Chapter Text
Maul has Temi every other week, barring odd exceptions, including the days when he is simply not able to feed her, which are becoming more frequent. She is as tall as his shoulders now, and strong enough for him to ride. Her fringe has grown to hang over her eyes and her horns, which used to be little more than nubs, have now grown large, curling on either side of her head. Magnificent as she is, six months of caring for the quickly growing bantha have proven to be an insurmountable obstacle to his finances.
What money Maul has comes from trading in town the scraps he finds in the desert that the Jawas haven’t gotten to yet, and that is far from a reliable occupation. Now that he has a working relationship with the Tuskens (from whom he receives Temi’s grass), they no longer trespass on his territory, and he can no longer simply rob them to supplement credits.
All this means that Maul has had to relinquish Temi early to her second, bastard father three times this standard month cycle, and he will have it no more.
If only to keep Temi fed, Maul knows he must find a more stable form of income— but what? He neither has the necessary equipment to farm for moisture, nor the countenance to be employed at a local shop. He is a fair mechanic, but that, again, requires frequent interactions with others as well as tools he does not have.
Bounty hunting serves his purposes well, and he has done it before when things became desperate. Maul’s existing skills are well suited to the business, and there are plenty of wanted criminals on this dustball, but the bounties here are nearly all under the Guild’s jurisdiction, which he has been banned from indefinitely.
He is at a total loss of what to do and on the brink of a frustrated meltdown when salvation comes in the form of Grandmother Yara, as it often does.
Maul comes to her in search of ointment. Temi has developed an abrasion on her leg and refuses to stop scratching it on the canyon walls.
Grandmother Yara’s small apothecary stall sits at the very end of the long and winding market street where a dead end is formed by a wide semicircle of stalls, all draped with richly colored fabrics, connecting the spaces between and behind them to provide shade for work. The stall runners in this area of the market are a small but tightly knit community, and the atmosphere is lively when the suns are not at their peak. Most of these people live with their families in the small domed buildings just behind their stalls, or nearby in one of the off-shooting alleyways.
Here is where Maul does the vast majority of his bi-weekly shopping, as the prices are low and the quality is high. Grandmother Yara has also been endeared by him, and proven to be a dependable ally.
“Still looking for work?” Yara asks him, as she wraps a small tub of ointment for him. He grunts in acknowledgement.
According to Yara, the runner of the fabric stall two stalls down’s son just got a job in Mos Eisley and can’t help with her stall anymore. The son asked Yara to find someone to help his mother in the mornings, as she’s getting too old to handle everything herself.
And so, Maul finds himself sitting down on a short stool under the red shade of the fabric stall before an irritated old Togruta woman. Yara pats his shoulder twice, “He’s a strong one and a hard worker, take care of him, Nima!”
“Didn’t I tell you to stop meddling in my business—!” Nima yells, but Yara is already walking away cackling as she goes.
The woman narrows her eyes at Maul. Her orange skin is a web of wrinkles, white markings travel from the crown of her forehead down the bridge of her nose, high on her cheekbones, and on her chin. She wears a deep red scarf over the top of her yellow striped montrals and lekku.
Maul twitches, unsure and strangely intimidated.
—
Grandmother Nima is tough, but not unfair. Despite her protests, she puts Maul to work right away, bringing him to the shared space behind the stalls to work.
When his first attempts at spooling thread are unsatisfactory, the old woman makes an irritated sound and pushes him aside to lower herself into the stool before the wooden contraption. She takes the pale green thread between her gnarled fingers, feeds it into a small wheel, and begins pumping the pedal to wrap it around the spool, grumbling all the while. The spool is full in no time, the thread coiled in tight, neat lines, and Grandmother Nima stands again, giving him a pointed look and a grunt before returning to her own tasks.
The demonstration was clear, and Maul is able to replicate it quickly. He is good at these kinds of things; mindless, repetitive tasks that keep his hands busy and quiet the incessant noise in his head. Before he knows it, he has spooled the whole basket of loose thread and moves onto another. The suns continue to rise as he works and people begin to trickle into the streets, bringing a low hum of commotion with them that filters into the background.
The other stall runners have also begun their work for the day, all sitting together in the shared space under the awnings to chatter and do their own prep. They cheerfully express their surprise that Maul is now behind the stalls instead of before them. He struggles to decide if he is agitated by the attention or not. It is somehow uncomfortable to be observed while he is still learning, but theirs are not unfamiliar faces, and the sound of their light conversations filters nicely into the background. They ask after Temi, and he tells them she is well enough as he tosses another spool into a basket.
