Private Jouska

[Aleksandr Stirsea]

Night fell upon Pelagon, and with it came the confrontation that still played out in Aleksandr’s mind. Not quite daily, but close enough that the distinction did not matter. Enough that it had become ritual, if one most mentally taxing and spiritually exhausting.

He remembered the planet they’d been on then, deep in uncivilized space, in the dark expanse of the Rim. The sky, slick with rainwater and the blackness of dusk, the clouds, bloated and billowing, full of their tempestuous fury. He still saw the faint glow of the lightsaber, clutched firmly in Hector Vale 's grasp, a green beacon amidst the darkness. He saw words pass between him and his wayward friend, but their meaning had been lost to the chasm of forgotten memory. All he heard now was what he wished he had said.

Turn around, Hector.

We need you.

I need you.

Brother…

He wondered if Hector ever thought about them, the ragtag bunch that had come together like family. Did he miss his brothers? Had he forgiven Cale for his transgressions? Had he forgiven Aleks for remaining at his side?

The same questions came every night, and yet, he was no better at answering them.

The wind-battered platform they’d landed on was better company than the lonely confines of their cargo ship. The air was fresher outside, he figured. There was more room to breathe. He’d brought his lightsaber with him, hoping to get his mind off the questions, and it worked for a while. He swung the deep cerulean blade in the fluid, graceful motions of the Makashi lightsaber form. It was what his master had shown him, along with Soresu, but he found the defensive form to be grating, and preferred the quicker dueling tactics of the former.

He knew it to be late, but he kept at his arcs and his slashes, his feints and counters. He was so engrossed in his practice that he didn’t even hear the footsteps of approach that rumbled behind him.

| Cale Gunderson |​

 

[Cale Gunderson]

"You're being sloppy, tighten up the footwork." Genuine criticism, constructive to boot, but masked by a veneer of sarcasm. For once, Cale almost looked rested, perhaps not well, but the Jedi had at least slept a solid few hours without being awoken by some terrible nightmare. No stimstick hung lit between his lips, and there was something almost close to a smile His arms hung loosely at his side, and something seemed to hint that Cale had been watching for some time.

He wished he could've taught Aleks what he really wanted to know. Form V was a warrior's tool, and one that Cale had been a master of a long time ago. But Form V typically relied on the wielder having at minimum two arms. Cale had been forced to adapt, and his student had no choice but to study his adaptation. Teaching him without being able to demonstrate would've been close to pointless. But Cale tried to assure himself that with his return to the order, the boy could draw knowledge from more than one well.

Cale knew that there was someone absent, someone who lived in Aleks' thoughts even now. Cale knew what it was like to hold on to the ghost of a friend. For one it wasn't terribly healthy, for two, it wasn't something he knew how to stop doing. Hector Vale was the phantom that haunted his padawan, a brother in all but name that had abandoned them because he could not reconcile with Cale's past. Before Hector left, Cale had almost been ready to try and return to the order, but his flight had delayed that almost a decade.

If Cale had his way, it would've staved it off forever, but fate and the force had other plans.

"You wanna talk, or do you wanna spar?"

Aleksandr Stirsea ​