Peace Surpassing Understanding (Amos and Kala)

[Zem Vymes]

It was dawn over Sanctuary.

Zem Vymes stood barefoot in the stream that lay just beyond the boundary of the Jedi settlement. The chill of the water up to his knees quickened his senses, keeping him alert to the world. It was one of the many simple pleasures in this place, and he'd found deep solace in small acts such as fishing. His fishing pole had been crafted from a sturdy green bolt of a tree branch, whittled and sanded and oiled to keep it supple. He'd bound the handle with stacked wrappings of natural fiber. The line was artificial polymer - perhaps an admission that not all perfection could be found in rustic ways.

The Jedi Master measured out another handful of line before casting his fly to the current. He'd left word with one of the camp protocol droids to summon the Padawans Amos Iakona and Kala'ndryl Ryj, but only at a specified time. Ten minutes ago, give or take. That meant that by the time they got the summons, dressed, and made their way to the given rendezvous point, they should be arriving any minute now.

[Amos Iakona]

Amos tugged on the makeshift bandolier across his chest, salvaged from the quick-release strap of an Alliance assault rifle and customised for his needs, subtly shifting the increasingly familiar weight that hung at his back. Even before his time with the Jedi had warned him against the dangers of attachment, Amos had been a man of few possessions. Perhaps it was a symptom, a side effect of a life spent in military service relying on standard issue and requisitions to provide for his needs; nothing owned, only borrowed. Perhaps it went deeper than that, as if on some subconscious or Force sensitive level he had understood that the life he was living was only temporary: an existence built on borrowed time, on impermanence, and on a sequence of false premises and deceits.

As a child he had respected his father, the noble lawman, even following his footsteps into the Naboo Security Forces; but everything he thought he knew of his father, even the very name that had been passed along to Amos Iakona Jr, were the lies of a Mandalorian in hiding from the part he'd played in the Clone Wars. He had mourned his mother, clung desperately to fleeting memories of her grace and kindness almost as tightly as he had gripped the crystal pendant that once hung around his neck; but she too had been a lie, a failed Padawan living in fear for her life from the Empire that his father had allowed him to be forced into serving. Then there had been the lies of Naboo, the quaint and peaceful upbringing that made you naive to the woes of the larger galaxy; the lies of the Empire, who'd conscripted him as if it were some gesture of kindness and opportunity, for the betterment of himself and the people they falsely claimed to protect. There were the lies of friends, who stood by you, until they didn't.

The deepest lies though were his own: of who he was, and who he thought he was, to himself and to others. As his service to the Stormtrooper Corps had scuffed the sheen and polish off his personality, he'd told himself that the naive and joyful Amos of his youth was the lie, a misguided mistake that no longer held any truth for him. When his time in service had expired, and he'd set off into the galaxy aboard the Astral Queen with Jaden Luka, he'd told himself that a Stormtrooper wasn't who he was, that the Empire had made him into that, forged and molded who he once was, forcing him into actions in the line of duty that weren't his choices to own or atone for. He'd reversed that lie to himself when they'd joined the Rebellion, fighting with SpecForce as recompense for his past actions; and then reversed it again when he'd learned the truth about his mother, and walked into the arms of the Jedi.

Over time, he had learned more truths, but the deepest one still eluded him. Who was he? Surely, the Jedi wisdom gleaned through his years on the Wheel and here on Ossus should have led him to that understanding, but at first, the Jedi had only deepened his uncertainty. His genes, his blood, his aura, or whatever else it was, they all said that he was supposed to be a Jedi, but his mind and capabilities had refused to accept that new truth. He had struggled, failing to grasp even the fundamentals at times, unable to imagine himself as what the Force supposedly willed him to be. What kind of Jedi couldn't levitate a rock, or deflect a blaster bolt with their lightsaber? It was a simple equation, with a simple answer: no Jedi could not, which could only mean he was no Jedi. He misplaced the blame for that: on himself, yes, but on the wrong part of himself. It was easier to accept that he was destined for failure, as unfit to be a Jedi as his mother had been. It was easier to convince himself of all the things he wasn't: not Jedi, nor Mandalorian, nor SpecForce, nor Stormtrooper. The Jedi preached to do or do not, and Amos embraced that latter choice.

