Chapter 8: Lessons in Hitting Things (With Lightsabers)
The training hall smelled faintly of metal polish and ozone, the scent that clung to every surface in the Jedi Temple. The floor gleamed in the morning light that spilled through tall windows, perfectly swept and perfectly ready to be scuffed up by a dozen younglings about to learn how to hit each other with glowing sticks.
Master Tyyvak stood at the front, her towering Wookiee frame casting a long shadow across the mats. Her bowcaster was slung across her back as always, though Ahsoka had never seen her fire it. She didn't need to—her sheer presence was enough to make even the rowdiest younglings shut up. Well, most of them.
On another note, why did she have a bowcaster and not a lightsaber? She's a Jedi. That's kind of their thing. Unless… the chamber of the bowcaster is the hilt of the lightsaber! That's so cool! And… probably really difficult to assemble, actually. Ahsoka's much happier with her twin blades, thank you very much.
"We begin today," Tyyvak rumbled in Shyriiwook, her growl warm as always. "Your first supervised sparring matches."
A ripple of sound passed through the gathered class—gasps, nervous whispers, a few muffled laughs. Ahsoka's Montrals twitched with a mix of excitement and nerves. Finally. This was it. The real test. Not katas in neat little rows, not balance drills, not moving stones around with the Force until her head hurt. This was a chance to prove herself. To show she wasn't just some scrappy kid from Shili that the Jedi had scooped up. She was ready. She could do this. She had to.
Beside her, Ben practically vibrated with anticipation, rocking on the balls of his feet as if the mats themselves were too slow for him. He wore a grin so wide Ahsoka was sure it had to hurt.
"Ohhh, here we go," he whispered, too loudly. "The moment of destiny. The showdown of legends. The grand melee of—"
"Quiet," Ahsoka hissed at him, though her own lips twitched. He was impossible sometimes.
Ben mimed zipping his lips. That lasted about three seconds before he leaned back toward her, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Remember, children," he muttered in a singsong imitation of Huyang's precise accent, "don't point the glowy end at your face. Training sabers may be non-lethal, but they are still very sting-y."
A couple of younglings nearby snorted. Even Ahsoka bit back a laugh, though she elbowed him in the ribs for good measure.
Across the line, Maris Brood stood with her arms folded, the edge of her dark Padawan tunic brushing her boots. She didn't laugh. She didn't even roll her eyes. She just fixed Ben with a look so flat and unimpressed it could have been carved from stone. The faintest tilt of her chin said everything: You're going to die, clown.
Ahsoka noticed—because she always noticed—that Maris had grown more comfortable around them lately. She spoke more, sat closer during lessons, even teased in her own quiet, sharp-edged way. But apparently, with Maris, being mean was affection. Ahsoka couldn't help but smile at the thought.
Master Tyyvak raised one massive paw, and silence fell again.
"You will spar with your new lightsabers. On their training setting," She continued. "These settings are mandatory, and are designed to teach without maiming. But pain will still teach. You may not lose a limb, but each strike landed will hurt. Do not fear it. Learn from it."
Her growl deepened, echoing through the chamber.
"Control is the heart of a Jedi. Without control, you are nothing more than a danger to yourself and others."
Ahsoka swallowed. Her palms itched with the need to prove she had that control. That she was ready.
Ben, meanwhile, whispered under his breath like it was a game: "Control, control, you must learn control…" He stopped just short of humming a dramatic score.
Ahsoka smacked his arm again.
Maris smirked this time. Just barely.
Master Tyyyvak walked each initiate through the process of using their training setting, silver hilts gleaming as she passed down the line. Each student's face lit with awe—or in Ben's case, smug delight—as their weapons ignited.
Ahsoka's heart hammered in her chest when her saber hit her palm, cool and solid. She thumbed the activator, and a blade of shimmering green burst to life with a snap-hiss. It buzzed faintly, humming with energy, vibrating all the way down to her bones. Her breath caught.
She wasn't just imagining it anymore. This wasn't practice with a stick. This was real.
Ben spun his lightsaber like a baton, nearly clipping one of their classmates before he caught it, waggled his eyebrows, and gave an exaggerated bow.
Maris sighed. "You are going to die."
...
Master Tyyvak's voice carried across the training floor, calm as ever, but I swear I felt a chill.
"Today," she announced, "you'll be sparring not only with one another, but also with some of the Temple's Padawans. They've generously volunteered their time."
