WotJ 7

Let go, Luke thought, breathing out.

  He couldn’t track three remotes at once—it was hard enough keeping up with one. And all the practice in the galaxy wouldn’t help him. That wasn’t the point of the
  exercise any more than whether or not he could see.

  “Are you all right, Master Luke?” Threepio asked.

  “I’m fine,” Luke said. “Threepio, you’re a genius.”

  “I like to think I’m programmed for insights,” Threepio said, to which Artoo offered a disgusted blat.

  Luke raised his blade to ready position, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and the sweat stinging his eyes.

  The remotes streaked in. Luke couldn’t say that he saw them, but the blade of his father’s lightsaber was there to block their energy bolts. He couldn’t say that he heard them,
  but he turned whenever one tried to get behind him, blocking its attack vector with his blade.

  He was no longer aware of Threepio’s encouragement, or Artoo’s beeps. The chirping birds no longer registered in his ears, nor the chuffs and snorts of the pikhrons. He didn’t
  notice the sweat running down his neck, or feel the growing heat of the day.

  There was only the Force, its currents stretching into the past and future, and he was part of it, trusting it to take him where he needed to be. His muscles and nerves moved his arms and legs,
  shifting effortlessly among the four defensive postures that formed the foundation of lightsaber combat. But who was commanding those muscles and nerves?

  The remotes broke off their attack and floated quietly in front of the pillar. Luke looked around the courtyard, faintly startled. The sun had passed directly overhead and was now descending
  from its zenith in the sky.

  “How long…how long since I was last hit?” he asked.

  “Three standard hours, eleven minutes, and forty-three seconds,” Threepio said. “Perhaps you ought to rest, Master Luke. You must be perilously low on charge.”

  “I feel great,” Luke said with a smile, wanting nothing more than to sink back into the Force and lose himself in it.