It was not a Jedi Master whose wisdom had altered things: it was a fellow Padawan, Cleo Némain. She had not sought to correct him, or enlighten him: she had merely seen through him, and dismissed his doubts and beliefs as the lies they were. It had been the push he needed, someone cheerfully unwilling to indulge his misnotions and surrender. Her unwillingness became his own, and each notion of himself that she challenged, he challenged as well. That was where the truth was to be found: not from a Jedi Master, or from ancient texts, but from within himself. He was a Jedi: not by blood, but by choice and circumstance. He was also a Mandalorian, a Stormtrooper, a smuggler, a rebel: not elements of his past to be left behind and discarded, but the foundations upon which he was built.

And so, despite his nature, and despite the urgings of Jedi tradition, Amos had allowed himself to form attachments: not to possessions as such, but to the meanings and significance he ascribed to each. Across his back hung a Gungan energy shield, modified into a collapsible form to be more easily carried, and reinforced with Mandalorian iron: an acceptance of his shortcomings, an acknowledgement that such failings could be overcome, and a reminder of the two worlds that shaped at least part of who he was. Around his hands, he wore crushgaunts, woven into a pair of Stormtrooper gauntlets, a reminder that ignoring your past didn't make your hands clean. The crystal he had once worn as an amulet, the amethyst kyber that had once been at the heart of his mother's lightsaber, was now part of the hilt that hung from his belt; and from his hip hung his S-5, customised from his days with the Naboo Security Forces, both reminders of who and what he had chosen to be.

The shield's weight pressed into the small of his back, and again he toyed with the bandolier. There were better ways of securing it, perhaps, but to do so would miss part of the point: just as the Jedi chose uncomfortable robes as a constant reminder and challenge of their tolerance and calm, Amos relished the weight, the adjustments, the reminder that it was there. He relished the inconvenience of gloves that at times needed to be removed, or the vacant feeling against his chest where the amulet had once hung. When you grew accustomed to things, you stopped thinking about them; you let them slip aside, or become forgotten. That was the last thing Amos wanted. His possessions were there to remind him of who he was, and with any luck, he would never forget again.

Amos couldn't help it, the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth as all those reminders cascaded through his thoughts. He trudged forward in silence for a few strides longer, steps carefully chosen to match the pace of the one who walked beside him. The old Amos would have walked in silence by choice, convinced all these years that it was his preference, unaware that his desire for solitude was, in fact, a self-inflicted penance. The new Amos was still learning, but was also less inclined to indulge that particular vice.

"So," he asked, glancing across in Kala's direction. "Any theories on what Master Vymes needs us for?"

His eyes narrowed, peering off towards the distant stream that the droid had directed them towards, and narrowed further as he glanced back at his half-Nautolan companion.

"This had better not be a swimming thing."

[Kala'ndryl Ryj]

There was something to be said for the peace and tranquility of Ossus. Verdant hills, dense jungles, and deep oceans and lakes should have felt like home. But they did not. The Wheel, such as it had been, felt more like home than anything else had once she'd escaped Glee Anselm. Studying with Ilias, classes with other masters, and missions with those she considered friends, risking everything to save those in need, especially if it was one of their own.

Normally gregarious, Kala had been strangely silent the last few weeks on Ossus, going so far as to keep to herself and remain in the depths of her favorite lake for long stretches of time. Hours at the very least, and days if she could get away with it, which happened more often than not. But these long stretches of time immersed in the element that reminded her of her homeworld had been spent in quiet contemplation.

There was much in her relatively short life she had felt the need to ruminate over in the last few weeks. Kala had been drawn inward by the pull of her own healing gifts, finally realizing that she'd spent so much of her time tending to others that she had neglected her own needs. There had been little in the last several years she'd spent as a Padawan that had been for her own benefit. It was the way of the Jedi to sacrifice, and it was something she understood and willingly did. As a healer, particularly, it was her duty to do so, and her own need to help others would not let her do any less.

Balance was key. Finding it...was proving a challenge, but one she was relishing at every step.

Flight training had been key to her process thus far, and the challenge it provided as a new way to use her abilities was a Force-sent gift. The rush of adrenaline from flying a fighter had been akin to nothing else she'd experienced in her life. Kala found herself able to utilize the Force in new ways with measurable success, due a great deal of hard work and sheer determination. Perhaps also a fair amount of stubbornness as well...if there was something she wasn't doing right or a score that wasn't perfect, she chased it until it was the best she could get it to be. Being a Jedi and a healer had come naturally to her, but being a pilot was a skill she'd had to work at.

