A/N: This was originally supposed to (or hoped to, rather) be a future instalment. I read a theory that immediately inspired this little effusion of imagination which I promptly wrote out in a matter of about half and hour and even worked (tentatively) into my 'Lady Adyé-verse Canon'. But new Canon details about Ben's fall and the run-up to tFA make this theory seem more and more unlikely, so I'm simply going to post it as an outright AU plot bunny that never got the chance to hop into the main story.

tl;dr: This is essentially an AU of my AU. it is NOT directly part of my Lady Adyé Series, but inspired by. 

That being said, I'm pretty darn proud of it and I hope you enjoy this little dive into angst.

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Summary

The Dark Side hadn't destroyed everything. He had. AU of an AU. Inspired by my Lady Adyé Series, but it's not part of their 'Canon'. Warning: this is not a happy One-shot. This is about destruction and the Dark Side. About betrayal and overwhelming remorse. About not just losing everything, but wilfully destroying it with his own two hands.

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He Had

It was as though his feet were no longer his own; staggering, stumbling through the halls he had once wandered with purposeful or sometimes hurrying strides. He could barely comprehend what he'd done. It was like a filter had been drawn over his eyes, a haze; blinding him and dulling him, yet also making everything sharp and vibrantly clear.

There was blood...so much blood. Little of it real, though. Lightsaber wounds didn't bleed all that much, apparently, save when the blood vessels slashed through were too big to be cauterized or the blood pressure too strong in those last moments before...

No. The blood was mostly metaphoric.

And there was so much of it.

He felt like he was going to be sick, his stomach roiling and twisting as though it were a ravening, raging beast trapped within the bounds of his abdomen. Bile surged and ebbed and surged again up his throat, hot and burning, as images flashed before his eyes.

What had he done?

He could barely seem to remember, and yet every memory was a crystal clear as a holo. He'd gloried in it. He'd reveled. The Dark Side in him had fed off it, glutting itself on the violence he had committed in that mindless rage. He could still feel the power searing through his body, rich and potent, making him feel strong and invincible.

But the images crashing and splintering before his sightless eyes only made him feel small and shattered.

You will end up hollow, empty and full of regret and misery.

Oh, how he desperately wished right in this moment that he felt hollow...then he wouldn't have to feel this pain this...regret. He wasn't even sure what he regretted. Those words; he knew she'd said them, his Aunt Athara. He could hear her voice in his head, repeating those same words over and over; her voice so soft and certain but sad, pleading even.

He saw a lightsaber highlighting her familiar, reassuring face in a wash of red, her eyes wide and startled like he'd never seen them before. Nothing ever surprised her. Athara was never surprised, or at least, she never showed it. The ominous glow of red light from the blade had made her dark blue-grey eyes look violet. It had been odd; disconcerting; the implications nauseating. A shadow of rage and desperation hung like a shadow over the memory. He'd been awash in it, consumed by it.

You will lose everything.

What had he done...

He could still feel the hilt of the red lightsaber against his palm. He could see himself holding it. He could still feel the sensation thrilling up his arm as the glowing blade had met flesh and cleaved bone. Nausea swamped him again, and this time he retched, falling against the wall for support as he doubled over, the fabric bag in his hand nearly slipping from his suddenly strengthless fingers. Nothing came up, but his mouth tasted sour and fuzzy nevertheless; he had heaved and emptied his stomach already. He could barely remember doing so. He pressed his arm against his belly, as though the physical ache of his elbow digging into his flesh could ease the emotional one settling like shards of glass in his gut. He couldn't straighten. He couldn't move. Pain radiated through his body, spearing and rippling out from a single, fractured crater in his chest; an emotional torment made physical.

He was burning. His flesh felt like it was smoldering, peeling back from his bones. He couldn't breathe.

His shaking hand jerked at his side, reaching up and yanking his hood from his head without conscious thought. He hoped against hope that without the thick fabric enclosing his face like a mask he'd be able to breathe again.

It was a futile hope. He could only gasp for air, his lungs grasping for it like a hand reaching for a ledge as he tumbled down a cliff-face. His chest felt tight.

His body felt like it was burning, the remnants of his rage and the immensity of the power borne from it still coursing beneath his skin like electricity. And he wanted it. He wanted it all.

He wanted more.

It will destroy you. It would. It was a bleak thought, and the little, broken part of him that wailed and wept with despair and sorrow at what he'd done knew it was the truth.

The Dark Side in him only laughed. It revelled in destruction. It laughed at his weakness.

He wanted to die.

He choked on sobs he hadn't realized were consuming him.

His face felt cool. The night air caressed his damp cheeks, whispering softly over his skin to chill the tears he hadn't known had begun streaming from his eyes. Disjointedly he knew he needed to move. The night was quiet around him, but distantly he could hear the growing chorus of sound that only a raging fire could produce. The faint scent of smoke wove through the air, growing stronger the longer he lingered. That was his doing too. He needed to move.

His body refused. His legs were leaden, heavy. His arms felt weak and limp. His head felt stuffed and swollen and full and throbbing. There was too much there. His hands flew to his face, heels and palms pressing painfully against his temples, his eyes, trying to relieve the pressure. The bag thumped sharply against his arm, his side. Part of him wanted to throw it away, to fling it as far from himself as he could. But he couldn't. It was his link, his reminder of his destiny, a reminder against weakness. He needed it.

Faces flashed before him, eyes wide and terrified. Mouths parted and stretched in silent screams. They hadn't been silent then, but they were now. The throbbing, racing thrum of his pulse echoed too loudly in his ears for him to hear them. He'd hear them again in his nightmares now, and he'd see them forever whenever he closed his eyes.

