Steeped in Wisdom
"How come you do it like that?" Anakin inquires, wrinkling his snub nose in that peculiar mannerism Jedi training has yet to expunge from his lively repertoire of wordless self-expression.
Obi-Wan never made a face like that. Well, perhaps when he was still in diapers. Crechelings are granted a wide allowance on account of youth and inexperience. But Force! - The boy must learn to suppress such gargoylish displays before they attend the Chandrilan Unity convention next month. Obi-Wan is so preoccupied by this thought that he nearly forgets what occasioned it.
Fortunately, his padawan has an inborn tenacity to match his master's. "How come you do it like that?" he repeats.
Midway through the ritual – so ingrained it is like breathing to him, a thing natural and ordained - Obi-Wan pauses, tea bowl delicately grasped between thumb and two fingers, opposite hand just outstretched above the ceramplast pot where the leaves suffuse the brew with their subtle essence. "What?"
Anakin rolls his eyes. That too must go – a Jedi apprentice does not roll his eyes, no matter the provocation. "The tea," he says. "How come you do it all fancy like that? Can't you just dump the leaves in the pot and pour it out when it's ready?"
Obi-Wan's eyebrows come together. That would be similar to packing a high power blaster and merely blowing the head off an aggressive opponent from five meters away. It is … uncivilized. Inelegant. Crude. But how is he to express these undefinable and self-evident truths to his Tatooinian charge? He knows already that such an explanation will meet a blank wall of incomprehension. Anakin is an unabashed pragmatist. He hedges for time. "I do it like this because that is how it is properly done."
All stern authority, incontrovertible and discouraging of further impertinence.
It has no effect. The boy holds out two hands for his bowl and sniffs at the amber liquid within suspiciously. He does not like tea; he only drinks it because Obi-Wan does.
And therein lies the answer, does it not? "I do it this way because this is how Master Qui-Gon taught me."
"Oh." Anakin nods, solemn and impressed. His skepticism has been blown to smithereens from a distance of five meters, a dead bull's eye.
Obi-Wan is grimly satisfied with his own acuity, and also unsettled. Because personal loyalty should not eradicate the protestations of reason and experience so easily. There is something dangerous in that.
He gently turns his bowl in one hand, raises it level with his heart, then dips his head and meets the delicate rim halfway, eyes closed. The tea is soft, floral and bitter, earthy and spiced. He decides to stay in the moment.
"Am I doing it right, Master?"
Qui-Gon remains kneeling opposite him, observing his efforts without criticism, his nose still knocked slightly askew, his blue eyes still placid as a lagoon, his strong hands resting upon the dark cloth of his trousers. Obi-Wan waits and waits for an answer, because he craves affirmation of his conformity to tradition, to the absolute.
"You should not stop, Padawan. Let it flow smoothly."
A short sigh of frustration escapes him, and he blushes because a Jedi apprentice never makes a noise of irritation in the presence of his master. He glances upward in alarm to see whether his egregious violation of protocol has earned him censure, but meets only a tiny smile at the corners of the Jedi master's mouth.
So he finishes the ceremony as best he can, not at all sure he has performed to specifications. It is hard to attain perfection when no concrete guidelines are provided.
Qui-Gon chooses to savor the tea before he dispenses any further insight. His apprentice follows suit. This is how it is done – by following, by imitation, by absorption of all the wordless attitudes, the inner and esoteric postures of soul. The Force is elusive, and it withdraws into secret recesses of being, where only the patient and wise may find it.
"If everything in the universe were different, utterly diverse and novel, there would be chaos," the tall man observes after a long spell of silence. "Would you not agree?"
"Yes, Master." An eager nod. Now they are getting somewhere.
"On the other hand, if everything and everyone were identical, in perfect conformity to each other, there would be monotony, the ugliness of indifference, a kind of cosmic tyranny."
"Yes, Master." Or perhaps not.
Qui-Gon raises his brows, eyes laughing. "So the key, Obi-Wan, lies in balance. Which means…?"
Oh dear. The statement has been left open, for the student to finish off as best he may. There is no penalty for refusal, no grave consequence for failure. But Obi-Wan swallows down his last hot mouthful too hard, almost choking. The query is too broad and fretted with hidden nuances for him to tackle in one go. Nervous, he veils his unease behind reflexive humor. "We must be the same in different ways?"
