Tranquility
Scene 5
"Here, Padawan. Hold this."
The Archives stacks tower above them, to either side, a double honor guard of gleaming tomes, a millenium's softly flickering wisdom, bank upon bank of votive lights keeping vigil along the hushed corridor. The atmosphere is solemn, hushed, all verticality and artifice, an exact counterpoint to the arboretum's teeming life. This is a realm of mind, of spirit, of the Unifying.
"What is it?" Obi-Wan asks, bemused. The orb he clasps between his hands is neither holo-volume nor holocron. Heavy, smooth, its surface translucent, it is something he has not seen before.
"A simple meditative anchor," Qui-Gon explains. "Turn it, and the inscription will appear."
Carefully, the young Jedi rotates the sphere, fingers gently manipulating the flawless shape. As it turns, words appear in its depths, fading to be replaced by others only when the ball is kept turning. The bauble – for it is little more, in truth, a simple holo-crystal with an embedded motion trigger- brings a childlike pleasure, evoking a tiny smile from the initially hesitant apprentice. "Oh," he breathes. "It's a sutra."
"Yes. I think, perhaps, this will prove a better aid to focus than those we have already tried." They find a sequestered alcove on the east side, and settle in to meditate, sitting knee-to-knee upon its parquet floor
Ephemeral signs blossom and fade within the orb's depths, a perpetually unfolding discourse. Obi-Wan softly reads the ancient lines of the sutra, over and over again as they repeat themselves, caressing each syllable even as his hands gently turns the heavy sphere. They are words chosen with care, passed down generation to generation, polished like river stones tumbled along a meandering course, smoothed and luminous with use, their meanings ballasted by centuries' worth of contemplation. Gradually, reading becomes reciting, and recitation melts into a kind of song, a barely voiced whisper tracing the contours of ossified insight. At last, even this faintest sound halts, and the boy is left holding the translucent ball in both hands, eyes closed, presence utterly serene.
For a minute.
Two minutes.
A soft furrow appears between the padawan's brows.
Three minutes.
Qui-Gon braces himself.
"Master." The delicate bubble of tranquility pops, buffeted by a cold wind of critical thought. "Are you quite sure this is entirely orthodox in its outlook? There are several –"
The tall man snorts, and peremptorily levitates the gleaming orb in to his own broad hand. "Never mind." He stands, knees cracking. Perhaps words are not the key, after all. "We're moving on."