"How can they meet us face-to-face till we have faces?"—C.S. Lewis
The first time Obi-Wan Kenobi had set foot on Mandalore, it'd been a gem of a world, with verdant fields and broad, stretching skies. Now, not so much; in fact, the planet was almost unrecognizable, barely registered in his mind as the world he had once known and loved. He had to remind himself with every breath—with every beat, stroke, drum of his heart- that this had been something greater, that it hadn't always been this smoldering, blackened husk of a planet.
Because Mandalore—it hadn't merely succumb to Maul's influence. Hadn't simply fallen under it. Hadn't just been overshadowed, as purged of light as the sky above.
It had drowned.
Stepping lightly off his transport, Obi-Wan wandered somberly through what had once been the capital city of Sundari. Glass towers- once seemingly-limitless as they reached toward the blanched horizon-were in shambles, either mangled and twisted by fire or shattered into fine, crystalline dust. Monuments, all weathered by neglect and the harsh Mandalore sun, had all but crumbled, their flowing, sensuous forms sprawling across the ground. A few gaunt, wan-skinned children glared out from benches or streets corners, their hollow gazes sizzling through his nape with fiery intensity, asking with ravenous eyes "is this it? Is this our fate—or will someone save us?
Obi-Wan halted, meeting the empty gazes levelly. Truth be told, he wasn't here to save Mandalore. Wrenching a world out of a canyon like this, reaching down and grabbing it out of these frigid waters—that would take different person, a person who wasn't cowering in the shadows of the Empire. Someone who knew the people, had been steeped in the customs since birth. Someone who'd do it whatever it took, sacrifice whatever was demanded to see the world liberated, returned to golden brilliance of Day.
Except that someone wasn't Bo-Katan. Doubtless, the woman could play some sort of role in the liberation of Mandalore, could add her own tiny flame to what would soon become a blaring inferno. But that was all she'd be able to contribute; after all, she'd already soiled her good name by allying with Death Watch, and—no matter how far she separated herself from the past—that choice would forever haunt her steps. Would echo her every breath for as long as she saw the light of day—and perhaps beyond that.
Breaking his gaze away from the children, Obi-Wan continued on through the capital. Past deeds were a sickness, a wasting disease that atrophied all you did, all you were. It didn't matter that you'd moved on, that you'd pushed all the shadows the corners of your mind: the scars would always show themselves, bursting through your carefully-wrought shell like an ugly fist. And everyone—they'd see. See that you weren't who you'd claimed, that you were a hypocrite, a fake. That you'd been hiding behind a façade, shrouding yourself with countless false faces to mask the grotesque one beneath.
Ice crept up his spine, making him his hug his cloak to his frame. Mandalore was the epicenter of his past. All his mistakes, all his deep, gnawing regrets could be traced back here, their roots stubbornly clinging. Refusing to be torn from the bitter earth, burrowing so far into it that they were suffocating him. Drowning him.
You lied, the roots whispered, musty breath tingling in his ear.
Despite the fact that they were abstract, that they existed only in the labyrinths of his thoughts, he looked away. Closed his eyes. Screwed them shut-tight. "I…I was a different person then. So in a way, it never happened. In fact, it may not have; that's why I'm here, after all."
And what then? They sneered. You've still woven your web of deception. Bo-Katan…didn't you tell her that this wasn't possible? That there wasn't a chance, wasn't even slim hope of—
He let out a sharp breath. "Shut up."
"Excuse me?"
Eyes flying open, Obi-Wan whirled. That wasn't the roots talking, wasn't that same taunting, grinding whisper. Not even close. Instead, he found himself gawking down at a young man with calm, piercing blue eyes, a square, rugged jaw, and shock of thick, glinting copper hair.
Obi-Wan went rigid, the ice returning to assault his spine. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move. He could only stare, heart beating wild as he tried to remember that he had lungs, and that they were demanding—screaming for- air.
The young man blinked. "Sir?"
Obi-Wan blinked back. A mirror: that's what this was, this oh-so-young face that somehow echoed of day's long past. It wasn't an answer, didn't assure him that he'd lied, cowered behind the alluring mask of a dutiful Jedi Knight. It was just…glass. Pure, glistening reflection, unbroken and yet shattered into something only partially recognizable.
