Warning: complete bastardization of different mythologies and literary classics. Also, remember when I thought this would only be three parts? Haha, I was so naive then. On a more serious note though, thank you so much for all your lovely comments! You guys rock!
Hux is not a mystic. He has no need to be.
Empires rise and fall in just one plane, where men kill and die without sending ripples through the Universe. Hux fights, and conquers, and rules in a world of five senses, and it doesn’t matter if there is something out there that he cannot perceive, so long as his subjects are equally blind to it.
Brendol Hux has no need for the Force, no care for the irrational.
And yet…
There are impossibilities sneaking into the base, double standards of reality that should never be.
There are precisely seven hundred and forty six officers on base. And just as many shadows. There are three thousand and fifty two Stormtroopers, and just as many shades.
The shades do as they please, wander through the halls in mournful silence. They did not choose to be here, and are burdened with regrets unvoiced and unknown. There is nothing to be done for them.
The shadows, however, come to him sometimes, if only to inform him that his guest is being most dismissive. Expected, but hurtful all the same, so could he not reason with him, that it may go faster this time? There is so much to be done, and so little time until first Spring.
“Why do you talk?” Hux asks in lieu of an answer one day, in the silence of his own private quarters. He is a rational man, and rational men do not tolerate impossibilities.
Except when they do.
We are here because we are bored. Have you not been listening?
“I am going mad,” he murmurs, finishing his glass of Corellian wine in one go. A peculiar brew, this one. It tastes of fruit.
You are not mad. You are divine.
A flattering sentiment, if nothing else.
But Hux would never stoop so low as to allow himself to be seduced by flattery.
“Go away,” he orders cooly, even as he himself leaves the room. There is work to be done, in the rational and singular plane.
The shadows huff as they watch him leave. Ah, but the two of them are most unpleasant this cycle!
~*~
He is so very hungry. He hasn’t eaten in so long.
Ben only has himself to blame, really.
The food is always there, always within reach. Next to his hand, in front of him when he turns around, there is always a table, always the fruit, and he hungers.
Ben is only human.
It is only fruit.
And yet, when his hands close around the pomegranate, when he brings the small red pulp to his lips, he is trembling. His fingers squeeze so tightly around the little ruby he fears he might break it, crush the flesh to have red juice running down his fingers. In his mind’s eye it pours and pours down his palm and his wrists, staining his sleeve. Ruining his gift.
The thought is pleasing.
But he is so hungry.
The fruit touches his lips, onto his tongue. His fingers linger in front of his mouth.
His blood is pounding in his temples.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
He bites.
He breathes.
Nothing happens.
The fruit bursts on his tongue, and tastes of nothing. The juice may as well be water, and when it pours down his throat it only feeds, doesn’t satisfy.
He opens his eyes, and the halls haven’t changed. The air is no heavier than before, and his heart beats just as strong.
Nothing happened.
Even alone in the room, he feels like such a fool.
But he isn’t alone, never fully, because around him the shadows start giggling. They are neither malicious nor mocking, but their laughter only makes his embarrassment worse. He has only ever been able to do one thing in these situation, but his shackles still hold strong, and he finds himself powerless.
Or almost.
The bowl of fruit goes crashing against the wall, shattering into a thousand shards even as the fruit splatters like a blood stain on the floor. The noise is loud and satisfying, and the fact that he threw it with his own hands seems to make the violence more potent, somehow.
The juice does drip down his hand, only not onto his sleeves but on the floor. Like drippings from a wounded hand.
And still the shadows do not stop.
It was only fruit, they chime, before giggling once more.
“Shut up,” Ben grits out, cheeks burning in humiliation.
The shadows ignore him.
Only fruit. Only ever fruit. It was never about the seeds.
“Then what?” Frustration, pleading, anticipation, all these different emotions in his voice, all at the same time.
He has always made a very poor Jedi.
A particularly small shadows steps forward, its glide clumsy in its eagerness. But like all small things, it holds depths of courage and daring, so it latches onto his sleeve, unmindful of the not-blood on his hand, and climbs up to settle in his neck.
It feels much warmer than he would have thought.
(Or perhaps he is merely growing colder.)
It is about knowing, it whispers in his ear, a child’s secret and an old one’s wisdom. It is about knowing, and wanting anyway.
~*~
The first time it had been in a field, where the sun shone bright and the ground ripped open. He had taken her hand, pulled her to him, and nothing less that the King of gods could make him relinquish his hold.
The second time had been done in dreams, where one had been golden and bright and the other one only half living. He dreamed, she watched, she took him with a corpse-like hand and the world was plunged in a final winter.
The third time it had been a girl, and a boy who would never grow up, and whose shadows were most unruly that time around. He had taken her hand, and together they flew far and away, and though some say she returned home in the end, it is a lie. He was a selfish child, always had been, and he wouldn’t let her go.
It has been many things, many times over, but only shadows are left to remember, and they never tell. Each time is a new story. Each time is a new beginning.
But some beginnings are more long coming than other, especially with two people as stubborn as them.
So when Ben Solo joins the General at the dinner table, the first time he has done so in the month he has been here, when he eats the fruit and drinks the nectar, when the General speaks to him and he answers, the shadows are all very relieved indeed.
