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Chapter Text

The ship was dead. 

It was eerie. The depth of silence was a physical pressure; a tangible cold. Din walked down the empty corridors, his heart in his throat. His steps felt loud and heavy, metal against metal. 

His desire to find his foundling warred with the fear of finding his foundling dead. Whatever had happened here had been recent. The bodies were still warm, and not yet beset with rigor mortis. Din’s eyes scanned the surreal scene before him. He took in each and every detail, trying to find meaning in the chaos. Dismembered, twisted metal was strewn over every inch of the ship. The parts of the ship that were clear of droid viscera were instead covered in the bodies of the crew. 

There was no blood, despite the severity of injuries on display. The wounds were clean; cauterized. 

“A Jedi did this,” said Cara, hushed. 

Din looked up, surprised by the suddenness of her voice. Everyone had been deathly silent for minutes now, and the sound was jarring - and the words even more so. 

“A Jedi? How do you know?” he asked, although he already suspected the answer. “Because of the laser sword?” 

It was obvious that a laser sword had been used, of course. The wounds spoke for themselves. Even so… This didn’t really fit what Din thought a Jedi would be like. This was… monstrous. Power beyond reckoning, and viciousness without mercy. The people here had not been killed immediately - that much was certain. Their attacker had torn them apart and left before they were dead. Many of the injuries were clearly not instantly fatal. 

There was something callous in that, something punishing. The Jedi had left them to suffer. Even so, Din could not pretend that he was not quietly satisfied with that outcome. There was no love lost there. 

That satisfaction only increased when he heard Bo-Katan far up ahead. She had been in more of a hurry than he was, scouring the ship for signs of Gideon or the darksaber. He heard her cry of frustration. Din knew exactly what she had found. 

“Gideon is dead!” 

Din and Cara exchanged a tense look. Koska and Fennec hurried on ahead to see what Bo-Katan had found, but Din found himself hesitating. This was all happening so fast, and it was so different than anything he could have expected. When he’d come here, he’d expected to get the kid - or die trying. Just like Bo-Katan was here to get the darksaber. Or die trying.

All of them knew one thing for certain: the darksaber wasn’t here.

And neither was Grogu. 

“I guess you got what you wanted,” said Cara, her tone thoughtful. She obviously didn’t care about whatever the Mandalorians were angry about, not when they had been nothing but unwelcoming to her and her friend. “It looks to me like a Jedi rescued him.” 

Din had wanted that, but… he’d also wanted to say goodbye. He’d wanted to say a lot of things. 

But it’s worth it if the kid is safe, he told himself. ...right? 

“But we don’t know who has him,” said Din. “Are all Jedi good?” 

“Sure,” said Cara, shrugging. “Skywalker is, right?” 

Din sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “...who?” 

Cara gave him a funny look, but it was cut short by Bo-Katan’s metered footsteps quickly approaching them. Her helmet was off (as usual), and she was bitterly angry (as usual). 

“We have to find him,” were the first words out of her mouth. 

“Who?” 

“The kid!” 

Din shifted his weight, and he allowed the full breadth of his disbelief to show. Bo-Katan didn’t impress him at the best of times, but pretending to give a single kriffing hell about the kid was a bit much, even for her. 

“You mean the darksaber.” 

Bo-Katan glared at him, and did something unexpected. She grabbed him by the cuirass and pulled, and Din suddenly found himself being guided to the bridge of the cruiser. The whole exchange had the air of a naughty foundling being led to a mountain of dirty dishes. 

The bridge was in no better shape. Gideon was also nowhere to be found, so Din wasn’t certain what Bo-Katan meant when she had announced his death. He frowned with displeasure, nudging a crumpled body over with his foot - hoping it would be him. But it wasn’t. 

Din allowed himself only a moment of indulgent loathing for Gideon. Hatred of that nature did not suit him much. And all that Din cared about now was whether or not Grogu was actually safe. 

Which remained to be seen. 

“Where’s Gideon?” he asked Bo-Katan. 

“Look,” she growled out. 

Din’s eyes followed her gaze to one of the monitors. Koska and Fennec were already clustered around it, staring unblinkingly at something on the screen. 

A recording, then. 

Din could hear a laser sword, just like the ones that Ahsoka Tano had wielded. It was a thin sound, quietly humming; strangely musical. It filled Din with hope and dread in equal measure. The noise invited Din’s heart to sing with the glory of battle, and of victory, but… all the same, he found himself hesitating. Unsure. 

Afraid. 

Din looked between them. He clenched his hands twice before he made his way to the monitor. He finally let his eyes settle on the screen. 

It was a Jedi, he thought. It was obvious in the way he moved, in the grace and elegance of his assault. Black robes rippled like water in the winds of his own violence, his saber piercing metal and bone with unsettling effortlessness. The Jedi moved the way that water flowed - there seemed to be no thought in his gestures and motions. He followed the guiding hand of gravity, allowing the current to carry him safely through his enemies. 

Din watched with grim fascination as the Jedi used his powers to wrench a screaming stormtrooper through his blade, bisecting the man and leaving him in an uncaring, dying heap. Din, who had used similar violence of his own, did not falter in the least. He was impressed. Even so, he felt Cara wince beside him, and Koska hissed out a sharp, disgusted noise. 

The Jedi carved his way through the ship, deflecting blasts and blows left and right. The dark troopers fell before him as if they were made of paper, rather than metal and machine.

The Jedi came upon the cell where Grogu had been held. Din felt his breath catch when he saw his foundling appear on the security screen, sitting just beneath the deadly blade of the darksaber. Gideon was there, holding his foundling hostage. 

Din felt acidic hatred bubble up in his throat, hands tightening painfully at his sides. 

Kill him, he begged the Jedi. 

The Jedi stood before Gideon, and there was a stillness that almost made Din believe the video had paused. But it hadn’t. 

The Jedi lunged with sudden swiftness, and Gideon had to withdraw the darksaber from Grogu to deflect the blow that came. Gideon barely managed to catch the Jedi’s blade with his own, but Din knew it wouldn’t be enough. Gideon was a good soldier, maybe, but he wasn’t a Jedi. 

The Jedi laughed, staticy but rich through the thin audio. The other side of the sword’s hilt suddenly ignited, and Gideon was impaled through the stomach with the blade. With a flick of his wrist, the Jedi ripped open the wound, and Gideon uttered a choked noise. 

He dropped like a stone. 

Both sides of the saber were extinguished, plunging the audio into sudden silence. The Jedi knelt before Grogu’s diminutive form. He reached up, finally pushing the hood away from his head. 

Din’s eyes narrowed behind his visor as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing now. An array of stark tattoos, and a hairless, horned head. From this angle, he could not make out much. He could only see that the Jedi was strange. He was not like any race that Din could easily bring to mind. He was unique, and singular. 

Just like Grogu.

The Jedi said something to Grogu, too quiet to be heard. But Din watched as he unclasped Grogu’s hands from his shackles and picked up the precious creature. Grogu, for his part, did not seem distressed. He was bundled up against black robes and hidden away, and the Jedi climbed to his feet. 

The Jedi was almost out of the room before he paused, and looked back. His hand lifted, and the hilt of the darksaber flew to his reaching fingers. And then he was gone. He made his quiet, unhurried path back through empty, haunted corridors. 

The Jedi had killed every person aboard before making his way to Gideon and Grogu, and Din thought: was that caution, or pettiness? 

Or fun? 

“I can’t believe he’s still alive,” came Bo-Katan’s bitter voice. 

Din had almost forgotten the others were there at all. He turned to Bo-Katan then, frowning. 

“You know this Jedi?” 

“He isn’t a Jedi,” snapped Bo-Katan. “He’s a monster.” 

Din was unmoved by the accusation. As far as he was concerned, every person here was a monster, in one way or another. How many had been obliterated by this small handful of people, he wondered? Hundreds? Thousands, maybe. 

Din wasn’t much of an idealist these days. Monsters often made the best allies, and Din could rest easy with the knowledge that this monster was protecting his foundling. 

“His name is Maul,” she continued, spitting out the word like an expletive. “He ruled Mandalore for many years. We thought he was dead a long time ago, but I guess we weren’t so lucky.” 

That did surprise Din. “But he isn’t Mandalorian.” 

Even as he said it, he realized the root of the problem. Bo-Katan had already demonstrated what her beliefs were. She had made them very clear, in fact. No matter how she might mock Din for his own beliefs, there was no doubt in his mind that Bo-Katan was just as critical regarding who could or could not claim the title of Mandalorian. 

Din could hardly claim the moral high ground there, but he had found his own beliefs becoming more nuanced as of late. 

“He didn’t care about Mandalore,” said Bo-Katan. “He was only interested in the power that the Mandalorians could give him.” 

He doesn’t look much like he needs your power, thought Din. But he said nothing. 

“I told you that planet is cursed,” said Din. “If you want to fight him for the darksaber, I don’t think you’re going to win. And if you did… I’m not sure it’s worth it anyway.” 

Bo-Katan lunged at him with cold violence that was unexpected, and Din narrowly avoided a blaster bolt to the head. With his helmet, the blow would have been disorienting but of course, not fatal. He tried to work out if it was a deliberate ploy on her part, or if she really was just that angry. It was hard to tell.

“You!” she snapped, “are going to help me find him.” 

Din, who did not yield to the whims of people he did not like - not even those of a Mandalorian - uttered a dry scoff. 

“Why?” he asked. “The kid’s safe. That’s all I wanted.” 

Those words felt hollow in his own ears. Even so, Din remained stubborn, and Bo-Katan’s hand on his chest was more an annoyance than a threat. 

“He isn’t a Jedi!” said Bo-Katan again, her voice lowering. “He’s their enemy just as much as the Mandalorians once were. More so!” 

Din felt uneasy, because despite their differences, Bo-Katan didn’t strike him as a liar or a manipulator. She was too heavy-handed for that. 

“He looked like a Jedi to me.” 

Surprisingly, it was Fennec who broke the silence: “He isn’t.”

Din and Bo-Katan both looked at the sniper. Din felt his heart sink. Fennec had even less cause to lie than Bo-Katan did. Fennec had no agenda, it seemed, except to repay her debt to Boba. Din knew he could trust her word on this. 

“I’ve seen him before, here and there,” continued Fennec. “We run in the same circles, you know. Same syndicates. And he’s hard to forget.” 

Din exhaled, his shoulders sinking with visible exasperation. “And how does that make him not a Jedi?” 

It seemed to him that the rules governing what made one a Jedi were as vague and unhelpful as the rules that made one a Mandalorian. As far as Din was concerned at this point, the best you could say was that apparently no one was a Mandalorian or a Jedi. 

“He never claimed to be one,” said Fennec. “As far as I know, anyway. You can imagine that someone like him would be called a Jedi colloquially in those kinds of groups.” 

“And?” pressed Din. 

“And he wasn’t. So he must have made a point not to be called that.” 

Din… supposed that made some sort of sense. Din had about as much ownership over being called Mando as anything else. Nicknames and titles had their way of sticking in this line of work, where reputation and identity were one and the same. A Jedi would have indeed been called The Jedi in those circles, at least by some people. It would have been part of the appeal - a part of the business offer. Just like how Din got work on the strength of being a real Mandalorian. 

“Alright,” he said. “So what was he called, then?” 

Fennec said: “The Shadow.” 

Maul held the darksaber in the palm of his hand. 

Remarkable, the quality of the beskar. The grip was utterly unchanged. There was no wear on the metal, no sense that the darksaber had been passed from one hand to the next, wielded and lost and reclaimed (and lost again). Maul felt the imprint of dozens of hands on that weapon, and many more deaths. 

There was no joy for battle here any longer. The proud cadence of the blade had diminished into something somber and mournful. It suited Maul’s mood. 

It did not look old, nor did it feel old - but it was old. Maul felt his own spirit align with the kyber crystal in a way it had not before. A shared understanding. A youthful form and a powerful body did not preclude the experience of aging, and both the darksaber and Maul felt unspeakably ancient. 

Maul twirled the hilt between clever fingers, admiring the familiar balance.

“Yours was not a face that I was expecting to see again,” he murmured to the weapon. “Strange…” 

The child was still sleeping, tucked safely against Maul’s chest. Whatever had been done to it had left its mark, and the child lacked the fortitude to endure the waking world now. That was a feeling that Maul could empathize with easily enough. He allowed the child its peace, and together they floated in the emptiness of space, tucked into the small universe of the X-Wing’s cockpit.

A little planet of their own. A place of silence and nothing, where the Force spoke without interference, and Maul could hear clearly. 

And it was here he would remain, for the time being, wondering at the strange turn of his universe… and the strange little creature who had turned it. 

Chapter Text

Dathomir was home, no matter its shortcomings. 

Maul walked past the familiar altar of his rebirth - the decaying ruins of gods he had never worshipped, the restless spirits of sisters he had never known. Bioluminescent lanterns erupted in plumes of acidic green as he passed them, and the child’s dark eyes gazed wide and curious over the eerie and silent surroundings. 

Faraway, deeper in the cave, there were noises. The restless shivers of movement that denoted a beast, perhaps, or some spectre. But Maul was at peace with the threat, and the child did not seem afraid. Only watchful. 

“This is my home,” explained Maul, his voice so hushed that he didn’t even disturb dust. “Or, as close to a home as I could claim.” 

The child said nothing. It had not yet started talking, not even through the Force. That suited Maul fine. He did not expect it to last. He suspected that he would miss the silence, when it ended. In silence, the possibilities seemed endless. The child could be anything. Maul’s magination ran rampant. 

He was not so delusional not to expect that a different reality would assert itself in time. But for now, it pleased him to call the child apprentice, and to believe that the dusty, quiet tomb of Dathomir was sufficient shelter for them both. This little space in the universe, far away from the intrigues of the Core… he wanted to believe they could be alone and safe here, although that delusion was destined to be brief. 

“No one comes to this place,” he murmured, setting the child on the ground. “I suspect my mother’s magic has kept interlopers at bay. Some sort of… spell of aversion. Or perhaps this little place really does mean nothing in the grand scheme of the universe.” 

Far away, there was a sharp snarl; a yelp; then silence. The noises of the usual predators lurking in the shadows - juvenile rancors and other such monsters. 

The child cooed in quiet alarm, its enormous ears lifting high to catch the subtle noises echoing through the cavern. 

Maul, for his part, pulled off his outer robes and tossed them over his chair. He replaced the darksaber upon its altar, in its place before Satine’s desecrated portrait. Maul gazed at it for a moment, felt nothing, and turned away. 

“Back to its rightful place,” he murmured, more to himself than to the child. 

Maul looked at the small creature. The child was standing shyly behind a crate, one large ear betraying his presence there. Maul leaned slightly, and the child shrank back in turn. It was unsure and unhappy. The child’s large, dark eyes glimmered in the greenish glow, the slightest hint of a nocturnal lens visible in the haze. 

Another predator, then, thought Maul. But nothing had ever looked more benign than this little creature. It was utterly unthreatening. 

Someday, that will benefit you a great deal, he thought. 

“Nothing will harm you,” said Maul. “The beasts here know better than to trespass. Those that do not will become our food.” 

A little bit of the shyness dissipated at the mention of food, and the child took two small steps closer. His small, clawed fingers gripped at the edge of the crate, his large eyes blinking and searching. Hungry, Maul perceived in its little mind. 

“I see,” he hummed, and he knelt again. “Well… then I suppose we will have to hunt.” 

At this, the child abandoned its hiding place entirely, toddling its way up to Maul. It looked up at him, small hands pawing at the fabric of his pants. 

Maul scooped up the child. It took him only a few moments to fashion a sling out of some cloth, tying the child snugly to the back of his right shoulder. Maul did take his saber, but not with the intention of using it. Instead, he found a spear - a hollow, lovely weapon fashioned out of the ivory tusk of some long-lost behemoth. The ivory was smooth under his palm, and the point was sharp enough to earn a small droplet of blood when he checked it. 

Maul made his way soundlessly out of the caves, emerging into the coppery mists of the late evening. Dathomir smelled earthy and metallic; a mixture of humidity and the stench of Dathomirian magic. The Force had a scent here, a mixture of blood and salt, an almost oceanic crispness. 

“The Force is powerful here,” said Maul, moving as swiftly and peacefully as a shadow. “And the creatures here are sensitive to it. All of them - predators and prey alike. When you hunt on Dathomir, you find the most success when you draw the Force into yourself. When you make yourself, hmn, discreet. Use your senses rather than your powers. Hide them away, for a little while.” 

Maul paused, and he felt a strange kinship with the little creature at his shoulder. 

“But you know all about hiding your powers, don’t you?” 

Maul’s eyes scanned the open expanse before him, and he saw nothing. The creatures of Dathomir were wily, always well-hidden. A planet with so many predators bred a certain cautiousness, after all. Maul knew they were there. He knew all the hidden places where they took refuge. He began to move, following the familiar paths through the sharp and jutting landscape, descending down towards the gorge and its many cliffs. There, he would find birds of prey nesting in alcoves set into the cliff face, guarding nutritious eggs or vulnerable young, heavy with baby fat. Their parents, lean and light, were far less appetizing. 

Maul kept his Force presence small. The Force slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, power dispersing into the wind. He could already hear the rustling of feathers, but his careful tempering of his own power left his prey calm and unmoved by his encroaching presence. 

“These birds cannot hear,” Maul explained - and while that was true, his voice remained hushed. “Their sensitivity to Force signatures is what gives them the advantage to find prey, and to survive predators.” 

Maul slid to his knees and peered over the edge of the cliff. It was a sheer drop down into red mist and shadow. The wall face was bustling with activity, elegant flutters of coal-black wings. These birds were strange - four wings and a proud, long necks. They were blind and deaf. There were no eyes, merely a crested tuft of feathers at their brow that mimicked the shape of eyes; bright red and iridescent. They hunted most commonly in the dark caverns below, a mixture of smell and the Force to guide their sharp beaks. 

They were also enormous. 

Maul set about tying rope around one of the craggy outcroppings, fingers moving with familiarity as he tied a knot. He was aware of the child’s curious eyes peering over his shoulder, and Maul slowed his pace, absently demonstrating the techniques he had learned. 

When the rope was fastened, Maul moved his way to the edge of the cliff. He coiled the rope around his waist, tying it securely. Climbing was always a bit of a challenge with metal legs - they were heavy and inelegant, and he had to be careful not to use rope that was too weak to bear them. The rope held firm as he slipped over the edge and began repelling down the cliff face. Maul planted his feet against the rock wall, stepping down little by little, bearing the considerable weight of his body as he did. 

He felt the child’s small hands dig into his shoulder, and he glanced back. He perceived uncertainty from the child, the stress of weightlessness. 

“If you want to eat, you have to hunt,” he purred. “So I’d advise you to get used to it.” 

Maul was not so far from a nest now. There was, thankfully, only a single parent in this one: a male. The males were smaller but leaner - less dangerous but much faster. 

Maul tied the rope to his belt, securing himself. He withdrew the ivory spear from his back, balancing it carefully. It was difficult, as always, to hunt without the aid of the Force - to use raw skill to guide a killing blow rather than divine instinct. 

“The Force can play tricks on you,” murmured Maul. “So you must learn to rely on your own hand, your own eye.” 

Maul pressed the metal soles of his feet flat against the rock, grounding himself, allowing himself to trust the rope and the knots he’d fastened. Any mistake was deadly, but this was routine for him now. Danger was routine. A necessity. 

He drew back his arm, conscious of the weight of Grogu’s small body against his shoulder; the snug warmth. He was conscious of the Force, but careful not to draw it into himself. He was conscious of the child’s Force, as well… but that was naturally subtle. Hidden. And he was conscious of the bird before him - the elegant neck, the hollow bones, the agile, restless body. If he missed the first blow, the bird would hone in on him instantly. It would not be a pleasant experience for anyone. 

“Good,” he breathed. “Now don’t-- move…” 

Maul closed one eye, narrowing his gaze to the singular path before him: the arch of the ivory spear. When he moved, it was sudden and sharp. The spear flew from his fingers and impaled the bird through the head soundlessly. The creature didn’t even shudder. It dropped like a stone, and was dead. 

Maul exhaled a slow breath. The child cooed in fascination, and Maul perceived no fear or disgust. Violence, it seemed, was merely a fact of life for the child… as it was for most beings burdened with the Force. 

Maul unknotted the rope and descended, swinging himself into the alcove. The nest was made of feathers and fur - the hides of prey, naturally. Maul ripped the bloodied spear out of the bird and pushed it aside with his foot, uncovering three large, grayish eggs beneath it. 

Maul unbound the child from his back, setting him on the nest. The child immediately reached out to touch the dead bird, his small hands sliding over smooth, shimmering feathers. They caught the dim light like the sheen of oil. 

“We won’t eat the bird,” said Maul, relaxing with his back to the wall. “They’re not worth the trouble, and we don’t have a way to keep the meat fresh, anyway. Some other beast will enjoy a free meal, I suppose…” 

Maul took one of the eggs. When he rolled it in his hand, he could tell from the weight and balance that the chicks were not yet formed; these eggs were perfect to eat. He pressed his thumb against the crest of the egg, the thick shell crunching like bone as he snapped it open. Maul tucked a slab of shell into his mouth, breaking it between his teeth. He could taste thick, rich yolk. It made him realize just how hungry he was. 

Maul cupped his hand and poured yolk against his palm, and the child was happy enough to slurp it up. He alternated between feeding himself and feeding the small creature beside him, charmed by the novelty of the act. Eventually, the child even deigned to sit on Maul’s lap, although he suspected that the cold metal was less comfortable than the soft pelts. But the child did not move, and Maul did not move him. 

“How long do you plan to pretend that you cannot speak?” asked Maul, plucking a large, brilliant feather from the dead bird at their side. “I’m going to take it personally, if it continues.” 

The child looked up, its dark eyes round and irritatingly innocent. 

“Well?” pressed Maul. 

There was a hesitation, an uncertainty, and the child’s face bowed down. 

The child did speak, then - but not in words. His small mind unfolded before Maul, full of loss and fear and uncertainty - the desire to be safe, hidden, secret. Forgotten. And beneath that veil of pain and worry, his thoughts skimmed memories; of death; of loss upon loss upon loss; of clones in featureless armor; of soldiers; and screams. 

All of these things were familiar to Maul. He and the child had been caught in the same tempest, it seemed. The child was not young. 

Maul listened in silence, and through his own eyes, he could see those memories - the residual traces of Grogu’s pain. Maul was not conscious of the faintest glimmer of green in his own eyes, the magic that imbued him now with the power to see. But the child did notice, and stared up at the zabrak in curiosity rather than fear. 

Maul blinked away the green light, returning to himself. He left the memories of violent clones and dead Jedi in the past, returning himself to this place, this moment. The child stared up at him. 

Grogu. 

Maul lifted his brows, surprised by the firmness of the word. It was almost a demand - a desire to be known and understood.

“And I am Maul,” he replied in turn. 

Grogu leaned against him then, and Maul perceived a sudden, sharp grief. The child was so outwardly calm that it would have been impossible for anyone other than a Force-user to perceive his unhappiness. Maul reached out, morbidly curious at the root of the child’s sadness, and he saw the shape of silver armor - a familiar visor. He heard a voice, gentle and quiet. But the words were beyond Grogu’s memory, and thus, Maul did not understand. 

Maul’s sensitivity to the Force meant that when one thread was plucked, he felt the ripples with the acuity of a waiting spider. The Mandalorian had been a part of this being’s life, and though Grogu, Maul had perceived him. Such was the nature of his magic, of Dathomirian potions and seances. 

“Ah yes,” he murmured. “Your protector.” 

Grogu’s presence had not been lost on Maul. He had known of the child long, long before Grogu’s fateful trip to Tython. The Seeing Stone had given Maul a clear direction. That didn’t mean he hadn’t already been looking. 

The dreams had been profound and plenty. Dreams of a silver Mandalorian. Dreams of danger and blood and moments of sweet, unfamiliar calm.

The child was asleep by the time they got back, and Maul put away the remaining eggs for breakfast tomorrow. Maul nested the child in a sling above his bed, where Grogu would be safe from curious and opportunistic predators. 

In his small hand, Grogu still clutched at one of the iridescent feathers. He was peaceful. 

Maul, for his part, was restless. He doubted he had ever been less tired in his life. He walked out of his small abode. The silence felt heavy and full of communication. He felt the restlessness of his brethren, the nightsisters and the dead. He felt their intrigue at the new creature accompanying him here, and he felt the danger of that intrigue. 

Survival on Dathomir was never a guarantee - the opposite, really. Yet, leaving was… complicated. In this place, Maul was left alone, and in this place, Maul was not alone. He could see the whispers of Mother Talzin in the mists, he could see the lingering shadows of his brothers cast amongst the rock. These spectres were familiar and comforting. If all that Maul cared for was dead, then he would linger with the dead. 

The child was something tangible, something that could be both possessed and lost. It was not among the dead. 

“Not yet, anyway,” Maul growled, his eyes lifting to the eerie, unfriendly skies. 

Dathomir had always been a greedy planet; parasitic and possessive. Everything devoured everything else, and there was no gentleness or compassion. Maul could survive in the cradle of his home planet… but could the child? 

Maul pondered these thoughts in silence, distantly conscious of the swirling mists, and the ethereal whispering, and the ghostly hands that touched his own. The strange, twisted ghosts of his forebearers had a hold on him, but Maul - despite all that had happened, all that had been taken - was still alive. He had not yet been coaxed beyond the veil. 

And now, he felt as cold to their presence as he ever had. His mind was instead cast back to the darksaber, inert and at rest. And yet in his mind’s eye, it pointed towards some destination - a compass, guided by unseen magnetism that Maul did not yet understand. 

And really, what else could he possibly lose by following it?

Chapter Text

Din had never made it as far as Coruscant before. 

There had never been a reason for him to come. His business didn’t typically have overlap with Core Worlds, after all. The people there all had their own syndicates and bounty hunters and mercenaries to choose from, and it was a waste of fuel, regardless. That suited Din just as well. He didn’t much like tangling with the Empire, or the New Republic, or any of the other stratified governments between here and there. Din wasn’t a wanted man, but it was easier to stay that way when you kept off the grid entirely. 

His first trip to Coruscant flew in the face of everything he’d been taught not to do. His ship (a temporary junker that he’d borrowed off of Greef Karga) had to be scanned and registered upon entry. The cost of docking for a single day was more than an entire month would’ve been back on Navarro or Tatooine, and the transport was nearly as much. By the time Din finally reached the Central Archives, he was already despondently checking his remaining credits and wondering if he could afford to eat out. He couldn’t. 

The city was unlike anything Din had seen in his life. There was an endless verticality in it. If Din fell, it would be for a long, long time before he hit the ground... although chances were that his weightless body would be intercepted by some vehicle before that happened. There was a dizzying mesh of transports and speeders flitting in-between the spaces of the city like neurons, and Din felt vaguely ill watching them move. The pattern of movement looked strangely insectoid. It was nauseating. Din felt like the planet was going to devour him; the maw of transparisteel was threatening. And the dazzle of sunlight against the sleek structures did not blind him to the truth of Coruscant’s carnivorous appetite.

He hated cities like this.  

The Central Archives were unsurprisingly grand. It was enormous. The building was old but looked new, the marble polished to a mirror-shine. When Din stepped off the transport and onto the platform, he took a moment to gaze at the enormous columns and grand statues. The building had an air of severity that seemed out of place against the modern backdrop of the city. 

Din sighed, ascending the steps. He had the air of a man walking to the gallows. 

The next grim realization upon entering the building was that all of the desks were manned by droids. Din wasn’t optimistic enough to believe that every square inch of the building wouldn’t be monitored by video cameras, but he despised the knowledge that every interaction - every single one - would be recorded onto a harddrive. Droids were unwitting spies. It was just another reason to dislike them. 

But he was here for a purpose, and he had to see it fulfilled. Din walked up to a counter, gloved hands resting on the glossy surface. 

“How may I assist you, sir?” asked the protocol droid, too cheerily. 

Din already felt tired. “I’m searching for records.” 

“I see. What is the nature of your request?” 

Din paused for a moment, and muttered: “historical?” 

“Indeed, sir. Era?” 

“Pre-Imperial. The Clone Wars.” 

“Yes, sir. I am obliged to caution you that many historical records are either incomplete or classified. Imperial propaganda and factual errors pertaining to those records are presently being purged from our databases.” 

“Uh-huh.” Din didn’t much care for the sound of that. “I’m looking for records pertaining to an individual named Maul.” 

“Yes, sir. What is Maul’s full name?” 

Din shrugged. “I don’t know.” 

“Ah, I see, sir. What is Maul’s date of birth?” 

Again, Din shrugged. 

“His species?” 

“I was hoping you could tell me,” muttered Din grimly. 

Even so, he didn’t blame the droid for its failures. Din really didn’t have much to go on, and he supposed that he was going to have to try another approach. 

“Is there a record of… Jedi?” he asked. He felt strangely stupid. 

“Yes, sir,” replied the droid, surprising him. “Our database contains the files of all Jedi who were part of the former Jedi Order. If you would like to view them, sir, I can reserve you a booth. Just one moment, please.” 

Din was led to a small booth - one amongst hundreds - with a private computer inside. It was a strange ovular pod constructed of white duraplast. He settled himself awkwardly inside it. The seat wasn’t particularly comfortable and the ceiling was a bit low. He did appreciate the privacy, though. 

“I have collected all of our records on the former members of the Jedi Order,” said the droid. “If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to press the help button.” 

Din looked down. The help button was out of order. Either that or the red LED had burnt out a long time ago. He sighed. 

“...thanks.” 

Left in blessed peace, Din began to search through the computer system. The interface was straightforward enough, but he was overwhelmed by the amount of files that were available to him. There were thousands upon thousands of unfamiliar names. A cursory look through the ‘M’ section revealed no ‘Maul,’ but he hadn’t been counting on it. After all, Bo-Katan said that Maul wasn’t a Jedi. 

Din had no idea there were so many Jedi. For a little while, he was annoyed - to think they had been so hard to find! The longer he sifted through the many nested folders, the more surreal the experience became… and the more concerning. 

When he began opening the folders, the nature of his concern became clear to him. These Jedi - all of them - were dead. Most of them had died on the same day. He wasn’t so out of touch as not to recognize that it was the year that the Galactic Empire had risen to power. The connection was easy enough to see, even if he did not know nor care for the specifics of the matter. 

When he found himself scanning through the files of dead children, he made himself stop. This wasn’t constructive. 

Din changed tactics. It took him a moment to navigate to the search function. When he searched for the name Maul, he was heartened to see quite a number of files surface. This hope was dashed when he identified that the keyword was in quite a number of reports, most of which contained phrases like ‘mauled beyond recognition’ or ‘mauled to death’ in some different, unimportant contexts. 

Even so, Din had come too far to give up so easily. 

The first hit - the first real hit - came when Din looked into a file of a Jedi Master named Qui-Gon Jinn. He had died well before the war, and his assassin was listed initially as an ‘unknown assailant’. However, this record was later modified to the following: 

Sith Lord Darth Maul (Aliases: Maul; The Shadow; The Phantom Apprentice)

This victory was short-lived. When he attempted to access the linking file, a red screen popped up with the same error message that the droid had given him prior to his search: a number of our historical records are classified awaiting verification. Thank you for your patience. 

Din sincerely wondered if those screens would ever be corrected, or if the information - wrong or not - would be kept under lock and key forever. 

When he began to sift deeper, he only found more and more red walls. Almost everything to do with Mandalore was off limits, except for statistics about the geography and climate (most of which involved the word irradiated). Every person in connection to Maul appeared to be dead, and Din had a sinking feeling that he was going to have to resign himself to the fact that this wasn’t the place he was going to find answers. 

Even so, he could find a direction. Every search seemed to come back to a single name: Obi-Wan Kenobi. When Maul was even tangentially related, the files linked directly back to the Jedi. 

Kenobi was dead too, but far more recently than the other Jedi. The information available regarding Kenobi was rather freer than most of what he’d found so far. The Jedi had died on the first Death Star during a covert operation to save some princess. Still, anything pertaining to Maul or Mandalore remained inaccessible. 

Most of Kenobi’s old connections were long dead. Din perused the computer database until late, late into the night. All he needed was a lead. A single name would do. 

Eventually, he found it. There was one name, one survivor that he could see: CC-2224, nicknamed “Cody”. There didn’t seem to be any relevant connection between Cody himself and Maul, but he was probably going to have more to say about it than these incomplete databases did. So, with one contact and a nearby district of Coruscant to search, Din left the Central Archives. 

When he stepped outside, the city was as busy as it had been before; there was no sense of calm as the night deepened. But there was something lovely about the city now; bright neon set against the dark, artificial light gleaming from proud spires; the transparisteel caught the shimmer of pinks and blues and greens, an eerie spectacle of light. 

And a thousand lightyears away, Maul awoke from a trance and saw those lights spread across the empty expanse of Dathomir, and he knew that he was being searched for. 

Maul pondered the strange visions for most of the morning, musing aloud as he did. Grogu, for his part, seemed content to listen and not speak at all, but Maul felt the child’s remarkable comprehension all the same. Grogu was much smarter than he pretended to be; he understood far more than he likely would have been given credit for. 

“You are a remarkable little creature,” commented Maul, kneeling before the fire he was stoking. “Is the helplessness a tactic to trigger the protective instincts of would-be protectors, I wonder?” 

Grogu cooed. Maul poured fresh water into the tin pot. One of the eggs that he and Grogu had collected was slipped into the water next. It would quite a long time to boil the egg, given its size, but it would be worth the trouble to eat something warm. Raw eggs were safe enough, but they weren't particularly tasty once they went cold. A little bit of patience would pay off. 

“The Mandalorian still searches for you,” said Maul offhandedly. He saw no purpose in hiding the truth. “I had a vision this morning. He’s looking on Coruscant of all places.” 

There was a pulse of familiarity from Grogu. For a moment, it surprised Maul… but he reminded himself of the child’s age. He had no doubt that Grogu had once lived in the Jedi Temple there. 

“It’s an interesting place to look,” remarked Maul. “Although…” 

He lifted his eyes, his gaze narrow as he looked at Grogu. The child returned his gaze steadily. He uttered a soft, babyish noise, and held out his small hands. Maul held out a cup of tea to Grogu, which was happily accepted. 

It wasn’t good tea by most metrics; it was bitter, made from roots that Maul found in the swamps. But the tea augmented Force visions. Maul liked bitter tastes, regardless. 

“You do not want to go back with him, do you?” 

It wasn’t an accusation. The child may not have spoken, but he had little practice in hiding his thoughts and feelings from another Force user. This was testament to just how long Grogu had been divided from his own kind; how rare it was to come across another Force user in this bitter, uncaring void that made up their reality. 

Grogu answered in his strange, soundless way: danger. 

“Hm. Danger for you, or for him, I wonder?” 

To this, there was no answer, and there didn’t need to be one. It was obvious enough. 

Maul settled down on the ground, his artificial legs stretched in front of him, one hand planted on the dusty ground. The morning was chilly, like many in Dathomir - but Maul tolerated the cold. He was used to it. He was used to the reality of constant discomfort; whether from the nature of his wounds, from the climate of this planet, or from the increasing fragility of his own age. Maul was far from old for his kind, but the number of injuries he had suffered in his life were too numerous to count. Most of his bones had been broken and healed a number of times, and years of starvation and poor nutrition had weakened his organs. Mostly, he felt tired. 

Grogu, for his part, nestled up with his cup of tea, his small body settled against Maul’s leg. His enormous ears were drooping low, and when Maul reached out to touch one, it was cold to the touch. 

Maul scooped up Grogu against his chest. It was a negligible weight, but Maul was conscious of it - the fragility of the creature. And he did wonder how much Grogu weaponized that fragility to find protection. 

Charmed by the thought, Maul huffed out a chuckle. 

However, the truth of the matter was, he did not sense anything particularly exploitative in Grogu’s mind. The sincerity of his affection for the Mandalorian could not be entirely disregarded, and Maul perceived most of all that his words - that the Mandalorian was searching for Grogu - had sparked turmoil. Uncertainty. 

And there was the slightest, most delicate sense of regret. Maul hadn’t wished to press at a tender wound. He was a petty sadist, but only insofar that it suited him. He had no cause to be that way to Grogu now. 

Maul thought: it seems your manipulative earnestness is hard at work. 

“That egg will take some time to boil. At least another hour,” he said, climbing to his feet. “I’ll show you something.” 

Maul walked his way down towards the swamps; they were not far from the caves. The craggy geography naturally bent towards the murky lowlands. The swamps stank of sulfur and green rot, and the humidity grew so thick that Maul could feel the water collecting in droplets upon his skin. 

Maul had spent a great deal of time in these swamps - the Force was powerful in such places. He waded through the red waters, safe only to do so because of his durasteel legs. Like much of Dathomir, the water was plagued with parasites and leeches, and Maul took great care to hold Grogu safe and secure against the hollow of his neck. 

“You feel the Force here,” he murmured. “Like the seeing stone on Tython, yes? But more powerful. And less predictable.” 

Grogu gave silent affirmation, and Maul was satisfied. There was a silence that fell between them both - the same silence that might befall one walking into a grand temple. The atmosphere was reverent. The Force here - neither dark nor light, yet also both - was profound. It was so thick in the air that it almost had a scent all its own. 

