Chapter Text
The rain fell in sheets, as if Dathomir had decided to drown them and brought all the clouds down upon them at once.
Maul felt it; Dathomir’s power closing in around him, pushing in on him with almost tangible pressure. Dathomir’s hostility was demonstrated in the biting ice water against his skin; the winds that chilled him to the core; the electricity that foretold the frustrated storm to come.
That was, and had always been, the nature of this planet - a verdant and jealous force, more ancient than all the powers that had come and gone over the countless millennia it had reigned. There was an unimaginable oldness in it - and its awareness stretched out in all directions, through time and space, through the Force. It went well beyond the boundaries of the physical world manifested here, to the farthest reaches of the galaxy.
By comparison, Maul was a small, infinitesimal nothing.
But that certainly did not earn him clemency. He was perhaps nothing more than an insect in the face of Dathomir’s grand and unknowable power, but that did not mean he was beyond Dathomir’s notice. Dathomir was eternal; its power did not come from the soil, but rather the infinity of memory contained within it. Memory in dust and bone; in the remnants of blood and metal.
Dathomir had no reason not to exert that great power over those who would challenge it. Dathomir was a world of stratification, of design; a conscious force that guided the ecosystem upon it. Every creature in its kingdom had a role to fulfill.
If anything, Dathomir treated Maul more like vermin than just a simple insect. If he caused damage outside of that perfect design, he marked himself as something to be culled.
Maul was hardly going to deny that he had brought this wrath upon himself. What had taken hold of him, doing something like that? To challenge Sidious had been one thing - but a consciousness wrought of the Force itself?
Maul looked at the Mandalorian, and listened to the splatter of rain against armor. All this calamity is for you, he thought. It was almost romantic.
There was nothing to be gained from standing out here next to a dead ship. They were out in the open and exposed to their hunter. Maul turned suddenly and began to walk, grimly aware of their vulnerability. The rain would mask them to an extent, but it also drowned their senses. Maul’s own connection to the Force was still as strong as it ever had been, but he sensed a distortion in it - a kind of imprecision. It was like trying to see through rain-coated glass. There was nothing wrong with his vision; it was the lens that was clouded.
Dathomir was weaving its strange magic about him, and there was little Maul could do to stop it.
Din, who was no doubt more skilled at seeking shelter from unwanted eyes, was quick to take charge of the situation. He grabbed Maul by the elbow, holding him close, back-to-chest. Grogu was nestled between them, safe between Maul’s body and Din’s beskar armor.
Together, they slipped into the complex of mazelike alleyways, feeling their way through the misty blackness of the storm.
Eventually, when Din was apparently satisfied that they could not have been followed, they slipped into an abandoned building. It was one of the communal dwellings made of clay and rock. It was well-hidden, nestled between a sheer cliff and well-hidden behind a vast stone temple. No doubt the temple itself had been a place where the Nightbrothers would have once engaged in both ceremonial battle and in worship of old gods.
Compared to the relative grandness of the temple, with its enormous statues and impressive, vine-laden pillars, this dwelling was quite humble and plain. And that was by design, surely.
When they were inside, Din wasted no time in barricading the doors and windows. He moved with purpose and energy, while Maul felt exhausted and unfocused. His tired eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings. He found that their shelter was, at least, well fortified. The stone walls resisted even the more tenacious of creeping vines. The windows were small and covered easily enough with furniture and old, unravelling cloth.
They were in some kind of a kitchen. There was a red butcher’s block, and an impressively large fire pit with a durasteel spit in the center of the room. This shelter must have been home to the priests and their brothers. When Maul peered out the door and into the room beyond, he saw a bare space filled with old mattresses. They were too old and soiled to use now. There were half a dozen.
There was little else except a collection of decaying parchments in a language he barely knew, no doubt full of old poetry of worship, humility and respect to the gods.