By the time the first few customers begin to trickle through the streets, Maul has spooled all four baskets of woolen thread. He is off-put by the spark of pride he feels when Grandmother Nima inspects his work and accepts it with a grunt.
“Be here at first light on market days, boy,” she says, sending Maul on his way before the suns get too high. “Here’s your pay.” She hands him two small bags. One is green, and contains a handful of credits. The other is brown, and upon opening reveals a handful of small black seeds.
“What are they?”
“Saaru seeds.” Grandmother Nima says as she begins to shoe him away. “Now get going, boy, while the suns are still kind.”
Maul does, feeling strangely dazed for the whole journey home.
—
Maul sits on the floor of Temi's stable. The bantha lays beside him, stubbornly shoving her head into his lap in a demand to be pet. Her leg is freshly treated and wrapped in fresh linens to stop her from licking. Maul pulls scratches behind her ears as he considers the bag of seeds.
He could resell them. He is fairly sure they can fetch a fair price, being one of very few desert fruits to grow here. But it seems a waste, somehow.
Saaru fruit is always in demand on the market, and decently profitable as one of the only fresh fruits available. It is hearty and more sour than it is sweet, with blood red flesh and tiny black seeds beneath thick, dark skin covered in blunt spikes. If he plays his cards right, this could be a good secondary source of income.
Maul resolves to begin growing a patch outside his cave. It cannot possibly be that hard.
He has the seeds and he has a new vaporator with which to water them. Well, it is new to him. Certainly, is has passed through many hands before reaching his, hence why he was able to buy it at such a low price in the first place. It will need fixing up, but that is nothing Maul cannot make the Lars boy do in exchange for Temi visitation rights.
It is only when he kneels beside his chosen swath of land at the sunny mouth of the canyon that Maul remembers he has never grow anything in his life. He has never had interest in caring for plants, nor a reason to do so. But there is a first time for everything, and Maul has nothing better to do. He knows plants need water and sunlight, and that is the extent of his knowledge.
He pauses there on the ground for a long time, growing uncomfortable in the suns’ heat as they creep higher in the sky. Temi comes to join him after a while, plunking herself down behind him.
Experimentally, Maul scatters the seeds across the dry, cracked ground. They bounce and roll in the wind and he feels immediately that this is not right. He painstakingly gathers the seeds back up and contemplates another method. Perhaps burying them. But the ground is too hard in the canyon to dig without significant effort, so surely a plant could not press its way through the surface.
Glaring at the reddish patch in front of him does not bring forth any clues as he had hoped it would. Surely he cannot simply stick the seeds in the hard earth and expect them to grow. He is missing some part of the equation.
Maul fetches his comm unit from the kitchen counter and opens the message board he shares with Ezra. He has missed a couple messages, mostly pictures of a massiff Ezra came across along his travels.
It has been several months since Ezra left Tatooine, and Maul cannot deny the small emptiness he has felt since. It had been nice to share his time with someone again, and he enjoyed teaching his apprentice the ways of power. There is Luke now, of course, who has been spending more and more time at his cave, and Maul tolerates his company well enough, but it is not the same. He is not Maul’s apprentice.
…These are all of them stupid thoughts. They sound pathetic even to Maul’s own hindbrain. He hears from Ezra near-daily, and even if he doesn't, he’s just fine on his own.
Saaru seeds, then.
As he does not have access to the holonet himself, Maul directs any queries that require it to Ezra, who can easily be convinced to do the research for him.
Maul relays his needs.
It is less than ten minutes before his comm unit buzzes with a response, which means Ezra responded immediately. It takes time for messages to travel across however many systems are between them, especially considering the outdated tech Maul is working with. He spends the time between pings bouncing his leg restlessly and brushing Temi's long fur.
The apprentice is excited by Maul’s endeavor. He expresses a desire to help instead of having to meditate with his Jedi Master. Maul tells Ezra to abandon his master, if he is tired of him, and join Maul to learn the ways of true power. (Ezra will not, Maul knows, but he always offers anyway.)
Ten minutes of silence later, Maul’s comm unit begins to buzz. A small, glitchy holo of Ezra appears when Maul answers the call. Maul brings him to the patch where he plans to start his crop and crouches to show him the ground they are working with. Temi quickly follows him and bumps his shoulder with her head to request pets. Maul pulls his fingers through her fur as the apprentice scours the net.
“Okay, uhhhh,” Ezra squints and turns to refer to something off screen. “So, I think you have to til the soil first.” This cannot possibly be classed as soil, Maul does not point out.
