[ It's easier than she thought it would be, to grieve someone so close. Maybe it's just because she doesn't have experience. Maybe she's not doing it properly. But Rey never feels it, never feels him fully leave her in the Force, and it's that which keeps her steady, held together, to get back to D'Qar, and to Tatooine, where she buries Luke and Leia properly, in the only way she can.
Rey Skywalker feels more accurate, somehow, than anything else. Because she is a Skywalker — raised by them more than her own family, and connected still to Ben in the Force.
When she feels him again, really feels him, she's shoveling sand out of the living area of Beru and Lars' old home to make it livable again, patient and diligent and entirely manual. It feels good to be connected to the world in ways that aren't the Force, even if it would make this job easier. This feels familiar in a way that anchors her, and she's not quite ready to share her grief with others yet, doesn't know how to let them be there for her.
She stops with the scrap metal she's been using for a shovel and lifts her head as something pierces the air. Something familiar. The sound of tunneling space and the itch of a presence at the corner of her mind. ]
Is that you? [ The question is barely a breath, but then, they've seldom needed words except to deflect their feelings. A traitorous glimmer of relief lights in her chest, bolder than it deserves to be given that she can't even speak his name. ]
(TROS spoilers, obviously)
Rey Skywalker feels more accurate, somehow, than anything else. Because she is a Skywalker — raised by them more than her own family, and connected still to Ben in the Force.
When she feels him again, really feels him, she's shoveling sand out of the living area of Beru and Lars' old home to make it livable again, patient and diligent and entirely manual. It feels good to be connected to the world in ways that aren't the Force, even if it would make this job easier. This feels familiar in a way that anchors her, and she's not quite ready to share her grief with others yet, doesn't know how to let them be there for her.
She stops with the scrap metal she's been using for a shovel and lifts her head as something pierces the air. Something familiar. The sound of tunneling space and the itch of a presence at the corner of her mind. ]
Is that you? [ The question is barely a breath, but then, they've seldom needed words except to deflect their feelings. A traitorous glimmer of relief lights in her chest, bolder than it deserves to be given that she can't even speak his name. ]