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Devon does not permit herself a moment of rest.
If she rests she will gather her composure, and when that happens, she will find herself overcome by the wave of emotion she has thus far stifled. The wave that by now had grown into a breaker wave no doubt.
At nightfall, her mind drifts between vicious currents; from the temple, her master, the other padwans, the training they shared, the sunsets on Coruscant; to the purge, the tumult, the bodies falling like puppets with severed strings; Janix, the inquisitors, the reaper.
Rage is such an easy emotion to feel. Long denied by the code, it now utterly consumes her. Like a bird with fettered wings taking flight for the first time. Maul liberated her, unfurled her plumage, and cast her off the edge. She is torn between wanting to kill him for it and wanting to follow him to the galaxy’s very edge.
As soon as Crimson Dawn accommodates them she begins training. If she’s not swinging Maul’s lightsaber, she is tinkering with any spare circuitry or fried machinery they grant her. With both mandalorians and mercenaries now deceased, the duty of patching him up fell solely on her. The demise of her master and consequent struggle with the inquisitors stemmed from Maul’s injury, she is sure of it. He can hold his own; but he limped through most of their battles and in the end, got away at hair’s width. Had his leg been properly welded… perhaps…
No. Nothing can defeat that monster.
He had come to claim their souls, his lackeys holding them down like lambs to the slaughter. Heavy breathing follows her in her nightmares, in her meditations, in the silence of the training grounds. She cannot rid herself of it. And she cannot stand the fact that it was the last sound her master ever heard. Every shadow she expects to erupt. He will no longer make his presence known, now that she is aware of his pursuit. They will never be free.
Maul does not seem disturbed by the quiet promise of doom. He never says a word when she arrives at his living quarters late into the night and claims the sofa. Sometimes he wordlessly offers her whatever dinner Crimson Dawn had provided for him. Other times he lingers nearby, pretending to clean his lightsaber, and waits until she falls asleep to follow suit. It is a subtle comfort one would not expect from a violent creature such as him. But it is comfort nonetheless.
When he trains her, her thoughts dwell on the fact that he had once been in her stead, a child devoured by anger. She cannot fathom it. He, whose stature and menacing presence makes strangers bate their breaths. This Sith had once been a child with a hummingbird heart and unsteady hands.
Except, the master circling and correcting technique and posture had been the most vile creature of them all. How much had he suffered? Is this perhaps why he justifies his own actions—as he has seen such unimaginable cruelty that his own methods seem merciful?
And why does she feel guilty contemplating this matter?
She arrives at his quarters unbidden as usual, clutching a bag beneath one arm and a toolbox in the other. Though her mending skills are unrefined, she is confident enough to broach the subject now. He will undoubtedly be displeased. It’s a diversion from his grand plan, this mission she has found herself in the middle of, and yet, it is necessary. Surely he must see that.
There is no response at the door.
This cannot be. In all the months she has come here not once had he left her call unanswered. Something is amiss. She can feel it. The Force is a pressure on her shoulders, in her gut, in her heart.
“Maul?” she calls out again.
No response.
Breathing looms over her shoulder. She forces the door panel open and enters the emergency code. There are no alarms, no dead guards slumped in the corridor. What if he had arrived to finish what he started and simply remained undetected? Could he do that with steps as heavy as his, and presence colder than ice? The image of her master collapsing replays over and over as she stumbles through the darkness of Maul’s living quarters. The monster could be lurking in any of these shadows. For a moment, she is convinced that upon opening the door to Maul’s sleeping chamber, she will be greeted with his remains and a red blade descending on her.
She cannot watch another one of her masters die, she simply cannot—
The door opens.
Nobody is there.
Panic seizes her whole. She takes tentative steps backward. The only light is filtered through the blinds, like prison bars reflected on the barebone room. There is a sleeper with no pillow, an empty desk, and no trace of the Zabrak at all.
He would not leave her behind, would he? She surveys what she can in the dark—there is barely a trace of anybody occupying these quarters.
She springs into action, flying over to the front door.
And nearly runs straight into Maul.
“What is it?” He asks, looking down with a frown.
“I was just—You weren't—”
Her hand, which she had no recollection of placing anywhere, drops from the lightsaber at her hip. It is still too foreign. When she ignites it in the training grounds it somehow surprises her when it glows a brilliant red and not the blue she has known all her life. A little part of her is relieved she has no reason to swing it now.
Maul hums. He waits until she quells her panic and steps aside before he walks in. Only now does she notice a tray in his hands. The lights flicker on.
She sighs, collapsing onto the sofa she has claimed as her own. With one last scan of the room, lest the monster really is here for their heads, she returns to the toolbox and bag. The feeling she had caught flowing through the Force had been fear indeed. It had clouded her judgement so much she forgot Maul exists outside the confines of these quarters.
“Would you like some Rodian peppers, Devon?”
