The canyon was a long, winding land formation carved into the stone by an ancient river that had dried up eons ago. At its broadest, it could accommodate a small freighter skimming along its bottom, but it often narrowed to a point where a band of Sand People would have to move single file.
The secluded location wasn't far from Obi-Wan's home but it was deep enough into the Jundland Wastes to provide a reasonable level of privacy. Obi-Wan was confident they would not be seen, except in the extremely unlikely case of a low-flying vessel. He would be able to detect any intrusion long before it reached them.
It was well-suited for the purposes of today's training—lightsaber combat.
Lorna had been pestering him about it, though his initial answer had been a firm no. Her persistence wore him down, as it often did, he was finding.
They'd left the eopie behind, the rough terrain in the area too challenging for their mount. A part of him was relieved to be traveling on foot. The physical proximity that riding together required seemed unwise after… well, he wasn't exactly sure what had transpired.
He hadn't meant to sense her thoughts that day—hadn't been actively seeking them. But in that unguarded moment, he'd felt her eyes trail across his bare skin, caught a flutter of something more than casual interest in her observation of him. Her embarrassment had been palpable, and his hasty retreat to the hut had hardly been his most dignified moment. He should have handled it with more grace, perhaps acknowledging it with gentle humor, or redirecting her focus.
Instead, he'd become... unsettled. The warmth in her gaze had stirred something in him he thought long buried, something that had no place in their arrangement. To let his mind wander down other paths was to court impropriety and disaster.
He glanced at Lorna as she maneuvered down the steep and jagged walls of the canyon. She had been careful to maintain her mental shields since that day, and he had been equally careful to keep his distance. Better to focus on the task at hand.
The floor of the canyon here was relatively level and free from large rocks. He scanned the area for any signs of watchful eyes, organic or mechanical, and found none, save the sparse natural species of flora and fauna.
"This will do," he said to Lorna, as he set his pack down next to the canyon wall.
She did the same and knelt down, fishing through her bag. Her hand emerged wrapped around her lightsaber hilt. Her expression cycled through a complex range of emotions as she stared at it briefly before clipping it onto her belt.
Obi-Wan palmed his own lightsaber's hilt, letting its weight settle in his hand. Light from the suns, shining into the canyon from directly above, glinted off of the alloy metal as he turned it to and fro.
Not long after he'd arrived on Tatooine, he had buried his lightsaber–along with Anakin's–inside the cave near the Lars homestead.
He couldn't stand the sight of them. Couldn't stand thinking about the last time they'd been used. He did not want to admit that he'd hidden them to Lorna. It made him feel cowardly, even though he'd thought he had a good reason for it at the time.
And so, one day he had made up an excuse to leave alone again, and he had retrieved his weapon.
Since Lorna's arrival, his trips to the cave had become less frequent. Her sideways glances suggested she no longer believed his story about trading with a local moisture farmer. Though she hadn't confronted him yet, he suspected she eventually would. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. But he would not neglect his duty, so the trips would continue.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Lorna's voice was cool, quiet.
He turned to find her standing behind him, her expression soft and unjudging. With a slight nod, his eyes dropped back to the weapon. After a year—the longest he'd ever gone without it—he thought it might feel foreign, unnatural. But the truth was, it was still as familiar as ever. The black ribbed grip, the bronzium accents near the emitter—every detail still a part of him.
He grounded his awareness and let memories of his duel with Anakin surface. The Mustafar heat bearing down on him, more oppressive than even this desert canyon. The scent of charred skin, the hatred emanating from his friend, the sickening ease with which the saber he now held had sliced through flesh. He asked the Force to take away the pain of these memories, and it answered, vast swaths of emotion swept away in its current. But some yet remained. Always, some remained.
"Too long," he said finally, raising to his feet. "Are you ready?"
"I am."
"Let's begin."
They shed their outer robes. Underneath, Lorna wore her modest gray pants and tunic, cinched at the waist with a belt, paired with practical brown knee-high boots. He assessed her as he would any potential sparring partner, noting how her athletic frame and average height suggested agility rather than raw power.
Physically, she was not a formidable opponent, though there was a quiet strength in her bearing that reminded him of another woman who had carried herself with similar grace. A woman he hadn't been able to help having a deep affection for...
He pushed the memories aside and ignited his lightsaber, the snap-hiss echoing off the rock walls surrounding them. Lorna's saber followed, blue and green light illuminating the canyon floor. She assumed her ready stance, stepping back with her right foot and sweeping her blade down to her side in a two-handed grip.
He studied her stance. Her foot placement was solid, her grip steady—but tension gathered in her shoulders, throwing off her balance ever so slightly. A small flaw, but in a real fight, it could slow her reaction time, make her more predictable.
"Relax your shoulders," he instructed, stepping closer. He lifted two fingers and tapped the top of her arm. "Here. Let your tension go."
She did, her expression set in determined calm.
"Drills first," he announced firmly. "Take it slow. Begin with attack positions. One, two, three, four…"
Lorna moved her blade methodically, hitting each attack position with the ease of familiarity. He mirrored her pace, blocking each strike.