"Sir?" the man—the mirror- tried again, ire creeping into his polished tones. He cocked an auburn brow. "Are you alright? You seem to be a little…confused. Do you know where you are? Or who you are?"
Breathing in, Obi-Wan collected himself. This was a mirror, not a face. Was only glass, its surface shattered and twisted and so unbelievably whole. "Ben. Ben Kenobi. I'm looking…" He averted his gaze. "…I'm here for you, Korkie."
The man—the mirror—Korkie—stared. "How did you—how did you know my name?"
"You could say that I'm a friend of the family," he replied, deadpan.
Wary, Korkie took a step back. "And who in my family could consider you a friend?"
"Your aunt, for one thing: she's actually here, or should be arriving shortly."
"Which aunt?"
"Your living one: Bo-Katan. And if you don't find place to lie low for a the next couple of days, you're going to get caught up in another Clan War."
Korkie's hand strayed toward the holster at his hip. "Meaning…?"
Dragging a hand over his face, Obi-Wan shook his head. The truth of it was that he'd manipulated Bo-Katan into coming here, cultivating her trust as they'd brush shoulders under the stars, but he didn't want to let that out. Not to Korkie, anyway. And as for Bo-Katan…well, he had a feeling that a soon as she ignited whatever conflict she was bound to set off, she'd realized she'd been played. "Meaning that your world is on its way to becoming free, my young friend."
"Mandalore is free," the man-mirror protested. "It's been free for a while, since Maul was destroyed—"
Obi-Wan shot him a dangerous look. "Believe me, that monster is far from dead. The Republic armies never found a body, and where Sith are concerned, an absent corpse means that he' still running loose. And as for Mandalore's freedom…" He took a step forward, let steel creep into his gaze and voice. "The day the Empire was born, Mandalore became a slave. The entire galaxy did."
Something flashed in Korkie's eyes, something blazing and alive and dying. At first, Obi-Wan thought the reaction was elicited by his own words, that the young man was galled by the mere notion of his homeworld's enslavement. That his blood burned fierce and true for his planet, heart throbbing for freedom's winds.
Then the light in the man's eyes faded, replaced by darkness Obi-Wan had rarely glimpsed in the gaze of another being. Because it wasn't simply an absence of light that he was seeing, wasn't a mere eclipse or blackened moon bleeding, seeping from his soul. No, this was…different. Deeper. This was night devouring day, swallowing it up in a cavernous maw, and it wouldn't die quickly. It would smolder on, even if you tried to snuff it out with starlight, with your own stubborn, ever-seeing candle.
He was locking gazes with consummate hatred.
That's when Obi-Wan realized his mistake. He'd said Sith, spewed it out like an infant rejecting vegetable soup, and there wasn't any taking it back. The word would hang there, accusing, condemning, revealing; after all, your average being wasn't liable to go around blabbing a word like that. Especially not when the galaxy was cowering under the Empire's shadow, doing everything it could to evade its winnowing, poisonous gaze.
The mirror-man's face hardened, going stone-cold. "Jedi."
As the word escape his lips, time seemed to slow into one long, syrupy ribbon. One heartbeat, Obi-Wana was standing there, hand poised over his lightsaber hilt, heart screaming within his chest. The next moment…well, things were beginning to look a little grim. Men were rushing toward him with raised blasters, screeching for him to lay down any weapons—any of them, all of them—and surrender. To put his hands in the air and just give up, submit. To lie down and let the fire flicker and burn out.
But that wasn't an option. It would never be, not in a lifetime of lifetimes, so he let the fire burn. Fed it with force-strenght, allowing its potent currents to wash through his limbs, sear his veins.
And then his hand was snapping outward, force-pushing the men violently away. A couple of them loosed shots as they went down, their flung bodies somehow managing control as they spiraled through the air, forcing Obi-Wan to hit the ground. With another surge of force-power, he pulled Korkie down alongside him—but not before a blaster bolt met its mark, scorching through the mirror-man-boy's wiry shoulder.
Before the force-pushed men could find their feet, Obi-Wan rolled to the boy's side. The injury was deep, burning through several layers of skin and meat and bone, but it wasn't serious. Just painful. So much so, that he wasn't surprise Korkie had seemingly passed out, eyes rolling and listless in their sockets.
