and scorn them, how often did he cover them and try to pretend they were not there?—that he understands.
It’s a constellation. A familiar one, apparently—one that merchants used in times of old, guiding their ships through stormy seas. The Ria Hawk, that was what they’d called it. Seven bright stars, bearing the name of a bird that was known for its brilliant red plumage, known to mate for life.
And Hux feels his blood run cold when he sees just where this bird was from. For this is a constellation that was only visible from Hosnian prime.
Hux stares at the file for a long time. He then closes the file, and forces the knowledge down, deep down, never to be thought of again.
It doesn’t matter to him. It shouldn’t matter. These hands he sees, they are the hands of someone whose face he will never, ever know. Their death, all of their deaths, were necessary. For the good of the whole galaxy. Why should the farmer weep over a dug-up weed, when the field has been prepared anew? Why should a general weep over a fading dream, an echo of a touch, an ache in his heart? Why should this... this weakness pursue him?
It doesn't. He won't allow it.
And if there’s a touch of ink-black stain that creeps just above the collar of his uniform, well, it’s best not to mention it to him.
MiniFill: Soulmate!AU - The destruction of the Hosnian System and its consequences
There’s no evening aboard the Finalizer. No night, no day, no time at all, besides the standard First Order timekeeping. There’s no suns to rise, no moonlit shores, no inconvenience, no sunburn. Just clean efficiency, structure, order. It is, after all, the very name, the very purpose, to their cause. Order.
This has never bothered Hux before. In fact, he found it rather comforting, the idea that all across the galaxy, each pinpoint of their widening reach was another source of steadiness, of surety and the truth they fought diligently to convey. Rising in the early hours with purpose, charting a course throughout each system. Leaving the embers of rebellion in their wake.
But the night of his greatest triumph, Hux feels the unmistakable creeping burn slide like molten wax across his chest. There had been a mark there, of course—a cluster of seven stars, a birthmark, nothing more. It had always been a faded brown against his pale skin, but as he stands before the mirror and gazes upon the inkblot stain that spreads across his chest he feels the pain of it, and he understands.
And it aches.
Hux is not a superstitious man. For all of Kylo Ren’s fearsome, mystical powers, the Force has always been nothing more than some distant, unknowable thing. A tale told to frighten children. And the very idea of… of soul mates? Finding that singular individual, across all galaxies and systems, across all species and races? Preposterous. Even if he had met whomever was supposed to match him, what room was there in his life for a husband, for a wife? What if they hadn’t understood his mission, the delicate balance he walked, bringing truth, restoring the shards of a once-great Empire, re-making it in his own image? There was no room in his heart for dissent, and certainly none for love.
But the new mark is much, much larger than the old cluster ever was. Sometimes, in the darkness, he finds himself dreaming strange dreams, walking corridors of a home that seems familiar, looking down at hands (warm, brown, tactile, precise) as they work. They are not his, and yet they are, in those dreams. He knows the home through which his dream-steps take him, but upon waking he cannot remember ever having been there.
He finds himself discreetly searching the index for information about soulmates. About marks, and what causes them to change. A conversation with the on-board med-droid reveals that there is no disease or ailment, no nerve damage, nothing to account for the aching he feels.
It is only when he draws the old pattern—seven stars, how often did he look at them and scorn them, how often did he cover them and try to pretend they were not there?—that he understands.
It’s a constellation. A familiar one, apparently—one that merchants used in times of old, guiding their ships through stormy seas. The Ria Hawk, that was what they’d called it. Seven bright stars, bearing the name of a bird that was known for its brilliant red plumage, known to mate for life.
And Hux feels his blood run cold when he sees just where this bird was from. For this is a constellation that was only visible from Hosnian prime.
Hux stares at the file for a long time. He then closes the file, and forces the knowledge down, deep down, never to be thought of again.
It doesn’t matter to him. It shouldn’t matter. These hands he sees, they are the hands of someone whose face he will never, ever know. Their death, all of their deaths, were necessary. For the good of the whole galaxy. Why should the farmer weep over a dug-up weed, when the field has been prepared anew? Why should a general weep over a fading dream, an echo of a touch, an ache in his heart? Why should this... this weakness pursue him?
It doesn't. He won't allow it.
And if there’s a touch of ink-black stain that creeps just above the collar of his uniform, well, it’s best not to mention it to him.