callfrcmthelight

[callfrcmthelight]

So, even back in 2017, we been knew that Ben’s “You’re nothing, but not to me” was NOT meant to degrade Rey, but now, here, we can see that he said that to her because HE FELT THE SAME WAY ABOUT HIMSELF.

Like, literally EVERYTHING he said or did regarding Rey was an attempt at CONNECTING with her, from “You’re so lonely, so afraid to leave” and “Han Solo can’t save you now” to “You can’t stop needing them” and “You can’t go back to her now, just like I can’t”…. and countless other examples. WOW.

[callfrcmthelight]

ADAM DRIVER on BEN SOLO in STAR WARS: THE RISE OF SKYWALKER

[callfrcmthelight]

@protectmypeople

              The gentle almost hesitant touch upon his cheek, was enough to cause a hurricane of emotions to swell in his chest. Lips parted as if to release a bit of the pressure building within him, yet he couldn’t bring himself to sob in front of the man. Not when he was in such an unstable body. Not when Bellamy seemingly wanted to crush every bone in his body whether through violence or a hug he wasn’t quite sure. The explanation seemed uncertain for the man laid beneath him, constantly filled with contradictions, yet there was a clear peace in the way the dark haired man spoke of himself.

              The recollection of when his own back had been split open by the man now laying in tatters below him. There had  been no peace in the man that had done that to him, only fear and uncertainty. Bellamy watched as Ben could no longer keep his gaze, eyes shifting to the ceiling, and although the man seemed better than he was before, there seemed to still be a struggle within him. There was unease in his mind that he didn’t know what the struggle was, but as he heard Ben speak more words than he had probably ever heard pass through the man’s lips, he knew that he was attempting to showcase Bellamy the parts of his soul, he may have never encountered before.

              Nervously licking his lips, he cast his eyes downward unsure of how to respond, tracking as Ben’s bruised fingers fiddled with his own. Pulling a deep breath in, he looked up to face the man. Reaching with his other hand, he grasped Ben’s chin lightly between his fingers to force eye contact with him.

             “I’m glad you survived.” Came his simple reply, eyes searching the man’s features as if he could reveal to him what he needed to say. There was happiness that his soulmate was safe, and alive. No longer trapped by the bounds of the First Order, and not by the Resistance it seemed. A free man laid before him. Yet, as joyful as he was that his mate was alive, it did not cure the anger burning inside him.

                 “You left me. You said you needed me and you left me.” He choked out, removing his hand from Ben’s chin but allowing his other hand to remain where it was settled neatly in the dark haired man’s palm.  There had always been a boiling under his skin, he was hot headed, they both were. It was no wonder they had clashed together so much, the fire welding them together into a pair that would burn the galaxy to ashes if given the right reasons.

           Tears filled his gaze, and he clenched his jaw in frustration, he did not want to cry in front of the man that left him. “You told me you loved me.” Bellamy’s voice croaked, as he forced those words past his lips. Angrily running his free hand through his hair, his gaze flickered back to meet Ben’s. “You’re here.. And that matters..” He replied, as if assuring the man that he still cared, as if to prove his point he pressed a soft kiss to the top of his soulmates hand, holding it against his lips as he fought back the angry tears threatening to slip unto his cheeks. “You shouldn’t have left me like that.” Resting Ben’s hand back on his gurney, he gently traced the scarring and bruising around his knuckles. “I tried to leave to find you.”

             A few times, he had set out to leave in secret, yet the Resistance base was far ahead of him. Knowing that once a soulmate is found, it is nearly impossible to let go. So he never did. Countless nights, he spent angry, forcing himself into their training facilities simply so he could punch out a poor resistance recruit who had only wanted to learn a new skill. Eventually they had banned him from it, and his mind had eaten him alive in his room. The outdoors had brought him a small semblance of peace, but in a war there was really no real place to go. “You fucking left me.”

The moment that it had dawned upon Kylo Ren that his soulmate was, perhaps, the very man that had been sent to inflitrate the First Order upon his mother’s pay, and attempt to bring him back (whether physically or news of him), he had fought it. It may not have seemed that way when he’d brought Bellamy to his quarters to keep him safe. It may not have seemed that way when he’d weilded the very whip to dole out punishment with his own hands when requested by Snoke to prove his loyalty. It may not have seemed it with the way he withheld himself as long as possible from the connection with the other, spoke little, refused at first to lose control around him in whatever capacity be it physically or emotionally... Each was the action of a man who fought to keep himself afloat in a sea of desperation. But he had eventually come to accept him, to understand that the thing he’d wanted more than control in the whole of his life had been human connection.

