( As Rey retreats back to the canopy of the ship, Kylo watches the shadows swallow her back and shoulders until she is nothing but the vague suggestion of an off-white shape in the distance. The Falcon is not stationed far enough away for her to fade completely from sight, but the shadows of the overhang and the encroaching evening do their part to obscure her, blot her out and distort what he can make out of her withdrawing figure. He turns his gaze away after she disappears underneath the metal hull of the ship, letting some of the tension created as a result of holding himself together with wire and screws drain out of him now that he's alone.
Gloved hands peel apart the hole in his pant leg to inspect the damage done to his thigh but there's little to be done in the half-light and even less to be accomplished without the supplies that Rey has left to retrieve, so he does stew. He stews for three full minutes in a muck of self-doubt and chastisement, of lingering anger and frustration and inward disappointment, a cavalcade of vitriolic energy that wants to snap its jaws and lash out at the next person available while it slinks away to lick its wounds and bide its time until the next outburst. The air smells like charred flesh and burning hair and the melted fibers of the clothing that hadn't been removed from Aurren's frame. The helmet glints up at him where Rey had dropped it, and Kylo finally lumbers to his feet in order to stride toward it.
Ultimately, he leaves it, and for no reason other than to be contrary, he doesn't not go anywhere, as she'd instructed him. Rather, he wanders his way through some of the other buildings, entering none save one of the last ones, which appears to have served as an administrative barracks for the miners at one point. The floor seems solid, and none of the rafters overhead come down as he picks his way through the abandoned items, all of which seem useless and exhausted with age and disuse. It's something to do other than watch Aurren burn, but even wandering loses its shine once Kylo finds that there is nothing to procure. Rey, no doubt, will be able to find use for each and every item that she pulls from the dust, but he hasn't spent his life scavenging for parts. Just for Jedi.
Back at the fire, he waits for her to return, standing rather than sitting, leg outstretched, as if any pain could be so great as to incapacitate him when he had drawn such strength from it previously. Kylo stares down into the tarnished durasteel of Aurren's mask and considers what might happen were he to put it on, what transformation might take place as a result of the association so easily made with the disguising of his face. He has now spent more unbroken time without his helmet than he has in longer than he can remember. What that says about him, about what is happening, about Rey, is beyond Kylo's level of comprehension and equally beyond his level of attentiveness, concrete thoughts draining away like meltwater and leaving vague approximations and hints of ideas and concepts behind instead.
After a long moment, he bends to press the helmet between both palms, examining the weight and shape of it, the way the dust and grit has overtaken some of the seams and cracks that mar the visor. There isn't enough adequate lighting to show Kylo his own reflection in its totality, but he can see the outline of his hair, flattened to his head, and the protrusion of what he assumes is his nose in the visor as he turns the helmet to catch more of the firelight. Lighter and somehow less scuffed and dented than the one he left on Corellia, it seems to grin at him, beckoning.
no subject
Gloved hands peel apart the hole in his pant leg to inspect the damage done to his thigh but there's little to be done in the half-light and even less to be accomplished without the supplies that Rey has left to retrieve, so he does stew. He stews for three full minutes in a muck of self-doubt and chastisement, of lingering anger and frustration and inward disappointment, a cavalcade of vitriolic energy that wants to snap its jaws and lash out at the next person available while it slinks away to lick its wounds and bide its time until the next outburst. The air smells like charred flesh and burning hair and the melted fibers of the clothing that hadn't been removed from Aurren's frame. The helmet glints up at him where Rey had dropped it, and Kylo finally lumbers to his feet in order to stride toward it.
Ultimately, he leaves it, and for no reason other than to be contrary, he doesn't not go anywhere, as she'd instructed him. Rather, he wanders his way through some of the other buildings, entering none save one of the last ones, which appears to have served as an administrative barracks for the miners at one point. The floor seems solid, and none of the rafters overhead come down as he picks his way through the abandoned items, all of which seem useless and exhausted with age and disuse. It's something to do other than watch Aurren burn, but even wandering loses its shine once Kylo finds that there is nothing to procure. Rey, no doubt, will be able to find use for each and every item that she pulls from the dust, but he hasn't spent his life scavenging for parts. Just for Jedi.
Back at the fire, he waits for her to return, standing rather than sitting, leg outstretched, as if any pain could be so great as to incapacitate him when he had drawn such strength from it previously. Kylo stares down into the tarnished durasteel of Aurren's mask and considers what might happen were he to put it on, what transformation might take place as a result of the association so easily made with the disguising of his face. He has now spent more unbroken time without his helmet than he has in longer than he can remember. What that says about him, about what is happening, about Rey, is beyond Kylo's level of comprehension and equally beyond his level of attentiveness, concrete thoughts draining away like meltwater and leaving vague approximations and hints of ideas and concepts behind instead.
After a long moment, he bends to press the helmet between both palms, examining the weight and shape of it, the way the dust and grit has overtaken some of the seams and cracks that mar the visor. There isn't enough adequate lighting to show Kylo his own reflection in its totality, but he can see the outline of his hair, flattened to his head, and the protrusion of what he assumes is his nose in the visor as he turns the helmet to catch more of the firelight. Lighter and somehow less scuffed and dented than the one he left on Corellia, it seems to grin at him, beckoning.
Kylo dumps it into the fire at Aurren's feet. )