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When he was very young, limbs still lanky and discordant in a way that deeply displeased Darth Sidious, Sidious grabbed him by the wrist. His grip was firm and warm–an unexpected warmth, he was always so cold– Maul knew by then, to twitch from the touch, a habitual concern. One he didn’t want to make too apparent, but children cannot hide things very well so Sidious must have felt that flare of fear, when he grabbed Maul's wrist.
He did not harm Maul this time. Grabbing his wrist was just that, almost detached. And Maul followed with an unease growing in his stomach like sickness. But the fear of pulling away, of doing anything but obey, was twice as paralyzing. Children don’t process things very well, maybe that’s why Sidious wanted him so young, so this paralyzing fear would root inside him, as a companion in his heart and mind forever. Would grow with him, thick and fibrous.
Mustafar is a hot planet, but beneath the warmth of its volcanic depths and straits it rings hollow and frigid. The force on Mustafar is entrenched in darkness, so much so it resonates with Sidious. They pull upon each other like black holes; Unceasing, eating, consuming, never ending.
It’s no place for a child. Sidious drags him there without compunction anyways.
It’s always been the isolation that has been the most difficult for Maul. He wonders if that is because he’s always faintly remembered his brother's fleeting touches, a brush upon his shoulder maybe? He knows so little, but he knows enough to long for it. Even under the warm pressed palm of Sidious.
Maul does not think himself pharisaic. He knows himself to be bitter truth and madness all tied together with spite and fear. But he hopes he is not hypocritical in thinking that he is not the worst Master perhaps. He is impatient, yes, but Devon Izara likes to test his patience and he’d never once abandoned her for it.
Although, the thought is tempting.
“I tire of you.” He says to his Apprentice. According to her he is only allowed to call her as such twice per day. She is quite recalcitrant and he ignores her…suggestion, because he can be quite stubborn as well.
“Hang on.” She responds, and usually her tone would be less softened. It’s surprisingly gentle currently, Maul is not entirely sure why. He’s a bit focused on not bleeding out. It’s a bit painful, wearisome work. “The nearest planet is close, we’ll be there soon, hang on.”
“Apprentice…” He is too dignified to classify his tone as ‘complaining’ but there is… Remonstrance in his voice. He only starts to get concerned when she doesn’t correct him. Her lips are pursed and her eyes are narrowed and focused. Her hands are clenched tightly.
Murkily he prods at the force around her; it’s sticky. A strange mix of fear, sadness and frustration. She accepts this prod which is… not ideal. “Apprentice, are you well!?” He tries to sit up and immediately she is upon him.
His mind has become a laggard thing, he hates it. It is much too hard to focus.
He’s familiar with this hebetude. His hands would bleed when he was younger. He would curl into a small ball and yet, he would be so cold, and so slow…
“You’re bleeding Maul! Stop moving!” She pushes him back down and he stares up at her balefully. She has green eyes, a color he often thinks of in correlation with the Nightsisters and their magic. Her eyes are a shade too dark, and rich. There is none of that sickness that he carries in his blood.
Then there is a palm on his forehead and he suppresses the desperate urge to distance himself from it. But it’s just Devon, and she is too much a jedi at heart because she sends the most tempting wave of calm through the force, like the gentlest of reassurances. Something he doesn’t even know how to put into words.
“It’s just me.” She says, “I just want to check if you have a fever.” Her palm is very soft on his forehead, now that he knows it is her. He thinks Savage has done this before, although her hand is much smaller than his. He must really look awful if she is treating him so gently.
If he had any more energy, he would muster indignation…
He knows Devon is with him because he is one of the only choices. He offers her an open handed survival, and the promise of some sort of future, but she was raised as a jedi. And Maul knows all about how what is learnt in youth, and how it dwells.
The jedi do not view him favorably, they don’t view the dark necessity favorably. Devon, therefore, does not often view him favorably.
“My mind is not addled.” He feels the need to protest. It sounds weak, something that has him baring his teeth in frustration. “There is no need for this…this… coddling.” To his horror, she lets out a little laugh. Hand retracting from his forehead.
“You have a fever. Your mind might be a little ‘addled’.”
“I am fine.” The look she responds with is incredibly patronizing. His master would have killed Maul for less. He tells her so, so that she can appreciate his benevolence.
They don’t really talk about Sidious. Maul is very willing to talk about certain things; such as his plans to kill Sidious, how Sidious is a malagrous creature that crawled from the awful abyss, how Sidious killed his brother, and thus, Maul has vowed revenge. How Sidious is the purveyor of all things wrong with the galaxy. Maul could go on. What Maul does not discuss is himself. The more… personal aspect of his despair and disgust.
The reminder that their relationship wasn’t always something distant. That Maul, for much of his early life, had wanted nothing more than to please and serve him. That the man practically raised him.
“When did you start training with him?” Her voice is deceptively casual. Something is telling Maul that apprentices are always tricky, fickle beings, that she must be up to something. Yet he answers her anyway.