The room buzzed instantly. Younglings shifted on their feet, some excited, some pale. Me? I was half thrilled, half terrified. Mostly thrilled, because if there was one thing better than swinging a lightsaber around, it was swinging one at someone who knew what they were doing.
Probably.
Names were called, pairs arranged. Then my ears caught two I actually recognized.
Aayla Secura—tall, blue, ridiculously graceful—was assigned to Ahsoka. I heard my friend's tiny gasp, and saw her eyes go wide as if she'd just been told she'd spar against a holo-drama star. Honestly, same.
You know, if the Jedi really want to enforce this whole unspoken rule of celibacy thing, they may want to consider less… revealing outfits. Slave Leia had more modesty.
"Padawan Skywalker, you'll spar against Initiate Kryze."
The sparring floor was suddenly a lot less fun.
Oh boy.
The crowd of younglings erupted in little gasps and whispers, like someone had just announced free cafeteria nerf nuggets. Even Ahsoka tilted her head, eyes going wide. Skywalker. The legendary hotshot. The prodigy. The Jedi Temple's equivalent of the kid who was so good at gym class dodgeball you started pretending you had asthma to sit out.
I tried to play it cool. "So," I said, twirling the training saber hilt between my palms, "this is what it feels like to be offered up as a sacrifice."
Anakin, all cocky grin and easy swagger, stepped into the ring. He looked like he belonged there—broad shoulders, confident smirk, that whole I'm-already-the-main-character aura. He gave me a nod that was somehow both friendly and patronizing.
"Don't worry, kid," he said. "I'll go easy on you."
"Great," I shot back. "I'll go hard on you."
A ripple of laughter from the other younglings. Even Tyyvak's mouth twitched, though he quickly smoothed it back into stern Jedi neutrality.
We took our positions. Anakin dropped smoothly into Form V's classic Djem So stance—blade angled up, posture aggressive but balanced. I, meanwhile, copied something I'd read about Vaapad. Which is to say, I held the saber in a way that looked dramatic and tried not to trip on my own feet.
If Mace Windu could beat Palpatine with this, then surely I could beat a prequel-era Anakin. Right? Right.
Focus. Calm. Rely on your training. All good advice. All useless against Anakin Skywalker. He was the Chosen One, the Hero With No Fear. And given his dad was the Force, a total nepo baby… yes, I see the irony in me saying this.
In my defense, my mom still refuses to let me refer to herself as anything other than Auntie Satine. Plus she handed me off to the Jedi. That's got to be the Star Wars equivalent of leaving your kid on an orphanage's doorstep. I have none of the perks of being a nepo baby.
Anakin has all of them.
He's skilled with a lightsaber. He's a Goliath in the Force. Totally OP. But I had one advantage. Back on Earth, I had relentlessly devoured the Star Wars franchise. I'd seen Anakin at his best. At his worst. At his most vulnerable. I knew his one weakness.
"Pocket sand!"
I hurled the handful from my robes straight at his face.
Don't ask me where I got it. You have no idea how hard it is to find sand on Coruscant. It's worse than looking for water on Tatooine. Let's just say a few decorative planter boxes in the Temple gardens are now mysteriously emptier.
"Ah! It's so coarse, rough, and irritating!" Anakin recoiled, actually whining, blinking furiously as he rubbed at his eyes. The gasps from the crèche became shrieks of laughter. Even Aayla Secura, across the room, cracked a grin.
For a glorious instant, I was a god among children.
I pressed the advantage, charging forward with the kind of reckless overconfidence that makes Jedi Masters sigh deeply into their hands. My blade smacked against Anakin's, forcing him back a step.
"Fear me, Skywalker," I declared, grinning wide. "I am the Sandman."
The other younglings howled. Maris Brood actually snorted.
For two whole seconds, I was winning. Two. Whole. Seconds.
Then Anakin adapted.
With blinding speed, he pivoted, locked my blade, and shoved me backward. My arms jolted like I'd tried to block a landspeeder with a broomstick. He wasn't smiling anymore—now his expression was half amusement, half… curiosity. Like he'd just discovered a new bug to dissect.
"Unorthodox," he said, voice low. "But sloppy."
Uh oh.
