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The night you feel his hands for the first time, the moon is a beacon of hazy light in the darkness of the sky, the full power of its cosmic glow restricted by thick clouds that stubbornly linger around it, as though they refuse to leave her naked and bare to the mercy of an army of stars. The air is rich with the scent of moss, the cool breeze sensual on your skin, the taste of fresh earthy water lingering in the damp air. You are meandering in the forest by taking slow and lazy steps further and further into the depths of the trees. You clear your head. The nighttime is of freedom, a time of agency that you cannot claim anywhere else.
You sense him before you see him. Feel him. His hard eyes, heavy and imposing on your back. Then you hear the whirring mechanics of his cybernetics, the usual mechanical thud of each metal footstep softened to a quiet thump by the dirt of the forest floor. You turn around, taking in the shadow of him, the gleam of his eyes, the overbearing darkness of his presence.
“What is it you seek?” Maul asks softly, sensing your motivations for being here. His voice is a rich purr, each word he uses more decadent than the last.
There is a pause as you acclimate to his presence, and he moves slowly forward.
“Peace, my Lord,” you whisper honestly, bravely. You are aware that your response will infuriate him. “I seek peace.”
He has sauntered close enough that you can now see his lips pull into a muted smile. “You believe such a…notion exists?”
“You do not?” you counter coyly, your eyebrow slightly raised in genuine curiosity.
He is silent for a time as he considers you. His eyes grow darker.
“What is it you believe?” He almost spits the question, his chronic fury tainting the sentence. He avoids the word. Peace: he cannot seem to say it. The word he views only as a mockery of his existence.
“Choice.” Your voice quivers in the face of his bitter anger. He grunts in disapproval, but you persevere. “Peace is chosen.”
You can sense him as he seethes at your words, but you are overwhelmed with your own sentiment. You swallow your fear and step forward, taking his hands in yours in one swift movement. You squeeze his gloved fingers as you pour all the comfort you wish to give him into his eyes through your own.
“Just tonight,” you implore him, “let me choose.”
He scowls in response, though he does not pull away.
“It’s here,” you take his right hand in both of yours, hastily removing his glove. “Peace is here, for me. I can take it. It’s in your skin.”
He suddenly turns rigid, and you begin to hesitate, doubting how forward you are being tonight. How inappropriate. You let go of his hand and lower your eyes. You hear nothing for a few agonising moments, your focus centres only on the softness of his breathing. Then you hear a brief rustling. Heat burns your cheeks in embarrassment, at a loss of what to do next.
He takes your hands, both of his hands gloveless, his bare skin now touching yours. You feel a dropping sensation sear through your middle, disbelief roaring in your ears. You cannot seem to bring your eyes to his, not in such an unprecedented, intimate moment. So you look at his skin, interpret the stories told in every line, scar, tattoo.
You absorb his hands in a rush of detail beneath the bleary moon. Each of his fingers are varying shades of discoloured crimson, faded pink in places, and the broken washed-out ink of his tattoos are uneven and aged. His nails are long, dark and sharp. His palms are coarse and rough, the least pigmented in colour, the repeated use of his weapon and the years of his life having worn down the vibrancy of his skin tone. You imagine the durasteel of his saber to be stained red in return. You envision the years of his life, so rich with the scarlet that has been leached from his hands, a trail of blood red anguish representing all of that life that has been stolen from him.
You take his wrist and place his palm to your cheek, relishing in the consoling warmth of his skin. Your heart fastens in pace and your breath quickens as he takes your hand and mirrors your movement. You feel the gentle ruggedness of his face beneath your own palm. You stand together, silently entwined in the most intimate of interactions either of you have ever experienced.
You bring yourself to look up and into his eyes: they are glowing, blazing with a promise of regret. A storm of frustration and resentment. They ache with the words that he can never speak, could never speak. He is incompatible with serenity. And yet, he does not drop your hand.
Then the night stretches on, into forever and the void, both timeless and brief all at once.