“What?” She asks, although she had heard him perfectly.
“Rodian peppers.”
It's a bit of ordinariness that once again surprises her. That it could be possible for one such as him. It is, however, normalcy she welcomes nonetheless. The last time she shared a meal with anybody was Two-Boots and Rylee, who had long since left for Coruscant.
Maul sets the tray down on the table and reveals two plates. One thing about Crimson Dawn, they do not hold back when it comes to delicacies. The smell is immediate—hot and mouthwatering. Her stomach rumbles in response.
A minute into their dinner, Devon realises why she has never seen Maul eat before.
He destroys his portion like it is his last meal ever.
“Are you expected somewhere?” she asks, eyeing him with as little visible judgement as possible while cutting open her own peppers. His fingers glisten; he hadn’t even looked at the cutlery they provided.
“No,” he answers promptly, stuffing more and more into his cheeks like a squirrel.
“Then what's the rush?”
Maul pauses. He eyes her curiously.
“What rush?”
Steam rolls off their meals in twisted white ribbons. And while they may be different species, she's quite certain Zabraks can't swallow lava. No one had taught him how to eat properly, had they? One of his peppers is already ravaged, though they had just taken their seats. In a way she can understand the desperation. After making do by begging, she understands why one might feel like wolfing down their food. Even then, in the most desperate of times, she had taken time with the flavour. Savouring it. Lest it really is her last meal ever. For an instant she wonders whether Maul perceives food as a luxury rather than a necessity. If the concept of slowing down to enjoy it had ever crossed his mind. If the Emperor had starved—
He swallows. “Speak your mind.”
Devon cringes. It was not her intention to have this conversation.
“Nobody's going to steal your food, you know?”
Maul continues to chew, eyes flickering between their two plates. Devon had sectioned her pepper into bite sized chunks and is now setting down the cutlery while she waits for it to cool down.
Maul watches curiously.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
“I’m waiting for it to cool.”
“Is this why you cut it?”
“Yes,” Devon answers. Maul had now entirely abandoned eating, and all his attention redirected to her. She extends the knife in his direction. “Would you like to try? You really need to eat slower.”
“Do not patronize me.”
“I am not.”
Silence. Neither one speaks for what feels like forever. She is once again struck with how child-like he can be when there is no weapon in his hands. How, in some regard, she is a master too. But she will never voice this, of course.
“What would be the purpose of eating slowly?” he asks, breaching the silence.
“Well, for one, you actually taste the food,” Devon tilts her head.
Maul’s permanent scoff softens. He uncovers his cutlery and props the knife in a manner more suited for combat than dining. Clearly, he has a lot to learn.
“Alright. So. You pin down the food—” she brings his plate closer where one untouched pepper remains, and punctures it with her fork, “—and you cut into it like this. Obviously this is a softer meal so the knife glides easily, but the principle is the same with anything else.”
Maul copies her movements, momentarily stopping to inspect the food like this is the first time he’s seeing it. A bite is formed on his fork, and when he lifts it, steam trails the movement.
“Good,” she assures him, “Now you blow on it to cool it down.”
He follows her instructions. A part of her can’t grasp the idea that she is teaching a Sith Lord how to eat. In this brief moment, in the silence of a criminal syndicate’s headquarters, she is overcome with emotion.
Watching Maul learn—and be open to learning from someone younger, a padawan at that, breaks her a little. All she has ever known is war, but even she has a few moments such as these to look back on. From late campfire stories with the clones, to sewing her master’s clothing on the run. Can Maul say the same?
Has he ever had a moment of repose?
Devon averts her gaze. Such is the reason why her master scolded her before; she feels too deeply about everything which surrounds her. A murderer sits across from her and all she can think of is offering solace. Perhaps that is why the dark side embraced with such ease. Perhaps that is why Maul saw potential.
“You can eat now,” she says, no longer standing the silence. Again, he follows her instructions, “but don’t swallow right away. Chew on it for at least a minute.”
Maul huffs, but complies. With deliberate slowness he chews, first appearing bored and then, once the flavour hit, he sits up straighter.
“See?” Devon smiles lightly.
They eat in silence for the remainder of the meal. The peppers are masterfully prepared. Not too salty, not too oily. And the filling simply melts on the tongue. When she finishes, Maul has a quarter of his pepper left. Something presses against her ribs, heavy and insistent. A feeling of calm. A feeling of regret. Guilt for finding comfort here. Guilt for all the lives he has claimed. Guilt that he was given no other choice.
If her master could see her now…
“I will head to bed,” she stands, shimmying between the sofa and the table. Quickly contemplating, she decides to leave the toolbox behind. Another time, maybe. “Wake me up for training.”
She presumes Maul will let the matter rest, and that they will never acknowledge this happened. Yet, as she prepares to leave, one foot out the door, he utters her name.
She turns to find him already looking at her.
“Thank you.”