Seraiah sat with arms crossed, breath deep and slow, slumped against the head of his cot. He had been restricted from all practical classes, and had been given extra study material on self control and mental discipline. 'grounded', the other youngling had remarked. Said youngling got the same punishement, Mephibosheth being his name. Seraiah had almost started another fight upon hearing it. Regardless of how touchy anyone was about their name, the Master of Correction sent them both straight back to the dormitories with their punishments in immediate effect.

And so here Seraiah sat, his work done in the last nine hours, fuming over the confrontation with Mephibosheth. Wouldn't he be so smug about it all, having handed Seraiah's arse to him the day before? He could just hear him bragging to his friends about how he danced around the 'milk-skin', how the younglings must be pathetic if that fight was any indication. And then there were the other Temple younglings, gadding and gossiping about the fight. 'Should have known better', 'not the Jedi way', it was endless from some of them. Fortunately, Hanna paid no heed to any of it.

Seraiah stood up, reaching under his pillow for his training saber (well, not 'his', really. It was another gift from his master before she passed). He stood in the middle of the room, and began to practice. He may be out of the tournament, but Hanna was impressed very much by martial skill. He began with meditating, stilling his mind, opening himself to the Force. He began the first slow movements, not actual attacks or strikes, but fluid movements that stretched muscles and tendons. He inhaled and sighed with each stretch, enjoying the release of endorphins and adrenaline. Gradually gaining speed, he flicked on the training saber, casting blue light throughout the room. He began the first practical strikes, halting his blade centimetres from the furniture. He accelerated his movements faster, settling into a fast rhythm to push his cardiovascular limits. Seconds and minutes blurred together, his breathing accelerated and his brow and limbs began to ooze saltwater.

The practice tool in his hands became an extension of his arms, the Force an extension of his existence. He paled in comparison to the clarity the masters could achieve, but this did not lessen the bliss of it, the feeling of being part of something, being not yourself, but something greater, something unifying.

And then it began to end, muscles and tendons tiring despite a greater power backing them. Seraiah brought his resolve to action, pushing his mind to draw upon the force and his muscles to keep going despite fatigue. He felt the sweat run down his face, his neck. He became hyperaware of his body, the protestations of muscle and tendon, but he kept going. The air coming through his throat and nostrils felt like ice.

He felt a twinge in the Force; someone was coming. He slowed his movements, not stopping suddenly, but easing his heart and lungs into regular activity. He shut off the training saber and replaced it under his pillow. He stood around the room, his body still processing the adrenaline in its veins.

The door opened to the other boys he shared the room with.

"Hi, Seraiah!" Behren, a twi'lek, greeted. "The last entries are in! You'll never believe it!"

"Try me." He shrugged.

"Lena Missa and Scout!"

Scout? He thought. Scout?

Tallisibeth Edwandung-Esterhazy—Scout, for short—had gotten into the tournament a few times over the years, but over that time, especially last year, she had become progressively out of place in the Temple. She was by far the weakest Jedi of their age. She lacked all the grace, finesse, and presence in the Force that all Jedi were chosen to be Jedi for. And Behren was telling him she had gotten in? He had lost fair and square, sure, and to no one else's fault but his, but this was like fate was rubbing it in.

"Edwandung-Esterhazy got into the tournament?"

"Yeah, she did." Gananata, an ithorian, said flatly. "Over you, me, and everyone in this room." The dual mouthed cynic made a lazy Force assisted leap into his cot above Seraiah's. "And yet, you're the only one upset about it. Or maybe you're just upset by something else?"

Where other ithorians were kind and passive to a fault, Gananata was a schutta amongst gizkas.

"Shut up, hammerhead."

"Someone's in a foul mood." The last boy to enter the room, a nautolan named Unalek, dumped his lightsaber on his bed and leant against the wall. "Still brewing that fight in your head?"

"Tell us about it! What was the guy like?" Behren had made the visitors form Almas his obsession of the week. So when he heard of Seraiahs fight with Mephibosheth, he started asking for every detail, despite the Jedi Masters telling all who brought it up not to talk about it.

"We're not supposed to talk about it." Seraiah told him.

"Oh, c'mon! Everyone else is anyway."

"Leave me alone." Seraiah lay on his own bed.

"Please?"

Seraiah turned toward the wall.

"Please, please, please?"

"Knock it off." Gananata warned before Seraiah could.

"No, no, tell us." Unalek said in a mocking tone. "I'd love to hear the fight from the losing side. "Leave." Seraiah began, his voice as low and menacing as his young vocal cords could manage. "Me. Alone."

"Or what, lover boy?"

"That's enough." Said Gananata.

Seraiah turned back to the middle of the room.

"If ding can beat you, I can."

Seraiah stood up.

"And I could probably beat that Mephiposhek as well."

"Shut up." Seraiah said impassively.

"Make me, twerp." Unalek gave him a shove. A second later, Unalek was picking himself up off the floor.

"You little..." Unalek snarled.

There was a knock on the door.

"What's going on in there?"

The voice of the day-monitor stopped the fight.

"Nothing." Called Gananata. Regarding Seraiah and Unalek in turn, he added, "Right?"

"Right." They said in unison, going back to their sides of the room. Behren took the hint and went to the desk at the back wall for some studying before bed. Gananata just stayed were he was, lazing on his bed.

When they all decided to call it a night, Seraiah lay awake in the dark, thinking of that moment a few hours ago when he had struck his roommate. He felt out of control. First Hanna, then his fight with Mephibosheth, now his roommates were fighting with him. This wasn't the first time his roommates had teased him, Unalek and Gananata taking turns because they hated the other's jokes, but this time Seraiah had just gone off. He felt like everything was going wrong, spiralling into the dark like the Force itself.

He sighed sadly and tried again for sleep.

Well, that took a bit (writer's block).

Hope I kept the characters believable, but please tell me if I didn't.

Just so everyone knows, nautolan is Kit Fisto's species, ithorians and twi'leks are pretty iconic for star wars, and, no, I'm not going to keep chucking more and more aliens into the story.