"You can't go on 'seeing through' things forever. The whole point of seeing through something is to see something through it."—C.S. Lewis
Head broiling with deep, stabbing pain, Bo-Katan let her eyes flutter open. Of course, she couldn't really see anything at the moment—not yet. With all that light flooding her starved pupils, she was as good as blind, and it wasn't until several minutes had dragged by that she could begin to pick out shapes from the fathomless void.
But the shapes she did see, the ones her swelling pupils were finally drinking in—those were a little worrying. More than that, actually. They were baffling, were addling her thoughts like too-old ale, sending clammy sweat down her spine. The shape was human, yes. And yeah, it was sort of recognizable—but only just. Besides, the face—a pale, moon-ish thing framed by an auburn beard—echoed far-too strongly of the past, when she'd stood by and watched monsters ravage her world.
"Kenobi," she croaked, trying—and ultimately failing—to sit up.
Lit only from behind by the watery light of distant stars, Kenobi's face seemed to dissolve. No glossy blue eyes, seemingly leaping from under copper brows. No gentle smile, no fuzzy, ginger beard or graying hair. Just ebony nothing, his features all but eclipsed with mounting night. "Have a good nap?"
A muscle leapt over her clenched jaw. "No, and no thanks to you, pal. I—" Her growing expression blank, she blinked up at him. "Um, what exactly did happen? My memory's suddenly coming up empty."
"Funny—I was about to ask you the same question."
She cocked a thin, tapering brow. "Oh?"
"I'd tell you why, too, but that's another story. A very long one, in fact, one that I'll get to. In a moment, any way…" Hands fumbling within his cowl, he produced a canteen, its polished edges and lines reflecting starlight. "Thirsty?"
"Only if you tell me where we are—or why I passed out."
"Fair enough." Shifting to the left, Kenobi moved further into the maw of the shadows, leaving Bo-Katan to marvel at the night sky. Unlike Mandalore, this place was clear, adulterated by neither man nor time. Instead of gauzy, billowing haze, Tattoine's horizon was a tapestry of sheer ebony, its vastness spreading over the sleeping, azure sands like wings, its moons shining silver and true overhead. Behind them, stars peaked through—millions of them, probably, all peeking coyly at the dunes below.
Bo-Katan gawked. "What is…where are we?"
Wandering back into view, the Jedi shook his head. "If I did tell you, I'd wind up with a mess on my hands. But I can tell you this: as soon as day breaks, this place will be swarming with Jawa crawlers. I suggest you catch a ride back to your ship on one of them before I start regretting saving you from that cantina."
Sudden heat sizzled up her veins, shrouding her vision in scarlet mist. So this what Jedi were really like, then. They tolerated you for a while, pretended they cared deeply—intimately—about your problems, and then they dumped you out in the desert when things started getting complicated. Left you under the nimbuses of waxing, silent moons while they pursued the ever-murmuring wind.
Probably what he did to my sister, too, she mused bitterly.
Wincing at the kaleidoscope of pain in behind her eyes, Bo-Katan forced herself into a sitting position. Kenobi noticed, his hooded head swiveling in her direction-then disappeared for a moment as the night once more engulfed his frame. Appeared to dissolve, to merge with blackness itself. Became a shadow, morphed into wraithlike nothing before he seemingly coalesced beside her, warm shoulder brushing hers.
"Is it alright if ask you something about your sister?" he inquired softly.
Shifting closer, the mando woman regarded him levelly. He was a shadow, alright—dark, midnight shape skimming over life. And he tended to be a fleeting one, too, leaving behind those he loved in a wake of endless questions, of tolling regret. But he wasn't the night. Wasn't the blackness itself, hadn't fallen so far into hypocrisy that his candle had been snuffed out—which gave her a reason to hope. To trust that far-distant flicker of star, straining for it with fingers outstretched.
"Sure," she answered just as quietly. "Ask away."
