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Chapter Text

There was a sense of quiet energy in the woods that morning. The ground crunched softly under Rey’s worn leather boots as she crept through the grove, shoving the sleeves of her loose linen shirt up past her elbows. 

She loved this time of the morning, just before everything started. Before it got too hot and her clothes stuck to her skin and the dust got into her pores. She took a deep breath of the misty morning air, soaking in the murmuring wood and the calm.

Until the cannons went off.

Rey jumped, her eyes snapping open just in time to see the gates open and throngs of people come pouring in.

And thus, the first day of the 2020 season of the Jakku County Renaissance Faire at Rebel Grove had begun.

“Well, cheers to another year,” an elderly man in a squire's uniform said to no one in particular before taking a swig (of water, hopefully, Rey thought) out of his mug and shuffling off toward the fairgrounds’ gate.

She snorted a little laugh and hoisted her canvas bag over her shoulder, striding purposefully toward the food court, her trash picker sticking in the wood chips like a walking stick. Thankfully it was early enough that she knew there wouldn’t be any trash in the bins yet. Not even the denizens of Jakku County could create trash if the Grove had only been open for five minutes. In the meantime, she could stroll about and say hi to the regulars.

As she ambled, she greeted the denizens of Rebel Grove. Tallie and Snap, the jugglers, paused in their antics for a moment to wave at her. Old Master Ackbar was already puffing on his long pipe and painting an intricate sea monster on a wooden sword. Mistress Holdo of Ninka Clothiers, the luxury boutique, wafted a glimmering scarf in her direction. 

“Good morrow! Happy Opening Day!” she called. 

Rey waved back. “Hope the business is good today!” she returned with a grin. 

The morning smells of turkey legs and fried items, both on and off sticks, flooded the crowded walkway.

After four years as an official Rebel Grove trash rat, she knew the rhythms of the faire and, somewhat to her chagrin, the rhythms of the people making the garbage therein. She probably wouldn’t need to go by the food court for at least another half hour. 

Should probably swing by the Silver Hart, though, she thought to herself. Never underestimate day drinkers. Her second season with the Faire (and the minor public health event that had been dubbed the Great Labor Day Weekend Purging of 2017) had taught her that much. 

Rey could probably have filled a book with the vital, albeit esoteric, rules she had learned over the last several years. Never accept drinks from patrons, no matter how thirsty you are (in both senses of the word); engage with D&D groups on field trips at your own risk; always wear thick soled boots; ‘thy’ is the possessive, ‘thou’ is the singular pronoun, ‘ye’ is the plural pronoun; and never break character. And yes, even trash rats were characters. 

Her friend Finn, Sir Finn this year since he’d been promoted from squire to knight last summer, had described it as “no-budget Disney.” They weren’t employees, perse, they were cast members. 

Call it a cult, call it kayfabe, call it the only LARP you get paid to play, but Rey loved the Renaissance Faire. Ever since that fateful summer five years ago when she and Finn had first visited Rebel Grove as muggles, she’d been enthralled with the mad magic and unapologetic joy of the place. They became so enamoured that they ended up going back four more times that season, nearly went stone broke doing it, and then spent the whole off-season wishing they were there. Finn had gotten friendly with Sir Dameron, the newest knight of the realm, and had managed to score an audition, one that he nailed thanks to his theatre major and two semesters of stage combat. At the time, Finn didn’t have a car, so he had begged Rey to apply for a spot so they could carpool. She’d needed the money to supplement her work study and had quickly gotten a position as trash rat, thanks to her...well, they were desperate for an extra set of hands and Unkar Plutt, the sanitation manager, hadn’t even bothered to look over her meager resume. Victory thus achieved, Finn and Rey started their new positions that August and the rest was anachronistic, magical history.

They’d made friends with the other regulars easily, but as always, Rey couldn’t help but feel somewhat removed from their little posse. She’d always been a solitary creature, even as a kid. The foster system had instilled in her a strong sense of self-preservation. She kept her own council and valued her safe spaces. Aging out of the system and into the perpetual hunger and scavenging of undergrad hadn’t been easy, but a solid work study at the university library and whatever seasonal or gig work she could find somehow carried her through her four years without issue. 

She was tough everywhere else, holding the world at arm’s length to keep herself safe. But at the Grove? She blossomed, eased, gentled. She skipped through each season without complaint and with a smile on her face, even elbow-deep in ruptured trash bags and wasp stings. 

But even so, this season she couldn’t shake that amorphous sense, that persistent thorn, that there was something she was missing out on. 

As the musicians warmed up at the pub for the morning revel, the din and her thoughts were interrupted by a loud, ear-splitting clanking.

Rey made her way toward the noise, skipping a bit in time with the pipes and tabors as she walked. Something about the music here always made her want to dance. Even though that god-awful clanging was messing with the drumbeat. The Armorer must have gotten an early start on her latest piece.

The sound, the crash of metal on metal, came from the large open smithy hidden behind the pub. The morning light glinted off the blades of mounted swords and the tiny links in chainmail armor.

Well...this person was clearly not the curvaceous, enigmatically-named lady whom Rey had known from years prior. She had been fairly certain that she knew absolutely everyone after four years of intense weekends and buzzed closing day bonfires in the employee campground, even the folks who helped out when store-owners couldn’t make it to the Grove.

This gentleman was not someone she had ever seen before. 

Behind the counter, awash in the angry red light of the forge, a man was wailing on a piece of glowing iron with a large hammer. Rey was surprised to discover that the smith was quite young and toned for how robust a sound he was producing. He paused, wiping at his brow on the sleeve of his loose linen shirt, already doused in sweat despite the mild morning air.

Seeming to sense that he was being watched, he half turned to look over his shoulder. Tall and dark-haired with shoulders as broad as a barn, he was quietly handsome, a fact that she could tell even from beyond the smithy’s doorway. 

His dark eyes caught for a long moment on her, seeming to take in her oversized smock of a shirt and her trash picker stick. She held his silent stare, a mutual observation. The corner of his mouth crept upward into a crooked smile.

Rey felt her cheeks heat lightly and smiled timidly back. 

She was just about to venture into the forge when her walkie talkie crackled and broke her out of her reverie. 

“Hands to the Silver Hart, if you please,” rasped Phasma, the tavern owner, over the speaker.

Rey raised the device to her mouth to answer, but another trash rat had already gotten on the horn, mumbling their “on my way” through the static.

When she looked back up to meet the blacksmith’s enigmatic gaze again, he had already turned back to his forge, the flames creating dancing shadows across the wall.

The walkie squawked again, shattering her thoughts with a jump. She let out a little sigh and turned to stride back into the main thoroughfare, her cheeks as warm as if it were she standing before the crucible herself.

Rey had already been armpit deep in trashbags for an hour and her pickup bag was full of loose wrappers and discarded stakes when the sound of trumpets broke through the clearing. Costumed staff ran around corralling faire-goers into the fringes of the grove. 

It was the first royal procession of the day. 

Rey took a knee on the wood chips and watched as the colorful parade made its way into the clearing. 

Queen Leia was resplendent in a gown of blue and silver, a crown of sapphires glittering in her intricately braided hair. A nervous looking gentleman in yellow with round spectacles followed closely beside her and a train of courtiers in many colors trailed behind her. The queen stopped in the center of the hollow and waited for her subjects to attend to her speech. 

“Lord Threepio!” Queen Leia pronounced, her raspy voice ringing out in the wood. “Is it not a fine day to be among such a fair assembly?”

“It is, Your Majesty,” the man tutted nervously. “But I would be aware...I have heard some ill tidings might befall the kingdom!”

A few courtiers gasped theatrically. Rey grinned to herself. The queen looked playfully inquisitive and seemingly unconcerned with her courtiers’ dramatics. 

“Ill tidings, my Lord? Surely nothing ill can come about on so fair a day and in so lovely a wood?”

A few faire-goers whooped in agreement. Queen Leia smiled magnanimously. 

“Speak, Lord Threepio!” she commanded. “We would know these ill tidings.”

“Ma’am, word has come from the great Wizard Skywalker, your brother, that there are dark forces descending upon the glade, set to arrive this very day before the sun shall set!” Lord Threepio announced. There were dramatic gasps from the regulars in the crowd this time.

The Queen’s expression hardened. “Yes, I have heard rumors of a Black Knight that has plagued our neighboring kingdoms. Surely he would not be so bold as to threaten our sovereignty.”