“Til?”
“Yeah, like, turn it and break it up so it’s softer. Then you can put the seeds in.”
“No, no,” a voice chimes in across the tinny speakers. Ezra’s Jedi Master, Kanan, pops his head into frame. Maul curls a lip at him in distaste. “I think you need to plant in the sand since it’s a desert plant, right?”
“I don’t remember asking for your opinion, Jedi scum,” Maul replies as he inspects the dirt, considering the idea.
Ezra’s Master is easy to get a rise out of, and Maul immensely enjoys doing so. He snickers at the offended noises in the background.
“Hey!” Ezra also is offended. “I’m a Jedi, too. Are you calling me scum?”
“No. You are the exception.”
The apprentice is pleased. He also disagrees with his master. He thinks the sand does not contain sufficient nutrition to support life. The compacted earth before him now cannot possibly be much better. Maul is beginning to think he may have to turn to more local sources to succeed in this particular project. He grabs a sharp stick and gets to work breaking up the earth while Ezra chatters about this and that.
There is probably a tool for this. There must be. Maul has been stabbing at the ground for hours and has had to sharpen his stick countless times. The suns are brutal even through Maul’s thick cloak, and his eyes strain against the brightness of the pale sands. Even Temi has retreated to her little stable beside the cave in search of shade.
Ezra suggests a hat, which Maul considers favorably. Ezra also demands frequent updates on Maul’s progress before cutting their connection with a chipper “See ya!”
Eventually, Maul’s efforts do pay off. The ground is now as soft as it will get.
With care, Maul pokes a finger into the dirt and drops a seed into the hole. He repeats the process with the half of the seeds until the patch is full then covers them again. The other half he keeps in the bag and puts away for later. The basin in the vaporator is nearly full, having been hard at work for several weeks. Maul takes the water and carefully sprinkles it over the seeds.
Over the next days, Maul watches his patch closely, waiting for little green heads to poke out from the dirt and reach their sturdy limbs to the suns. He takes to meditating next to them, setting up a tarp for shade when it becomes too hot. When Temi is with him, he sits by the patch to pull a brush through her thick fur. Kenobi is always putting braids in the fringe, which Maul then has to free her from. What next? Ribbons? She is not a doll. Ridiculous.
Within days the plants have all but consumed his every thought. A day’s ride into the dunes would usually have him contemplating the pain of his past and the hatred he harbors for his old Master, but now he wonders simply what the little blooms will look like when they break the surface. As he strips a ship wreckage for the console parts, he wonders if he is watering them enough.
“Grandmother,” asks Maul as he helps her set up her stall for the morning. He had, for a long time, simply thought that everyone on this stretch of the market were distantly related, but he recently learned better from Luke. On Tatooine, 'Grandmother' is a title given to respected elders, not an indication of familial relations.
“What is it, Child,” Yara hums, dropping a handful of seeds and a dried red herb into a stone vessel and handing it to him. Dutifully, Maul sits beside her in the shade of her awning and begins to grind them as she sets about preparing herbs to be dried. Grandmother Nima has yet to leave her house, Yara tells him, but she should be out soon.
“I am trying to grow Saaru.” The smell of the herbs and seeds is warm and somehow comforting. The easy, repetitive motion of crushing the little round pellets is equally relaxing.
“Are you, now?” Yara sounds pleased.
“Yes, but they are dying.”
“Well, that’s no good.”
“No,” Maul agrees. “Do you know how to grow things?”
Yara hums thoughtfully, tying a bundle of yellow leaves together and setting them to the side. She admits that she has no experience in the matter, and knows no one that farms anything but moisture. Besides, she tells him, Saaru is not native to Tatooine, but hails from another desert world, and so can be made to grow here with additional help. “Sorry, Love.”
Eventually, Grandmother Nima emerges from the dome behind her stall, hobbling with small steps and the help of a cane. Maul walks slowly beside her and does not offer to help. He thinks it would not be appreciated. He tells Nima that he has planted the seeds and asks if she has any advice. She, also, has never grown anything, as it turns out, and tells him he should just farm moisture like everyone else.
Even if he would have considered it before, he will do no such thing now, because if Maul is anything, he is stubborn. His crop will be glorious, and Grandmother Nima will soon know better than to challenge him.
Grandmother Nima is unimpressed and unsympathetic to his struggles, she sits him down in front of a bucket and says she will teach him how to dye wool.
It is easy, repetitive work like spooling yarn, and Maul does it without complaint.
The days pass with unexpected speed, now that Maul has something to occupy them with, and he and Grandmother Nima spend the mornings working in something approaching a companionable silence.
