×´Iâm sorry. I know.×´ Rosalie nodded, feeling her youth. Iâm not afraid, she wanted to say, a juvenile reassurance against oneâs own reluctance, bubbling up somewhere beneath the Jediâs conditioning to deny fear. She dismissed it. It would be a fruitless lie, and would bring neither present party any comfort.
     She swallowed hard, effectively loosening the phantom grip of an invisible gauntlet about her pale throat. Violet eyes shut for a couple of short moments, hard teeth biting down upon a soft lower lip, reddened slightly by the coolness in the air. It was easier suggested than practiced to shut out the residual remnants of that day, but it was all she had been working at ever since she left the Halls of Healing to take responsibility for tending to her bruises herself. It had been the only reason the High Council allowed her to take on this assignment alongside her master: their belief that she could handle it. She could remember Mace Winduâs scrutinizing gaze, eyeing her outside and inside, his monotonous, gravelly tones serving as the voice that spoke in favor of her staying behind.
     She breathed hard, typing out the access code on the panel. Her hand had stopped its milquetoast trembling in tandem with the inner tissues of her heart. Rein was right; she often was. Rosalie couldnât let her fears of a man not present affect how she handled the task at hand. She wasnât a little girl anymore, and she couldnât afford to be afraid of the darkânot in any sense. She didnât have the luxury of her motherâs gentle arms sliding soft cotton around her and making the bad things go away.
     She had to think hard to remember a time when Enric Kelrian had been absent from her life, from her mind, stationed readily just behind every one of her waking thoughts and even nearer to her dreams at night. The memories of her first ten years felt like somebody elseâs life most of the time. A story of a princess who lived happily and died, whose existence Rosalie just happened to remember. It would have been easier if it were that way. It was as though, with Enric leaving smudges of red on Rosalieâs small chin, his horrible voice telling her that someday she would understand why, somebody had hit a reset button, and what had come of it was like throwing white paint over a mural, the main body of the work erased but small hints of color around the edges remaining. Those glimpses of Rosie Seeker before the man who whited her out felt like dreams when Rosalie thought of them, like she was viewing them through a sheet of organza. Translucent and ethereal, at the same time warm and soft but sharp and cutting.
     Pistons shifted and clanged deep in the inner workings of the door, so faint she could barely hear them, and what she could make out of their motions only lasted for half a second before the heavy door slid open. A muscle along Rosalieâs jaw fluttered as it tensed. Hyper-aware of her lightsaber, Rosalie stepped to the side just so, allowing for Rein to take the lead. Peering inside with her eyes and the Forceârelying on not only Reinâs assurance but on her own sensory awarenessâRosalie likewise couldnât sense any immediate threatsâof the overt variety, that is. Threats could come in silent recognition of their presence, distinct and unusual in the practically unbeaten path of a buildingâs back entrance, just as much as they could in malevolent beings waiting inside. This would be no Geonosis, but all the same the creeping feel of being somewhere she shouldnât made Rosalie acute and scrupulous in her observations.
        Rein can feel her spirit sink to the very bottom of her boots when an apology, out of all possible things, leaves the younger. â Thereâs no need to apologise. Take it as a lesson, is all I meant to say. â She wonders if itâll even matter much, the reassurance she offers. Perhaps she ought to do so more frequently, as a preventative measure in lieu of waiting for the time in which itâs neededâââââ acutely. GUILT finds her swiftly as a consequence of her conclusion, ripping right through her like a set of sharp teeth set in her flesh. If not for the heavy plating her own resolve and general distance between herself and such emotions, it mightâve crippled her in this instance. As it is now, however, she only zones out for a brief moment, requiring only the repetitive blinking of her eyes to return to the matter at hand.
        Itâs punctuated with the snap of the lock opening, closely followed by creaking of the sliding door. Her ears have become quite a lot more sensitive to such sounds; itâs generally  a welcome compromise for the other sense sheâd lost. Now, however, she really wishes the sharp noise didnât hit her eardrums as keenly as it did. Itâs but a split second of discomfort sheâll simply have to bite through though, and thus she does. It ends with a nod given toward Rosalie, adorned with a wan smile of gratitude, no sooner than which she brushes past and breaches the perimeter.Â
        Her neck cranes, head pivoting from one direction into another. Sheâs exchanged one sort of cold for another. The cool ( near menacing ) breeze is swapped for this placeâs interior. Everything here is made of cold metalsâââââ durasteel, she guesses. Not so surprising, since this is the back entrance of what one could easily consider the forgotten basement of the tall building. â Thereâs a turbolift one level up, I believe. I think the architect mightâve forgotten to provide this sad corner of the premises with access to one, himself. â For this, she smirks at the other. Some lightening of the mood she believes is needed before they get back to what they came here for.Â
      â Letâs take the stairs up and then find it. â Already does she head for the stairway, the heels of her boots only lightly tapping against the flooring underneath. For good measure, she lobs a sidelong glance in Rosalieâs direction. â Unless you fancy walking all the way up? â
