Run!

"Come on, Artoo!"

"Run!"

"You've got this, Artoo! Run!"

Run!

He focused on the words his friends cried out for encouragement, frantically waving their arms with hands that beckoned for him to make it to the wooden raft that'd begun to slowly drift apart from the ferry's dock. Artoo replayed the notion in his thoughts, not caring that the soles of his feet were being scraped and prodded by fallen twigs and discarded stones while his puny hobbit legs carried him over the forest's wooded trail, striving to distance himself from the steed hot on his heels.

Lungs enflamed, burning like dragon's fire while his heart hammered against his chest, straining to pump the necessary blood into his veins from the amount of exertion it took to keep from falling victim to the hooves that pummeled the earth in his tracks. The raucous snorts and grunts of the animal merged with the rider's clanging armor, like the resonating sounds of swords clashing in a nearby battlefield.

The thunder rolling behind him intensified as he heard the mount of another dark rider join the chase and immediately followed by another. One of them let forth an agonizing, blood-curdling cry, sending a ripple effect of shivers along the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck. The sound nearly deafened his sense of hearing though he couldn't afford performing the simple act of covering his ears. He had to endure to the pain that was violently ringing in his ears, aiming to preserve his strength and focus on staying alive; otherwise, the quest he'd been tasked to carry out would nonetheless be for nothing.

For perplex reasons that remained entirely unknown, the weight of the silver chain around his neck, bearing the One Ring of power, had begun to feel the heaviest it'd ever felt since it came to be within his possession that morning. It was a worry that could undoubtedly be saved for pondering later. Now, he just needed to focus on reaching the waterfront.

"Come on, Artoo!" Threepio hollered, anxiously watching from the raft. While his friend had begun to draw close the pursuer dangerously closed further in to meeting its goal. Maintaining its grip on the reins with a single hand the adversary quickly extended the other armored hand, aiming for the back of Artoo's shoulder. It was one of those moments that surely felt like it'd been reeling in slow motion. "You're going to have to jump! Come on! It's almost on you!"

Artoo drew in a sharp breath, forcing himself to ample the drive he needed to fling himself several meters from the wooded-frame of the port onto the raft with his friends. With his attention wholly centered upon the timbered vessel, he used his feet to launch himself into the air at the exact moment he reached the edge of the pier, landing amongst safety on hands and knees with a bone-crumbling thud.

Amidst the frenzy of hands that attempted to assist Artoo into a position of sitting upright, the shrill siren of screams cut-off worried queries from Chirpa, Wicket, and Threepio. Their bodies crumbled into fetal positions on bended knees, eyes tightly clenched whilst cupping their palms over ears until the insufferable shrieks reduced to silence.

Only then did Artoo dare to reopen his eyes, unable to resist stealing a final glimpse through the crick of his arm of the creature that would've wrought an unmerciful death. What he looked upon was like a scene he expected to have seen sketched on a page inside one of his uncle's storybooks: what typically ensued when struck with the need to venture beyond Jakku's rolling hills of green pastures and valleys. The only exemption between then and now was him having to live the moment, and not reading about it resting beneath his favorite spot at the willow tree alongside the lake.

Brandishing a coat of hair blacker than the evening's darkness, the figure's horse rose upon its rear haunches, letting forth an incensed fury of grunts and squeals he never believed an animal of its kind would make. He could see its breath, vaporizing into the autumn's frigid air as its nostrils wildly flared, adhering to the rider that was forcing it to return to all fours.

A single ray of moonlight coerced its way through the trees' high-rising canopies, revealing the noticeable chrome armor that lined the figure's arms and shoulders. The protective coverings over its hands and gauntlets resembled scales from once known to be great, fire-breathing serpents from the north, burnishing like diamonds against the light that'd begun to rapidly diminish as a cloud slowly passed from overhead.

The helmet concealing its face behind a shadowy veil obscured the figure's identity beneath an obsidian robe, a garment purposely made to extinguish its rank of importance and inflict horror into anyone that was unlucky enough to see it. Great entities that mirrored thorns provided a crown around the headpiece's upper-portion, rising to an illustrious peak at the forehead and protruding outright from its chin.