Careful not to disturb the injury, Obi-Wan hoisted Korkie over one shoulder, then pushed himself to his feet. Several of the men were beginning to rise, blasters once more in hand; one of them, a gaunt, fair-skinned men with brooding, hooded eyes, managed to squeeze off another shot. This time, though, Obi-Wan was ready for it, lowering himself to a crouch before springing upward with a massive surge of force-energy. He twisted, whirling in the air like a krayt dragon, landing cat-footed as the blaster bolt rocketed harmlessly past.
Obi-Wan hit the ground running, legs pushing furiously against the frosted glass street. More beings were joining in the chase, the small throng now interlaced with glowering men and women, but it wasn't that fact that worried him. It the shadowy, jaded presence felt that had his heart shrieking, blasting his blood with the screaming tang of adrenaline, and he could sense it closing in. Felt that it had a hold on him, that invisible fingers were curling, curling, clenching about his throat.
Although it had already stretched, drawn itself out into a thick, sludgy, time seemed to slow even further. Or maybe it just stopped, hanging there like storm clouds over a parched world—he couldn't tell. All he could know for sure at the moment was that Korkie was slipping off his shoulder, head lolling and doll-like…and that he couldn't breathe.
Obi-Wan gasped, hands struggling against fingers unseen. Black spots were spinning, whizzing throughout his vision, and they were multiplying. Soon they would eclipse all sight, drowning him in cloying, smothering dark, but for now he could still make out a few shapes. Could pick out the owner of the shadowy presence and invisible, strangling hands, his form black and billowing within the throng.
For one hellish moment, Obi-Wan wondered if it shape was Maul, was that terrible, ravenous monster that consumed all he loved. It certainly looked like him, what with that black, silhouetted form and caustic, glowing eyes. But the longer he looked, the more he became convinced that this was someone different, some new nightmare altogether; after all, the former Sith lord hadn't been quite this statuesque. He'd been…well, short. Hadn't been anything like this towering shadowy, his—its—limbs seeming to skim over the ground as he strode toward Obi-Wan.
"You must be Kenobi," the man purred, amber eyes gleaming with feral light. "When Lord Vader sent me here, he'd listed you as one of the Jedi I'd be apt to find. Said you have quite a history with—"
The man—a tall, rangy Utapauan, he now saw—went sprawling as a wave of force-energy roiled past. He hit the ground with a meaty smack, his head snapping back and fracturing the delicate glass street, creating a spider web of crack and lines. The impact didn't knock him unconscious—there was still life in that venomous gaze, were flickering with an inward inferno as they darted about—but it had to have dazed him. Or at least addled him, his strange-hold slipping away from Obi-Wan's raw, screaming throat.
Wheezing, Obi-Wan sank to his knees, eyes scanning the area for the source of the force-blast. There. Perched atop an azure, sky-kissing tower was the silhouette of a woman, her lean, sinewy form stark against the blanched horizon, her presence potent and roiling with force-energy.
"You'd have to do better than that, Inquistor," she called down in voice so achingly familiar it stung to recall the name, to put a face to the being he thought he'd never see again. "Vader should've warned you that Kenobi doesn't go down easily—and that I don't, either."
With that, the woman sprung down, landing cat-footed next to Obi-Wan. She was older than he'd expected, but maybe that was just her eyes. Maybe they'd seen too much, had drank in awful things into those clear, blue-gray pools, morphing her from the girl he remembered to a hardened adult. Or maybe…maybe he'd just forgotten what she looked like. Hadn't held onto the memories of fierce, ruby and ivory face as tightly as he should have.
Fingers curled about the hilts of her unlit 'sabers, Ahsoka Tano unflinchingly met his gaze. "Ready to run?"
He pulled a grin, face aglow with pure, bare-faced joy. "As ready as I'll ever be."
We all have our masks. We all have our facades, our veneers, and cling doggedly to them. Nothing will wrench false faces from our grasp, our fingers bloody as they dig into the murderous peace, the comfortable lie. The web of deception that says we cannot show what lies beneath, that we cannot let our true selves seep through with God turning away in disgust.
But we forget: The Savior came, bled out so that He might make us clean. That He might wash our faces, lift them up to His own and be able to meet our gaze. See us as we truly are, because who He's made us is new, pink, perfect. Sinless. Spotless. And His.
Today is the day of salvation, the day that you can believe His blood will bring you a new face.
2 Corinthians 3:18: And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into His likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.