Astoundingly, the quip satisfies. Qui-Gon beams. "Very good. And so, the answer to your first question: you are doing it right if you are performing the ceremony perfectly in your own way."
The Jedi master's mellow voice soothes away his doubts, just as the smooth flavor of the tea flows over his tongue, rich and redolent of life. He relaxes into the moment, and considers how he will make minute changes next time, how he will pour, or where he will set the bowl, or position his hand. He can make it flow, like Qui-Gon said. Feel, do not think.
Obi-Wan worries a little less about perfection after that.
Anakin watches Obi-Wan perform the tea ceremony at the Chandrilan Unity convention.
All the high-up priestesses and mother superiors and things are very serious, and they watch every move too, tiny elusive smiles at the corners of their eyes or mouths. Everybody has choobazzi clothes on, embroidered and crusted in rhinestones and made of stuff Anakin has only seen on Queen Amidala and her handmaidens before. His Jedi clothes seem pathetic by comparison, although Obi-Wan's uniform doesn't. He wears his cloak like a king, in long graceful drapes over both shoulders and at the sleeves. The lines of his tabards are like severe heraldic chevrons, his 'saber hilt as emphatic a symbol as any scepter. Anakin feels like a gauche little boy from the Outer Rim and shrinks down in place.
Obi-Wan catches his eyes and winks at him without breaking rhythm or even seeming to take his attention off the ritual.
He serves the delicate bowls to the most important people, and everybody breathes a sigh of relief, and admiration. As though something important hinged on the completion of this weird dance.
Anakin scoots closer to his master, shuffling forward on his knees until they are level. The high-up whatsits are talking now, and Master is listening, with his head inclined just-so, respectful and attentive like a perfect diplomat. Obi-Wan is always perfect at etiquette and stuff like that. The Chandrilan ladies are smitten with his perfect manners, too; Anakin can see it in the way they hang on his every word, eyes never leaving his face.
This is annoying for some reason. Jedi are meant to help people, to blitz bad guys and fight evil and blow up Trade Federation star ships and slay Sith. And here he is, an apprentice Jedi, stuck at a tea party listening to boring talk. It isn't fair and it's totally boring.
He shifts position, restlessly, and his bony elbow clips his master's arm. The cup in Obi-Wan's hand is half-full; its amber contents slosh up, a miniature tsunami arcing over the perfect white rim, set to spatter all over his cream trousers and tunics… but it doesn't.
It sort of freezes in mid-air and then settles back in the bowl, all by itself. The Force ripples faintly and smoothes out again.
Obi-Wan's eyes slide sideways and meet his padawan's again, though he doesn't break stride in the conversation or appear to have wavered in his focus.
Anakin twists his mouth to the side. Master Obi-Wan has wizard skills, and maybe there is something to be said for the subtler aspects of Force manipulation, after all. He might even be interested in learning that kind of thing… as long as there is plenty of saber action and explosions, too.
Someday he might even ask Obi-Wan to show him how the tea ceremony is done.
"I am not a pathetic invalid, Master."
The plastiform brace encasing his left knee might suggest otherwise, but Obi-Wan does not consider arguments based on an ad hominem major premise logically sound. He staggers over the threshold without the proffered assistance and limps across the room with as much stiff dignity as a person in his position can be expected to muster. The low meditation cushions present a taunting challenge to his decreased flexibility, but he does not back down. He makes the act of sitting a display of gymnastic grace. Because he is a Jedi, not a star-forsaken cripple.
And he does not see what Qui-Gon finds so amusing about the whole blasted situation.
"When Reeft fractured his ankle last year, the healers used a bone knitter and he walked away that same afternoon," he sulks. It is not fair. It is evidence of special persecution.
The tall man ignores his petulance. They are both aware of how much leeway the padawan will be afforded due to injury and dampened spirits. Not that he is pitiable or truly compromised, of course. "Reeft did not shatter his patella and tear the meniscus and collateral ligaments."
Obi-Wan crosses his arms in vexation and grunts something unbecoming under his breath. "Two weeks," he growls. "It's ludicrous." It is insufferable.
"I'll make tea," Qui-Gon decides.
