#he's a wound in the world he's an aberration he's a house of atreus curse and I love him. stop saying he didn't kill people.

[notbecauseofvictories]

It's confirmed in the official comics that Kylo wasn't the one who'd killed the students, it was Snoke who did it through Force lightning and he was horrified to see it happen (he might even have been turned on by his peers since they thought he'd killed Luke, but don't take my word on that one)

Mmm, no, that doesn’t seem right? I’m pretty sure that Ben Organa drags himself from the rubble of the hut with his hands bleeding, the inside of his mouth coated with something tacky and bitter to the taste. When he spits onto the dirt, it’s coppery-red.

He stares at it, the little spot of blood. It’s such a small thing, wet and pitiful. Ben wants to howl at it, wants to put his head down in the dust and scream until his throat tears itself open and his skin sloughs away and he’s gone, he’s anywhere but here; just a howl hanging in space. His hand is shaking when he lifts it to wipe his mouth.

He forgets about the blood at his knuckles until he feels the warmth of it smeared across his jaw.

It takes him a moment to realize how cool and still it is in his head. It’s never been so quiet, not since he was sent to Luke; Luke sings through the Force like a forest fire, all of Endor burning up. Ben could never leave the Light without leaving Luke, it consumed the world.

“Uncle Luke?” he chokes out, reaching as far as he can with the Force, but there’s nothing. It’s dark and cold in every direction but for the flickering candle-flames of the other acolytes, asleep in the temple. “Lu—” he starts, but his throat locks, and the only noise is the harsh rattle of his breathing.

He’s shaking. Ben shuts his eyes, but the sight of Luke standing over him, harshly lit by the beam of the lightsaber, is there in the dark. He has to open them again, and he stares down at the dirt beneath him, that little spot of blood.

He’s still shaking as he pushes himself up onto his knees. It’s a warm night—barely any wind, the stars bright over the temple. The moon is a silver sickle in the sky. There’s a kind of cruelty to it, Ben thinks, a laugh or a sob caught in his throat. Luke Skywalker is dead, Ben killed him, and it’s still somehow a beautiful night. Ben would have expected storms, cataclysms; all the the galaxy to cry out in unison as the last of the Jedi dies.

Even the windows of the temple are dark, the acolytes still asleep. Luke Skywalker is dead and not even his students know to mourn him.

Ben goes cold when he realizes that he’s going to have to—

They won’t believe you.

Ben does sob, the relief is so immense. “Master Snoke,” he says, letting himself bend forward until his forehead is almost touching the ground. He breathes out raggedly, curling his hands into fists. “Please. Help me.”

You have freed them from Luke Skywalker’s thrall, but they will not be grateful. You know this.

“I know. I know. But—”

You are thinking of your mother.

Ben wasn’t, but he sucks in a sharp breath thinking of her now. “No,” he whispers. He’s sick, trying to picture her face if he told her— “He was her brother.”

Your father.

Ben shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

No, Snoke says, and his voice is so gentle. No, you are alone—well. Not quite alone.

“I have you,” Ben says, and he can feel Snoke’s pleasure at how promptly this answer is given, at how quickly Ben reaches for him. (Ben feels a sick flush of pride at having guessed the correct answer, and it’s so good, to feel something other than the panic and guilt of this.)

My apprentice, Snoke says like a benediction, heavy as a hand on the crown of Ben’s head. You have been so faithful, so patient in waiting for this appointed day. You have borne the fear and misunderstanding, and turned it into strength. Now it is time I reward your faithfulness.

Ben can feel an alien pressure building behind his eyes. Apprentice, Snoke says, and the pressure builds to a sharp point like something trying to screw through his skull. Ben twitches, trying to dislodge it. Come now. You have such greatness locked away inside you, Snoke croons. Let me in. Let me help you.

“With what?” Ben asks, though he knows this is the wrong question. He can feel Snoke’s irritation, and then suddenly he’s swallowed by images—memories, some his, some not. He sees Luke over him, lit by blue fire and the other acolytes, whispering, laughing, giving Ben wide berth in the halls—sentients he doesn’t know but wear the robes of Jedi, sitting stone-faced in judgment of a crying padawan—the little human girl Ben hurt by lashing out with powers he didn’t understand yet, Han and Leia screaming at one another as Ben tried to block his ears—a warfront, men wearing the same face dying even as the Jedi step over them with lightsabers bright—violence. So much violence, in the light.

He comes-to with his hands braced in the dirt, to keep him from falling over. He’s breathing hard, as hard as though he’d been running for miles.

You know it must die, Snoke murmurs, and Ben deliriously thinks he feels a hand card through his hair, like Snoke is there with him, comforting him. No one’s touched his hair since he was sent away; Mama had fussed over it for hours, even though it was just Uncle Luke coming. Ben remembered that, her white hands—

The pressure in his skull sharpens to an edge, and Ben gasps. Apprentice. Beloved boy, Snoke says, and Ben nods, weakly. May this be the end of antiquated things. The Jedi, the Rebellion, the boy you think of yourself as…Burn it all down, and let a new warrior be born from the ashes.

Ben looks up, and the moon is a silver sickle in the sky over the dark temple. He wants to—he doesn’t know what. He wants to see it all red, and aching. He wants them to know what it is he’s suffered. Luke Skywalker is dead, it should be burning.

“Okay,” he says. “Yes.”

The absence of Luke’s light rushes up, swallows him whole and clings to every crevice of his mind.

The shaking stops.

So does everything else.

Ben blinks down at his bloody hands, and does not think about the blood, or how he reached for the stone and the stone answered. There is no anger here, or fear; thinking of Luke is like thinking of a rock, or an apple. Ben has never been sure before, but this is what it must feel like; everything connected in straight lines, clean hierarchies of decisions that must be made. (His mother took him to a planet once with three moons and huge seas of waving grass. By the moonslight every blade of grass had looked like a knife and faces were paper masks—this is the same horrible, dreamlike clarity.)

See how I reward you? Snoke exults, and Ben feels nothing. This is the gift of Darth Vader, a true warrior for the Dark—freedom from limitations, to not be distracted by empathy, or sentiment. True freedom.

Summon your lightsaber, Snoke says, and Ben reaches out. One side of his lightsaber has crumpled in under the force of the hut collapsing; when Ben ignites it, the blade is ragged, jumping. He watches dispassionately, even as the edges of the arc curl in on themselves, looking the same color of wet blood that he spat out of his mouth.

I have sent my guard to retrieve you, apprentice, Snoke says. Until their coming---let us burn the galaxy before us.

When Ben steps forward, he grinds the spot of his blood beneath his heel.

(Afterwards, shut up in that lightless ship with Snoke’s Red Guard and the remaining six of Luke’s padawans---some of them sobbing, others preternaturally still with shock, all of them trying not to stare at Ben and mostly failing---the certainty and stillness will fade. In the sudden warmth of his humanity, Ben will look down at his hands and think: oh.

There is no voice in his head but his when Ben Organa thinks: good.)