The woman sighed as she flipped through a stack of flimsi, looking for a shipping manifest. ”The hell’d I put that thing,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head with a sigh.
A rush of warmth made her gasp, then smile, tilting her head to speak through her mind to the Jedi who had sent it. ‘Ey, Ihl. Wha’s new in your life? Ain’t talked t’ ya in a bit.
She paused, frowning. The warmth faded as quickly as it came, leaving an achingly cold hollow in its place. That wasn’t right, nor was it familiar; Ihlrath’s mind brushes always left her feeling like she’d been wrapped up in blankets and left in front of a fireplace. This sensation was one of an icy solitude.
The flimsi stack fell from Vyen’a’s hand, scattering across the floor of the common area of her ship as she fell to her knees, clutching her stomach as the wave of realization hit her. That icy solitude was a feeling that had only touched her once before: as her parents were wrapped in their traditional burial shrouds and took their place in the mossy green hills of Mirial.
“No. No, Ihl, no,” she sobbed, curling her knees to her chest, the cold durasteel plates of the floor pressing patterns into the flesh of her arms as she reached out again and again, searching for him the way he had taught her.
Only the silent solitude of space responded.