She snapped her fingers. “Sir Dameron, approach!”

A handsome knight, not yet in his armor but still wearing the colors of House Organa, surged forward from the back of the procession and turned to kneel before the queen.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sir Dameron knelt before the queen.

“You are our first knight, our greatest defender.” She looked to the crowd and raised her voice. “We charge you to do your duty and protect our realm from this threat. Should you encounter this menace, this Black Knight, we do charge you to do battle with him…and win. Do you accept this challenge?”

“It is my greatest honor, my Queen,” Poe bellowed. “No invading knight shall darken the soil of Rebel Grove. I will assemble the kingdom's finest fighters to meet this threat.”

A loud chorus of “Hurrah!” was taken up by the courtiers, who encouraged the surrounding crowd to join in the noise. Rey threw a few hearty shouts in herself, happy to be swept up in the ballyhoo. 

This was a different court play than the last several years. There hadn’t been a Black Knight in Rebel Grove for some time, if the old-timers were to be believed. Rumor had it that Queen Leia’s real-life husband, Han, had played the Black Knight for many years before his retirement. It was how the two of them met, back when the Queen had been a Princess. 

Rey sighed wistfully to herself. Though she was a generally practical person, she couldn’t deny the draw that grand gestures and chivalric romances had on her. She was a hopeless romantic at heart and part of her longed to have such an experience one day. She craned her neck to try to catch Sir Finn’s eye, grinning when his gaze flicked briefly to her. He quickly looked away, his expression serious, and she couldn’t help but feel a slight sting of rejection. It was ridiculous to feel as such, she knew; he was working, he couldn’t break character, and what reason would he have to pay any sort of attention to a lowly trash rat. But even so, she couldn’t reason away the bruise on her heart. Not entirely.

“Now!” cried Sir Dameron, gesturing to his squire and his compatriots. “Let us to the tavern, that we may devise our plan of attack against the wicked Black Knight!”

With a whoop, the procession shifted away from the queen to pursue Sir Dameron and hear him tell of his plans, Sir Finn leading the pack.

Rey was left alone in the middle of the grove, surrounded by the merriment of Opening Day once more. 

She didn’t see the handsome blacksmith until much later at the tavern for the closing pub sing. 

She hadn’t been looking for him or anything. She’d been looking for the Knights Dameron and Finn. They always did the first pub sing of the season together. Every year since the first they’d all gotten together to get buzzed at the Silver Hart and sing old sea shanties as badly and as loudly as possible. They’d spin around arm in arm until they were all laughing hard and out of breath, messy-haired and rosy-cheeked. 

But her boys hadn’t come, even though most of the court drama actors had trickled in by now and the music and dancing was in full swing. 

Her tankard felt heavy in her hand. She took a deep draught of her cider, swallowing down that bitter sting at the base of her throat with sweetness, letting it coat her insides with effervescent warmth. 

Tomorrow they’ll be here, she told herself. It’ll be fine. You’re overreacting.

She peeked back over her shoulder one more time, just to check, when she saw him again. 

Following a scruffy older man with a sour expression, the blacksmith carried a large leather bound bundle across his broad shoulders, the bag bristling with dented armor and nicked swords. The older man seemed to be grumbling at the younger as they walked. The dark-haired man stopped briefly as he caught sight of Rey. 

She smiled and raised her cup in his direction. The beginnings of a grin alighted on his generous lips and he looked ready to lay down his burden to join her when the older man barked something indiscernible over his shoulder. The blacksmith’s face blanked and he shifted his grip on his pack, shook his head apologetically, and strode to catch up.

Rey’s smile dimmed, but not for long. The musicians were striking up another song.

Sunday dawned just as hot as the day before, the wood hazy and thick with August humidity. September had yet to crisp the air, something that Rey prayed for fervently as she milled about the hollow just after the morning cannon. She already felt damp and it wasn’t even noon yet. 

Her wandering feet carried her, seemingly unconsciously toward the smithy at the center of the hollow. The young blacksmith was at his work already, his clanging echoing in the grove.

She stopped at the edge of the smithy, the toes of her boots just barely scraping the line where the stone floor met the wood chips outside. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him, fascinated by the rhythmic flex of his back and shoulders as he struck his hammer against the hot iron. The thought came to her unbidden and bowled her over with its intensity: she wanted to know him. She wanted to know what his voice sounded like. She wanted to know how he came to be here, how he learned his trade, what magic brought him to brush up against her quiet little existence here at the Grove. 

And then, said a smaller voice somewhere in the vicinity of her heart, she wanted him to know her as well.

“You’re new,” she blurted out. A winning start to any conversation , she thought with an internal cringe.

The man, paused, hammered one more time then glanced at her. “From a certain point of view, my lady, I suppose I am.”

She snorted, hoping he couldn’t tell that his voice, deep and rich, made her shiver. 

“I’m no lady,” she scoffed, gesturing to her simple garb. “You’re definitely new, then. At the Grove, that is. I’ve never seen you before.”

“I guess not, my lady," he said simply, striking the iron one more time before turning back to her. “But that's not because I haven't been here.”

“Well, that’s remarkably cryptic for so early in the morning.” She leaned against the counter. “Care to elucidate?”

He stepped closer to her, into a beam of bright morning sunlight. This was the closest they had ever been and she couldn’t help but take him in up close. His dark hair, falling in low, lazy curls, hung loosely around his shoulders. He wore tight breeches and a quickly dirtying white linen shirt, collared with a low V neckline. Under his shirt Rey could just see the outlines of those powerful muscles, capable of making such a ruckus...

“Are you shopping or merely admiring the merchandise?” he asked slyly, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. 

Her cheeks burned hotter than the forge and her eyes snapped to her feet.

“Ah, uh, no,” she stammered. “Just making the rounds.”

“Well, if anything catches your eye, let me know, my lady,” he said, bobbing his head teasingly.

“Anything?” she asked, her mouth running away with her before she could catch it again. She blushed even harder and fidgeted where she stood, biting back a shy smile. “I’m afraid I might not be your demographic, sir.”

“Everyone and anyone is my demographic, if you like sharp, pointy things and medieval power fantasies,” he said. Rey noticed the sign behind the counter that indicated that purchases could only be made by adults, but the smith seemed to ignore that. “I am but a craftsman. The burden of desire falls on you, my lady. Swords not your style?” 

He scanned her up and down, taking in the trash collector's tunic and hand-me-down faire attire. There was a hint of mockery in his voice. “I can make you a diadem, if that's more your speed.”

Rey laughed lightly, her eyebrow arched. She held up her trash picker, eyeing the needle-sharp point with feigned interest. 

“I think I’m well-equipped enough in the way of weaponry, good sir,” she drawled. “And as for a pretty frippery, do you think you could create something that would do this—” she gestured to herself “— finery its proper justice?”

He smiled to himself. “So do you like being a rubbish wench?”

She spun the trash picker on its point against the smithy floor. 

“That’s a very pretty way of saying ‘trash rat,’” she mused, then shrugged. “I like it well enough. It gets me out to the faire every weekend and I get to go where I please, so long as the garbage gets picked up.”

She surveyed him and his forge with a curious eye. “Do you like being a blacksmith?”

He shrugged. “Pays bills. Kills time. Lets me hit things with hammers. Takes me to exotic…” He gestured at the grove around them. “Kingdoms. Fairgrounds. Sweaty nerd conventions.”

Rey laughed. “I wonder how many Andúril’s you’ve been commissioned for over the years.”

He chuckled. “Sting is more of my specialty.” He turned back to the forge. “My master was working deep in the Lord of the Rings craze. He's done way more than me.”

She skirted around the edge of the smithy, picking carefully around bristling iron tools and finished blades. 

“You’re not a master?” she asked. “Sorry, I don’t know the first thing about metalworking.”

“I mean, I could be. But I don't have my own shop yet. I still work for the guy I trained under. He has...a unique style, so I wanted to learn from the best. He's out and about, so I'm alone here for now, I guess. At least until it gets busier.”

“Ah, I see.” She had come to a little bouquet of wrought iron and silver hairpins. Roses and lilies seemed the most prevalent but one silver daisy stood out. It was simple but expertly crafted, each delicate petal shimmered in the morning light.

“These are lovely,” she murmured.

He put his tools away before approaching her. “Those? Oh, they're nothing,” he said with a proud smile that betrayed him.