Maul did not enter that room. He closed the door, an unexpected pain settling in the pit of his chest. He had no words for the tightness that pressed in on him now; loneliness and nostalgia were insufficient words to describe it.
This kitchen they were in was clearly designed for hosting large gatherings. The enormous stove had no doubt once been used to cook larger beasts, enough to feed the whole clan. Maul could smell the old, stale scent of rotting wood and old spices, as well as the flowers that coiled around the windowsills and spilled into the dusty room.
Maul could smell memories, too. The surfaces were well-worn, notched with deep and layered gashes where meat had once been cut. The butcher’s knives rusting on the table sported wooden handles that were shiny and soft with the touch of many hands. Perhaps generations of his male kin had been within these walls, cooking for one another; preparing food after a blood offering at the temple, perhaps.
Passionlessly, Maul dug through the cabinets until he found a stash of kindling and wood. Most of it was dry enough to burn, and the storm was more than violent enough to mask the smoke rising from the chimney for the time being; it would be lost to the wind and rain. Even if it were not, the predator waiting for them in that storm would be foolish to attack now, when they were alert and so well fortified.
The darksaber at his hip felt heavy and reassuring, as if to remind him: I am on your side.
Maul didn’t much like the idea that he would have to wait to greet their enemy, but there was no choice in the matter. Dathomir was powerful, but it was not able to stop a violent storm it had surely started; they would all be forced to wait until its energy was spent.
While Din secured the windows, Maul set the fire. The kindling caught quickly enough, and the fire crept its way around the porous wood, crackling against the humidity. The rain was heavy enough that drops found their way down the chimney, hissing as they encountered the fire below.
Maul untied the sling and shrugged Grogu off of his shoulders. The child cooed softly as Maul set him on the ground, looking up and shivering. Grogu was sopping wet, ears drooping miserably unde the weight of clinging raindrops. It was a profoundly sorry sight. Maul sensed very little from the child apart from waves of petulant displeasure.
Don’t sulk, he chided, his hands moving to tug Grogu free of his burlap clothing.
“You don’t know who it is,” said the Mandalorian, suddenly. “The one who’s hunting us.”
“Of course I don’t,” Maul snapped at Din as he tugged on Grogu’s clothes. “If I knew, I would have--”
Maul was distracted when a number of brightly colored snail shells spilled from the folds of Grogu’s clothes and onto the stone floor. He stared down at the pile of shells for a long, silent moment. Even in the darkness, the shells were glossy and beautiful. They were shockingly cheerful in a moment of such grimness.
Maul shook his head, divesting Grogu of his clothes and hanging them at the edge of the spit. The fabric was so sodden that he did not have to worry that it would catch fire.
“I don’t know,” Maul sullenly concluded, although his voice had softened.
Maul tucked Grogu against his bare chest, holding him under his own dripping robes. Maul’s body temperature naturally ran hot, and the contact between their skin was more than enough to keep the child warm while his own clothes dried over the sparking fire.
He felt Grogu’s small face bury against his throat with a soft and unhappy coo. Maul stiffened against the affectionate and comfort-seeking contact, but eventually willed himself to ignore his knee jerk aversion to it.
Despite everything, the thought that Maul sensed from Grogu’s mind was the same as it had been prior to the storm: safe. Maul did not know what to make of the child’s implicit, unshakeable trust.
Maul sat at the edge of the firepit, his metal legs crossed in front of him. After a few moments of hesitation, the Mandalorian settled beside him. For a little while, they simply stared at the crackling fire in quiet, numb reflection.
“Dathomir is a god,” said Maul suddenly. To his own ears, his voice sounded hoarse. “Or as close as one could figure to godhood, I suppose. She is… very powerful.”
“She?”
Maul looked at the Mandalorian slightly, tipping his head in acknowledgement. She.
“On Dathomir, it is the feminine that reigns,” Maul explained. “You can observe this in all living creatures of this planet. It’s… always been the way of things. We Nightbrothers were subservient to our sisters and mothers; and they were able to entwine themselves in the power of this planet in a way that the males could not.”