Maul walked until he came upon a grand tree. It was unfathomably old, perhaps as old as life itself on Dathomir. The trunk was thick and laden with moss and mud, with hanging vines dressing the drooping branches. Maul could see snakes and bats and other such things creeping through the protective shade of the leaves. Grogu wasted no time in snatching a frog with the Force. 

Maul intercepted the hapless creature, holding it by one thin, kicking leg. 

“Do not,” he growled. “Most everything in this swamp is poisonous, Grogu.” 

Grogu looked dejected, but he did not protest when Maul flicked the agile little creature away. The frog plopped into the water and disappeared into the copper algae. 

Maul agilely climbed up the tree. It was stout, and there were many thick branches to settle upon. Maul straddled one of those branches and relaxed back against the trunk, uncaring of the grime and dirt that smeared against him. One did tend to get used to such things, living in a place like this. 

“This tree is a seeing stone of sorts,” he explained. 

Grogu asked, in his strange way: What - see? 

“Why do you ask as if there’s any question?” was the dry response. “We’re here to look for the Mandalorian.” 

Grogu’s ears perked. How? 

Maul closed his eyes. He did not speak with his words, but with intention and Force. Maul’s attention shrank down to the miniscule, down to the little cells that formed the structure of the tree that cradled them. He could feel the movement of life through the ancient wood. The tree was rooted into the fabric of the Force itself - and in the Force, there was no distance between here and Coruscant. The universe was as vast as infinity and as tiny as an atom. 

Together, Grogu and Maul could see the lights of the city. They bloomed brilliantly in the gloomy darkness of the swamp. It was night on Coruscant. Coruscant always seemed brighter at night than in the day. It seemed more itself, somehow. 

The images were not clear. Visions of this nature were rather like glimpsing refractions in a pool of water, thin and quick to disappear with a change in angle. But the Mandalorian did appear to them, proud silver against the backdrop of the urban horizon. The Mandalorian was kneeling on the edge of one of the skyscrapers, watching the rapid flitting of ships and speeders. He appeared to be resting. 

He was alone. 

Comfortable in the darkness, the Mandalorian reached up and removed his helmet, tilting his head up to enjoy the cool breeze. There was an intimate anonymity in the thick of such a city, a kind of peaceful freedom in the shadows. Absurdly, it made Maul miss Coruscant, although his memories of that place were far from pleasant.

The Mandalorian was facing away from them both, his face obscured. Grogu stared in fascination at the mop of unkempt brown hair that was revealed to them both. 

“You haven’t seen his face before, have you?” said Maul, amused. “I’ve heard of such Mandalorians. The zealots.” 

Maul was… admittedly curious. One man’s face was no more interesting to him than any other, but the fact that the Mandalorian went to such lengths to keep his face hidden made Maul insatiably inquisitive. Maul did not care much for something until it was purposefully denied - and when it was, it consumed him. 

But as he crept closer to the Mandalorian, he was surprised - or, perhaps not surprised at all - that Grogu broke them away from the vision. Their connection to the Force was abruptly severed, and they were left in the misty gloom of the swamp. The Mandalorian was gone, and the city lights winked out of existence. 

Maul stirred, looking down at the creature in his arms. Grogu was annoyed with him for trying to see the Mandalorian’s face without permission, and Maul felt a stab of amusement.

“I see,” he hummed. “Very well, I apologize, my apprentice.” 

Maul suspected that the child was going to sulk for some time. Grogu refused to speak to him, and kept his dark eyes stubbornly pointed away. Maul slid out of the tree and began to hike his way back to their little campfire, amused by the child’s unhappy mood. 

On the way, Maul did snatch another frog - a species that he knew was benign. He dangled the helpless creature over Grogu, and it was happily snatched and devoured. 

The child was in better spirits after that. 

Chapter Text

“Boba, I need a holo of your face.” 

It wasn’t the best way to start a conversation, but Din was in a hurry. The transmission was choppy at best, and he didn’t know how long it was going to hold out. Tatooine was a long, long way away from Coruscant, and Din rarely had need of a commlink with that kind of range. 

“Do you hear me?” 

There was a long, flat silence from the other end of the transmission. Din could feel the irritation radiating from the other man in almost tangible waves. And that was with a weak signal. 

“You woke me up in the middle of the night for that?” was the toneless response. 

“I didn’t realize it was night there.” Din sighed. “You didn’t have to pick up.” 

That was somewhat disingenuous. When you were a bounty hunter, you always picked up when called. Even missing just a few potential clients could be a hell of a blow to a hunter’s reputation; bounty hunters were under a cruel kind of scrutiny, and the people who hired them weren’t the kind to give second chances. 

If Boba was anything like Din, he’d still answer a call even on death’s door. Force of habit. 

“Uh-huh.” 

On the other side of the transmission, Boba ran a hand over his tired face. He dug his fingers into his eyes for a moment and cleared his throat. His voice was as rusty as ever, and even more so after sleep. 

“I guess it goes without saying that you’re looking for clones.” Boba snorted. 

“I’m--” 

“I don’t care, Mando,” Boba said wearily. “Though I feel I should warn you, I don’t look much like them anymore. It may not help.” 

Din was grateful, nevertheless. Having a holo to show people was the best way he could think of to track down a clone. He wished there was something he could do to repay Boba for the help, but there just wasn’t anything Boba needed. For now, it was just a favor. And while Din didn’t love being in these kinds of debts, he wasn’t in a position to be picky. 

He needed to find CC-2224. 

“Mh. Let me get my good side.” 

The still holo was transmitted; an image of Boba’s face, neutral (if a little tired). The scars weren’t quite so visible in holo form, at least. Even if he didn’t look much like the clones now, it was at least good enough. 

Din hoped so, anyway. 

“Thanks, Boba.” 

“Mmh.” 

Boba ended the call abruptly, and Din sighed. He should’ve checked the time back on Tatooine, though… the truth was, Din was in a hurry. Not only because he wanted to find Grogu, but because he wanted to get off of Coruscant as soon as he could. He didn’t want the next call to Boba to be for a loan in order to pay off his docking fees. 

Din sighed. It was late here, too, and he could feel the edges of fatigue tugging at his eyelids. Chances were, CC-2224 was long asleep… but that wasn’t an excuse to give up. Lips tended to be looser late at night, when the world felt secretive and silent. 

Din’s night was just beginning. 

Maul awoke to a plaintive roar. 

He opened his eyes to the dim glow of the cave, groggy and ill-at-ease. He had awoken from a nightmare (as he often did), and his mind was already alert while his body was not. The disparity made him feel anxious; a desire to move and hunt and speak, but caged in weary flesh. 

He rubbed at his face, calm and unperturbed when he heard the wail again. It echoed through the cave, too pitiful to be threatening, although the creature that that voice was attached to was remarkably dangerous. But Maul was used to dangerous beasts. 

Grogu, on the other hand, was not. When Maul’s eyes focused, he found that his apprentice had curled up into his sling in hiding, although one large ear betrayed his presence there. 

“Ignore it,” said Maul dryly, reaching up to tickle his fingertips against the underside of the sling. “It’s dying.” 

If the roars and cries became irritating enough, Maul would go end the beast himself. For now, though, he was content to lay on his bed and allow his consciousness to rise. His mind felt like a bubble emerging from a deep ocean. It often felt like that, after a nightmare - or a vision. 

Today, he could not remember the nature of his dreams at all. He remembered something to do with the darksaber, perhaps, but that was hardly illuminating. And he didn’t have time to contemplate it now; not with that cacophony. 

Another roar. Grogu twitched unhappily and quietly cooed. 

Hurt. 

Maul hummed a disinterested, drowsy affirmation. “Yes, yes, it’s quite injured,” he said, closing his eyes again. “Best to leave it. No doubt it will attract predators soon enough. Sleep, apprentice.” 

Maul was surprised when Grogu rolled out of his hammock and fell flat onto Maul’s chest, startling him. Maul opened his eyes to meet Grogu’s dark stare. 

Hurt, repeated Grogu.

Maul sighed, rolling his eyes. “Very well,” he groused. “We’ll kill it, if it’s bothering you so much.” 

Maul was hardly in poor spirits over the matter, though. Being the last living zabrak on Dathomir afforded him the role of a sort of caretaker, a connection to the ecosystem of the planet that felt intimate and possessive. Culling the weak and injured seemed as respectable a duty as any other, he supposed… and perhaps he could get some meat out of it, if the beast wasn’t sickly. 

Maul sat up, holding Grogu to his chest as he did. He dressed himself and went about his usual morning routines. The pained wailing continued unabated, and Maul only quickened his pace when he intuited the depth of Grogu’s distress over the matter. 

With Grogu strapped against his shoulder, Maul clipped his saber onto his belt and made his way through the caves. The wailing was weakening into something pitiful, something whiny. Maul supposed that he did not, in fact, wish to spend his morning listening to its pathetic howls. 

The more he listened to the cries, the more it sounded like the beast was merely injured - it was not imminently fatal. And if that were the case, it would probably starve to death slowly and noisily, if nothing else killed it first. 

Maul moved swiftly through the complex of tunnels and caverns, following the echoing cries until he emerged from the darkness. This exit to the caves led into a dense jungle; no less humid and fragrant than the swamp in the basin below, but far less rank. This greenery was set at the top of the plateau, and the crimson mists rolled away from the terrain and settled elsewhere. 

Up here, the world was rather verdant. 

The roaring was closeby, almost deafening, and Maul sighed. He could already detect the stench of the creature, which was earthy and masculine and damp. Beneath that, he smelled blood; a coppery, sweet scent. 

Maul’s stomach rumbled. 

Maul lurked through the underbrush. Even if the beast had not been whining and howling, it would have been easy to find; there were broken branches, fallen leaves, and thick, deep footprints in the muddy earth. He could see blood dripping from the brush; thick smears of it on the trunks of trees. 

When Maul came upon the beast, he felt a little pang of fear from his little companion. He hardly blamed Grogu for the response; rancors could look quite fearsome, even if they typically were not. 

This rancor was a juvenile. It was perhaps half the size of an adult, which was still considerable. It was a heavy, hulking mound, its ugly face smeared with blood and grime. The place where its beady eyes would typically reside were nothing but blood-soaked holes. 

“Birds must have devoured its eyes,” commented Maul. “Foolish youngling chose the wrong prey, it seems. He’s paid a fatal price for it.” 

Grogu was silent and watchful. Maul sensed both disgust and fascination from his small companion. Before them, the rancor moaned but no longer wailed. It had no doubt realized that its ruckus might well have drawn some hungry mouths. 

It had. 

“Likely the same birds that provided our own meal,” continued Maul. “They may be sightless, but they’re very clever - and vengeful. They know that they can be seen. Let this be a clear example of why we must take great care when we hunt, apprentice. The beasts of Dathomir do not abide clumsiness or stupidity… nor do we.” 

Maul took the saber from his belt, and he approached the felled beast. The rancor’s breaths were shallow with panic and pain, and when Maul reached out to place a hand against the damp and bloodied flesh, the beast jumped with a startled snarl. It bit at him with its enormous jaws, but missed entirely. 

Maul was unafraid of it, and his own calm settled Grogu. He pressed the hilt of his saber to the rancor’s temple when suddenly, Grogu interrupted. 

Heal! 

Maul glanced back at his apprentice. “Heal?” he asked dubiously. “I’m afraid not. Even if it could live blind, the wound will become infected. This planet is merciless to injury; even minor ones.” 

But Grogu remained stubborn, and his voice came through the Force again; almost a physical weight that pushed against Maul.

Touch. 

Maul perceived a sense of purpose from Grogu. He reached back to untether his apprentice from his shoulder, holding Grogu against his forearm. Grogu reached out his clawed little fingers, patting absently at the gruesome injury before them. 

Maul stood still, curious. The rancor appeared to go into some sort of trance; whether it was exhaustion or something else wasn’t immediately apparent. But as Maul held Grogu, he became aware of a change in the air around them; a sudden denseness in the atmosphere. The fresh damp of the forest clung to his skin, ice cold in the early morning; he could feel little pinpricks of the chill in his lungs. It was strangely refreshing; a quality of the Force that felt unique to Grogu. As Maul watched, white flowers bloomed and bent as if towards sunlight. The scent of petrichor had a particular loveliness to it now; rain and mineral. 

Maul realized then that this scent was the Force; the light side that Grogu drew upon. It was entirely different from the metallic, ashy scent of Maul’s particular brand of magic. 

Before his eyes, the horrific wounds were healed. The flesh knitted together beneath the grime and blood; the cells blossomed and divided and reformed. When Maul reached out to touch the gash, he found hard scar tissue beneath his fingertips. The wounds were healed… to the extent that they could be. 

All at once, the rancor rose onto its hind legs and stumbled back from them, its enormous head wobbling from side to side as it sought to regain its balance. Its eyes were not miraculously reformed - those were gone for good - but the wounds were no longer at risk of infection, and no doubt the pain was gone, too. 

As Maul watched, the rancor snuffled its nostrils at them. He reached up to touch the rancor’s sharp teeth, fascinated; and he sensed no aggression when the beast mouthed at his hand.  It was imprinting his scent; remembering him. 

It was clumsy, at first; but even in the short while that Maul watched, the rancor quickly learned to adapt to its sightlessness. It nudged his head against the trunks of the trees, its nostrils flaring as it found a path forward through the jungle. Rancors were far from stupid, and Maul suspected that blindness would not prove a death sentence for this one. 

After a few moments, the rancor disappeared entirely. The noises of birds and insects resumed in its place, no longer disturbed by the wailing. 

“...” Maul looked down at Grogu. The child was deeply asleep against his chest, breathing slow and steady. Peaceful. 

Maul absently rubbed blood between his fingertips, his expression distant as he considered what had just happened. He had not underestimated the child, nor his powers… but he had not been aware of how developed they apparently were. To heal another with the Force was a rare gift on its own; even the Jedi Order had not commonly taught such skills to their students. 

Then again, the Jedi were hardly in the business of saving lives, in the end. 

Maul strapped Grogu to his chest securely; the small creature didn’t stir. In his sleep, Maul only sensed peace. There was a sense of oneness with the Force, of having done good. It was not a feeling that Maul could easily relate to, but he experienced it vicariously through Grogu nevertheless. Maul was unguarded enough to feel it now. 

Now that he was here, Maul realized he was hungry, and no doubt the child would be ravenous when he woke. Maul set about collecting their breakfast; snails that could be seasoned and fried. They were delicious, and recent rainfall had caused many to surface. 

Maul found himself choosing the snails with the most brilliant shells; stark reds and rich aquamarines. The shells were glossy in the dewy light, perfectly smooth to the touch. These snails were not poisonous. Their coloring was only a false warning; a bluff. 

Maul held those shells to the light, inspecting each one in turn. He imagined, perhaps, that the child would like to keep them as toys or trinkets. Each was selected for its beauty or uniqueness; and for symmetry, most of all. 

All the while, Maul’s mind followed the rancor that they had saved. He could feel its presence sink deeper and deeper into the jungle, into dark and dangerous places that Maul did not tread; and with its sightless eyes, it would find its home in the darkness, cocooned in the sounds and scents that would forever shape its universe. 

Chapter Text

The music throbbed like a heartbeat; it pulsed through his body, giving the club the air of being swallowed up by some living, writhing beast. The dampness and humidity didn’t help matters. It was so loud that Din turned off the audio receivers in his helmet and still could barely think through the noise. 

Yet, the density and the darkness were somehow soothing. He could feel his spine vibrating with the beat; he could feel his organs absorbing the noise. When he closed his eyes, it almost felt soothing; the pressure of it all; cocooned in anonymity and noise and darkness. He was leaning back against a wall, but even that corner was crowded with revelers, and the murmurs and laughter beneath the pounding music was strangely meditative. 

Clubs were always good places to look for information, because most everyone was in a good mood and most everyone was drunk. People weren’t looking to get paid for their information; and they just as soon forgot that they’d been asked anything at all. This club, though, was more than just a good place to start; it was the place that he’d been directed to, again and again. When he showed people Boba’s holo, his face was recognized - and the response was the same every time. 

“Oh, you’re looking for clones? Well, you know where you should start…” 

It almost felt too easy. But Din supposed that if there was one clone still hanging around on Coruscant, there were sure to be others, right? Boba had told him there were once millions of them, and Din believed him. 

It was late at night now, and Din was exhausted. He wondered how long it had been since he’d slept; perhaps thirty hours or more. Such things became difficult to gauge during intergalactic travel. It wasn’t the longest he’d ever been awake by a long shot, but it was never pleasant. He’d bought the most expensive caf he’d ever paid for in some all-night shop, but it really didn’t do much except make him feel anxious. 

Even so, it kept him moving. That was going to have to be good enough. 

That didn’t matter, though. Truth of the matter was, he was worried. Less worried, maybe, than when Moff Gideon had Grogu… but worried nevertheless. Whoever had Grogu now wasn’t the person that Din had been looking for. He wasn’t a Jedi. 

Even so… Maul had rescued Grogu. Din hadn’t forgotten that. He just didn’t know how to feel about it; about any of it. 

Din was just working his way up to start asking around when he felt a hand on his arm, sudden and firm. He didn’t like it; he didn’t like anyone touching his vambrace, when he was more or less covered head to foot in various dangerous weapons. But when he turned, he was met with a man who wore Boba’s face. This man was older; much older, it seemed. But he was strong and his brown eyes were as clear as day. 

He obviously wasn’t here to drink; or, at least, not yet. 

The clone was staring at him. His expression was strange. 

“Come with me!” said the clone over the noise. 

With his audio receivers off, Din mostly didn’t hear him. But he saw the shape of the words in the glimmering haze of magenta light. 

And then the clone turned away, and Din had to immediately follow to avoid losing him in the writhing mass of dancers. Din pressed his way through the beams of neon light, through the tangle of damp bodies; he felt clumsy and out of place. The clone moved the dancefloor with far more agility, demonstrating his familiarity with this place. 

Din just wasn’t used to crowds. The populations of the Outer Rim were sparse. On Coruscant, you could barely breathe. 

The clone led Din to a side door that was well-hidden in the shadows, and up a set of transparisteel stairs that left violet imprints of their footsteps. The walls were constructed of white duraplast panels with colorful backlighting, one color blending seamlessly into another. 

At the top of the stairs, there was a door. Above it, there was a blue neon sign that read: 79’s. 

The clone didn’t go through the door just yet. He turned to look at Din, his expression still strange. Now that they were separated from the thrumming bass of the club, Din turned on his audio receiver again. 

“You a real Mando?” asked the clone. 

The question was implied: you didn’t steal that armor, right? 

Or worse: you didn’t fabricate it yourself, right? 

Din nodded. “I am a Mandalorian; a foundling.” 

The clone surprised him, then, by taking his arm again. This time, he took it like a brother; a vod. Din felt imbalanced by the sudden warmth; the sincerity of kindness and joy that blossomed on the clone’s lined face. This was an expression entirely absent from Boba’s face, and it was surreal to see such open joy and enthusiasm.

“You’re really not kidding,” said the clone, laughing warmly. “Come on, brother; let us get you a drink.” 

Us? 

The door opened, and Din was led into another bar; something more modest than the grand spaces of the club. There were only half a dozen people here, all of them old… all of them wearing Boba’s face. 

Yet none of them looked much like Boba. Not really. All of them looked unique from each other, as well; something in their postures, their expressions. They were all distinct. 

When Din stepped in, a hush fell over the room. This wasn’t unusual for Din, whose presence usually commanded attention… but the feel of it was different. The clones looked at him with reverence; some with joy. And one, who was very old, looked at him with an emotion that bordered on tears. 

It was familiarity. 

“He looks just like Jango,” said one of the clones, softly. There was a murmur of assent. 

Uncertain, Din looked between them. 

“I’m looking for someone called CC-2224,” said Din. “...Cody.” 

The clones all glanced towards one of the eldest; a clone with a curved, fishhook scar beside his eye. He must have been in his seventies, but his body was wiry and spry. Din could see many marks on his uncovered arms; burns and ugly gashes that boasted a long career in the field of battle. 

“That’s me,” said Cody. “Always a pleasure to meet a vod.” 

The rainy season was mercilessly damp, but Maul didn’t mind it. The rains were not yet falling as heavily as they would in the coming months, but the day was wet and grey. Maul made a bonfire and spent a majority of the day lazily settled beside it, breathing in the scent of ash and embers. 

Grogu, for his part, shuffled at the edge of the cave. He used the Force to snatch many amphibious creatures to devour them. He would always turn to Maul in askance before he ate them. Grogu learned quickly to not even bother with brightly colored frogs. 

When the child wasn’t eating, he was playing in puddles. The cold didn’t seem to bother him, and Maul supposed that his species must have a tolerance for it. When he did finally grow cold, Grogu settled by the fire and yawned his way through the evening. 

Maul, for his part, was lost in thought. The storms were a strange time on Dathomir; a time of chaos and growth; the Force always felt dizzyingly powerful. The mixture of pressure and electricity and movement seemed to stir the spirits here, and Maul listened with an absentminded ear for the familiar whispers of the Nightsisters. 

The fresh rivers of water that flowed brought the fragrance of the jungle, carrying life and nutrients to be devoured in the swamps below. Now and again Maul found leaves floating in the water, and he chewed on them absently and felt refreshed. Grogu copied him, although the child didn’t quite have the presence of mind not to swallow them. But they were harmless, so it didn’t matter. 

Maul was just at the edge of a dream when he heard a voice - a whisper. It was familiar to him, although it could have been nothing but a dream. If it was, it was a comforting dream; a dream filled to the brim with nostalgia and hungry longing. 

“Master?” he murmured, sitting up. 

The fire had almost gone out, and Grogu was curled on Maul’s stomach, asleep. Grogu mumbled a protest when the zabrak moved him, but Maul was gentle as he held the small creature against his chest. His eyes fixed on the colorless darkness of the storm, searching for… (hope). 

Maul climbed to his feet, and he tucked Grogu into his sling above the bed. He carefully arranged a small animal pelt around his body to keep him warm, and Grogu nestled down into the soft fur and hid his face under his ear. Maul was almost annoyed by the sweetness of it. It seemed… unnecessarily extreme. 

He withdrew, walking back to the mouth of the cave again. There was a faraway rumble of thunder, and the rain was growing heavier now. Maul shivered; he had brought robes with him, and he bundled them tightly around himself now. 

A voice came to him; little more than a distant murmur at first; an echo of an echo. 

“So you’re calling me master now?” 

Maul paused, and he scowled contemptuously. “Only when I’m on the edge of sleep, and don’t know any better,” he replied sharply. “Show yourself.” 

It took time, but the Jedi did appear to him. He was a thin presence; transparent silver against the backdrop of water. His bearing was tall and proud; he was very tall, in fact. Maul, who was not, had to crane his neck to see his face, the severity of which was offset by the gentleness of kind eyes. 

“Jinn,” said Maul. “I wasn’t expecting you to return.” 

“I didn’t expect that I would need to,” was Qui-Gon’s placid response. “...Maul, what are you doing?” 

The question was a loaded one, and Maul feigned indifferent ignorance. “I hardly know what you mean, Jedi.” 

“Maul.” 

Maul’s yellow eyes slid to Qui-Gon, a humorless smirk twisting his lips. “I’m training him,” he replied. “No doubt that’s perfectly obvious to you.” 

Qui-Gon uttered a sigh, his arms crossing over his broad chest. “He wasn’t yours to train. You know that. Someone else was meant to come looking for him, and--” 

“I’m well aware of that,” interrupted Maul. “But being a seer does afford me certain privileges, and it would be foolish for me not to take advantage of them. Otherwise, what is the point, really? It would be rather dull to simply look ahead to the future and resign myself to it like a common Jedi.” 

Qui-Gon sighed again; he sighed often, in Maul’s company. “Maul, that last time we saw each other--” 

“Don’t.” 

“--you were on the verge of taking your own life. You cannot use the child as a means to give yourself purpose.” 

Maul was piqued. He turned to Qui-Gon, his eyes flashing. “And yet, somehow I have,” he replied. “And what does it matter, really? You and I both know that the child would have no more future with Skywalker than he does anywhere else; I’ve foreseen that much. So he might as well be useful, even if his use is in being my apprentice.”

Qui-Gon stood beside Maul, as he often did; not in front of him, but beside him. He did not often make eye contact when he spoke, and Maul appreciated it; he appreciated many things from the Jedi. Even the criticisms (of which there were many). 

“Why did you save me, Jinn?” asked Maul. “Was it to live my life in obscurity, quietly dying alone? I would much rather have eaten the berries, in that case.” 

“I did not save you for that purpose, no,” said Qui-Gon. “You chose to remain in exile; you chose to do nothing.” 

“I chose to remain where I am welcome,” groused Maul. 

“You know my feelings on this matter,” said Qui-Gon, glancing at his companion with a wry, exasperated smile. 

Maul did, of course. Qui-Gon was many things, but quiet about his opinions was not one of them. But Maul, bitter as he was, saw no purpose in following a predestined path given to him by a ghost. He was not a Jedi; he would never be a Jedi. Like a bled kyber crystal, there was really no going back. His purpose could be modified, yes, but he would never regain the purity of spirit that a true Jedi would require. 

It wasn’t something that Maul needed to make peace with, either; as hateful an existence as he might have led, his hatred for the Jedi had never faltered. Even if he had learned to tolerate this particular Jedi. 

“There will be another path before you,” said Qui-Gon, as vague as ever. “Of that I have no doubt. But what do you intend to teach the child? Not to be a Jedi; but not a Sith, either. You call him your apprentice, yet what is it that you intend to teach him? What purpose will he fulfill?” 

Maul crossed his arms, and a quiet fell upon him. The truth of the matter was, Maul’s penchant for unquenchable and bitter rage had mellowed considerably now that Kenobi, Sidious, and Vader were dead. When his hatred had nowhere else to go, it had merely turned back upon himself. And that did not spark rage; it left him feeling grim and introspective. 

One did have a great deal of time to think when they were in exile. 

“He will be a seer,” replied Maul quietly. “As I am. The Nightsisters' magic is a power and a knowledge worth preserving, even if it is strange. Is that not reason enough to teach him? Skywalker can bother himself with restarting the Jedi Order; but he doesn’t need Grogu to do that much.” 

“Seers are powerful in the dark side of the Force,” remarked Qui-Gon; but it was not a judgement. It was an invitation. Qui-Gon often spoke like that; asking others to share their thoughts, their moods. It was unnervingly effective. It was difficult to hide anything from him, even if you really tried to. 

“I am powerful in the dark side of the Force,” said Maul. “But Grogu isn’t. Despite all that has been done to him, the child is… hmn. Clear of mind, shall we say.” 

“Compassionate,” said Qui-Gon.

“Yes.” 

Even before he spoke, Maul intuited the path that Qui-Gon’s mind would take. “And you seek compassion from others.” 

“Shockingly, I cannot seem to make friends without it,” was Maul’s derisive response. “Yes, his compassion benefits me. As yours does, by the way. It’s a characteristic of a true Jedi that can be happily exploited by the willing.” Maul snorted. “Even Kenobi attempted such reconciliations, no matter what I did to him.” 

“My death was inevitable,” said Qui-Gon. “And you suffered duly for it, even though I will remind you that I had no wish for such suffering. I know it wasn’t personal. And… you were little more than a child, then.” 

“You are always in such a hurry to forgive me.” 

Qui-Gon laughed, soft and rich and kind. Maul looked at the Jedi, ethereal and imposing. Even in death, he exuded power and calm in equal measure. He felt like the storm itself. And despite all Maul’s restlessness and his hatred and his regret, he felt a dizzying need for the regard of this Jedi Master. Qui-Gon’s particular brand of kindness - delivered harshly and unsympathetically - was compatible with Maul’s own brand of self-pitying resentment. 

“Perhaps,” Qui-Gon admitted. “But it is better than being in a hurry to hate you. And I have a soft spot for broken people, Maul. They’re the ones we’re supposed to be saving. The forgotten and enslaved.” 

Maul knew that. 

“I’m not giving Skywalker the child,” he said again. “I refuse.” 

“And I will not force you,” was Qui-Gon’s response. “I only ask that you consider what Grogu needs, rather than what you need.” 

Maul sighed bitterly, but he said nothing. When he looked over, Qui-Gon was gone; as he always was, when he had said everything he’d meant to say. Maul was left in the Jedi’s wake, disturbed (as he always was) by Qui-Gon’s words. 

Qui-Gon never failed to make one think; and Maul, for his part, never felt prepared for it. 

Maul stepped out into the rain, letting it soothe and refresh him. A little while later, the storm rolled past and left Maul in the calm silence, with only the music of dripping water to fill the void. 

Chapter Text

“We always hoped that someday we would wear beskar,” said Thire.  

A table had been dragged to the center of the room, and the clones sat around it with drinks in their hands and smiles on their faces. Din, for his part, did not drink, but he accepted the drink they gave him and held it. It was partly to show his appreciation for the gift. It was also to have something to do with his hands. 

Din didn’t know how to feel. He hadn’t expected this, not in his wildest dreams. He was awake and painfully alert, but his mood was still one of terrible exhaustion. He felt emotionally compromised, and the charge in the atmosphere here wasn’t helping matters. He wanted his foundling. He wanted to rest, too, but Din had grown used to the reality that he couldn’t. He’d accepted that a long, long time ago. 

“Jango would’ve wanted it,” added Bly. 

Bly was one of the oldest there. At least, he had the air of being the oldest. The others looked to him with fondness and respect, and his face held the most lines of them all. Bly was more serious than the others, more like Boba was... but he smiled more than Boba, and he spoke freer. The reservedness of his stance and body language was in contrast to the clone at his side: Thire. Thire had a steely gaze and a proud posture. He said he used to work in the diplomatic branch of the clone army; he guarded the senators and politicians during the war. 

His manners were, predictably, immaculate. 

“Where did you get the armor?” asked Thire, and he smiled with absent-minded, handsome charm. “I mean, was it passed down to you?” 

“It was made for me,” answered Din honestly. He could not imagine lying to these men about anything. “The beskar was given to me by the imps in exchange for a job. Um… by imperials, I mean. The Armorer - the alor of my covert - fashioned the armor for me before I left.” 

The clones did not look at him with envy, exactly, but… there was something bittersweet in their expressions. Maybe it was the yearning for a life they had not led, or maybe it was something else. Mourning for some loss. For Jango Fett, he supposed. Din knew the depths of their pain well enough; the loss of his own covert would haunt him forever, just as the loss of their brothers would haunt them. 

“It’s rumored that beskar was used in making the Death Star’s cannon,” said Cody. He was proving to be the leader of the small group, a no nonsense sort of commander. He spoke harsh and firm, but almost always last. “It makes sense. But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” 

“Not many Mandalorians left to wear it,” said Dogma. He had a tattoo of a chevron across his face, asymmetrical. He, more than the others, looked to Cody with soldierly obedience. Dogma was a follower, and he obviously liked Cody’s calm self-possession. He sat closest to him, and he was the one who brought the drinks. 

Din noticed these familiarities, these little dynamics forged through decades of comradery and friendship. Even as tired as he was, his attention to detail was sharp. It was important to understand where he stood in a room full of warriors. Old or not, Din was fairly certain these clones could give him a run for his money if they wanted to. 

Obviously, they didn’t. But Din’s mind was always willing to allow for a sudden, violent change in any ambiguous situation. 

“I knew the original, Jango Fett, was Mandalorian…” said Din, unsure. “I was told that by someone close to him. But I didn’t realize that he was so important to the clones. ...I really had no idea.” 

Given Boba’s general lack of interest in the other clones, Din perhaps wasn’t too surprised by that. 

“Jango didn’t live long enough to do most of what he meant to do,” explained Cody. “He died before the war even properly began. Only the first of us really remember what he was like, and we tried to carry on his legacy, but…” 

At this, Cody shrugged. 

“We didn’t really know what it was supposed to be. I don’t think it was this.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Din. 

Spark - the clone that had found Din in the bar - touched his arm again. It was easy and friendly, but it still startled Din whenever he did it. It had been a long few months. Din expected an attacker at every corner these days. 

“Don’t be,” said Spark, and he pulled his hand away and scratched at the back of his head awkwardly. “It’s just-- you know, it’s really good to see you. We know there are Mandalorians still out there. Sometimes we hear about them, but they don’t come here.” 

“Why are you here?” Thire asked Din. 

“You said you were looking for me,” added Cody, running an absentminded finger over the scar next to his eye. 

“I was,” said Din. “I was hoping that you could tell me something about the former Mand’alor. About a person called Maul.” 

A look was exchanged between the clones. Din felt suddenly more alert, conscious of the change of atmosphere. The room was silent now, and he could hear the throb of music from the club next door. He could feel the little vibrations in the floor. 

“Maul was…” started Bly, and he sighed. “I mean…” 

“None of us knew him,” said Dogma, as if to erase all doubt. “We had nothing to do with him.” 

“I know,” said Din, although that wasn’t true (it’s not like the archives had been illuminating on the matter, after all). “I just want to know who he is.” 

“Well…” started Spark, resting his elbow on the table. “He killed a lot of our brothers. We know that much.” 

“So what?” asked Thire shortly. “It wasn’t like he had a choice, given what happened. I would’ve, were I him.”  

The clones shared a knowing look, and Din felt very much like an outsider, separate from them. They were his brothers, maybe, but brothers from another clan, another life. And he wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t privy to the decades of shared experience between them. 

That was fine. Even so, Din felt the slightest stab of hurt; but he knew it was blameless. 

Cody sighed. “No one knows much about Maul; or, at least, the people who did know are long dead. He was a Sith Lord, I guess.” 

“What does that mean?” asked Din bluntly. “Sith Lord.” 

“The best way to think of them is something like the reverse of a Jedi,” said Bly. 

At the word Jedi, Din looked up sharply. They spoke as if he should know offhandedly what that was. Were Jedi just another fact of life in the Core Worlds? Or rather… had they once been? 

These clones were old enough to remember the Jedi Order. Din wondered what the universe had been like back then. 

“So, they’re violent?” asked Din uncertainly. 

“Sure,” said Bly. “Among other things.” 

“Violent, vengeful, power-hungry - just about anything you could imagine,” said Thire, pouring himself another drink. Din watched the red liquid as it filled the glass; it smelled sweet, even from a distance. “I never encountered any Sith as an enemy; but I served them. Vader and Sidious.” 

“You did?” asked Din.

Thire exhaled a laugh; his smug, boisterous grin had returned. At that moment, he looked nothing like Boba. 

“Yeah. I was one of the ones who saved Vader after he was burned up,” he said. There was a surreal tone of pride in his voice; but after he said it, there was a moment of guilty confusion. Din saw Dogma nudge him, as if in rebuke. 

Thire looked away, and polished off his drink. “Mh - anyway. Sith have powers just like the Jedi, but they use them differently. I guess.” 

“The way they think about their power is different,” explained Bly. “I guess you could say it’s a difference in philosophy more than anything else. But otherwise, I guess they’re mostly the same; they have the same sorts of abilities, and they use the same weapons…” 

“Maul was…” Cody furrowed his brow, his finger absently rubbing at his scar again. “Maul was interested in power, but it usually seemed to be for the sake of getting back at someone; settling some cosmic score. He was happy enough to throw it away if it meant he could get revenge, from what I’ve heard. He had a particular hatred for someone I knew once.”

“Kenobi,” guessed Din. 

Cody looked surprised. A strange and guilty smile crossed his lips. “...yeah. That’s right,” he said. “But that isn’t my story to tell, you know. And honestly, I wouldn’t know what to say about it. General Kenobi was a private man. He never shared much with us clones; would’ve been unprofessional of him, after all. All we knew was that Maul was obsessed with him… but it didn’t seem like our place to ask about it. And I’m sure he didn’t want to talk about it.” 

“Maul never did get revenge, though; not against General Kenobi,” said Thire proudly, and the clones shared a drink in honor of their friend. 

All of them, that was, except for Cody. “No, Maul did,” he replied bluntly. “He didn’t kill the general, but he took a lot from him. But it’s easy to forget that; what Maul did was a drop in the ocean compared to everything that happened after. I can’t say that I’ve thought much about him since the end of the war.” 

“Even though he was the Mand’alor?” asked Din. It seemed strange to him that the clones would dismiss that detail so easily. 

It was Bly who spoke: “it didn’t mean anything.” 

“It was just a farce,” added Dogma harshly. “The whole thing. The whole planet.” 

Din vaguely remembered Paz saying those sorts of things; but the Armorer never really let any of them talk about that accursed place. And Din, for his part, had always felt incurious. Being a Mandalorian didn’t have anything to do with a homeland; not for a foundling, at least. Instead, it had everything to do with one’s actions; the way you chose to live, regardless of where you were. 

The planet was meaningless to him. 

“The person Maul replaced was…” Spark worried his lower lip for a moment, not rushing with his words. “Not really Mandalorian, either. Not in the way that Jango was, at least.” 

“Not even in the way that we were,” said Thire. “She was a pacifist. She and her kind looked down on Jango; and looked down on us, too. It’s not like we wanted her to die, but we didn’t shed tears when she did, if you get me.” 

Din, who could not imagine anything more contrary to being a Mandalorian than pacifism, agreed. 

“Maul killed her,” said Cody. “To hurt General Kenobi. She was important to him, so… that’s what I mean when I say that Maul’s interested in power for the sake of vengeance; but not much more than that. He took over the whole planet just for the chance to kill her, it seems; and then threw it all away the moment the war was good and over.” 

“And then where did he go?” asked Din, looking between them. “Not to the Empire?” 

