[ The silence he presents carries with it a smugness that clamps down on Rey’s last nerve, worsened when he breaks it; her gaze drags slowly and punitively towards him as she bears the weight of their burden for a few moments longer until she can ease it to the ground in a pose that offers the illusion of dignity in death. Only when the remains of the Knight have been lowered to the ground does she fix Kylo Ren with her full attention, gathering herself back to full height and, in doing so, strengthening her glower before she offers him a reply. ]
Only if you have to.
[ She can imagine very little that she must hear in their present position, and as such, dismisses the notion while she finally clips the hilt of her lightsaber back to the leather strap of her belt and rubs sweat and dirt away from her forehead with an equally grimy hand. The worst thing he can do for himself right now is try to further justify the philosophy that led him to try and kill an enemy they had already subdued while her stomach was still turning, and she thinks—no, hopes, however futilely—that he knows that.
There’s no solution for the thick layer of silt that cakes to her skin, she realizes quickly, and gives up trying, instead approaching the offices to peer inside and search for something to aid the efforts of a proper burial—kindling, something to ignite it, or even some kind of fluid that would help burn him up faster. She has smelled burnt flesh before—Finn’s, as it so happens, as well as Kylo Ren’s—and she does not care for it, a feeling which encourages her to expediency as much as her own apathy towards the act does.
All of it keeps her from getting bogged down in the tremor of her fingertips, in the hitch of her breath, in the ocean slapping up at her waist and trying to drag her down and overwhelm her. She shunts it roughly from her mind just as much as she tries to wall off Kylo Ren’s pain, a distraction in its own right that she doesn’t want to waste sympathy on. He deserves worse. She uses the coverings around her forearm to clear the glass away from a window frame that she then climbs in to intensify her search and forget her anger. ]
no subject
Only if you have to.
[ She can imagine very little that she must hear in their present position, and as such, dismisses the notion while she finally clips the hilt of her lightsaber back to the leather strap of her belt and rubs sweat and dirt away from her forehead with an equally grimy hand. The worst thing he can do for himself right now is try to further justify the philosophy that led him to try and kill an enemy they had already subdued while her stomach was still turning, and she thinks—no, hopes, however futilely—that he knows that.
There’s no solution for the thick layer of silt that cakes to her skin, she realizes quickly, and gives up trying, instead approaching the offices to peer inside and search for something to aid the efforts of a proper burial—kindling, something to ignite it, or even some kind of fluid that would help burn him up faster. She has smelled burnt flesh before—Finn’s, as it so happens, as well as Kylo Ren’s—and she does not care for it, a feeling which encourages her to expediency as much as her own apathy towards the act does.
All of it keeps her from getting bogged down in the tremor of her fingertips, in the hitch of her breath, in the ocean slapping up at her waist and trying to drag her down and overwhelm her. She shunts it roughly from her mind just as much as she tries to wall off Kylo Ren’s pain, a distraction in its own right that she doesn’t want to waste sympathy on. He deserves worse. She uses the coverings around her forearm to clear the glass away from a window frame that she then climbs in to intensify her search and forget her anger. ]