Tranquility
Scene 4
Never has there been a meal consumed with such unabashed gratitude within the refectory's bright walls. Even the serving droids – jaded by centuries of service – observe the proceedings with wide optic plates.
When Obi-Wan has wolfed down his third and final helping of chabblatz bean and orchu stew - accompanied by five-grain bread - and washed the whole thing down with a staggering volume of blue milk, he slumps back in his chair, primly setting his utensils upon his empty dish.
Qui-Gon eats half as much, and finishes with tea, as is his custom. "How was Galactic Civics class this morning?" he inquires, pouring with care.
His padawan's spirits lift, instantaneously. "Absolute mayhem, Master," the boy smirks. "We debated the relative merits of the Chandrilan matriarchal system versus the Fathers' Council of the Lesser Uuooquad."
The Jedi master raises the shallow bowl, testing its bitter aroma. "A formula for internecine strife, I can well imagine. I dare not ask which side you championed."
The young Jedi warms to his subject, dimples peeking out from hiding. "Well," he admits, "I was initially inclined to support the Chandrilan viewpoint. Objectively speaking, their constitution is far superior to the tribal precedent system of the Uuooq'o. But Initiate Tachi was so vehemently committed to the matriarchal cause already, I felt I should play devil's advocate. For the sake of scholarly balance."
"Hmm." The tall man is not hoodwinked by this assertion. "I'm sure she – and Master Neeb – appreciated your selfless devotion to knowledge."
An impish grin confirms his suspicions that the debate had been impassioned and lively, a spark whipped into tempestuous flame by his pupil's combative wit. "The discussion was inspiring, Master."
Qui-Gon's brows rise, inquisitively. "I am curious to hear your position." He discreetly checks his commlink and composes himself to listen.
Obi-Wan is more than happy to favor his willing audience with an encore performance. Hands gesturing elegantly, open face radiating disingenuous enthusiasm, voice trained – by some innate instinct - to a perfect rhetorician's pitch, musical and enchanting despite the fact that it still teeters on the brink of a pubescent drop, the boy outlines his argument, elaborating fearlessly and freely as he delivers his extemporaneous speech. It is clear he invents half of it as he goes, wandering at will among the avenues of his impressive memory for fact and his burgeoning insight into structures and patterns, the universal and the particular. There is a pleasure thrumming in his Force signature – more than the childish enjoyment of hearing himself speak, as a few jealous contemporaries have accused him. There is a delight, an abandon, a kind of motion-in-stillness as he explores the subject in much the same manner Qui-Gon might wander in awe through a virgin wilderness.
They are very different in temperament, he and this boy. It makes teaching a challenge. But a worthwhile one.
When the padawan pauses to catch his breath, the tall man holds up a hand. He consults the chronometer again. "You've been talking for forty eight minutes, young one." His tea dregs are cold, and he is almost halfway convinced that that Uooq'o chauvinism is somehow justifiable, from some convoluted point of view."I think perhaps you should present your case to Master Tahl later this evening."
Obi-Wan blanches. "No, Master… with your permission. It's only a hypothetical argument… I don't-"
"Fear not. We've other business to attend." The servitor droid hovers near, collecting their trays. "Time to return to the exercise."
"Yes, Master."
It is not a lack of focus, or of stamina, that constitutes the obstacle to their success. It is a question of channeling prodigious energy in the right direction. Qui-Gon decides to change tactics again.