She traced a daisy petal with the tip of her finger. “Are they yours?”

“Just something I threw together,” he said with a lazy shrug. “I’m glad they've found a fan.”

Rey smiled up at him. “You do really beautiful work,” she said. She gazed longingly back down at the daisy, her face falling a bit. She forced her hand away from the metal bouquet with a rueful sigh.

“Too fine for the likes of me…”

“You and I both know that's not true,” he chided, folding his arms and propping them on the counter in front of her. “This is the Renaissance Faire! What's it for if not for bringing dreams and fantasies to life?”

He pointed at the hairpin. “What about you makes you think yourself unworthy of such a trinket?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m sure I can’t afford it.” She stepped back and did a sardonic little twirl.  “And for another, it kind of clashes with my whole ‘rubbish wench’ aesthetic.”

“Hey, nothing clashes worse than wearing Nikes and medieval gowns but people do it every day,” the blacksmith said pointedly. “And anyway, how much would you pay for it?”

“Far less than it’s probably worth,” she retorted. “You work hard, you have real skill, you should be paid for it. I hate seeing artisans being underpaid for their work. And I can’t afford fine silverwork on a trash rat’s wage.”

“I’m not inflating myself or devaluing you. I genuinely want to know what you would give me for it.”

He tapped his fingers on the rough wood counter. “How much do they pay you?”

She shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny but tried to keep the proud tilt of her head. “$7.25 an hour,” she mumbled.

She shot him a challenging look. “Not exactly a prince’s ransom.”

“D'you know much do they get paid?” he crooked a thumb over at the large flower crown booth, loaded with fake blossoms and colorful ribbons.

“I...no, I don’t.” She watched Mistress Larma fit a coronet of silk sunflowers onto a little girl’s braided head. “Probably more than me, though.”

“What about them?” 

Over by the pub, two of the rose sellers walked along, baskets of flowers slung over their arms. They crossed over in front of the forge and waved to the blacksmith. His eyes never left Rey.

“If you’re trying to prove a point, kindly get on with it,” she growled. 

He rolled his eyes. “Well, are you in love with this job? I know you're here because you want to work at the faire, but...what job would you rather have? In the whole wide faire, what else would you rather be doing?”

She followed the rose girls with her eyes as they twirled and swung their wares, the bells on their ankles tinkling sweetly. 

“It might be nice to smell like flowers instead of garbage for a change…” she mused. 

“And occasionally, metal blooms, I take it?” he asked, cocking his head toward the hairpin display.

She laughed lightly, her gaze catching on the delicate silver petals. “If I’m lucky…”

“Well, I’m not taking apprentices at the moment, but I'm not sure why in a place full of fantasies and make believe you want to keep lugging garbage. How long have you been at it, anyway?”

“About four years.”

“ Four?” he asked, not even trying to disguise his shock.

“Look, you're too qualified to be a trash rat. That's a job for teenage boys whose parents run the crystal shop so they don't spend all day smoking pot in the staff campground.”

His response, still mildly hurtful, seemed to land a bit softer with his intense gaze on her.

“Why do you come back year after year?”

“I mean...it’s not that bad. Rebel Grove is my happy place. So if I have to pick up trash to be here, then that’s what I’ll do,” she said simply. 

“And if you didn't have to?” he asked.

“What, if I could work anywhere in the Faire? ‘Cuz I sure can’t afford to come every weekend for the whole season on my own dime.”

“But would you? I mean, you're so invested in everyone else's magical experience that you kind of get the worst one. Short of mucking the stables. Not that I would know.”

She grinned. “I don’t know, something tells me there’s deep-seeded trauma there regarding horse manure,” she chuckled. 

Her smile turned thoughtful then. “Yeah, I think I probably would. I make my own magic.”

“Well,” he said. “I guess that explains why I can't let you leave without taking a hair pin.”

“You just want to give me a one of a kind piece of art?” she said incredulously. “Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Goodness of my heart?” he scoffed. “No, this is a marketing ploy. I need someone to show them off for me so other maidens will want one,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“And I wouldn't mind your name.”

The corner of her mouth curled upward and her heart thumped hard in her chest. 

“Rey,” she said, extending her hand to him. “I’m Rey.”

“Rey,” he repeated. She liked the sound. “Take the pin.”

“Man, you just don’t quit, do you?” She approached the counter with slow, lazy steps. “Anyone ever told you that you’re kind of intense?”

“Once or twice,” he shrugged. “Take it.”

“No, no I couldn’t possibly. You obviously worked hard on it, I need to pay you for it!” 

“You’ll figure something out. I need to market them to the customers. If you'll wear it, take it.”

“Are you saying you actually want to be paid in exposure?” she said incredulously.

“As you said, I'm new here or something. Need to stand out from the other blade jockeys.”

She gaped at him for a moment, her gaze falling back to the beautiful flowers in their little earthenware pot. Her eyes flicked back up to him.

“You’re absolutely sure? You won’t get in trouble?”

The blacksmith chuckled, a crooked grin brightening his face. He picked up the silver daisy and held it out to her, his large hand making it look even more delicate by comparison. 

“I think I’ll survive.”

“I see you’ve finally found yourself a friend, Blacksmith,” came the nasally, faux-British accent of everyone’s “favorite” lordling: Hux. “And how quaint, she’s just as unwashed as you.”

The blacksmith’s face darkened like a storm cloud. Rey’s face went hot. But there were customers surrounding them on all sides, watching as the show played out before them. Number one rule of the Faire: don’t break character around the muggles. 

“My Lord,” the blacksmith muttered between gritted teeth. “Why have you deigned to visit my humble forge?”

Hux brushed an invisible speck of dirt from his black velvet doublet. Rey smirked to herself. He would be absolutely dying in that by the time noon rolled around.

“I’ve come to speak with your master on the matter of my sword. Is he about?”

“No, he told me he had an appointment with the Queen, but I can help you.”

Hux looked him up and down and scoffed. “If I must.” He batted a hand theatrically at Rey. “Begone, wench.”

She looked back at him incredulously, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. She cut an exaggerated, flourishing bow, much to the amusement of a nearby group of muggles with their phones out. Then she turned to the blacksmith with a small smile and a bob of the head.

“I shall see you anon, good sir,” she murmured.

“Lady’s a valued customer,” the smith said, a challenge in his tone. “She is free to do as she will. We can handle our business.” 

Rey raised a placating hand. “It’s alright, I should be making my rounds anyway.”

The blacksmith directed a glare towards her. “Don’t let this one bother you, my lady. He's not as important as he thinks.”

A millennial in a hawaiian shirt gasped to his friend, “ Drama …”

“Oh I know, sir, His Lordship and I have met afore,” she said cheerfully. “Truly, though, I must be going before Master Plutt tans my hide.”

She smiled again at the blacksmith. “But I will see you anon, master blacksmith. If you’ll permit it.”

“At your leisure, my lady,” he said with a bob of his dark, shaggy head.

She grinned and turned to go, but stopped just before she left the forge completely.

“You must pardon me, sir. I gave you my name, but I never asked yours,” she said.

“Really, I'm quite busy, sir,” Hux snapped. “Surely, this fraternizing can wait.”

“Now now, Your Lordship. Manners,” chided Rey. She looked expectantly at the taller man.

“I’m Ben, my lady,” the blacksmith said quietly.

Her smile lit up her face like a sunny day.

“Ben the blacksmith,” she murmured. “I like it.”

She spun back to the grove past the shade of the forge and started to stride down the small hill leading into the deeper wood. 

“I shall see you anon, Ben the blacksmith!” she called over her shoulder.

Ben raised his hand to wave, but before he could respond he was barked at by Lord Hux, and the two began bickering again.

Rey practically galloped down the hill, making her way toward the food court. Plutt would likely ream her out for being late to pick up the day-drinkers’ garbage, but she couldn’t be bothered to care.

Her thoughts were filled with a handsome blacksmith.

The afternoon dragged on as she made round after round, circling the fairgrounds. Giddy with the thought of another tete-a-tete with the handsome blacksmith, she tripped her way down the hollow and around the back of the smithy where the forge burned hot.

Ben was gone.

Must be on break, she thought, trying not to feel too disappointed. 

As she slowly passed the forge, she caught a glimpse of the grungy old man she had seen the night before by the crucible. Snoke, she guessed, the master smith. She raised a hand in awkward greeting as she caught his eye. His wrinkled face curled into a glare. 