For what felt like an eternity of waiting on baited breaths, the hobbits remained steadfast in anticipation, concerning the doom that would surely be brought upon them if the figure were to decide to make its way into the water as they slowly drifted afar. The knight watched them motionlessly, appearing to be weighing its options prior to surrendering to its defeat. The hobbits' sights remained keen to the riders taking up the afforested land at the rear of their leader, cloaked in ravenous robes and faces darkened only by hoods.

The supposed leader raised an iron-clad fist into the air, silently bidding its followers to retreat whilst urging its mount to return to all fours. One by one, the three riders veered off into the thick, forested terrain, running parallel to the river as two more riders that'd been unseen materialized from the mist further down the trail. Their vociferous screams pierced the thinning atmosphere, becoming muffled only by a little as they fell in pursuit of those ahead.

It wasn't until the final figure disappeared into the trees when the hobbits released the breaths they'd been holding. The only sounds remaining were the occasional snaps of nameless objects cracking limbs deep within the forest, and the soothing resonance of water flourishing within the bank, gently battering the edges along the raft.

Artoo swallowed heavily, conceding to the thick lump that'd formed at the back of his throat. He looked to see the relieved faces of those occupying the diminutive raft with him, their chests gradually coming down from the heaving state of panic to somewhat regular.

"Those riders were looking for something," Wicket stated with eyes narrowed in scrutiny, breaking the heavy pause of tension that lingered long after it'd been deemed safe enough for them to speak. Pivoting his chin, his concentration diverged from the direction he'd been staring blankly towards to Artoo. "Something that they think we have. But what is it that they could possibly want?"

Gazes in which demanded questions to be answered from Chirpa and Wicket settled upon Artoo, hoping to receive an explanation of sorts while Threepio sat silently across from them, alongside his lifelong friend. Having been assigned to accompany Artoo on the dangerous mission by the grey wizard, Holdo, it wasn't the sandy-blonde hobbit that needed to be enlightened of everything that was being held at stake.

Artoo heaved an unsteady breath, cheeks puffing out as he liberated the sigh. Not only was the fate of Middle Earth lying upon his shoulders, but now the lives of his friends he'd spent his entire life growing up with in the outskirts of Tatooine.
"I need to get to Mos Eisley," he confessed, shifting his eyes between Chirpa and Wicket. "I'm to meet someone at The Prancing Tauntaun, though I'm not entirely sure what's to be coming next."

The two younger Hobbits nodded in unison, considering the newly acquired facts with a bottom lip drawn beneath their upper teeth. "Okay," Wicket scoffed, concern inevitably creased between his brows as he spoke for himself and Chirpa. "But do you think that they'll have any chips at least? Muffins?"

"How can you think about food at a time like this?" Chirpa scolded, regarding his friend with a judgmental glare. "We nearly just got killed and you're thinking about eating?"

Wicket shrugged, unbothered. "Yeah, but after all that running I think I burned off what was left of my breakfast earlier. You try going without having second breakfast and dinner!"

Chirpa rolled his eyes and shook his head, disturbing the layers of strawberry-blonde curls. "I did go without second breakfast – and dinner, you dope," he affirmed, reining a softer tone and expression when he looked to Artoo sitting crosswise from him. "But yes, Artoo, like what Wicket was trying to say, we will help you get to Mos Eisley for whatever it is that you need to do."

Artoo nodded and furbished a grateful smile to those sitting with him around the ferry, hoping that the worst of the evening was officially in the past.

"I just hope that those things don't continue to follow us," Threepio uttered, unable to relieve the shakiness in his voice. Drawing up his knees to his chest, he lowered his voice into a whisper, "Something's telling me that the odds will not remain our favor, Master Artoo."