Nima grunts at him when he presents his finished work. She sniffs, “Not bad, boy, but it’ll be a while yet before I let you anywhere near the loom.”
Maul hadn’t asked. He doesn’t care, but he looks out of curiosity at the loom at the back of the stall; a large, wooden contraption much different from the simple frame and hooks Maul has used before. The frame can be adjusted with pedals beneath it and wooden blocks glide across the threads, back and forth, back and forth. Nima plays it like an instrument, her fingers moving almost of their own accord to produce a bolt of rich orange fabric, patterned intricately with black details.
It is difficult to look away, but he does it, lest he give Nima the satisfaction of his interest.
—
There is no visible change in the saaru patch for more than a week. Maul wakes one morning to see little white tendrils breaking through the earth, already halfway to shriveled and only a fraction of the number he planted. Only a few days after that, what has sprouted is well and truly dead, despite Maul’s careful watering.
The sight of their little browning husks upsets him more than it should. It stirs such intense feelings in his chest that he must remove himself entirely from the area and sink into meditation next to a worried Temi.
He is still seething when company comes hollering down the canyon. Maul asks if there is nothing better for Luke to be doing than polluting the canyon with noise and eating all his food. Luke replies that he doesn’t, since he only works at the junk shop on the weekend and classes are out during the wet season so children can help with the harvest. Maul grunts and turns back to his meditation, no wonder the boy has been coming more often.
The Lars boy is altogether too cheerful, as always, and eager to help. Despite Maul's insistence that he would rather be left alone, Luke comes over most days to fiddle with machinery, play with Temi, or to do nothing at all. As much as Maul has resisted the interference in his daily life, he has grown used to it.
“Don’t worry, Maul,” Luke says after inspecting the withered corpses of Maul’s hard labor. Maul gnashes his teeth. He does not need assurance. “Everything out here gets fried in the suns, you probably just need another try!”
Well that is the epitome of helpful, thank you, Lars boy. Maul lets out a quiet growl of frustration and begins to pace the width of the canyon. Luke gives him a searching look and stands. “…You know, Old Ben has a plant, I think. You could ask him for advice.”
The instinct to snap is there, and very near to happening, but Maul grasps at his quickly dissipating patience. This boy simply lacks a filter, and must sometimes be excused. Nonetheless, it is a ridiculous suggestion; asking the enemy for help. Maul must take several deep breaths to recover before he points the boy in the direction of the rusting vaporator with a grunt.
The machine is quickly disassembled under Luke’s nimble fingers. He is all too happy to help and now the floor of the living room is a minefield of sharp, little pieces.
While the boy tinkers, Maul ventures back outside and plots by the patch. He is air headed at the best of times, the Lars boy, but occasionally stumbles upon helpfulness.
The plants were indeed “fried by the suns,” the logical next step is to limit their exposure. Carefully, Maul selects a small nook hollowed into the wall of the canyon. This spot he knows only gets sun in the very early morning. He notes as he tils the ground in preparation, that it is not quite so rigid as the previous spot.
Under Luke’s curious observation, Maul carefully pokes holes into the softened ground, drops a seed into each, and gently covers them again. A light sprinkling of water, and the deed is done.
This time, they will thrive. He is sure of it.
—
Maul begins working at the market more often, especially on the days when Temi is not with him. There is always someone who could use help, and he is always in need of more credits. It eases his mind, too, to have tasks that are different from the minutia he has settled into over the years. Like the stretching of long-unused muscles, he feels lighter afterwards.
Today he pauses briefly when he gets to Yara’s branch of the market. The suns are still too low for any customers to be here, but there are a strange number of children running around between stalls, rolling a ball back and forth or drawing idly on the ground.
Yara smiles widely when she sees him coming, waving him over to wrap her arms around him and pat his back in a quick but hearty embrace. Maul bears the hug awkwardly— he is still not used to the gesture.
“Oh, Maul!” Comes a call from the next stall over. It is Natani, the Twi’lek woman who runs the zhiri stand. She has enlisted him before to fix a faulty stove. Currently, she is struggling to put shoes on the feet of a wriggling child. “Could you help me with those boxes? I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”
As directed, Maul lifts a large box, overfull with nuts, herbs, seeds, and ointments, and stacks them against the wall behind the zhiri stall. When he sets down the last box and the daughter’s shoes are on, Natani presses a zhiri bun into his hands in thanks. The doughy pocket is warm and filled generously with spiced meat, he accepts it with thanks.