Sad to think that with family, with the other apprentices, with everything even in his life before, he had never found that. When he had run from the light thinking himself too tainted to walk within it and attempted to embrace the dark, Snoke had ensured he would never find brotherhood or connection. An apprentice who lead knights of Ren, any of whom would gladly cut him down to take his place. Outside of a military structure who resented him for not following their heirarchy. And Hux... the other second though not with the force and merely the command of the military, as ruthless as he was patient, was perhaps the only one who could understand the careful balance they must maintain. Devotion to a master who did not love them, who would easily replace them, and who one day they wished to be free of-- but could not wish it so outwardly and desperately that Snoke would consider them threat enough to remove them himself.

There was much of him Ben hid, including from himself.

To have it resurface now felt like exposed nerves too sensitive to everythign and yet... the weight he carried upon his shoulders was gone. Still, that didn’t make looking at Bellamy any easier.

And as glad as his soulmate might be that he was alive, he was not surprised at the emotions boiling beneath his exterior. Hands clutched at the sheets of the bed as he watched the other, letting Bellamy get the words out, his head hanging slightly as shame burned his cheeks. He had... he had but he hadn’t wanted to but wants and needs, in his experience, never found a way to align.

          “I love you,” he says the words soft and quiet as they fall from chapped, split lips.

Grapsing the sheets, he wrung them between his hands because... some of that was his fault. Bellamy not being able to leave. He’d wanted... his head fell back on the pillow and he swallowed hard. He had not been sure he’d come back or that he’d be successful but-- if he was? if he could make it back?-- he’d wanted the chance to see Bellamy again. If he chose to leave, whatever the reason, that he had that one moment to see him a last time. 

          “I didn’t want you to find me for your own safety. What you have to understand, Bell, is how important you are to me? It’s something they would exploit and... they’ve made an art of it.”

Ben’s eyes finally lift to meet Bellamy’s as he takes a shakey inhale. As sorry as he is for leaving, he’s strong in his resolve as to why his soulmate could not come. “It would not have been quick. The things that Snoke has done to me... I know the things he would do to you. And I can imagine the ways he would make them worse, because he loves it and because he would love what it would do to me.” Ben shakes his head. There are many things he does not wish to remember but are equally impossible to forget.

          “I still need you, Bell, but,” he pauses considering his next words. “Just because I need you doesn’t mean you need me. And if you don’t love me... I won’t make them keep you here. I won’t try to follow you. I just wanted you safe whether I made it or not-- and I know it’s selfish but I wanted you to be here so I could at least see you one last time if I did.”

That’s already more than he had hoped for.

          “I’m sorry.”

Return

[callfrcmthelight]

@protectmypeople

                        Everything fell into abrupt action surrounding them, with a blink of an eye they were in the medical facility and the nurse that had been so panicked moments ago, was now in her right mindset carefully asking Ren questions and prepping him for surgery. There was a tightening in his chest at the mere thought of having his soulmate go through double doors he couldn’t cross. The chance of them rolling him back out in a black bag remained his deepest concern. As the damage was assessed, and the nurse kept extracting information from the man who could barely breathe, he was suddenly taken aback at the name that crossed his beloved’s lips. Ben. Hundreds of memories flooded into the forefront of his thoughts, the images he had received only glimpses of due to Ren’s force abilities. Bellamy recalls the foggy memory of a young boy, whose name had been Ben.

                             Dragged out of his flashback by the fingers holding tightly to his own, his eyes darted down to see the hand darkened by bruises clutching his fingers. The soft fog of the force slowly maneuvered its way into his mind, and Ren- or Ben’s soothing voice filled his head. Of course he would stay, the man he had craved to be beside for so long was finally there, a part of him at least was. A fear still clogged his throat that he wouldn’t make it, the damage seemed extensive, perhaps the Resistance medics couldn’t mend the wounds inflicted upon his soulmate. Horror filled his chest as he watched Ben’s eyes roll backward, and his lids slowly fluttered shut. The room moved swiftly around him, nurses and doctors rushing around the man lying abnormally still on the gurney. They began to roll the gurney out of his view, and in a last-ditch attempt for Ben to somehow know his feelings toward him, he squeezed his hand tight enough to break any remaining bones in his fingers, figuring it was the least of the force wielders problems.