“Don’t you have trash to play with, girl?” he growled. 

She stopped, shocked at his immediate disdain. She dropped her eyes to the forest floor and dashed away, deeper into the faire and away from the heat of the forge. 

Before she knew it, the day had come to a close in a haze of dust and turkey legs and bagpipe music. By the time she finally got the chance to sit still for longer than fifteen minutes, Rey found herself sitting in the Silver Hart for the closing pub sing. Rose and Paige, the two sisters that made up Rebel Grove’s premiere musical sensation, Bombastica, were flitting around the open air pavilion, passing laminated song sheets to every table. Rose winked at Rey as she stopped by her table. 

“Long day, Sunshine?” she chirped. 

Rey groaned and took a sip of her Bee Sting. “I don’t even remember how this drink got into my hand, Rosie.”

Rose grimaced. “Oof, that’s rough. Well, you drink that down and relax, sweetie. You’ve earned it.”

Rey raised her cup in acknowledgment and settled in to watch the merriment. A stool was pulled out beside Rey’s table, and a boisterous, handsome man took a seat beside her.

“How are my favorite girls doing?” Sir Finn said, settling down with his ale. 

Rey grinned and shoulder checked him wearily. “I never want to see another turkey leg bone ever again. And it’s still only Opening Weekend.”

She tapped his stoneware tankard with her plastic cup. “I didn’t get over to the tiltyard at all this weekend. How were the jousts?”

“Intense!” Finn’s eyes lit up. “No lie, this show is the best yet. You know how I was complaining about how stale it was getting last year?”

He’d spent practically the entire offseason bemoaning it in their group chat, Rey thought, but she was too polite to bring it up. 

“You’d mentioned it, yeah,” she said with a nonchalant shrug. “I always liked it.”

“Well this year’s is something else!” Finn said, gesturing broadly with his hands. “The story is so good! And the fight choreo is incredible!”

“So who’s the guy in the black armor, then?” she asked, her curiosity overriding her exhaustion. 

Finn opened his mouth to answer when a rumbling drum roll announced the beginning of the pub sing. Paige Tico, bedecked head to toe in silky fabrics and tiny brass bells, called out over the crowd to join in as loudly and as out of tune as possible before she and Rose exploded into “Drunken Sailor.” Immediately delighted and distracted, Finn roared his approval along with the other pub customers and stamped his feet in time to Paige’s drum and Rose’s pipes. Similarly distracted, Rey sipped her grog with a slight smile, delighted to watch the dregs of the Faire, mostly regulars and people without kids, let loose and dance along to the music. 

As she watched the gathering move into full swing, a flash of off-white linen and black hair snagged at the corner of her eye. Ben the blacksmith was striding down the hollow, hair damp with sweat and his shirt clinging to the contours of his muscles. 

He vanished into the crowd headed in the direction of the blacksmith shop. In a whirl of dancers, she lost him. 

She turned back to bid Finn a hasty goodbye, but he was linked arm in arm with one of the court ladies and swirling around deliriously. Instead, she downed the rest of her drink and slipped out the back of the pub. The trees and storefronts whipped past her as she ran for the forge, hoping to catch the enigmatic blacksmith before he left. She nearly mowed down a few stragglers as she went, but she didn’t rightly care. She didn’t want to wait a whole week before she saw him again. 

She burst into the open-air shop, her leather boots skidding on the stone floor with a rasp. 

“Ben?” she shouted into the forge. “Are you there? It’s Rey. The trash rat from this morning?”

She was met with silence and the faint thudding of the drumbeat up the hill. 

“I—I wanted to see you before the weekend closed.” She didn’t know why she felt the need to speak to the empty shop and the ghost of the blacksmith. “To...talk with you. I liked talking with you.”

She listened for any sound but received nothing. 

“I guess...I guess I’ll see you next weekend,” she said, a bit dejected. “Goodbye, Ben the blacksmith. ‘Til we meet again.”

She walked out silently, letting the faint tune of “Scarborough Fair” carry her feet back up to the Silver Hart. 

“There you are!” 

It was hard to miss Sir Dameron. The House Organa colors were blazing bright as a sunset, enhanced by the real sun’s dying rays. 

She smiled wearily. “Evening, Sir Dameron. Looking for me, were you?”

“The party didn’t feel complete without you. Old Plutt on your case again?”

“Not too badly today, but opening weekend is always a bit of a challenge. The court shows were great, by the way. I’ll have to make a point to see the joust next weekend.”

“Yeah? I’m glad you liked them. Weird to be the lead this year,” Dameron smiled proudly. 

“Finn said the fight choreo is really good.”

“Ugh, yes! ” Poe crowed. “It’s so cool. I hope someone puts it on YouTube for posterity, I want to keep it forever.”

Rey chuckled, shaking her head. “Next weekend, I’ll do my damnedest to get out to the yard to see it. Promise.”

A cheer rose from the tavern at the top of the hill. Her eyes followed the sound up into the setting sunlight gilding the trees.

“Shall we go lighten our heels, Sir Dameron?” she quipped, affecting the lilting cadence that most of the character actors adopted.

He offered her his arm. “After you, my lady.”

She laughed gaily and took his arm, curling her fingers into the soft linen of his shirt. As they trudged up the hill back to the Silver Hart, she let herself look back at the forge, dark and cooling in the center of the hollow. 

Next time, she thought. Next time, Ben the blacksmith.

Chapter Text

“‘No, dear Beast,’ said Beauty, ‘you must not die. Live to be my husband; from this moment I give you my hand, and swear to be none but yours. Alas! I thought I had only a friendship for you, but the grief I now feel convinces me, that I cannot live without you.’” 

Rey turned the page, revealing a colorful scene of the Beast transforming into a handsome prince. The first graders on the storytime rug around her oohed and ahhed and giggled excitedly. They had all seen the Disney movie. They knew what was coming.

“Beauty scarce had pronounced these words, when she saw the palace sparkle with light; and fireworks, instruments of music, everything seemed to give notice of some great event. But nothing could fix her attention; she turned to her dear Beast, for whom she trembled with fear; but how great was her surprise!” Rey gasped in exaggerated amazement. “Beast was disappeared, and she saw, at her feet, one of the loveliest princes that eye ever beheld; who returned her thanks for having put an end to the charm, under which he had so long resembled a Beast.”

She turned the next page. “‘But where is my dear Beast?’ Beauty cried. ‘I am he, gentle Beauty,’ said the prince. ‘I was cursed these many years by a fairy and your kindness and good heart has seen past my ugliness and broken the spell! Could you find it in you to love me still, though I am so much changed?’ Beauty, agreeably surprised, gave the charming prince her hand to rise, and kissed him sweetly.”

“Ewwwww,” came the tiny chorus on the carpet.

“Ew?” Rey exclaimed with mock offense. “Isn’t it nice that they’re in love?”

“Nooooo!” screamed the class. 

“Kissing’s icky! The Prince pruh—prob’ly still has Beast cooties,” shouted a boy in the front row.

Rey’s eyebrows hitched high on her forehead and she laughed a little incredulously. “You know what, that’s fair.”

She turned the final page to a tableau in the ballroom of the restored palace.

“Together, Beauty and the Prince went into the restored castle and joined their transformed friends. And they all lived…” She looked to the class to help her fill in the blank.

“HAPPILY EVER AFTER!” 

“The end!” she finished, closing the book with a resolute snap. 

The teacher beamed from the back of the classroom and clapped her hands to get the kids’ attention. 

“Alright! Good listening, friends! And what do we say to Miss Rey for the story?”

“Thank yoooooooou!” 

Rey grinned. “You are very welcome! I will see you all next week for another storytime!”

She got up from the old painted rocking chair at the front of the classroom and meandered to the back of the room to collect the milk crate of library books that needed to be taken back. Miss Abi was guiding the kids through a little discussion about the story they had just heard.

“What do you think the moral of this story is?” A pause from behind her. “Okay, CJ, what do you think?”

“That uhhhh…” CJ dragged the syllable out as long as he could make it. “That...that Gaston is a poopy-head?”

The class squealed with giggles. Rey managed to suppress her snort. Miss Abi quickly wrangled the kids back to order. 

“CJ, you know we don’t use that word in the classroom. And I don’t think Gaston was in this version of the story, but that was a good try. Does anyone else have an idea?...yes, Katie.”