What followed was less a duel and more a demonstration. Anakin flowed into Djem So with terrifying efficiency. Every swing hammered down like a meteor. Every parry jolted my arms numb. I tried a fancy Vaapad spin—he batted it aside like I was waving glowsticks at a concert.
The smugness drained right out of me. This wasn't a duel. This was survival.
I backpedaled furiously, grasping for new tricks. Fake stumble. Switch hands. Shout "Look, it's Senator Amidala!" to distract him. Nothing worked. He cut through my improvisations like they were training remotes.
At one point he disarmed me entirely, sending my saber clattering across the floor. Before I could panic, he kicked it back toward me. "Pick it up," he said. Almost kindly.
Which somehow felt worse.
I scrambled, ignited it again, and tried one last gambit—rolling low, attempting a clumsy leg sweep. He hopped over it easily, tapped my back with his blade, and sent me sprawling face-first into the mat.
The sparring ring erupted in cheers and groans.
Anakin deactivated his saber, extending a hand to help me up. "Not bad," he said, voice tinged with genuine respect. "You've got guts. And… creativity." His eyes narrowed just slightly, as if cataloging me. "But guts and pocket sand won't get you far."
I groaned, accepting his hand, my pride limping behind me. "So what you're saying is… Vaapad plus sand equals still losing?"
"Exactly." He grinned now, flashing the charm that would one day drive half the galaxy insane. "But don't stop trying crazy things. Sometimes, crazy works."
Master Tyyvak called the match. The younglings applauded. Ahsoka caught my eye from across the floor, giving me a mix of encouragement and what-were-you-thinking.
Answer: I wasn't. But it was totally worth it.
Because for two glorious seconds… Anakin Skywalker was afraid of sand.
...
The clatter of training sabers echoed across the sparring chamber, accompanied by the gasps and cheers of younglings too enthralled to remember they were supposed to be quiet. Obi-Wan Kenobi remained standing at the back of the hall, hands folded neatly within his sleeves, face composed in the dignified stillness that came with long practice.
In truth, his jaw was tight enough to ache.
Ben had just hit the floor for the third time. Sand sprayed across the mat like so much glittering evidence of desperation, and though the boy scrambled gamely to his feet each time, the outcome was never in doubt. Anakin was too strong, too fast, too confident. A storm contained within the shape of a teenager.
Perhaps Obi-Wan trained him too well.
But Ben—his Ben—was stubbornly trying to fight the storm with a bucket and a grin.
"Interesting boy you've got there."
Obi-Wan didn't need to glance aside to recognize the smooth, amused drawl. Quinlan Vos leaned against the nearest column, arms folded, dark eyes alight with mischief as he watched his own Padawan whirl through her match on the opposite side of the room. Aayla Secura was cutting down initiates in clean, fluid arcs, her movements as precise as they were graceful. The girl fought like a dancer who had decided the floor was littered with enemies.
"She's performing admirably," Obi-Wan said evenly.
Vos smirked. "She is. Meanwhile, yours seems determined to turn the duel into a comedy routine."
Obi-Wan exhaled slowly through his nose. He would not rise to the bait.
Vos leaned in anyway. "Tell me, is it standard in your lineage to encourage sand-throwing as a valid combat technique, or is that a… Kenobi innovation?"
"He's not in my lineage." Obi-Wan's lips thinned. "I've merely offered a word of two of advice, as we all should." He may have to offer more, as well. He had noticed the sand. Force help him, he'd noticed everything. The cheek, the irreverence, the utter lack of restraint. And yet—
Yet, the boy had lasted longer against Anakin than half the Temple's initiates would have dared. Clever, reckless, utterly inappropriate…but inventive.
A familiar, treacherous warmth tugged at Obi-Wan's chest. Force help him, he really is his mother's son. If a tad more… eager for action.
Across the mat, Anakin disarmed Ben for the final time with a neat twist and sent the boy sprawling in a heap. The younglings erupted in cheers. Anakin offered Ben a hand up, and though Ben accepted it, he ruined the gesture by saying something irreverent as always.
Though, judging by Anakin's answering grin, his padawan took no offense. Good. It's… nice, to see them get along so well. Obi-Wan was worried that Ben may take defeat as bitterly as Anakin. Or that Anakin's pride may be more wounded by such underhanded tactics.
He should have known better. Anakin employed the unorthodox far more than even Qui-Go dared.
Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. Quinlan barked a laugh.