He noted the rhythm of her footwork. It wasn't bad, predictable but steady. "Form Six. A fine choice, though I prefer the more traditional styles myself. What draws you to it?"
"It's balanced. It avoids the weaknesses of the other Forms. And it allows me to use other Force techniques to end the conflict."
Without warning, he shifted forward, angling his blade in a swift Makashi thrust. She blocked—barely.
"It lacks the precision of Form Two," he said, disengaging smoothly. He switched to a defensive posture, his blade flowing into the tight, efficient arcs of Soresu. "Or the impenetrability of Form Three."
"I know that," she said, a hint of annoyance in her voice.
He let her press the attack for a moment, deflecting each strike with effortless ease, before withdrawing again.
"You're right, Niman does aim to circumvent the weaknesses of the other Forms. But it also cannot fully take advantage of their strengths." He drew his lightsaber back until the hilt hummed near his right ear and extended his left arm forward.
"Go on," he said, voice light. "Try to get past my guard."
She did not press her offense immediately, instead narrowing her eyes in focus and shifting her feet slowly in the sand. Circling him, she studied his stance. He met her eyes giving nothing away.
She launched herself forward, her initial strikes probing and precise. The electric hum and crackle of their blades sounded off the canyon walls. His blade met hers with the slightest flick of the wrist, not wasting any movements. Her blade swiveled in a flurry of strikes, her technique polished and clean, befitting a Jedi with her experience. Yet each time she found the openings he left for her, she pulled back, never going for the decisive blow.
So unlike Anakin . He couldn't help but compare her to his former Padawan, with whom he had always had to temper the need to dominate, as he aggressively sought the weaknesses of every opponent.
"You hesitate at the decisive moment," he observed, sidestepping her latest attack. "You don't lack skill, which means you fear to commit."
Instead of answering, she slashed her saber toward his shoulder, but he simply stepped out of its way. She pressed forward with a series of swift cuts. He ducked avoiding a sudden slash toward his head.
"My form is not compromised," she argued between strikes, her face still a mask of calm focus.
"You said yourself that you value Form Six's balance. But you are not using the full extent of its strengths." He brought his blade up to block a sweeping blow that would have gutted him had it landed. He turned aside the strike with a small, deliberate rotation of his arm.
"Better. But you still have not fully immersed yourself in the Force."
Their conversation after her nightmare replayed in his mind. She had looked so small, huddled around her knees in his bed, when she'd admitted she struggled with controlling her fears. And yet he knew her to be capable of great strength.
"What are you afraid of?" he asked, locking eyes with hers.
"I… I don't know—"
" What are you afraid of?" He switched to an offensive position and swung at her right shoulder. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she blocked his swing just in time. He continued to release a barrage of attacks. The Force rippled as she pulled it tight, hugging it closer. Now we're getting somewhere.
Obi-Wan lept forward, aiming a blow at her neck. Her blade adjusted, preparing to stop it, but he was already pivoting back. A feint. He watched recognition flicker in her eyes.
He instead sliced his blade towards her chest, pulling back just enough for her to react. Their sabers glowed between them, their faces only inches apart. He pushed, testing her strength, but she held firm. Heavy breaths made her chest rise and fall rapidly, her lips parted slightly as puffs of air escaped through them. The emerald of her blade made the already vivid green of her eyes otherworldly as they bore into him.
With a grunt, she heaved forward, shoving him away, and he staggered back a few steps.
"I am afraid of… of losing control of my emotions." Her eyes darted away to the sandy ground as she said it, a slight flush in her cheeks..
"Then stop trying to control them," he challenged.
"…What?"
Obi-Wan had ignored the warnings—Anakin had been reckless, arrogant, often angry. Fearful of loss above all else, he realized now. Pain twisted in his chest. He should have seen it. Should have done more.
If Lorna's fears burdened her, better it come to light now—he would not make the same mistake again. He should know what he was dealing with before committing himself further to her training. Her fear was evident. But that simmering anger and desperate need for control Anakin had possessed, seemed entirely absent from the woman before him. The knot in his chest loosened, just slightly.
" Let go ," he urged her. "The Force flows through all emotions. Don't fight them—acknowledge them, understand them."
Her eyebrows shot up. "You want me to just… let my emotions run wild?"
"Trust yourself enough to feel, and trust the Force enough to let it guide you. We will deal with any negative emotions as they arise." He stepped forward and raised his lightsaber. "Again. Break past my guard."
Lorna's expression remained skeptical. She hesitated for only a heartbeat before releasing a burst of strikes leveled at his head and sides. Their sabers clashed, the weapons singing their lethal song as they crossed again and again.
Her strikes came faster, stronger, driven by a surging of the Force around her.
He found himself having to work to match her renewed assault. Her movements were still disciplined but there was an edge of unpredictability to them that made her far more dangerous.
"What do you feel?" he asked her.
"Strength. Power. Balance." Each word was punctuated by another forceful strike. "But… this is practice."