Absently, her right hand drifted down to the simple, utilitarian hilt (http://oi65.tinypic.com/2zf6dlc.jpg) that sat snugly in a sheath on her thigh. Fingertips trailed along the marred surface for a brief moment, taking comfort in the familiar etchings and battle scars from the years it had been wielded amidst the Clone Wars. Built by her father and his brother, and borne in memory of the latter when he was killed, Kala did the same now. She carried the aquamarine blade but never ignited it, keeping to the smaller hilt she'd constructed on her own years prior. That hilt was in the sheath beside the other, unsecured and ready to be drawn, unlike the other which was held firmly in place.

Hands clasped together at the small of her back as she walked, rather thankful that her companion had moderated his strides to match her own. Tall though she was, Kala could not hope to match Amos' longer steps without considerable and rather awkward effort. She glanced over at him, catching the faint smile that warmed his expression and finding one of her own though it didn't quite reach her pitch black gaze. "Theories? No, I can't think of any actually. I haven't done anything particularly stupid in ages, so it can't be that." she added after a moment, offering a shrug as they continued striding forward.

"I hope it's not a swimming thing. I'm not exactly dressed for that. I wonder if it's about a mission of some sort...but I would have thought that briefing would be back in the meeting space or somewhere more...formal." she sighed, glancing down at the fitted leathers and flowing tunic her slender form was clad in. Head canted as it was, silver streaked blonde hair cascaded over her shoulder, which her fingertips absently pushed back, their silver hue almost a match.

[Amos Iakona]

A mission? Perhaps. Amos was one of the residents of Ossus who boasted his own craft, and who had some skill at taking care of himself that went beyond the scope of Jedi training. It wouldn't be the first time that the Jedi had asked something of him - errands, mostly - but still. The Astral Queen was behind them, at the landing field beside the main settlement. Why bring them out here to the middle of nowhere, only for them to trudge back before they could depart? Why the cloak and dagger summons by droid?

Amos frowned, his head shaking slowly.

"That doesn't feel right."

It was something he still struggled with, trying to find language that was the right shape to describe the sensations that he experienced through the Force. The Jedi often described them as feelings, and Amos supposed that was vague enough to cover the bases: what you felt with your hands and felt with your heart were two different things, and yet the common thread between those sentiments passed through what he "felt" through the Force. But it felt clunky, inaccurate, an insufficient description for such a complex sensation. Fortunately, when speaking to someone who was Force sensitive, they shared enough experience to understand what you were getting at; and when speaking to someone who was not, no amount of language could possibly do it justice, so feelings, he supposed, were close enough.

A breath of laughter escaped from him, as they continued to trudge forward across the open field towards the stream.

"Sometimes, the simplest solution is just to ask."

He couldn't quite recall which particular Jedi, living or dead, was responsible for that particular pearl of wisdom. When he had first begun his Jedi training, such soundbites of philosophy and wisdom had annoyed him, frustrated him with how opaque and nonsensical that had seemed. Over time, they had clicked into place one by one, as if they were not lessons in and of themselves to be learned from, but rather way-markers that showed you what level of understanding you had achieved.

"Come on," Amos encouraged, extending his strides ever so slightly - not a rush, but definitely something that carried a little more purpose - and beckoning with a shift of his head for Kala to keep up. "Let's not keep the old guy waiting."

[Zem Vymes]

Zem drew in his line, fruitless, as the pair of padawans he was expecting cleared the ridge closest to Sanctuary. He waved a hand in beckoning, encouraging them to at least join him at the creek bank, if not to wade in the shallow water.

"Good morning! I see my messenger was right on time. The seelbek are swimming up to the spawning pools, it's the best chance we'll have to catch good ones this year. You don't mind lending an old man a hand? I've set aside two poles for you."

[Kala'ndryl Ryj]

She had to admit Amos was onto something with his assertion. There was no sense of veracity to the notion that they were summoned for a mission, and the words leaving her mouth hadn't felt quite right either. But it had been the only thought that had come to mind as a possibility, and Kala simply nodded and allowed the thoughts to slowly slip away.

"That...is an excellent point." the young woman simply smiled and lengthened her own stride to keep up with his surge of purpose. As they approached the water and the Jedi Master that awaited them, her ebon gaze flicked along the surface of the water that rippled and rolled betwixt the riverbanks. It wasn't particularly deep, but the water had constant movement to it and lent itself to an interesting variety of native fish.

Kala breathed deeply as they drew closer, finding the crisp air heavy with the scent of wildflowers and beginning to warm with the sunlight filtering through the tree canopy. There was a measure of comfort to be had in the sound of water playing across the rocks in the riverbed and slipping past the gently sloped banks on either side, and it wasn't much longer after Amos last spoke that they found their way to where Master Vymes awaited them both. Seeing the older gentleman patiently wading in the midst of the water with a fishing pole in hand, she exchanged a glance with Amos.