Artoo grimaced, veering his weary irises to the direction that the riders had disappeared. He refrained from mentioning the burden around his neck had grown stronger since the riders appeared, hinting at the awakening of a great evil to which it was silently calling to. He raised a hand to the neckline of his tunic and clenched his fingers over the fabric, adhering to the stress that'd begun to infect his mind.

**

So close.

He'd been so close to achieving what the hollow mass in his chest needed to suppress its vigorous yet unquenchable yearning. It was the closest he'd ever been to silencing the Ring of Power's nagging drum in his ears. Having allowed its shadowy, smoke-like tendrils to pull him further into the chase, he'd welcomed the congenial embrace that forever could've eased the pain of the Wraith dwelling within him: it was but one of the many corporal effects that the One Ring upheld over those few in Middle Earth whom been unfortunate to hold the title of Ringwraith.

Kylo Ren, the Witch King of Mustafar, whom reigned over its frozen and departed lands since his becoming of wraith stature, and held leadership over eight cursed-souls of great kings that'd fallen under the Ring's ability to influence their once mortal minds. Damned to forever serve and protect the One Ring, killing the one who came to bear it other than Dark Lord Sidious himself, Wraiths were deemed creatures of darkness that were neither living nor dead. They felt the presence of the Ring at all times, wandering the lands in an endless hunt until found and returned to the lands of Dathomir where it'd been forged.

Had his body make-up been that of a full Nazgul, the unfulfilled hunger would've been much harder to endure, and his ability to discern the full extent of the Ring's supremacy would've been remarkably stronger. That, unfortunately, would've ensured his suffering to be significantly more substantial, like the other eight Wraiths that'd faithfully served alongside him since Kylo's rebirth from the previous life of an elf.

Whatever those former days of existence entailed, he couldn't have been certain. The only recollection of the past life that'd carried into the news of Kylo serving Lord Snoke, whom acquired his orders through the all-knowing Eye of Lord Sidious, was his ability to fluently speak his former native tongue of Elvish, though it was a language he seldom ever used beyond the adopted lingo of Mustafar's black dialect.

Regrettably, it would've made it easier to know what the other half of his blackened heart desired, considering the Ring's influence hadn't come close to soothing that ardent sort of lust. But the thought of lusting over anything prompted his upper lip to curl if Kylo were to think on behalf of his Elven origins. Elves never ceased to hold such high altitudes of contempt over feelings that resembled envy; which only made the Wraith inside him recoil out of disgust when it came to mulling over such a heavy word.

But that typical sort of affection wasn't what mattered at the moment. Right now, his attentiveness was needed elsewhere, and that he was forced to uncover the new location of where the hobbit filth had disappeared to after the river veered from their area of the forest.

Due to a rabid force that connected his desire to seek out the ancient relic, rendering him internally laden with a numbness to anything that didn't strive to provide what it was he needed, Kylo was certain that the small fellowship hadn't gone far. Eyes closed, he focused on that proverbial throb that served as the Ring's pulse, like a second heartbeat that supported the weakened melody of his own, rather than the gentle ripples coming from the nearby current.

He pondered the notion of crossing the river once he'd been able to pick up their trail, knowing the bank flowed close to the small village of Mos Eisley. Kylo's phobia of water highly contrasted to those of his kind who loomed nearby. But after having sent off his captain, Khamul, whom held the strongest connection to the Ring of Power, along with the other three Nazguls to hunt within the regions near Chandrila, Kylo couldn't afford to abandon the last of his aid in order to put forth the effort of finding the Ring on his own.

"We should consider regrouping our forces, Master," Celebrimbor hissed, conveying his concealed ghostly features to Kylo. His tone was spine-tingling, cold and lifeless, unlike Kylo's ability to have kept his emotions intact throughout the years that followed his passing into becoming a partial Wraith. Rather than bearing the customary pair of vocal chords to strengthen one's ability to speak in various volumes, the voice of an authentic Nazgul was nothing more than a corrupted, voluble whisper. "It would be the wisest of decisions before we continue."