“No,” laughed Thire. “Maul was definitely on the Emperor’s hit list for a long, long time. I don’t think they ever caught him; got close, maybe. But he was good. He took down a whole cruiser to escape being executed.”

That sounded like an exaggeration. When Din looked between the clones' faces, though, he could see that each and every one of them believed it. When he thought back to the recording he had seen… perhaps it wasn’t as unlikely as it first sounded. 

“Now and then, Emperor Sidious would send out task forces looking for him,” continued Thire. “Raids against his criminal empire, or bounty hunters - that sort of thing. I guess Maul was involved in a lot of the syndicates, but I only know what I overheard from the politicians. And that was a hell of a long time ago.” He shrugged and stifled a yawn. “And like Cody said - none of us gave Maul much thought.” 

Din sighed. “Then I suppose you have no idea where he might be, then.” 

Cody frowned, leaning back in his chair. He scrutinized Din for a long time. His dark eyes were sharp and alert. He had all the trappings of age; the silver hair, the lines on his face, the liver spots speckled across his temples. Yet his eyes were those of a young man. 

“What did Maul do to you, vod?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” replied Din. “Nothing at all. But he has my foundling.” 

Din told them everything from the beginning. 

His exhaustion made the words flow. He could not spare the energy to feel withdrawn, nor to second guess himself. The words tumbled from him, one after another, and it grew both easier and harder as his tale drifted from one point to the next. It was only in the retelling that Din truly contextualized how much had happened; how much he’d been through. 

More than once, his eyes teared up with frustration and longing and fatigue, but his voice remained steady all the while. His helmet hid his vulnerability. 

Even so, he felt like the clones knew. Men who wore helmets all their lives would sense the change in mood; they would be sensitive to the subtle shifts in cadence and body language. More than once, Spark reached over to squeeze his arm. The touch became easier to bear - and more welcome  - each time he did it. 

By the time the story was over, Din could see the first rays of sunlight piercing through the tinted windows. It felt like an intrusion on this intimate, private place. All of them were tired; yet the clones listened without yawning, and their eyes remained attentive. They hung on his every word. 

Once, Thire wiped his eyes of unexpected tears. It was when Din had described what Grogu looked like. It was Bly who took Thire’s arm then, squeezing. It was reassurance for something that Din didn’t understand, but it wasn’t his place to ask. 

He didn’t draw attention to it. 

When Din ran out of words, there was little offered in turn. The clones sat in introspective silence for a long time; and they drank. 

“It’s early,” muttered Dogma finally. He broke off into a miserable, wet-eyed yawn. 

“Mmh.” Bly put down his drink and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Yeah. No kidding. Vod, do you have a place to sleep?” 

“I was going to leave Coruscant,” sighed Din. “Try to find more leads.” 

“Don’t,” said Spark. “Stay a little longer. I’m sure we can figure something out once we’ve gotten some proper shut-eye.”

“You can sleep on my couch,” said Cody. It didn’t sound like an offer; more like a command. “C’mon.” 

“I guess you don’t need a blanket.” 

“No.” 

Cody’s apartment was about what Din had expected; perfectly orderly, military, and unsentimental. It was just a single room, but big enough not to feel too crowded. The made bunk in the corner didn’t have a single wrinkle; and when Cody took off his boots, he sat down and polished them right away. He was smiling absentmindedly, and Din wondered at the root of his joy. 

There was a stand bearing white armor, highlighted with flaking orange paint. It was scuffed to hell and back. The white duraplast had been scraped and burnt and cracked in a number of places. It had a lot of character; all the little wounds that defined its uniqueness from others like it. 

Looking at it, though… the armor did have a familiar feeling. 

“You know,” said Cody suddenly, breaking Din’s reverie. “You really can’t imagine how it feels to us; seeing you. Knowing that you’re out there. And… that a little Jedi is out there, too.” 

Din felt dozens of questions bubbling up inside him, but he swallowed them back. Each one could surely lead to hours of discussion, and honestly, the couch was beckoning him. He didn’t sit just yet, though; he wasn’t sure he could resist falling asleep right on the spot if he did. 

“I’m… glad,” said Din, feeling awkward but touched. “That it means so much to you.” 

“You have no idea.” 

Cody climbed to his feet, cracked his back, and yawned wide. “You sleep, vod. I’m gonna wash up before bed.” 

“Thank you.” 

But as Cody moved towards the door, one question did escape Din. It couldn’t remain unspoken. “Why didn’t you come looking for us? The Mandalorians.” 

Cody stopped, but he didn’t turn to face him. In the dim glow of early morning, he looked very different; the light cast shadows over the proud muscles of his back, and his curly silver hair - cut short - caught the light and glowed. 

Din felt a strange, uncomplicated love for Cody in that moment. The same love he had for the Armorer, maybe; the divine reverence of experience, and of prowess. Cody was a warrior; the shape of his body and his proud stance proved that much. But he was kind, and principled, and the sort of ba’buir that Din hoped that he could one day be. 

“Because we’re not Mandalorians,” said Cody eventually. There was no pain in his voice; only calm acceptance. “That’s the honest truth of it. We were supposed to be, but it didn’t happen. We’re clones; and that’s special, too.” 

“You would have all been great Mandalorians,” replied Din quietly. 

Cody turned to look back at him. He was smiling. “I know we would’ve.” 

Cody then stepped forward and set his hand on the side of Din’s helmet. He pressed his forehead to Din’s; a keldabe kiss. Delivered from Cody, it felt powerful; a sign of utmost respect from an elder.

Din, who missed his clan very much, felt his eyes sting. 

“Go to sleep,” said Cody. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. And we’ll find your foundling.” 

Chapter Text

The spider web was impressively large. Its inhabitant must have tirelessly weaved its web through the night. The silken strands were weighted down by rainwater, but the construction bore the weight. The design was immaculate, the symmetry perfect, and not a single strand was broken. 

The spider sat in the center of her web, where all the threads of her opus connected. Her long, elegant legs were as thin as needles, and upon her back was a geometric pattern of red and black that had likely been some forgotten inspiration for Dathomirian tribal tattoos. 

Maul observed the spider in silence for a long time. She was remarkable, he thought, to have created something so lovely from her own being. Yet, she would never be able to observe the grandness of her own creation; for her, it was not beautiful. It was only practical. 

What a shame. 

“Grogu,” said Maul softly. “Come.” 

Grogu, who had been sitting with his snail shells, looked up and cooed in acknowledgment. He pushed himself up on his tiny legs and toddled his way to Maul, unhurried but curious. Maul bent down to pick him up, holding his little apprentice against his chest. Grogu smelled of rainwater and earth; he had been playing in the puddles for most of the morning, again.  

“What do you see?” asked Maul, lowering his eyes to Grogu. “The spider?” 

Grogu looked up at Maul first, and then looked at the delicate web before them. Through the silver threads, they could see the dusky pre-dawn of the sky, the canyons beyond, and the yellow and blackish-green of the glades as they stretched into the horizon and disappeared into silver mist. The droplets upon the web caught and refracted these colors; lovely, lovely. 

Threads, was the child’s response. He was still hesitant; unsure of his own voice. 

“Yes,” said Maul. “Yes, threads. Much like the Force itself.” 

At this, Grogu felt increasingly uncertain. He looked up at Maul again, a red snail shell clasped in one clawed hand. He looked down at it after a moment, scrutinizing it. He was shy. 

“You must visualize this web as the span of the universe; everything that exists. Manipulate one part of the Force--” Maul reached up to touch the edge of the web, disturbing the spider; she lurched towards the vibration with shocking swiftness. “--and all of it is affected.” 

Grogu stared at the web, concentrating. He was a clever little thing, but language itself was confusing to him. Maul could feel him struggling to differentiate the sounds well enough to parse their meaning.

For a moment, Maul was frustrated. He growled, his eyes flashing with disdain at the lovely tapestry before him. How to teach an apprentice who cannot speak or understand any language? 

Maul’s instinct was to push, to demand - and if that did not work, to blame. But what good would that do? Grogu was a baby; Maul could feel the futility of his anger against the child’s helplessness. 

He would have to be the one to adjust, if either of them were going to.

Drawing on the teachings that Qui-Gon had given him, Maul let his mind empty. He allowed his feelings and impulses to drain away, like tipping water from a cup. His eyes relaxed, the faint silver of the web mingling with the silver of the sky, and the rust-colored landscape before him. 

Seers are not like the Jedi; nor are they like the Sith. 

Maul spoke without words. He shared the feeling of separateness; the feeling of being set apart from the others, of being different, and differentiated. And Grogu understood this, and responded to the imagery. He shared his own feelings, too - being different, yes, and being singular. 

For that moment, they shared the plunging depths of their loneliness. In a greedier state Maul might have clung to it - or violently rejected it - but now it only passed like a breath in their meditation, and Maul refocused himself instead on the web. 

Through the Force, the paths that lead to the future are like a map to be read. 

Grogu wondered how that could be; Maul could feel his curiosity beaming through the Force, clear and strong. In the Force, Grogu was not shy at all. 

Maul considered how best to explain. If there was one thing that he and Grogu could connect on, it was the excitement of the hunt; their hunger. The instinct that they shared as predators. 

Scent, sound, and instinct will guide us to our prey. To catch it and then to devour it. This eventuality is known to the Force, because we are known to the Force. And our prey, too, is known to the Force; its weaknesses; its vulnerabilities. The Force cannot tell for certain if the prey will be devoured. 

But it can tell the manner of the devouring, should we succeed.

Maul’s eyes remained closed, but he felt himself floating back to awareness. He could not maintain the trance for very long. Jedi meditations were difficult for him; fleeting, easily lost. 

“If trained, you can learn to see such insights,” he told Grogu, his voice hushed. “To follow the threads of the Force. And to manipulate them, if you wish. To, mh... touch the web.”

This is how I found you, thought Maul. But he did not voice this aloud; and he did not share this secret with Grogu. 

“The Jedi and the Sith both attempted such magic, yes,” Maul mused. “Weak interpretations, nh, pitiful... they did not have the power that the Nightsisters once possessed… the power that you will possess.” 

Maul felt the answering call from Grogu, then - the desire to do as Maul had shown him, to perceive the threads, to reach for them, to predict the helpless instinct of the spider as it rushed to meet his deliberate touch--

Maul opened his eyes, and he found that the spider had been eaten, and the web was broken. The threads swayed listlessly in the gentle breeze. 

He blinked, looking down at his small apprentice. There was not a trace of apology nor remorse in Grogu’s little face. He looked Maul directly in the eyes, and gulped the spider down. 

Maul sighed. 

The light distortions came without warning, as they always did. Maul was familiar enough with his own ailments by now to recognize their onset, and he steeled himself for the sickness that would soon follow. 

Medical concoctions could be prepared from the flora - and fauna - of Dathomir, but there were few that would heal this particular affliction. The best pain relief he could find were the leaves he collected for tea. When chewed they had a strong, cool scent that refreshed him and cleared his sinuses. They diminished the pain… though not by much. They were a poor substitute for actual medicine, of which he had none. 

Grogu, at least, was sleeping when the pain finally came. Maul preferred his apprentice not to see him in such a pitiful state. 

Maul chewed miserably on the leaves and laid on his mat, his face pressing to the scratchy, worn wool. One arm curled protectively around his horns, which were already aching. He breathed deeply, with purpose, trying to will himself into a state of meditation or - hopefully - a deep sleep. 

He got neither. The pressure in his temples began to pulse with the beat of his hearts, a roaring, pounding misery that swept over him like icy water. A miserable affliction. It bit into his skull, crawled down his spine, and settled in his belly. He felt the rolling burn of nausea curl into the pit of his stomach and claw up his throat. 

It was hardly the worst suffering Maul had ever endured. But the older he became, the more challenging he found it to endure. His patience for his own suffering had always been remarkable. The application of tattoos, needlepoint by needlepoint, and the bitter torture of his training had drilled such suffering into his mind since birth. But even Maul’s patience was running thin. 

He was a year short of sixty now. Old, he supposed. His lifespan could potentially be double that; perhaps more, if he was very unlucky… but his life had not been one of care and good health. Each passing year, he became more conscious of his growing collection of abuses. Even his use of the dark side of the Force was a violation, destructive to the flesh and the mind. 

He knew, of course, the price of power. It had somehow mattered less when he was young and strong, when he had felt eternal and unbreakable. When he had believed his master’s lies regarding immortality. 

Maul was so immersed in his own misery that he did not perceive Grogu’s awakening; nor did he perceive the youngling’s first tentative brush against his mind, growing aware of the shape of his master’s pain. When Maul felt the soft flumph of Grogu’s weight falling onto the bunk beside him, he only managed a quiet grumble. 

Small claws touched Maul’s cheek, cool against his feverish skin. Maul opened one reluctant eye to glare; the disruption was not welcome. 

Grogu’s large eyes narrowed, an expression of deep concentration settling upon his little face. It was only then that Maul detected the presence of Grogu within his own thoughts. It was the first time, in fact, that the child had been so bold. Despite Maul’s yearning for an apprentice, for connection, for something - thinly concealed, at best - the child had remained shy, and Maul himself had been equally recalcitrant. 

But he felt Grogu now. And through Grogu’s eyes, as if through two parallel mirrors, Maul could see himself reflected: a cacophony of unreasonable pain. Grogu showed Maul, too - look at how I see you!

Maul did see. He saw the web. Grogu had been listening after all, yet the shape of the web was so different in Grogu’s mind that it was almost unrecognizable. Not the macro pattern of overlapping threads, but something more biological. The splitting and regeneration of cells, or their decay; the bonds between the atoms and molecules, and the energy stored within. The child perceived the spider, too. He saw the pulses of electricity that rippled through the nervous system, the contraction of muscle tissue as it pumped blood. 

Or perhaps that was Maul, and not the spider from the web. 

Maul’s own mind was best suited to the metaphysical, and he felt unguarded awe at the shift in perception, the strangeness of how Grogu saw the universe. It was not how he had imagined a Jedi would see. But then again, Grogu was no more a Jedi than Maul, was he? 

Maul could feel Grogu in his brain. The child’s use of the Force was delicate, so delicate. Molecular. He manipulated the cells and nervous impulses; such a careful, careful operation, and yet Grogu worked with unflinching precision. 

The little claws on Maul’s cheek were gentle, the touch soft and full of care. It tingled strangely against Maul’s skin in ways that had nothing to do with the Force at all. And little by little, Maul felt his pain begin to ebb away. 

He did not want to feel it, did not want to be conscious for whatever emotions threatened to rear up in the wake of the healing, and the child granted him that as well. 

He slept. 

Maul woke from a nightmare, late in the night. Nightmares were familiar, yes, and he could even tolerate them. Screams, blood, torture… the horror was diminished by the comfort of familiarity. 

But he hadn’t had that kind of nightmare. This was something much worse than pain: a gentle nightmare, full of tender memories and quiet little moments. In his unguarded sleep it felt kind and enticing. Awake, these things hurt too much to bear remembering at all. And in the moments in between, the pain was beyond reckoning. 

Savage’s earnest voice in his ear, impossible to forget when he was half-asleep and vulnerable: you can begin again.

Maul had thought he understood his brother at the time, but he could not have been more wrong. He had not begun again. He had only devoted himself to clawing at the sharp and fractured remains of his old life, bloodying himself in the process. 

Recapturing the things he had lost was as futile as catching smoke. The universe forgot Maul, consistently and without remorse, no matter how he struggled against it. The lies of his old master had made him complicit, diligent in the construction of his own worthlessness. Knowing the curse did not dispel it. Maul took and took; he could not help himself. He had taken Grogu too, with deliberate and resentful greed. 

The child had healed him, shared his vision and his power with Maul. His kind touch had not been a dream. 

Maul’s eyes snapped open, and panic boiled in his blood. The pain in his head was gone without so much as a lingering twinge, but so were many other routine discomforts. His shoulders and neck and jaw felt relaxed and flexible in a way that, perhaps, they never had. 

Maul could anticipate pain, but the lack of it was a shock to the system. It was too much, too much. He had not asked to be healed; to be spared. 

He was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, and snatched Grogu up into his hands. The little creature was so small, so fragile. It was nothing short of a miracle that he had survived so long, in such a harsh world. Maul himself had barely survived it. 

A miracle, or the will of the Force, came Qui-Gon’s voice in his head, although Qui-Gon was not with him now. It was only Maul and the child - and, of course, the Force. 

Maul snarled. The will of the Force? He knew the will of the Force. It willed that he should suffer alone forever, and that the child should go to Skywalker. Maul had known, hadn’t he? He had perceived it even before he boarded the cruiser, and he had taken the child anyway. He had expected some cosmic reprimand, something to fuel his resentment and misery. He had expected to lose, as he had lost Ahsoka, and Ezra, and Savage. He had not expected gentleness without a price. Now that he had it, he could not even stand to look at the child. 

Maul stopped in front of his ship. His breathing was ragged. His only thought, singular and imperative, was to find Skywalker and return the child. It was Skywalker’s destiny by right, not Maul’s. Maul no longer wished to manipulate the threads; he no longer trusted that he would not be devoured for his efforts. He was tired. And he was afraid. 

He looked down at the child in his arms. Grogu was all but asleep, quiet and trusting. His eyes were barely open, a dark sliver. 

Maul leaned against the side of the X-Wing, and closed his eyes. The faded symbol of the rebellion rested under his horned head; worn and rubbed away, riddled with old scorch marks. Like the foundling in his arms, the ship was something stolen; not his by right. But without that which was stolen, Maul would have nothing. Nothing at all. 

“You didn’t have to heal me,” he muttered. 

Grogu did not answer. His eyes were closed, and he was sleeping again. Qui-Gon, similarly, was absent. Maul was left to bear the burden of his own vulnerability alone; that a single kindness had sparked a visceral, hateful panic. It fluttered inside his chest, against his ribs, even now. 

Maul slid down to sit in the mud beside his ship. He settled Grogu in his lap, thinking - absurdly - that the pounding of his hearts might disturb the child’s rest if he was held too close to them. No… he would not return the ship, and he would not return the child. 

At the horizon, a flash of green marked the dawn. The sun burned crimson in its wake and began its ascent. That little flicker of acidic light did not return; it was secretive, not beautiful for its color but rather for its rarity. By the time Grogu stirred, the crimson radiance of the dawn had diffused into a murky, dead red, and Maul’s thoughts turned to the darksaber upon its pedestal in the cave. 

Did I not earn that by right?

Is that not mine?

The daylight dampened his fears, made them feel distant and unimportant. And when they returned home, Maul took the darksaber from its place upon the pedestal, fastening it to his belt in place of his brother’s. 

Chapter Text

When Din awoke again, it could have been an hour or a week; his body felt like a bag of sand. He laid on the couch, his back aching and his throat dry, and felt both too tired to move and too uncomfortable to stay where he was. 

Pushed yourself too hard again, he thought. But since when did he have a choice? 

He sat up, stretching stiffly. He was not surprised to see that Cody was already awake and yawning into a cup of caf. It couldn’t have been too late, then; they’d slept for a few hours at best. The glow of the early afternoon sun pierced through the slats covering the dusty windows. 

“Morning,” greeted Cody. 

A steaming mug was pushed into Din’s hand. Cody sat at the table, purposefully turned away from Din. 

“I won’t look,” he promised. 

“...thank you.” 

Din hesitated. He ordinarily wouldn’t have dared take his helmet off in a place where someone could so easily see him... but his world had moved on, and Din wasn’t sure how much he believed in that part of the creed anymore. Miggs had seen his face, and as surreal and upsetting a moment as that had been, Din didn’t feel less of himself for it. 

He certainly didn’t feel less Mandalorian. 

And now, looking at Cody, he thought: it really doesn’t matter, does it? 

Cody claimed he was not Mandalorian, and yet, Din felt that he and the other clones embodied what Din believed being a Mandalorian was… a sense of brotherhood and shared strength, and an unshakeable desire to aid your family (even those from another clan). There was also a love of beskar, and Mando’a, and each other. 

In a way, Din wished he had never met them. In another way, he did not want to leave. He liked very much the thought of remaining here, sitting at the bar with these ba’buire. He wanted to listen to their stories of the war; what it had meant to them. He wanted to know who their brothers were, and mark their names in his memory. And when they were too old to look after themselves, he wished to take the place of a dutiful ad, and care for them, and protect them. 

The fantasy of it was so sharp and so overwhelming that Din almost couldn’t bear it. 

Without Grogu to give him direction, he was left with the harsh reality of his own isolation. Mandalorians, who sought meaning more from their bonds than from themselves, were not complete without a clan. Din yearned. 

Din pushed off his helmet and set it aside, and he sipped at the scalding, bitter caf in his hand; no sweetener, nothing. It was perfect. 

“So,” said Cody conversationally. “I had an idea about where Maul might have gone.” 

Din stirred, looking at Cody’s back. He could see a slight impression of the clone’s profile as he turned his head; the familiar shape of Boba’s face. But the slight curl of Cody’s lips was unfamiliar; and the voice was so, so much gentler than Boba’s was. 

“And?” 

“It might amount to nothing,” warned Cody. “But his home planet would probably be a worthy starting point in any search.” 

No matter how much Din had dug into the archives, he had been unable to find out what Maul’s race even was, much less the planet he came from. There was a part of him that was dubious that Cody had found any meaningful information so quickly, but Din guessed that being sore and uncaffeinated was making him feel cynical. 

“How did you get a hold of that information?” asked Din, holding the caf up to his face just to inhale the bitter, earthy aroma. 

“I didn’t,” said Cody. “Just woke up thinking about it, actually. We were so tired last night that it didn’t occur to me, but I do remember a little something about Maul - or, his kind, rather. He’s far from the first zabrak to be a thorn in the side of the 212th Division. He wasn’t even the most problematic one we had to deal with, all told.” At his, Cody snorted as if some exasperating memory crossed his mind. “For some reason, General Kenobi seemed to be a magnet for ill-tempered zabraks.” 

“Where is it?” 

“A planet called Dathomir.”

Dathomir. Din in no way recognized the name; not even in passing. Yet, something about it disturbed him; some sense of threat in the elegant rhythm of the word. Something lovely, yet mysterious in the most ominous of ways. 

If it was a planet full of people like Maul, Din was not so certain that he wished to go. ...not that that mattered. There was no threat in the galaxy great enough to stop him from pursuing Grogu. 

“Dathomir,” he repeated. 

“Mmhm,” replied Cody. “It might come to nothing, like I said. It’s where I’d start, though, if I were going to look.” 

If. Din stirred, looking at Cody’s back. 

“You could come with,” offered Din; and there was a sudden, naked roughness in his voice. He wanted Cody to come with. “If you wanted.” 

There was a silence, and Din felt certain that Cody wanted that as much as Din did; that it was surely better to take to the stars together, as a family, as brothers, and as a clan. Yet even as Din perceived that yearning, he knew instantly what the answer was going to be. He could see it in the defeated curve of Cody’s shoulders. 

“I can’t.” 

Din, who was not in the business of prying, didn’t ask why. Yet Cody offered him an explanation regardless. 

“It isn’t safe.” 

“You’re strong,” said Din, frowning. “I don’t think--” 

“I didn’t mean for me,” interrupted Cody, his tone a sharp rebuke. “I meant for the youngling. Your foundling.” 

Din didn’t understand, and he let the silence ask his questions. There were many. 

“You really don’t know much about the war, do you, vod?” 

Din knew that Cody didn’t mean the war between the Empire and the Rebellion. 

“I don’t,” admitted Din. “I’ve lived in the Outer Rim my entire life. And for most of it, I’ve been in hiding.” 

“Why?” 

Din opened his mouth, yet in his thoughts he did not hear his own voice; he heard the Armorer’s. He heard the voice of his buire, his vode, but not himself. He wanted to say to Cody: because we are hunted. That answer was simple, uncomplicated… and vague. 

It was true that Din had spent most of his life being hunted. It was true that revealing themselves had destroyed his covert. But even so… was that the reason? Could you have lived freer than they had dared? Or was their secretive way of life something that carried long past its necessity? 

These were not questions he could answer now, and he put them from his mind. 

“I don’t know anymore,” he admitted.

“Mh…” For a moment, Cody was quiet. He leaned his chin against his hand; the other hand absently traced the edge of his mug. “You see… the clones had a lot of that sort’ve thing: doing things without understanding why. And now we do understand, but…” 

Din could tell that Cody was talking around something, rather than simply coming out with the truth. Din nevertheless waited, and held his tongue; he would not disrespect a ba’buir. 

“But it means I can’t trust myself to be safe for the kid.” 

“Cody?” 

“Yeah?” 

Din hesitated, but he spoke true: “You don’t have to tell me anything.” 

And there was a part of Din that intuited that he didn’t want to know that truth, whatever it was. He could feel a heaviness in the room; the same heaviness he had felt time and time again last night, when speaking to the clones. The little insinuations regarding some history that he didn’t understand. 

He killed a lot of our brothers. 

It wasn’t like he had a choice, given what happened.

And Din didn’t know what they meant by that… but he knew that most of the Jedi had died on the same day, and it was right at the end of the Clone Wars. The specifics might not have been clear to him, but he nevertheless felt the edges of some terrible calamity. 

“Don’t ever bring your foundling around a clone,” said Cody. There was grief in his voice; understated but present. “Not for anything.” 

“I won’t.” 

“You have no idea what might happen.”

Din intuitively understood Cody’s meaning. He understood what could happen... even if it was difficult to believe, and even if he didn’t want to believe it. Din wanted to believe that these men could provide a future for him, a new meaning for his life, and a place to return to when all was said and done… but they couldn’t. 

They were just another dead end. 

Din was used to disappointment and loss, yet the sting felt more pronounced now when he didn’t have his child to hold. Even so, he would shoulder this burden with the rest, and continue forward. There was no other option left to him. And before long, Din was washed, fed, and ready to leave. He embraced Cody in farewell, paid his outrageous docking fees, and left Coruscant. 

For the first time in a long time, Din turned his ship around upon breaking the atmosphere - not to return to the surface, but just to look. Helmet off and eyes misty, he gazed at the glittering gem below, letting himself indulge a moment of rare sentimentality. He was awed by the perfect beauty of Coruscant. In the quiet of space, it truly was something to behold. 

The lights glistened like dew on a web. 

The climb was steep and wet from the rain, but Maul traversed the incline with renewed agility. 

Once he started to move, it became clear just how much of his pain the child had healed. Maul couldn’t resist the desire to press his body to the limits of its new capabilities, as if to prove that he wasn’t truly as healthy as he now felt. And yes, he was aware of how perverse a desire it was, but the awareness changed nothing. 

Even rock climbing had not yet proven too much. His arms burned from the exertion of bearing his heavy prosthetics, and his hearts were racing… but these were pleasant aches. The familiar sensation of punishing his own body for its weaknesses simply did not come; there was no sense that his body was struggling to cope with the demands placed upon it. 

Maul was just going to have to come to terms with his own good health.

Grogu, strapped to him as usual, was placid and peaceful as Maul leapt and dragged himself up the craggy, rocky ledges. Now and then, Maul felt Grogu’s soft, rough-skinned little face press against the bare skin of his shoulder. The contact was gentle and tickling and astonishingly affectionate, and Maul stubbornly ignored it. Or tried to, anyway. 

When he finally pulled himself over the summit, Maul was panting hard but he felt very good, although he recognized that tomorrow he would likely struggle to move. His body was still quite fit - thickly muscled and wiry - but that was more a result of his diet than strenuous exertion of this nature. He was out of practice. 

“We’re here,” he announced, more to himself than the child. He collapsed down and unstrapped Grogu from his back, and was surprised to see that his hands were trembling. 

Still catching his breath, Maul took a moment to observe the landscape. In the distance, he could see a storm rolling across the swamplands, as purple as a welt. Now and then there were flashes of lightning, so far away that they could not be heard. He did not expect the storm to reach them for many hours, if it ever did. Closer still were the craggy, blocky structures of the plateau, and the large maw of the cave that constituted their home. The mists below were a thick crimson fog, and within them, Maul could see the glimmers of ghostly shapes languidly milling their way across the empty stone. For those without sight or training, these apparitions were difficult to see, but Maul spotted them easily. They were familiar to him. 

Maul felt, in an absurd way, that he was bidding these sights farewell. He was far less shocked at the intuition that he may soon leave Dathomir - although he didn’t particularly wish to at that moment - than at his own sentimentality. He did not think of himself as a sentimental man at all. But perhaps he had simply never had the luxury. 

And he had never had a home to say goodbye to. 

Grogu had settled at his side, peaceful and companionable and - as always - immersed in the Force. It was a calming presence; and Maul felt unhurried and still in the wake of Grogu’s peace. This was something that became more and more apparent to him; the instinctive, intuitive connection between master and apprentice. Their moods affected one another. The spaces between their emotions were growing increasingly indistinct. 

Maul rested until the hammering of his hearts began to slow. 

At the high altitude, there wasn’t much in the way of vegetation. The ground was hard stone beneath them, although now and again some stubborn, bushy weeds found places to spread. At the pinnacle of this mountain, there was a metal structure, rusted poles drilled deep into the stone, supporting a satellite dish with a bright, reflective surface. It was powered by the weak red sunlight; even under the dust on the control panel, Maul could see the glimmer of LED lights. 

Brushing it clean, Maul gazed down at the control panel for a moment. He began to flip the switches, activating the device. The panel lit up with the low, reverberating hum of tired machinery.

At his feet, Grogu looked up at him with open curiosity. 

“Most communicate through subspace transceivers,” said Maul absently. “Anything else would be far too slow, of course… a single transmission from a device such as this one would take longer than my lifetime to reach a planet like Coruscant… several centuries, in fact. It’s rather more primitive. It captures radio waves; the nh… memories, of the universe. Forgotten things.” 

Maul lifted Grogu and held him securely so he could see, using one hand to operate the control panel. 

“There are so many memories, of course; so much noise. But if you are sensitive to the Force, then you can find… well. Whatever it is you’re searching for.” 

Grogu observed the rust and the dirt caked onto the panel, and there was a question in his mind and in his eyes. Why has this been left alone for so long? 

But Maul did not answer. 

Maul set Grogu on the control panel. “Those dials,” he gestured. “You can use them to find particular radio signals; you will even be able to isolate transmissions from very far away, many of which have been carried by subspace relays and…” Maul trailed off. Grogu’s ears were drooping with boredom. “Hn. ...anyway. Without the Force to guide your hand, most of it will be meaningless nonsense. Thousands of years worth of encrypted signals, old languages… dull conversations.” 

Grogu looked down at the dials before him, his small clawed fingers absently touching them. Yet, his eyes narrowed in thought, and he began to move them, playing with them, guided by the Force as he did. Maul felt Grogu enter a quiet and peaceful trance. Maul did not rush him; he allowed the child to explore at leisure, to follow his fascinations and curiosities. And eventually, Grogu found what he was looking for. 

Maul flicked the switch to activate the speaker, and suddenly… music. 

It was thin, at first; a kind of resonant, peaceful hum. Maul recognized the song from a long time ago; something that Grogu must have heard in his youth, perhaps; something that reminded him of better things. It was surreal to imagine, but they may have both heard this music on Coruscant all those decades ago, when they had both last been there. 

Perhaps even this radio signal had reached them once, and in that moment, they had been connected by it. Unlikely… but strange to know it was possible. 

For the most part, Maul had not been raised with music. He did not have the capacity, nor the knowledge, to understand it on anything other than a superficial and intuitive level. But through Grogu, he found meaning in the melody; the simple joy of listening. Grogu, looking up at him with bright eyes, shared his happiness freely and without restraint. 

Maul settled on the ground, his eyes closed, Grogu nestled in his arms. Sometimes, Grogu would lean up and use the Force to manipulate the dials, and some new music would reveal itself to them. They remained like that deep into the night, until the only light above was the scattering of stars tinged red in the mist. The storm did not come, and they were left undisturbed; as if the planet itself was affording them this moment to enjoy music. 

Maul felt himself dropping off, exhausted. His eyelids were heavy, and Grogu was peaceful and warm against his chest. But there was a sudden movement from the little one that stirred him; a sudden urgency and purpose. Maul heard the staticy grind as the dials were manipulated, the cacophony of voices and frequencies as Grogu searched for something. And then suddenly… 

A voice cut through the air; sudden, unwelcome. A low, calm, powerful voice. A voice Maul knew through instinct; through the Force. 

The Mandalorian. 

“--have something I want. You may think you have some idea of what you are in possession of… but you do not. Soon, he will be back with--” 

Maul lashed out, a violent hand ripping the power cell from the control panel. The metallic hum sputtered and died with a low whine, the red lights winking out. They were plunged into sudden silence. After so many hours of peaceful music, that silence felt threatening and cold. Grogu curled against his chest; startled, confused, uncertain… but Maul held him, and reassured him. Yet he knew the child could feel the wild pounding of his hearts, and the sick anger that blossomed within him. And in turn, Maul could feel Grogu’s yearning for the Mandalorian, sharp and bitter. 

“Hush, hush, little one...” 

That transmission was not meant for Maul, no... those words were just a memory. And yet… 

Try if you must, Maul thought bitterly. But you cannot have him. 

He means more to me than you will ever know.

Chapter Text

Dathomir was a dying planet; the color of blood and rust in the low, infrared light of its decaying sun. 

The planet was also empty. Din didn’t need complex equipment to tell him that. A cursory glance over the planet’s surface revealed no cities, no diffusing constellations of artificial light. There were areas of thick vegetation, but a majority of the planet appeared quite uninhabitable; long, barren plains of rock and dust. There were no oceans at all. The small basins of water he did see were grimy and sickly; full of reddish algae and covered in dense, muddy swamplands that sprawled for hundreds and hundreds of miles. 

It made things marginally easier, though. There were no population centers for Din’s quarry to lose himself in. The scanners that Din had were able to isolate a number of villages after only a few hours of searching. This modest scattering of primitive settlements resided in the more temperate regions of the planet, where the jungles were dense but separated by long, flat plateaus of solid stone. 

Din coasted his ship along these villages, low enough to skim treetops as he looked for some sign of life… but there was none. These places were long abandoned; all of them. When he set his ship down in the center of one such village, he found dilapidated buildings reclaimed by nature. Small animals lurked in the decaying remnants, wary and secretive. 

When the plants were pushed aside from the crumbling walls, Din found blaster marks. Beneath the sand and mud, there were skeletons mingled with the remains of droids. The droids were terrifyingly familiar to him; enough so that he felt an almost superstitious urgency to flee… but that would be pointless. These droids were so old that the metal was almost completely rusted through, so corroded by acid that the durasteel itself seemed almost rotten. The paint of separatist insignias now left only the faintest impression. 

The bones of the villagers outnumbered the droids ten to one. They were well gnawed and yellowed with age. Skulls bearing fearsome spikes grinned blindly towards the sky, half-buried under soil. Insects and plants weaved through the empty spaces. When he bent down, he found one skeleton had its own ecosystem of millipedes writhing in the flowering shelter of its ribs. Other skeletons had become the nesting grounds for small, strange mammals; they found sanctuary in the protective shells of bone. 

For a long time, Din merely looked down at the remains, moved by their eerie beauty. And then he moved on. 

He continued from settlement to settlement, and they were all the same. Only the geography was different. Sand or stone or jungle or marshland; it didn’t matter. There were only bones, and no sign of any survivors. 

Din was convinced that he would find nothing, and yet he continued. He could track a bounty, but bounties were by definition known to at least someone. This was different. Maul was a ghost in the system; only referenced tangentially on the fringes of some greater plot that Din would likely never fully comprehend. 

All other truths were locked with keys he could not obtain, which had no specific owners except for the broad, shapeless entity that was the New Republic. 

His mood was as grim as the planet itself. Death was a fact of life for Din; he had killed plenty of men and women in his time in order to survive himself, but… the horror of genocide was something entirely different. This place reminded him of his own lost village, and he wondered if Aq Vetina was in much the same state now; if there were bones scattered amongst the scorched remains. Yes, the Mandalorians had come; they had saved them...

But for how long? The Separatists had swarmed his planet so completely that Din had not been allowed to go back… and when they were gone, the Empire replaced them. And the Mandalorians went into hiding. 

Decades had passed, and Din let his final memory remain as it was: the village shrinking beneath him as he was lifted into the sky. He had never gone back to find out what it was like. Now that he had seen this place, he never wanted to. 

Din stopped now and then, and for a long time, there were no clues. A part of him wanted to cry out in frustration, shoot something, kick the bones aside as if in blame. But that wasn’t his way; Din’s anger only went as far as the beskar that surrounded him. It never broke free. And his voice… he did not think he was capable of screaming, in pain or in frustration or anything else. Such a display was so anathema that he did not think he could coax his lungs to make the noise. 

But inside? Inside, he could feel it. The deafening frustration. 

He was well out of hope by the time he found the path; a village much like the others. Red dust whistled through the air, patterns of sand caught in the windstorm. Din walked amongst ancient red buildings, the noise of wind musical and strangely peaceful. It was better than silence, if nothing else. 

There were no bones. Din noticed that quickly. He brushed aside the dirt with his boot and found nothing but hard rock beneath. 

Din reached up, and hesitated. His fingers found the edges of his helmet, lingering against the cold durasteel for a long time before he lifted. 

When he removed his helmet, he was usually struck by the vibrancy of the world; the peripheral that he ordinarily could not see; the scale of his surroundings. But here… he was struck by the deadness of color; the absence of beauty; the ugliness of isolation. The taste of the air was stale, like baked clay. 