                   Timed ticked by, Bellamy couldn’t comprehend how time moved as slowly as it did when Ben was inside the operating room. The mix of fear, anger, and desperation overwhelmed him. The small room that he was designated to wait in, seemed to grow smaller, the walls began to cave in on him. Not enough air was getting into his lungs, and his chest constricted painfully. Stumbling over towards a seat, he planted himself down in an attempt to steady his being, and remove his panic. Bellamy’s eyes felt heavy, but he was determined to be awake when they wheeled him back in. Steadily exhaustion crept into his bones, his muscles ached, and they grew tired as his head lulled into his chest. Thankfully, they rolled Ben in, the bacta suit surrounding nearly every inch of his skin, yet concealing very little.

                           From memory, it seemed, his cheeks flooded with color, and he exhaled a soft breath. He was here, he was breathing, the surgery went well. The nurse droned on about his soulmate’s status, yet he was far too consumed with analyzing the man himself. As soon as the nurse left, the room filled with deafening silence. Hands twitched with the desire to touch raven hair, to feel that his skin was still warm, to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, indicating that he was alive because his mind could still not register that Ben was breathing. Hours went by, and as his exhaustion grew to the point of the break when a hoarse voice broke the silence. He was alive. A breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding left his lungs, and his tense muscles loosened themselves as a small form of comfort seeped into him. Ben was cognitive, he was speaking, and he also seemed to find this situation a bit amusing. A form of endearment and irritation crawled its way into Bellamy’s throat, and he stood to his feet and approached the man lying naked beneath him. There was an itching to lecture Ben, about his lonely nights, the constant fear, and his pure panic at seeing his soulmate lie in tatters just hours ago.

             “You still look like a cocky asshole if that’s what you’re wondering.” He replied, a smirk gracing his features in an attempt to conceal the rapid rush of emotions filling him.

                    “I-I can’t believe you’re alive..” Bellamy stuttered out, his hands gently reaching for one of Ben’s, as he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the man’s forehead. “You do have explaining to do… Ben.” The name, rather foreign on his tongue did suit the raven-haired man.

Unconsciousness is not blissful even with medications flooding his veins. There is little about Ben that has been restful no matter his identity-- Ben Solo, Kylo Ren, some confused man torn between the two none-the-wiser which was more accurate. But donning a mask as the leader of the knights of Ren was not the first time he had worn a mask. He had worn one throughout the entirity of his life. As a child, when that ever-present voice in his head whispered things to him. Even before that, when he wasn’t cognizant enough to know that the thoughts, sometimes bleak and jealous and dark, were not always truly his own. As a teenager, hiding the fact that there was another who offered him an alternative. As a young adult, hiding away himself from his peers who chided him because of the favouritism of his uncle (always a watchful eye, never favourited, baby sat, perhaps). As a young man with the academy burning and a few fellow apprentices demanding to know what he had done... he’d worn a mask then because he’d bore responsibility for things he’d never done. For things he’d convinced himself he must have. Ben had worn a mask for so much of his life that being with or without a helmet had not mattered. He’d always been torn, caught in playacting, being something he thought he needed to be to survive. And so in sleep, even those induced with medications, his rest was no more peaceful.

Turning to the dark side had not been easy as he’d fled from the light.

Turning back would be no easier... and wasn’t something he could ever truly embrace.

Two polarising veiws, neither right. Both extreme.

And finally he’d found... he existed somewhere in the middle. Somewhere that was neither. Somewhere where just plain old Ben might be able to find peace within himself. And maybe someday even later than that... acceptance.

But the journey there had been long and periolous and filled with answers to question that he had not been-- brave enough? clever enough? perceptive enough?-- to pose. And with the drugs still coursing through his body, far lesser now and waning enough that he is conscious but not entirely fully functional-- he can laugh and shake his head (it leaves him with a swimming feeling) as Bellamy jokes at him.

          “You always liked that I was a cocky asshole.”

It’s the use of his name, his real name, that startles him. Ben hadn’t remembered everything of before he went into surgery. He knew where he was. Why he was here. What had happened in the battle. But everything after that was a little out-of-body from the injuries and the waning adrenaline coursing through his blood. It might have been the thought of Bellamy, the endorphins released upon seeing his other half, that kept him going as long as it had. Eyes flutter closed and he reaches up, his hand whispering along Bellamy’s cheek and Ben takes a deep inhale holding it for a moment before he lets it out through his mouth. One eye is black, his lip is swollen from the cut along it.