“Um, I think the moral is—is that the Prince didn’t have to be handsome cuz—cuz Beauty loved him when he was a Beast and all furry and stuff…”

Rey grinned to herself. Katie got it. 

“That’s right, Katie, good job!” praised Miss Abi. “Friends, the moral of this story is that anyone, no matter what they look like, can have a happily ever after. There’s lots of different kinds of beautiful out there in the world and sometimes, you just can’t see it until you get to know a person. Anyone can have a happily ever after.”

There was quiet murmuring from the kids as they absorbed the lesson. Rey waved to Miss Abi as she slipped out and closed the door behind her. 

It was Friday afternoon and Rey didn’t have any more classes for the rest of the day. All she had left to do really was check in some books, clean up and shut down the computer lab, and lock up for the weekend. Her footsteps echoed down the empty hallway back to the library. Miss Abi’s words echoed in her head. 

Anyone can have a happily ever after. 

Unbidden, the image of a certain blacksmith popped into her mind. It stopped her dead in her tracks until she shook her head stubbornly, trying to clear the memory of soft black hair and a crooked grin from her mind. 

“No,” she chided herself quietly. “There’s no way. You only talked to him once! He’s so out of your league, he’s practically a different species.”

Even so, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since last Saturday. It was honestly pathetic. She scurried back to the library and shut herself in with a bit more force than was strictly necessary, leaning against the door with the milk crate of picture books still in her hands. She let out a long, drawn out breath.

“Happily ever after,” she muttered to the silent room. 

She thought of her oversized linen shirt and roughshod boots, her messy hair, and the perpetual scent of old turkey legs that clung to her all weekend. She scoffed and strode to her desk, slamming the crate down on its surface. 

“Yeah. Keep dreaming, girl.”

The drive to Rebel Grove is long and sometimes impossible that early in the morning without any coffee, but at least there was never any traffic yet, Rey thought. By the time the opening cannons sounded, the line of cars would stretch beyond the parking fields for a mile in each direction before slowly trickling into their spots; it was sometimes a wonder the Grove could host so many people. This time of day, with the sun rising in the sky over the still-green canopy of the forest, she slid easily into one of the staff spots and scurried over to the fence gate that led to the staff house.

Part campsite, part dressing room, Rey was quickly swept into the fantasy world as everyone, shopkeepers and performers alike, whisked around the small office and locker room with anachronistic coffee cups and Converse sneakers, calling to each other and laughing as they painted their faces and donned their costumes, far more energetic and vibrant than Rey felt. She hurried to find the bin of tunics for the garbage crew when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She was spun around to face an unfamiliar short-haired woman with a harried expression that belied her cheerful flower crown.

“Oh thank god! Are you Rey?”

Rey had never been greeted with such relief before. 

“Uhhh,” she sputtered, grinning uncomfortably. “Yes.”

“We need another body on flowers, and you were recommended. Congrats on the promotion,” the lady said quickly, looking Rey up and down. “You’ll have to borrow garb. We’ll have you shadow in the morning but we need you during the afternoon jousts.”

Rey opened her mouth but only a weak little squeak escaped. She swallowed, shook her head, and tried again.

“I’m sorry, what? Promoted? What happened? Unkar has me on a trash rotation, he’s gonna be pissed!”

But the lady in her daisy chain already had Rey by the elbow and was whisking her toward the gaggle of flower sellers fixing their hair and hats before being set loose on the Grove.

“We’ve got enough folks on trash. We need a flower seller. My team is desperate,” the lady said, her eyes skimming Rey’s. “I’ve already talked to Plutt. You’re the best candidate we have. You don’t have to, but I’m told you’ve got the best people skills of anyone on your team, and we really need you. So what’s it going to be, yay or nay?”

Rey realized the chatter had died down and there were a number of eyes fixed on her, people who barely noticed her for years as she wandered around the Grove suddenly staring at her with rapt attention, noticing her for the first time. 

“I…” She looked around, searching for something, someone, encouragement, derision, anything that might help her decision. The eyes on her were firmly set in a state of benign interest, though most were still bleary and waiting for the caffeine to kick in. 

Well, what did she have to lose?

“Yeah...yeah, I’ll do it,” she murmured, nodding. 

A few whoops and cheers erupted, and the stressed woman beamed. 

“Alright. Put your things in your locker, let’s see if we can get you dressed,” the woman said. “I’ll let the others know.”

Rey hastened to shove her backpack into her locker, her mind whirling as the woman muttered inaudibly into a walkie talkie. A few stray performers patted Rey on the back as they passed and she smiled weakly in return. 

“Okay, go see Amilyn at Ninka, she said she’d be happy to dress you,” the coordinator said with an officious nod. “Report back here for orientation once you’re done. And hey, good luck on your first day, kid. I owe you one.”

Rey nodded and grinned nervously. “Thanks.”

After that it was just a quick sprint from the staff area to Ninka Clothiers, but it still felt bizarre to be making the run in jeans and a t-shirt. It almost felt wrong to be dressed so normally in such a magical kind of place. The breeze rustled through the leaves as she ran, and far off down the hollow, she could almost swear she heard the sound of a hammer striking metal. A blush flooded her cheeks and it wasn’t due to the warm morning or the running. 

She leaped over the short stairs leading up to the veranda of the shop, her sneakers clattering on the wooden boards.

“Hello?” she called into the cool shop. “Amilyn? It’s Rey, I was told to come here for my clothes?”

Amilyn peeked out from behind a rack of flowing skirts, her brows raised, and a smile broke out on her face. 

“Well, when they told me they had a new flower girl, I didn’t think it would be you,” she said, beaming. “This is going to be fun. Come back here.” Amilyn gestured for Rey to follow through the shop and into a back room, full of thread and fabrics and scraps and a large industrial fan. 

“I have some of last season’s samples I can loan you. They're a bit sun-faded, but should fit.”

Amilyn rummaged through a bin in the corner, pulling out a cream blouse and a white bodice. From a hanger in the corner she grabbed a blue gathered skirt. 

“You can get changed back here. Call me when you’re done so I can lace you up. Oh, and if you have an under wire, you'll probably want to go without.”

Rey took up the bundle in her arms and scurried into the changing area. She stripped quickly and dove into the cream blouse. The sleeves puffed around her upper arms and the gathered neckline sat prettily, accentuating her collarbones. The skirt was layered and voluminous and swished softly around her ankles. Then came the bodice. She shrugged into it and tugged it inward, noting that the center edges couldn’t quite meet in the middle. 

“Uh, Amilyn?” she called. “I think the bodice might be too small.”

Amilyn entered the room and approached Rey. “Let me see.”

She put her hands on her hips and frowned at Rey. “Well, you’re right, but it’s not far off.”

She bustled around for a moment before procuring a blue bodice and helping Rey into it. 

She checked the fit before grabbing a cream-colored tie from a table. “Arms out. Let’s get you laced up.”

Rey obeyed and straightened her back.

With deft fingers, Amilyn strung the cord up Rey’s torso, cinching the two sides of the bodice closer and closer together. Rey felt the garment pressing against her sides, a confining embrace. 

She squeaked at a particularly swift tug. “You’re—eep!—really good at this,” she said, a note of awe in her voice. 

“Thank you, I’ve been doing it long enough,” she said, loosening a lace before rethreading it tighter. “Now, if I may, you might want to lift the girls up for me. Trust me, these have even helped give me cleavage.”

Rey scooped her breasts and lifted them as Amilyn continued to the top of her chest. When she reached the top of the bodice she tied a little bow and stepped back.

“There, how’s that feel?”

Rey took a deep breath and twisted, a little shocked that she could. 

“It’s tight but not in a bad way.” She laughed lightly. “To be honest I wasn’t expecting this to be as comfy as it is.”

“Yeah, well, you know the feeling of taking your bra off at night? Get ready to unlace. It’s better than sex,” Amilyn said with a wink. “You can borrow this for as long as you need. If you want to get your own, let me know so you get my special performer’s discount.”

She gestured Rey back into the shop and guided her out back into the still empty Grove. 

“Do a quick twirl for me?”

Rey twirled, giggling softly as the skirt flared out around her. 

“It’s so pretty,” she cooed. “You do amazing work, Amilyn.”

“I’ve got a gorgeous model.” Amilyn beamed. “Now go! You have a flower basket to collect!” 

Rey turned to go with a flourish but Amilyn called her back. 

“Oh, and Rey? Good luck out there.”