Kylo slowly opened his eyes, breaking the connection he'd held with the Ring to pass an obscured glare to the Wraith on his right, not meriting more than a moment's worth of thought to the unsolicited advice. "That won't be necessary, Celebrimbor," he sneered, reducing his voice to a dangerously low octave. "The Ring is near. I can feel it."

"Indeed," Celebrimbor concurred, "but it is not the distance of which that concerns me."

"Please, do enlighten me with more of your ridiculous fears then," Kylo mused through barred teeth, conceding to the edge in which the Ring's rule had swayed him. "But I can assure the longer we continue to wait along this forsaken river it will grow further and more difficult for us to find if we don't insist on moving."

"You dare to question my judgment, Master?" Celebrimbor seethed.

Kylo's hands balled into fists around the reins of his mount, perilously grating the edges of the layered armor. "As much as you persistently question mine," he starkly countered, jutting his helmet toward the vicinity he perceived the hobbits to have gone. "But if my senses are serving me correctly, I believe our small fellowship is traveling towards Mos Eisley."

"Your presumption serves you well, Master." It was Aramor who decided to speak from the side opposite of Kylo, drawing his master's attention askance. "What Celebrimbor's imploring is that the township is greatly occupied by civilians. Such few of us can't stand against their volume of numbers."

Kylo deliberated over the words, remaining paused in his stance in the process. Aramor was right. It'd always been surprisingly best for them to travel through such areas within the skeletal hours of the evening after all the lights had gone out: that being said by those few in Middle Earth who remained immortal to the blades of man. If Kylo were successfully able to have the situation go his way, he would've been long gone and traveling the river so to no longer keep his own master waiting.

"It is no more than a few hours' ride," Kylo uttered coolly, rearing his head from its angled-pose toward the sky. Not a single star could be seen after the rainclouds started rolling in though the moon continued shining at its brightest. For reasons unknown to his comprehension, it displeased him more to not have stolen a glimpse of the wavering orbs of light that would pepper the night's dark canvas. "We wait 'til the moon has reached its highest peak in the sky – and then we ride out. We should arrive well before dawn approaches. It is likely that the town will be asleep during then."

"And if they're not?" Celebrimbor questioned.

Kylo lowered his helmet to Celebrimor, conferring an irritated growl that neared being animalistic. "They will be but few in number if so: kill them," he snarled, rolling the order from his tongue in ways of the primeval dark speech of Dothamir. "Their demise is coming either way, now is the time to use such mortal fears to our advantage."

**

"The Ring of Power," Commander Poe Dameron repeated skeptically, making sure that the words had been heard correctly from his superior, who'd been standing with her back directed towards him whilst staring into the vast depths of Naboo's Woodland Realm. "Are you certain that it's been found?"

Ahsoka nodded as she nervously palmed her hands along the cloudy satin that lined the front midriff to her gown, conveying a soft, glow from nearby torches. The silver halo with portrayals of vines and branches extending upright and around the back of the garment that encircled her crown of mid-torso length, almond hair twinkled in effect to the flickering of flames. Her long tresses shielded all but the narrow tips of her ears. Her shoulders remained squared, tense, pondering the words to enlighten the two elves standing within her presence of what the next course of action would be to such perilous knowledge.

"It has yet to reach the hands of the enemy," Ashoka explained, assuring the worry of her commanding elf. She turned her head askance, speaking over her shoulder in a voice that'd begun to implement a more serious tone. "However, it is safe to assume that it will not always remain that way. It has already attracted the unfortunate attention of those whom it initially calls to by nature."

Rey drew in a sharp breath, her jaw falling lax to the unanticipated news. "What are you saying, my Lady?" She pressed, darting her eyes to Poe, who stood indirectly to the right of her position and met her with a gaze that mirrored the concern of her own.