There wasn’t enough left here to decay. This place, unlike many of the others, had not been taken by nature. The dust was swept aside; the rubble had been cleared away. It was strange to think that it was the absence of life that implied life… and sparked hope. 

Din moved through the abandoned streets, helmet tucked under his arm, dust and sand brushing against his face. The air was warm and uncomfortably humid, but he could not see where the moisture came from; it must have been carried from somewhere far. A swamp, maybe, or a jungle. There were a few of those not too far away. Now and then he found a leaf in the dirt that had been carried on the wind, out of place in the quiet desolation. 

When he reached the opposite edge of the village, he found the graves. 

He stood in quiet reflection as he gazed upon them. It was impossible to bury bodies in solid stone, so the one who had laid them to rest had instead covered them in mounds of rock. The graves were arranged in orderly rows beneath the crumbling remains of a dead tree. Each grave bore the spiked skull of its inhabitant, set carefully upon the rock in the manner that a Mandalorian might once have set a helmet... before beskar became too scarce to leave with the fallen. 

Each skull was painted with angular black designs. Din recognized that they were in the style of Maul’s strange tattoos. It must have been a feature of these people, and not only of Maul himself. It must have been tradition to paint the skulls of the deceased; their tattoos had great meaning, then. 

Din replaced his helmet. To a Mandalorian, it would be disrespectful to show anything other than his true face to the fallen. He knelt, his hands placed upon his thighs. 

To be honored is meaningful, he thought. Because someone suffers the love of your memory. 

It was truly unlikely that it would be Maul who laid these people to rest. Too perfect. Too easy. And yet Din clung to that hope regardless. He clung to the thought that his child’s caretaker would be someone who would feel compelled to bury the dead, and to paint their skulls in remembrance. 

If that was the person Maul was, then perhaps he was not only a monster. 

Din lowered his head, and below, he saw an indentation in the ground that drew his eye. He reached out, brushing away the fine dust. He could see lettering beneath the sand, cut into sheer stone… an epitaph, he thought. 

When the dust was brushed aside, Din felt his breath catch in his throat. Carved into stone, there was a message in beautiful, elegant Mando’a - a script so dear to Din’s heart that he rarely wrote it himself, for fear of trivializing it. 

And it read: 

Ni cuy' echoy'la.

Not words of remembrance; not the old Mandalorian promises of eternity through memory; not the acknowledgement of sacrifice. This message was not for the dead, but instead a reflection of the one who was left behind. These were words that Din knew well; words that lived quietly within his own heart. 

I am searching. I am mourning. 

I am lost. 

This message meant all of those things, and each meaning had as much weight as the next. To mourn was to search, and inevitably, to be lost. It was longing that could not be fulfilled; a quest to recapture something that simply could not be recaptured, where the space that separated you from the object of your longing was time. It was longing for a place in the universe that had passed, and decayed, and turned to dust. 

There was only one person who could have written this, and it was Maul. Whatever Maul was - friend of foe, Mandalorian or outsider… he knew how to speak the language. And, for whatever reason, it was the language that came to his thoughts when he mourned. 

Din stared at the words in silence. 

The windstorm came, and Din imagined that if he stayed, he would be buried in dust along with the graves. He climbed wearily to his feet, watching as the dust began to collect on the Mando’a, obscuring the text beneath the earth again. 

He left the words covered this time, and allowed them their peace and secrecy. 

He moved on. 

Din came to the cliff face, gazing up at the wall of fluttering wings. The windstorm followed him there; a rain of feathers swirled in the dusty air, and the creatures were restless. They were the largest birds he had ever seen, shiny black feathers that seemed impossibly lovely when set against the dull, bland background of red stone. The roosting birds did not pay him mind. 

Even so, Din kept clear of them. Their beaks looked sharp. Beneath the glossy feathers, he could see powerful, lean muscle. 

To his right was a swampland, and even in the windstorm it was immersed in a thick mist. He could see the ghostly shadows of trees shimmering in the dense fog. Each breath was wet and humid, even through the filter of his helmet. Moisture beaded on his visor, and he had to  constantly reach up to rub the transparisteel clear. 

His ship was far behind now, and he wasn’t confident he could get there before nightfall on just his feet - but he had his jetpack to carry him there, if he had to. The sun was resting upon a foggy horizon, and the jagged edges of the cliffs threw angular shadows across the increasingly muddy undergrowth that crept up from the swamp below. 

Din didn’t know where he was going, exactly. He knew that Maul was like Grogu, that he could sense things that were far away from himself. If so, Din felt like Maul would recognize the presence of a stranger. It was a long shot, but if Maul could pinpoint Grogu across thousands of lightyears, then surely noticing Din couldn’t be too hard. 

Or maybe… 

Maybe Din was afraid, and pretending to find purpose in his aimless wanderings was an obfuscation of the truth. He had not seen Grogu since the child had been snatched away from him, and Din felt the weight of that guilt pressing in on him; crushing him. 

Even if Din did find him, what would Grogu think? Din had failed to protect him; failed to save him. And despite all his many close calls, Din had never failed to this degree before. If Moff Gideon had meant to kill Grogu, the kid would be dead. 

And even if that was a reality that had not manifested, the thought of it was no less disturbing. 

He grew so certain in the uselessness of this endeavor that when Maul did appear, Din struggled to believe it was real. When he turned, Maul was simply… there. He was on top of one of the jutting rock structures, one knee bent in front of him, the other tucked underneath him. 

There was a casualness in his stance that implied that he had been there for some time, observing Din. 

The truth was that against a backdrop of red stone and fluttering black wings, obscured by the draping shadows, it had been nearly impossible to see Maul. He was camouflaged. It was his eyes that caught Din’s attention; bright yellow, reflective. They flashed when he blinked, like the glint of a mirror on a desert horizon. 

“I was wondering when you were going to notice me,” said Maul. 

He spoke with Core World elegance, which… took Din aback. He wasn’t certain what he had expected, but it wasn’t that. There was something purposeful in the cadence; in the pronunciation. Din wondered: what kind of person had raised Maul? 

Given what he had seen of this world… Maul clearly had not grown up here. 

“I almost didn’t,” admitted Din flatly. “How long have you been watching?” 

“Since you came here, of course.” 

Since he came here? Did that mean since he arrived here, at this swampland? Or had Maul been watching him for longer? It was unsettling to think that he had been, and that Din hadn’t noticed; that Din hadn’t instinctively felt that gaze. 

Din’s eyes carefully scanned over Maul, and he saw no sign of Grogu. The kid wasn’t with him now. 

“Where is he?” he asked. 

Din’s voice was level; almost toneless. It betrayed nothing of his own feelings; nor his own wariness. In his rush to find Maul, he had not considered the inherent danger of it. He had seen what Maul was capable of, and Din was suddenly very conscious of his own exhaustion. 

“So you’ve come to reclaim him?” asked Maul. His voice affected calm, but there was something far more sinister beneath. 

Din felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. 

“No.” 

“No? Finding me was a remarkable feat,” said Maul. “Quite a lot of effort to go to just for the chance to… what, exactly?” 

The question lingered in the air between them… and Din did not answer. The words were there, but there was something cruel in the zabrak’s cadence. Something that made it impossible for him to express the vulnerability of his simple, singular desire to say goodbye. 

“It wasn’t. Difficult, I mean,” replied Din tersely, when he found his voice again. “Not once I started looking.” 

“Perhaps not,” said Maul silkily; and he offered nothing more. 

When those yellow eyes fixed on him, Din knew that Maul was sizing him up - deciding whether or not Din was a rival or prey. It didn’t matter what the conclusion was; Maul was going to attack him. Din could see the tension winding in Maul’s body, like the coiling of a spring. Din had been in enough fights to know when the mood turned. 

He took the beskar spear from his back; he had seen the futility of a blaster in the video feed, and he didn’t bother with it. 

He could see Maul’s eyes follow the motion of the weapon; sharp, unblinking. Din was confident there was nothing he could say or do to prevent what was coming. 

“Alright,” he sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter Text

The most successful fight is one that ends in less than sixty seconds. If you’re very good, it’ll end in ten. 

This tenant of the Mandalorian code had been drilled into Din’s mind from the beginning of his training. When sizing up an opponent, you look for any potential opening, and you throw yourself into that attack with the intention to kill as swiftly as possible. Fighting in heavy beskar was a sprint, not a marathon. No Mandalorian could expect to have the endurance necessary for a drawn out conflict. 

Maul, who was unarmored and nimble on his feet, apparently did not suffer such restrictions. He lunged, attacked… and then withdrew and circled. The moments of intense violence were followed by moments of quiet - almost amused - calm. Din had never fought like this before, this constant stopping and starting; it frustrated him. And yet, he needed the moments of respite all the same. Every attack was shockingly powerful, almost too swift for Din to keep up with. Saber and spear clashed in a rain of sparks again and again, and Din was conscious of just how much force he had to exert to keep the saber from biting into his shoulder, or into his neck. 

“You’re skilled,” said Maul, although he didn’t sound surprised. His tone fell somewhere between praise and disdain. “More agile than one might expect in that armor. Pure beskar, is it?” 

Din wondered, why is he talking? Was this a real fight? Was this something the Jedi - or the Sith - did? He had no idea. 

He didn’t know how to respond. He moved opposite to Maul, mirroring his movements; it was an unconscious impulse, a natural orbit. 

Before long, though, Din found himself learning. He anticipated each attack, and each withdrawal. Maul chose the pace of battle, but Din began to find meaning in it. There was rhythm. Every attack followed some rule of engagement that Din did not yet understand; but intuitively, he followed. 

A Mandalorian tried to end a fight in sixty seconds or less. A Sith, it seemed, tried to draw out a fight as long as possible; like a tooka toying with a mouse. There was a kind of arrogance in it, but also something gentlemanly, too; something uniquely elegant. 

And Maul was elegant; in the cadence of his voice, but also in his movements. It was so at odds with his fearsome appearance that Din didn’t know what to make of it. 

The moments of respite grew shorter, the attacks more vicious. Behind them, the wall of birds ruffled and flicked their obsidian wings, and the shadows grew long as the sun crept its way into the horizon. The air was restless. The fog from the swamp rolled over them as the winds turned, swallowing them in a murky, colorless haze. Maul became a part of the shadows themselves; a specter in the mist. 

When Din blinked, Maul disappeared; it was so sudden that he was momentarily disoriented. In the fog, Maul’s yellow eyes did not shine; they did not betray him. And with the restless flapping of wings, it became difficult to hear his footsteps. 

Din turned the spear in his hand, tense, alert. There was an impulse to panic, but he didn’t. Din could detach himself from those things. It was the first thing he learned from the Mandalorians: to separate himself from pain, or fear. To let himself find peace in the clarity of purpose. 

It was easy, when he was doing it for another’s sake; for his brothers, for his clan. 

For Grogu. 

When the attack came, Din nearly did not survive it. The black void of the saber brushed so close to his neck that he felt the heat. He heard the blow only a second before he came; laser swords were not quiet, and Maul had to activate it to use it. It was raw instinct that made Din lunge to the side. It was the kind of instinct you made for yourself; something learned and practiced. 

Din turned and slammed the spear into Maul’s unprotected side, and he heard the answering grunt of pain. But Maul was fast; and his hand closed on the spear and held firm. Din suddenly found himself stuck; unwilling to release his weapon, but unable to win it back. The sharp kick aimed at Maul’s shin should have dislodged him, but it did nothing. 

Din didn’t have the time to consider why. Instinct told Din to drop, and he did. He slammed hard to the stone beneath him in the same instant that he activated his jetpack. Maul - never one to be taken off guard, it seemed - held firm to the spear. Din braced himself, his jetpack dragging them, but Maul somehow was able to keep his footing. By all rights, they should have both been launched into the air. 

Maul was dragged inch by agonizing inch as the force of the jetpack struggled to dislodge him. But it didn’t. 

Din did the only thing that he could in that moment, and it broke his heart. He let go of the spear and launched himself into the air to put distance between them - but that, too, was pointless. As Din tore his way up the cliff face, Maul followed with absurd agility. He bounded from ledge to ledge like a cat, and - in one burst of power - leapt up to grab onto Din’s ankle. 

Din veered, slamming hard into the wall. He heard the offended squall of birds, who exploded into a violent flurry of motion. Dozens of them took abruptly to the air with a powerful gust of flapping wings. Suddenly, Din’s worst enemy was no longer the zabrak, but instead the sharp talons and beaks that descended upon them both. 

Din flew upwards, a disoriented and rotating flight, and he cleared the top of the plateau. He was thrown hard onto the ground by the blunt impact of dozens of birds descending upon him. Din’s vision was blotted out by black feathers and sharp, gnashing beaks. He felt the grind of sharp talons scratching against beskar, finding the seams between metal and leather and skin. The birds were fast, and intelligent - and before long, he felt a tingling heat ripple across his skin. His blood began to flow. 

All at one, the birds were suddenly ripped off of him and thrown aside, offended shrieks ringing through the air. Their wings flapped against a pressure that could not be controlled, and could not be fought back against: the same strange power that had lifted the mudhorn. 

The strange power that had become the singular focus of Din’s life. 

For a wild moment, Din thought Maul was his savior - but that made no sense, and when Din turned his head, he was strangely unsurprised to see Grogu standing there, small hands raised, large eyes narrowed with intense concentration. It was so familiar to see him that way; to see him reach out with that strange ability at the cost of his own strength, always to help others; always to protect. 

It was as if Grogu had never been gone at all. 

Time felt slow in that moment. Din stared at Grogu, struck dumb with love and longing. The cacophony of shrieking birds felt far away, and Maul… for that moment, Maul simply didn’t matter. Din stared at his foundling and felt like he was finally, finally home. 

Of course, it was only a moment. It extinguished as quickly as a flame, and Din was ripped from his joy into the harsh reality of battle. The child’s grip slipped, and the birds snaked through their invisible bonds. Even though the birds had no eyes, Din could see that they were very conscious of Grogu. They immediately fell upon the child. 

Din, who could not spare even an instant to think, ripped off his helmet and lunged. He slammed the protective shell of beskar over his foundling an instant before a bird’s beak speared downwards. Its beak did not find Grogu, but it did find Din’s hand. It impaled him through the vulnerable flesh separating his thumb and forefinger. His glove did not protect him.

Din choked on the desire to cry out. He wanted to rip his hands away, but he didn’t. He kept them on the helmet, holding it down, protecting Grogu beneath it. Even when the birds began to scratch and peck at his uncovered head, he did not let go. He felt blood sting his eyes. 

Din heard a static hum of energy, and suddenly the birds were drawn away. From the cocoon of feathers and wings, Din could only dimly see the gore of severed heads and wings as they fell upon red stone. He could see the strange penumbra of the darksaber dancing its way through the flock. It moved with elegance and grace that seemed strangely slow, and yet the birds could not lay a talon upon their attacker. 

And there was Maul in the center of the maelstrom, his spine erect, his eyes closed… he was untouched by the circling predators. Maul was splattered with blood, but Din did not see any wounds upon him. Every time a bird so much as considered assault, Maul met its attack with eerie swiftness. He could kill in the blink of an eye, so fast that Din struggled to follow the slice of the blade. 

The frustrated birds encircled Maul, uttering gravelly chirps and aggressively snapping their beaks, but Maul jealously protected the space around him. They could not pierce past the barrier that he’d created with the deadly reach of the darksaber. 

Din felt certain, suddenly, that if Maul had intended to kill Din, he’d already be dead. 

Suddenly, when Maul tired of the dance, he reached out with a single tattooed hand. He held it up as if in offering, palm to the sky. It seemed a peaceful gesture. Maul’s lips were curled faintly, the expression almost gentle. But when his hand closed, there was a sickening ripple of snap! snap! snap! and the birds collapsed around him. 

All of them were dead. Their necks were broken. 

Din swallowed hard, staring. Maul was as still as stone apart from the deep rise and fall of his chest. There were feathers hovering, orbiting; not carried by the wind but with the Force. They were caught in the wake of Maul’s power. 

And Din was awed. 

When Maul turned to Din again, he did not move. Din gave no illusion of hostility. He could not win against Maul. There was no way. 

Din reached out with an unsteady hand, and he took one of those floating feathers from the air. He turned it over, admiring the ink black gloss. When he let it go, it resumed its weightless orbit. 

Slowly, Din looked down at the helmet under his hand. The beskar was slick with his own blood. He trembled as he lifted it, and found Grogu napping peacefully beneath. Din looked back at Maul, but the zabrak did not move. His expression was inscrutable. His eyes caught the last rays of sunset, glimmering like sparks. 

For Din, that was acquiescence enough. He picked up Grogu, holding him secure against his chest. The child was familiar and so, so light in his arms; almost as weightless as the feathers idling around Maul. The only noise was the strange, metallic song of the darksaber.

Din reached a hand to touch the edge of Grogu’s ear, but stopped when he saw the blood still streaming over the fabric of his glove. Din dropped the hand, instead leaning down to press his forehead to Grogu’s. He could feel the soft, reassuring breaths from his foundling. 

You’ll never be in danger as long as Maul protects you. Never. 

Din did not put his helmet back on. The damage was already done. In this moment, Din could not bring himself to care. In the light of his foundling’s discovery, he felt that his own needs were utterly, deeply irrelevant. The code did not matter. Din did not matter. He would dishonor himself, his creed, his armor, all of it… if it meant Grogu’s safety and happiness. 

There was nothing he would not sacrifice to that end. Even himself. 

Especially himself. 

“Will you teach him to be as powerful as you?” asked Din. His voice was choked, still raw with exertion. He took a moment to catch his breath. “He’ll be able to do… that?” 

Maul considered him, head tipped to the side. There was something untrusting in his eyes, but Din didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t know what to make of any of this. 

“...yes,” was the quiet response. “In time.” 

Din closed his eyes, and he nodded. Slowly, he placed Grogu on the ground, sleeping and peaceful. He reached down to squeeze his foundling’s hand, hoping that Grogu could feel it. 

Din stood and took a few heavy steps back. He could feel blood dripping from his eyebrow, snaking its way down his cheek. He was conscious of the many gashes on his head, but his adrenaline numbed them. He could only feel wet, tingling heat. 

Din looked up at Maul again, and at the void blade of the darksaber that remained unsheathed; a threat. 

If Maul meant to kill him, there wasn’t much Din was going to be able to do. Run, maybe. But he knew that Maul’s powers could catch him as surely as a tractor beam would catch a fleeing ship. It didn’t feel like there was any plausible means of survival for him, apart from Maul deciding to let him live. 

“This was what I wanted for him,” said Din eventually. His voice sounded strange and unfamiliar to himself; he so rarely heard it without his helmet on. “I wanted him to be protected. To be safe. If you can give him that-- if you can… then I’ve got no reason to fight you.” 

Maul gazed at him in silence. He stepped forward, and Din felt tension wrack up his spine and into his shoulders. But the darksaber powered off, and Maul’s hand reached out. Grogu was lifted weightlessly into that hand, floating like one of those feathers; safe and cradled in Maul’s great power. 

Maul drew the small, sleeping bundle against his tattooed chest. His hand cupped Grogu’s back with unexpected softness. Just a moment ago, that same hand had closed and ended the lives of their attackers in one violent instant. And yet he was gentle with Grogu. 

Din bent down. He took his helmet from the ground, and the beskar spear. He felt leaden; not from the fight, but from the thought of leaving now. He had only had a moment, so tortuously brief, to see Grogu again. 

But it was better than nothing. 

“He… wants to be here?” he asked. He did not look at Maul’s eyes; only at the hand covering Grogu. “He’s happy?” 

“He’s safe,” replied Maul vaguely. 

Hn. That had to be good enough. Din could live with good enough. Grogu, too. It was better than the alternative. 

“However.” 

Maul took another step forward, and Din felt the strange, ethereal grip of the Force close in around him like cool water. Din could still move, but slowly; inelegantly. He knew that if Maul wanted to, he could restrain him completely. Maul could probably rip him apart from the inside out, if he chose to. 

Din stayed still. 

“How safe can he possibly be if you found me here?” asked Maul. “I wonder.” 

Maul approached him, and Din forced himself to look into Maul’s face. Maul’s yellow eyes were sliding over his features, not quite holding his gaze; curious and strangely greedy. Din would have felt less vulnerable with a knife against his throat, honestly. The drip, drip, drip of blood from his brow was tickling his cheek, making Din all too conscious of how exposed he was. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” replied Din steadily. He did not lower his eyes; such a display of weakness would be unwise. “I would never risk the kid like that.” 

“And yet… how can I possibly trust your word, I wonder?” 

The words were an elegant growl. So considered; so deliberate. 

Din had nothing to offer, really. There were no assurances he could give, except the one that meant the most to him. 

“This is the way.” 

Those words had been dormant in his own mind for what felt like years. Why they came to him now was anyone’s guess. 

He was disappointed to see bemusement rather than recognition in Maul’s eyes. What were the Mandalorians like, back when Maul knew them - when he ruled them? What was their way? 

Did they have one? 

“This is the way,” repeated Maul contemplatively. “How perfectly Mandalorian.” 

In his mouth, the words sounded like a purr; something self-satisfied, completely bereft of humility or honorable intention. Din didn’t like it. 

Yet, Maul released him. It was so sudden that Din stumbled, gravity reasserting itself abruptly upon his body. The feathers surrounding them fell just as swiftly; so swiftly, in fact, that they could only have been pushed. Maul commanded the space around him; every molecule; every mote of dust. It all belonged to him. The raw power was staggering, and Din was both amazed and wary. 

Why would someone of such power be here, on this forgotten and empty planet? Din thought of the graves, and he wondered. 

“You…” started Din, the words catching. “You’re alone here?” 

“Alone?” was the answering hum; a tone of cold amusement that sounded like a warning. “I have my apprentice. I’m quite spoiled for company these days, all told.” 

“But-” 

Din stepped forward, but he felt a physical push that he could not see. The zabrak was unapproachable, wrapped within an invisible barrier that could not be pierced by the likes of Din. Din reached out a hand into that space, and felt the pressure of the air grow powerful; almost painful. He drew back, looking at his hand for a moment; trying to understand the strangeness of this person. 

“Less alone than you are,” answered Maul with cold, purposeful cruelty, “if I’m not mistaken. Why else would you come here, Mandalorian? You have run out of places to go. And you certainly have no sewer to return to these days, do you?” 

Din felt a cold sweat break across his skin. Maul must have seen what happened through Grogu, surely… but it was still unsettling to be so unguarded, so revealed. Maul could see through him, and yet to Din, Maul was utterly opaque. 

“Would we have ever been in a sewer, if not for you?” asked Din. 

It was not an accusation; it was a question. It was more painful for Din to ask than for Maul to answer. Of that, Din was certain. The power that Maul possessed was too great. If he had meant to save the Mandalorians, they would have been saved. And if he meant to destroy them, then… 

Maul considered him, a joyless smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “The Mandalorians were bent on self-destruction, with or without my interference,” was the measured response. “The difference I made was, mh... nominal at best. Does that answer satisfy you, Mandalorian?” 

Din accepted that answer was unsettling readiness, betraying his own desire to believe that Grogu’s companion was not responsible for the sorry state of Din’s people. Not that that would have changed much about the reality of this situation, which was that Grogu was now in Maul’s care - and  that wouldn’t change no matter what Din wanted. 

“Maul…” Din started. It felt odd and uncomfortable to say that name with such familiarity, but he did not have another title to call him by. ...except Mand’alor, he supposed. “Why did you fight me? Was it to protect the kid?” 

Maul exhaled sharply, amusement without warmth; amusement at Din’s expense. “From you? Hardly, Mandalorian, I have no reason to believe that you would be a threat to him. But I have every reason to believe that you would steal him away from me. Mandalorians can be such possessive creatures, especially where their foundlings are concerned.” 

That was rich, coming from Maul. Yet that was an answer that Din was satisfied with. 

Din finally replaced his helmet on his head. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding onto; the tension unwound from his shoulders. He felt steadier now that he was covered again; more at peace. More himself.  

This is the way, he assured himself. 

“That’s all I wanted,” said Din. “Somewhere he could be safe.” 

“Then you should be satisfied,” was the clipped answer. 

“I am.” 

There was a shift; an unexpected change in mood. The humor in Maul evaporated and became something else, and Din didn’t know what it was; a kind of restless agitation. The zabrak jerked his head away suddenly, his eyes flashing as he blinked against the last rays of moody sunlight. Maul’s thumb pressed against the trigger on the darksaber. 

But he did not activate it. 

And then Maul chuckled. It sounded so disingenuous that Din tensed. 

“Come, Mandalorian,” said Maul suddenly; it was not a request. “Grogu will not be quick to forgive if I do not allow him to bid you farewell. And besides, this meat is going to go to waste; we might as well eat what we can.” 

Maul turned and began to walk. The maw of an enormous cave loomed, and Din supposed that was their destination; their home. That’s why Grogu had been here, waiting for them. 

Din was rooted to the spot for a long time; unsure. Entering this cave felt about as safe as wandering into the den of the Krayt Dragon. 

Yet that was where Grogu lived now. Maul was not wrong that Din had run out of places to go, and it seemed that that cave was the only path left to Din that was not purposeless and solitary. 

Din knelt down, and he gathered one of the dead birds in his arms, grunting as his damaged hand bore its weight. He could see his own blood on its beak. 

He followed Maul into the caves. 

Chapter Text

The cave generated its own light; a green haze that seemed to come from the air itself. Miniscule pinpoints of neon floated and weaved through the air like small insects. The motions felt purposeful; alive. 

His helmet did not detect any heat from these ethereal wisps. When he switched to thermal imaging, there was simply nothing there. Nothing. Din’s impulse was to believe that something was wrong with his equipment, because nothing else made sense. All light had some small trace of heat; that was intrinsic to its nature. But this place was strange. Din had already seen the impossible. His understanding of the universe, interpreted through the lens of what was known, fell short. 

This planet did not feel like it belonged to this universe - nor did its inhabitants. 

Maul moved between the lights with practiced ease. He did not touch them. Din followed his lead, tracing a winding path through the hazy bulbs, careful not to disturb them. Neither spoke. Din, for his part, found himself holding his breath. 

Before long, the only color visible was green. It was like sinking into a vast ocean; the colors filtered out until only the deep, gloomy shades of emerald remained. 

Eventually, they passed through into darkness; the neon lights clustered at the edge of what seemed to be some kind of invisible boundary. Maul ducked beneath them and into a passage so dark that he disappeared from view. Din stood for a long time, unsure, before he knelt down and slid under the wisps of light. It was awkward, holding onto the heavy bird and still sore from the fight, but he managed. 

Din followed, and he found himself in what appeared to be some kind of living space. There was a bed of worn, woven cloth, and a sling for Grogu situated above it. As Maul lit candles, the room revealed itself. It was fuller than Din expected, with many strange objects… And one very familiar object. 

Din’s heart clenched hard in his chest at the sight of Mandalorian armor - beskar armor. The armor was grey; the helmet bore the faded white symbol of the shriek hawk, familiar to Din. There were symbols that Din did not recognize on the chestplate; blue and angular. 

Not so long ago, Din had been willing to kill or to die to reclaim lost Mandalorian armor. But he did not feel that way now. Din was conscious of the absence of that part of himself; the clarity he had once enjoyed, and taken for granted. The emptiness was almost a physical pressure; full of echoes and unconstructive thoughts. 

He looked away. 

“Who’s armor is that..?” he asked quietly. He just couldn’t believe that it was Maul’s. 

Maul glanced at the armor, exhaled a breath that was almost a laugh - but Maul was tired, and the humor evaporated quickly. “Pre Vizsla’s.” 

Vizsla. That name was, of course, familiar to Din. Questions bubbled up inside him, and he thought: I should return that armor to Paz. But Din had no way of knowing if Paz was still alive. And he already knew there was no way he could win against Maul. 

“Did you..?” 

The question was obvious: did you kill him? 

“Yes.” 

Maul’s answer was almost warm, full of a nostalgic gentleness. His expression was soft, his eyes faraway. Din didn’t think Maul was really seeing what was here; he was lost in some distant memory. As Din looked around at the artifacts of Maul’s life, the memories of what he once possessed, he thought: Maul isn’t really here. He’s trapped somewhere back there; in the past. 

And Din related to that terrible loss. He related so deeply that he felt a physical ache in his chest. These objects felt as somber as the graves he had seen in the village. 

Ni cuy' echoy'la. He remembered the carved writing. 

Din felt an impulsive yearning to empathize with Maul; the desire to find a connection that he could understand, some justification. Yet all the while, Din remained conscious of the fact that an injured predator was often the most dangerous of all, protecting the root of its pain with jealous violence. 

Maul settled Grogu into his sling above the bed. Din stepped forward, yearning to be close with his foundling… but Maul’s answering glare was clear enough. There was something territorial about Maul, a kind of possessiveness that Din found reassuring (for Grogu’s sake) and deeply frustrating. 

Din sighed, and did not approach the sling. 

He was then led to another adjoining passage. They came to a room with a large, round oven carved into the stone of the cave. The room was thick with the scent of smoke, charcoal and blood. There was a table that was well cleaned, but Maul hadn’t bothered to entirely wash the blood off the stone floor. It wasn’t dirty, though; there was some kind of rudimentary drain situated in the center of the floor, and a nozzle of dripping water that no doubt drew from the spring above the cave system. 

“Hang it,” said Maul. 

Din did as he was asked, hoisting the large bird up onto a hook that dangled from the ceiling over a large basin. Maul took a knife from the table, slashing open the bird's throat and allowing the blood to drain. They watched in silence as the basin filled, until the steady stream became slow drips. 

“Put it on the table,” said Maul. 

The bird was lighter now that it was drained, and Din was able to maneuver it onto the table easily enough. Maul washed off his hands. He flicked them dry before opening a ceramic pot filled with a strange, colorless powder. He padded it over his hands, sending plumes of the smoky, tasteless dust into the air. 

Some kind of disinfectant, Din supposed. Din removed his gloves and followed Maul’s lead, pausing before he covered his hands in the substance. Maul said nothing, so Din supposed it was correct. 

Din began plucking the feathers from the bird. There was no noise except the unpleasant ripping noise of feathers pulled from flesh. Maul moved to the stove, putting in a dried bundle of weeds. He sparked them somehow, seemingly with his hand; Din could not see any obvious firestarter. It was unsettling. 

And still, Maul said nothing. As Din watched him move, he was struck by the thought that Maul was both amused - at Din’s expense, somehow - and hostile. There was a sharpness in his gestures, and Din still felt the intangible pressure of Maul’s magic at work keeping Din at bay. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. 

The tension had not yet broken. The fight still lingered, the adrenaline still pulsing through Din’s chest. They had not come to an impasse; they had been interrupted. And Din understood well enough that Maul would not dare kill him and risk Grogu turning against him. 

Or… Din assumed as much, anyway. 

“How long have you lived here?” he asked. 

Din, not good at small talk at the best of times, felt like this was the wrong question to ask; he knew the answer. Years. Maul felt like a part of this planet, as natural as the millipedes wrapped around the bones Din had found, or the obsidian birds, or the silver fog that rolled a migratory path along the canyon ridge. Din knew that Maul had left before, and been part of the universe once… but it didn’t feel like that. 

Maul exhaled; another aborted half-laugh, completely absent of humor. “A long time,” he indulged. “Yes. But you can see that, can’t you, Mandalorian?” 

Din swallowed. It felt like Maul was reading his mind, and he didn’t like that. Could he read minds? Could he actually? 

“Why?” 

Din wanted to say something more. It’s lonely. It’s dangerous. It’s miserable. 

But obviously it wasn’t to Maul. Din wondered if this place - this quiet isolation - was kinder than the harsh vacuum of the outer universe. Din had been hurt, too; he had been betrayed and abandoned many more times than he could count. He could understand that. 

But what about Maul? What had happened to him - to his people? To this planet? The questions were spilling from Din’s mind, but they didn’t reach his throat. Each one felt like the cut of a knife; an unkind cruelty. 

“It’s home, Mandalorian,” said Maul, with a sharp glance. “You can see well enough this is my origin. You saw the villages; you saw the skulls.” 

“So you were following me,” replied Din. 

Maul narrowed his eyes, yellow pinpricks of light. They were not merely reflective, like the eyes of a tooka; they generated their own glow, soft but eerily bright in this gloomy, claustrophobic darkness. 

“No,” said Maul eventually. “I wasn’t.” 

Din stopped plucking feathers for a moment, and he turned to look at Maul fully. He wanted to accuse Maul of lying, but Din didn’t think he was. There was a weary, heavy seriousness in Maul’s tone; a kind of resigned misery. He didn’t understand it, but… yes, he definitely believed him.  

Din realized, then, that Maul would have confronted him at the gravesite sooner if he could have. He wonder have stopped Din from reading the message carved into the ground. Even so, Maul knew he’d gone there; he knew what Din had seen. 

Was it just a lucky guess? Or… was it his power? 

What was his power? 

“You’re like the kid,” said Din, still strangely reluctant to use Grogu’s name; protecting it as jealously as he would any Mandalorian’s name, even if it was already known. “The powers, I mean. What can you do?” 

Maul walked to the opposite side of the table, facing Din. He took a wing in his hand and spread it. With one sharp, uncompromising motion, he ripped off the outermost joint of the wing. He stripped the feathers and skin free with sharp fingernails, until only the bone remained. Maul chewed on the edge of it; Din could hear it crunching under Maul’s jaws. It was a harsh and unpleasant noise. 

“What do you think I can do?” asked Maul in turn. 

Din swallowed. He looked down at the mess of feathers and the pink, plump body of the dead bird. He suddenly didn’t have much of an appetite. 

“You can move objects with your mind,” he started. It was easiest to start with what he knew for certain, and work his way to what he speculated. “And the way you fought… you always knew exactly where I was going to strike.” 

“Correct,” said Maul, and there was a tone of sly amusement. “Why do you think that is, Mandalorian?” 

Din thought back to Ahsoka Tano, and her silent communication with his foundling; the strange capacity to speak without words. 

“You can read minds.” 

Maul exhaled, rolling his eyes briefly. The amusement that followed was more genuine, although it was still at Din’s expense. “Ah, so I suppose you consciously consider every movement you’ll make in a fight?” 

Obviously not. Din suddenly felt annoyed at himself. His amazement at Maul and Grogu’s power was tapping into some part of his imagination that still believed in ghosts and demons, the superstitious creatures that he distantly and vaguely recalled from his upbringing. Mandalorians did not think like that. They kept themselves connected to what was real… and Grogu and Maul were a part of this universe, no matter their strange natures. 

At least, that’s what he wanted to believe. His eyes shifted absently to the tunnel, and the distant green lights beyond. He could hear whispering; a faint, ethereal sigh. Maul did not react to any of it, which led Din to believe that this was commonplace for Dathomir. 

He turned his attention back to the task at hand, ripping feathers. But Maul, still standing on the other side of the table, still smirking, seemed to expect more. His tattooed hands were splayed out over the surface of the table, powerful and elegant. From this close, Din could see how the tattoos on his hands were blurred at the edges, betraying their age. 

“Then you can see the future,” said Din eventually. It sounded more absurd than reading minds, but he didn’t know what else it could be. “Right?”

Maul’s smirk unexpectedly faded. There was something in his eyes; bitter disdain… but not towards Din. 

“Time is merely another dimension, one that has little bearing on the Force.” 

The Force. To Din, that sounded like a threatening, unpleasant thing; some kind of hostile entity. 

“Can you heal people?” asked Din suddenly. “With your power.” 

“I can only heal myself,” said Maul, and then he exhaled. There was something cold in that sigh, something derogatory. Din didn’t understand it. “Or rather, I can keep myself alive, far beyond what is reasonable. ...No. I lack Grogu’s training.” 

“His training,” repeated Din contemplatively. “So I guess you didn’t come from the same place, then. The temple.” 

Maul snorted. “No, Mandalorian, I did not.” 

Din held out his hand. Maul handed him a knife with such intuitiveness that Din still expected that somehow, he must be reading Din’s thoughts. 

He looked at the knife. It was made of black glass with a silver handle; beautiful. He didn’t feel like it came from this planet. 

Din sliced the blade through the fragile neck of the dead bird, and he tossed the head into the basin of blood. Gutting it would be impossible with his vambraces on. Yet, to take them off and disarm himself even more would feel irresponsible; another of the many indignities to his Mandalorian code. 

Din sighed quietly. He stripped them away. Maul’s eyes followed the motion, and Din was again struck by the thought that somehow, Maul was reading his thoughts - or… perhaps he simply knew how Mandalorians felt about such things. 

Din felt uncomfortably embarrassed. 

“What kind of training did you have?” asked Din, if only to distract him. “Never seen anything like it.”

Maul’s expression became something almost feline, and Din was relieved to see that his attention was, indeed, moved away from Din’s blood-stained hands and vulnerable wrists. Din set about gutting the bird, pulling out its innards. There were a lot; the bird was huge, after all. The anatomy was also different than most birds he had gutted, but he supposed that was to be expected. Creatures were different here. 

“It’s an ancient style,” said Maul, and there was pride in his voice; unmissable. “Juyo. It’s called mnh... the ferocity form. It channels your aggression into raw power through the conduit of the Force. Very powerful, in the right hands… It’s not unlikely that I am the last one alive to practice it.” 

The smile faded a little at that, his yellow eyes flicking restlessly. Behind his helmet, Din had no reason not to gaze at Maul’s face; to watch his eyes, his expressions; to memorize the strange, angular details of his tattoos. They were bizarre, unnervingly symmetrical. Din wondered if his skin beneath was red, or if every inch of skin was covered in these markings. He wondered how young Maul had been when they were applied, and why he had gotten them, and what they meant. 

