Tranquility
Scene 11
The bell for late-meal rings during the time it takes them to traverse the distance cross-Temple to the junior level dojo – and yet, this ordinarily arresting sound does not garner so much as a sideways glance from Qui-Gon's enthusiastic padawan. There is one, and only one thing in the galaxy that takes such absolute precedence in the boy's world – and it is not philosophical debate, or cleanliness, or even the history of the Force-forsaken Teth dynasties. No. It is 'saberplay.
They arrive at an empty practice room one ahead of the other. Qui-Gon is certain his apprentice would have scampered like a rabid foxill through the hushed concourses had he not been invisibly lelashed by his master's presence just behind him. The tall man's personal access code releases the door lock; Obi-Wan drops his cloak and tumbles over the threshold in a neat traveling cartwheel-backflip, landing in the center of the polished floor with an impish grin.
"I'm ready," he announces, superfluously.
Waving the illuminators to half-power, Qui-Gon cautiously treads to the tiered benches upon the far side and lays aside his own cloak.
"Since that kata so fascinates you," he tells his eager protégé, "I think this time would be best spent perfecting it."
"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan apparently thinks grueling drills are a special kind of confectionary treat. He is a sprung coil , all compressed energy waiting to explode into motion. Stars' end… the Jedi master is sure that he was never so hopelessly …frisky.
He has just the thing to temper such immoderate exuberance. "Here," he says, solemnly extending his own 'saber hilt. "It's time you learned to perform it with a real blade."
The training weapons lay forgotten upon their carved halsa wood rack; Obi-Wan has eyes only for the burnished curve of Qui-Gon's own weapon. He accepts the offering gravely, bowing low. "Thank you, Master. I will do it proper honor, Force willing." Even behind the formal words, a spurt of raw ebullience is rocketing sky-high in the invisible plenum.
Qui-Gon resumes his station at the room's perimeter. "Good." He waits for the boy to adopt ready-stance, then adds, "My 'saber, is of course, accustomed to repeating the velocity one hundred times, at full speed. Anything less would certainly dishonor it."
This rivets his padawan's occasionally wandering attention, but does not daunt his indomitable spirit. "Yes, Master," he gulps, jaw firming into a determined line, tendrils of smoldering frustration suddenly extinguished, gathered back to center in a great distillation of power. The Force surges, pulses about them, scintillates about the young Jedi's aura, a bright corona of untried potential, of yearning.
"Begin."