Chapter Text
They say the planet Mustafar is healing.
They say the birthplace and former sanctum of the Sith Lord Darth Vader has formed a lava crust around itself, the molten hatred and bitter history of the place buried under a ground that has been softening into soil for almost a hundred years now. The heart of the planet, stolen away a long time ago, seems to be miraculously beating again. Small and faint, but beating nonetheless.
They say trees have begun to grow, wildlife has begun to flourish. What was once a volcanic planet, the centre of coal trade, has now become too stagnant for any sort of danger or successful trade business.
They say it’s more suitable living grounds for a farmer than a Sith Lord. It could probably give Sorgan a run for its peaceful reputation.
Whispers of that peace, floating out from the Outer Rim and through the void of space, intercepts every world it can reach. People across the galaxy would probably have rushed to recolonise it.
But the rumours drift alongside another, much more sinister source, from the lost world of Exegol. One that had not been heard for the past generation. One that threatens the existence of all, reaching out with tendrils of war, wrapping itself around two specific things.
The first, of course, is Mustafar.
(After all, Emperor Palpatine was known to make frequent visits to his apprentice’s lair. No one knows why, to this day, but hiding a Sith Wayfinder in its flaming depths is as good a guess as any.)
The second is Supreme Leader Kylo Ren.
Grandson, the darkness whispers gleefully in his ear, as his shuttle sets itself on the ashen soil of Mustafar. Two victims of Vader’s legacy, meeting for the first time.
Grandson, grandson, grandson.
“Multiple hostiles approaching, sir.” General Hux’s monotonous voice snaps him out of his daze. “Shall we send the division ahead?”
“No,” Kylo sweeps his cloak onto his shoulders and fastens it. “I’ll lead the charge. Keep the door covered,” He gives Hux a mistrustful glare. “And don’t follow me.”
The general glares right back. “Duly noted, Supreme Leader.”
The ramp is lowered. Kylo strides out, ignites his saber, and gets to work.
The hostiles turn out to be some sort of Sith acolyte army. Kylo’s division of troopers outnumber them easily, but it’s still a concerningly large rank. He takes out his frustration at himself for letting a whole group of Vader loyalists run around the galaxy in his rule, slaughtering each one of them in his path with brutal efficiency.
The acolytes fight well. Surprisingly well. But it’s only when one of them manages to plant him face-first in the dirt with nothing but a staff, when he realises they’re using ancient Sith combat forms.
It happens more than once. Kylo’s face is caked with a combination of blood and dirt and sweat by the time he’s finishing the job.
He skids backwards, right through a puddle of fire. He rams his saber through the chest of one acolyte. Dismembers the next. Then he throws his head back to look for more.
There’s nothing but bodies left. Littered on the ground, both stormtroopers and acolytes alike, flames in the trees and crimson smoke in the air.
Grandson, the darkness whispers. Grandson, grandson.
Kylo turns. To the box at the end of the column of trees. The box that had incited so much death, no doubt just like the Emperor it leads to. Kylo brushes his gloved fingers against the symbol, carved into the stone crate before him, before pushing the lid off to reveal its contents.
A single pyramid, framed green transparisteel that looks like a type of emerald water frozen into a navigational device. At its very centre, amidst the strange carvings and runes, shimmers a small red light that follows his direction no matter which way he turns.
Kylo grips the Wayfinder in his hand. It thrums with an alluring dark energy, seemingly reaching out into his mind…
Out of sheer practice and habit, he slams down a protective barrier around his thoughts. Keeping whatever manipulative intent this foul device has away from him.
And Rey, a small conscience reminds him.
The weight of her presence had been a wave of calm in his stormy ocean for the past several months, as much as he hates her impact. They’d been, undeniably, healing together, circling each other, after the salted wound in their hearts that was Crait.
But he’ll be damned if he lets some Sith piece of junk get to her before he gets to Palpatine.
He’ll be damned if he lets another Snoke to rise.
And then after the Emperor is dead, he’ll be free again.
And in time she’ll take his hand. As she always should have.
“Well done, Supreme Leader.”
Hux stands behind him with his hands clasped coolly behind his back, clearly disobeying orders and clearly looking much more composed than Kylo himself is. He, for one, doesn’t have Mustafarian grime in his hair, but Kylo is too worn from battle to give him a good afternoon Force choke.
“I see you’ve found what we’re looking for,” Hux says, eyeing the glowing Wayfinder. “I can have it transported back to the fleet-”
“Pull the division out. Or what’s left of them,” Kylo interrupts. “And tell General Pryde to send down my Whisperer.”
“I-” Hux stammers. “But sir, wouldn’t you consider it safer if-”
“Tell me, General,” Kylo advances on him, but he keeps his expression flat even though his insides are groaning with exasperation. “Why wouldn’t you consider me heading straight to Exegol and killing the Emperor where he stands, if he stands, the safest course of action to secure the First Order’s rule?”
Hux pauses. Blinks himself some reconsideration into his senses. “Ah.”
Kylo shakes his head and turns away again. “And one last thing.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Contact the Knights of Ren,” says Kylo. “Tell them to meet me on Arvala-7…”
Grandson? Another voice, sudden, curious, less tinged with the Dark Side of the Force, prods at him and draws him in. Kylo’s words trail off, as he squints out towards the trees for its source.
Vader’s grandson, are you? The voice chuckles, almost good-naturedly. Come here, so I can give you a proper welcome.