At some point, Maul stripped off his tunic and threw it aside, no doubt to avoid it becoming dirtied as he helped Din scoop the entrails from the bird. The tattoos covered every inch of him, it seemed. 

Din looked away. 

“So Juyo is a Jedi thing?” asked Din when the silence grew too long. At the answering growl, he amended: “...a Sith thing?” 

“It cannot be practiced by those who are not strong in the Force,” was the answer; a touch disdainful, and more than a touch proud. 

But whether it was a Jedi or a Sith thing remained curiously unanswered. 

Din and Maul carried the mound of viscera to the blood basin together. By the time the bird was hollowed, the basin was overflowing, blood dripping in steady streams onto the floor and down into the drain. Maul seemed curiously unwilling to tip the blood into the drain entirely, which would have been faster and easier. 

When the bird was washed, Maul and Din hoisted it together onto a huge iron board and maneuvered it into the sweltering oven. Din could feel the dry heat wash over him even through the barrier of his armor. 

It was exhausting work, all told. After that and the fight, Din felt almost lightheaded. He took the water hose and washed the surfaces clean, the dark blood swirling down the drain. Disposing of the viscera itself was next, and proved the most taxing part of the whole ordeal. They carried the basin through a dark, adjoining tunnel. It was almost impossible to move without splashing blood. Maul hardly seemed bothered by it, intermittently licking his fingers clean when they paused for breath. 

It didn’t disgust Din much. He’d spent too much time around Grogu, who seemed to like to eat all kinds of raw meats and live bugs. He and Maul probably had that in common. 

Eventually, they stopped for a proper break. The basin itself was heavier than what was in it, and Din felt sick with exertion. Din was panting, and Maul seemed to take great care in controlling his own breaths. Din almost asked why Maul wasn’t using the Force to move it, but the answer was obvious - he was tired out, and the Force took more strength of will than this did. 

They both leaned against the wall of the dark tunnel. There was no light, and Din had to switch to night vision to continue. 

Maul seemed unhindered. In the green night vision, his eyes were blindingly bright. 

“Are you carnivorous?” asked Din impulsively. “Like the kid?” 

Grogu had eaten plenty of things that weren’t meat, but Din wasn’t confident that that meant he was an omnivore. After all, Grogu had also eaten plenty of things that weren’t technically food. 

“Mnh. Yes,” said Maul. “Most everything on this planet is.” 

“How does that work?” 

Maul’s eyes flickered up to Din’s, and there was a kind of… wariness? Din wasn’t sure. He felt like Maul wasn’t used to these kinds of questions; this sort of curiosity. But Din was curious, more so than he would have expected of himself. Of course, he could justify it easily enough. After all, this was Grogu’s new caretaker. 

...But at the same time, Din wasn’t particularly good at self-deception. He was cognizant that his concern for Grogu only accounted for a part of his interest. Maul was fascinating; completely alien to Din. And while Din was a quiet and self-interested sort of person, he did not necessarily excel in total solitude. He liked company; he liked companionship. He’d never been without it until now. 

“The Force,” said Maul eventually, his voice resonant in the narrow space. “It’s very strong on this planet. The creatures here, mnh… they can subsist upon it, to a degree. But the sort of Force that exists here fosters a desire to consume meat and to hunt. It rather shaped the ecosystem of this world into something duly hostile.” 

That sounded right, Din supposed. This world seemed extremely unkind. 

“And you think the kid is safe here?” asked Din. 

“Was he particularly safe anywhere else?” was the dry response. 

It was a fair point. Din shrugged. “Ready?” 

Maul sighed. “Yes, yes,” he replied. “Let’s get this over with.” 

Together, they picked up the basin again and made their way through the tunnel. Din resented that they were making their way up an incline. By the time they found the exit, his heart was pounding and his armor was a burden. Maul, while winded, seemed more or less content. He wasn’t wrapped in heavy beskar. 

They emerged into a forested area of some kind; a jungle. It was eerily silent here, apart from the ghostly rustle of leaves. The world was plunged into a deep darkness, and the canopy hid away the stars and moons. The trees were hazy and eerie pillars in the sharp edges of Din’s nightvision. Branches and greenery swayed in a restless breeze, and Din saw the distant reflection of eyes in the blackness. 

Many eyes, in fact. There were creatures waiting for them. He couldn’t make out their shapes; they were hidden in the thick of the trees. 

Maul seemed unperturbed. 

“Leave the basin here,” said Maul. “We'll recover it tomorrow.” 

Din looked at Maul then, curious. This felt almost ritualistic; a kind of offering. They walked back into the tunnel, but Din lingered far behind Maul and kept looking back. He saw shapes in the distance clustered around the basin, and he heard the yips and snarls of scavengers as they dueled over the fresh meal. 

“Coming, Mandalorian?” came Maul’s voice; amused... but also commanding. 

No, thought Din. Not commanding. Anxious. 

It was subtle, but Din was sensitive to changes of tone in a way that most weren’t. When your entire clan obscured their faces at all times, that kind of sensitivity was inevitable. 

And Din wondered: what is he afraid of? 

“I’m coming,” answered Din after a moment. He threw one last look back to the exit of the cave before following Maul into the darkness.

Chapter Text

Rest was elusive. 

Maul expected that it would be. He was conscious of the Mandalorian’s intrusive presence; the unfamiliar noise of gentle, sleepy sighs filling the dark silence. The Mandalorian was sitting on the ground, not so far away. His back was resting against the stone wall, his helmeted head bowed to his breastplate. He was obviously used to sleeping uncomfortably and in full armor, and Maul sensed no disturbance from him. 

The Mandalorian’s armor was still splattered with blood and dust, his hand bandaged. The Mandalorian had not replaced the ripped glove, and the bandages were already sodden. No doubt it was painful. But still, he slept well, and Maul felt a bitter envy within him. 

This Mandalorian had the capacity that many Mandalorians had - that was, to sleep peacefully even after the most vicious of confrontations. They had remarkable control over their own minds and bodies; a determination to rest. There was an ingrained imperative to regather their strength no matter what, and always be ready for the next battle. They took great care of their bodies - to an almost worshipful degree, in fact. 

Maul had noticed that on Mandalore. They slept deeply while Maul was always damnably wakeful; always exhausted; always in some degree of pain or abuse. It was the fear that degraded his body; it sparked the insomnia that plagued him. 

He had feared Sidious coming for him. He had feared… many things. 

But that was a long time ago. Maul’s rage back then had been… different. The shape of his fear had been desperate. Now, his fear was different; more subtle; contemplative. It was a fear sparked by the intangible; the unknowable. Sidious was gone, and thus, Maul’s fear had nothing to blame except the shadows that crept into his own mind. 

It was not only the Mandalorian that triggered such restlessness, although Maul wished that it was. He sensed the beginnings of a storm. He could smell the static and the wind. The air was dense and claustrophobic. He tasted rain. 

Resigning himself to his own sleeplessness, Maul slipped soundlessly from his bed. He walked with blind familiarity through the dark cave. The strange green lights, a usual ghostly feature of his domain, had retreated into the shadows and disappeared. That was never a good sign. 

He emerged into the open, greeted by the crimson night sky. The quartet of moons caught the glow of the sun, spilling its thin light across the gloomy landscape. The moons were only masked by the restless migration of black clouds. 

Maul could taste the tempest in the air… and something else. Something musky; alive. 

His eyes scanned the landscape. The birds he had slaughtered were gone. In their place, there were white bones. There was silence, only broken by the whisper of dust as the restless winds moved… and that was when he realized that this was not real. It couldn’t be. 

This was a dream... or a vision. It was often difficult to tell the difference. Maul may have been sleeping in his bed, or perhaps he was actually here, just… seeing things differently. He would not know for certain until he stirred from this trance. 

Maul felt his hand move to the saber at his belt. Real or not, the beskar hilt felt reassuring against the flat of his palm. He sensed and heard no movement, but he did not feel alone. 

Maul felt a ripple of danger gnaw at the edge of his consciousness. He did not feel secure in his position upon this planet… not that one ever could, really. The ecosystem was far from fragile, but it was nevertheless viciously protective of itself. Dathomir had lost too much for it not to be. The life upon this planet was fundamentally interconnected, imbued with the Force. Threats were swiftly and mercilessly eradicated. 

That was the fundamental truth that had revealed itself to Maul during his time here, the core of the pact he had made in order to be allowed to survive and inhabit this planet. Dathomir was not composed of a variety of life, but rather, a single entity that expressed itself in many different forms. Each creature was aware of the next through its immersion in the Force; devouring and propagating in elegant synchronicity. Like the cells of a body. 

Maul had injured that body; he had taken more than he had given in return. It was a fatal error; a conceit. His usual offerings would not be enough. He had forfeited his place on Dathomir as both protector and predator. Slaughtering those birds had upset a careful balance, and Dathomir was vengeful. 

Vengeance, it seemed, was a part of the genetic makeup of all Dathomirians; the root of their power, and the harbinger of their end. 

The Mandalorian, too, was a threat to be dealt with; an individual that was not immersed in the Force in the way that Maul and Grogu were. The Mandalorian contributed little to Dathomir, but could take a great deal. More than most. Dathomir feared him, and Maul resonated with that fear in kind - even if he wished he did not. 

The storm swept in suddenly. Rain spilled across the landscape. The accompanying bite of cold felt frighteningly real.

The storm came like an answer to the unfolding thoughts within his own mind. He thought of the Mandalorian, and the storm churned wilder and more violent. Maul could feel the heartbeat of this planet. He could feel its intention; the sudden gluttony and excitement and desire. And Maul’s blood so often sang with that desire; the impulse to devour; to submit himself to the dark side of the Force; to submit himself to the cruelties and fleeting pleasures of such uncheckered passion. 

But for the first time, perhaps ever, it felt like an invitation that he was not eager to meet. He found that his thoughts were tempered, and he recognized a part of his thoughts now carried Qui-Gon’s teachings. 

Do you really want to feel such a helpless lack of control? 

Do you want to submit, Maul? 

Or do you want to be a true master of the Force? 

Maul had scoffed at those words before; dismissed them as pointless Jedi platitudes. It was a trick, he thought, that the Jedi would believe mercy to be a great power. After their eradication, there was simply no Jedi belief that he could bring himself to respect. They had died with their pitiful platitudes, weak and flawed and utterly helpless in the end. 

But so had Sidious.

So who was right? 

To that, no answers were forthcoming. Neither, he supposed. But there was no belief to fill the void, except the certainty of failure, death, and entropy. There was no purpose in any of it; there was no reason to strive, for everything would turn to dust. The Force offered nothing to Maul but a slow decay. 

Before him, Maul watched as the stones and bird skulls rolled and shifted, the Force guiding them together before him. They orbited one other like magnets, climbing upwards and threading elegantly, the gentle grind of stone against bone dampened by the rainfall. 

They formed the shape of a great altar. It was not terribly unlike the altar he remembered from his own rebirth; and yet this altar was in worship of death. 

Maul himself had once been an offering to the dark side; an agent of vengeance for the Nightsisters. His life had never belonged to only himself; not even in the months following his liberation from Lotho Minor. This was a bitter truth, not a revelation. Maul had simply known nothing else. And since his purpose of vengeance had been fulfilled (not by himself, of course, because he was never so fortunate), there was nothing but this strange purgatory that awaited him. A planet of emptiness and death and gluttonous hunger that could not be sated. 

Dathomir was something between life and death, removed from the intrigues and concerns of the living… yet nevertheless yearning, toiling; clawing at some actuality that it did not know. It resonated with Maul, and Maul reveled in the quiet, empty misery that cocooned him here. He felt understood by this place; the empty landscapes and eerie silence; the harsh climate and poisonous flora. He fantasized gratuitously about his own death, wondering what creatures would devour his flesh and gnaw on his bones. 

But Grogu had changed everything. And Maul, for his part, had chosen Grogu for himself. It was perhaps the first choice he’d ever made; the first meaningful choice, surely. He had chosen Grogu for his own sake. It was selfish, yes, but ultimately it was because he wanted Grogu with him. There was no other purpose, no other desire, and certainly no plan. Maul’s yearning was uncomplicated; a desire for validation, or meaning, or some other such thing that felt humiliating to put words to. 

Maul would not give that up. And now that he realized what Dathomir wanted of him, every cell in his body rallied against it. This altar hungered for another offering: the blood of the Mandalorian. 

Reaffirm your commitment to the dark side, coaxed Dathomir, and I will allow you to remain in this purgatory; safe; quiet; unseen. Eternal. 

Maul felt weariness rather than excitement at the rising bloodlust of the darkside. Perhaps even just ten years ago, Maul would have been intoxicated by that power; he would have joined in the dance. He would have walked back into that cave and dragged the Mandalorian here. He would have gladly beheaded him as he had once beheaded Pre Vizsla… but now? 

Now? 

Maul activated the darksaber, and with a snarl he cut through the altar. He tore his way through the stone and pebbles and bone. When the structure was weakened by the blows, he used the Force to rip the rocks apart in a violent explosion, calling upon his passion and disdain to find that power within himself. 

“Just try and exile me!” snarled Maul to the moons, a primordial violence in his voice that felt as joyful as it was vicious. “I will not be servant to you!” 

Dathomir was his. Maul was no longer content to bow to the wishes of the planet for fear that it would retaliate against him. He was no longer interested in compromises. Maul was not Dathomir’s servant; he was its master. He was the heir of Mother Talzin; the lord of the Nightsisters; the last purveyor of true Dathomirian magick. And the rightful Mand’alor. 

He would not be intimidated. 

And Dathomir was going to learn that, one way or another. 

Maul awoke to the faint, reddish light as the dawn’s rays pierced through the cave. He smelled and tasted rain on his skin, and he supposed that the vision had been more real than he had anticipated. It had been quite a long time since he had wandered off in his sleep, and he did not dismiss the danger that implied. 

Yet, at this moment, he felt at ease. There was calm in the clarity of his own intention. That was one of Qui-Gon’s lessons, and Maul resented how true it was. 

Grogu was swinging absently in his hammock above him, as he often did when he was awake but not yet begging for breakfast. Maul was conscious of Grogu’s emotions, warm and tender in a way that he had not felt before. Grogu’s happiness was a little beacon; a bright glimmer in the gloom of Dathomir. It felt utterly out of place. 

Of course he’s happy, thought Maul jealously. The Mandalorian is here. 

Maul did not excuse his own pettiness, of course. He recognized it for the weakness that it was; the root of so many of his innumerous faults. He had hardly failed to recognize how his own possessiveness mingled with his contradictory revulsion towards attachment had ultimately denied him Ezra’s companionship; how his unwillingness to stand as equals with his brother sullied the few memories he had left of him. Maul had had no shortage of time to think it over, after all. 

Qui-Gon had facilitated, to some degree, Maul’s willingness to engage with his own complicity in that self-destruction. It wasn’t an insight that Maul was necessarily grateful for, but it did serve to temper his jealousy now. 

Maul sat up, groggy and bleary. He could see the Mandalorian’s shape standing at the edge of the cave, gazing out at the pinkish-grey haze of dawn at the distant end of the tunnel. Maul’s eyes lingered on the familiar shape of Mandalorian armor for a little while, lost briefly in the memories of Mandalore; the cubic shapes of ferrocrete and transparisteel. 

He looked up at the swaying bundle above him. Maul reached up, pushing on the sling. He felt Grogu’s answering happiness, and he sighed. 

“You’re up,” Maul muttered. 

The Mandalorian stirred, looking over at Maul. There was a hesitation before he spoke; as if he were weighing up the right thing to say. 

“You move around in your sleep,” the Mandalorian remarked mildly. 

Maul wasn’t pleased that the Mandalorian had noticed… but he appreciated the bluntness nevertheless. He huffed out an irritable noise. 

“You also speak Mando’a,” added the Mandalorian, at Maul’s silence. 

Maul cast his mind back to the vision, and wondered: was I speaking Mando’a? He had no reason to believe that the Mandalorian was lying to him, so he supposed he must have been. Yet, the fact that he hadn’t realized… 

That was unnerving, somehow. Or exhilarating. Maul found it difficult to put a word to the feelings that rose up within him. 

“I’ve had reasons to think about Mandalorians lately,” was Maul’s answering growl; more sleepy than threatening. 

To that, the Mandalorian said nothing. Although it was impossible to see precisely where his eyes lingered, Maul knew that the Mandalorian was looking at Grogu. Grogu, in turn, was looking at the Mandalorian. Maul could see his little green claws curled over the edge of the fabric, his large ears spilling into view. 

Maul felt Grogu’s confusion at the Mandalorian’s reticence. Hold? 

Maul felt sullen, but he did not deny his apprentice. He retrieved Grogu from the sling and set the sleepy creature on the floor. He watched bitterly as Grogu stumbled his way over to his Mandalorian caretaker. 

The Mandalorian knelt slowly, cautious and reserved in his movements. His gaze stayed on Maul, even when he reached out to lay a gentle hand on Grogu’s head. The child, for his part, settled himself against the Mandalorian’s boot with glassy-eyed contentment. 

Grogu was so mild-mannered that the outpouring of affection Maul sensed through the Force was demonstrated shyly and wordlessly. The Mandalorian simply had no way to understand his importance to Grogu. And Maul, naturally, had no intention of telling him. 

Even so, it hardly felt necessary. The Mandalorian’s affection was as palpable as Grogu’s, even if he felt far fainter in the Force. Maul felt… intrusive, somehow, and he bitterly turned his eyes away… for a moment. After a few seconds, he felt his gaze slide back to Grogu and the Mandalorian, and the frustration was tempered now with intrigue. 

What was it about Grogu, he wondered, that the Mandalorian was so helpless to abandon him? In Maul’s experience, the Mandalorians were not particularly sentimental creatures themselves. The members of Death Watch had not reared children to his knowledge. They were far more concerned with their personal prowess, too wound up in the tragedy of their own hopelessness. They often seemed to believe that they would die as martyrs; many of them craved such an end. It made them worthy pawns. 

To the Mandalorians that Maul had once known, the future was meaningless; it was only their warrior past that held value to them. 

They had no interest in their progeny. 

Maul climbed to his feet. “Come, Grogu,” he said - demanded. “It’s time to train.” 

There had never been any set schedule for such things before, because why would there be? Furthermore, training - such as it was - was not a structured experience; it was a kind of… conversation. Maul taught Grogu only what proved most practical in the moment. 

But Maul was curious how the Mandalorian would react to the abrupt separation. Maul almost wanted the Mandalorian to resist, if only to give Maul an excuse to challenge him directly - to put him in his place, so to speak. 

But the Mandalorian didn’t hesitate, even if his heart obviously did. He climbed to his feet and gestured towards Maul, sincere in his urgings. 

“Go on, kid,” he said. “I’m right behind you.” 

The crawl of the red sun felt languorous and reluctant. The morning came slowly, blanketed in mist. It left the landscape in a dreamy, dewy fog, the line between night and day ill-defined (as it often was). The afternoon’s warmth came slowly, and Maul wrapped himself in furs that were heavy with moisture. He did not feel weary, though. 

Quite the opposite, in fact. 

Maul moved with purpose, threading his way through the gnawed and desecrated corpses of birds. A few gray vultures fluttered and squalled at his careless intrusion on their lunch, but Maul paid them no mind. Their ill-tempered nips at his legs were, obviously, not something he needed to concern himself with. 

Over his shoulder, Maul sensed Grogu peering curiously at the birds, uncertain at this sudden, uncharacteristic aggression towards him. Maul had expected as much, of course; he had expected that the creatures of Dathomir would be sullen and unwelcoming in light of what happened. But these birds were no threat to him, and Maul did not indulge them with attention. 

The real threats would come later. 

“Little more than scavengers,” Maul assured Grogu, at his apprentice’s uncertainty. 

Maul was conscious of the Mandalorian’s attention at his back. The Mandalorian was following him at a distance… not close enough to be an imposition, but not far, either. Maul had yet to demand that the Mandalorian leave, and it didn’t seem he intended to leave until that point. 

Maul, for his part, wondered what the Mandalorian intended - would he linger at the edges of Maul’s periphery forever, a watchful guardian? And if he did… would Maul mind? That question was surprisingly difficult to answer. 

Maul, for his part, felt no particular hurry. Although it was not regard for the Mandalorian that had guided Maul to refuse Dathomir’s demands of him, he still felt an unusual possessiveness over the Mandalorian’s wellbeing - if only because he had chosen not to harm him. 

And because you are the Mand’alor, thought Maul. He uttered a small chuckle that he thought was derisive but sounded, if anything, utterly disingenuous. 

Perhaps nervous. 

Truth be told, Maul had no regard for the Mandalorians before - they were a means to an end, a stepping stone in his climb to power. He had been happy enough to abandon them when it suited him, when their honor and their loyalty had become burdensome rather than useful. Yet, it was that same loyalty that stuck in his mind… and their names, too. He remembered their names He could not say the same for the mercenaries who once served him in the Shadow Collective. 

Maul felt Grogu’s presence in his mind, and he realized the child was speaking - insofar that he could speak, anyway. He stirred, his gaze lowering to Grogu’s large, dark eyes. He could see the glimmer of yellow in them; the reflection of his own eyes. 

Mand’alor? 

Maul exhaled another wry chuckle. “Yes, Grogu,” he murmured. “A long time ago, I was the rightful ruler of the Mandalorians. I won the darksaber from their, mnh… temporary leader, shall we say. A man named Pre Vizsla. He was a steward of the old Mandalorian ways.” 

Grogu considered this, his adolescent mind working its way with difficulty through the concepts presented to him. Grogu was not stupid, and his age afforded him a wealth of experince... but he his mind was also clouded with both the limitations of his relative youth and the trauma of his increasingly chaotic existence. 

Maul felt open curiosity from the little one; the shared awareness that very little of Maul’s history was known to him. And Maul, reticent as ever, did not intend to share much. After all, Grogu, who had no doubt suffered many years of chaos and doubt, seemed no more inclined to share his own past than Maul. 

Fair was fair… That suited Maul. While he was happy enough to languish in his own misery, he did not necessarily feel compelled to share it with one he did not hate. Grogu was not Kenobi, after all. 

Even so, Maul found himself wondering if Grogu entirely internalized that there were many more Mandalorians than the handful he had met. Maul knew there were many out there; thousands of them. Hiding at the fringes of the galaxy. Scratching a living in the worst habitats imaginable, not unlike himself. He wondered, too, if there was some way to bring them together again - a unifying symbol that could break through decades of infighting and grief. 

Maul’s fingers lingered on the darksaber at his hip, and he thought: perhaps. 

Maul stood at the edge of the cliff, kneeling with Grogu. His eyes peered out across the strange crimson landscape; at the empty canyons and swamps at the base of them; at the villages, little more than specks of geometric patterns that tested his visual acuity with their distance from him. He could see animals, too, but only if he relaxed himself and allowed the Force to guide his attention. 

Beneath all of that, he could see the Force as clearly as he could see the mists. He could see the emerald trails of bioluminescence that pulsed through the swamp, the telltale sign of ghostly memories that still clung to the physical world - though just barely. And when he listened, he heard their voices - whispers that only grew louder with the red light of day, when the heat of the sun nourished the plantlife and the Force. 

Maul eventually closed his eyes, and he breathed out slowly; centered himself, the way that Qui-Gon had once shown him. And all at once, he felt the dissonance of his state of mind correct itself. The world of Dathomir, hostile though it might be, was a brilliant conduit for the Force. It was clearer in the swamp, but even here - at the precipice of the stony cliff - the Force was accessible to him. 

Grogu. What do we live for, I wonder? 

He felt Grogu presence there, a bright speck of discordant light; utterly at odds with the more complex, violent, yet neutral Force of Dathomir. 

He was curious of Maul’s question, and unable to answer in a way that was articulate. Grogu revealed his feelings; shy and unsure, but powerful nevertheless. 

Maul understood Grogu’s response well enough: quiet. 

Quiet; safety. It sounded cowardly; but it was not. It was a feeling that Maul resonated with utterly; his purpose in coming here at all. For him, Dathomir was a place of weary collapse; of respite from the torments of the wider universe. Dathomir was hostile, but its hostility was nothing compared to the violence of the Empire; of his Master; of Darth Vader. 

Yet respite was temporary; it was not a state of being, nor a state to live for. Maul felt that restlessness rise up in himself, an innate stubbornness at the thought of surrender. 

Safety is not liberation, he reflected. It is yet another cage for us both, little one. It is only through power-- 

Maul broke off and fell quiet; introspective. He was a stubborn man. He clung to old injustices and beliefs with fanatical devotion, often at the cost of his own well-being and ambitions. He was aware that these words were a familiar song; almost a ritual. 

Unfortunately, he was old enough now to see through himself; through his own delusions.

If only I had more power; if only…

Maul opened his eyes, and he considered the nature of the power necessary to achieve what he wished. But what did he wish? What do we live for, I wonder? 

And as Maul contemplated this question, he became aware of a contradiction in his own reasoning. Grogu, for all of his unconscious manipulations, for his capacity to rely on the biological imperative created by his charm and youth, would never be powerful. Not in Maul’s lifetime, at least. 

So what purpose was there in training an apprentice that would rely on others to thrive? What purpose was there in training an apprentice whose greatest talent was to expend himself to heal others, and whose entire survival was precipitated only by the compassion of others? The mercy of others? 

Maul’s instinct was to scoff, to dismiss, to mock… but the child had survived decades upon decades purely through the compassion of others. He had survived, in fact, without a scratch on him. While Maul, for all his power, for all his influence, his scheming, his violence… he had lost so much of himself. 

And they had ended up in the same place; with the same nothing. 

And Maul, frustrated, felt the futility of it all sink into his skin like cold rain. The impotent rage and regret and disdain for all things was a familiar turmoil, but one that had never been contradicted by one so close to him. As Grogu settled against him, quiet and peaceful and wordless in his calm immersion within the Force, Maul became distinctly conscious of the disparity. 

And Maul became aware, then, of another truth. Grogu knew perfectly well what he lived for. His capacity to put words to that purpose was irrelevant. And as Maul let his eyes scan the red horizon, the question that came to him was more poignant, and more telling. 

What do I wish to live for? 

And to that, there were no answers. There was silence, the implacable presence of the Force, and the peaceful, enlightened little creature tucked securely within his grasp.

Chapter Text

Several days elapsed, and while nothing worthy of remark happened, Din did not feel bored. He was sensitive enough to his environment to understand that there was something happening; something different. There was a tension in the air; a restlessness in the wildlife; and the winds were eerily still.

But Maul spoke little. Bitter, cold silence characterized these days most of all. 

Maul, he found quickly, could ignore him so deeply and so convincingly that Din almost felt like he was simply another one of Dathomir’s ghosts; completely transparent against the backdrop of a dusty, dreary terrain. Just another glowing pinprick of forgotten light. 

Nightmares were becoming habitual, and Din slept poorly. 

His armor had collected a fine coat of red dust, stubborn and unwilling to be washed away. When they slept, Din felt like another discarded trinket in the collection that Maul had amassed in that strange, cavernous sanctuary in which he lived. Din often laid back against the crates and looked at Pre Vizsla’s armor, and wondered if his own armor would one day join this tomb. 

But it seemed that that would not be the case. 

One morning, Maul began to gather those objects and carry them out of the caves; all the items he possessed, it seemed. Maul did not demand that Din help him; he did not acknowledge him in any way, and Din merely watched with a strange sense of imbalance. Many aspects of Maul were unpredictable, difficult to parse - and the growing collection of memories strewn over the plateau’s flat terrain was not a good sign. 

When Maul disappeared back into the caves, Din moved to the pile of crates with tentative curiosity. He had gotten a look at the objects within the crates before, when his curiosity had gotten the better of him… but only in the gloomy darkness of the cave, and only through the green haze of night vision. Din had found that looking at anything through that filter gave objects a quality of unreality. 

In many ways, he felt as though he were only looking at the objects for the first time.

There were weapons; many weapons, he found. He recognized, too, that they were unused and largely ornamental. There were elaborate swords and elegant, well-polished rifles. Din could tell instantly that, in a battle that was anything other than for show, the swords would surely break. And the rifles, beautifully decorated as they were, would grow dull and ugly with overuse. 

These were gifts. The longer Din looked, the more these objects revealed to him. One of the swords bore the insignia of the Pyke Syndicate, and most of the rifles were unmistakably Falleen in design. The Black Sun, then. There was even a cycler rifle that was unmistakably Tusken in origin, although the symbol that this rifle bore was that of the Hutts. 

Predictably, the Hutts themselves made nothing of value, and only stole their gifts from others. Din’s disgust was palpable. 

Din had moved in the same circles long enough to be familiar with all these families, and the meaning behind these gifted weapons. These objects were ceremonial; to be given as a promise of fealty to a leader. They had once been gifts to Maul; tributes, not entirely like the bowl of blood that Maul and Din had left outside for the Dathomirian predators. 

Din took the cycler rifle in his hand, pulling it out of the crate. It was predictably beautiful, hardy in construction. Unlike the other gifts, this rifle was made to be used. 

When Maul returned, Din did not scramble to hide that he had been looking through the crate. He was still holding the cycler rifle. He had taken off his glove, and he was scratching his nail over the cheap gold paint of the Hutt sigil at the butt of the rifle. It flaked away easily enough, and he did not stop even as Maul dropped the crate he was carrying with a loud thud! 

Maul, for his part, looked intrigued rather than angry at Din’s prying. 

“This is a Tusken rifle,” said Din quietly. 

Maul exhaled sharply; a bitter laugh. “It was no surprise when the Hutts betrayed me,” he said. “I thought of that rifle, of course, when they did - the audacity of it.” 

Din continued to scratch at the insignia, until nothing was left but the smooth metal beneath. The paint had been so cheap that removing it hadn’t left a mark.

“I’m returning it to the Tuskens,” he told Maul. 

Maul observed him for a moment, unspeaking. Grogu peered over Maul’s shoulder from his sling, and Maul glanced back at him with an attentive expression. 

They’re speaking, thought Din. It was strange - surreal, even - that Grogu could speak. 

“What’s he saying?” asked Din, his voice hushed. 

Maul’s glimmering eyes flicked back to Din, as if reminded of his presence. He exhaled a breath; another one of his almost-laughs. “You speak Tusken,” he said. “Or so Grogu claims.” 

Din inclined his head. “I do.” 

“Fascinating.” 

Whatever was fascinating about it, though… Maul didn’t tell him that. He moved instead to the edge of the plateau, drawing a crate closer to him with the Force. Din watched passively as Maul slammed a metal leg against the side of the crate, toppling it over the edge of the cliff. The noise was deafening; the cacophony of metal as it rolled its way down into the abyss. The crate broke open like an egg on the rocky floor beneath. 

Maul repeated this, again and again. Din still said nothing; he simply watched as each of these objects were discarded in turn. Decades worth of memories; attachments; tethers. 

Din did not understand the cause of the change, but he understood the intention behind these actions; manifesting the desire to begin again, to discard old parts of yourself in the hope that they will be lost and forgotten. 

Din’s eyes turned to one of the crates; a small, lidless box stacked upon the others. There was a flash of light that drew him there; a soft, aqualine glow that pierced through the gloom, uniquely beautiful against the dreary mists. It felt entirely out of place; ethereal, like the strange, ghostly lights he had seen before in the caves. 

When Din reached into the crate, he pushed aside old books and holos and other such things. The light was emanating from a talisman. It was attached to a necklace, metal and untarnished, oddly feminine despite its sturdiness. The talisman itself was a disk of metal with strange designs - patterns that matched others that Din had seen in the caves, either on the walls or the crumbling statues. The blue light pierced through these patterns like sunlight through clouds. 

It really was beautiful. Din could not imagine letting it be thrown off the plateau with everything else, and he slipped the talisman into his empty glove to hide the light away before Maul could turn and see him with it. Only Grogu, peering back at Din from his place upon his master’s back, saw him take it. But Grogu said nothing to Maul about it, intuiting that Din did not want him to. 

“Why are you doing this?” asked Din finally. 

Maul began to pull another of the crates to the cliff’s edge. Din dropped his glove aside for now and moved to help him, hoisting the crate with some difficulty. All of these things were far heavier than Maul made them look. 

“I’ve rather overstayed my welcome,” said Maul. “Tell me, Mandalorian, what brings you back to a place that you’ve been before?” 

Din considered the question. “What I’ve left behind.” 

“Correct.” 

Maul set the crate at the edge of the cliff before shoving it hard, snarling as he did. The burst of frustration and anger wasn’t unexpected, but the animalistic quality of it still took Din off guard. He didn’t understand it. 

“Won’t you come back for the wreckage, then?” asked Din quietly. 

“On Dathomir?” exhaled Maul, his voice climbing a pitch. “No, no - never.” 

His eyes were wide, unseeing; a kind of violent panic and anger that Din could not explain. It felt sudden. Din felt certain something had happened, but he didn’t understand - and Maul didn’t explain. 

“No. Mark my words, Mandalorian - without my wards and protections, these objects will disappear swiftly enough. Creatures will find them; birds and other such beasts will carry them away, leaving them to be devoured by the swamps or the hollows of trees. Dathomir is… embodied by entropy, really. Only that which is kept in stasis with the Force can deny it, but only for a time.” 

Maul dragged each crate to the edge of the cliff, and threw each and every one of them away - to be devoured, Din supposed. 

“Where will you go?” asked Din finally. 

“We are leaving Dathomir.” 

Din stirred, looking at Maul for a little while. “Leaving Dathomir,” he repeated. 

“Yes. On your ship.” 

Din hadn’t been certain what he expected, but it wasn’t that. Maul felt like an indelible part of Dathomir itself; a creature tethered symbiotically to the planet, unable to leave. If he had not seen Maul on those video feeds on the Imperial ship, he would have struggled to envision Maul as being a part of the wider universe.

It felt wrong. And more than that, it felt dangerous. 

“The kid’s safe here,” said Din. “Safer here than--” 

Maul broke off into a sharp and bitter laugh. “Safe?” he asked. “What makes you think that any of this is safe, Mandalorian?” 

Din shook his head stubbornly. “You know this planet,” he insisted. “It’s safe to you - with your… magic, you can protect him here. But out there, he’ll be hunted again.” 

Maul narrowed his eyes. “Mandalorian, I would be more than happy to remove my wards and leave you to fend for yourself, if only to prove my point,” he said, his voice a low and resonant purr. “But Grogu would likely not forgive me for it. Suffice to say… yes, I do know Dathomir. And I know when it is time to leave.” 

Din felt frustration boil in his chest; an unpleasant tension. As he looked at Grogu perched over Maul’s shoulder, he felt the injustice cut through him like a knife. The sling that Maul had made - Grogu bed - was resting with all the other broken things at the bottom of the plateau, no doubt. Were the snail shells gone, too? 

Dathomir, it seemed, was yet another stolen home. Another place for Grogu to run from. 

“He can’t spend his whole life running,” said Din. “It’s not fair.” 

Maul exhaled, impatient and exasperated. “And why not?” he asked. “Haven’t we all spent our whole lives running, Mandalorian? Even if the Empire has been destroyed, our position has hardly changed. We are still prey.” 

Prey. Din gazed at Maul, and wondered… is that how he sees himself? Maul’s strength would imply the latter; that he was a predator first and foremost, a terrifying, stalking hunter that feared no enemy. But perhaps that was wrong. Perhaps Maul saw himself instead as something more vulnerable; cornered and desperate rather than powerful and self-possessed.

Din stepped forward, his bare hand moving to grab onto Maul’s arm. He could feel the wiry muscle beneath his fingers; the coiled, feline strength of him. Maul’s skin was warm, almost feverish, under his palm.

Perhaps it was a quality of his species; that heat. 

“This is the safest he’s been,” said Din. 

Maul looked down at the hand on his arm; at the gold paint still under Din’s fingernail. He lingered there in silence, tense and unmoving. There was something vulnerable in that silence. Din perceived the depth of Maul’s desperation. 

How can someone so powerful be so afraid? 

“There is no such thing as safe,” growled Maul, tearing his arm away. 

Just try and exile me! Din had not imagined those words, and he could not imagine what had changed since he heard Maul utter them.

But something had. Something was different. Something, it seemed, had frightened him away.

Din could not do much more than follow. 

“What happened to your ship?” he asked, as they walked. “The one that you took to find Grogu.” 

Maul walked ahead of him, distant and quiet. On his back, Grogu was peaceful, and Din liked that he could keep an eye on the kid… even if a part of him wished he could be the one to carry him. 

“There’s barely enough fuel left to break the atmosphere,” said Maul; his tone was dismissive, feigning indifference. “Much less jump into hyperspace.” 

Din said nothing… but he found it extremely suspect that Maul had seemingly run out of fuel directly upon his return. It seemed far more likely that Maul had engineered a situation in which Grogu could never leave him - even if it permanently stranded them on a dead planet. And in fact, Din was almost certain that Maul had said something to the contrary before - that he had had the fuel to leave Dathomir, should he so choose. 

Had Maul disposed of the fuel purposefully, to stop himself from leaving? Din realized he must have. The pathology of Maul’s actions were revealing, and maybe that kind of insanity would not have surprised Din, but… 

Perhaps it was something else. 

Din found it strangely difficult to ask; he found it difficult to challenge Maul at all. Maul was still the best person to protect Grogu; the strongest person that Din had ever met. But he was also broken; carrying the scars of decades of loss and abuse and disappointment. Din had long since perceived that Maul’s legs were artificial; but he had yet to entirely understand where those injuries ended, and how Maul had survived them. 

