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In all the times he’d considered the clones, he’d never thought of the strangeness of looking into your own face—not in a glass or on a screen, but in reality. Not that he made a habit of putting himself in the clones’ shoes. Why would he? They’re an abomination.
Much like he is now.
This, also, is a thought he has never considered, but is considering quite a bit now, as he stares down into his own face, cold and expressionless in his hands.
Truth be told, it isn’t actually his face. It’s his helmet, which he has not replaced. But, as he stares down at it in a quiet corner of the belly of Bo-Katan’s ship, it’s the only face he’s cared to claim for—how many years now? He doesn’t know. He didn’t care to count, once he was old enough to don the helmet and join the ranks of the Mandalorians. He never stayed in one place long enough to reckon passage of time beyond waking and sleeping, the travel from one place to the next, and the countdown timer some clients included on their bounty pucks for time sensitive bounties. He could likely find out his age, but it wasn’t important.
The lines of his helmet are sleek and familiar. He traces over them with his fingers. He would know them in utter darkness—and has. His own face, his true face—would he recognize it if he saw it? If a clone of himself walked up to him, would he even know? It’s a strange thought. He’s taken care not to look, all these years. Quick glances, to ensure he’s somewhat well kept. Enough to know his hair and eyes are dark and his skin tanned, though it’s been a long time since any star has been allowed to shine directly on him. But they’re quick glances, nothing more. Not enough to know.
He never wanted to know, not really.
He knew enough, as he grew toward manhood. His father’s eyes. His mother’s mouth. They looked back at him, clearer every day. He stopped looking. Even if he’d looked nothing like them, their loss penetrated every line of his face. He’d heard it, in the way they spoke to him and the way they spoke about him when they thought he could not hear.
The foundling has such sad eyes.
His eyes are always that way. And no wonder. He must carry the grief of his home world.
He cries out at night, sometimes, they say.
Ah, yes, I thought he looked sleepless.
The whispers were terrible. He began slipping into the armory to stare at the helmets being made or repaired, longing for his own. Longing to stop being the foundling with the sad eyes. He would be free from their whispers. He would no longer be Din Djarin, the poor boy rescued from a planet under fire. No one would look at him and see a pathetic, orphaned foundling. Not that he wasn’t glad to have been found. He was just ready to be nothing more than a nameless Mandalorian. To be free from his dead family’s name that hung about him like a lodestone. Free from his father’s eyes, his mother’s mouth, the “strong Djarin nose” his grandmother used to tweak with a grin.
Maybe it would have been different if he’d been a better replica. If his dark eyes had glimmered with fun and creativity like his father’s had, instead of his own haunted tiredness, it would have been better. Or perhaps he’d be all right with it if his mouth had been turned upward instead of down, always ready to laugh and reveal the dimple in his cheek. If he’d been able to see them as he remembered them in his own face, it might have been a balm. But no. He wasn’t an exact replica of his family. He was the grim, lifeless specter of them, left behind to haunt and be haunted.
He’d stared at the helmets and longed for that obscurity. To never see his face or be seen again.
Then why did you remove it?
He could almost hear the Armorer’s calm, austere voice asking him. Not judging or accusing, but stating facts. Just as she’d instructed him when he’d first donned the armor.
It would be hard, she’d said. The mantle of a Mandalorian is difficult. And not just the quests he would need to complete and the work to be done in the name of Mandalorian tradition. That, too, is hard enough. They live the life of exiles, and a life in exile is never easy. But the mantle of anonymity he would bear for the rest of his life was a heavy burden, for some.
The loss of recognition—true recognition—is hard for some. It is the way to do all that is asked of one without taking on the glory for oneself. While one may become the Mandalorian in the worlds where they work, the glory is always, in the end, given to the name Mandalorian. No matter what sigil one bears or what adorns their armor, it is a truth that those outside will always see nothing but “a Mandalorian.” As such, there are no lasting legends. All fade into obscurity, blurring into one another, into an endless path of completed quests. For some, this is the burden.
For others, it is the ostracization that is hard to bear. This, the Armorer warned him of gravely. No one cares what your face looks like until they are no longer allowed to see it. By dedicating oneself to anonymity, one is set apart from everyone else in the room. Others will not understand. They may respect the vow, or they may not. Some mock the thing they cannot understand. Others will try to force those who are different to conform. Some may see it as a challenge, to test the faith of a Mandalorian and see how long it holds out when put to mockery or even violence. To choose to remain anonymous is always to be other. And other is often met with hostility.
And of course, there are some who mourn the loss of close connections. To hide one’s face is to remain at arms-length at all times. Some find it to be a very lonely thing, to never be truly seen or known. To never have one’s eyes stared into, or expressions read. Some grow claustrophobic viewing the world from behind a HUD. Some grow fearful that no one knows their voice without the distortion of the internal mic. Some simply grow weary of the long years without true intimacy.
It will be hard, they said.
They ask, still, at the beginning of each gathering. So many chafe at the bond of anonymity and feel temptation’s pull. It’s one of the easiest vows to break.