He not only prepares tea, he indulges in the entire long-form ceremony, making of the slow ritual an exquisite kata. Which, though it inevitably brings to mind all the kata Obi-Wan will not be performing during the next two weeks, is nevertheless entrancing. The Jedi master's movements are graceful, soft – and yet still virile. His broad, calloused hands are gentle enough to hold the delicate porcelain bowls like fragile eggs, the banked power of a natural-born protector, the patient strength of stone and wood, water and wind. Steam coils mutely from the pot, unhurried and sinuous, bending with the air's currents. There is resilience and beauty in its softness, in its slowness.
Obi-Wan takes his cup in hand when it is time, and he thinks of some things he might accomplish during the enforced convalescence. He might make of his knee's effrontery a cherished occasion of leisure. There is knowledge he can seek out; there will be time for extended meditation. Two weeks will flow by at a serene pace, neither sluggish nor fleeting. He takes his first sip carefully, and releases some of the residual pain into the Force with his appreciative sigh.
Qui-Gon risks a small smile but is too wise to make conversation.
When they have finished, Obi-Wan is tired. The healers did add insult to injury with some sort of irksome sedative. But his belly is full of mildly radiant warmth, and he has two full weeks to grouse about his condition. He can afford to waste a little time resting, especially when his eyelids are so dreadfully heavy.
He even permits Qui-Gon to help him shuffle into his own tiny bedchamber and unstrap his boots for him. Not that he is pathetic –
-but it seems right.
Anakin bawls for his mother.
He does this sometimes, when nightmare strikes. Obi-Wan finds it puzzling. Certainly he never cried for his mother, at least not at Anakin's age… his recollections of maternal figures are dim, and heavily hybridized with beloved crèche-mistresses, nothing as concrete and proximate as his apprentice's bond to Shmi Skywalker.
He doesn't know what the boy's mother would have done for him, in such straits. His frame of reference is other, and circumscribed by prudence and the grave awareness of their destiny, of what discipline is required even of the heart. He rolls off his own bed when the sobbing becomes too much to bear.
His is the only padawan in the Temple that weeps for his mother. It is different, unsettling. Dangerous, perhaps, though the pitiable sniffles emanating from the adjacent room do not inspire particular dread in him at this moment. Last night, Obi-Wan himself woke from an excoriating dream, coated in cold sweat, Qui-Gon Jinn's name on his lips.
Is it that different, really?
He does not know who is more disturbed: the boy or himself. So he makes tea and takes some in to Anakin, who by now is rolled in a miserable ball and has brought the greater part of his emotions under a semblance of control.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he chants.
"I am not Watto, Anakin. Here. Drink this. It calms the mind."
Well, it calms the nerves, and the belly, but Anakin is too far gone to argue. He gulps down the sweet hot herbal infusion and shifts closer, and then closer, mutely pleading to be cuddled.
Obi-Wan excuses himself from the awkward situation by taking the tea bowl and carrying it back to the common room. He is not the boy's mother.
Anakin follows him, undeterred by his reticence. "Master?"
"Dreams pass in time, Anakin." Hopefully the invisible umbilicum connecting the boy to his dam will also fade in time, wither and attenuate to a less compelling memory.
But Anakin will not be so easily placated. He wraps both arms around his teacher's middle and squeezes, burying his head against Obi-Wan's chest. Eventually, the embrace is returned.
After an interminable wait, the boy speaks again, loosening his constrictor's grip. "How come you didn't do it the proper way?"
"You made that tea all in a hurry. Dump and pour, no ceremony. How come?"
It would be fatal to confess to any degree of anxiety on his own part. "The rules change after midnight. Under certain lunar phases, and at altitudes exceeding ten thousand meters, also."
Anakin looks roundly skeptical.
"And whenever else I say they do."
And now the boy is grinning at him, buoyant and pert again. "That's okay. I understand what you're saying."
Obi-Wan is slightly alarmed, and hopes he is not that transparent.
The lodge's proprietress takes pity upon them, where they sit dripping in the corner, waiting to be shown to their rooms.
"Tea, you poor dears?"
Obi-Wan is not accustomed to such forms of address. Even in the crèche, Jedi younglings are not coddled and cosseted in this manner, and for very good reason. Underneath his hood, where only the Force can see, he rolls his eyes. Qui-Gon's knee presses against his own, a firm warning. When the Jedi Master lowers his own cowl, certain other aspects of this situation become apparent: their hostess is staring with unabashed admiration at her broad-shouldered guest. It is all the man's padawan can do to suppress another eye-roll.