“But you could,” said the Mandalorian.
Maul exhaled; something between a laugh and a growl. “To an extent, yes… I am a special case.”
“Because you’re a… Jedi?”
Maul did not look up from the fire; not even as some other part felt a burst of violent annoyance at again being called Jedi. There was a greater resentment underneath, and Maul absentmindedly touched the hard metal of his knee.
“Because my manhood - my status as a, mnh, potential mate… has never been an object of consideration,” said Maul vaguely - and not without an edge of dark humor. “But it is more than that. I was not raised here.”
The Mandalorian looked at him, quiet and curious.
“I was stolen,” said Maul, his voice hushed. “I was so young that I truly cannot recall. I only remember the place my master took me to be trained.”
Maul went quiet for a long time. His misery was caught between his teeth. Their dire situation only deepened the helplessness gnawing at the edge of his mind. Whatever the solution was to their present predicament, it was not forthcoming. Maul felt exhausted; drained. It felt as if the gravity of Dathomir were heavier, dragging his weary body down against the cold stone.
But even as he settled into the comforting embrace of his own misery, he felt a familiar pulse through the Force. Grogu’s presence and consciousness nudged against his own like an insistent tooka, full of affection and demand.
Don’t sulk.
Grogu’s voice, such as it was, was not exactly a voice… but he was clear enough all the same.
Maul’s lips curled at the edges despite himself, his hand resting against the back of Grogu’s small head, protective. The child was on the edge of sleep, happy in the brightness of the fire, content to be protected. He did not stir.
“It is… mnh, customary, on Dathomir, that males be slain after the birth of their first child,” explained Maul softly. “That is not always seen through, of course. If the male is particularly strong, it may be after the birth of his second child, or third… or perhaps even never, if his mate particularly dotes on him. But regardless, blood sacrifice - the nurturing of the planet in exchange for the resources committed to a new life - is simply part of our truce with this god… mnh, goddess, I suppose. Zabraks are not native to this planet, after all. We are strangers, even after so long.”
The Mandalorian said nothing. His silence was peaceful, patient, and Maul let the silence simply exist, for a little while. Despite their situation, Maul did not feel hurried. The storm showed no sign of diminishing.
“When we killed those birds…” he murmured, “we invited Dathomir’s attention.”
“Imbalance,” said the Mandalorian, after a moment of quiet consideration. “Dathomir wanted something back for what we did. Right?”
Maul quietly hummed in affirmation, his eyes half-closed against the bright heat of the fire. “Blood for blood.”
“Me, then,” concluded the Mandalorian.
“You.”
The Mandalorian breathed out; a weary, exasperated sound. “Great.”
There was something comedic in this, even if it was grim.
Maul indulged himself with a faint smirk, his eyes moving to the Mandalorian’s featureless helmet. He tried to imagine what the man looked like now. He knew his face; the dark eyes and completely unkempt hair; the apathetic sprinkling of brown hair across his face; the surprising roundness of his features that seemed utterly at odds with the harsh angles of Mandalorian armor.
“That’s what Dathomir wanted from you,” said the Mandalorian. “To kill me.”
“Yes,” replied Maul.
“And you wouldn’t do it.”
“No.”
There was a moment of tension; a palpable uncertainty between them. The Mandalorian inhaled as if to speak… but hesitated, and went quiet. Maul, likewise, said nothing.
Maul dressed Grogu when his clothes were dry, and found a small, dusty basket to place him in for the time being. It used to house the kindling, but Maul had used all of it to keep the fire from dying out.
In the corner, the Mandalorian was dozing with his back to the wall. Maul looked at the familiar shape of armor, the flames painting the reflective beskar in the colors of dusk. The Mandalorian was not quite asleep, but his rest was sincere and deep. He drew his strength into himself like a plant drawing water, while Maul withered and decayed in the rot of his own anguish.