Not for him. Never had any of these, nor any of the other possibly stumbling blocks that come with the vow of anonymity burden him. Of all the things they ask of him, this has always been one of the easiest. Never once had he been tempted to reveal his face to another living being. In truth, it was a relief not to. When he’d taken a final look at his masters and companions with his own eyes and slipped his helmet over his face for the first time, he hadn’t felt restrained or claustrophobic. He felt a sense of homecoming, of relief.
He’d been free.
He’d been asked, teased, seduced, bullied, threatened…all of these, and never had he faltered. None of it was worth what his vow meant to him.
The helmet was his clean slate. To walk through life with no name and no face relieved the burden of carrying everything that had ever happened to him outside of his own control on his shoulders. Everything from the moment he slid that helmet over his eyes was of his own making. He has forged his own identity by his deeds, earning respect by the sweat of his own brow. Not by name, or home world, or the fate that befell him as a child. Everything he had from that moment onward, he has built himself.
And it had been enough. More than enough. He’d been proud of the reputation he’d built with his own hands. He hadn’t needed anything else.
And yet.
Twice. Twice he’d shown his face. Removed his helmet of his own volition. Once out of necessity, true. Perhaps he’d have been able to find another way, had he not been impatient with fear and anger for the stolen child. But in that moment, there was no other option, as the machine screamed at him and officers began to glance in his direction.
He’d had to move slowly to keep his hands from shaking as he’d removed the Trooper helmet. It took every ounce of discipline not to flinch, feeling the weight of every pair of eyes in the room on him, though he didn’t turn to see if anyone was truly looking.
No one cares about your face until they aren’t allowed to see it, he reminded himself, and you came in as a Trooper, not a Mandalorian. They didn’t know they weren’t supposed to be seeing what they were seeing. But their gaze (real or imagined) burned his exposed flesh like a brand. It took a few deep breaths for him to calm enough to locate the information he needed.
And then the confrontation with the officer and his greasy, knowing grin and his beady eyes that inspected every inch of his face as he forced himself to stand as stoically as possible. All he’d wanted to do was slam his stolen helmet back onto his head and pluck the other man’s eyes out, feeling oddly violated.
It was the first (and only) time he’d been truly grateful for Mayfield’s cocky saunter, quick smirk, and quicker tongue. He’d been allowed to stew in his own private nightmare as Mayfield swooped in to carry the conversation, his voice dripping with poorly concealed contempt.
He’d barely listened. In between bouts of the terror of feeling entirely naked in a room full of enemies, he’d just…stared. It had been a very long time since he had looked at someone with his own eyes rather than through his HUD. Everything was so much warmer and crisper and real. It was a small part, but part of him was fascinated, remembering what other people looked like without a screen between them and lines of data explaining everything he saw obscuring his view.
Maybe that’s where all of this started, he thinks, setting his helmet down onto his knees with a sigh. Maybe it had left him hungry for more.
It hadn’t counted, Mayfield had insisted. The Imps who saw were dead and he himself hadn’t looked. (Had he? He had no way of knowing.) No one living had seen his face, still. His vow remained intact. Why it mattered so much to the other man, he couldn’t fathom. He finally accepted Mayfield’s insistence that he’d seen nothing with a silent nod.
It didn’t matter. He’d seen. He’d seen the officers. He’d seen Mayfield.
He had been prepared to have no one see his face ever again. He hadn’t truly thought of what it would be like to never truly see another face.
So when the child—when Grogu had asked, it stood to reason that something had likely already been awakened in him after so long. The desire to see, and to be seen.
No, he muses, it’s more than that.
They’d come to an understanding, he and the child. His child, so many had named him. He could tell when Grogu was hungry or tired or up to mischief. Of course, this was mostly quickly learned in an effort to stay one step ahead of the child’s curiosity and appetite. Keeping that child alive and well was a trial enough without half the galaxy searching for him. What inspired Grogu’s comprehension—or pointed lack thereof in some situations—he couldn’t say. But they understood one another.
As they said their farewell, the question had been plain. It’s the same question he’s been asked over and over again by so many others.
What does your face look like? Can I see it?
Always so easy, before, to ignore or decline the questions with impassive firmness. This time, it wasn’t even spoken aloud, but in this moment, temptation isn’t the word. For the first time, the helmet he coveted for so long and had worn without thought for so many years is stifling. He wanted nothing more than to take it off. Suddenly, it was the most important thing in the universe that this child knew his face before they parted ways. And to see the child in return.
He took a deep breath, and removed his helmet. It’s different than it was in the Imperial base. This time, he knows for a fact that every eye is on him. Eyes that know him and will remember this. But he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. What matters are the shades of green of the tiny being in his arms, the way his over-large ears move, the dark eyes that light up with such joy and…recognition.
He’d seen the look before, between others—that light of recognition when greeting an old friend one hasn’t seen in a long time. It’s nothing he’d ever thought about or longed for, but hell if it didn’t feel good. It’s not until he thinks about it later that he even bothers to find it strange that Grogu would recognize a face he hadn’t seen until that moment.
This is me. This is who I am, he thought, staring into the deep black pools of the child’s eyes, watching him take in the shape of a face he truthfully doesn’t know himself. Remember my face. Remember me.