While the woman is busy laying out the bowls and saucers- products of native craftsmanship, handmade – Qui-Gon catches his student's eye, the most ephemeral of smiles hovering near the corners of his mouth. Oh well, then. If Master thinks it is amusing…
"Now then, you must've come a long way in poor weather to get so wet. And lucky not to be struck by lightning! Sane folks an' locals don't venture out during the 'lectric storms."
Obi-Wan is quite certain he and his mentor qualify as neither of these, but he says nothing. It is not his place.
"Our transport broke down a few klicks outside the settlement," Qui-Gon explains.
He neglects to mention the mercenaries laying in ambush or the grenade launcher that put their vehicle out of commission. These details are not suitable for small-talk such as one expects during the consumption of tea. Obi-Wan gratefully accepts his bowl when the portly hostess hands it to him, placing one hand over his heart as he has seen the natives do when they wish to express thanksgiving.
"Ooh, pretty manners," the lady of the house simpers. Then her attention is riveted upon Qui-Gon again.
"Your establishment has seen much custom these last few days, it would seem," the Jedi master observes, casually. The common room is full, and they were told they would have to wait for accommodation while the droid staff turned the linens and tidied up a room for them.
"Between you and me," the lady confides in him, peering coyly over the rim of her tea-bowl, "It's on account of these elections. Rumor has it Pergglin's taken out contracts on the Guild presidents – folks want out of the big cities afore the shooting starts."
"Ah well, rumor flies, but not often straight," the tall man says, taking a long draught.
Their hostess refills his cup, hospitably. "You have the luxury of doubt, being from off-world, now. Matters to us – without the Guilds our laborers would be naught but slaves to the Corporate Sector."
Qui-Gon feigns polite sympathy, no more. "It is none of our affair," he replies.
Obi-Wan kicks him gently beneath the table. It is exactly their affair. They have been sent here expressly to intervene before violence erupts. The older man catches his eye.
"Drink your tea, Obi-Wan. It is superb." Patience, young one.
The hostess giggles delightedly. "Oh it's a proprietary house blend, so gratifying that Core worlders would enjoy it- now let me see if I can't bustle those lazy droids along a bit faster for you good sirs."
She trounces toward the lift-doors, leaving them alone again. Their cloaks are nearly dry, but there are damp puddles beneath their boots, and the tea is not quiet enough to drive away the chill of apprehension spilling down the young Jedi's spine.
"Master, we haven't time to stay here overnight… you heard what she said. We need to bargain for a transport, get to the capitol, warn the Guild presidents, identify the assassins, arrest Perrglin and his cabinet, and inform the Senate. At this very moment –"
"At this very moment," Qui-Gon interrupts, "The capitol is just as compromised as we are by the electrical storm. Nor is transport a feasible option. We will act, when we are able. You must be patient."
"But…" Obi-Wan forcibly stills his boot heel, which is tapping urgently against the floorboards, and deliberately uncurls his fingers. "What are we going to do now?"
"We are going to enjoy the remainder of this tea," Qui-Gon decides, pouring himself another cup.
The first thing Master Obi-Wan does when they get back to their quarters is make tea. He doesn't even hang his cloak up- it's just tossed kinda over there, on the ground mostly, like it itches or it annoys him or something. And he runs his hands through his hair a couple times and takes this really big breath.
And then he just sorta implodes, like he does sometimes, so Anakin can't tell what he's thinking or feeling. His whole aura disappears over an invisible event horizon and he's like a sarlaac pit out in the Dune Sea – it looks totally like there's nothing there but e'chuta if you fall in , cause there's a whole lotta nasty hunkered down at the bottom.
"Master? Are you okay?" Anakin isn't stupid. He can tell when somebody's upset, even if they feel completely fine. Or like they aren't there at all.
"I'm fine, Anakin."
Master Obi-Wan is a really horrible liar, which is a good thing cause he's also hard to understand when he's telling the truth. It's hard enough work to figure him without worrying about what parts are sincere. "You're really mad."
"I am not angry. I need… I'm going to make tea. You may take the afternoon off, if you wish. We'll meet after evening meal for saber drills and meditation."
"Nah, it's okay. I'll stay with you. I mean, if that's okay."
He's not supposed to append insecure qualifications to his decisions. Obi-Wan raises a brow – just a habitual reminder, he's too distracted to put any real bite in it. Anakin is not a slave, he is a Jedi Padawan. He has rights and prerogatives, and his place is by Obi-Wan's side. He does not merely have permission to be here, he is supposed to be here.
