the pearl


Obi-Wan Kenobi, last of the Jedi Knights, stood in front of the mirror, his shadow-rimmed dull eyes staring back at him.

There was no one left. Mace. Adi. Depi. Abeth. Parussa. Everyone he knew, everyone he cared for, from the children he knew during his training to the aged, wise council members. They had been killed in the purges, struck down in the heat of battle, betrayed by those they had respected and cared for.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the coolness of the mirror, smooth against his heated face. His face crumpled again and he sobbed for a few seconds, harsh, bitter sobs of frustration, of helplessness, of mourning. Not simply for the Jedi that had died within the past few months, but for the ones that would never be, never born or never realizing their potential.

For the two small children who would never know their heritage.

For Anakin. For Amidala. For everyone he had failed.

For himself.

For Qui-Gon.

He slammed his fist against the mirror in rage, the glass cracking. He looked up quickly, his eyes staring back at him from the mirror, long hair falling in front of his face, silvery cracks slicing through his image. He was something else, something verging on evil, verging on Sith, the one thing he could not be.

He was scared.

Master Yoda's voice, the other Jedi still alive after the great purge, came back to him from long ago. "Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to the Dark Side..."

He knew fear. He knew anger.

He could not know hate. He must never know hate.

Obi-Wan swore loudly under his breath, his hands scrabbling across the counter in a rage. He felt the scissors in his hands before he even recognized them for what they were. The scissors slid against the first lock of hair, cutting cleanly.

The lock fell against the counter, a sacrifice for Mace Windu.

Another snip. Adi Gallia.

Another. Depi Bilaba.

Another. Ki Adi Mundi.




His hair laid on the counter, mourning sacrifices for his past. When Qui-Gon had died, he burned his padawan braid in mourning, the few years of love between them disappearing in a thin curl of smoke.

He lit the small pile of hair on fire, watching as it burned, smoke sliding against his face. He looked back up in the mirror, his newly shorn scalp appearing naked, his eyes dark, empty.

He was alone. And he would pay forever.

This Star Wars story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at And you can feedback her at