Séverin Alexandre
Character
The meditation chamber of Shiraya's Sanctuary had seen better days.
Namely, days where Séverin Alexandre was not present. By no means was he a troublesome student, but for someone as addicted to adrenaline as Sév, he could only hope to fall asleep and dream about flight. Despite the frustration of his instructors he had never seemed to settle down, forever a whirl of uncontainable movement and a smudge of flaring robes.
Séverin fixed his posture, straightening himself, and resting his hands on his knees. His breaths were controlled, ins and outs with the same precision he had been taught. His chest rose and fell in steady motion, restraints clapped onto a beating heart that yearned for adventure, each pump of blood audible in his ears as quietude settled around him. The setting sun of Naboo plunged the world into a paradise of golds and pinks, the lush greens of the Gallo mountains bathed in the late afternoon sun.
His eyes were drawn to a close, and only darkness enveloped him.
Except, it was not quite darkness. Séverin could almost pick up on the scent of wildflowers as it wafted through the room, not the stubborn little blooms that dotted the cliffside but spread across vast fields with sparsely scattered humanity. The world of imagination was churned up from the depths, and green filled his vision: a plain that only ended in a far lake, where a waterfall met the surface in rushes of reflections of the cerulean, cloudless skies.
The Lake Country, again. Séverin was never quite able to shake away from the remote Nabboian valley.
His heartbeat fell into rhythm with the rapids of the rivers, the calls of the wild birds, and the distant sound of laughter. His breath caught, before he managed to control his emotions and let it go, soft through his mouth, a barely noticeable hiccup in the inhales and exhales he trained his focus on. A life he could have lived, splayed out in front of him, so tantalising close yet painfully far.
But he was a Jedi, it was below him to think such things.
He had first visited the Lake Country as a Youngling, but in his heart he knew his connection with it stemmed from more than just a mere field trip. Somewhere, on the distant shores of an island he had never set a walking foot on, was a villa perched on the hilltop, overlooking the fields where he had rolled around in as a toddler. He barely remembered how the blades of grass bled into each other, or how the sky took on a dizzying hue of rainbow colours, or how the mud slipped through his little fingers as he claimed to be digging for gold. He barely remembered the firm, calloused hands of his father, or the soft, tender ones of his mother, or the rain that had pattered on his window the day they had taken his blood for the M-count. He thought he had been crying when he received the news, but then again children at the age did cry in abundance.
His eyelids pressed into each other as he exiled the thoughts of temptation, of a past he would never return to, of a past he had never even known. The Jedi Temple was his home, and the Jedi life was all he had ever known. Yet behind those shut eyelids his gaze hardened for a different reason — a disturbance in the Force, and the evident sound of footsteps. The unmistakable presence of someone behind him jolted him from his feeble meditations. His eyelids fluttered open, golden lashes batting against each other as he blinked. Piercing blue eyes stared out into the openness, a sole twitch from one of them the only sign that he had heard anything.
Namely, days where Séverin Alexandre was not present. By no means was he a troublesome student, but for someone as addicted to adrenaline as Sév, he could only hope to fall asleep and dream about flight. Despite the frustration of his instructors he had never seemed to settle down, forever a whirl of uncontainable movement and a smudge of flaring robes.
Séverin fixed his posture, straightening himself, and resting his hands on his knees. His breaths were controlled, ins and outs with the same precision he had been taught. His chest rose and fell in steady motion, restraints clapped onto a beating heart that yearned for adventure, each pump of blood audible in his ears as quietude settled around him. The setting sun of Naboo plunged the world into a paradise of golds and pinks, the lush greens of the Gallo mountains bathed in the late afternoon sun.
His eyes were drawn to a close, and only darkness enveloped him.
Except, it was not quite darkness. Séverin could almost pick up on the scent of wildflowers as it wafted through the room, not the stubborn little blooms that dotted the cliffside but spread across vast fields with sparsely scattered humanity. The world of imagination was churned up from the depths, and green filled his vision: a plain that only ended in a far lake, where a waterfall met the surface in rushes of reflections of the cerulean, cloudless skies.
The Lake Country, again. Séverin was never quite able to shake away from the remote Nabboian valley.
His heartbeat fell into rhythm with the rapids of the rivers, the calls of the wild birds, and the distant sound of laughter. His breath caught, before he managed to control his emotions and let it go, soft through his mouth, a barely noticeable hiccup in the inhales and exhales he trained his focus on. A life he could have lived, splayed out in front of him, so tantalising close yet painfully far.
But he was a Jedi, it was below him to think such things.
He had first visited the Lake Country as a Youngling, but in his heart he knew his connection with it stemmed from more than just a mere field trip. Somewhere, on the distant shores of an island he had never set a walking foot on, was a villa perched on the hilltop, overlooking the fields where he had rolled around in as a toddler. He barely remembered how the blades of grass bled into each other, or how the sky took on a dizzying hue of rainbow colours, or how the mud slipped through his little fingers as he claimed to be digging for gold. He barely remembered the firm, calloused hands of his father, or the soft, tender ones of his mother, or the rain that had pattered on his window the day they had taken his blood for the M-count. He thought he had been crying when he received the news, but then again children at the age did cry in abundance.
His eyelids pressed into each other as he exiled the thoughts of temptation, of a past he would never return to, of a past he had never even known. The Jedi Temple was his home, and the Jedi life was all he had ever known. Yet behind those shut eyelids his gaze hardened for a different reason — a disturbance in the Force, and the evident sound of footsteps. The unmistakable presence of someone behind him jolted him from his feeble meditations. His eyelids fluttered open, golden lashes batting against each other as he blinked. Piercing blue eyes stared out into the openness, a sole twitch from one of them the only sign that he had heard anything.