There would have been words involving a joke about getting wet as well, however the Master chose that moment to look up and acknowledge their approach with a gently worded request. Kala smiled brightly and nodded, gently reaching over to pat Amos on the wrist before she made her way to where the poles and baskets waited on the bank. The padawan paused long enough to removed her boots and her own lightsaber and pick up one of the fishing poles, taking a moment to examine it along with the attached line and hook.

There were easier ways to corral the seelbek swimming upstream, and certainly far more entertaining ones. Then again, she mused, entertainment was in the eye of the beholder...what was entertaining to her as one born to the water was likely less so to those who were not. But it was more than that, and her senses knew it without a doubt. Kala stepped into the water, briefly lost in thought and gingerly placing each step so as not to disturb those creatures nestled into the sandy riverbed.

While she could have effortlessly rounded up any number of seelbek the Master might have wanted, she knew well enough when there were other things at play and this felt like more than just a quiet morning's pursuit. So heedless of her clothing, she chose a spot near Master Vymes but left plenty of space for Amos to choose his own place to stand as well. As the water slipped around her slender form, the silver skin she bore upon her fingertips visibly darkened and was soon edged in lavender, the color slowly sliding up along her hands and wrists. Though not visible, the same changes in color affected her feet and the marks along her back and neck.

Kala barely looked human most days, but standing hip deep in water, even less so. She spared a thought for her clothing but found that she cared little for it considering it meant being able to stand in her favorite element for however long the Master decided he needed their assistance.

"Not at all, Master. I'm just happy to be able to help." she replied as she cast her own line out, swirling ebony gaze following the line and watching as it settled.

[Amos Iakona]

Fishing. It was an activity that Amos found hard to comprehend. It was like hunting, but infinitely more benign. For some, it was a source of food, and yet there were far more efficient ways. For others, it was a sport, and yet required the exercise of nothing save for patience. For most though, it was about peace and tranquility, an effort to escape the fast pace of city living and enjoy the quiet of nature, and for a Jedi that seemed on track; and yet the process culminated in the deaths of numerous creatures, lured and deceived to their end - more Sith than Jedi, to Iakona's mind.

Equal contemplation was given to Kala'ndryl and her actions. That look that had seemed to carry significance, that strange pat on his arm as she had moved away, her embrace of any excuse to literally get her feet wet. But then that was Kala, in Iakona's experience, conforming to the drives and actions that befit her youth and heritage. Perhaps that answer applied to Master Vymes as well: the old man and his fishing, an image woven into the fabric of humanity.

Amos wondered which of his drives applied best here. The Mandalorian would surely fashion a spear, making the act of fishing an active challenge of wits and skill against survival instincts. The Stormtrooper would pluck a concussion grenade into the water, raising enough stunned fish to the surface to feed a platoon in a matter of seconds. The Jedi he had become would surely seek a path that thought outside the box, applying what he knew to this problem rather than simply following the implied tradition that might fall beyond his experience and skills.

And the spacer? Well, the spacer would have just eaten whatever was in the cargo hold, or bought fish from the local market. The others would have chosen to take this opportunity to prove their personal abilities; the spacer understood that he was part of a web, a network of interconnected people, and that a few of his credits were worth more to a fisherman struggling to maintain his livelihood than a few hours of tranquility could ever be to him.

The Jedi won out, but not without protest from his other faces. Carefully he unslung the shield from his back, triggering the mechanism that expanded the collapsed structure into its full ovoid form, and activated the shimmering hydrostatic shield. He had retrieved the Gungan technology from his homeworld as a way to bypass one of his Jedi struggles. The act of deflecting blaster bolts with a lightsaber had always seemed impossible to Amos; and do it was, a belief that he struggled to overcome. But there was more than one way to skin a rathtar, and this had been the solution Amos had chosen.

The device has proven useful for more than its intended purpose, however, and today it proved the same. Though the purple energy served to shield him from the energy of blasters, at its heart it was based on the same technology that shielded the great underwater domes of Gungan society. Carefully, Amos placed the shield into the water, and positioned himself cross-legged upon his makeshift raft. The Force carried the waiting fishing pole to his hands, and then gently nudged him away from shore, carrying himself across the water to float beside Kala and Master Vymes.

No point getting his feet wet if he didn't have to.