Anakin kneels down at the low table, like he is supposed to do, and waits. Showing that he really does want to be here, especially because Obi-Wan is so upset. It wasn't really his fault that that big choobazzi fat politician guy got fried; the sleemo ignored Jedi advice and went to make the blackmail payment anyway, and got himself killed. And they chased him pretty farking fast in that stolen grav-car – Anakin piloted and it was wizard – and Master blitzed the bad guys and they arrested a bunch more and everything and the mission was a success – even the planetary governor said so… but that's not good enough for Obi-Wan.
He's kinda still wrapped up inside himself like one of those fiber-balls Kitster used to make for the street kids, all rolled into a knot with hard clay on the outside, painted with chalk dye. When one broke, the guts all unraveled and it always looked impossible for so much stuff to be crammed into that compact casing. Master is like that now.
He's doing the long ceremony, the really slow one, so slow and careful that Anakin thinks they might never actually get to the drinking part. Which is okay because he doesn't actually like tea – he only drinks it because Obi-Wan does. And he can see that each minute portion of the ritual is like a puzzle piece and Master is fitting back all the pieces of the last few days into a perfect whole again, nothing chaotic or stupid or messy, no death and no mistakes.
Then at the end he does a new thing. He kinda accidentally on purpose spills a drop, lets it slosh over the rim and spill on the stark white linen folded into crisp triangles beneath the bowl. The dark liquid spreads like a bloodstain.
"Master…uh, are you okay?"
"Yes." It's still not true, but it's different now. That stain sits there, marring the ceremony, and Obi-Wan doesn't clean it up. It's like he's making himself accept it, like it's some kind of weird training exercise like all that weird boshuda he makes Anakin do.
"Okay." He doesn't really want to understand. He just wants Obi-Wan to be not upset.
They sit there a long, long time, until it starts to get dark outside. And just like in the desert at night, Master comes slinking out if his hole like a nocturnal creature. Only he's not a sarlaac. He's kinda more like a krayt or something, sorta dangerous but only if you cross it. He looks up at Anakin, and his angry mood is tepid now like the dregs in the tea bowls, just bitter and soggy like the crushed leaves.
When he makes that little wry half-smile, the one that means he's making fun of himself on the inside, Anakin knows that things will be fine in the end. It might take a few more cups of tea, but they will be fine.
So Anakin drinks his tea and relaxes. And they are quiet together.
When Qui-Gon informs his apprentice that no less august a personage than Master Yoda will be coming for tea, the young Jedi is struck speechless.
This is a phenomenon as rare as rainfall on Tatooine, but the occasion merits the response. And Obi-Wan recovers his wits after a few slack-jawed moments."Why , Master? Why does he want to see me perform the tea ceremony? Can't you do it instead?"
"No. He is coming to observe your progress, not mine."
And there is no room in that reply for further question. Obi-Wan hears the unspoken message and meekly sets about preparing the table, selecting a leaf the ancient Master will like. He has no idea what the Grand Master's preferences are.
"Yarba," Qui-Gon tells him. "I obtained some for the occasion."
So he is not being thrown to the draigons unarmed and unaided. Well, not quite. The padawan is grateful for what paltry help he receives. "Thank you, Master."
His hand shakes so badly with nerves that he drops a bowl, putting another chip in its already textured surface.
"Never mind," Qui-Gon assures him. "Equipment does not make a Jedi."
This is not particularly consoling, for surely tea does not make a Jedi either? Why should his training be judged by so accidental and peripheral a standard as his capacity to perform this quotidian ritual? Why is he not to be allowed the scope of an exhibition tournament, where he may demonstrate well-honed Force skills and 'saber mastery far in advance of his age group? Or even an extensive examination in diplomacy, Galactic history, civics, astrocartography, ethnology, and languages? He could excel in any one of these areas, display the true extent of his dedication and Qui-Gon's superb mentorship.
It is the last aspect that unseats his self-possession. What if he reflects poorly upon his master? What if he fails Qui-Gon here, in this most mundane of settings?
It is not fair.
"Obi-Wan," the tall man chides. "Breathe."
When Master Yoda's gimer stick pounds against their door, he nearly jumps out of his skin, which has blanched to palest white.
The ancient Jedi chuckles at his obvious anxiety. "Fear not, Padawan," he tells the young learner. "In four hundred years, none have been expelled from Order for lack of skill at tea making."
