( Their feet break through the first layer of permafrost that forms halfway down the dune's southern side like punching through brittle, cloying glass. Sand swirls in with the snow and mud, creating a substance not unlike glue that freezes in a thick stretch of dull gray. The back of his neck feels burnt with remembered sunlight: a byproduct of her presence, her memory, as the landscape behind them is still bathed in alternating moonlight. Even in voluntarily and purposefully handing the focus of their illusion toward him as he takes it from her, they remain mired in her world, her mind, in certain, small ways. It makes him wonder how tightly wound this bond will be when they emerge, whether they will be able to keep anything from one another regardless of the success of what they endeavor to do here.
Eventually the desert terrain gives way completely to ice, swallowed up behind them in the sweep of mountains. Kylo does not feel the chill on his skin as intensely as Rey does, swaddled in heavy, padded armor and the clothing underneath, and yet he does. Goosebumps pebble underneath the fabric covering his sleeves, chill swirling its way up his spine and out into his uncovered hands, which ache down to the bone underneath the brutal assault of the wind. His heels feel heavy and numb as they trek across the landscape, and he knows without her having to specify by opening her mouth to do it that she's freezing, can feel it thrumming off of her in waves without having to turn and look at her to see the vapor of her breath and the stern shadow of her face. )
Maybe if you dressed appropriately. ( It's a thin, dry attempt at humor, which sounds as awkward coming out of his mouth as folding himself into the meditative position in front of her had felt. ) I prefer it to the heat. It's easier to dress for the snow than it is for the sun. All the black.
( He's spared the agony of continuing by the pause in her step, coming up short himself just on the edge of the forest. Starkiller Base looms like a scab on the horizon, and the darkness lingers at the threshold of the forest - the forest - like thick fog. It's always been present on this planet, leaking into the atmosphere and cultivating a hurricane of power to draw from, attracted to the technological prowess of the Order's weapon, but it's never been so prevalent in reality. Nothing like Illum. Kylo resolutely does not think about Illum, shoving it as far away from this place as he can manage while understanding that the more he tries not to think of that distant planet in deep space the more it creeps into the edges of their forged connection. Rey's memories overpower it, and he in turn focuses on them, losing ground in his own right when they are supposed to be gaining it but giving her more in turn.
They fought, here. Their tracks are in the snow. The broken quillon of his saber catches light deep in the forest and winks. Trees creak and groan with the remembered intensity of her overhead slashes as she cut them down in an attempt to block his path. The exposed image of her across a gorge from him surges to mind, and he recalls now that he thought he had heard a voice on the wind, then - Kill him. - before she turned and ran. But that isn't right. There had been no voice. Only the two of them there, in the dark. He had advanced on her at half-power, hoping to herd her rather than kill her, and Kylo feels like he could advance now, like he could turn and not fight her down but gather her to him and keep her there. It catches him off-guard, the darkness that filters through her and threatens to overwhelm him. It feels like swimming through tar and sinking beneath the warmth in relief against the freezing temperatures of Starkiller Base.
He could drown in it, let it consume him, pull her under with him and show her the power she's capable of wielding. He wants to, it's that easy, that natural, but even as he wants to give in and slip under, Kylo knows it's an impossibility. The bright white meltwater from the bridge will always keep him suspended, hanging indefinitely in a bright glassy surface. The wind whips through the trees with new intensity, filling their head with whispers. )
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Eventually the desert terrain gives way completely to ice, swallowed up behind them in the sweep of mountains. Kylo does not feel the chill on his skin as intensely as Rey does, swaddled in heavy, padded armor and the clothing underneath, and yet he does. Goosebumps pebble underneath the fabric covering his sleeves, chill swirling its way up his spine and out into his uncovered hands, which ache down to the bone underneath the brutal assault of the wind. His heels feel heavy and numb as they trek across the landscape, and he knows without her having to specify by opening her mouth to do it that she's freezing, can feel it thrumming off of her in waves without having to turn and look at her to see the vapor of her breath and the stern shadow of her face. )
Maybe if you dressed appropriately. ( It's a thin, dry attempt at humor, which sounds as awkward coming out of his mouth as folding himself into the meditative position in front of her had felt. ) I prefer it to the heat. It's easier to dress for the snow than it is for the sun. All the black.
( He's spared the agony of continuing by the pause in her step, coming up short himself just on the edge of the forest. Starkiller Base looms like a scab on the horizon, and the darkness lingers at the threshold of the forest - the forest - like thick fog. It's always been present on this planet, leaking into the atmosphere and cultivating a hurricane of power to draw from, attracted to the technological prowess of the Order's weapon, but it's never been so prevalent in reality. Nothing like Illum. Kylo resolutely does not think about Illum, shoving it as far away from this place as he can manage while understanding that the more he tries not to think of that distant planet in deep space the more it creeps into the edges of their forged connection. Rey's memories overpower it, and he in turn focuses on them, losing ground in his own right when they are supposed to be gaining it but giving her more in turn.
They fought, here. Their tracks are in the snow. The broken quillon of his saber catches light deep in the forest and winks. Trees creak and groan with the remembered intensity of her overhead slashes as she cut them down in an attempt to block his path. The exposed image of her across a gorge from him surges to mind, and he recalls now that he thought he had heard a voice on the wind, then - Kill him. - before she turned and ran. But that isn't right. There had been no voice. Only the two of them there, in the dark. He had advanced on her at half-power, hoping to herd her rather than kill her, and Kylo feels like he could advance now, like he could turn and not fight her down but gather her to him and keep her there. It catches him off-guard, the darkness that filters through her and threatens to overwhelm him. It feels like swimming through tar and sinking beneath the warmth in relief against the freezing temperatures of Starkiller Base.
He could drown in it, let it consume him, pull her under with him and show her the power she's capable of wielding. He wants to, it's that easy, that natural, but even as he wants to give in and slip under, Kylo knows it's an impossibility. The bright white meltwater from the bridge will always keep him suspended, hanging indefinitely in a bright glassy surface. The wind whips through the trees with new intensity, filling their head with whispers. )
I want them all gone.