It will destroy you. Yes. Please...then it would be over.

It will destroy everything you love.

Ana's face hovered against his eyelids; his best friend; his cousin; his sister in all but name; his other half. The horror and pain on her face beyond anything he could have imagined even in his worse nightmares. She had looked at him like that. Tears had been streaming down her pale face as she wailed with anguish, her face lit by the glow of two clashing lightsabers, one red and one blue. He'd destroyed the blue one.

Then he'd cut her down. Just as he'd cut down Athara.

They were the only ones in this forsaken place who he'd utterly depended upon. They'd known him in a way even his Uncle Luke, with his gentle, insightful wisdom, never could.

It will destroy everything you love. She'd been talking about the Dark Side, how it would twist and distort him. She'd been right.

But she'd also been wrong.

The Dark Side hadn't destroyed everything.

He had.

Was this how his grandfather had felt after he'd tried to destroy the Jedi? After he'd tried to kill his wife? He'd never been able to fathom how he could have done it, how his grandfather could have tried to kill his Grandma.

Now he intimately understood how easy it had been.

The Dark Side keened in ecstasy.

He was stumbling again, a hand braced against the wall, dirt and rocks and clumps of wilting grass catching at his feet. He didn't even remember forcing himself to start moving again.

He staggered for what felt like the hundredth time as the rough ground gave way to flat duracrete, his legs going out from under him. White-hot pain speared through his knees. It was welcome. His chest heaved. He could breathe again, but each breath felt like a hot slash through his chest.

"Ben!" He gasped at the sound. It was beautiful and pure. Too pure. He tried to hold up his hands, to keep her away, but her little arms wound around his neck, her thin shoulders shaking from fear and cold beneath her nightgown.

"Ben, something bad has happened." Her small voice wavered with tears where it was buried against his neck. Before he could stop himself, his arms were tight around her, enclosing her against his chest as though he could draw her inside his very body to stay safe next to his heart. His body tensed, fighting back wracking sobs that threatened. He could sense that, deep down, she knew why she was scared, that she knew her Mama and sister were gone, that she felt the Darkness and death that saturated this place tonight. She was simply too young to understand. To her everything just felt wrong. He held her tighter.

"Don't leave me." It was such a soft, pitiful plea. "I'm scared, Ben." Hushing, soothing murmurs were falling from his dry lips, his voice cracking and stumbling at first, but growing softer, more comforting as he spoke. He meant them. A spear of pain and something else lanced through his chest, nudging against his shattered heart. The Dark Side snickered and pushed, taunting and cajoling. He should listen to it. The power shivering excitedly beneath his skin pleaded and promised; what was one more...

One more...

The small broken part of him wailed and wept.

His arm shifted of its own accord to his side as his face ducked down, his damp cheek pressing against hers. Her little arms tightened around his neck. She was so small, especially nestled so tightly against him.

With a twitch of his hand he pulled his cloak forward, wrapping it tightly around them both before repeating the gesture with the other side.

And then he was lifting her, carrying her away. She was so small, so young.

He needed to get her away from here.

He needed to get her away from him.

The interior lights of the ship were too bright, blinding him with prickling stabs of fire to his eyes. The bag slipped from his fingers to fall with a dull, metallic thud at his feet, the fabric forming a heap around its contents. He barely noticed. In this moment, the bag held only a lump of melted metal and plasteel. He knelt beside the co-pilot's seat. He'd paused next to the berth of the small ship, but his chest had tightened and shuddered painfully at leaving her in the space that was much too large and much too empty. Too lonely.

She was going to be lonely for a long time. He couldn't deny her the short time with him—with family—that remained. He couldn't deny himself the time.

It had taken so much effort to convince her to disentangle her delicate hands from around his neck. He hadn't wanted her to let go anymore than she had. Her embrace, her innocent trust had made him feel, just for a moment—a single, beautiful, fragile moment—that he could fix what he'd done.

He couldn't fix it.

But he could do one thing right.

He stripped off his cloak, covering her with it like a blanket. His hand jerked as he went to tuck it in closer around her shoulders, his fingers shaking over the blood spattered into the weave of the thick black fabric, but he forced his fingers to steady, rubbing her shoulder gently to reassure the frightened, pleading look in her large eyes. His gaze flicked to her delicate little face. Already her hazel eyes were beginning to slide closed. She was so tired already, but she was afraid to sleep.

Afraid he'd be gone when she woke up.

Heartache bloomed within him, potent and crushing. He was going to leave her alone.

But it was infinitely better than the alternative.

Yes, much better than the alternative that the Dark Side tainting him was still desperately trying to urge him toward. He couldn't do that.

He wouldn't.

He'd already done too much.

He reached out a hand, brushing back a fluttering strand of her dark hair. And then he passed that hand slowly before her eyes, reaching out with the small flicker of Lightness left in him. One last ray of light before the Dark Side consumed him; he knew he couldn't resist it...he didn't want to. Her eyes slid shut, her breathing slowing.

She slept.

Ben stood, slowly, stiffly. He felt as though he were a hundred years old, a thousand. The weight of this night pressed down on his shoulders, trying desperately to crush him, pulverize him into the floor beneath his feet.

He didn't deserve this child's trust.

But in the moment she had given it to him, running into his tainted embrace and throwing her innocent arms around his neck, he'd known he couldn't betray that trust.

Not entirely.

He collapsed into the pilot's seat, the ship coming to life beneath his numb fingers.

She might hate him for what he was suddenly resolved to do, but he could live with that, just as he was now forced to live with everything else he had done.

But at least she'd live.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

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