Being frozen in place, if nothing else, gives one time to think. Rey tries to concentrate--to feel the way his power tugs on the... whatever energy it is that drives this place that isn't the same Force she felt in her own galaxy. She tries to understand it and channel it the way she could the Force. After all, if he can do it, so can she... probably.
He's been trained, her traitorous brain points out. You haven't.
Beat him before. Twice. She ignores the facts that he was injured and uncertain in the forest, focuses instead on his botched interrogation. He certainly has no excuse for that one, she was just stronger. And she can be stronger again.
She tries not to focus on the coil of rage in her gut when he picks up her lightsaber--Luke's lightsaber, she reminds herself--and she tries to ignore how utterly wrong it is to see blue light reflected on that horrible mask instead of red. But she can't ignore the blade at her throat or how the heat and glow of it make her heartbeat race. The snow at her feet melts into a grimy sludge, the ground underneath turning hard and cracking.
Rey stares directly where she knows his eyes are underneath all that metal, where she imagines a scar splitting his boyish face in half, and she finds her strength. Her grip on her staff loosens and tightens as his hold on her slowly weakens, and her foot shifts a centimeter or two. Then she swallows and commands her mouth to move--even if her words come out stiffly, there's a victorious glint in her eyes.
no subject
He's been trained, her traitorous brain points out. You haven't.
Beat him before. Twice. She ignores the facts that he was injured and uncertain in the forest, focuses instead on his botched interrogation. He certainly has no excuse for that one, she was just stronger. And she can be stronger again.
She tries not to focus on the coil of rage in her gut when he picks up her lightsaber--Luke's lightsaber, she reminds herself--and she tries to ignore how utterly wrong it is to see blue light reflected on that horrible mask instead of red. But she can't ignore the blade at her throat or how the heat and glow of it make her heartbeat race. The snow at her feet melts into a grimy sludge, the ground underneath turning hard and cracking.
Rey stares directly where she knows his eyes are underneath all that metal, where she imagines a scar splitting his boyish face in half, and she finds her strength. Her grip on her staff loosens and tightens as his hold on her slowly weakens, and her foot shifts a centimeter or two. Then she swallows and commands her mouth to move--even if her words come out stiffly, there's a victorious glint in her eyes.
"You. First."