paper prison ➝ star wars

ii

Valyrie twisted round and pulled her top up, peering at her back in the mirror. 

It was covered with the consequences of an unsuccessful training session: black and blue bruises, mottled with purple. It looked dreadful - but Valyrie had experienced worse. Burn marks, open wounds - she even had a scar on her leg from a near incident with a steel blade.

Letting out a puff of air through her nose, she pulled her top over her head, dropping it onto the floor where it lay crumpled. Her trousers followed, and soon she stood wearing only her black undergarments. Then, she turned to her shelf, snatched up her ointment, and with a long handled applicator, rubbed the stuff all over her back. 

Her wounds would heal soon enough with the help of the salve. Of course, it would result to nothing when her next training session resulted in a fresh bout, and then the day after, and the day after that, and so on...

There was no chance of her wearing a backless outfit anytime soon, but then again, she wouldn't want to. Too impractical.

As she went on to carefully spread the sterile smelling ointment up and down her arms, she caught her own eye in the tall mirror, and found herself examining herself.

Once, Valyrie thought she may have been pretty. Her azure blue eyes had been bright, her features lively, delicate and feminine. Her lips were full and turned up, her nose tipped and scattered with freckles, her cheekbones shapely, her skin olive and smooth.

But now, her eyes were dull, surrounded by dark shadows. Her cheeks were almost hollow. Her lips were fixed in a permanent frown. Her skin was pale. She had become hard, near joyless.  

She looked dead.

She swallowed, and averted her eyes to her hair. 

It was jaw length and platinum - artificial, of course. Although the colour was attractive and appropriate to the First Order, the bleach wasn't kind on her hair. It was matted, and thinning rapidly. Ditching the dye and letting her natural brown colour seep back through would combat  the damage a little, true, but it was so much less interesting than having white hair. And she liked it. 

Yes, practicality would win over completely someday - she did keep it short for convenience when training - but today was not that day. 

Wincing, both at her reflection and the stinging of her wounds that had started to kick in, she leaned on the firm curved side of her pod chair and started on her legs, finally averting her eyes from the mirror. Her calves and thighs were tense with muscle against her hands, and she sucked her teeth as the ointment bit at her skin. 

When she finished, she shoved the tub back on her shelf, carefully laid down stomach-first on her bed, and the relief on her aching body was blissful. Grunting with pleasure, she folded her arms and rested them under her chin, savouring the silence and the feel of her soft mattress on her stomach. Then, slowly, her eyes drifted shut.

Valyrie was exhausted. She rarely slept most nights for a multitude of reasons. But it was her first day off from training that week, and she was free to do whatever she pleased. 

Freedom was a luxury on the Star Destroyer.

Valyrie's daily routine consisted of the following: get up, eat some protein substance, throw on training clothes, race down to the sparring room, where Kylo would be waiting, and begin her gruelling training. They would stretch, and then, for six hours, they would go through fitness, force training and connection, combat, and lightsaber and weapons practice. Then she had to bathe, eat proper food, and attempt to centre herself - and only then could she rest.