Does that mean that somebody was expelled for such a deficit four hundred years ago? But before he can brood on the possible implications of the statement, Qui-Gon is steering him – gently, inexorably- to the table, where he kneels and releases a deep calming breath. It is ridiculous that his worthiness be judged on this absurd basis, but judged it will be. And he must not fail his master.
He serves the tea, carefully, with mindfulness, moving slowly in the long form.
Master Yoda makes a mess, fiddles with the arrangements, knocks his saucer off the table, fidgets. It is difficult to let the motions flow, to remain grave and centered. Obi-Wan is forced to make several innovations from the rubrics to spare the Grand Master embarrassment or awkwardness. He decides to downshift to the short ceremony at the end, because Yoda is grumbling about the long wait. He offers the bowl at last, and partakes of his own serving with a sinking heart.
The ancient one merely gulps his down in one slurping and noisy go and then…
The padawan keeps a straight face. He plays sabaac with Qui-Gon, and has been at many a negotiating table.
Master Yoda rises, summons his stick into his hand, and stumps toward the door without a word to Obi-Wan, who tamps his misery and perturbation down tight under adamantine mental shields.
At the door, the diminutive master looks up at Qui-Gon with luminous green-gold eyes. He thrusts his stick up at the other Jedi's face. "Make a fine Knight he will, someday. Done well, you have."
And then he is gone, and his victim slumps in place, relieved beyond reckoning.
Qui-Gon takes mercy on him. "I'll clean up," he says.
It took Anakin a long time to work up the nerve to ask.
He never has a problem asking for what he wants, or demanding it in uncompromising terms. It's just that this is so… silly.
Obi-Wan looks right through him."What is it? You are disturbed."
"Um…" Anakin isn't as silver-tongued as his mentor. He hates being delicate, beating around the bush. But this bush is prickly and personal. "Um, you've taught me a lotta stuff, about beimg a Jedi I mean. And some other stuff too."
He hates it when Obi-Wan raised his brows like that, not giving anything away, waiting for him to trip up or run out of steam or something. He decides to barrel onward. "I just.. there's something I kinda wanted to um, learn. But you've never said anything about it… I guess, I mean, if you don't want to.. but you said you learned from… um…"
Now he is really farking it up.
Obi-Wan laughs, a little soundless breath of vexation. "I might need a protocol droid to translate that, Anakin."
"Tea," the padawan squeaks
"Tea." That's what Obi-Wan does sometimes. He repeats what you say. Only with a slightly different inflection that makes your words sound ludicrous or meaningless or obnoxious.
Anakin scowls. He isn'tthe one who makes such a big deal out of a dumb ceremony. It's not his private attachment. That's Obi-Wan's hang up. "I want you to show me the tea ceremony. You said Master Qui-Gon taught you, but you haven't shown me. I guess… I hoped maybe.. since we're…I mean, am I not good enough?"
Master Obi-Wan's mouth opens and then shuts. His face colors a little.
"Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
"No - wait. Anakin. I … of course I will show you, Padawan."
That was formal, and formal means heartfelt. Formal means like a promise, like Obi-Wan means it down in his bones. Anakin bites his lower lip and scrunches his face. He can feel something coming loose inside his teacher , some kinda wound up knot slowly unraveling, like Anakin has just struck some buried nerve plexus like when you hit a pit droid on the head, like Obi-Wan has just that moment realized something super important.
It's going to be all right. Obi-Wan will share, and that means Anakin is important to him, just as important as Master Qui-Gon. "Yippee!"
This earns him a more familiar repressive look, but Anakin isn't fooled. He cavorts right there in the hallway.
Obi-Wan folds his arms sternly. "Focus."
"Yes, Master." The padawan falls into place beside his mentor as they traverse the Temple corridors upward toward the residential wings. "I'm gonna be the best tea-master ever. I'll make you proud. And Master Qui-Gon too. You'll see."
"Hm." Obi-Wan keeps walking without looking back. "Just don't tell me you're the only human who can do it."
So unfair. Anakin makes a grotesque face at his back and jogs along in his wake. "And you'll show me the proper way, right? The way you do it?"
"Is there another way?" Obi-Wan quips. He quickens his pace, the habitual spring in his step slightly more pronounced.
And Anakin hurries to keep up. After all, he still has much to learn.