Rey beamed and dipped a sweet curtsey. “My thanks, Mistress Holdo,” she lilted, before she twirled again and hopped down the steps and back out into the wood. 

Rey raced back and changed her shoes, got her basket, money pouch, and a quick run down of the job (as if she hadn't known by now), and then was whisked out into the Grove for her morning training.

Her trainer, Ella, had a prominent and detailed tattoo of a phoenix on her upper back and a dreamy smile. She impressed upon Rey the importance of making herself visible and noticeable. 

“There are three schools of thought, generally, when it comes to roving sales at the Faire,” she said as they strolled through the Grove. “Some folks shout, some folks sing, and some folks shove their tits up. You can definitely work with all three schools, but you definitely find what works best for you. Personally, I’m student of the school of ‘tits up.’” She winked at Rey as she plucked a rose out of her basket and tucked it into the front of her bodice. 

“To draw the eye and entice the sale,” she explained. 

Rey didn’t necessarily have much to work with in the “tits

up” category (though Amilyn’s bodice was working hard to make that untrue), but she could definitely project and she didn’t have a bad singing voice. She could work with this. 

The two of them practiced sales until the cannons sounded. Her coach waved as she went off to start her rounds, leaving Rey to her own devices for the rest of the morning. 

She was assigned to work in a general region for the morning, covering the main marketplace area just beyond the entry gates. It would, she was warned, ebb and flow, but this was one of best areas for newbies.

Rey felt like an invisible tether was anchoring her to her zone, and she felt afraid to stray too far.

And yet…

Over the susurrus of chatter and music and raucous laughter, the rhythmic clang of a hammer meeting metal. 

She couldn’t seem too eager. The Faire had only been open for twenty minutes. She forced herself to take her time as she wound her way through the crowds, calling sweetly to passersby to buy their truest love a rose, and snagging a few giggling couples and friends in the process. Her money pouch thumped against her hip as she strolled leisurely down the hill toward the forge, her skirts rustled with every step.

She waited just beyond the concrete circle that made the floor of the open-air forge while a couple of fiercely outfitted men in thick leathers and wolfskins finished their business inside. They eyed her leearily as they exited, grinning and winking to each other. She slipped quietly into the empty forge to find Ben the blacksmith’s broad back once again. She smiled and took a fortifying breath.

“You, sir, must be magic.”

He turned at the sound of her voice, a smile flickering to life on his face.

“I am but a humble blacksmith, my lady," he said, looking her up and down. “But it seems you have the power of transformation.”

“Ah, but doesn’t every girl need a fairy god-parent to help with transformations of this sort?” She twirled lazily and stepped further into the forge, her eyes sparkling with ill-concealed mischief. “All of a sudden, I got a new promotion, a new set of clothes, a new route. And yet, no idea of how I managed to snag such a lucky break.”

She placed her rose basket on the counter and propped her elbows up on it. “Got any ideas?”

He looked at her conspiratorially. “The elves.”

Her eyebrows crept slowly up her forehead and she bit back a smile. “...the elves?”

“You know, the little ones that live in Rebel Grove and feast on the bones of discarded turkey legs. Think more Santa, less like Legolas,” he said, his hands indicating something small as he flashed her a teasing smirk. 

She snorted and the sound tumbled into a fit of giggles. After a moment, she controlled herself and nodded with mock solemnity. “Naturally. The elves. Why didn’t I think of that before?”

“Okay, so I might have known that there was a no-show on the flower team last weekend and someone else who quit because she couldn’t take the heat was too much for her, and I might have suggested you’d be the best because you knew the Faire and were a natural performer, but...yeah,” he shrugged. “‘ElvesForest creatures’ sounds better.”

“Where’d you get the idea that I was a natural performer?” she asked, leaning her cheek against her hand. “Not much performance in taking out the trash.”

“You play well with me. Acted opposite Lord Hux last week. You’ve been around here enough to know the game and when to drop ‘yay’ and ‘verily’ and ‘What’s a smartphone.’ Really, all that’s different is the costume and money pouch, right?”

“And I get to smell of roses rather than garbage.” She blushed lightly. “So, you like playing with me, then?”

“Not at all. You fight me too much.” He beamed, a hand on his hip, the other on the counter.

She straightened and dipped her head in a little gesture of apology. She pulled a deep orange rose from her basket and held it out to him shyly.

“A peace offering then,” she murmured.

He looked at it for a moment. “Does that mean you’ll accept a trade?”

“If you think the trade is fair...then yes.”

He ducked out under the counter suddenly and emerged in the shop right in front of her. He grabbed the hairpin from the previous week and offered it to her. 

“My flower for yours.”

Standing in front of her, with no counter to act as a barrier between them, he suddenly seemed to take up all the air in the room. As it was, Ben the blacksmith was a giant of a man, but now...now it felt like his very presence was flooding the space around them. She looked from the rose in her hand to the silver daisy in his and then all the way up to his face. She smiled shyly and nodded, beckoning him down to her.

He complied and she delicately tucked the rose behind his ear. She tried not to get lost in just how soft his hair was. 

“You must wear yours with a difference,” she murmured.

“Shakespeare?” he asked with a grin.

“Who else? Although Hamlet is a mite overrated. But, hey, when at the Faire and presented with flower related references, Ophelia immediately springs to mind!” 

She laughed nervously and flushed. She was rambling, she knew, but suddenly he was just so close and she could just make out the gold flecks in his dark brown eyes and her mouth was running away with her.

He smiled. “You’ve seen ‘Shakespeare Snack Break’ way more than I have, I guess.”

He looked away suddenly, down at the hairpin twirling between his fingers. Was that...shyness? “How do you want to use this?”

“Oh! Um, I don’t know, I’ve never really used a hairstick before.” She took a step back from him, a little desperate to get some air that didn’t smell of molten iron, spiced oranges, and man. She tugged the elastics out of her hair, releasing her standard three-bun style and tipped over to shake her hair out, hoping it wasn’t irreversibly kinked and crazy from drying tied up. She straightened and combed through with her fingers.

“Sorry, I must look a bit of a mess,” she mumbled.

“No, no, it’s fine, I can’t judge,” he said quickly. “I just don’t know how weird it would be to touch your hair...so…”

“Oh...no, it’s okay, I—I don’t mind.” She turned her back to him, taking a deep breath that she hoped he wouldn’t notice.

“I hope you like the job,” he said suddenly. “I didn’t mean to force you into anything you didn’t want to do. I just know the flower team was in a bind, and you just seemed...perfect.” 

“Well...thank you. I do like it so far.” She bit her lip. “And thank you for thinking of me. You really didn’t have to go out of your way for a practical stranger. But thank you, all the same.”

“Hey, I’m kind of a newbie here. Need all the friends I can—”

“BEN.”

Rey’s heart stopped and her blood ran cold. She whirled around just in time to see the old blacksmith stalk into the forge, fury in his eyes. 

“Yessir!” Ben said, starting upward. It was as if a lance had been driven into his spine.

“Can I see you back here?” the haggard, grey-haired man gestured to Ben, who winced. He looked at Rey one last time. 

“Be right there,” he called, turning away from Rey, but not before thrusting the pin into her hands and ducking under the counter and disappearing behind the forge.

She clasped the delicate pin to her chest as she grabbed her flower basket and made for the exit. She opened her mouth to call her thanks back to Ben, but hesitated. She had gotten him in trouble. The last thing she wanted to do was make it worse.

“Bye, Ben,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

As she vanished back into the Grove she heard the lingering shouts. 

“You aren’t here long at all! Think you can keep it in your pants for just a bit?”

Rey flinched at the words, shame and rage heating her face past the point of boiling. She ought to march right back into that forge and give that nasty old man a piece of her mind—

“Miss? How much for a rose for my girlfriend?”

She was dragged out of her murderous fantasy and back into the Grove, where a young woman with an eager smile and a flower crown was looking at her expectantly, the girl behind her blushing and grinning brightly. Rey plastered on her best salesgirl smile and presented her wares on her hip.

“For true love and such a fair lady? A dollar, madam,” she trilled.

She was here to do a job. It was time that she actually did it. It was her fault for getting swept up in the romance and the drama of the show. She was starting to believe her own play. And that wouldn’t do anyone any good. 

The transaction completed, she strolled back into the Faire proper, crying out, “Flowers for your lady fair! Roses for your rose! True love guaranteed!”