Silence carried on for a brief moment, as if the stars themselves had caught their breath. But it wasn't a bad silence, didn't have that awkward, tenuous flavor it absence of sound usually carried. This—this was clean. Pure and unadulaterated, like the night stretching overhead. All there was, all she could feel or be or grasp was the sound of the Jedi's breathing—and the symphony of her own, pounding heart rising to join it.
The stars waited a moment longer, then: "you were close to your sister, weren't you?"
She stiffened, quickening heart urging her to remain and flee in the same instance. "We were twins."
Although she couldn't glimpse his face, she guessed his brow had shot up. "Twins? I thought you were—well, I thought you quite a bit younger than your sister, if I may be so blunt. You two are very different, you know, but that hardly matters." The silhouette of his head tilted upward, towards the winds unseen. "If there's anything I've learned from my life, it's that differences can either draw together or destroy; they either refine the crucible, make it glow pure—or they shatter it forever."
She snorted. "Then that explains what happened with Satine. Dad dies, and it's clear he wants her to take his place. Only, their shared view differed from mine: I wanted Mandalore to be strong, independent. How she used to be."
"And now?"
"Now? It's nothing, Jedi. Karking nothing." Twisting slightly away from him, she plucked up a handful of sand. Let it sit there, grains still and waiting, then spread her fingers. Watched it—them—shower back down, mingling with the rest of the sleeping desert. "Weird, how we both thought our plans for Mandalore were the only ways. She held to pacifism, I stayed with Death Watch—and we thought our various causes would bring meaning to the world. Thought we—I—would make a difference, I guess."
"You did make a difference," he pointed out gently. "Just not the difference you intended. Neither of you meant to harm Mandalore, I'm guessing, but that's precisely what happened. Perception isn't objective, after all—truth is. But it's our perception of the truth that warps it, twists it into horrible, hell-bound things." He edged closer, facing her. "And when it's been twisted, truth can be more ensnaring than lies."
As if she'd just now sensed his nearness, she tried to draw away. Looked away from those haunting, searching blue eyes. From the gaze that threatened to peel away at all her layers, spilling out all the blackness and secrets she'd held so dear.
"Truth," he continued, seeming not to notice her discomfort, "lies outside ourselves. Beyond the stars, beyond the galaxy—perhaps beyond the very universe, even. But it's there. And I think it's that one day, Something—Someone—will make everything right. That in the not-so-distant future, that Someone will save not only Mandalore, but all the worlds…and all of us." Gingerly, he touched her shoulder. Rested his fingers there, let them linger. Then he slid them off, pushing himself to his feet with his head gaze hidden, darkened beneath the cowl. "That is, if we choose to accept the truth. Rejecting it might possibly be the only truly unforgivable wrong."
"I can't save Mandalore," she protested, fists clenching and grabbing and sifting sand. "No one can. Not you, not the Jedi, not the blasted Empire everyone's belly-aching about. Not even hope."
Shoulders drooping, he sighed. "I wasn't suggesting that, but maybe we'll somehow be part of that bigger picture. If it's not you, then perhaps someone will use another to free your world—like Satine's nephew, for example. I read in a report that he graduated from the Royal Academy before the end of the war."
She canted her head. "Satine didn't have a nephew. The only other sibling we had—our brother, Yisreal—died alongside our father."
"But I was sure—" He shook his head, cloak awash in the kiss of moonlight. "Never mind. It—I knew it was inevitable."
Spine tingling, she leaned forward. "What was?"
"Nothing. Just…return to Mandalore. If not for me, then at least do it for your sister." The visible portion of his face softened in a melancholy smile. "I have a feeling you're going to play a part in something big, my friend—and that I have something I need to attend to…"
And with that, Kenobi—the shadow—melded with the night.
Arms stretched wide, the dying, bleeding Savior begs you to see truth. To see Him, hanging battered on a cross that should've been ours. Should've been yours, and yet He gladly took it upon Himself. He bore it, endured the punished for your sin (even though He Himself was sinless), and made a way for you to escape Hell. To free you from it and hand you the way to heaven, the pathway to the Father.
He will hand you Himself—if you only believe, if you stop "seeing through" truth.
"Jesus answered: 'I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father except through me.'"—John 14:6