          “I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

But there’s a part of him gripped with uncertainty and fear claws at his heart. Will Bellamy want this version of him? The one that walks some undetermined path? Ben is a person he does not know, not truly, to explain to Bellamy who he is. Not the boy, Ben Solo, trying to live in the perfection of white light. Not the apprentice, Kylo Ren, trying to force a fit with the dark to find a home when the other had forsaken him. Just Ben. Ben who is... not as sure about everything that comes next and what that means.

When he finally opens his eyes, Ben licks at his chapped bottom lip and offers a quiet sort of chuckle, not the kind that finds any humor in anything. With Bellamy he has always been so sure and now he is... not.

          “I’m not sure where to start or exactly how to explain it. I learned things while I was gone... about myself and about things that happened to me. Some of it I have surmised... some from things I had forgotten or refused to dwell on because I chose to remain on a path time and again when I felt the other had forsaken me. But it was always my choice. Survival was always my choice.”

Eyes turn up toward the ceiling because as much as he wants to drink Bellamy in, to look at him, it’s hard to when he’s unsure what he will see. And intimacy in this way, in baring a soul, is different than physical intimacy. It’s more.

          “I chose to chase power and strength not because I love either of those things. I let myself be drunk on them because... it was better than always being in pain.” But from the sleepless nights, the nightmares, Bellamy had awoken to find him enough to know it wasn’t something that disappeared entirely. “Did you ever wonder why I never bore the yellow eyes of the Sith? For all I tried, I never gave myself to the darkness. Not truly. I want power and strength for control but neither the light nor the dark ever truly offered it to me. And I realised that they couldn’t... not like the light could for my uncle and my mother... not like the darkness could for the sith. I was never meant to be either... but I never realised that was a choice. The dogmas of jedi and sith... never offered it as a possibility. Those too weak would fall from the light, and those too weak for the dark would be crushed.”

And it goes without saying from the look in his eyes: I’m still here.

It’s not everything. But it’s the conclusion. The one he needs to give Bellamy as his hands nervously play with one noather, one hand tugging at the other’s fingers. Because it’s the outcome. An outcome that his soulmate might not... accept.

Return

[callfrcmthelight]

Kylo,Ren,Ben,Solo,’’Favorite,Stills’’.The,Rise,Of,Skywalker.

[callfrcmthelight]

I have a lot of feelings about benpoe going on shitty dates and ben force-pranking people to see poe laugh

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Adam Driver in THE RISE OF SKYWALKER (2019)

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growing up together on yavin iv was fun and a little dangerous <3 leia told them every day to come home safe and not too filthy...

ben solo and poe during the years on yavin iv - pretending to be like their fathers han and kes, the rebel alliance’s infamous “pathfinders”.

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Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker (2019)

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A reylo piece commissioned by reylo4life on twitter!

Honestly the entire saga of Star Wars is a love story and I’m realizing how much these characters mean to me,,,crazy

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Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker - epilogue

@drrrakonis and I needed a way to cope with Rise Of The Skywalker… so here, we have a happy ending now. Colors and story by her, sketch and lineart by me!

[callfrcmthelight]

I’m not dead work and my masters have just consumed me this week. I’m hoping to be back to normal next week.

[callfrcmthelight]

Adam Driver mentioned on Last Week Tonight with John Oliver (2/23/20)

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98% of my instagram followers wanted to see Ben Solo drawn in his first Knights of Ren uniform. If you want to vote on what you would like to see drawn you can follow me on instagram

https://www.instagram.com/thereylo333/

[callfrcmthelight]

         warknighted

he  doubts  his  father  was  a   pacifist   until the  bitter  end,  though  it  sometimes  felt  as  much   -   but  in times  like  these,  he  genuinely  wonders  how  things  would  vary   if  he  had  been  taught  to  fight  even  younger.  would  his   weapon  of  choice  differ   /   would  he  be  more  inclined  to  tap into  the  things  he  so  often  closed  himself  off  to ?   it  was  easy,  wasn’t  it,  to  get  stuck  in  that  mindset ;  what  if,  what  if,  what  if. an  uncanny  nag,  distracting  and  dangerous,  if  deianira  was   here,  she’d  skin  him  alive  for  such  carelessness.  training  and combat  had  never  been  so  different  for  her        –        she   believed  in  the  fluent  translation  of  one  to  the  other.  the   issues  you  carried  in  your  training  would  manifest  into  your   combat,  and  vice  versa.  these  thoughts  needed  to  be  curved,  corrected.