After all, whoever said that a sales pitch had to be completely true?

As the sun rose over the Grove, the day grew hotter, and Rey retreated into the fewer and fewer shady spots she could find. She watched as her co-workers, the other flower sellers, managed to work the crowds during the Queen’s procession. Everyone seemed more at ease with their lines this time. As the procession continued through the Grove towards the jousting arena, Sir Dameron spotted Rey in the crowd and made a beeline for her. He looped his arm through hers and yanked her into the procession.

“Congrats on the promotion!” he said to her as he waved to an awestruck little boy who almost dropped his oversized wooden shield at the sight of the hero marching before him.

“Thanks, it was completely unexpected,” she replied, struggling to keep up with his purposeful strides. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to be in the procession? I’m not a face character, won’t that mess with the storyline?”

“Didn’t they tell you? You’re one of the Rebel Grove locals. You’re always ‘on.’” He turned to glance at her. “You’re one of the queen’s select subjects. You’re part of the show.”

“So what do I do?”

“Just do what you were doing before! You’re a villager here, just doing your job selling flowers to strangely dressed, often drunk people who hand you green pieces of paper for a bunch of roses. Occasionally one of the actors will play with you, but you’re not required to start scenes or anything.”

He noticed how absolutely awestruck she was. He shook her a little by their linked arms so that her whole body rattled. Her roses almost fell out of her basket.

“Don’t stress about a thing, my lady,” he drawled. “You’ve got good instincts. If one of the musicians seeks to dance, you can either dance or play coy and say that it would be improper if you’ve got too much money in the pouch.”

He paused to wave at another group of kids, eagerly bouncing at his approach. 

“When the queen comes near, you curtsy. Heck, when anyone of power comes near, you make it more immersive by showing your stature and offering them a flower.”

He plucked a yellow rose out of her basket, then considered her.

“What’s got you down?”

She looked up at him, a guileless expression on her face. “Who says I’m down?” she chirped blithely. “I’m just processing, I’ve never done anything like this before aside from, like, one an improv night in college.”

She took the rose from his hand and tucked it into his shining silver breastplate. “A lady’s favor to bring you luck, Sir Knight.”

“Much appreciated, my lady,” he said with an incline of his head, then his voice lowered, and he watched her severely. “Don’t worry about it, Rey. You got this. If you need anything, you know we’ve got your back.” 

He released her arm to walk beside her. “See you at the joust?”

“I’ll be plying my wares on the sidelines.” She smiled warmly at him, feeling a bit sturdier on her feet. “Thanks, Poe. Good luck, don’t get gored.”

“Never gonna happen,” he said with a smirk. “It’s all a fairytale, right?”

Her smile dimmed a bit as he strode away, waving and grinning to the crowd like the Disney prince that he was. Easygoing. Charming. Blithe and bonny as they come with a lady’s favor tucked into his armor. Of course the fairytale was easy for him. 

She dug into the bottom of her rose basket, retrieving the little silver daisy from where she’d stashed it. She thought of the awkward, shy blacksmith who had traded it for a favor of his own. For what little good her favor had done him.

“Right,” she muttered to the procession’s shrinking backs. “All a fairytale.”

She slipped the little flower into the front of her bodice, remembering Ella’s suggestions. Maybe while she sold her flowers, she could drum up some business for Ben as well. She smiled to herself at the idea. 

“Flowers for your lady fair! Roses for your rose! True love guaranteed!”

The morning warmed into the afternoon, gilding the edge of the wood and the jousting arena in golden light. After a quick detour to the staff house for a much needed water break and rose replenishment, Rey felt ready to take on the tiltyard. She traipsed around the fringes of the seating areas during the human chess match and picked up a few sales around the little tavern at the end of the arena. Once the stadium cleared and refilled to ready for the joust, she took up a slow circuit around the barrier between the crowd and the jousting arena itself. The trumpeters in their motley livery took their places on the stand and blasted the fanfare for the Queen’s entrance, drawing Rey’s attention up. Queen Leia took her place to roaring cheers and applause from the audience, goaded on by a few of the actors Rey had just seen getting pummeled in the human chess match. Her Majesty waved to adoring subjects and the crowd quieted.

“Good people of Rebel Grove!” she said, her voice amplified by a hidden microphone. “We have come this day to witness the battle between light and dark, good and evil. On this day, our kingdom shall finally be free of the terror of the wicked Black Knight!”

Rey stood on her tip-toes to see the arena better. The sound of the crowd grew dead silent and everyone sat locked in their seats as the gates beneath Queen Leia sprung open with a crash. An ink black Friesian horse trotted into the ring. Sitting astride the magnificent beast was a knight in black armor, his black helmet haunting. After a loop around the tiltyard, the squires inside the fence gestured at the faire-goers to boo loudly. Rey was too mesmerized to utter a sound.

The knight stopped before the queen, facing her. The horse tossed its proud head. The squires urged silence as the queen began to speak.

“Sir Knight, your arrival has been foretold by our seers.”

The knight tilted up his visor. Rey couldn’t see his face as he began to call out his response.

“If you knew I was coming, I expect a better welcome,” the knight bellowed. “I assume you have come to offer your surrender?”

“Nay, good knight,” the queen replied calmly. “I offer a challenger.”

The whoops and hollers returned as the gates burst open again, and Sir Dameron charged in on his steed, a chestnut stallion, followed closely behind by Sir Finn astride a white horse and carrying the House Organa banner. 

Sir Dameron and Sir Finn circled the ring, much to the delight of the onlookers, who burst to their feet in their excitement. Rey grinned as they trotted near, noting that the flower in Sir Dameron’s armor was looking a little more bruised than beautiful. She leaned up on the edge of the barrier and held up a yellow rose to catch Poe’s attention. He beamed and sidled his horse up to her and leaned down to pluck up his gift.

Sir Dameron raised his rose to show the crowd and the audience laughed and cheered. 

“I’ve been blessed by a fair lady! Now I’ll surely win the day!” he crowed as he replaced the flower in his breastplate.

She grimaced, laughing awkwardly. God, it was just like improv night…

As he trotted back to the middle of the arena triumphantly, Rey watched the Black Knight turn around, flip down his visor, and ride straight for her. He stopped suddenly along the fence, towering over her, and then leaned down so he was close to her.

“Where’s mine?” he sneered.

His voice rumbled and snarled inside his helm, a distortion of what was likely already a ridiculously deep bass. She arched an eyebrow and before she could stop herself, she set her basket down on the ground and hoisted herself up onto the fence between them until she stood over him. His gaze followed her until his masked face was tilted all the way up. She planted her feet wide and placed her fists on her hips, the picture of defiance. 

“You can have one...once you’ve won the day, Sir Knight,” she shouted so the audience could hear her.

The crowd oohed ominously at her back. She smirked down at the Black Knight, a challenge of her own hiding in the dimple in her freckled cheek.

He sat back upright on his horse and looked down at her. She saw his head tilt down, and then up again.

“I’ll have the metal one,” he murmured. “An iron flower for a fire-forged heart.”

With a tug of his reins, he pivoted his horse back to the center of the arena. 

Rey let out a long exhale and clambered down from the fence, her heart pounding in her chest, bumping up against her little silver daisy. Suddenly her blood ran cold. If he won, he’d take the flower. There was no way she could let him take it. But if he did win...maybe she could persuade him to give it back after the joust. Surely this was just an act; she was certain he’d be reasonable. She shook off the momentary panic; she was just getting too invested in the performance.

She felt momentarily guilty for doubting Sir Dameron’s prowess on the field. But it was hard not to let the thought cross her mind at the sight of the Black Knight. He held his seat on his destrier with the ease of a seasoned warrior and his armor gleamed darkly in the late afternoon sun. 

She watched as the two knights took their places on either end of the lists, aided by their squires. Sir Finn was assisting Sir Dameron and a trembling youth who she didn’t recognize held the Black Knight’s lance in readiness. 

From her seat atop the stand, the Queen lifted her lacy handkerchief.

“Knights!” she cried out. “I bid thee...begin!”

The handkerchief fluttered down and the knights charged each other.

The dust came flying and Rey could barely breathe as they drew closer, lances raised. 

The first hit glanced off Sir Dameron's shield. Rey's stomach lurched. Poe was good. Was the Black Knight better?