What had he compromised in order to survive? Would such a person really have destroyed one of his only means of escape? It felt wrong. 

“Maul,” started Din, but he didn’t know what to say - what to ask. There were so many questions vying for attention that he struggled to choose the most pertinent one. 

Who are you? 

That question burned in Din’s mind, but there was no way to express it in a way that would lead to an answer he wanted, no matter how he yearned for one. And he did want to know, because for the time being, they were walking the same road. Maul was not part of his clan, perhaps, but adjacent to it. Din’s natural sense of possession and protectiveness extended to Maul as much as it did Grogu; they were both too valuable to lose. 

“What will you do?” asked Din. “When you’re off this planet. Where will you go? Back to the crime syndicates?” 

Maul tipped his head back contemplatively. “You recall what I said about discarded objects on Dathomir?” 

“I do.” 

“Power is a little like that,” hummed Maul. “When left in the open, unprotected… it is picked off and squirreled away in much the same manner. If I were to return to my old ways, I would suffer a great deal of, hmm… stubbornness, shall we say.” 

Din nodded. Even if Maul had been beloved by the crime families - and Din suspected he had not been - he still would have struggled to ingratiate himself with them again after such a disappearance. “You’d be unwelcome.” 

“Precisely,” said Maul. “Most of my own contacts have no doubt either retired or died, and the young will not be so eager to relinquish their own power base. When I first united the crime families, I had the Mandalorians to support my claim and bolster my power; but unfortunately, I only have you now.” 

Din wasn’t offended. There was very little he could personally offer. 

“So where will you go?” 

Maul slowed his pace enough for Din to walk by his side. His yellow eyes slid to Din’s visor, his expression piercing - unreadable. 

“Where the Force takes me,” he said. 

Din didn’t know what to say to that, and so he remained silent. 

Din’s ship was much further away when you were walking rather than using a jetpack. Din had traversed a number of villages in his search for Maul and Grogu, but the distance hadn’t felt nearly so infinite as it did now. The hard stone beneath his feet was painful and unyielding, and Dathomir’s moody climate had grown dense and hot as the red sun bore down upon them. The humidity was almost unbearable, and Din often had to wipe condensation from his visor. 

For the most part, they didn’t speak much. Sometimes, Maul would tell Din something about Dathomir - but always in a manner that implied his separateness from it. 

“Did you live with the people here?” asked Din. “The Nightbrothers.” 

Maul glanced at Din, and there was something mournful in his eyes. 

“I did not,” he said. “They were dead well before I returned to this place. But their ghosts remain in many ways.” 

Din understood. Maul was picking at the remains of a dying civilization; the remains of his birthright. 

“My kin were from this village,” said Maul. “My brothers. Most were dead before I ever learned of their existence. Only one came to me. He was… a remarkable fighter. Inelegant, certainly, but capable of such raw explosions of power. With a few more years of training, perhaps…” 

Din, who was used to the reality of death, did not recoil from the question that came to him now. He wanted to know what had happened; what calamity had taken so much from Maul. All of his usual edicts - to mind his own business, to not get involved - were long forgotten. 

“How did he die?” 

Maul exhaled wearily. “Much the same as all those who died here,” he said. “My master killed him.” 

The quiet was eerie. 

It wasn’t a natural silence. Din’s helmet augmented sounds, and the visor illuminated the world around Din in a way that allowed for no ambiguity. He picked up no movement, and he heard no noise. It was the quiet, unsettling gasp before a terrible storm, perhaps… or the retreat of all animals after catching the scent of a dangerous predator. 

As much as Din wanted to believe that these creatures shrank from Maul’s presence, he knew that wasn’t the case. He could see the tension in Maul; the coiled muscles, the readiness to fight. Often, Maul touched the darksaber at his hip, and sometimes his eyes snapped to some unseen danger and he stopped altogether. 

But silence reigned. Even so, Din did not believe for a second that Maul was simply paranoid. 

“It shouldn’t be far now,” said Din, his voice hushed. 

In this deepening quiet, speaking at all felt wrong. And while Maul looked at him to acknowledge that Din had spoken, he said nothing in return. Even Grogu had ceased his usual noises - his little coos and chirps had long since disappeared. Grogu watched their surroundings with wide eyes, and did not nap. 

The village they passed through now was familiar; the shapes of the building against the horizon were something Din had seen on his descent, when he had been looking for a place to settle. It felt so long ago now; like the universe beyond Dathomir’s atmosphere had become something separate, quickly forgotten. 

It’s just on the other side of these buildings, he thought. 

He hoped it would be. The tension was exhausting; the expectation of attack; the feeling of many eyes upon them. But more than that, they had walked for hours and hours at a punishing and urgent pace. Din felt bitterly exhausted; his muscles burned with exertion, and his breaths came out in sharp, puffy gasps. 

Beskar was not the heaviest metal, but it was far from light, and he could feel gravity pushing down on him after such a trek. They had not stopped to eat, and only drank sparingly. 

He found himself envious of Maul’s metal prosthetics. 

The sky, which had been rust-colored when they began this journey, had been swallowed by a sudden influx of black, rain swollen clouds. If they had stopped for rest or food, thought Din, they would have been caught in another storm; perhaps forced to seek shelter in the haunted remains of some empty dwelling. They would no doubt be so expectant of predators that they would not even close their eyes - much less sleep. 

The trek was difficult, but waiting in boredom and paranoia was worse. Din was glad they hadn’t stopped. 

When they came across the desiccated remains of the plaza, Din breathed a sigh of relief. The ship was there - a black silhouette, eerie and perfectly still. 

When Din moved a trembling hand to turn on his night vision, he found that shrubby, ugly red plants had already begun their creeping journey over the metal hull. He could see mosses growing on the rivets and at the edges of the durasteel panels. The ship was streaked with mud and dust. 

Dathomir seemed impatient to swallow up everything that was abandoned. It suddenly didn’t feel so unlikely that Maul’s objects would indeed be gone if they were ever to return to them. 

“It’s too simple,” said Maul suddenly, drawing Din’s gaze. 

“You’d prefer it to be harder?” 

“No…” Maul lifted his eyes towards the clouds, unsettling bright. “But Dathomir is not usually so… permissive.” 

“Permissive,” repeated Din. 

“We have met no resistance.” 

Din shook his head, and he walked past Maul and towards the ship. He suddenly felt impatient to leave, annoyed that Maul’s paranoia was beginning to seep into his own mind - like rain through gaps in armor. When he reached the ship, he pressed a hand against the hull as if to remind himself that it was safe and real. 

The metal was warm, even through his thick glove, which was at first a reassurance - like finding the pulse of a downed ally. 

After a moment, Din felt a sudden alarm. When he inhaled, he smelled fuel. A lot of fuel. 

Din’s eyes travelled downwards. He found the ground slick under his feet. 

“Maul,” said Din, his voice hushed. “What happened to your ship?” 

Silence greeted him then. Din tilted his head, and he looked back towards the zabrak. 

The rain had started, but Din barely noticed. He was gripped instead by the out-of-body horror that came with being trapped. A broken ship could be repaired; but a ship without fuel? Din could not gather up the liquid at his feet and put it back into the tank. 

As the rain grew heavier, it only served to wash away all that remained. 

“My ship was sabotaged,” said Maul. 

Maul sounded neither angry nor surprised. If anything, he was resigned.

Someone had been on Din’s ship. Not a wild animal, but a person. From the heat of the metal, it could have only been a short while ago. Din drew his rifle, his eyes scanning the village… but it was no use. The rain, mild and gentle only moments before, suddenly began to pour from the sky in drenching torrents; the dam had burst. The water distorted the dim reflections of light, scattering the images into a confusing, kaleidoscopic haze. 

Din turned off his nightvision, leaning against his ship for a moment as he tried to steady himself. 

Why didn’t you tell me? 

But Din knew. Maul had been sparing Grogu that fear; shielding him from the inevitable. And Din realized now that his own fear that Grogu would be hunted again was already a reality; the enemy had come to them. 

Perhaps even at the behest of Dathomir itself.

Chapter Text

Ten years prior…

Prey were better teachers than predators. 

This was one of the first truths that Maul learned on Dathomir; one of the most important. It was a moment of rare humility that allowed Maul to align his mind and purpose with subjugated creatures. They, Maul found, were far more keen on the minute details; the subtle signs of a storm; the scent of danger. It was their insight that granted him the skills to not only survive, but to thrive. To claim and conquer his small corner on the world of Dathomir. 

And Maul loved Dathomir. Loved the fierce weather; the crimson horizon; the blistering heat and the terrible cold. The Force flowed through Dathomir, and the creatures upon its surface moved around that great power like electrons circling the nucleus of an atom. Small; insignificant; yet vital, too. An implicit feature of matter. 

In contrast, Maul’s exile on Malachor had been… a bore, really. There had been no animals there, not so much as an insect. Maul had survived through the sustenance provided by the Force; through careful meditation and conservation of strength; through the crucial rationing of the small food supply he did have at his disposal. 

It was through those fasting meditations that his visions became more profound; that his capacity as a seer was fully realized. It was a tedious, terrible wait; a cruel, cold, lonely existence. But that hardship had granted him the opportunity to cultivate a part of his power he never otherwise would have. 

His return to the empty, ghostly Dathomir had offered him other opportunities. Those, too, were slow to reveal themselves. 

“It was a dream.” 

Maul was sitting across a beautiful desk made of crystal. The pale blue emanating from the strobe lights created an array of patterns; wavelike shimmers across the dark walls and velvet drapes. On the desk, there were several glass creatures; fearsome monsters reimagined with feminine beauty. They were unspeakably expensive. 

Across the desk sat Qi'ra, just as severe and just as beautiful as the decor. 

She did not stand, even though Maul himself was standing. Her back was erect; her painted eyes were low, as if she were demur… but the faint smile on her lips was amused - and at his expense. 

“A dream?” asked Maul. His voice was a low and resonant growl; starkly contrasted by Qi'ra’s elegant cadence. 

“Yes, Maul,” she said. “Killing the Emperor was a dream. It was always a dream.” 

“A vision is not a dream,” said Maul, a threat in his voice. “I saw it with my own eyes - again and again. Lifting him in my arms. Throwing him to his death. I know what I saw.” 

Qi'ra didn’t laugh, but her smile became more indulgent. Yet, this amusement only lasted for an instant before she lifted her eyes, looking into his face with an expression that was markedly colder. She had once been afraid to look into his eyes, and Maul had no idea how he felt now that she didn’t flinch from him. 

Since he’d disappeared, Qi'ra had cultivated quite a lot of power - the power that Maul had left behind. She had grown confident. He didn’t think she was wrong to be. 

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Qi'ra. “But if the Emperor dies, I imagine not much would change for us - not for the better. We’ve made our arrangement work. Now that you’ve been gone, the Empire seems entirely uninterested in the underworld. It’s been a long time since the Inquisitors have shown up at our doorstep.” 

Maul exhaled, his eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. He expected to feel vicious anger at his power being stolen from him; at being rebuffed by the very people he had brought such power. 

Yet, he felt nothing. Amused, perhaps - at his own expense. 

There isn’t enough time left to claw that power back, he thought. And if that was the case, then the Force would reveal another way. 

“So there’s no place left for me here,” he murmured. 

It wasn’t a question. 

Qi'ra climbed to her feet then, to bid him farewell. But she asked: “Did you even want to come back?” 

The first Dathomirian creature Maul saw upon his return was a small rodent; some kind of shrew. 

It was an unremarkable little thing; spry and larger than one would expect, with powerful hind legs and a long, thick tail. Its brown fur was dense and seemed to protect it from the cold. Maul never saw this creature come out in the heat of day; it only moved at night, its enormous green eyes flickering like lanterns in the dark. 

It was not carnivorous. Maul often found the shrew gnawing on the edges of mossy rocks on the cliff face, or venturing back from the jungle with leaves stashed in its mouth. Sometimes, when emboldened or desperate, the shrew would slip into the caves in pursuit of the overgrown and abandoned herb gardens that the Nightsisters had once cultivated for their potions. 

But that was only when it was very brave. 

Years elapsed. The shrew continued to appear. Sometimes there were others, but none that lived so close to Maul’s own abode. It never came close to Maul, not even after so much benign familiarity. It had seen Maul eat plenty of its kin. It was cautious and untrusting, and did not yearn for companionship. Maul liked that. 

Maul watched as firelight danced against the backdrop of a red sky. In the coldest months of the year, bonfires were a necessity. He liked them; the warmth, and the noise. The crackling fire eased meditation and reflection. It brought visions. 

Dathomir, to him, was not alien. It was a place he had dreamed of his entire life; either in memories or in visions. He felt at peace, cradled and held by the Force. The dark side imbued the air here; the water; the dust. Yet it did not fill him with the discordant anger of his youth. It was something else. A den; a place of rest and rebirth. 

There were two visions left to Maul. The Emperor’s death - and his own. 

They were so vivid that he could see them now, in his mind’s eye. The cold, hard steel of the imperial ship; the sea of stars through black windows; the bridge; the final fall. He heard Sidious’ despairing cry. 

And then these visions would shift. He would see Kenobi against a backdrop of sand. He would feel the fatal blow of a sabre cutting through both of his hearts in one swift stroke. It was the end, on a planet with twin suns. 

I’ll go there, he told himself. After the Emperor is dead. 

But to kill the Emperor, Maul would need to be powerful; powerful enough to win against him. But as he laid on the cold, unyielding floor of the plateau, his unguarded thoughts lingered upon the same truth:

I’m growing weaker. 

The shrew was injured. 

Maul noticed this instantly, even though all prey animals went to such lengths to hide pain and weakness. It was a subtle change; the slight favoring of the right leg over the left; the quickened breaths; the dull sheen over its normally reflective eyes. 

Maul’s eyes followed the shrew as it leapt and bound up the sheer wall of rock, seemingly with a purpose in mind. Perhaps to hide? Maybe. Yet, it hardly seemed ideal. Maul had been on top of that mountain, and apart from shrubs and a few diseased-looking berries, he hadn’t seen shelter or food for the little creature. 

Surely it would know that. 

The moment it left his sight, it left his thoughts as well. Yet, when he slept, he dreamt of the shrew with undue significance. The scent of berries imbued the air, and Maul awoke breathless and disturbed. 

And just like before, he forgot the shrew entirely and did not think of it until he found its corpse. 

Suffering was fuel for the Force. 

This was a truth that Maul had accepted into himself as a young child. His greatest power came to him at the height of suffering, yes, but it was far more than that. It was the expectation of misery that shielded him from a deeper torture. The torment of hope being stripped away… that was a pain that would not serve as fuel for power. 

Losing hope was a catalyst for insanity. 

When Maul found the corpse of the shrew, it was half-rotten and laden with maggots. It was decaying at the crown of the mountaintop; perhaps the first time he had seen the shrew in broad daylight. 

From so close, he could see the white in its fur. The telltale signs of age and injury had guided the creature to these berries. The creatures on Dathomir were smart - or, at least, more cognizant of cause and effect. The shrew had taken its own life to deny the slow decline of age, and to spare itself the painful experience of being eaten alive by some roaming, opportunistic predator. 

Perhaps it even feared Maul himself. 

Maul looked at the shrubs for a little while. The dark, crimson berries were so strongly scented that he could almost taste them. A tart and bitter flavor; metallic, like blood. The rotting stench of the shrew was, bizarrely, entirely absent. No matter how deeply Maul inhaled, he could only taste the berries. 

The berries were difficult to look at for too long. The compulsion to touch them, to memorize their shape and texture, was smothering. He wet his lips with sudden hunger. 

When he descended the mountain again, he no longer forgot the shrew. He slept poorly. 

Kill the Emperor. Be killed by Kenobi. 

Maul repeated those words in his mind often. They were a comfort; a reassurance; a mantra spoken with almost religious fervor. These words were not a hope or a prayer, because there was nothing to hope for. The future was written; an inevitability. Such was the truth that his sight had revealed to him. Maul slept easy following the path set before him. He waited, and trained. If his body felt ruined and tired rather than renewed and powerful, he ignored it. 

The Force will provide, he told himself. It has to. 

But the Force did not reveal the way. It remained elusive. His insights and visions were fractured and increasingly difficult to parse. He dreamed of Mandalorians, sometimes - his spirit followed them into the sewers and shadows, perpetually tethered to their fate even after the darksaber was long gone. Sometimes, he would dream of his master, or of Darth Vader. His inner eye would follow their paths through cold, dreary corridors. And none of it seemed like a world of power he ever would have wanted to inhabit, and yet he yearned bitterly for all that he been denied. 

When Alderaan was destroyed, Maul felt it. It came to him in a cold sweat; a terror that bit down on him all the more for how unexpected it was. He had not foreseen such a terrible, cataclysmic terror, and his awareness of that blindness paralyzed him. It was a betrayal of the Force. 

At first, he did not know what had happened. When he used the radio on the mountaintop, he found that the subspace relays were patchy at best. Each year the relays grew worse and worse; the voices from the radio grew thinner as the few satellites orbiting Dathomir degraded with neglect. Before long, the radio would only be able to pick up the signals that reached it; he would only be able to hear memories. 

Maul had not sought to repair those satellites. It felt like an admittance that he yearned for the larger universe; a truth he was unwilling to admit, even to himself. 

The voices he heard now were afraid. Through the haze of static and a dysfunctional subspace transceiver, he began to glean the full scope of the devastation. 

Maul, who suffered little consideration for the weak and the helpless, was nevertheless disturbed. It was the scope of the devastation that disturbed him; the raw display of power. Because as much as Maul coveted power for himself, he understood that his own desire was defensive; power to protect himself from all threats; power to destroy those who would seek to harm him; and to punish those who already had. 

He could not imagine himself destroying a planet with such purposelessness. 

It’s the scale, he told himself, as if in reassurance. The size. An infinity of destruction. 

Maul lingered atop that mountain, deep in thought. His eyes scanned the sky as if he might see the destruction himself - but that calamity would not blot out the light of Alderaan for a long, long time. 

There was no respite. 

Maul had scarcely recovered from the first betrayal of the Force when the second came. 

Kenobi’s death ripped through Maul with the impact of a supernova; a bright and blinding burst of Force energy that felt, to Maul, more profound than the death of a planet, or a solar system, or a galaxy.  

Their fates were entwined, woven inextricably together; nearly from beginning to end, it seemed. But those threads were cut - ripped - and Maul felt the sudden chill of being truly, utterly alone in the universe. 

His future died with Kenobi; the future that Maul had foreseen for so long; the future that had been, as far as Maul understood, promised to him. It was the will of the Force. It was perfect. A future that involved Maul fulfilling his vengeance, and Kenobi’s vengeance likewise being fulfilled. 

There was symmetry. There was harmony. 

Sidious is never going to die, was the thought that pulsed through Maul’s mind. It was the only thought. It was a drum; a quickening heartbeat at the edge of oblivion. 

If Kenobi was not alive to kill him, then there was no promise that Maul could kill Sidious. And Maul had to wonder, were these just desperate dreams? 

Or were they paths he had neglected to take? 

Maul no longer slept. Maul hunted. He did not cook. His prey was devoured much the way it had been on Lotho Minor, alive and desperate. 

It was easy for a little while, to only focus on the hunt; to immerse himself in the base pleasure of predation. But this could only last for so long. Maul avoided the caves. He rested out in the wilds of Dathomir, either nestled in some thicket or in some small cave beneath the plateau. It was a cold and bitter existence, and it was brief. It wasn’t long before his thoughts returned to him, and his higher consciousness asserted itself again. 

No matter how he may had wished it, both now and during his years on Lotho Minor, he could not simply be a predator. His misery followed him; it chased him. 

Some weeks after Kenobi’s death, Maul returned to the cave. He sat amongst the treasures that denoted his old power. He did not sleep, even now, but he did have visions; visions of being the shrew, and eating the berries. These visions felt far more real to him than the ones where Kenobi had killed him. 

The taste of the berries lingered in his mouth, and he wondered: 

At what point does suffering simply devour itself? 

Maul felt truly ravenous. 

As he settled on his knees with the berries cupped between his palms, he found himself considering that these berries drew suffering to them purposefully. It was their manner of propagation, perhaps. 

The shrew’s remains were overgrown with the plant now. The seeds in its stomach had obviously been thriving, even in the short time Maul had been away. The greenery anchored its roots in the shrew’s bones. The shrub looked healthy and prosperous, no doubt having fed on the decaying meat along with the maggots. 

The berries that Maul plucked from these shrubs were full and ripe. The scent intoxicated him. 

He was a carnivore, and fruits should have held no appeal for him… but that didn’t matter now. The berries were the color of blood, and their texture felt almost like flesh. Whether that was the reality or some element of their power, he did not know for certain. It didn’t matter. It certainly didn’t diminish the compulsion. He wanted the berries; the power they exerted over his vulnerable mind was only aided by his own desire to end his suffering. He was not opposed to that manipulation. He yearned for it.  

Maul lifted the handful of berries to his mouth, his stomach wound tight with anticipation; with a deep, wrenching desire to consume, and be consumed in turn. 

Before the berries touched his lips, something changed. It was so sudden and so abrupt that Maul couldn’t make sense of it. All at once, the sweetness was stolen away and replaced by a rancid, rotting stench; the decaying shrew. 

Maul balked, horrified and disgusted, dropping the berries. The Force moved through him; it cut through the delusion that had gripped his mind and driven him to this predatory suicide. 

Maul lurched further back from the plant, panting wildly as panic burned through his stomach. A sudden nausea crept up his throat. Yet even in this suffering, even in this humiliation, he felt a comforting warmth envelop him. There was a voice, too, that murmured for him to sleep and to find peace within the Force. That he was safe. 

Of course, Maul snarled, and he resisted that voice… but his body, exhausted as it was, did not abide such resistance. Maul sank against the cool stone, his eyes half closed against a strange, bluish glow before him. He could see a figure in that light. 

Another spectre of Dathomir, he told himself. 

But it wasn’t. 

“Rest,” said Qui-Gon again. His voice was resonant, full of gentleness that Maul surely did not deserve. "You must find another path forward."

In that moment, Maul understood Qui-Gon’s presence; the Force revealed it to him. We are alone, he told himself. When Kenobi had died, Qui-Gon’s last tether to this universe had begun to diminish. 

Qui-Gon has been pulled to the last person with whom he had such a powerful connection: the one who had ended his life. And Maul, in his miserable desperation, had no doubt pulled on that thread in turn; a last ploy to survive a little longer. Long enough, perhaps, to see his vengeance realized. 

Maul closed his eyes, no longer able to resist the lull of the Force. 

For the first time since Kenobi’s death, he slept. 

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.

Chapter Text

“The skies are clear,” said Din, peering out from the cracked front door.

Maul was still waking up, and Grogu was peering over the edge of his basket with big, inquisitive eyes. Din still had some ration bars, but they weren’t much of a meal. He broke a bar in half and gave it to Grogu, who settled back and gnawed happily on the edge. His eyes narrowed into concentrated slits.

Din held out the other half of the bar to Maul, but it was refused with a silent, irritated stare. Din wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t seen Maul eat anything other than meat since he’d arrived. He wondered if Maul could eat anything else. Din knew nothing about zabraks, really. He’d seen a few from time to time, but not any like Maul. None of the ones he’d seen were from Dathomir.

For a little while, they were as silent and still as the dust motes clinging to the pinkish rays of sunlight. The room they were in was lovely in his bareness; haunted by kinder ghosts than those who resided outside. Din felt reluctant to leave this place, a place that had once been a haven. It was a place of brotherhood. He could sense that gentle history in the details. On the hand-woven tablecloths and the carved ladles, with their water-softened edges. He could smell it in the lingering fragrance of spices; spices that had been nurtured with the sole intent of creating delicious food. Love was burned into the memories of all that had been created here.

He could see that same insight in Maul’s eyes as they observed the spaces between them. He could see the naked longing. It mingled with a bitterness that bordered on raw anger.

Din turned his face away. He was aware of his own exhaustion. His muscles were wound tight, and all he wanted in that moment was to lay down and rest. His eyes longed to be rubbed free of sleep… but of course, he couldn’t do that.

“Where do we go?” asked Din.

The question sounded more hoarse than Din had expected. He cleared his throat and turned his face away, dreading the answer that would follow. He doubted there was a single answer that he was going to be happy to hear.

“Back,” said Maul. “Back to the caves.”

The answer was grim. After making such a show of leaving it all behind, they were simply going back. Din tipped his head back and sighed.

It’s not that easy to outrun yourself.

“Why?”

“There’s a radio there,” said Maul. “One that our hunter will not know of. He, mh… he ruined the radio on my ship; and yours, too, no doubt.”

Din had suspected as much, and was relieved to hear there was a spare… but that relief lasted only for a moment. The expression on Maul’s face was grim. This revelation was not one borne of confidence.

“Tell me you didn’t throw it off the cliff," said Din.

Much to Din’s surprise, Maul actually uttered a low chuckle. “No. This radio is set atop the mountain. However, the subspace relays are damaged, so it isn’t much use right now. If we were to repair them… even one of them, then perhaps there is an opportunity to get a message through to someone.”

“Subspace relays are satellites,” said Din flatly.

“They are.”

“Orbiting the planet.”

“Obviously.”

Din crossed his arms, fixing Maul with a quiet, unhappy stare. The silence was only broken by Grogu’s quiet, absentminded little purrs as he dug into his breakfast. Din rather envied the child’s disconnect from the insanity of what Maul was proposing. There was only one obvious way that they could fix a satellite.

“You want to go into space.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Maul shook his head, turning his face away. The fact that he did not look at Din while he spoke more than proved that he realized how insane he was about to sound. “My ship has enough fuel to break the atmosphere. With some help from the Force, I can no doubt make the journey… mh.”

These words were not spoken with much confidence. Maul sounded resigned, if anything.

“My ship is right outside,” said Din. “Why not use that? Maybe you’d be riding on fumes, but… there might be just enough to--”

“No,” Maul cut in. He had exasperated impatience of someone who has already anticipated and countered the argument in his mind. “Your ship is far too heavy to break atmosphere on low fuel.”

That was a reasonable answer. Din’s ship was the kind of ship he liked; blocky, with a solid chassis to separate him from the vacuum of space. He did, after all, prefer to surround himself with a protective shell of armor at all times. Maul’s x-wing was far better suited to this ludicrous plan.

Din sighed. “Do you know how to repair subspace relays?”

When Din turned his face back to Maul, he found the zabrak smiling - a rueful, pained, angry sort of smile. The answer was plain in his eyes.

“No. I don’t.”

At least he was honest about it.

For a moment, Din was tempted to leave it at that. If he said nothing to contradict this particular roadblock, he might force another (and hopefully saner) plan to prevail. Maul had no reason to think that Din could fix a subspace relay.

Just don’t say it, he told himself.

Din’s eyes lingered at the darksaber holstered at Maul’s side. He felt an unpleasant, gut-wrenching disgust with himself. It’s not like you have a better plan, he told himself, and that wasn’t a reassurance. But it was true.

Din sighed, crossing his arms. “I know how to repair relays.”

Maul didn’t look surprised, but his expression was unguardedly curious.

“I wasn’t always a bounty hunter,” said Din. “When I was younger, I worked as a mechanic. I repaired all kinds of things. Ships. Speeders. And sure, some satellites.”

“But not droids,” said Maul, too perceptively.

Din was getting too used to Maul’s insights to be startled by them. He nevertheless did feel a small stab of unexpected embarrassment. Din didn’t like to think that he had much interest in what other people thought of him, but now that he was in the company of a mind-reader, he’d changed his mind. He wanted Maul’s regard.

“Never droids,” Din confirmed, because there was no point in lying. “That doesn’t matter here.”

“I don’t like droids either,” Maul snapped, with unexpected vitriol.

Din tipped his head, for a moment taken off guard… but the confusion lasted only a moment. Maul had the same grievances that Din did. Dathomir was littered with the rusting durasteel of separatist droids. His people were dead because of them.

“It’s better to know how to do things yourself,” muttered Din, steering away from that conversation as quickly as he could. “Specialization is death in the wilds.”

“How very Mandalorian of you,” said Maul… but it didn’t really sound like an insult.

If anything, it was praise.

Maul turned his gaze to Grogu. He plucked the child from his basket, absently possessive of him. Din noticed that about Maul. Din usually let the child walk on his own two feet, but Maul was a fierce, possessive protector. Din wondered if it was the nature of zabrak men to carry their younglings with them wherever they went.

Or perhaps it’s just him, thought Din. Maybe he likes being close to someone.

The thought was indulgent; too indulgent. There was no reason for him to think that was the case. On a planet so unkind, Din supposed that zabrak children were not permitted to wander more than arm’s length from their protectors.

“You’ll have to guide me over the radio, then,” concluded Maul. “To repair the satellite.”

The slowness of his response intrigued Din. He wondered if Maul had been trying to contrive some reason for Din to stay behind on the surface.

No doubt to protect Grogu, he assured himself. It’s not for my benefit.

“You don’t have a space suit,” said Din.

“I don’t need one.”

Din didn’t know what to say to that. It still sounded insane.

“...fine,” replied Din neutrally, unwilling to press the matter. Every time he learned something new about the Jedi, he found himself feeling more confused rather than less. “There are tools on my ship. We’ll need them.”

Maul climbed to his feet, stretching his back with audible, painful clicks. He seemed more rested than Din felt. Maul had slept very, very deeply through the night. And Grogu seemed as calm and content as always.

At least you still trust us, somehow, Din thought, smiling wearily. He reached out to pat Grogu’s head. The child looked up at him and yawned widely.

“It’s not a short journey back,” said Din. “If we’re followed, there’s going to be a lot of opportunities for someone to attack us.”

“Or something,” Maul added grimly.

Their hunter would no doubt spot them well before they made the journey. Din was confident in a fight, and usually he would trust in his beskar’gam to protect him… but the planet itself was hostile and strange. Despite having been here for some time now, Din felt like he had no mastery of his environment whatsoever.

“The jungle will be the best path,” said Maul, although there was a revenant quietness in his voice that put Din on edge. “If we follow the treeline, and do not go too deep, we should be safe. The jungle will lead us back to the plateau - and to the radio. It’s on top of the caves. If you do have fuel for your jetpack, it will prove useful to you.”

The jungle did not seem much safer to Din than open terrain. There were likely many monsters lurking there, waiting for them… but Maul knew the way better than he did. They would also be likely to find food in the jungle. There woul surely be small creatures hiding in the hollows of the trees.

But none of those things were the main reason that Din found himself so willing to follow Maul’s plan. As much as Din was not ready to admit to it, there was a part of his mind that whispered, I follow the way of the Mand’alor.

“We should go,” said Din.

Maul took one last look at the space around them. His golden eyes lingered on the dusty kitchen tools, the worn surfaces, the charcoal-blackened stove. The expression was wistful, more tender than any expression Din had seen upon Maul’s face before. Din could not help but mirror that longing, and experience it with him.

Din knew, deep down, that he was longing for a past that he had lost, while Maul was longing for a past he had never had.

Maul went first. He knew the path far better than Din. He moved with intuitive ease through the narrow, maze-like streets of the city. He did not become lost… not that Din would have noticed if he did. Din had no idea where he was going. A dense fog had rolled in with the suddenness of a tsunami. It buried them in a strange and ghostly world, beautiful and unnerving in its perfect quietness.

In the fog, everything felt ill-defined. Din's senses were muted; so were his thoughts, as if he worried they would be overheard. Din felt much too loud in his armor. In contrast, Maul’s metal legs were surprisingly quiet. Din wondered if Maul was using his power to silence them; holding apart the little spaces between the joints and gears to prevent the friction of metal on metal. Maul’s body always moved with unnatural control; every motion was so deliberate, like a dancer's.

It didn’t take them too long to find the plaza again. Din gazed out at his ship, which was almost completely obscured in the density of the red mists. The fog was thick enough that he felt confident that they wouldn’t be sniped, but… it was also thick enough that they were not able to scout their environment.

Din didn’t like it.

“Go,” said Maul. “Get the tools we need. Quickly.”

Din nodded. He didn’t argue, because it was safer for Maul to hang back with Grogu. It was also better not to delay.

Din was about to move when he felt Maul’s hand grab onto his wrist, holding firm. He looked back, silent and questioning, and Maul pressed the hilt of the darksaber against his palm.

“I don’t need--”

“To cut into the ship, if you can’t get in,” hissed Maul. He seemed insulted that Din assumed it was for protection. “Go.”

Din nodded. Darksaber in hand, he slipped back behind the building and threaded his way through another complex of alleyways. If their enemy was here, he would not risk them locating Maul and Grogu based on which direction he entered the plaza from.

When Din reached the edge of the alleyway, he peered out into the mists cloaking his ship for a long, long time. Too long. He was afraid, and conscious of his own fear. The ambiguity of their hunter, and the ambiguity of what this planet could do to them… well. He didn’t know how to prepare for what he couldn’t expect. He felt blind.

He felt tired.

Eventually. Din stepped out into the open. He did not run. He walked with steady, precise steps. He felt the dampness of the mists sinking into the spaces of his armor. Everything smelled wet and strangely metallic, like old blood and musk. It was an animal smell. Din felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he was conscious of the weight of the darksaber in his hand.

When he came upon the ship, he found that the scent of fuel was long gone. The rain had washed it away. There was the faintest stench of ozone, but that was the ship itself; the lingering burn of atmosphere on the hull.

Din pressed a button on his wrist to open the door to the ship, but it didn’t open. He wasn’t surprised. When he bent down to pull the emergency latch, he found that it was broken. The lever had been snapped free, and the keyhole was singed and partially melted. Some sort of small laser could have melted the lock. It would have taken considerable know-how to do it without locking yourself out of the ship entirely.

Ships like these weren’t very easy to break into. That's part of why Din chose it.

It was either a laser, thought Din, or some sort of a clay explosive. The damage looked more like that than a laser. They were rare, though; the type of exposive the military personnel might use on the field. Most bounty hunters and assassins never kept those kinds of explosives around when they could use a simple laser instead. It could be hard to get a hold of specialized explosives like that, and Din had never bothered. They were expensive on the black market.

Either way, their hunter had no doubt forced the mechanism to open and gotten on board Din’s ship. He had then shut the ramp manually upon exiting. It would have taken considerable strength to do so, which was not in the least bit promising. Din wasn’t pleased that their enemy was proving to be so competent. Most people that Din encountered were not.

I guess I’m using the darksaber after all, thought Din wearily.

He was just on the edge of activating the darksaber when he heard a creaking noise. The emergency latch began to twist despite the damage, and the ramp fell open with a deafening crunch! For a long moment, Din stared at the open ramp, stunned and uncomprehending… before he realized what happened. Maul must have used his power to help him.

“What’s the point of giving me the darksaber, then?” grumbled Din to himself.

He made his way onto his ship, unhappy that he could not close the ramp behind him.

Everything appeared to be in its place, for the most part. The hunter hadn’t opened his weapons locker. If he was familiar with weapons lockers himself, then he would have known that Din’s would emit a powerful shock to anyone who attempted to open it without the correct code, or tried to tamper with it.

Din opened it. He filled a rucksack with stun bombs and a few blasters - ones with a bit more firepower than the one he usually carried on him. These kinds were meant for wild animals rather than people.

When Din made his way into the cockpit, he was unsurprised to find that the dashboard had been stripped. Even if he’d had fuel, he was short a navigation system and a radio.

Din sighed. There was nothing to be done about it. He pulled out the toolkit from under the dash. It was heavy and it would be a burden to carry, but if Maul’s ship had anything like the damage that this one did, he had no choice.

When Din was satisfied that there was nothing more he could comfortably carry, he made his way back to the landing ramp. The red mist was spilling into his ship. It looked and felt unnatural - like the fog was curious, fitting itself into every empty space.

Din stopped for a moment to stare at his cold bunk, still keenly aware of his own tiredness. He could imagine what it would be like to fasten a sling above it for Grogu. He could almost imagine what it would be like on this ship… just the three of them. Maul would teach Grogu how to use the Force, and Din would protect them both.

It was such an indulgent fantasy that Din almost resented it, and he left without further delay. He didn’t bother trying to close the ramp behind him.

The air felt dense around Din; he could almost feel it against his armor, as if the beskar had nerve endings. He adjusted the heavy bags in his hands, scanning the fog for signs of movement. He couldn’t make out very much.

It’s getting worse, he realized uncomfortably.

Din began to move - walking at first, and then jogging. He heard something in the mist; a slow, onerous scrape of some heavyset creature dragging its claws over stone and sand. Din could see nothing, but the fog around him swirled; scattered by heavy puffs of air, and the movement of a large body.

Thump-thump-thump-THUMP!

Din reacted on gut instinct. He dropped his bags aside and ducked as the beast stomped its way over him, just as blind in the fog as he was. Din’s impulse was to reach for the beskar spear on his back first. The darksaber already in his hand felt so unnatural to him that he had almost forgotten that it was there at all. He was tempted to abandon it entirely, but he held firm and waited for the creature to round on him again.

In the fog, Din could only make out the hazy shape of a round, mountainous body. It was ugly, with thick, bowled legs and an unwieldy, stumpy tail. Its skin was porous and muddy. The beast turned on him, revealing a face of jagged teeth and no eyes. It’s large nostrils sucked up the dust and fog, growling them out like dragon’s smoke.