Maul stripped off his sodden robes, wringing them out over the stone floor. Even after over an hour beside the fire, there was still a great deal of water, and Maul slung the robes over the end of the spit and stood at the edge of the pit, waiting for his skin to dry in the heat.
He was aware, of course, of the Mandalorian looking at him. Looking, no doubt, at Maul’s injuries; at the harsh line of scarring that disappeared down into the mechanical lower half of Maul’s body. Maul was hardly unused to that kind of morbid curiosity from others.
What he was unused to was his own resulting curiosity.
What did the Mandalorian see when he looked at Maul? It was quite suddenly a consuming question.
Maul turned to look at the Mandalorian, lingering in silence for a few moments, waiting for the inevitable question. When it didn’t come, Maul felt a deep tension coil in his belly; a sudden antagonistic frustration that threatened to become something far more violent.
“Aren’t you going to ask?” he said - demanded, really.
“No.”
Maul was taken aback; unsure of whether to be viciously angry or insulted at the dismissal. Perhaps he would have been both, if he had suspected for even an instant that the Mandalorian was being purposefully difficult towards him. But he wasn’t. The Mandalorian truly did not intend to ask. He did not demand. And his curiosity - while surely burning for answers to all those many unvoiced questions - did not overwhelm the Mandalorian’s respect for Maul’s privacy.
Maul felt his lips curl into an unkind smirk, mockery and derision lingering at the tip of his tongue… but he could not give voice to it. For once, it felt utterly false.
Feeling defeated, Maul settled beside the Mandalorian. His eyes were drawn to the basket at his other side - to Grogu, peacefully sleeping. Maul felt - if only for a brief moment - a deep resentment that Grogu could sleep so soundly, so securely, with the expectation that he would be protected. It wasn’t necessarily even a complacent belief; Maul and Din were both fully under the imperative to die rather than allow Grogu to be harmed.
Manipulative little creature, he thought - but the thought was a fond one.
Maul stirred when he felt the Mandalorian’s hand on his arm. It was such an unfamiliar touch that it almost burned, even though a glove separated their skin. He drew his arm back quickly, and the Mandalorian withdrew.
“Get some rest,” said the Mandalorian, his voice hushed. “I’ll keep watch.”
Maul sank back down to the floor, his eyes half closed; he was already yawning. The heat of the fire in such an enclosed space was more than enough to lull him into a stupor, even if the floors were hard and unyielding.
Pillowing his head against his arm, Maul watched the reflections of the fire dance along the beskar, his eyes following the smooth, perfect angles.
The metalwork was truly divine.
Maul’s eyes unfocused with fatigue but did not close. The shimmers of fire slid across the beskar; molten and bright. In that beskar, Maul saw reflected the image of a golden Mandalorian; he saw a hammer striking the metal, revealing its true shape hidden in what was once only a featureless slab. Through the perfect geometry of armor, he felt contained a hundred generations of knowledge; the infinity of tradition that transcended time and yet bore its great weight all the same.
Maul heard a voice, as faint and distant as an echo.
When one chooses to walk the Way of the Mand’alor, you are both hunter and prey.
Maul’s lips curled into a faint, derisive little smile. And tonight, we are prey, he thought.
It was not a thought that evoked misery, nor fear. In this light of the fire, cocooned in the home of his kin, wrapped in the deep darkness of the storm… he felt very safe indeed.
If he felt as complacently safe as Grogu, he would not readily admit to it - but the sleep that followed was undisturbed by dreams or visions. The one who hunted them did not know where they were now; Maul sensed that with such clarity that he did not wake once in the night. His body rested in earnest, and the Mandalorian’s presence reassured him.
When morning came, Maul awoke to thin, rain-softened rays of sunlight peeking through the edges of the covered windows, and the Mandalorian’s ratty cloak fastened around his bare shoulders.