“When I was very young,” he considers. “I don’t know exactly my age. Old enough to walk and talk, still too young to understand much of anything.” He scoffs, part of him is vaguely humored that Sidious never tried to train anyone as young as him again. Or maybe he did, maybe they died. The far more likely option is Sidious realized children really are quite difficult.
“And he expected you to behave well?” There’s a scrunch to her brows.
“Children never behave well.” Maul agrees. Pointedly. She ignores him.
“How did he train you?”
“Diligently. You tire me, apprentice.” For a moment Maul feels a flicker of annoyance but Devon smothers it. Her hand finds the meat of his shoulder and she squeezes, gently. She stands, probably to check how long until they reach whichever planet she’s selected.
Maul thinks he hates Hutt space, it seems he can never enter or leave without incident. Devon surely does not handle Hutt space well. Maul wonders if it is because so many of the enslaved are twi'leks, like she. Slavery has always been something Maul has found rather tacky. It is brutality for cowards, it is laziness and gluttony pushed unto others. The bulbous blubbering slugs that are hutts certainly fit the image.
Maul is concerned that if they stay much longer Devon will stage an entire slave revolt. Which they do not have the manpower for and also Maul has been stabbed and he does not want to be near a Hutts foul stench while he recovers.
When Devon returns, he attempts to look more composed, which is a difficult task when horizontal. Mainly, he wrangles the heavy fog that is attempting to consume his brain under control, ignoring the flighty little whispers.
Whispers are a malignant virus that likes to echo in his ears.
“Are you awake?”
Maul opens his eyes. His focus is now steady. “Yes.” He responds. She nods, firm.
“You have to stay awake, sorry.” She doesn’t sound very sorry. And she is being quite tiresome. He aches all over, the sort of ache that comes from the cold, or illness, although he is neither. “We’re almost there.” She says in reassurance. Then, as a joke, because she has a morbid humor, something Maul denies he is fond of– “You can’t die until you teach me the rest of Form VII.” He’s barely taught her any, he will have to stay alive for quite awhile to ensure she masters such a form. What a foolish apprentice.
“Such ambition.” He means it warmly, Form VII is not one she needs to know, it is not a form she fights with. He wonders if he has made her respect it. Her interest is a complement of his mastery whether she’s aware of that or not.
He has gotten to such an old and sentimental age.
“You’re one to talk.” It lacks the bite many of her retorts have. Maul glances over at her again, she’s watching him. He doesn’t feel anything malevolent in the force, his lightsabre is still at his side if he has need of it.
“Ambition grants us drive.” He elaborates, in case she is still deluded by jedi niceties. “It gives us focus. A goal to run towards.”
“Maul.” She says, and then pauses for a moment. “He was cruel to you, wasn’t he? Your former master?”
“He is cruel to any he encounters.” Maul responds evenly. “I was no exception in any sense. It was not special, nor strange.” He sighs and then, like a curse spits his name, “Sidious, cares only for himself and his dominion, others are either players in his game, or…fodder.”
“And you? Which were you?”
You have made yourself a rival!
“I thought I knew my destiny once, I thought I was robbed of what was once mine… I was blinded to the truth.”
“Played then?”
“No longer.” He says with fervor. “Sidious will pay, for all that he has done, I–we– will have our revenge.”
“We will.” She reaches for him, strangely clinging, now that they have been in each other's company for a prolonged period of time. He had seen her, her and Daki, they had been close… proximity-wise. A guiding hand, hugs upon reunions, a pat on the shoulder… He wonders if she knows that on some level Maul had delighted in his death.
A rival!
It wasn’t all a machination, Darth Vader could have chosen to spare the ailing Jedi master. It is not as if Maul swung the blade himself. Maul simply uses what he must.
He lets her squeeze his hand. His is gloved, she should perhaps get in the habit of doing the same. Her skin is bare, a dirtied peach color, her nails chipped and uneven. How easy they would be to break, her fingers.
“If you may enlighten me? Where are we going?”
“Ah.” She's sheepish now, beneath the lighter flutter of admonishment he feels the thick cord of her anger. She is still angry. Good. “Tatooine.” She tells him.
At first he does not know why he recognizes the name. And then the force lurches, with something strong. Neither dark nor light but strong, it feels amused, it feels like destiny.
Maul knows Tatooine, knows its sandy dunes that ripple, rich in the force.
When he was young, and still so strong and straightforward. When his path was one that he followed with a mindless ease. His mission, the mission. Tatooine.
“Why?” He questions. There are whispers.
“It… It felt right?” And even Devon seems uneasy, as if she hadn’t been the one to choose the destination. Her brow crinkles. “I… Wait, It’s like? It's just… It was close, but there were others that were also close but Tatooine, felt more right?” Her jaw clenches. “Is this a trap?”
“No…” Maul says musingly. “I do not believe so.”
“Then why?”
“We will have to see, now won’t we?” The force around him feels startlingly present. It feels like for once it is in his palms, and under his control without struggle, and focus and rage. It feels rejuvenating.
The Jedi like to claim ‘I am one with the force.’ and they intend to follow it instead of order it. Maul has never understood how someone would follow the force, it is a tool not an entity… but right now… there is indeed a clear direction.