Maul has not talked at length with Natani, but knows her to be focused and sharp as a whip. This is his first time seeing her offspring, though. The young Twi’lek has the same red-orange skin as her mother.
The conversation cuts off abruptly as two soldiers in pale armor march heavily past the mouth of the street. The stall runners follow them with their eyes, a sense of unease over them all. A collective breath is released when they finally pass, and Maul looks to Grandmother Yara for explanation.
She just shakes her head. “Some new company the officials hired for ‘security’. These new folks moving in are bringing all sorts of trouble with them, I’m telling you.”
“They made some trouble at school today,” Natani explains vaguely, sending her daughter off to play. “Nowhere else for the kids to be.”
“I see,” Maul says. He skirts out of the way of a shrieking toddler, firmly out of his depth. And with that the solemn mood passes, leaving Maul curious but unwilling to press.
“None of your own, then?” Comes the amused voice of Tilila, a dark-haired Chalactan woman with a kind face, who sells baskets, bags, hats, and anything else that can be woven from the strong fibers of a ginsu bush. Her son is also among the stalls today, coercing the others into playing a game of tag.
“…No.” Maul replies decidedly, following Tilila to her stall, to hang fronds of ginsu from a tall rafter to dry.
For the better part of the day, Maul bounces between stalls. If he is not lifting or grinding or weaving something or another, he is making sure the children do not die or injure themselves while their guardians work. They have boundless energy, and use it primarily to clamber onto Maul’s back and shoulders and demand he run here or there. His dignity will not allow such a thing, but thankfully that are satisfied with being held by the ankle upside down.
The little ones tired themselves out by mid-afternoon, and now nap in the shade of their parents’ awnings. The heat has reached its peak for the day, and customers will be sparse until dusk. There is a much needed breeze at their backs from the wind that tunnels between buildings and the colorful fabrics that stretch between the stalls provides enough shade to make the heat somewhat bearable. The older children sit around Grandmother Yara’s feet as she tells a tale of the great dragon-daughter, Leia.
The story rises and fall like the wind in her weathered voice, sweeping through the round space until it feels like nothing else exists. There is gravity, and history, to this story, Maul can tell. It feels heavy and important in his chest.
It has been a very long time since Maul has felt an atmosphere like this, if it has ever happened at all. What was a pleasant feeling between his ribs lasted only a few moments before it morphed into something cold and sickly. He suddenly feels violent urge to leave as quickly as he can, to return to his cave and be alone.
Perhaps he is getting soft or stupid, but Maul doesn’t leave. He only retreats to Grandmother Nima’s stall to spin yarn quietly.
“You're avoiding the others,” she says, without looking away from her loom. It takes him off guard. He had hoped to work in silence. Nima is not talkative by any stretch of the word, it is much of why their dynamic is so ideal. "The story scare ya off?"
“No." Maul snaps, glaring at her as she snickers.
“Then what? We not good enough for ya?”
“No,” Maul replies. He works his jaw, trying to find the right words as he listens to the rhythmic clack clack of the loom. Finally, he says, “Attachment… is weakness.”
A scoff. “Who told you somethin' so stupid?" Maul rankles. "Ain't no such thing as life without attachment,” the old woman says, fingers flitting over the threads of her tapestry. She gives the fabric a pointed tug. “Even the young'uns know connections make you strong.”
“Pull out one thread and everything could unravel,” Maul counters.
“Maybe. But one thread don't make a very good tapestry.” Grandmother Nima turns to him.
Maul shakes his head, frustrated. She doesn’t understand. “People die. People betray you.” They will leave you behind and take parts of you with them.
“That’s life, child. Hurtin’s part of the deal.” Grandmother Nima throws him an eyebrow. “Or are you scared of a couple bruises?”
His hackles raise, high and sharp. Maul, of all people , knows pain is a simple truth of existing. A couple bruises? Maul has endured more pain than most can even imagine. He has lost everything he has ever had, has crawled through the foulest pits this galaxy has to offer and survived. He won’t be lectured by some hag on the inevitable tortures of life. “I’m not afraid ,” he tells her through gritted teeth. “You know nothing about me.”
“I know you, boy,” her rough voice is low. “I know you by the state of your hands. You’ve been fightin’ since day one, just as I have.” She returns to her weaving. “And it don’t get easier, so you’d best drop the lone anooba act, if you know what’s good for you.”
Maul rubs a thumb over his palms without thinking, feeling the tough skin there.
Grandmother Nima’s hands are boney-knuckled and thin skinned. Maul watches her calloused fingers work with an uncomfortable stone in his throat.