The knights reset for the next pass and Rey held her breath as they charged again. Poe’s lance shattered against the Black Knight’s pauldron with a mighty crack. She flinched at the sound and flying splinters, watching closely for any weakness, but the Black Knight kept his seat. A wild growl rang out from inside the black helm. Sir Dameron had landed a major hit on his opponent that currently put the white knight in the lead. 

“Come on, Dameron, get him again,” Rey muttered under her breath. 

The final tilt ended in another shattered lance for Sir Dameron. A victory for the House of Organa.

The crowd erupted into wild cheers and raucous applause. 

The squires riled up the crowd as the Black Knight leapt off his horse, landing in a cloud of dust before he waved at a squire to hand him a sword. Staggering to his feet, he took the weapon in big hands and charged at Dameron, who was still unarmed. His blade met instead with Sir Finn’s, and the two exchanged blows before Sir Dameron took a sword and entered the fight. Two against one, Rey was shocked to witness the Black Knight holding his own against two skilled swordsmen. 

He shoved Poe back and back until he fell to the ground.

“Do you yield?” the Black Knight shouted. He was greeted by a chorus of boos.

“Not on your life, Sir!” bellowed Sir Dameron. Finn tossed him a sword and he fell on the Black Knight with another flurry of blows. His opponent returned each strike with inhuman roaring and the strength of a hundred men. 

Rey couldn’t look away. Finn had been right about the fight choreography. It was exquisitely timed, perfectly practiced, more like a dance than a battle. Each move seemed as natural as breathing, each reaction fast as lightning. But beneath it all lurked a savagery, a hunger for victory. 

She flew to her feet.

“COME ON, DAMERON!” she shouted. 

Her desperate cheer seemed to ignite a fire in those around her, and the raucous chorus of fans grew louder around her. Finn stepped back and with a few quick thrusts Dameron sent the Black Knight spiraling off his feet and into the dirt. Dameron had the blade at his throat in seconds.

“Yield or perish.”

On the stand, Queen Leia rose. A hush fell over the crowd. 

“Sir Knight, you have fought valiantly and proven yourself most fearsome in the field of battle. We commend your bravery.” The Queen’s magnanimous expression sharpened and turned stony. “Yield, sir, and return to your home unmolested, or forfeit your life. The choice is yours.”

Sir Dameron stepped back, and the knight rose to his knees. “You can take my life if it pleases your people,” he spat. “But we shall return. I am but one of the darkness, and night is coming.”

Sir Dameron grimaced and raised his sword over his head, bringing it down across the Black Knight’s breastplate with a cry and a powerful slash. As if his strings had been cut, the Black Knight’s massive form crumpled into the dirt, unmoving. Rey gasped, her hand covering her mouth unbidden. 

The rest of the show continued, but all fell on deaf ears for Rey. She couldn’t take her eyes off the Black Knight. Obviously, as a family show, there would be no blood, but there was something uncanny about the way that he collapsed lifeless to the ground. When the two squires came to drag the “body” away, he remained unmoving. She couldn’t help but be impressed by his commitment to the illusion. 

Poe and Finn climbed back on their horses and did victory laps around the arena, before Poe stopped before Rey, procuring his rose again. 

“To the victor go the spoils!” he declared.

“And glory the likes of which Rebel Grove has never seen before!” she replied with as much pride as she could muster. She turned to the crowd and shouted, “Let’s hear it for Sir Dameron and Sir Finn! Hip hip!”

“HUZZAH!” they cheered. “HUZZAH! HUZZAH!”

The cheers closed out the joust, and everyone, hot and desperate to get out of the sun, soon flooded to the shade of the nearby pubs and juice stalls.

Rey managed to weave her way through the throng and back to the staff area. It finally hit her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning. She figured she owed her lack of appetite to the tight lacing and the adrenaline of the new job. 

She pulled a protein bar out of her backpack and flopped down into the first open chair she found in the covered yard of the staff house, groaning in relief to finally be off her aching feet. A small part of her brain supplied (unhelpfully) that she would have to get up again in thirty minutes. She silenced the thought with an aggressive bite of protein bar.

As others flowed in and out for their breaks, Rey found she had already gained quite a reputation, having stolen the show at the joust. She wanted to disappear, to sink into her chair and vanish, but the bodice made it a little difficult to accomplish that particular goal.

Maybe she was a natural, but it was for all the wrong reasons. 

Her heart was beating hard against her chest, a hammer against iron, over and over. 

Rehydrating with her third bottle of water, she found that she had almost run out the full duration of her break, and managed to hoist herself onto her feet. She grabbed her basket and money pouch before almost smacking straight into a wall of muscle and sweat.

She tilted her head back, squinting into the filtered sunlight that crossed Ben’s face.

“Hello there, Ben the blacksmith,” she breathed.

His hair falling into his eyes, he blinked at her dazed until he seemed to put together her presence. He was haggard and completely doused in sweat.

“Oh,” he said, a weak smile breaking across his face. “How’s it going, flower girl?”

She hoisted her basket to balance it on her hip. “Pretty great actually, I was just heading back out. Iron still hot?”

He plucked his shirt away from his chest. “What isn’t today?”

She laughed and absolutely, positively, didn’t stare at the brief expanse of pale flesh she glimpsed under his neckline. “Yeah, I was just at the joust. Almost roasted alive out there with no shade.”

Then she sobered a bit. “Listen, I wanted to apologize. For earlier, with Snoke. I hope I didn’t get you in trouble.”

He looked away. “It’s...yeah, don’t worry about him. It’s nothing.”

“You’re sure?” She decided to be bold and laid her hand on his massive forearm. “If there’s anything I can do to help, I’d like to.”

He jerked his arm away reflexively, and she looked down at his arm. Peppered along it were small bruises. Fresh.

She scowled thunderously at the marks and looked back up at him with concern lodged in her eyes. “Oh, Ben…I—”

“Sorry, I gotta go,” he said, lowering his head and pushing past her. He walked straight past the lockers into the woods, not even looking back at her.

“BEN!” she shouted after him, desperate to get his attention for a split second.

He hesitated and turned to face her, though his eyes didn’t meet hers.

“Are...are you going to be around later?” she asked, equal parts hopeful and hesitant. 

He smiled weakly. “No guarantees. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

She smiled back. “Yeah, of course. I’ll be here.”

She looked down at her little silver flower and plucked it from her bodice. 

“You know,” she said sardonically. “I almost lost this to a knight with a fire-forged heart.”

He looked at it, then up at her. “You keep that close to your heart, my lady. Two things that are too important to lose.”

She stared back at him dumbly. Her heart fluttered, confined in her bodice.  

Without another word, he dipped his head in farewell and turned back for the woods, leaving her to watch him go. It took her another few minutes to gather her wits back to her and make her own way back to her route. She tripped through the rest of her day in a haze as the crowds thinned around her and her basket grew lighter on her hip. 

She tripped toward the Silver Hart for the closing pub sing, the strains of old folk songs pulling her in with the promise of good friends and a well-earned drink. She scanned the assembled group for Poe and Finn. Rose and Paige weren’t playing tonight and were nowhere to be found in the outdoor seating area. Poe’s tousled hair and Finn’s bright smile were also markedly absent. She quickly checked her phone to see if she’d missed any plans. No notifications. 

She shot off a text to the group chat. 

Hey I’m at the Hart, are you guys still around? I thought we were meeting up?

A flurry of texts vibrated through her phone. 

Omg babes I’m sooo sorry I’m absolutely exhausted, I’m heading home. Kaydel was out. 

Paige and I are having a quiet night in. But we’re playing tomorrow! Let’s try again tomorrow. Okay, so no Rose.

Oops sorry Flower Power I’m already on the road home. Talk to text I promise. Tomorrow for sure. Poe.

Yeah that’s a great idea! Let’s get the gang together tomorrow night, Peanut, it’ll be fun! And Finn. 

Her stomach twisted. Alone. She turned and left, swallowing around the gaping absence in her chest. It was fine, she told herself. Just a little warning would have been nice. She’d always been good at lying to herself. 

As the music lifted over the shingled roofs of Rebel Grove, Rey found herself trudging back toward the forge, just on the off chance that she might catch Ben before they both left for the night.

The forge was cold and quiet. She didn’t go inside, but skirted around the back of the building. A flash of color on the ground caught her eye.

An orange rose, wilted and blown apart by oblivious feet or intentionally cruel hands. She tried not to let the hurt that bubbled over in her chest make her cry. She wouldn’t cry. But it stung a little.