cal  moves  as  if  his  life  depends  on  the  creation  of window   -   as  if  him  waiting  for  the  moment  to  strike,   rather  than  making  one,  is  what  stands  between  life  and   death   /   though  it  surely  doesn’t,  not  now  at  least.  the   shift  of  body  weight,  he’s  carefully  balanced  on  balls  of   feet,  rocking  back  on  heels,  moving  more  like  water  than  flesh  and  bone.  where  he  lacks  in  deeper  ability, he  makes  up  for  in  the  very  embodiment  of  his  movement   -   his  combat  style   -   his  confidence.  and  that’s  the  point,  he does  suppose.  a  short  step  back,  shoulders  roll,  he  starts   to  feel  the  low  burn  of  exertion  in  his  lungs.  the  entirety   of  it  clouds  him  with  a  sort  of  high      –      finally,  an   opposite  who  doesn’t  succumb  to  the  simplicity  of  the  force   to  give  themselves  the  upper-hand.

         ❛    what  are  you  implying  there,  kylo.    ❜          tone flickers  with  a  dangerous  sort  of  amusement     –     there’s  a reason  he  has  no  problems  following  the  younger  knight   /   and  that  lies  in  strength.  cal  can  respect  kylo  for  what  he   is :   a  fearsome  opponent.   he embodies  the  hunt  and  the  hounds,  there  is  little  else  to   criteria  for  cal   -   a  solid  fighter  with  an  obvious  loyalty   is  all  he  genuinely  needs  to  justify  where  he  stands.  he’s   carefully  side-stepping  briefly,  weighted  training  object   spinning  in  fingertips  typically  gloved.  the  gloves  help,  they   do,  but  there’s  nothing  as  liberating  as  combat  with  bare  hand :  to  feel  every  vibration,  every  sting,  every  everything.

a  single  strike,  followed  by  a  second   –   his  hand   vibrates   with a  low-grade  agony  that  makes  his  fingers  cramp  and  his  teeth clench.  though  even  in  onset  of  pain,  his  rather  wolfish   smile  never  fades,  brows  furrowing  slightly  at  the  others   words.  there  came  a  point  at  which  his  own  pain  blended  so   seamlessly  with  outside  forces,  he  genuinely  believed  it  was   the  line  between  memory  and  reality  blurring.  perhaps  he  had   been  to  young  to  think  about  it,  or  maybe  he  just  didn’t   necessarily  want  to  believe  that  the  share  of  pain  was  mutual on  any  accord.

         ❛    coincidental  kind  of  thing  to  mention,    ❜          cal  lowers  weapon  briefly,  taking  a  deep  breath  to  absently  rub  fingers  over  wrist  that  he’s  certain  will  bruise.         ❛    like  what,  exactly ?    ❜

The force is a useful tool and ally but it is not the only useful tool or ally. Long ago he came to understand that whilst he was strong in the force, that his gifts meant that he could accomplish things better or faster or simply more than others, they would be just as quick to dismiss success. Because he had not earned it. Because it came easier. Because it required less effort-- but oh the effort they had no idea of the sleepless nights and the everpresent voice inside his head whispering words to him or the feeling of fearful gazes from parents who sometimes failed to hush their voices when a young boy was still awake, no idea of the effort to be good enough to be a Skywalker or stoic enough to be an Organa or charismatic enough to be a Solo. They had no idea about how he pained over every smile or every tasks-- should he hold back? Should he show off? Should he bite his tongue or the inside of his cheek until it bled when he knew the answer?

          “I’m saying I would have struck you whatever the weapon.”

Voice is confident. Strong. There’s only a minor sound of inhale and exhale to indicate that exertion.

No, things were not easier. They were just different. And though the force was an ally and a tool, it was not the only one. So he learned to be stronger, to be faster and endure longer. And sometimes it even helped to quiet his head. Watching Cal as he twirled the weapon like an extension of his arm-- having an ability he did not rely upon beyond himself -- impresses him. It makes him work harder still to earn the approval of the Knight of Ren. As fingers open and close like his own, aware of a pain but with a stoic exterior that required no mask for a countenance to act as one itself it strikes Kylos that perhaps the realisation is not as quick for Cal as it is for Kylo but in identifying it, he stretches out his senses for the first time since their sparring commenced and he can feel... something. Something he hasn’t before.