When the sparring matches ended, the initiates broke into clusters, voices high with chatter. Aayla accepted the admiration of several wide-eyed younglings with a nod as calm as any Knight's. Ben, by contrast, trudged toward his friends like a soldier returning from defeat, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
Maris Brood, a recent friend of his s—of Ben, was the first to greet him, her smile sharp. "You lasted, what, four minutes? Impressive. Most younglings only take three to humiliate themselves in front of the entire Temple."
Hmm. Ben should look into finding more supportive friends.
Ben groaned. "Thanks, Maris. Remind me to send you a thank-you note for your support." Great minds think alike. Like father, like—no. Not like father, Obi-Wan… you have not earned that.
She smirked. "Oh, you'll get one—from the healers when they're done stitching your pride back together."
Before Ben could retort, Ahsoka bounded to his side, montrals bouncing, eyes bright with something far more earnest. "I thought you were great," she blurted. "Brave, even. I mean—going up against Anakin Skywalker? You didn't stand a chance! But you tried anyway, and that's… that's something."
Obi-Wan liked her. If he didn't already have his eyes on Ben, he might've tried to snatch her up as his next padawan. If he can teach Anakin, he can teach anyone. As it was, perhaps he'll pass along a friendly reminder to Plo Koon.
Ben's shoulders eased, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. "Thanks, Snips."
"Snips?" Ahsoka tilted her head.
He shrugged. "It fits."
Obi-Wan cleared his throat before Maris could cut in again. "Ben. A word."
The boy froze, then offered Ahsoka a helpless little grimace before trudging over. He stopped before Obi-Wan, head bowed just enough to suggest guilt, though his eyes still carried that incorrigible spark.
Why did he find that so endearing?
From the sidelines, Quinlan leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging his mouth. "Better you than me, old friend."
Obi-Wan didn't so much as twitch. "Quinlan," he said, voice smooth as polished stone. "If you'd be so kind as to take your running commentary elsewhere, I would like a private word with my—" He caught himself, and the pause was audible. "…with the boy."
Vos snorted. "Ah. Privacy. I see. Don't worry, Kenobi—your secret fatherly pride is safe with me."
"Quinlan."
"Fine, fine. I'm going. Force forbid I get between you and your heartfelt lecture."
He sauntered away with that maddening swagger of his, and Obi-Wan, for his part, allowed only the smallest of exhales before turning back to Ben.
...
I could tell by the way he said my name—low, precise, each syllable clipped like it was being filed down with a whetstone—that I was in trouble. Not Temple-rule-breaking trouble. Worse. Obi-Wan Kenobi trouble.
"Ben."
He gestured toward the hallway with that perfect, infuriating calm of his. Like he wasn't walking me to my doom, but simply suggesting a nice little stroll. My feet, the traitors, followed.
We stopped in one of the side chambers, quiet and dim, the hum of training sabers replaced by the buzz of my pulse in my ears. Obi-Wan folded his arms. That was never a good sign.
"So." He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. "Would you like to explain what that was?"
"Uh… innovative?" I tried, plastering on my best grin. "Creative problem-solving? A stunning display of tactical genius?"
His brow arched so high I thought it might detach and float away.
"All right, all right," I said quickly. "Maybe I got a little carried away with the sand trick. But you have to admit—it worked. For a while."
"That is precisely the problem." He stepped closer, and his voice softened—but that softness was somehow worse than shouting. "Your creativity is a strength. I will not deny that. But without restraint, it will destroy you."
The words landed like a blow. I tried to laugh them off, but the sound died halfway out of my throat. "Destroy me? Bit dramatic, don't you think?"
"Is it?" His gaze didn't waver. "Today you faced a sparring match with a friend. Tomorrow it may be an enemy with a blade that cuts deeper than training sabers. Tricks and flourishes will not save you if you lack discipline. If you gamble with lives the way you gambled today—"
He stopped.
Drew in a breath. Then, softer still, he said, "I wanted you to succeed, Ben. I did. But not like that. Not by endangering yourself just to prove you could."
I blinked at him. That… that was new. Obi-Wan didn't admit things like that. He corrected, instructed, lectured—but this was something else. Something dangerously close to personal.
A thousand answers fought their way to the surface. Sarcasm. Defiance. A joke about him sounding like my dad. But none of them felt right, not with the weight in his eyes.
And I hated that part of me—some traitorous, quiet part—was warmed by it.