Din hesitated, because the creature seemed bizarrely harmless. Din lunged with the darksaber, the blind beast drew back rather than charging forward. Just as Din was about to pierce flesh with the blade, he felt an iron grip close upon his legs. He felt the shock of that grip in his bones as he was forced into an abrupt stop.

When he looked down, there was nothing there. Nothing was holding him.

The Force, he realized.

“Maul!” he snarled out, trying and failing to break free of the strange, hateful magic. “What the kriff--”

The beast tipped its bulbous head and uttered a contemplative little growl. The bloodlust it had displayed just moments before softened into something curious, which was promising but hardly put Din at ease. Its large, scaly hand found and pushed Din’s arm aside, and its enormous maw dropped close to Din’s chest.

From this close, Din could smell of - the musk and the scent of fresh meat. The beast sniffed and snuffed at his armor and cloak like a giant, over friendly massiff. When it was satisfied with whatever it had been looking for, it turned and stomped its way back into the cover of fog.

Din stared after the beast in bemused silence, heart racing and breaths stuttering. He felt the grip on his legs recede. His first step was a stumble.

In the mists, Din heard the beast growl again. He did not need to know the creature personally to recognize that it was a threat. It was a low and purring growl, shockingly loud in the perfect silence of the city.

The beast did not charge him. The growl persisted, rising in volume. Din remained as still as a statue, his back pressed flush to hard brick.

It’s blind, he reminded himself. He did not move a millimetre. If I just stay calm--

The snarl turned into a roar, and Din flinched at the loudness of it. He heard the beast’s heavy body as it began to move. He could feel the vibrations on the ground as its enormous feet stomped hard enough to break the stones beneath them.

But… the vibrations grew further away, not closer. A moment later, he heard an answering snarl - another beast. Its voice was higher, and the sound it made was a squall rather than a roar - a startled and frightened noise.

Din caught a glimpse of something in the mists - something fast and sleek but still remarkably large. It did not seem keen to tangle with a larger opponent. Din saw its ill-defined shadow climb over the temple and disappear over the edge of the rooftop.

When he dared to move again, Din made his way back through the alleyway, one hand holding the wall for guidance. His other arm ached with the burden of the tools and weapons he had brought. Now and then he had to stop to set them down to rest his aching shoulder before moving again.

At any moment, he expected some monster to drop down on top of him and try to devour him… but nothing did. The alleyways were silent.

When he found Maul and Grogu again, he was so relieved he couldn’t stop himself from clasping Maul’s shoulder and squeezing, as if to reassure himself that the zabrak was tangible and real.

They were, thankfully, right where he’d left that.

“What was that?” he asked. He was still breathless.

Maul, on the other hand, sounded composed. “The first beast was a rancor.”

Din had heard of rancors before. They were fearsome, as large as a building, and able to swallow a man whole (and likely to try). The rancor he had met was not nearly so big, but he did not doubt it could be in a few years.

“It didn’t seem particularly interested in eating me,” said Din.

“No. This one is another of Grogu’s many protectors,” said Maul, with a scoff that was almost a laugh. “Perhaps one of the only creatures left on this planet that doesn’t wish to eat us.”

Din touched his own cloak. He had left draped over Maul through the night. The rancor had shown considerable interest in the scent lingering on the fabric, and Din thought: it’s protecting Maul too.

“And the other?”

“A nydak,” muttered Maul quietly. “I sense quite a number of them, in fact. They shouldn’t be a problem while the rancor is nearby. They’re afraid of rancors.”

Din couldn’t blame them.

“And when the rancor isn't nearby?” asked Din.

Maul just looked at him. His yellow eyes were bright even in the dense fog, and Din understood his meaning well enough. Be ready.

“Have you ever heard of a strill?” asked Din.

They were passing across the line between rocky terrain and dense jungle when he finally spoke. The jungle, like most of Dathomir, was dominated by the color red, populated by the bare and eerie husks of black bark trees that looked dead but weren’t. Din was glad of his armor, because most of the plants here sported vicious looking thorns. 

They had made most of the journey in paranoid silence, but nothing had attacked them yet. The rancor had disappeared off into the mists and had not returned, but Din could hear it moving now and then.

No nydaks showed themselves, and he didn’t hear them. They were much more discreet.

“I have,” said Maul, with a look of remembered disgust. “There were many of those strays on Concordia.”

“I’ve never seen one.”

“Mh. Nothing to see, really. They smell terrible, even at a distance. Not much better than that rancor.”

To someone with as sharp a nose as Maul, that didn’t surprise Din. But to a Mandalorian in full armor, the smell wouldn’t be too much of a problem. Definitely not once you got used to it, anyway.

“Most strills are wild,” said Din, pressing on. “My ‘alor used to say that even though you could breed them, they were never as strong as those you’d find in the wild.”

“Mh.”

“If a wild strill bonded to you, it was considered good tidings,” tried Din.

Maul snorted unkindly, his eyes flashing with disdain.

Din, who had long since accepted that Maul’s understanding of Mandalorian culture was patchy at best, was hardly surprised… but he was disappointed.

The disappointment must have been perceptive to Maul. He sighed and tipped his face towards the sky in exasperation. "It’s not good tidings. It’s cause and effect."

“Cause and effect?”

“Grogu insisted on saving that rancor,” said Maul shortly. “He healed its face. Dathomir is a planet of balance; the rancor has formed what it believes to be a symbiotic bond with the child.”

“You stopped me from killing it,” said Din. “So he isn’t the only one who saved it.”

Maul rolled his eyes again, somehow far more visibly annoyed.

“Rancors are difficult to kill,” he said. “Your armor could protect you from its teeth, yes, but I’m willing to guess that even a juvenile could crush you inside your own beskar with little difficulty. Their jaws are more than powerful enough to crush bone. Just who do you think I was protecting, Mandalorian?”

Din didn’t answer. He watched as Maul passed the threshold into the sickly jungle. He had fastened Grogu onto his back again. Now and then, a tattooed hand would reach back to touch Grogu’s head, as if assuring himself of the little one’s presence there. Din could understand the impulse.

For his part, Grogu was peering around at the strange scenery. He was full of his usual innocent curiosity of this new place, this new world.

I’m getting used to it myself, little guy.

But it wasn’t the world that Din found himself acclimating to. It was instead the terrain of Maul’s strange presence; as hostile and unpredictable (and as beautiful) as the blood-soaked horizon and the sharp, merciless scattering of mountains upon it. Maul’s temper was as violent and sudden as the storms; his misery as cold as the rainfall; and his strength…

Without compare, thought Din. And beyond reproach.

Din breathed deeply. His heart wasn’t racing, but it was fast.

For some reason, it was the Resol’nare that came to him now; the six actions that all Mandalorians held in such high esteem.

To speak the language. Ni cuy' echoy'la. To defend your family, and to be loyal to your clan. Just who do you think I was protecting, Mandalorian? To raise your children as Mandalorians. To answer the call of the Mand’alor.

To wear armor.

Din walked quickly to catch up to Maul, filled with a sudden urgency. He burst out: “why don’t you wear armor?”

Maul stopped, hesitating for a few moments - as if he was toying with the thought of not answering at all. Eventually, he turned to look back at Din. His eyes flashed like fireflies as he blinked, slow and ponderous.

“Because I am one with the Force,” Maul said. “I have no use for armor of that kind, Mandalorian.”

Din nodded shortly. He swallowed back all the other questions that threatened to spill from him then. There were too many answers he feared, and many more he was not ready for. His feelings, as sudden and sharp as the blade of a knife, were difficult to parse. He feared his own heart - the growing desire to find purpose and meaning in the wielding of the darksaber, in the way that Bo-Katan did.

“Din,” he said quietly. “It’s Din.”

“I know,” said Maul, unapologetic in his bluntness. “Come, Mandalorian. Before the nydaks catch up with us.”

Chapter Text

Maul had never gone into the deep jungle before. 

When they passed the threshold, it did not take Maul long to perceive the change; the subtle shift in reality that came with crossing from a barren plain and into a wellspring of the Force. 

The swamp he often went to - and the grand old tree that he often meditated upon - felt a little like this, but… far more benign. The swamp was a place of rot and decay, a place of bountiful harvest for insects and invisible little creatures. There, it was the infinitesimal that reigned supreme - bacteria and fungi and other such things. It was certainly a place of violence, too, but on a scale that was far too minute to bother any wayward zabrak who entered there. Maul was cautious of their toxins and poisons, yes, but they did not seek to poison him. 

After all, Maul was no threat to the trillions of little creatures, and they did not feel compelled to guard their territory from him. It was likely that they didn’t even notice him. He was as invisible to them as they were to him. 

The jungle was different. It was the domain of giants, guarded jealously by its inhabitants. These were beasts that staked out boundaries and would not tolerate even the smallest of creatures into those spaces.

Maul knew this, and had always kept a wary distance from the treeline - apart from the offerings he left for them, of course. He could hear the roars and rustling of distant predators. There were far more terrors here than just rancors. There were creatures that were sharp-eyed in the dark and always on the hunt. These were the creatures that he left his offerings for. Even the smallest of predators were fearless and deadly. 

These were the beasts who agreed not to cross the threshold of his territory, just as he agreed not to cross theirs. It was an understanding long upheld and respected. 

I’m a trespasser, thought Maul. 

But the anger, shame and bitterness diminished with every step he took. Even if the beasts did not invite him here, the jungle did. The veil of the Force was heavy indeed. Maul felt almost drunk on it, lightheaded with the strange, druglike euphoria of such raw and irrepressible energy. If the Force was an ocean, then this was the undertow beneath the waves. It was an unfathomable and awesome power. 

Maul felt alert to the point of pain, as if all his senses were heightened beyond what his brain was capable of interpreting. His eyesight was so acute that the rustic, blood-dried colors of the jungle seemed over-bright. The scent of vegetation was so potent that he imagined he could taste the sunlight imbued within the flowers and plants. 

He was refreshed. He was awake. 

Maul moved quickly, and without much thought of direction. He plunged into the thick of the jungle, far beyond the treeline - much farther than he ever meant to. Even so, there was purpose in this path, and he never felt lost or confused. The Force flowed in a certain direction, and Maul could do nothing but helplessly follow the tide. 

“You said to follow the treeline,” said the Mandalorian. 

Maul looked back. He had forgotten that he was not alone. He had also forgotten he had ever been alone. He felt the Force so powerfully that to distinguish himself from the life around him was difficult. His own identity felt like a strange, abstract concept; petty and small when compared to the vast oneness of the Force. 

He was but a single drop of water in the ocean. 

“Maul?” 

The Mandalorian was bright and resplendent in his armor, strangely handsome. Beskar caught the crimson light, the red-tinted planes of metal blending with the stale mist that hung between them. Maul’s eyes could see the individual droplets of moisture clinging to the gleaming surface like sweat. He felt the compulsion to touch, to lick that water away. 

His euphoria invited strange thoughts. 

“I trust in the Force,” said Maul, although he felt his concentration continue to stop and stutter as he gazed at the Mandalorian. “Yes… the Force is with me now, Mandalorian.” 

“Din,” corrected the Mandalorian. “And it isn’t. The Force is trying to kill you, right?” 

“No, that’s…” started Maul, but he wasn’t certain how to continue. 

Dathomir - or the dark side of the Force, or the consciousness that was alive through the Force - was certainly trying to kill him (or test him). He could feel the hostile nips of insects, the rustling of small rodents and beasts that were tempted to fall upon him from the canopy. He felt the tension between himself and nature, at any moment threatening to snap. 

…But those beasts didn’t attack. He felt like there was something aiding him - something that was letting him see in the dark, so to speak. He could feel the Force imbue him, veil him, protect him. Was it his brothers? Qui-Gon Jinn? Or was it simply some part of the Force that deigned to show him mercy today? 

Right now, he didn’t care. He felt joy. He felt that he would win a duel with his master, if the opportunity arose. 

He was powerful, truly powerful, for the first time in as long as he could remember. 

Come, son of Dathomir, whispered the Force. Follow the path. 

“We’re safe,” said Maul. 

Maul didn’t know what was drawing him now, but it was so powerful, so wonderful. Yes - wonderful! Like the sound of distant and joyous music, the Force was guiding him in earnest, and Dathomir’s violence was tempered by it. He could feel a pulse like a heartbeat rippling through the trees; a resonance of power that was raw in the ways only nature could be. 

“You’re sure?” 

“Trust me.” 

The Mandalorian did not speak again. Whether he trusted Maul or not remained to be seen, but he had decided to follow him. Maul was satisfied with that, and he continued forward into the jungle with renewed vigor. 

The deeper he sank into the jungle, the more acute his senses became. The cacophony of noise was both overwhelming and strangely peaceful. It did not have the discordant quality he might have expected. Every piece of the tapestry made sense to him. The insects. The wind. He imagined that he could hear the trees growing, that he could hear the rays of crimson sunlight piercing the canopy. 

But those sounds were impossible to describe. 

Maul could see many eyes in the trees, refractive lenses winking like stars in the deep shade. He could hear the Nightsisters - the soft, conspiratorial whispers that sounded like the rustling of leaves. 

He could hear the nydaks, too. They were stalking through the trees, following them at a distance. They were patient hunters today. They sensed Maul’s alertness, and they waited. It was not their usual behavior, but they were not themselves any longer; they were avatars for Dathomir itself. The Force kept them at bay, and Maul felt no concern. 

Not yet. 

The Mandalorian followed in silence. He did not see the ghosts; he did not smell the sun; he did not hear the music. He was so blind, so deaf. When Maul looked back at the Mandalorian, he could see that the man was weary and sullen. He could hear it in his sighs, see it in the heaviness of his posture. 

Maul felt his fingers twitch when he looked at the Mandalorian; a kind of primal, animal desire to scratch metal and bite leather. Zabraks, naturally, expressed many of their feelings through their bites - hatred and pleasure, aggression and love. In the way that a Keldabe kiss could be both an attack and something sentimental, a Dathomirian bite could be an act of both violence and tenderness. 

Maul chewed on his tongue instead, restless. He turned his eyes forward and quickened his pace more, moving with purposeful grace through the trees and bushes. He could hear the Mandalorian following behind him, trampling through the branches and bushes that Maul was able to clear with agile leaps. 

Where? 

Maul stopped, and for a moment, he was confused. He realized that it was Grogu who had spoken, and he uttered a low, grinding little chuckle. He had nearly forgotten the child was with him when so immersed in the power of the Force. 

We’re… somewhere powerful. Close to the heart of Dathomir, I’d imagine. 

Maul didn’t know what that meant - only that it was true. He would return to the radio, and he would call out for help (but from whom, he wondered?). He would find a way free of Dathomir, but… now that he was here, he was certain that there was something more to understand. He had come to Dathomir because of its power, but its power had been jealously protected. Now… he knew he could not stay. He had wanted to inherit the power that had once belonged to the Nightsisters, but it remained elusive. 

Perhaps they were not as powerful as he once believed them to be. Perhaps the only great power was the Force. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. 

Maul was always struck by how much he didn’t know, even now. 

Maul followed the trail of the Force like a strill catching the scent of blood. His gaze scanned through the trees, searching. He didn’t know what he was waiting to see, but he knew it was something. 

He could feel Grogu’s uncertainty. He reached back to touch his ear again.

Don’t worry, little one. This is the way.

Grogu’s mind softly repeated: this is the way. 

There was a clearing in the trees that could only be artificial. It was a perfect circle, perhaps twenty meters across. The clearing was blanketed with a layer of soft, overgrown moss.

In the center of the clearing there was a statue. Thick red vines were wrapped around her; veinlike fetters. She stood proud and tall. Her elegant hand was outstretched before her, palm turned towards the sky. The statue was so detailed that the palm of her hand was lined with age. Her sharp fingernails were carefully sculpted. 

Maul could see in her pose that she was accepting an offering. The stone slab before he was stained with the blood of many animals, as was her reaching hand. These were not brutal and unkind offerings. For a Dathomirian, this was respect and worship and love.

“Take off your boots,” said Maul suddenly. “If you want to walk on the moss.” 

“It’s okay,” said the Mandalorian. “I’ll stay here.”  

“Suit yourself.” 

Maul knelt down. He obviously could not walk with bare feet on the moss, so he reached out a hand to touch it instead. It was soft and fragrant, and looked strangely iridescent. Almost like polished copper, Maul thought. 

This was a sacred place, and Maul did not anticipate an attack. He set Grogu on the moss, watching as the child curiously pulled at the shimmering vegetation. Grogu craned his head back to Maul, his eyes large. 

There was a pulse of understanding between them; that strange and wordless communication that they shared. 

This place feels strange, Grogu seemed to say. 

“It’s a shrine,” said Maul. “A place of worship.” 

Grogu didn’t understand entirely. Maul could feel his little mind wrapping around the concept of worship, but the youngling had no context for awe and submission of that kind. He was, after all, a Jedi. Grogu’s connection to the Force was not one of awe or submission, but oneness. Grogu had never experienced the Force in the way that Maul had; the violent tempest of power and violence that contorted and twisted and used. 

The divinity of the Force was something else to Grogu. Maul envied him. 

Worship. The word rolled around Grogu’s thoughts for a long time. Eventually, Grogu’s mind settled upon Din, who worshiped his culture - the way of the Mand’alor. 

It was as close an approximation as Grogu could get to the truth. Maul envied his naivety, too - his simplicity, his tranquility. You are as old as I am, but that means nothing. You only exist in a single time and space, little one. Words are meaningless and time… your time stretches out into an infinity beyond my own imagining.

Maul walked to the statue, feeling a tightness in his chest. He knelt to the statue, but he did not bow his head. He simply looked up at her, curious and silent. She was a severe woman; powerful, ancient, of strong body and stern features. She looked so much like his mother than he felt breathless with longing. 

Of course, it wasn’t her. 

This statue was old. An embodiment of nature itself. The jungle. The Force. 

Dathomir. 

“My mother,” started Maul, his voice hoarse. “She was powerful. Very powerful. She was so powerful that the Emperor himself considered her to be a rival to his throne. Of course, she had no interest in ruling the galaxy. Her place was here, always here.” 

Maul broke off, feeling superstitious and afraid. He had not seen his mother’s spirit upon Dathomir, and he supposed that was because her annihilation had been so brutal. She had not just been killed, but severed from the Force entirely. 

But what if remnants of her still remained? What would they look like, he wondered? His imagination was not kind. He did not want to see her again. He wanted her to remain only in his memory. Even in the confines of his own thoughts, his mother was not harmless. The pain of her loss was just as deep now as it had been before… perhaps even more so. 

But he wanted to remember her as she was. He liked the lies he believed about her. 

“My master made her many promises, and manipulated her into relinquishing her secrets of the Force… In the end, he stole me from her. I was only a small child then. I barely remember Dathomir. I only remember fear.” 

Maul felt Grogu settle at his side, his small head perched on Maul’s leg. Maul rested an absentminded hand over Grogu’s head. 

“I’ve explained the nature of Nightsisters and Nightbrothers to you before, yes, little one? The brothers were subservient to their sisters. Do you know what that means, Grogu? Subservient? We were lesser. In body and spirit, we were inferior to our sisters.” 

Grogu’s eyes were half-closed with concentration. Maul imagined that the little one was not following his words, but it did not matter. He did not speak them only for Grogu’s sake. Although he did not acknowledge the Mandalorian directly, it was for him that Maul spoke. Grogu was a welcome proxy. 

“I wonder… had I not been stolen, would she have even remembered that I was her son at all? Our mothers did not raise their sons, after all. We were always raised by our brothers. Was it the insult of that theft that put me apart from my brothers in her mind? Was it my power? I wonder.” 

These questions had existed inside Maul for nearly as long as he’d been alive, but he had never given them voice. He felt the shame burn in him like an ember. He suffered decades upon decades of bearing this sense of worthlessness, and a certainty that all love was false. Even hers. Especially hers. 

“My… brother was the one who found me after I was-- injured,” said Maul, his voice softening with grief. “He and I had never met before I was taken, and yet he was loyal to me - loyal to me from the instant he set eyes on me. I was crying like a child, lost in the dark, starving to death but never dying. Alive because the Force will happily abuse those who it wishes to use. 

“My brother was angry at my maltreatment, bitter at my loss. He shared his rage and hate with me so readily, and my desire for vengeance. We were-- oh, we were unstoppable! Mandalore and all the syndicates - the Pykes, the Black Suns, even the Hutts! All of them bowed to us. We were strong, so strong, as mighty as you can possibly imagine. We were lords. I sat upon the throne of Mandalore, and he stood at my side. We had so much power, and it grew and grew and before long… I had amassed far too much.” 

Maul swallowed, and he shook his head. He felt a bitter and weary scoff escape him. 

“My master…” 

But there were no words that needed to be spoken on this matter. The end result was obvious, and Maul did not need to disgrace himself by forcing those cries past his lips. It was far too much to bear. My master killed him. 

I couldn’t protect him. 

I’m weak. 

I’m worthless.

I’m alone. Ni cuy' echoy'la. 

Maul reached up, and his hand closed over the statue’s. He could feel the blood of thousands of beasts in that hand - the offerings that the Nightbrothers had made to their deity, the mother of their beloved planet. 

Love. That’s what this blood said. Love, respect, mercy. 

“This statue is as old as Dathomir as we know it,” whispered Maul. “There are many such things here - old, old statues, old shrines, temples - all preserved. They outlived us all. Except me.” 

Maul leaned up, pressing his cheek to the outstretched hand. Her hand felt cold against his feverish skin. He felt bitterness well up within him, his eyes stinging bitterly. What must I do to be worthy of your love? 

Submit? 

Dathomir’s rejection of him, her cruel rebuff and her abuses, stung him to the core. 

Trembling with anger, he took Grogu in his hands and climbed to his feet. He carried the child to the Mandalorian, placing Grogu into his outstretched hands with self-possessed calmness (utterly fake, of course). The Mandalorian did not question the handover. He placed Grogu in the conspicuously empty shoulder bag he’d been carrying. 

He reached for Maul then, but Maul was already backing away. The Mandalorian did not cross the threshold of such sacred ground. 

When Maul turned away, the darksaber was in his hand. The black blade sang. The statue before him was beautiful and hateful. He snarled and lunged, the blade arcing through the air. 

A heavy weight slammed into Maul’s back. He was so wrapped up in his own misery that he hadn’t been prepared for the Mandalorian to grab him. The blow missed as the Mandalorian’s hand gripped Maul’s wrist, the other arm winding securely around his chest. Maul cursed and arched, instinctively slamming the back of his head against the Mandalorian’s face. 

If his face had been uncovered, the Mandalorian would have walked away from this fight missing an eye. Instead, Maul was going to be left with a nasty bruise. He blinked hazily, stunned by the blow to the skull, which was more than enough time for the Mandalorian to wrestle him down to the ground. 

Maul snarled and struggled, but his mind felt too scattered to coordinate itself into a sincere fight. The darksaber slipped from his fingers and onto the moss, forgotten. His body was weak to the tight embrace. When the violence of his resistance collapsed into grief, he leaned into the Mandalorian’s iron grip and cried out with frustration. He was completely resigned. 

He took the Mandalorian’s hand and bit down hard on his thumb joint. The leather of the Mandalorian’s glove was more than enough to protect his skin, and Maul was content to clench his jaw as hard as he could, channeling his frustration and anger into that bite. 

Even so, it wasn’t a bite of violence. 

Breathing hard, Maul closed his eyes and greedily pressed himself back against the Mandalorian’s beskar chest. The metal was strangely warm, reassuring against his shoulders. His hand sought out Grogu in the bag hanging at the Mandalorian’s side, and the child leaned his small face against Maul’s palm with a soft, worried coo. 

Safe, Grogu seemed to say. He keeps us safe. 

Maul did not relinquish the Mandalorian’s hand. He closed his eyes and let the Mandalorian hold him, greedy for the embrace, unwilling to release him now that he had him. The Mandalorian wisely did not try to pull away from him. He only pressed closer, his other hand running up the length of Maul’s arm. The touch burned and tingled, even through the glove. The armor that the Mandalorian wore was so intrinsically part of his body that it didn’t make a difference. It felt just as intimate, just as sensual. 

When the Mandalorian touched Maul’s throat, he uttered a low growl. It wasn’t a threatening sound. He tipped his head back, horns scratching against the Mandalorian’s helmet. He felt his anger melt into something weak and yearning, but it didn’t feel like weakness. The Mandalorian wrapped around him like beskar’gam, and Maul was safe. 

Grogu crawled from the bag and onto Maul’s lap, standing on his tiptoes to look into Maul’s face. He tipped his head, gazing curiously at Maul’s teeth as they dug into the fabric of the Mandalorian’s glove. 

After a moment of observation, Grogu did as Maul did - he bit Din’s pinky. 

“You don’t want to leave, do you?” 

They had stayed there far longer than intended. Maul had eventually relinquished the Mandalorian’s hand, and together they laid on the soft moss. The Mandalorian’s boots had been kicked away, his bare feet pressed to the metal soles of Maul’s. The Mandalorian’s arms remained tight around Maul’s body, ungloved palms pressed flat to his stomach and chest. 

There was no mistaking the nature of this intimacy. Maul lacked the anatomy to experience lust, but that did not preclude him from pleasure or yearning. The touch, simple as it was, satisfied him in ways he simply couldn’t describe. 

But neither spoke of it - as if giving voice to those feelings would shatter them into a thousand little pieces, and leave nothing behind but broken and bloodied glass. 

Maul held Grogu, the child tucked beneath his chin. Grogu was awake but peaceful, content with the mundane and the quiet. His big eyes were half-closed, unfocused. He felt safe. The Force surrounded them, and there were no predators here. 

Just them. 

“Maul?” murmured the Mandalorian, when there was no answer. 

“No,” said Maul. “This isn’t what I wanted. Dathomir is the closest thing I have to a place in this universe. Yaim. But what does it matter? Now, I’m a trespasser in my own land.”

The Mandalorian sighed. “Yeah.” 

There was a beat of silence. The Mandalorian’s armored cheek came to rest against Maul’s shoulder. 

“You’re strong enough to survive here,” said the Mandalorian. 

“Grogu isn’t,” said Maul. 

They couldn’t linger there forever, and that was perhaps the greatest disappointment of all.

The jungle grew quiet with the darkening sky. The Force was still powerful, but Maul felt that he had seen what the Force wished for him to see. The veil was pulling back, and he became alert to the change in atmosphere. Dathomir’s hostility bubbled up beneath that peace, chased it away. 

The nydaks were closer. Maul could hear them now. The Mandalorian and Maul moved swiftly. Maul did not suffer much in the way of exertion, courtesy of his metal legs. The Mandalorian, however, was weary. Maul could hear him panting, burdened by the weight of his armor and the unkind, uneven landscape beneath them. But they did not slow. They could feel the vibrations of powerful predators trodding through the trees. They could hear the branches snapping and the rustle of vegetation. He could smell them; the musky blood scent of predators. 

Move! shouted the Force. Unthinking, Maul grabbed Din and pulled him hard, just in time to avoid the beast that fell upon them from the trees. 

The nydak snarled, her ugly head lifting to regard them with angry surprise - she hadn’t expected them to elude the attack. Her arms were enormous, muscles rippling under spiny, colorless flesh. Her beady eyes refracted the light, gleaming in the semi-darkness of the jungle. Her body was lean; smaller than a rancor’s, but far more agile. 

Maul lurched forward, the darksaber severing branches as he swung at the monster. It snarled and pulled back from him with shocking speed. She was too smart not to perceive the danger of the weapon he wielded, which was unfamiliar to her. She weaved through the trees with easy familiarity, her eyes unblinking as she searched for weakness. 

One her own, this nydak would stand no chance. No matter her power, the darksaber would pierce her flesh with ease. But Maul could see shadows on his periphery. There were other nydaks encircling them. 

But Maul was not alone either. The Mandalorian was with him. 

So was the Force. 

“Keep Grogu between us,” said the Mandalorian. 

Maul stood back-to-back with the Mandalorian. He felt the excitement of battle fill him; the joy of it. He felt that excitement mirrored in the Mandalorian. The ecstasy of battle; the delight in one’s own skill and power. Battle brought with it moments of true faith. The world fell away, and all that was left was you, just you, and what you were capable of. 

Maul grinned with bloodlust, his muscles coiling as he prepared for his attack. The nydak snarled, sensing his intention. She lunged, and so did Maul. 

“Oya!” Maul shouted. 

And the Mandalorian called back: “Oya Mand’alor!” 

Chapter Text

“What is it that we’re hoping for, at the end of all this?” 

Din remembered speaking those words aloud. It was like uttering a curse - something that, once given form, could never be unmade. 

A question that, once asked, could never stop being asked. 

He had been kneeling before the forge, his hands resting on his thighs, his posture tall and respectful. He had been young, neither a boy nor a man. He was something in-between, in a place where the simplicity of childhood was robbed by violence, and the clarity of adulthood remained little more than a speck on a distant and dreary horizon. It was a horizon rapidly approaching, yet strangely elusive in the midst of great mourning. 

Time was slow to turn. The sunlight dragged itself across the land, mercilessly bright. And the nights were even longer, and more cruel. 

Grief-seconds, as the Mandalorians called them. The pit of suffering where time seemed infinite. The moments after a battle, perhaps, when you took stock of the brothers and sisters you had lost. Or the morning after a raid, when your home was destroyed and you were again crammed into some small ship, battered and numbering far less than the day prior. 

Back in the early days, Din had a lot to mourn. The Mandalorians fell, again and again. Their coverts were found and destroyed by Imperial spies. Many of those spies wore stolen Mandalorian armor. When an unknown Mandalorian came to them, the covert had no choice but to turn them away. And when a stranger did not accept this answer, and fought back against that rejection, they were killed by those who might well have been their kin. 

But no one could know for sure. 

Only trust those who you know, or the foundlings you save. This is the way now. We have no choice.

Din had been exhausted. The covert traveled from one planet to the next, and it seemed like a hopeless endeavor - a meandering and inevitable march towards death. They were doing little more than delaying their fate (and that fate would prove to be true, in the end). Their numbers dwindled, little by little. As the losses grew, Din’s heart hardened. He loved less. His devotion to the creed occupied him, because the creed existed within his own mind and could not be taken from him. Not like his family could. 

Or so he had believed. 

Din considered himself a formidable warrior. He had trained all of his life for the wars that always existed just beyond the horizon. His body and his skill were the only things that he could always rely upon… for as long as both held out, at least. 

This is the way. 

You must be ready to defend yourself, 

to defend your clan, 

and most of all: 

you must be ready to defend your foundlings. 

And if you could not… then you simply were not Mandalorian. 

…

But it was not enough. 

Din was not enough. 

He had not been enough to protect his covert, nor his foundling. His body and his skill, great though they might have been, fell short. Grogu had been taken from him. His covert had been destroyed. He had been left at the mercy of grief-seconds again. He felt lost. He felt alone. He was untethered and drifting into empty space. 

Coming to Dathomir had not spared him that fate. Not entirely. Even here, they were cast out. Even here, they were not safe. And the longing he had seen in Maul mirrored the longing in himself. Home. Yaim. 

It seemed hopeless. 

But fighting at Maul’s side now… 

"Hoping for?” the Armorer had asked. 

Din nodded. He did not look up at the Armorer, and he made no secret of the fact that she intimidated him. She had never made a point to be threatening. She was never unfair. But… her knowledge and wisdom was vast. Almost divinely so. If there was any reason for them to still live, it was because of her guidance. Her belief. Her strength. And Din feared deeply that he would fail to embody the truths that she had imparted upon him. His own fragility, when juxtaposed with her great strength, was a source of shame. 

“We’ve been running for so long,” said Din. 

His voice was quiet, his words hesitating, stumbling. They stuck in his throat, and they were painful. But the injustice was so great that he had no choice but to speak. To question. 

To question her. 

“We could take off our armor and disappear,” he said. “But we don’t. Sometimes, it seems like we’re just waiting to die. Even inviting it. But… why?” 

The Armorer had set her tools aside, and taken her place across from him. The heat of the forge was oppressive, sinking through his armor. It was a purifying heat, he thought - different than the sun, which felt exposing and stark. This was the heat that came from the darkness; from denseness. From safety, however brief it might have been. 

“We do not invite death,” said the Armorer. “Quite the opposite.” 

“But…” started Din. The protest did not come to him easily. 

There was a beat of silence. Din bowed his head. The injustice burned in him, but he was too young to articulate those feelings. He lacked the experience and clarity. And he felt so, so tired. He was unraveling. He wanted to go home, but home didn’t exist. There was only the march. 

“We do not compromise in the face of death,” said the Armorer. 

Maul was not a Mandalorian… but he was the Mand’alor. 

It was a status that did not require him to follow the way, not in the ways that Din had to. Maul was a war leader, a uniter. Maul was not a protector of the Mandalorian culture, but he was a keeper of Mandalorians themselves. He was the nucleus of the Mandalorian people… what was left of them, anyway. 

Or he could be, if he chose that path. 

But Maul was a man who carried many demons with him. The path before him was… ambiguous, at best. When they left this planet, Din did not know where they would go. He suspected that Maul had no idea, either. There was no future that could be believed. There was nothing that Maul could guarantee, and no promises that Din could trust. 

Of that, Din had no illusions.  

You are not Mandalorian, but it does not matter. You are still a part of us.

The zabrak was a vicious, uncompromising warrior. It was only in the fight itself that Din began to understand the full breadth of Maul’s power. 

The nydaks were swift, violent creatures - more than a match for any Mandalorian. Maul carved through the beasts that assailed them with the darksaber. It was not only his weapon that proved itself worthy. His body, too, was a weapon - and Din did not believe that Maul needed the darksaber at all to defend himself. Maul moved in impossible ways with the aid of his strange magic. He was unnaturally fast, buoyant and weightless. He could avoid blows that no man should have been able to intuit. He used invisible chains to restrain the beasts before he killed them. 

He was something divine - but natural, too, like a storm. 

Din nodded, but he was unsatisfied. He still felt a terrible, creeping numbness in his core - an ice that even the forge could not melt away. It was difficult to argue with the Armorer’s clarity of purpose, which was persuasive even when he did not understand it. 

But she was sensitive to his mood, and she asked: 

“Do you wish to leave?” 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

Din had no answer. He knew he was honest, that he meant what he said - but he was lost, and many truths were instinctive or sentimental rather than explicit. His values, such as they were, existed in a protean form - as changeable as the tide, evolving as the universe gradually came into focus. 

“I…” Din wet his lips, and he tasted bitterness. “Because I have nowhere else to go.” 

“I see.” The Armorer did not judge. Her tone was firm, soothing in its predictability. No matter his moods, no matter his angst, she would remain still and unmoving. Like stone. Like the surface of cool metal. 

Even if she could not save them, she never did sacrifice her dignity. They relied upon that. He wondered, truthfully, what she felt. What was her grief like? She bore it in silence, in solitude, and it seemed her grief guided her hands as they shaped metal. She gave what she could to protect them. 

But it wasn’t enough. Not always. 

The Armorer allowed the silence to stretch, and Din was relieved that he did not feel the need to fill it. It was a meditative calm, and he felt his own misery settle into a heat-softened trance. He closed his eyes, and he waited for her judgment. Her wisdom.

“Mandalorians,” said the Armorer, “do not seek death. That is not the way. And the truest of us do not seek war. What we do seek is something we would gladly die for. But I cannot tell you what that might be. You may never find it.” 

He did not know what he would gladly die for, apart from his creed. He was young. He did not yet understand. He had not taken a foundling for himself. He had not yet found a partner with whom he could share all parts of himself. He was alone. Separate. Incomplete. A Mandalorian without a clan. 

Din looked at the fire. 

(Someday, he would think of those flames when Maul’s yellow eyes refracted the red sun, and remember the heat. 

And he would remember the question - and the answer.)

When the fight was over, Din found himself gazing at Maul. He was not so unaware that he did not realize his own awe. He had never seen such brilliance, such perfect violence. Maul was completely unharmed. He was barely winded. 

The corpses of their enemies littered the ground. They were strangely bloodless, cauterized by the darksaber’s blade. Maul did not bisect them and leave them in impotent misery, either; the ones he felled, he swiftly beheaded. And Din did not have to guess at the reasons for that mercy. 

The ones that were not dead had fled into the jungle, and Din did not think they would be coming back. 

The zabrak was checking Grogu over. The child was unscathed by the carnage. He was calm, his expression intrigued rather than afraid. And Din wondered at Grogu, at that sureness of his own safety. Was the Force really so powerful? Could it be trusted so deeply? If so… Din envied them, and he was glad for them. 

Grogu’s small hands reached up to grab at Maul’s forehorns, and Din’s heart twisted with gratitude and… something more complex. Maul was not harsh nor was he coddling, not to Grogu. It wouldn’t be very Mandalorian if he was. He did not seem to expect that Grogu would feel afraid after such an attack. 

Din supposed that was the nature of the magic that Maul had at his disposal. It was something to be trusted, to be relied upon and veiled within. To succumb to. There had never been a true threat to either of them. 

Din felt restless. He felt longing. And, watching Maul first tend to their foundling before even bothering to acknowledge Din… Din felt loyalty. Devotion. He would die in battle at Maul’s side, if asked. 

In Mandalorian terms, that was love. 

Even at the best of times, Din didn’t like to make a habit of fighting animals. The fact that Grogu had to save him from the mudhorn was proof enough that large beasts were not the preferred adversary for a Mandalorian. Din’s worst enemies were men and droids, and he had devoted his life to surviving both of them. 