Poe maintained the rank of Naboo's commanding officer to the Woodland Queen's military, a skilled fighter with keen sights that enabled him to be a master bowman. Already a dangerous warrior by his parentage, Poe was as smart as much as he was cunning, with long and russet-colored hair that extended beneath his shoulder blades. Brandishing the traditional woodland juniper-tinted tunic, his collar reached beneath the prominent definition of his jaw, a pair of slacks that were a shade darker remained tucked into knee-high boots. Bow and quiver strapped to the ready on his back, his thumb tapped anxiously against the hilt of the sword that hung to the side of his hip.

Orphaned at a young age, Rey had come to live within the Woodland Realm after Ahsoka had willingly taken her under a guided wing, long after the days which had been ruled by the kingdom's former queen Padme Amidala. That was when times had been considerably much simpler in comparison to the sorrow that hadn't come to pass. Rey had a home, a promising future with a long-distance love she'd been set to marry, and had clawed her way from the bottom to the upper military rank as Captain of the Guard. She was a remarkable swordsman, a highly-skilled fighter that'd been trained in melee combat with a bowman's substantially keen eyesight.

Being one of few women in disposition to the many ranks that were held by men, her armor had been custom made to accommodate her lean figure. Mirroring the same color hue as Poe's, Rey settled for a narrowly-trimmed tunic beneath the midriff with slits cut out from the waistline. Her armor latticed up the front of her torso with a contrasting shade of bronze that crossed over her bust. Her shoulder pads furnished overlapping layers that resembled Mallorn leaves. The sleeves that provided a protective covering over her arms furnished the resemblance of tree bark, with armored-coils that twisted over the entire length from her wrists to her shoulders. Her auburn-colored hair hung freely around her shoulders, extending to the middle of her back with the sides drawn up into tightly-braided fishbone braids.

"I'm saying that a darkness extending far beyond the borders of our wildest imaginations has been awakened," Ahsoka affirmed. Her hands fell to hang stiffly at her sides, pivoting gracefully upon her toes to face those who she considered to be her most trusted officers. "Rumors concerning the developing activity within the North have begun to spread since the attacks in Mos Eisley."

Rey frowned upon hearing those words, knowing that they struck too close to the events of an earlier occurrence in her life that pertained to the Orcs of Dothamir. "Are you suggesting that orcs are responsible for the attacks?"

Ahsoka's expression grew solemn, drawing in a shuddered breath as she looked to Poe, apprehension prominently lying within the azure irises of her conflicted eyes. "No," she verified, deflecting the query, "the activity that I speak of is said to be coming from Mustafar."

Rey blinked several times as she allowed her mind to absorb the information that it'd recently acquired, rendering her lips to fall agape. She remembered the tales of a great Witch King that'd once inhabited the departed lands of Mustafar. He was a man that'd embraced the title of being the ruler to those of the undead and mutated forms of orcs: adhering to the name of Lord Vader, previously known as the Woodland Elven King Anakin Skywalker.

Anakin took on the persona after becoming heir to the Dark Lord Sidious, precisely the time during which the Rings of Power had been crafted: three had been intended to be worn by the Elves, seven to the Dwarves, and nine to the Kings of Men. It was then that Vader realized what Sidious' intention had been all along. Having forged another ring meant to rule high above all the others in order to maintain power for himself, Sidious knowingly intended to betray Vader rather than follow through with the initial promise of distributing wealth and supremacy to their kingdoms.

Driven by his hatred for Sidious's betrayal, Vader secretly dispersed three of the untainted Rings of Power in effort to save those he loved and cherished: his wife and rightful Queen of the Woodland Realm in Naboo, his daughter Leia Skywalker-Solo of the High Elves in Alderaan and her twin brother, Luke Skywalker, of the Chandrillian Realm.

Ultimately, it led to Vader's untimely death at the hands of the Dark Lord upon his discovery of Vader's voluntary act of valor, resulting in the reasons why Padme fled Naboo in order to reside with Leia in Alderaan. In the years that followed, Sidious had been defeated in a war amongst the Elves and those who continued to reside in Dothamir and Mustafar, and the One Ring had remained lost and forgotten shortly after.