"I…" My voice cracked. I coughed, tried again. "I wasn't trying to—look, I just wanted to show I could keep up. That I belong here. I thought if I did something big enough, you'd… notice."
His expression softened in a way that made me feel both seen and stripped bare.
"I notice," he said. Simple. Certain. "Far more than you realize."
The room tilted, or maybe that was just my head trying to make sense of the stew of feelings bubbling inside me—annoyance, embarrassment, a little bit of pride, and something dangerously close to relief.
I looked away, muttering, "Force, you're making this really hard to hate you, you know that?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely. But it was there. "Good. That suggests I am doing something right."
I wanted to argue. I really, really did. But for once, I didn't.
It's genuinely hard to stay mad at someone like Obi-Wan Kenobi. Was he perfect? Of course not. Nobody is. But the thing about him is… he tries. Always. Relentlessly. And not because it's convenient, or glamorous, or makes him look good. He just does the right thing because it's the right thing.
Can you imagine being that selfless? I can't.
Think about it—who else do you know who'd throw his whole life into protecting some politician he barely met, just because the Code said so? Or take on training a volatile kid just because his dying master asked him to? Or march headfirst into leading a galactic war, not for glory, but because someone had to step up so fewer innocents would suffer? That's Obi-Wan. That's just… who he is.
He wasn't there when Korkie and I were born. But I can't pin that on him. It wasn't selfishness, or him trying to run from family. It was the opposite, really—he was bound up in a duty that stretched far beyond one person, or even one world. He carries that weight, every single day, and still somehow keeps walking.
So how can I hate him? The truth is, I can't. I admire him too much. I wanted to be him. I wanted to walk like him, talk like him… I even copied his accent. Not that anyone could tell; I picked it up on Mandalore anyway.
I do kinda wish he'd just call me "son", though. Having one parent in denial was more than enough, thank you. But, who knows? As a wise old gremlin once said, "Always in motion, the future is."
...
Ben was hunched over his workbench again, the glow of the tools painting his face in harsh blue lines. His half-finished lightsaber lay in pieces before him, guts of crystal housing and emitter coils splayed out like an autopsy. He muttered under his breath while he adjusted the wiring.
"Needs an upgrade… countermeasures… built-in failsafe for when some nepo-baby thinks their midochlorian count makes them untouchable."
Ahsoka leaned against the doorway of their shared dorm, her left foot tapping absently. He hadn't noticed her yet. He rarely did when he got like this. His jokes carried the same cadence as always, sharp and irreverent, but she'd started to notice the difference. The humor was his sword, his shield, and his armor, and when he wrapped himself in it this tightly, it usually meant something had cut deep.
He'd shrugged off Obi-Wan's reprimand earlier like it was nothing, but Ahsoka could see the weight he tried to hide. Where she had learned to trust the Temple, to let herself be shaped by it, Ben seemed determined to fight it at every turn. She wondered if he even knew why.
She thought back to Maris in training that day—quiet, withdrawn, but never oblivious. Her eyes had followed Ben more than once, sharp and unspoken. Ahsoka wasn't sure what Maris saw in him, but she knew it wasn't just the clown act he put on for everyone else.
"Going to stare all night, or are you going to help?" Ben finally said without looking up, the corner of his mouth twitching in a half-smile. He sensed her presence. Just as she sensed his. Which is why she knew he was hurting more than he let on.
More than bruises. Deeper than pride.
Ahsoka didn't answer right away. She crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite him, resting her chin on her hand. "You ever think about the future?" she asked.
Ben smirked. "Sure. All the time. Usually involves me with a cloak dramatically billowing in the wind."
"Ben." She let his name hang between them, weighty.
For a moment, his smirk faltered. Just a flicker—but she saw it. He bent back over the saber with exaggerated focus, pretending her question had never been asked.
Ahsoka sighed and leaned back, letting her gaze drift to the ceiling. The truth was simple enough: where she felt at home here, Ben felt cornered. She loved the Jedi path, the structure, the belonging. He acted like it was a battle he could never stop fighting.
She wondered what that meant for the two of them, years from now. Would they still be sitting across from each other, friends and sparring partners? Or would the Order push him too hard, until something finally broke?
Ahsoka wasn't as sure as she'd like to be. But she hoped. Whatever happened, she'd be there. She just prayed the Order wouldn't take the choice from them.