Tranquility
Scene 2
A pair of winged thranctill hang suspended between mirrored geometries. Below: a curved plain of valleys and canyons, pinnacles and turrets, the sculpted glass stalagmites of Coruscant's limitless city, scored and etched in tiered magnificence, rimmed with glowing fire where afternoon light meets the far horizon, where incense columns of industrial smoke rise like veils to obscure the land beyond. Above: the abstract perfection of space, adorned with glittering stars, every pinpoint strung upon an invisible trellis , counterweighted into a vast, slowly spiraling mobile sculpture, forever turning, turning with the galaxy's stately procession.
Between, they lie nestled in endless wind, the smaller tucked beneath the sheltering form of the larger, upheld upon outstretched pinions, wingtips ruffled by a supernal breeze. The Wind moves through them: not only supporting but surrounding, penetrating their beings, binding them effortlessly to all else – to the city, to the stars, to the Wind itself.
It would be easy to plunge into an inebriated bliss, here, above and within all things, soaring without motion upon the Force. The fledgling extends its wings and is lifted, but not too far: its elder buffers this rash ascent with its own body.
Easy, young one. Remember the myth of Ikkaru and the sun.
An ancient tale, common to many cultures, with variations peculiar to each. The Vetruvians, for example, have the hubristic youth fly not too close to their planet's star but to a volcano's mephitic rim – and also, in their rendition, it is not Daedallu the boy's father but an alluring female djinn who invents the wings and warns the brash hero against the perils of reckless joy. But the object lesson is the same, and the eventual result - though Vetruvian literary tradition is difficult to understand, especially when those who might illumine its intricacies are wont to rebut any request for information with a polite deferment until one is "a bit older."
It makes one wonder precisely what that djinn and her feathers might symbolize. Adult reticence on the topic fans curiosity to the intensity of a volcano's simmering heat…
And of course this causes Ikkaru – or his avatar – to plummet helplessly into the outward and ordinary, the trance melting like wax beneath a punishing sun.
Obi-Wan bites his lower lip, fretfully, for Qui-Gon's blue gaze is uncomfortably like the hot afternoon sky of their shared vision – all-encompassing, penetrating, and a little distant.
"I'm sorry, Master," he peeps. He truly is. Not least of all because midday meal has been postponed until he can achieve the desired result – a sustained centering meditation lasting a full quarter hour, at the minimum.
The tall man exhales slowly, that piercing gaze relenting at last and travelling slowly up to the small chamber's domed ceiling. "Your mind wanders like quicksilver, padawan mine."
Focus is so very, very difficult. At least this sort. The young Jedi shifts in place, mortified heat rising inexorably into his face.
"The failing is mine," his mentor gently assures him. "Perhaps a different venue is in order. Come along."
"Yes, master." They quit the solemn premises and descend, one trotting obediently after the other, to the Temple's foundation level, where the wide doors of an indoor arboretum beckon visitors into a sanctuary grotto. Qui-Gon knows every path by heart; likely he could tread these narrow trails blindfolded, and falter not a single step.
Inward, and inward again they spiral, to a place where water flows like chimes and drooping yarbanna fronds reverently kiss the fragrant, dew-laden ground. "Here," the Jedi master decides. "We will start again."