By Proxy
Scene 7
A day without a visit to the dojo is a day without its requisite share of joy. To entertain a sentiment of this kind is highly unworthy of a Jedi, so Obi-Wan steadfastly abstains from entertaining it as he leads the way down to the open junior level salles that afternoon. Zhoa informs him that her astrocartography exam went very well, and that she is in the custom of practicing 'saber kata with her mentor at this time.
Far be it from him to interrupt the youngling's routine; steady habits are essential to proper child development. Or so he has read, somewhere. Certainly this seems to be Qui-Gon's belief: in all their years together as master and padawan, the senior Jedi made their daily agenda a predictable cycle of mayhem and upheaval of expectations. So, from a certain point of view, he too is a product of steady habits.
Zhoa is happy to be allotted her corner in which to practice open-handed and weapon kata while her companion disports himself among his peers. Garen is not on –planet, nor obviously Feld. There are sundry others present who kindly agree to a match or three, but the pickings are slim until Qui-Gon appears in the doorway.
"Your defensive guard is sloppy today," he comments.
This is only to be expected. Obi-Wan is, after all, practicing left-handed. Ambidexterity is a valuable asset where combat is concerned. As a former devotee of jar kai dueling technique, he is careful not to permit such skills to atrophy for want of use. "Critique from the sidelines is seldom pertinent."
The Jedi master discards his cloak and strides into the center of the sparring arena, chasing away the few others lingering at its margins. Zhoa's attention is riveted by the newcomer; she is strong in the Force, and knows what is coming.
Qui-Gon unclips his saber and adjusts the blade power setting. "Allow me to give you more direct instruction, then."
"Ah." Obi-Wan prowls counterclockwise about his adversary, swinging his own weapon in the flashy salute he deems most irritating to the other man's sensibilities, evoking a dangerous chuckle. "A demonstration of antique customs, then. I do enjoy history lessons."
They fall to with unrestrained enthusiasm, emerald and sapphire blades howling an ecstatic chorus as they whirl and spit lurid fire, weaving a giddying dance to match their song. Qui-Gon is in particularly lively spirits; his usually fluid and powerful variant of Ataru includes a great many roundhouse kicks – and a blow aimed at shoulder height by his scale is closer to a kick in the face by his opponent's. The only way to avoid having his chin split open is to backflip away from the strike; Obi-Wan finds himself in a continuous stream of defensive acrobatics, a carnival show which – he realizes- he has been tricked into performing for Zhoa's benefit.
He opts to end the clown act; seizing Qui-Gon's leg on the next powerful swing, he topples them both. The 'sabers clatter away, signaling the end of the match.
But they have long ago dispensed with tournament rules for private spars. Qui-Gon taught his padawan early how to survive, and this means he taught his padawan early never to stop fighting. Swordsmanship transitions seamlessly into open-hand combat techniques, strike and block, throw and recover, and ultimately grappling .
It is no longer a certainty that Qui-Gon will win every such contest, though he does today.
They rise from the floor grunting a little; generally this sort of practice is undertaken on mats, not the polished wood of this room. Zhoa Pleromata has all but dropped her low-power training weapon and is standing awe-struck in her corner, wide opal eyes fixed upon the unruly spectacle, tiny mouth slightly open.
The tall man's mouth quirks at one corner. "This is your idea of teaching? Sending her to do kata alone in a corner?"
A spurt of defensiveness erupts beneath his ribs. "I spent a good deal of time – "
"That was punitive," Qui-Gon cuts him off. "You are her teacher for the day." He nods in the girl's direction. "Do her the honor."
But … the girl is so tiny and young. What if he hurts her by accident? What if she cries?
"You won't hurt her," Qui-Gon assures him. "Did I ever hurt you in training?"
One of Obi-Wan's brows arches sharply upward.
But the older man only wags a finger under his nose. "That was not on accident," he points out.
Oh. Yes. Well. That is a somewhat legitimate point. His control is far too perfect to inflict unintentional harm, and as for the intentional variety… that is out of the question in this context. Zhoa is not he, nor is she anything like him. Which accounts for some of his hesitance.
Qui-Gon smiles and dips his head in farewell and strides away for the shower rooms.
Feld's padawan is perceptive, and has excellent aural receptors to boot. "So we are going to practice together now?" she eagerly inquires.
"Yes. Join me here in the center."
She obeys with alacrity, skipping over to where he stands waiting and taking up a Niman ready position. Obi-Wan corrects the minor flaws in her stance and mirrors her guard. If he focuses on saber form, and not on the act of teaching, the task becomes facile – almost enjoyable.
He invites her to attack; he will defend. They play for a few minutes, and he gives advice here, a correction there. Encouragement where it is needed, praise where it is merited. Zhoa grows bolder, confidence unfettering hidden skill. She grins, and his own mood rises on the updraft of her youthful happiness.
"Good," he says. "Now – instead of that direct strike on my right, I want you to feint and reverse cut. Can you do that?"
She nods, earnest and determined. He flows in to the next exchange, the steps of their mock duel as familiar as breathing, the simplicity of their dance something ingrained, automatic. He leaves an opening on the right, anticipates her strike, shifts his weight, flicks his blade to intercept her left-hand reverse cut –
And yells in pain.
Zhoa echoes his cry of surprise and drops her saber, crumpling into a full kowtow before him.
Obi-Wan clamps a hand over his burned groin – thank the Force for near misses – and breathes through the initial throbbing assault on his nerves. The injury is superficial, but even a training saber can leave a searing mark. He curses himself for his lack of focus. He had acted on what he assumed she would do – what he had told her to do – rather than tending to the present moment as it actually unfolds.
"Oh I'm sorry I'm sorry - I did it wrong I meant to reverse but my grip was wobbly and it slipped and-"
Zhoa's babbling apology dissolves into hiccups.
Oh no. Hissing a little, he drops to one knee and touches her shoulder. "There is no need for apology, young one. The mistake was mine."
Now she uncurls from her penitential position and blinks up at him, bewildered. Her mouth turns down at the corners. "You're hurt," she whimpers. "Oh I can feel it!"
And then she bursts into tears.