She disengaged with a flourish and stepped back. "When I am up against a real opponent—I don't know." Her eyes cast about, uncertain, her shoulders tensing.
"Then imagine that I am a real opponent. Visualize what brings you fear and face it."
"Well, maybe I—"
He swung his lightsaber at her suddenly, forcing her to stop mid-sentence to block him, her mouth falling open in surprise.
"You are overthinking it, Lorna." He pressed forward with a series of aggressive cuts that drove her back several paces. "Use your instincts."
Her face tightened with concentration, but he still sensed hesitation. His stance shifted and his Force presence adopted a harder edge as he switched from his preferred Soresu to Ataru.
Lorna adapted, parrying his strikes and evading his sweeping blue blade. His muscles protested and sweat began to collect on his brow, his body unaccustomed to the relentless physical exertion required of Ataru. He pushed his damp hair back from his face as he circled her, the length of it becoming a nuisance in the heat.
He noticed she was guiding them to where the canyon walls narrowed, creating a choke point. Very clever , he thought. But predictable. Ataru, with its acrobatics and constant movement, would be less effective in a tighter space.
Before she could fully dictate their position, he put himself between her and the narrow walls. He struck with a staggering blow, which Lorna barely blocked. He swung again, too fast for her to block.
She raised her hand instead, stopping his saber with the Force. Her lips curled back from her teeth in a grimace as she groaned under the effort.
Was he pushing her too hard? No, he needed to see, needed to know how she would react.
"Face your fear." He pushed his saber down, testing her.
Her tenacious glare morphed into wide-eyed panic. Her pupils dilated, her face drained of color. It was as though she were looking right through him.
She cried out and pushed with all her strength, staggering them both backward. Her lightsaber thudded into the dirt. She fell to one knee, her back hunched over, shoulders heaving with uncontrolled breaths.
He quickly moved to her side, kneeling down beside her. "Lorna, are you alright?"
His hands gripped both of her shoulders, feeling them shudder as she let out a sob. She couldn't answer him, her breathing ragged. He cursed himself. He had pushed her too far.
"It was… I saw…" she tried to explain between uneven breaths.
Her fingers curled into the sleeves of his tunic, gripping him as if he were her the only thing tethering her to reality. Her mental barriers were dissolving, all of her grief and panic and pain bleeding onto him. His chest ached for her, and he allowed her to lean closer, her forehead coming to rest on his shoulder.
"I'm here, Lorna. You're safe," he said, his hand moving in small circles on her shoulder blade.
When she still didn't respond, he reached for her mind, searching for the source of her turmoil.
Ozone and smoke and blood. The bodies of dead Jedi on the polished Temple floors. Where is Master Secura? Suffocating darkness. Cruelty and suffering. I have to help her. Hate-filled eyes and blue blades. Flee. He killed her. He killed her!
The fragments of her memories hit him like a blaster bolt to the stomach. "Anakin?"
Her head snapped up, wide eyes meeting his. His heart lurched painfully against his ribs as he released her shoulders and stepped back. He cradled his brow in his hand, his shoulders sagging beneath an invisible weight.
"You…you saw him?"
"At the Temple… He killed Jedi. He killed Master Secura!" she exclaimed, her voice wavering.
She picked up her lightsaber hilt, her hands trembling, and stood slowly. "I was trying to find Master Secura. I wanted to help her…She was fighting… I didn't know it was more than just the clones."
She had seen . She had witnessed Anakin's betrayal, had carried that knowledge all this time. A jolt ran through him as he realized there were probably very few others, if there were any at all, who had witnessed the slaughter that night and lived to tell about it.
"The Dark Side… I've never felt it so strong in a person. He… he murdered my Master like she was nothing!" Her voice was sharp, edged with fury and pain. "Obi-Wan—what happened ?"
There was desperation in Lorna's eyes, pleading with him to make sense of the horrors she'd witnessed.
"Lorna, I…" Grief choked off his words as he fumbled for something, anything to make her to stop looking at him like that.
She shook her head, pain marring her features as she stared at the ground. "You said you returned to the Temple. You saw what he did! You were his Master… Why? Why did he turn?"
"It's complicated—"
"Complicated? He killed children!" Her voice rose, echoing off the canyon walls. "I lost the only person who ever understood me because of him. You know the truth—I can sense it. Yet you keep it from me, along with the truth about why you hide here."
Her expression twisted into a bitter scowl as she stalked off toward where their packs were still leaning up against the canyon wall.
"Do you think I don't wrestle with these questions myself? Do you think I don't wonder what I could have done to prevent it?" he called after her.
"I wouldn't know, because you don't talk about it!" she called back, snatching her cloak from where she'd left it and pulling it back over her shoulders.
He followed her cautiously, taking deep breaths to reel his emotions back in. He donned his own cloak and swung his pack onto his shoulder.
"Lorna, I can't just—"
The Force convulsed with urgency, wrenching his attention away from his thoughts. Lorna's face paled as her head swiveled around the canyon, searching for the threat. But it wasn't here.
"The homestead. We need to get back now!" he said.