         “My father said I used to scream like I was possessed when I was younger. They could never calm me.” Dark eyes are cautious as he regards the other. “When I was older I learned to bite my tongue and not speak of it. They were afraid of me for so many reasons, this was just one more thing they couldn’t understand.” There’s only one way, one way to be entirely certain.

          “Hit me.”

[callfrcmthelight]

Pink and yellow plumage and four fluttering wings. It darted to and fro with songs in soprano that made the young boy hold his breath for fear of missing a single note. The nanny droid watched from the corner of the balcony; there was no need to fear the child’s faltering or injury because there were fields in place to prevent such a mishap from happening. Security was of the utmost importance, especially given the boy’s abilities, and so the droid watched passively as the boy of five danced around the balcony to the song of the bird. The bird, in turn, did its own aerial dance around the boy all the while singing. Closer and closer, not quite like playing tag, but not unlike it either.

          “Careful, young master Ben,” the droid reminds him. “It will be dinner time soon.”

But the boy doesn’t acknowledge he hears any more than waving toward the droid before taking up his dance. The bird and he have been companions each morning and lunch time for days but the young boy has always had a way with animals. They have always been drawn to him in a way that makes his parents, when present (not just physically but emotionally because establishing law and order once more takes more mental capacity than a small child can understand), rest reassured hands to the other’s shoulder or knee (because maybe that part of his genetics is less to be worried about). The pink and yellow feathered bird is no different as it flits around Ben’s hair and on more than one occasion taps the end of his finger when he holds it out-- but the bird always immediately flies safely out of reach, bold one moment and then shy the next.

          You could make it stay next time... just hold your finger out. Grip it.

     But I can’t catch it. Ben thinks back. He’s so fast!

          Not with your hand, then. With the force. Reach out and hold him in place until you can get your other hand around him. You can keep him with you, then.

     Do you think so? Mother and father said that I’m too young to have a pet.

          Why do they need to know? He can be our secret. I can teach you how to take care of him.

It is lonely being an only child and lonelier still when your parents are little present. They love him. They are heroes. They’re helping to save the galaxy from bad things that came before, things they stood up to and fought against. They are Ben’s heroes... but saving the galaxy doesn’t fill the hole in a single little boy’s heart who wishes they were present. Wishes that anyone were present. So the thought of having one friend, one real friend, ever present has him thrusting out his hand and standing very still. It doesn’t take long for the songbird to start his slow descent down but when the bird comes nearer--

          Now! As tight as you can... harder, so he doesn’t get away!

And Ben listens. He reaches out with that magical sort of thing he can do just like Uncle Luke, and an invisible fist wraps around the bird. Its song quiets in its throat but Ben manages to keep the bird in place on his hand. He reaches out and wraps his own fist around the bird, gentle and careful, and releases his grip with the force. The look of delight on his face melts to one of concern when the bird’s song does fails to commence once more.

“It’s okay, little one. I have you. You don’t have to be scared.”

But the bird doesn’t move and his lungs don’t fill and there’s no song.

Ben brings the bird closer to him and holds him cradled in his palms. The tiny bird looks crumpled but no gently poking or tiny tickles encourage it to flap or wriggle or stir in the least.

     Is it shocked? What do I do? Ben asks frantically to his friend.

          You killed him. The voice answers.You were too rough... what did you think would happen to its small bones if you were not careful? You’ve crushed its lungs and stopped its heart.

Ben stares down at the bird and the silence presses in around him, deafening. Tears fill his eyes as he tries again and again to wake the bird. It was a mistake. He didn’t mean to hurt him. All he had wanted was for the bird to come just a little closer, to stay, but the voice in his head reminds him how he has done it. How he has killed. How he should have been better or more precise or more attentive and the bird would still be filling the sky with songs he could dance to.

     I didn’t mean to, he thinks as small shoulders shake and his tears fall onto the small bird’s chest.

          But will they think that? When they see that you’ve killed him? Or will they think you wanted to hurt it? It doesn’t look good, Ben. It doesn’t look good at all.

     What do I do?

          Get rid of the body. Throw it over the side. Quick, before they think they’ve raised a monster.

Ben does as he’s told. When the nanny droid calls him inside to wash his hands for dinner Ben stands before the refresher scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing. When he cannot stop crying in bed that night and the nanny droid asks him what is wrong he cries harder and pulls the blankets tighter around him. Nothing soothes him that night or most nights after. 

[callfrcmthelight]