Rey scoffed, the tightness in her chest repressing her ability to speak in a voice that was nothing more than that above a whisper. "But that fortress has been abandoned for years? Are we to assume that Vader has somehow returned?"

Ahsoka took a breath. "That I do not know," she confessed, pivoting on her heal to ascend the short stairway to the throne chair. "I want every border of the kingdom closed," she declared over her shoulder, declaring the prior topic to be officially over. "No one is to leave, and no one is to enter until further notice."

"My lady," Poe uttered, looking to Rey for support, "don't you think it would be wise to investigate further into the attacks on Mos Eisley?"

"What happened in Mos Eisley is not my concern, Commander," Ahsoka declared sharply, pausing at the top of the throne's platform. "Close the borders. Anyone that defies my orders will be banished."

**

The walk to the citadel's front gates had never felt so long as it did after the debriefing with Ahsoka. Rey had spent many days passing over the long, narrow pathways that made up the domain of Naboo's interior; enough to the point where she'd been able to walk them whilst having her eyes closed. It wasn't the wisest of things, of course, considering all it would take was one accidental slip in footing and she would've fallen to her death.

But it was in those brief moments whilst paying homage to the backs of her eyelids that Rey had felt his presence. It was faint yet light and present, like the embers she'd seen on the occasional torch, holding onto its last bit of life before it was to burn out completely.

Ben Solo was alive, a belief she'd been grasping a hold of since word traveled to their side of the world that the only Prince of Alderaan was killed during a scouting mission with his father, Han Solo, along with a handful of other riders. They'd been ambushed by orcs, and those whose remains had been found were returned and given the proper service they deserved.

But Ben's hadn't been either of those bodies that'd been returned home: only his bow and quiver had been recovered, drenched in blood: the same articles that she currently held strewn over her shoulder. It made Rey believe even more that he was out there – somewhere – in a world that was surely about to meet the grimmest of destinies that anyone residing in Middle Earth had ever seen.

"I do not think it is Vader," Poe admitted. The sound of his voice breaking the echoes of their boots padding over the wooden walkway hauled Rey from the abyss that was her thoughts. He gave the hazel irises settled with the whites of her eyes a troublesome look, lips tightly pressed. "There have been whispers of movement in Dathomir as well. Some are saying that the mountain of flame has been awoken."

Rey cinched her brows. "This is no coincidence when it coincides to the same activity in Mustafar," she acceded with a curt nod. "But what does this have to do with Vader having not returned?"

Poe skimmed his tongue over his lips, slowing his strides along with Rey's to an abrupt halt. "Because none of this started until after Ben was killed."

Rey cocked her head, eyes strongly fixed on his. "Are you trying to tell me –?"

Poe raised a palm to silence her query. "I'm not saying that he's alive, Rey," he urged in defense. "But what Ahsoka failed to divulge was that the attackers in Mos Eisley were a band of dark riders of sorts – one bearing the helmet of the Witch King."

"Why didn't you say something earlier then?" Rey accused, folding her arms over her chest with a huff.

"I didn't get to put all of the facts together until now," Poe countered. "I was aware of what happened. I just didn't know that it involved the Ring that belonged to Sidious. And it's pretty clear that it wouldn't have deterred Ahsoka's thoughts on the matter."

Rey nodded and swallowed, massaging the knuckles of her clenched fists with her thumbs.

"There's more," Poe started carefully, "rumors also stated that one of the riders was overheard speaking Elvish to Ol' San Tekka."

Rey permitted a gasp to the flutter in her stomach, eyes drawn wide. She recalled hearing of Lor San Tekka during the days when Ben and his father had traveled to visit the village and conversing with the elderly man that held ownership to the Inn, granting the impression that Tekka undoubtedly had some experience speaking such an elegant dialect.

"I'm going," Rey stated in absolute. "If it's Ben then he may still be in the area."

"Rey," Poe sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't want you to get your hopes up if it's not him. And even if it is, it's likely that he's not the same person that you once new."

Rey shook her head. "I know it's him, Poe. And I won't stop until I find him. Are you coming with me or not?"