Ben Solo had not thought about his past in a while. At least, he tried to forget his earlier days as an agent of the dark side existed. But Ora’s questions, her eyes that stared at him with such yearning for truth, as if willing him to say that everything her mother had told her was a lie, it had seared into his very being, reminding him of the ugliness and the regret of his younger years.
He didn’t want Ora to become like him. He had to make sure she was protected. That she wouldn’t use anger as a vent for her power. To use hatred to let herself be known, or heard. He wanted to let her know that everything would be okay. That the loss of her mother would not hurt her but help her. But he also knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t always be with her, and that was when she’d have the hardest time.
When she was forced to sit down and realize that she was, indeed, alone, which hall would she take. Would she take the metaphoric corridor to the left where light waited at the end of the tunnel? Or would she take the corridor to the right that descended down a winding staircase deeper into darkness?
He chanced a sidelong glance at his daughter who hadn’t looked at him much after their talk. Sometimes, like now, she looked strikingly like him and it scared him deeply.
“Ora,” he said.
She looked up at him. “Yeah?”
He smiled, reaching to stroke her cheek. “Don’t be afraid.”