Restless Nights
The collar clicks into place. His eyes are bloodshot from too many silent tears, and she still stinks of spice-- and he swears in the shadows he sees someone--
Leaping up with a start, Kador grabs his lightsaber. His breaths come heavy and quick, the sweat pours down his brows like a river, and jaw is clenched tighter than a hypervice. He has eschewed the soft, silken things of his home for roughspun sleepwear, simple wool. His quarters are about the same as everyone else's-- the simple, small bed, with its sky blue blanket and white pillow, the footlocker-- though he does not even maintain the sidedesk.
The dark is strong here, and the night is still, and there are things waiting for him in the dark. He gets up, and begins to silently pad through the halls-- Atton has drilled every form of "not getting spotted" imaginable into his head, from mundane sorts, basic stuff like "don't lope about"-- to wielding the Force to stay unknown, unseen.
In short, he doesn't expect to wake up the many other students who are currently learning with him.
He reaches the center grove, where the great oak yet stands-- damaged, but not slain by Malak, and isn't that just about summation of the entire galaxy at this point?
The night is deep, and the stars are out. Two moons dominate the sky, an awesome sight if ever he has seen one-- not, of course, that he has much to compare it to. Axxila was too bright, too loud, too everything for one to gather their thoughts in such a manner.
A pleasant chill cools his flesh, cleanses off the sweat. He knows he won't be getting more sleep tonight-- so he might as well meditate, right?
He rests on his knees, and allows the Force to flow through him. It moves through him, with him, in him, the whole world singing a soft lullaby-- trying to calm him, he feels, and he knows it's self-centered but--
"Something wrong?"
Master Rand appears from the darkness, all clad in black as usual. "Trouble sleeping."
"Yeah? Twi'lek or human?"
"Absolutely not what I meant, and you know it's not what I meant."
"Yeah. I also know that one of us has to be the comic relief, otherwise the whole Order won't have a sense of humor, and then where would we be?"
He is silent, the contemplative state ended.
"Really though, what's wrong?"
"I had... dreams, again. And not great ones, either."
"Wouldn't know anything about that." Atton scratches his head, thinking. "Say...you know how to play pazaak?"
"Uh...not well, but I picked up a little from my dad."
"Oh great, an easy mark and I don't even get to fleece him for credits." He sighs, a bit dramatically-- it mostly reminds Kador of his sister. "Meetra was right, the life of a Jedi is sacrifice."
"You can't fleece what I don't have, Master. Assuming I play."
"Ah, shut up and and deal, kid."
And so they do. Cards are thwipped unceremoniously on the stone, lacking the advanced technology of the dens as they do.
Seven, fourteen, nineteen--damn it-- three card! He has no minuses, and so his master takes the first round.
And the next two after that.
"Rematch," he cries, and he will get what he is owed. Victories and defeats mingle together throughout the night, and the early morning, as the birds begin to sing their songs.
The next time Master or apprentice are cognizant of the world outside of them, Mira is leading in a class of the new Initiates into the grove for meditation and lightsaber training, and he retreats from the sun warmed grove, back to the safety of his room.
--
The only sounds in the Telos academy are her lightsaber and her prosthetic. The constant thum of her weapon and the motors whirring could not wake her fellow students through the thick doors which cover their dormitories.
It is a simple thing, her new weapon. Unadorned, it has none of the accoutrements which mark many of her fellows' sabers-- its construction is similar to the first saber she created, but for one key difference-- a curvature in the hilt, about 45 degrees.
She should be alone-- so her first reaction on hearing soft soles on the stone is spinning about, pointing her lightsaber at the intruder-- only to thumb it off when she sees her master, still clad in his brown robes.
"I could have sworn I told you to take it easy while you recovered."
"And I could have sworn I told you I was fine already."
"And you have much training in the medical arts, hm?"
"Enough to know when I can train or not, Master."
"I don't know that I'd call swinging a lightsaber at empty air training, Breda."
"Well, somebody decided to lock up the remotes."
"Because somebody else did not need to spend her nights delaying her own recovery."
"I am fine."
"Very well." His own lightsaber, and its two blades, screams to life-- a silvery green hue, that casts a shadow through the empty academy. "Prove it!"
And then he is on the attack, a thing of pure speed. The two are moving in moments, her new saber constantly reacting, defensive, switching to twin hands, shakily blocking for her life. Each clash sends sparks, movement, the constant hum of a new cadence.
And then she sees her opening, and her foot lashes out. A kick catches him square in the chest, send him flailing-- until he slams into the wall. Her own lightsaber lashes out and she takes the tempo, takes control, a thing of power, striking out with all her might, all her fury, all her regrets which she has buried. Overhand chop, under-stab, one handed figure eight, force him on the backfoot, make him fall--
And then his lightsaber smacks into her head, the metal hilt she means, and she falls, her lightsaber landing on the ground.
She looks up, and his blade is pointed at her throat.
"Yield?"
The rage is dead, she think. Instead, there is only a new focus-- and commitment. "Very damn well. But next time, I'm going to win."
"Perhaps."
