You could feel it in every move he made. It felt like a heater had been turned up to full or you were laid on the Tatooine desert dressed in full winter gear; when he entered the room a slither of sweat would worm its way down your neck and into the...
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You thought training ended when you left the session.
Turns out your idealism is completely unfounded.
First, he sends an exercise itinerary: Thirty-minute morning treadmill, weightlifting for two hours and high intensity session all before work. Then, he sends a reading list – Book of Sith, Rammahgon (which is a Jedi text he should not possess) and the Art of Force Empathy. Thirdly, a series of concentration techniques. These ranged from meditation to small, menial tasks to help you focus.
You couldn't focus.
All that was on your mind was compelled into a jumble of thoughts, each woven like knotted string, nether unravelling enough for you to grab it. There was your training, Alika's odd moment with you, JD-1's fucked circuits, the three stooges who bruised you and, last but not least, Levi.
The generals had cleared out Levis stuff, wiped the whole space clean like he wasn't there to begin with. Pictures, projects, notes – gone. They took his desk, his personal laptop, anything that was deemed First Order property and they made you watch. You thought they may raid his room too, but Vicrul – tasked with watching you– stops them. He takes you to Levi's room, tells you a stern 'five minutes' and turns his back.
You take everything. His personal notebook, the bottle of questionable alcohol on his desk, his brown sweater which still smells like him; a mixture of honey, cinnamon and oil. There's the sticky note from a few weeks ago saying 'please can you buy caf tomorrow? From your favourite lieutenant' and you stifle your cries.
The loneliness you have ignored is suffocating. It has the ability to swell your throat and tighten your chest, leaving you breathless and hollow.
Is this what it means to be truly alone? You think.
"Get out" comes Vicrul's bass from the door, head turned away in disinterest.
"You're a real unemotional asshole, you know that?"
"and?" he replies.
Despite his wide-shoulders and rippling biceps, Vicrul is your least favourite of the knights. Partially because he won't succumb to your puppy-dog eyes. Secondly, he's also a dick. You knock your arm into his as you walk out, a petty attempt to rile him.
He moves like a snake, ready for a rat to bundle into his path, and shoots his arm out to grab yours, sinking his talons into your flesh.
"First lesson as an apprentice–"
His scythe swings quicker than your head can avoid, curling around you like a viper and hovering along thin flesh of your neck.
"Don't be scared of death" is Vicrul's venomous reply.
