Restoration
Sunset.
I light the meditation candle – the one with two wicks embedded in one pale column of sweet-scented bezzil wax – and set it upon the polished floor between us. My padawan's eyes glint with an amused chagrin as I spark the twin flames to vibrancy out of thin air, snapping my fingers above each black twist of wick in turn, kindling the Force to momentary fire around them. I have not taught him this skill, teasingly withholding the secret like some jealous parlour magician keeping an unworthy apprentice at bay.
If he asks tonight, I will show him, for such paltry games no longer have the resonance of humor between us. But he does not inquire, merely watches the quavering spindles of fire with those too-old eyes, ready to begin, focused on this present task as I am not yet.
Thus does the circle find completion, the student teaching the master. I have learned much from my padawan, many things the hard way – the only way, my own former mentors were wont to bemoan, that wisdom can be driven into my stubborn heart. One thing I have so learned at his feet is to shape the raiment to the wearer; I shall forever prefer to impart wisdom through direct experience, intuitive exercises, puzzling koans – but Obi-Wan, by contrast, flourishes within the demanding strictures of rubric, schema, ritual formality. Until him, I always supposed these ways lesser: outward and ossified. But he has shown me how the vigor of form may channel passion and devotion that might otherwise run rampant over psychic plains. His soul, running with the furor of youth and the white intensity of his spirit, carves those containing banks deeper, a river shaping itself to its predestined course, filling the teachings, renewing them, obeying them, giving them perpetual rebirth in the present, his future self a depth and wisdom yet unrealized.
I anyone could cause me to question the unruly and rebellious dictates of my heart, it is he. We are often at odds because of this- but this is not the time to indulge in such pleasant, habitual opposition. We will begin this meditation his way, for the Living Force and my superior experience tell me that before all is done we must end it mine.
"Let us begin," I say.
We anchor ourselves in the pair of flickering lights: a child's tool, but one we have both humbly relied upon since that mission, rebuilding our shattered harmony from the ground up. Besides, the flames are beautiful, the aromas of the candle sweet as any chandrilan balsawood incense. The Force pulls us closer, deeper into itself, granting its own permission to commence.
My part here is to ask, his to answer. In truth, we both have much to learn, or relearn, but Obi-Wan prefers the burden and surety of defined roles. "What are the three pillars?" I intone.
"Knowledge, skill, the Force." A response as automatic as breathing.
"And upon what three foundations do these pillars rest?"
He knows this by heart. Its recitation brings him peace. "Humility, patience, obedience." Since I don't immediately pick up the thread of response again, he continues. "Just as the corresponding false foundations are pride, ambition, and domination, upon which rest the false edifice of power, defiled temple of the Dark Side."
I watch him as he half-chants the ancient words. There is something in the easy condemnation – a trace of hauteur is it? or faint self-righteousness? – that raises my nape hairs, reminds me that he is very young; yet there is also beneath those dulcet tones a supple steel to match their intent, a fire of conviction that melts such suspicions to dross and seals the truth of his words with a promise of blood and tears.
In his hands, rite becomes revelation. Another time, I will meditate on whether this is part of my reluctance to conform perfectly to tradition. Insight can be perilous. For now, we will go onward, perhaps deviating slightly from the strict path.
"Of the three foundations, which is pre-eminent?" This is not actually part of the traditional catechesis – I have innovated, rogue that I am, but the detour is couched in the formal terms he loves, and I see by the glint in his half-hooded eyes that the challenge had been accepted.
Obi-Wan smiles faintly, sinking deeper into the Force, inviting me to follow. How treacherous a thing is teaching. "None is pre-eminent among the three," he replies, not missing a stride, as fluidly as though his mind has coursed over these river stones countless times, wearing the thoughts smooth. Who knows? Perhaps he has. The boy is given to brooding. "Humility begets patience, patience begets obedience, obedience begets humility. There is no true beginning or ending of a circle, which has as origin and definition only relative to its center." Something tells me he is improvising, speaking out of profound intuition and the Force, oracular. Face just past the softness of childhood, hardening into maturity but yet unlined… the effect is disconcerting . I exhale when he does.
"And what is that center?"
He skewers me with a look that passes straight through my body and into Unifying depths. "Trust, Master." The trance-state falters, and that alarming gaze wavers, falls back into focus upon my face. A tiny furrow of disapproval appears between his brows. "That question isn't in the formulary, you know."
"My prerogative." My fingers brush his knee, root us back in the physical, in the here and now. Obi-Wan hiccups, once – an endearing involuntary response when he surfaces from meditation too quickly, one I have the good grace to ignore lest I embarrass him with an old man's sentiment. "But the answer is a good one. We shall make it the focus of our exercises tomorrow."
And gone is the oracle, replaced by flesh-and-blood padawan, adolescent and apprehensive. He's forgotten to reinforce his shields, and I can feel his pulse quicken. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" he grumbles.
He can feel at least the penumbra of my intent. "You must trust me," I quip, impulsively.
It is a bad one. His ill-defined perturbation morphs into bitterness. His teeth clench as he swallows, but we are too fresh from the Force to slip into discord. He does not look away, though the thoughtless remark hurt. "Yes, but it's still… difficult. I'm sorry, Master." Graceful dip of head.
His honesty sears. I breathe through the deserved reminder. "Accept my apology instead," I answer.
He offers me a pale smile and reaches to snuff the candle-flames, but I stay his hand with mine. "We'll leave this to burn; tomorrow will be an extension of this meditation."
"Yes, Master." I might wish he did not look so wary, so guarded – but I cannot blame him After all, the last time I directly asked him to trust me, I whipped him until he screamed. To save both our lives, it is true, and he will admit it. But some scars are not healed by bacta alone. We have carefully, painstakingly approached and prepared for this over the last six weeks, rebuilding foundations with patience, obedience, and humility. Now we must place the final cornerstone and see whether the restored edifice will stand the trial.
Is there any wonder we both feel a small jolt of trepidation?
"We ought to both rest well tonight," I decide, placing our luminous anchor within a shallow wall alcove. He bows, and we retreat to our respective chambers in silence.
I leave the candle burning.