“Sir?” Hux waves a hand in front of his face.
Kylo looks at him again. “Get back to the fleet.”
Hux frowns. “But-”
“Go.”
The general huffs and does as he’s told, muttering under his breath.
Kylo heads the other direction, sieving through the trees, heeding the strange call.
Grandson, grandson, grandson.
After a minute, he identifies a body of water in the distance, the dim sunlight glinting off the surface of the ripples.
He stumbles closer, until he reaches the edge of what seems to be a small lake.
“Who’s there?” he calls raggedly at the open water.
For a moment, nothing. No response.
And then the dead centre of the lake begins to bubble, sending the water to lap at Kylo’s feet. Out of it emerges a creature of sorts. At first its spindly legs crane outwards so it seems to be afloat on the surface of the lake. Then more of it rises from within the shadowy water and now the oversized insect is perched atop what looks like the pale, equally oversized head of a child.
“Grandson,” says the creature. “You seek that which you cannot have.”
Kylo’s breath catches in his throat. “You know nothing about me.”
“I know everything about you,” the creature retorts. “Ben Solo.”
“Don’t call me that,” Kylo snarls. “Ben Solo is gone.”
The creature shifts questioningly, its legs outstretched in all directions. “And yet you bear the burden of your father’s death. Why is that, if not clinging to your lineage?”
Kylo opens his mouth to protest, probably shout, but he can’t find a single rational argument in all his guilt. Instead what comes out is a shaky, “Who are you?”
“The locals used to call me an oracle,” says the oracle. “But to you, I am someone grateful.”
“Is the act of insulting someone your way of showing gratitude?”
“I mean no offense,” says the oracle imperiously. “These acolytes have swarmed our planet, destroyed our new forests, prevented it from healing, all to protect what you hold in your hand.”
Kylo lifts the Wayfinder up between them, eyes narrowed.
“Then you know it’s the answer. With this, the First Order can finally bring peace to the galaxy.”
“Peace?” The oracle laughs, a gurgling laugh. “Oh, you are far from peace, Grandson.”
Kylo’s heart begins pounding in his ears. If this is an oracle, that means… “You know my future.”
“I have seen your future,” the oracle confirms. “Only you have the power to make it come to pass.”
Kylo leans forward, so tranced that he doesn’t comprehend his boot dipping into the water. “What did you see?”
He half expects the oracle to call for a price, something in exchange for the information. But it seems he’s lucky he’s caught it in a good mood.
“The conflict inside you. About the girl.” The oracle points at him with one clacking limb. “You still seek her, and not just her, but her love to mirror yours.”
Kylo shrinks away in disappointment. “There is no conflict, at least not about her. I know what I want.”
“Do you? Good luck telling her that.” Then the oracle sighs, almost wistful. “At least you are together when you return to me.”
“What makes you think I’m coming back?” Kylo scoffs.
The oracle preens, “We do have lovely fields, not far from here.”
What a deranged thing. Its ridiculous head is stuck in a bunch of clouds it cannot even see.
“You’re useless,” Kylo snaps, and turns around, preparing to leave. “Any last words?”
One of the oracle’s back legs reaches over itself, opening its claws to release something small and ovular into the water. Whatever it is, stays afloat, and the oracle sweeps it across the water towards where Kylo stands by the shore.
It collides lightly against the heel of his boot, and he picks it up, inspecting it with an overtone of disdain.
It’s a seed, around a quarter the size of his palm.
“Plant your trees, Ben Solo,” says the oracle. “Watch them grow.”
The Supreme Leader only shakes his head, and swears to dispose of such a meaningless offering as soon as he’s off-world.
But no one, not any of the surviving troopers, nor the pilots, nor Hux, nor even Kylo himself sees his own gloved fingers slip the seed into his trouser pocket, beneath two layers of tunic.
He can’t discern why a seed would ever be of any importance to him, but an instinct tells him it’ll take him where he needs to go. Not now, but in the end.
Somehow, he trusts it to take him home.
Wherever home is.
As he drives the Whisperer planetside, he catches a glimpse of the other half of Mustafar. The healing half. The side without the ashy smoke and raided grounds.
He sees it, and he feels like kicking something.
The oracle was right.
There’s a bright, open grassland. A field, where the wind is gentle and the birds are chirping and the sun rises exactly how it’s supposed to. His heart twinges as he tears himself away.
It is quite lovely.
It reminds him of Naboo.
Back in the depths of the small Mustafar lake, the oracle is practically prancing in excitement.
It senses the seed of a mighty tree being tucked away in an uncertain pocket, it senses the stirring of the Force when faced with a new threat, it senses the onslaught of balance, after generations and generations.
It senses that this boy, Ben, is one half of the key to it, just like the day is complete with the night. It senses that this boy, Ben, will do what his grandfather Anakin could not. The oracle has lived through those times. It can tell when it’s coming to an end.
It senses the girl, training somewhere on the far side of the galaxy, tethered to who she presumes to be her enemy, a twin flame that will never be doused. It senses that together, she and Ben are the start of a new world.
It’ll just take a while for them to build it. To heal it.
But the oracle is patient. It has waited over a hundred years. What’s a few days more?
“Godspeed,” the oracle cries happily, at the shooting star that is Ben Solo’s ship disappearing into hyperspace. “Godspeed, young prince.”