[Zem Vymes]

Master Vymes raised an eyebrow at Amos's unorthodox method of negotiating the stream.

"The water's fine. A bit bracing, but you don't have to worry about anything leaving you with less toes than when you arrived. But I admire the creativity. Might want to drop anchor against the current though."

Kala was in many ways Amos's opposite here. She seemed completely at ease in the element, which did not surprise Vymes one bit. She was half Nautolan, and she'd always shared a kindred closeness to water. On arid Ossus, there weren't many places around Sanctuary where one could be as close to it as the stream.

"I'm sure you're both wondering what this damned foolish old man is doing, spoiling a perfectly good morning and a chance to sleep through it. The older I get, the earlier I wake. I think there is a peace in it. The way the air stills, and the color of the light. It's good for my soul."

Zem gathered up his line, meting out enough slack so that the hand-tied fly on the end could swing. With a graceful motion, he let the lure almost float on the motion of his swaying rod, so that it picked up distance away from him, landing on the water's surface with hardly a splash.

"Or maybe you're also early risers, and I'm selfishly occupying time you could be using to study or meditate. When you get on in years, you get to ask forgiveness rather than permission."

[Amos Iakona]

An anchor wasn't necessary; or at least, an external one wasn't. It took effort, subtle manipulations of the Force, a constant gentle nudge of pressure against the stern of his makeshift boat to hold it relatively steady within the stream's exuberant current, but he welcomed the persistence of it, the constant need for focus that it demanded.

At first, Amos had struggled with even the simplest of tasks, trapped in the mindset that he was a certain kind of person, and that certain kind of person was incapable of the feats he witnessed other Jedi perform. Those Force abilities that felt like an extension of the natural - the enhancement of his instincts, his senses, his physical attributes - fell within the confines of his understanding. Everything else had been a struggle, to overcome the psychological impossibilities that he constructed for himself. To hold a floating shield steady in the water was no great feat, and yet for Amos it demanded focus; and from that focus, he derived a sense of peace, serenity, clarity. It was the same mentality that allowed one to forget all other troubles by concentrating on a single task, to drown out one's surroundings by focusing on the pages of a book, or to purge one's thoughts by enduring the repetitive continuity of the same song on repeat. It was, Amos, supposed, a brand of meditation on a way; his brand at least. Now, to struggle on an aspect of the Force that was difficult for him had almost become an act of relaxation. Master Vymes might derive that same kind of pleasant experience from the feel of the water flowing past his feet; for Amos Iakona, it was the flow of the Force around him, and that concentrated reminder of his connection to it, that provided him with the same experience.

"You'll have to forgive me, Master."

The words that escaped from Amos weren't an explanation of his inner thoughts, but rather a gently delivered quip, far warmer than the gruffness his voice might once have carried, and laced with all the respect that was due to a man with the prestige and wisdom of the Jedi he spoke to.

"But I'm Naboo, born and raised. Where I'm from, sticking your feet in the water isn't always a safe proposition. That bit of childhood caution is a hard lesson to break."

[Kala'ndryl Ryj]

The young half-breed carefully studied the way Master Vymes gathered up the line, allowing just the right amount of slack to set the lure fluttering in the breeze with the slow sashay of his fishing rod. It was almost hypnotic to watch, and her pitch black gaze followed the lure as it made the softest of sounds in its landing upon the surface of the water, precisely where he intended it to, she imagined. Blinking, she took a moment or two more to observe the man himself, head canting to the side as his posture and the practiced ease of the motions seemed almost effortless.

Kala turned her gaze back to her own fishing rod and line, taking a moment to adjust the small, brightly colored lure. It was reminiscent of the tiny, shimmering bait fish that were prevalent in the few streams and lakes of Ossus, that some of the younger Padawans had taken to playing with in the shallow stream edges and lakeshores.

With a soft, comfortable exhalation of breath, she turned back and did her best to replicate the Master’s cast. Her own was not nearly so fluid or even graceful a movement, and the lure did not quite reach the point it should have near the far shaded bank.

“I was born and raised on Glee Anselm…there’s nothing quite like the sunrise there over the ocean waves.” She added softly, her gaze becoming distant for several moments as the warmth of the memories washed across her senses and drew a sigh from her.

“Though rising early is still something I enjoy, you did not interrupt anything, Master Vymes. I was simply enjoying a lazy cup of caf after I checked in at the infirmary.” Kala smiled, and gently tugged on the rod to induce a bit of movement in her lure.