It doesn’t matter, he thinks afterward, that he’s never connected to his face before.
Making soft, happy sounds, Grogu reached up to touch his cheek with a small, green hand. His eyes closed of their own volition. If it had been a long time since anyone had seen his face, it had been far longer since someone had touched it. Had it been his mother, taking his face in both hands as she said her choked, hurried goodbye on that last day? It must have been. It was a strange feeling, after only feeling the padding of his helmet for so long. That tiny, warm hand tracing his features.
Din Djarin, he thought hard, willing Grogu to pick up the thought as he’d seen the child do when conversing with Ahsoka. Din Djarin is my name. Remember it. Remember my face.
He opened his eyes then, to see if the child heard him. If he understood. Grogu was smiling. It wasn’t the pleased smile of a child who’s gotten a treat—not the smile he wore when presented with some small, slimy thing to much on. It was the wise, uncanny smile that always made him thin there was something very old to this child. Grogu had heard. He knew. He knew Din Djarin.
Knowing was relief.
To be known and seen was a relief. He would not be forgotten.
It wasn’t until he’d set the child down that he felt the eyes of everyone else in the room upon him. He saw it in the soft, knowing smile the Jedi in the doorway held.
Did the Jedi know what he’d witnessed? It was clear he’d seen something, but what?
He hadn’t asked. Maybe he’d never know.
And now? Now it’s over.
Now he sits, helmet on his knees, in the belly of Bo-Katan’s ship. He hasn’t put his helmet back on. Cara had asked if he would in a quiet, curious voice. He didn’t have an answer. He still doesn’t. Bo-Katan had hushed her. Though she had chosen a different path, she knew the Way he had been taught. She knew the cost. Even though bitterness darkened her eyes at the fate he’d stolen from her, her face had been kind when she’d told him to take his time and think on it, leaving him alone among packing crates to contemplate things.
All he’s really done for an indeterminable amount of time is put off this moment.
He has been seen. What’s done is done. There’s no going back, now.
All that remains is to see what they saw.
He takes his time with it, carefully polishing his helmet with a bit of cloth until it shines. Though it is the Way to take great care of one’s armor, he has never been quite so thorough or exacting as he is now, prolonging the moment as long as he can. Finally, he can’t imagine up another speck of dirt or buff a perceived smudge any longer.
He raises his helmet and peers into the new-polished beskar. He looks. Truly looks, as he has not done since he was a boy.
His hair is a mess—no one had told him. Though who would have dared? He’s getting scruffy again, but he knew that. There. His father’s eyes, older now, than his father’s had ever gotten to be. More worn and tired, still, as they’d been when he was just an orphaned Foundling. But less afraid then they had been. He sees something steady as he frowns at his own reflection. The Djarin nose, straight as it ever was. He thought he’d broken it a few times, but it appears to have healed clean, if he had. He’d never checked to see if it had twisted. His mother’s mouth, but turned downwards.
His jaw is broader than he remembers—broader than his father’s had been. He struggles to recall if his jaw line resembled anyone in his family, calling old memories of uncles and grandfathers long forgotten. He tries to recall an aunt with his cheekbones, a cousin with the same brow, searching for all the ghosts in the face reflected back at him.
No.
That isn’t right.
With a slight shake of the head, he stops himself. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a breath, and opens them again. He looks again, whispering aloud the words he’d thought to Grogu.
“This is me. Din Djarin,” he says, his voice low, watching his mouth move as he makes this cautious introduction.
His face is not made of ghosts. It’s his face. It belongs to him. No one else.
“This is me,” he says again, his voice firm. It’s less of a question and more of a statement of fact, this time.
He tries to see his face as the child had seen it. He remembers Grogu’s pleased smile, the look of recognition. It brings a smile unbidden to his own face, and he watches it change.
The upturned smile he remembers on his mother’s face. The dimple his aunts had loved, just in the right cheek. A warmth that fills his father’s eyes. No…his eyes. His smile. His face.
This. This is the face the child had seen. This is the face his foundling would remember. The child had not looked at his face and seen ghosts. He hadn’t seen the weight of a lost home. He saw only this face. Din Djarin.
Is it the Way?
Perhaps not. Perhaps he would be stripped of his sigil and cast from those who had raised him for it. So be it. It had been worth it. If they declared him anathema, he would still not regret what he had done.
Perhaps he would find another way. There are others, now. He can fight alongside Bo-Katan and her kindred and try to reclaim Mandalor, or return to Tatooine and learn the ways Boba Fett was raised. Or perhaps he can travel the universe and see if there are ways he has not yet discovered. There might yet be truth in ways he had been taught to abjure like his own face.
That, he thinks, is tomorrow’s problem.
Today, it’s enough to have been seen. To have been known. To be recognized as himself, no more, no less.
There is freedom in anonymity, it’s true. He isn’t giving up his helmet for good any time soon.
But, he thinks, as he sets his helmet down and tries to do something about the wild mess that is his hair before he goes to join the others, there’s a different kind of freedom in being known. Maybe it’s not all that bad after all.