Fill: 3/? Kylo/Hux - Hades and Persephone "The Divine and the Dark"
On a more serious note though, thank you so much for all your lovely comments! You guys rock!
Hux is not a mystic. He has no need to be.
Empires rise and fall in just one plane, where men kill and die without sending ripples through the Universe. Hux fights, and conquers, and rules in a world of five senses, and it doesn’t matter if there is something out there that he cannot perceive, so long as his subjects are equally blind to it.
Brendol Hux has no need for the Force, no care for the irrational.
And yet…
There are impossibilities sneaking into the base, double standards of reality that should never be.
There are precisely seven hundred and forty six officers on base. And just as many shadows. There are three thousand and fifty two Stormtroopers, and just as many shades.
The shades do as they please, wander through the halls in mournful silence. They did not choose to be here, and are burdened with regrets unvoiced and unknown. There is nothing to be done for them.
The shadows, however, come to him sometimes, if only to inform him that his guest is being most dismissive. Expected, but hurtful all the same, so could he not reason with him, that it may go faster this time? There is so much to be done, and so little time until first Spring.
“Why do you talk?” Hux asks in lieu of an answer one day, in the silence of his own private quarters. He is a rational man, and rational men do not tolerate impossibilities.
Except when they do.
We are here because we are bored. Have you not been listening?
“I am going mad,” he murmurs, finishing his glass of Corellian wine in one go. A peculiar brew, this one. It tastes of fruit.
You are not mad. You are divine.
A flattering sentiment, if nothing else.
But Hux would never stoop so low as to allow himself to be seduced by flattery.
“Go away,” he orders cooly, even as he himself leaves the room. There is work to be done, in the rational and singular plane.
The shadows huff as they watch him leave. Ah, but the two of them are most unpleasant this cycle!
~*~
He is so very hungry. He hasn’t eaten in so long.
Ben only has himself to blame, really.
The food is always there, always within reach. Next to his hand, in front of him when he turns around, there is always a table, always the fruit, and he hungers.
Ben is only human.
It is only fruit.
And yet, when his hands close around the pomegranate, when he brings the small red pulp to his lips, he is trembling. His fingers squeeze so tightly around the little ruby he fears he might break it, crush the flesh to have red juice running down his fingers. In his mind’s eye it pours and pours down his palm and his wrists, staining his sleeve. Ruining his gift.
The thought is pleasing.
But he is so hungry.
The fruit touches his lips, onto his tongue. His fingers linger in front of his mouth.
His blood is pounding in his temples.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
He bites.
He breathes.
Nothing happens.
The fruit bursts on his tongue, and tastes of nothing. The juice may as well be water, and when it pours down his throat it only feeds, doesn’t satisfy.
He opens his eyes, and the halls haven’t changed. The air is no heavier than before, and his heart beats just as strong.
Nothing happened.
Even alone in the room, he feels like such a fool.
But he isn’t alone, never fully, because around him the shadows start giggling. They are neither malicious nor mocking, but their laughter only makes his embarrassment worse. He has only ever been able to do one thing in these situation, but his shackles still hold strong, and he finds himself powerless.
Or almost.
The bowl of fruit goes crashing against the wall, shattering into a thousand shards even as the fruit splatters like a blood stain on the floor. The noise is loud and satisfying, and the fact that he threw it with his own hands seems to make the violence more potent, somehow.
The juice does drip down his hand, only not onto his sleeves but on the floor. Like drippings from a wounded hand.
And still the shadows do not stop.
It was only fruit, they chime, before giggling once more.
“Shut up,” Ben grits out, cheeks burning in humiliation.
The shadows ignore him.
Only fruit. Only ever fruit. It was never about the seeds.
“Then what?” Frustration, pleading, anticipation, all these different emotions in his voice, all at the same time.
He has always made a very poor Jedi.
A particularly small shadows steps forward, its glide clumsy in its eagerness. But like all small things, it holds depths of courage and daring, so it latches onto his sleeve, unmindful of the not-blood on his hand, and climbs up to settle in his neck.
It feels much warmer than he would have thought.
(Or perhaps he is merely growing colder.)
It is about knowing, it whispers in his ear, a child’s secret and an old one’s wisdom. It is about knowing, and wanting anyway.
~*~
The first time it had been in a field, where the sun shone bright and the ground ripped open. He had taken her hand, pulled her to him, and nothing less that the King of gods could make him relinquish his hold.
The second time had been done in dreams, where one had been golden and bright and the other one only half living. He dreamed, she watched, she took him with a corpse-like hand and the world was plunged in a final winter.
The third time it had been a girl, and a boy who would never grow up, and whose shadows were most unruly that time around. He had taken her hand, and together they flew far and away, and though some say she returned home in the end, it is a lie. He was a selfish child, always had been, and he wouldn’t let her go.
It has been many things, many times over, but only shadows are left to remember, and they never tell. Each time is a new story. Each time is a new beginning.
But some beginnings are more long coming than other, especially with two people as stubborn as them.
So when Ben Solo joins the General at the dinner table, the first time he has done so in the month he has been here, when he eats the fruit and drinks the nectar, when the General speaks to him and he answers, the shadows are all very relieved indeed.
And, as it is, more than a little smug.