By Proxy
Scene 9
The remainder of the day passes in peaceful fashion. Zhoa barricades herself behind a pile of holo-texts, diligently completing her assignments, while her interim guardian cleans and polishes his 'saber, his boots, all his field gear, and anything else left lying about in the apartment.
Qui-Gon returns in the late evening to a flawlessly tidy domicile. "Something wrong?" he inquires of his former padawan.
"Of course not." When in Force's name is Feld coming back? Obi-Wan prepares tea using the most elaborate variant of the long ceremony.
The Jedi master watches him with knowing eyes, humor sparkling in the Force around him, and kneels opposite. Zhoa is still fortified against siege at Obi-Wan's desk in the adjacent bedroom.
He accepts his bowl gravely. "Have you made the girl cry yet?" he inquires.
The younger man almost chokes on his first sip. "What?" Outraged stare. "She started out that way. I'm not responsible."
Qui-Gon is not sympathetic. "Exactly. You are responsible – for the time being – and it would appear you have done very little to address the problem."
This is intolerable, as it was doubtlessly calculated to be. "If I had any idea what to do with a …a crying youngling – do not look at me that way, she is a Jedi in training, not some ordinary child –"
The Jedi master holds up a hand. "Are those two things so very mutually exclusive?"
"Yes."
End of debate. Obi-Wan drinks his tea, letting the scalding liquid cascade over his tongue. It is bitter and rich and too kriffing hot. "Blast it." His eyes water up.
Which only provokes a hearty chuckle from his companion. "Alas… I shall have to flee the scene, now that you have committed the most appalling violation of decency."
It is not funny. Obi-Wan blinks away stinging moisture and crosses his arms. "What am I supposed to do?" he demands.
"You are asking for my counsel?"
Humiliating, but true. He is out of his depth and he knows it. "Yes, Master."
Qui-Gon gazes languidly at the ceiling. "Put yourself in her boots, then. What does she need?"
He may be a talented diplomat, according to reputation and the record of precocious achievement, but this is different. "I don't know what to say to her," he insists.
The tall man shakes his head. "You've been talking to her all day."
"Yes, but not about this. " He searches his memory long and hard, trying to dredge up some scrap of personal history that will give some clue as to proper masterly comportment in this situation, and comes up alarmingly blank. "I can't even remember what you used to say to me."
Raised brows. "And why is that?"
It has been a long time since Obi-Wan found himself in the position of stymied and slow-witted pupil. It is not sitting well with him now, but he must accept the temporary resumption of previous roles. He still has much to learn, and it shows. He sighs. "Because I wasn't paying attention?"
Now Qui-Gon is laughing outright. "No, brat, because I wasn't talking. I was listening."
Oh. Obi-Wan shifts in place. Fine, then.
Zhoa Pleromata appears in the inner doorway's threshold, attracted by the melodious chiming of Qui-Gon's laughter. "Masters?"
"Padawan," the Jedi master orders, and it is unclear which of them he means to address. "Go sit on the settee."
They both obey, sheepishly enough.
"I can see neither of you has eaten – I'll fetch something up." The tall man heads for the door, pausing long enough to point an admonitory finger at the pair of them. "Stay there," he warns, imperiously. "Stay."
The door hisses shut behind him.
"Zhoa," Obi-Wan tentatively begins, "You are upset with the other younglings – from your clan."
To his horror she not only bursts into tears again, she also flings herself into his arms, burying her face against his shoulder.
There is absolutely no subclause in the Precepts governing this situation; instinct prompts him to wrap both arms about her quivering form. She is lithe, a twist of bone and muscle, mottled green skin with an oceanic tang reminiscent of Bant. And she is weeping in earnest, a soft but steady lamentation that digs deep beneath all his armor and burrows into compassionate depths, training be damned.
"Oh," the girl sobs, "I used to live with all my friends and we were always together and we talked and played and studied and slept in the same room and now I'm all on my own I'm a padawan and I never see them anymore and I don't know if they still like me or if we are friends how can we be and I yelled at Ti-Lo and I don't know why but it's so hard to see them eating and going to their quarters and talking and I'm not part of that anymore and they are and, and and I miss them!"
Jedi initiates are not raised to be sentimental, but this is the dirty secret of the apprenticeship system: the young padawan is torn away from its familiar nurturing environment and thrust into a world of duty and discipline so intense that any sane being would crack beneath its pressure without an extraordinary support. Thus the master-padawan bond is catalyzed and sealed in fire, and sometimes tears. Such vital connection and dependency is necessary if any of them are to reach their full potential. Jedi training is hard - unnatural, some might say. It requires the breaking and re-forging of hearts, many times over.
He is a bit choked up himself, a result of carelessly lowered mental shields. But Zhoa seems to require no further counsel than his embrace; having poured out her grief, she subsides into a less tempestuous fit of weeping, her body going limp against him in cathartic relief.
Apparently she simply needed to tell someone. And he realizes that he has now a double armful of helplessly weeping youngling, just as he dreaded.
But it is not so bad.