Maul had no such limitations. 

Din faintly remembered seeing an anooba fighting a desert viper, a long time ago, when he was alighting with a Tusken encampment. The anooba - a juvenile, barely more than a pup - had been hoping to scoop up an easy meal, perhaps having mistaken the viper for one of the more docile nightsnakes. Naturally, nightsnakes only emerged from their burrows when the second sun fell, and they weren’t venomous. 

The viper was, of course. 

The viper had been so fast that Din barely saw its strikes. He remembered the hissing, a heady and shocking sound. The anooba had been ten times that viper’s size, but there had been no contest. Size was meaningless. 

The Tuskens had beheaded the anooba to spare it the suffering of a slow death. After they had cooked the venom out of its flesh, it had been their dinner. Din had spent the better part of the night napping beside the campfire, barely sleeping. He was disturbed frequently by nightmares of snakes creeping under his armor and biting his throat. 

He wondered if he would have such nightmares about Maul. 

…

As much as he might have feared that viper, he was similarly entranced by it - its perfect loveliness, its violence. 

“Let’s eat,” said Maul. “Quickly, Mandalorian.” 

Maul produced the knife made of black glass that Din had seen before. The zabrak moved swiftly, cutting away pieces of flesh to be greedily devoured. His teeth were deceptively sharp, and he tore muscle fibers apart with unsettling ease. The blood on his fingers and knuckles was chased away by a pink tongue. His mottled, lacquered teeth were bared in a possessive grimace as he ate, his yellow eyes watchful and paranoid. 

If he hadn’t had the knife at his disposal, Maul probably just would have torn chunks of flesh from the beast itself. Din had no doubt of it. 

Watching Maul eat raw meat and chew bone had disturbed Din before. Now, he felt a shiver of genuine attraction. Maul’s ferine nature was becoming something more than familiar - it was appealing. Visceral. Passionate. To Din, Maul’s violence was a reassurance. His predatory nature could not be uncoupled from who he was. 

And who he was… well. He was special. Singular. 

(And he was the Mand’alor - in Din’s mind, at least.) 

Din was growing fond. He was bewitched by Maul’s power, his uncompromising violence, his possessiveness. His pain, even. 

Maul hardly seemed apologetic for his gluttony. He shared small pieces of meat with Grogu. He used his teeth to tear flesh into smaller chunks before he would give them to the child, all of which were happily accepted. Grogu gnawed on them with his own sharp little teeth, his big eyes fixed on Maul. 

Din could see the regard Grogu had for the zabrak. Grogu was benign and passive with Din, loving and peaceful. But when it came to Maul, Grogu tried to emulate - to learn. Maul and Grogu were the same kind of creature, after all, and it went much further than just their shared magic. 

They were speaking. Din could see that, too. Grogu and Maul’s eyes met often as they ate their fill. Sometimes Maul would exhale with amusement, sometimes he would smirk and smile. Even though he did not care for the blood staining his own mouth and fingers, he meticulously wiped Grogu’s mouth with the back of his wrist. 

Din felt invisible and outside of the veil of the Force. Separate. But he didn’t mind. When he was close to them, the veil fell upon him as well. It protected him. And even if he did not understand it, he felt love for the Force, too. At least the Force that tethered itself to Maul. 

Din turned away from them, and he removed his helmet. He used his flamethrower to cook meat before he ate it, finding it tough but delicious. 

When Maul slid a clawed hand through his hair and over the back of his skull, he closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure, and leaned back into the touch. 

The path back was meandering and slow. The jungle was dense enough in places that the way forward was decided for them. Din both did not want the journey to end and was anxious to reach their destination. He felt the miles spread before him, both a comfort and a misery - difficult to traverse in armor and carrying heavy tools. His shoulders were tired, burning with the steady pull of weight. 

But they eventually did reach the craggy edges of Maul’s domain. The jungle became thinner, less oppressive. Maul, though, seemed deeply weary. His legs did not bear the burden of exhaustion, but he nevertheless lagged behind, and his yellow eyes were often distant. He didn’t respond to Din unless Din spoke twice, and his attention remained divided. 

Din stopped. “What is it?” 

Maul looked at him for a moment. There was anxiety in his eyes, and he masked it poorly. 

“What is what?” he asked. His voice was more of a growl than a purr; something dismissive. More like a warning than a question. 

“You’re…” Din looked at Maul, and then at Grogu held securely in his arms. “You can tell us the truth. You know something.” 

Maul’s yellow eyes narrowed, and he looked away. 

“It will sound juvenile to say it’s a bad feeling,” he said. “But I suppose there is no other word for it. There is something… mmnh. Wrong. The threats so far have not been dangerous to me, not yet, but we are about to separate. The fact that Dathomir has not impeded our progress to this point is concerning.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Maul glared at him, and he bluntly said: “we’re being stalked.” 

“By the person who sabotaged the ships,” said Din. 

“Yes.” 

“It’s a man? A person?” 

Din had asked before, but he wanted to be sure.

Maul frowned. “Obviously.” 

“Then I can handle it.” 

Maul rolled his eyes, bitter and reluctant. When he passed Grogu to Din, there was a sharpness in his movements and a coldness that Din didn’t like; a violence in his mood that put everyone on edge. He took the tools from Din just as roughly. 

Din secured Grogu in the bag at his side, conscious of the youngling’s worry at Maul’s mood. Grogu’s small hands reached for Maul, but the zabrak ignored him entirely. 

“You’ll be tested,” said Maul. 

At this, Din sighed. “That isn’t anything new.” 

Maul closed his eyes, thinly suppressing his frustration. “The radio tower,” he said. “It’s on that ridge. I’ll go to the ship, and I’ll contact you when I find the satellite. There won’t be many up there, I’d imagine… Mh. And the Force will guide me.” 

Maul turned to leave, so abrupt that Din almost didn’t react. He reached out and grabbed Maul’s wrist, uncompromising as he pulled him back. His arm encircled Maul’s chest, and he was relieved that Maul didn’t fight the embrace - even if it was not readily returned. 

For a moment, they lingered there. Maul’s hand snaked over to find Grogu at Din’s side. The child cooed and leaned into Maul’s palm, his eyes drifting closed. When Din looked down, Grogu was fast asleep. 

He could only imagine that was Maul’s doing. 

“You should have never come here,” said Maul. “It was a mistake.” 

“Maybe,” said Din. “But I did.” 

“Mh.”

Maul sank against him, dropping the tools to the ground. They landed softly with the aid of the Force. Maul shuddered harshly and grabbed Din’s vambrace, holding firm. He was impossibly tense in Din’s arms, his muscles wound tight. 

The embrace was a brief (too short) moment of repose before Maul pulled away again. His eyes lifted to Din’s helmet, a fingertip moving to trace the edge of the visor. The contact was brief. Maul tore his hand away, another bitter expression crossing his face. It was almost a physical pain, something visceral. 

Maul was unused to hiding his emotions, Din realized. He had been alone for far too long. 

“Hide Grogu,” Maul told him. “He is not entirely helpless on his own. But if you fail to protect him, he will be.” 

Din inclined his head. “Alright.” 

The lack of anger or bitterness from Din seemed to have a pacifying effect on Maul. The zabrak hesitated, exhaled, and took a step closer again. 

“I didn’t train him,” said Maul. “Not like I should have. My own training was… difficult. But now, if the child is killed, then…” 

And Maul withdrew again - like the tide. Pulling closer, seeking contact… and then chasing it away just as fast. Din followed Maul as he withdrew, his fingers pressing to the side of Maul’s neck. He held him still with one hand, the other pushing his helmet away. The motion was so natural, so swift and unthinking, that Din managed to outrun the guilt. The damp air against his face - the fragrance of vegetation and blood - was a welcome relief. 

The helmet fell to the ground with a quiet thump! 

Maul leaned in instantly, his sharp teeth finding Din’s jaw. He bit hard enough to hurt, but not nearly hard enough to break his skin. Din reached up, a hand pressing to the back of Maul’s skull, his fingers curled around the zabrak’s horns. 

They lingered like that for a little while. Maul’s grip grew gentle, and his breaths deepened. He found his way to Din’s mouth, and their lips pressed together, slick and warm. Gentle. It wasn’t a sexual contact; it lacked hunger. It was something more… unsure. They shifted closer, as if trying to find the ways in which they fit. It was a restless, yearning touch. Din’s hands found Maul’s chest, his shoulders, his waist - and the seam of metal that separated his torso from his legs. Maul growled when he touched there, almost a warning, but his hand clamped over Din’s and kept it pinned. 

Din had never kissed anyone before, and he could only assume that Maul was much the same. They were inelegant, both shivering with the unfamiliarity of the contact. Maul was violent in his restlessness, biting and growling. He would press in for more and pull back just as suddenly, and Din would chase him as he withdrew. Their faces pressed together, slick with sweat and fog. 

Maul had a deep, earthy scent. And his taste was not quite human. 

The contact broke. Din allowed Maul to pull away this time. He let Maul slip free of his hands, even though they lingered as long as Maul would allow. 

“Hide him,” repeated Maul. He was breathless, and the expression on his face was too complex for Din to parse. Something between pain and regret; yearning and ire. 

“I will,” Din promised. “I’ll hide him.”

Maul’s eyes flicked to the bag at Din’s side. He reached out as if to touch Grogu again, but he stopped short. His fingers clenched into a fist, and he turned away. He collected the tools from the ground, but left the helmet for Din to retrieve himself. 

And he said nothing more as he disappeared beyond the treeline. 

Chapter Text

Every heavy step towards the ship felt more reluctant than the last. 

This is a mistake, Maul told himself. 

All of this is a mistake. 

But the words fell flat. If this was a mistake, it was a mistake he was committing himself to make. Maul had chosen this path for himself, for better or ill. He had bound himself to the Mandalorian and to the child. He had challenged Dathomir and refused her blood price. There was no point bothering himself with uncertainties now. 

This was the path. This is the way, he thought (with no shortage of irony). 

Maul looked up at the red sky and breathed, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, trying to find purchase on something solid, something steadying - and failing, naturally. There was nothing to hold onto. There was only the truth, ugly and naked. 

He loved. 

Maul was depending on the Mandalorian and Grogu for more than just this mission. He needed them. There were no words that he could put to that need - it simply existed. And if it did not, then neither did he. A terrifying void waited on the other side - a sense that, once he had found his orbit, there was no escaping it. 

The child and the Mandalorian had snared him with gravity, and he was helpless. 

Maul climbed into the x-wing, feeling bitterness that stemmed from love rather than hatred. It felt no more pleasant than the latter, no more real, no more true. Certainly no more welcome. But Maul was slave to it, simple prey, and he felt compelled to continue forward on this path. It was the nature of the Sith to cling to things, after all - even love and affection. They were addicts and masochists to the very end. 

When Maul settled back into his seat, he allowed himself a moment of unmasked frustration. He slammed the outer side of his hand against the metal chassis. He felt blood pooling beneath his skin, tender and hot. It would be a nasty bruise. 

It was supposed to calm him in the way physical pain so often did… but it didn’t. The heat, the sensitivity, only reminded him of the way his skin felt when the Mandalorian’s hands were on him. He felt lust - unsexual though it might have been, for obvious reasons. It was still a desire rooted deep in his primordial instincts - the yearning for closeness, for passion, for hands gripping his flesh and a mouth sighing against his own. 

“Din Djarin,” he muttered to himself, and chuckled. “How… unlikely.” 

Maul closed his eyes. His hands were unsteady as he gripped the yoke, and he searched for a quiet and peaceful thought - a place to exist, if only for a moment. A place separate from pain. 

He thought of the rain. Dathomir’s rain always felt invigorating, and the mineral scent of it was powerful, soothing. He thought of laying at the floor of the caves, idle as he listened to the dripping water. Grogu splashed in the puddles, snail shells clasped in his hands. Grogu’s presence in the Force had proven a very peaceful place indeed, unthreatening (even though it should have terrified him utterly). 

Maul thought of Grogu’s healing magic, too - the relief that came with the care that the little one had given him. The old wounds healed under those hands - wounds so familiar that Maul could barely recognize himself without them. 

And that sentiment went far beyond the visceral, the physical. He was changed. He was not saved, and he was certainly not a Jedi. His power still drew from the dark side, as it always would. 

But he was still changed. 

There were things to believe in now. Even if those beliefs meant nothing in the grand scheme of the universe, they were not nothing to him. Maul was vain enough to find that justification satisfying. 

He didn’t care about the universe much. He never had. 

But the child… his apprentice. The very thought of it filled him with an emotion that was difficult to quantify. He thought of Grogu’s small form, the weight of him, the warmth of his presence - small and yet so significant, so profound. Teaching him had been… fulfilling. Even the mundane knowledge he had imparted upon Grogu filled him with a sense of pride, pathetic though it might have been. 

Maul swallowed sharply, and looked up at the condensation on the transparisteel. The sky was a bitter, rustic red. He would see it from the other side, soon enough. 

His resolve deepened. 

The ship didn’t have much left to get it off the ground, but Maul drew the Force into himself and lifted. It was difficult work, straining his exhausted body to its limits - but it did lift, and the engines did burn, however reluctant they might have been. 

It was a light ship, compared to most. It didn’t need as much to get going. It wanted to fly. 

There was some hope that he would feel relief upon leaving. It was only when he cleared the atmosphere and entered into the black void of space that he realized how deeply entangled his power was with Dathomir itself. He felt the threads pull and pull - and when they severed, it hurt. 

This was much the same as before, when he had left to retrieve Grogu. He had been reluctant to leave, relieved to return. 

The Nightsisters themselves had been unwilling to leave, even to the point of death - and he understood that sentiment just a little better. He understood why they lingered even now, specters that floated like motes of dust in the shadows, forever bound to the magic of Dathomir. Forever a part of its soul. 

Would he become one of those lights, if he stayed? 

“Undoubtedly,” he muttered to himself. 

He took a moment, brief but poignant, to look back at the red planet below him. Maul had never felt moved by beauty, by grandness, by scale, but… now, perhaps, he was. He wanted to stay there, to imbue himself in the magic and power and oneness that Dathomir offered. Not so long ago, he had looked at the sky and felt certain of his path beyond, that he would be forced to leave. 

Now that he was here, space felt empty and cold indeed. 

His place was not in the stars. He was Dathomir’s child. He was the heir of what little power and knowledge remained on that planet. He was a custodian of the nature, his spirit entwined with that of the planet itself. He was not a cog in the wheel of a greater machine. He was organic and alive and adaptive. 

So then, who was he hoping to call? And for what purpose? 

Someone to come for Grogu and the Mandalorian, he supposed. Someone to rescue them. 

Which, naturally, meant that they were destined to leave him behind. 

Maul angrily shoved the thought aside, because he couldn’t bear it now. 

Maul found the satellite he was looking for quickly enough. There weren’t many orbiting Dathomir, naturally, and this one was large - quick to reveal its location to the x-wing’s sensors. It had two enormous wings, mirroring the crimson sun. They glowed like firelight against the backdrop of space. The satellite had a metallic prettiness - something sleek but sturdy. It had the shape of old-world technology, although he couldn’t say what made it old-world. It just was. 

It felt nostalgic to look at it. 

When Maul aligned his orbit with that of the satellite, he was at least relieved to see that there was no obvious damage. If there had been - if the solar panel was shattered by some debris, or there were some signs of burnt metal - then there wouldn’t have been much he could have done to save it. Not with the little resources he had. 

The satellite was as pristine as it had been the day it was launched. On the outside, at least. 

He turned on his comm. “Just what kind of damage are we expecting to find?” 

Strangely, the question hadn’t occurred to him before this moment. 

“It’s usually the battery components,” came the Mandalorian’s voice, staticy but clear. “At least with more obsolete satellites. If the battery isn’t replaced, it degrades over time. Space is a harsh environment.” 

That did not sound promising. 

“And you expect me to be able to fix that?” 

“Long enough for us to send out a message,” said the Mandalorian. “...I hope.”

Maul supposed that would have to do. They were both out of options otherwise. 

Maul used the Force to assess the damage. He moved the outer panels aside and painstakingly checked the components under the Mandalorian’s thorough direction. Maul immersed himself in the task. It was delicate work, requiring a subtle use of the Force. It was the kind of precise work he was no longer used to, all told. But Maul persisted nevertheless, all too conscious of the perspiration on his brow, the prominent thud of his hearts beating. 

I really am old, he thought to himself, but with anger rather than misery. Quite old, it seems. 

Of course, one’s connection to the Force was supposed to deepen with age. But Maul’s power, and the nature of his training, had seemed entirely geared towards the opposite. He could wield the Force only through the physical perfection of his own body; through his raw strength and stamina. It was as visceral as it was ethereal. 

That flaw surprised him extremely little, considering just who had given him such training. He was never meant to inherit the power that Sidious had amassed. 

Maul focused on the task at hand, but his mind wandered. He had a talent for dividing his attention between many different points of reference. He followed the Mandalorian’s directions, carefully taking apart the different components of the satellite, checking them, and replacing them. The Mandalorian was methodical, and patient, and thorough. 

In his mind, though… Maul was conscious of his own reluctance to lose the Mandalorian and the child. He considered breaking the satellite beyond any hope of repair, trapping them on Dathomir. Maul could delude himself, however briefly, that Dathomir’s great power could be fought and survived. 

But even as those thoughts crossed his mind again and again, he still followed each and every direction given. Because he knew that it was a lie. He could detect his own delusions now. It was a talent he’d developed with age. 

And truth be told… he had begun to understand a little bit of what Master Jinn had tried to teach him, however reluctant he might be to admit it. 

You must let go. 

You must be willing to let go.

No matter the pain that it may cause, it is nothing compared to the calamity that comes from holding on when you shouldn’t. 

“The battery’s dead.”

“Obviously.” 

“It’s one of the easiest things to fix,” said the Mandalorian, “and… just about impossible for us with what little we have.” 

The innards of the satellite were floating, stationary, in the void. The side panel revealed a computer screen and many switches, but all of the LEDs were off - the system was completely unresponsive. The battery itself was a square block set between the wingspan, and it had no obvious damage - no acid melting through, no scorch marks or warped metal that indicated permanent damage. It was just dead. It probably overcharged, Maul supposed. It had probably happened years ago. 

Maul was exhausted. His skin was slick with sweat, and he felt something like muscle burn - but spiritually, he supposed. He was more out of practice than he had thought himself to be, and the delicate work took a level of finesse that he found particularly straining. 

I’m too far away from Dathomir, he thought. His power had been bound too deeply with the planet’s, and he was suffering for it. He felt foolish. 

“And what is possible, Mandalorian?” asked Maul. 

“I suppose it’s possible you could replace it with the battery on your x-wing,” said the Mandalorian, although his voice was grim. “But it would take some creative engineering.”

“And my ship would be dead, lest you forget.” 

“Yes,” said the Mandalorian. He sighed. “I guess it would only be long enough for me to send a message. But I don’t know where to send it, without your help.” 

Maul rolled his eyes. Neither of them yet knew who they were sending a message to, but there was no use pointing that out. The battery that kept the x-wing’s computer systems functional was not the same as the battery that fueled the satellite. With some clever engineering, as the Mandalorian put it, this fix could no doubt be managed - but Maul was not a particularly strong engineer. 

And doing everything through the Force - only the Force - seemed hellish. 

“And I suppose this is the only way?” 

There was a pause. When the Mandalorian replied, he sounded even wearier. “It might still work with a jumpstart,” he said. “But I can’t see a way. Not with the tools we have, anyway.”

…

Maul paused. 

“Do you mean just flooding it with electricity? …that’s all?” 

“Well, yeah.” 

It was both immensely easy and the worst answer imaginable, all at once. 

Maul looked down at his hands, his fingers curling together. There was a brief spark - a stinging flash that leapt from his thumb to his index finger. 

It was not a power he chose to use often - but it was a power he could use. 

“...that, I believe I can do.” 

…but not right away. 

Maul was conscious of his own exhaustion (and conscious of just how little time he had to rest). He would need to unhook the battery, but that was more delicate work - more tiny screws, more fragile wires, and so many things that could go wrong in the interim. His eyes were already bleary with strain. His head was pounding. He felt conscious of his own hunger and thirst, and the aching tension in his spine. 

The silence stretched on. He meditated in the manner that Master Jinn had taught him. He breathed slow, and drew strength into himself. 

The Mandalorian remained quiet, patient with him. They were both conscious of the time constraints that they faced, yes, but the Mandalorian knew well enough the physical toll of using the Force. He had seen it in Grogu many times. 

The silence stretched on, and Maul exhaled a slow, unsteady breath. 

“Mandalorian,” he said. 

There was silence on the other side, but Maul knew that the Mandalorian was listening. 

“There was an old Mandalorian song - a chant, that Death Watch used to invoke before battle,” he said. “Mmh. I only remember a small part of it, not much more. Sa kyr'am nau tracyn kad.”

Maul heard the Mandalorian inhale softly. There was silence, long and heavy, before the Mandalorian spoke. 

“You speak Mando’a better than I do,” he said, his voice hushed. “...you remember that because of your saber, right?” 

“When I led Mandalorians into battle, they chanted those words,” said Maul. There was a warm nostalgia in his voice, remembering his own power over them - their devotion, their violence, their hunger for war. There was such joy in those chants, the joy that came from a near-divine belief in the Manda, the collective spirit of their people. 

Maul had never, ever believed - but he had basked in the heat of that fire all the same. He missed it. 

“Forged like the saber in the fires of death,” said Maul, his voice a low hum of nostalgic pleasure. “Rather evocative - utterly Mandalorian.” 

“It is.” 

And then the Mandalorian recited: 

Those who stand before us light the night sky in flame.

Our vengeance burns brighter still.

Every last traitorous soul shall fall.

Forged like the saber in the fires of death, brothers all.

Maul listened in rapt silence. He knew there was much more to that chant, but it remained just as elusive. And curiously, the Mandalorian had not spoken those words in their native Mando’a. The recitation did not sound anything like the Mandalorians that Maul had led. His voice was firm, but the vengeance the Mandalorian spoke of was uttered with gentleness. 

For some reason, Maul had been expecting more - passion, perhaps. But the Mandalorian was as mild as he ever was, quiet and reserved. 

“Galactic Basic?” asked Maul, his voice quiet. 

“I would only speak in Mando’a if we were actually going into battle.” 

There was a pause, and… the Mandalorian sighed. It was a heavy, weary sound. Maul tilted his head, a question at the tip of his tongue - but the Mandalorian answered it before it was even asked. 

“I have no desire for vengeance. Not anymore.” 

Maul closed his eyes and breathed. He felt the Force around him, folding itself against his body like a blanket; soft and gentle in a way that it never had been before. Not for him. 

“No,” said Maul. He was amazed at his own sincerity when he then admitted: “Nor do I.” 

They were out of time. 

Maul felt the Force nudge him forward. He felt the impetus of the Force’s design, and the warning that naturally came with it. He had needed every second to gather his strength, and he wasn’t certain that it was enough. But there were no other paths forward that he could see. If he went back without repairing the satellite now, he wouldn’t be able to return. 

He drew the oxygen around him. When he used the Force to wrench open the hatch above him, the vacuum of space was quick to ensnare him and pull. The oxygen bubbled around him warred against that vacuum. The Force shimmered and thinned, and Maul struggled to find purchase. But in the end, he steadied himself before he could be ejected into the void. 

It wasn’t so difficult when there was no gravity to fight him. 

Even so, it was disorienting. All sense of direction was robbed from his body. The unpleasant, nauseating weightlessness was deeply unwelcome. He felt all at once that he was upside down, caught in an undertow - but the planet oriented him. Its grandness seemed all the more profound when there was no transparisteel to separate them. His eyes flitted across the landscapes beneath, the mountains and canyons and jungles and crimson oceans - and he felt the power of it wash over him. The love, love, the attachment that had once seemed so strange, so alien! This world belonged to him, and he to it, and he would-- 

Maul drew back into himself. His mind centered. 

Grogu. 

The child’s manipulations were hard at work, it seemed. The thought of that bond - and his responsibility to his padawan - was more than enough to drag Maul’s attention away from primordial desire. Maul allowed himself a breathless chuckle and turned his attention instead to the satellite before him. He reached out, his fingers sliding over smooth metal. The coldness bit into his skin. 

He carefully nudged aside the components, disentangling the battery pack from its nest within the metal chassis. He could have used the Force to accomplish this, but he didn’t - he brought the tools with him. It exhausted him less to use them, the metal reassuring and solid beneath his hands in a way that the Force was not. 

It was delicate work, but the Force guided him, helped illuminate the path… even so, it was tiring. He was conscious of his own lack of knowledge, and he was hardly at his most focused. The tension of holding oxygen and atmosphere against himself was proving increasingly difficult, and he felt little ruptures at the edge of that bubble. His grip was loosening. 

But this wouldn’t take long. It couldn’t. 

Maul pulled the Force into himself. He felt it rise within him, the pressure building - the anger, the rage, the abuse. He slashed open the scar tissue of a thousand old wounds, bleeding himself from the inside out. Lotho Minor. Naboo. Mandalore. Shattered places, he thought. The places that brought ruin and destruction upon me. 

Places of calamity. 

Dathomir, despite its betrayal, was not one of those places. But it could be, he thought - and that filled him with a sick, angry terror. If it robs me of them. 

Maul could use that fear. 

Electricity gathered in his hands. It was never that difficult to cause a spark, of course, but the raw electricity that his master was capable of was a step beyond Maul’s power. 

The well that Maul drew from felt curiously empty. Fear was a tool, yes, but his power came from rage, from hatred, bitterness, disgust, pain. And Maul still had all of those things. They were wound into the very fabric of his DNA. He hardly knew how to relate to the universe otherwise. 

But even so… it wasn’t enough. 

I have no desire for vengeance. Not anymore.

Maul cursed under his breath. He brought forth thought of Kenobi, of Pre Vizsla, Darth Vader, Lord Sidious - but the electricity was a tired spark, hardly enough to light drywood. The anger was slow to catch, quick to die - like a flame deprived of oxygen. 

His power wavered and began to collapse in on itself. He felt the pressure begin to ease, the pull of the void on every side of him. He felt panic, but his panic was bitter and helpless - it only made his grip slip more. He felt the oxygen around him begin to thin, felt the biting chill of space as it sank into his vulnerable flesh. The electricity crackled between his fingers, but fear - fear wasn’t enough. 

No! No no--

“Calm yourself.” 

Maul shuddered, shocked still by the impossibility of noise from the vacuum. But the voice was recognizable enough. He felt humiliating desperation. 

Master! 

“You are safe,” said Qui-Gon, his voice everywhere (and nowhere). “You are safe, Maul. Calm. Calm.” 

He wasn’t safe, but even so, the assurances helped. Qui-Gon’s voice was low, rhythmic, so full of certainty - it was impossible not to be affected by that sureness. The Jedi Master was an embodiment of confidence and stability that few possessed. Maul felt his grip grow stronger on the atmosphere of oxygen. He pulled it back to himself, and held firm. 

He didn’t know if it was his own power, or Master Jinn’s power. It didn’t matter now. He did not feel calm, but he felt stable - able to toe the line between chaos and order again. 

“The dark side is not your way forward, Maul,” said Qui-Gon. “It won’t help you. Be calm. You are safe.” 

“Safe?! I can’t use the light side!” Maul burst out, his growling voice pitifully weak in the thin atmosphere. “I am not a Jedi!” 

“I know,” said Qui-Gon. “But it doesn’t matter. What power does Dathomir draw upon, Maul? What power did your mothers and sisters call to them?” 

The answer was obvious. Neither light nor dark, but nature - soil and poison and blood. 

Enlightenment was instantaneous, the truth revealed itself with a rapidity only possible at the edge of oblivion. But this mistake, this misunderstanding, was not too late. It was just in time. 

Maul gripped the battery between his hands. He felt the static grow. Not the dark side, nor the light - but nature, amoral but powerful, chaos spiraling endlessly, devouring and growing and adapting. Flourishing. The space between himself and Dathomir (and by proxy, the Force) became an inconsequential distance, the width no more meaningful than a single atom. He felt the power of the Force burn beneath his skin, tingling, whispering - an unquenchable power, a power that could not be exhausted - energy that, like all energy, could not be destroyed. 

Maul felt the electricity crackle and leap into the battery’s conductive material. He felt the metal draw it into itself, greedy to absorb the heat he provided. 

One by one, the LEDs on the satellite’s control panel began to flicker to life.

In that instant, he sensed danger - a pulse of darkness that rippled like a radio wave. He felt it so strongly that he faltered. A little more of his precious oxygen slipped into the void. He felt the cold pushing in on him, the noose tightening. 

Focus, he told himself - or Master Jinn told him. It was difficult to tell the difference.

Maul pushed the battery pack back into the satellite, his hands trembling. He used the Force to replace the components, to tighten the screws into their sockets. It was difficult, but less difficult than trying to operate the tools now, with his hands trembling and his eyes growing increasingly unfocused. Darkness threatened to take him. There wasn’t enough air to breathe. He could only hold warmth now, and that would not stave off unconsciousness much longer. 

Maul slammed the panel back into place. It was the last burst of energy he could manage before he wrenched himself away from the satellite, sensing somehow that this was enough - it would work for as long as they needed it to. He caught one last glimpse of the satellite as its grand wings caught the light of the red sun, a brilliant flash of fire against the blackness. 

By the time he fell back into the cockpit of the x-wing, he was nearly unconscious. He pulled the canopy down. A moment later, the cabin pressurized and filled with nourishing oxygen. He gasped, his twin hearts pounding, his body shaking. His bones ached and his muscles were so taut they might as well have been made of stone. 

He didn’t know how long he was there. His consciousness was thin, slipping in and out of focus. He found the x-wings orbit falling, and he wondered if he had directed the ship down towards Dathomir again, or… 

Or it’s the Force, he thought. Taking me home. 

More than once, Maul reached out to the radio and tried to contact the Mandalorian - but his mind was so shattered that he was never sure if he had spoken or not. He was certain that he must have, but he could not recall an answer. 

The sense of disquiet lingered. But he could not bother himself with it now. 

He needed to survive the landing, first. 

The journey back to the surface was a difficult one. It was arduous to find his way back to his caves. From overhead, Dathomir seemed infinitely large, and he navigated more through the Force than through any other means. There was nothing particular that could direct him to one place or another. He followed his sense of knowing. The landscape was so deeply part of him that even thousands of miles of terrain could not hide his home.

He crashed more than he landed. The ship was out of fuel. The Force kept it from tumbling into a fatal roll, but that lifeline was the last bit of strength that Maul could manage. The ship slammed into the wet and squelching belly of the swamplands. The softness of the silt and water prevented the ship from breaking apart entirely upon contact - but only barely. 

Bruised and completely drained of energy, Maul could do nothing but sleep. He fought hard, as hard as he could, but it was futile. Consciousness slipped away like the recession of a great tide, and he would only return when gravity pulled him to the shore again. 

Maul was in that cockpit so long that by the time he opened his eyes, night had fallen. The swamp was alight with bioluminescence. Through the foggy window, he could see the emerald pyres left by in the presence of the Nightsisters. He could hear soft whispers beneath the trickle of water and the secretive hum of insects. 

The ship was dead. Maul activated his commlink. 

“Mandalorian?” 

No response. 

“...Din?” he said, as if using the Mandalorian’s true name would somehow conjure a response. But it didn’t. 

Maul pushed open the hatch. He ached. His metal legs helped stabilize him, but the body upon them was so weary that he could barely keep his head up. 

He didn’t make it far. 

Maul slipped in the mud. He crashed down into the murky, fragrant water beneath. His unfocused eyes lifted, and he saw the shimmers of green light across the great expanse of water. The shadows of ugly, bare trees were eerie, spider-like silhouettes. 

He could see the Seeing Tree  - the one that he had first brought Grogu. A place of power and life. He stumbled towards it. 

He felt his power returning, little by little. Now that he was out of the ship, breathing Dathomir’s rich and humid air again… he felt more like himself. But he was tired, so tired. His mind was empty of memory or purpose. The Mandalorian and the child lingered at the edges of his thoughts, nameless and without meaning. 

He would remember, when his body was ready. 

Maul dragged himself to a mossy bank before the tree and fell upon it. He slept. 

He healed slowly, wrapped in the organic, the visceral. He felt insects and amphibians upon his skin, tasted green in his mouth. He felt as though he had become part of the mud beneath him, a part of the fabric of this planet - decaying and growing all at once. It was soothing, warm, nurturing, yet harsh. 

Maul buried his fingers into the soil. He held there; an embrace. 

He slept more. 

Maul awoke to the sound of grumbling. 

He opened an eye with great reluctance, and was greeted by the enormous, ugly maw of a rancor. He sensed no danger, though, and he did not panic. He simply wondered why he was not in his bed. 

Memory returned to him the moment he saw the scars over the rancor’s eyes. Maul shot up, suddenly awake, and he regretted it. He felt the bruises, the strain, the age, the weakness. He felt his bones crackle and his muscles seize. He was in pain, terrible pain. It was familiar but deeply unwelcome now. 

Maul was healing, yes - his power was replenished in this place. But that healing was never meant to heal the body, not really. Dathomir had never cared about healing his pain. Dathomir’s magic was healing him in other ways - spiritual ways. 

His body would be repaired in time, but not now - not until he sampled the water and food of the land. Perhaps then, he would find strength. 

The rancor took a step back. In the darkness, it was little more than a shadow - a misshapen, mountainous blackness against the stars. Maul stared up at the ugly beast, and… 

Grogu. 

The child was perched in one of the rancor’s clawed hands. Maul’s vision was so unfocused that, at first, he hadn’t seen Grogu at all. But the reflective sheen of green light in the child’s eyes was familiar. Maul was on his feet again in an instant. He grabbed the child from the rancor, holding it with possessive affection. He tucked Grogu’s small body under his chin, his arms a protective shell around Grogu’s body. 

He felt Grogu’s gladness greet him; his relief, his affection. 

It mirrored Maul’s own. 

You’re safe, thought Maul, in wonder. You’re safe…

The rancor had guarded the child in his absence, it seemed. The Mandalorian had kept his word and hidden Grogu, and what better caretaker could they have asked for? Grogu was here, and he was utterly unharmed. 

His small hands pressed to the sides of Maul’s muddy neck, holding firm. It was gladness, yes, but… fear, too. 

Their minds greeted one another, and it was like being drenched in cold water. Maul felt the crushing depths of that fear. It was a visceral sensation, a stab to the gut. Maul’s grip tightened, his lips drawn back into a defensive growl. 

But it wasn’t the child that was in danger. 

“Where is the Mandalorian, little one?” 

There was no response - but there didn’t need to be. Hours and hours had elapsed since Maul had returned, and the Mandalorian was nowhere to be found. Only silence greeted him on the other side of his comm. 

Gone. Taken. 

Maul was too weak to carry himself, and too tired to pretend otherwise. He hoisted himself up onto the rancor’s back with the last ounce of strength he had, one arm wrapped tightly around the child, the other clinging so hard to the rancor that it ached. His body was slumped over the scaly, rough flesh of the beast. He could feel its heartbeat against his chest. 

Find him, Maul told the beast wordlessly. You know the Mandalorian’s scent, don’t you? 

The rancor remembered. Its sense of smell was acute, highly developed to compensate for its blindness. It remembered the scent of metal and leather, the burnt fragrance of weapons, the lingering of fire and smoke. 

It searched. 

Maul let his mind wander, let his bitterness give way to something else, something brighter. Not bright in a kind way, but bright like a fire, like desert sunlight, like the crackle of electricity. 

The Mandalorian was his. The child was his. And Dathomir, too, was his. 

For a moment, there was clarity - a way forward that could preserve all these things, that would not prove calamitous, that would not prove to be another zero-sum game. 

…but the thoughts faded into some secret, quiet place in Maul’s mind - still unanswered, still a jumble of disjointed uncertainties. 

Maul felt the child’s body pressed tight to his chest. He felt the reassuring bond of their minds tangling together, and it soothed them both. Grogu was afraid, but the sharing of fear did much to lessen it. Maul found that strange, but it allowed them both to sleep. 

The rancor searched and searched. When the Mandalorian’s scent was finally discovered, it uttered a victorious growl and began to run, its large feet slamming into the earth like the beat of a drum. 

When Maul awoke to the first rays of dawn, he knew the Mandalorian was close.

Chapter Text

Din’s eyes opened to a green haze, blindingly brilliant. 

For a long time, he was mystified and amazed by the rich array of colors. They were as vibrant as Coruscant had been, glimmering emerald against a backdrop of void black darkness. 

His eyes focused, revealing a tapestry of geometric patterns. He was in a cave of some kind, a place surely carved out by living hands. It felt worshipful but modest, hidden away. Hallowed. There were symbols engraved upon the shimmering, iridescent surfaces; old and worn, full of forgotten meaning. Din’s gaze lingered upon them - figures of monsters and trees, warriors and witches. 

For a little while, his fatigued mind thought it could glean meaning from the alien language, but understanding slipped through his fingers like words in a dream, tumbling into some dark ocean of forgetfulness. 

What happened? Din couldn’t remember, which meant he must have been stunned from behind… and by someone who knew right where to shoot him, too. He felt bruising on his unarmored lower back, beneath a haze of tingling numbness. 

He jolted suddenly, fear piercing his chest like an arrow. Grogu. 

The child wasn’t here. Din struggled to cast his mind back to his last moments of consciousness, to remember what had brought him here. Maul had been repairing the relay. They had been speaking to one another over their comms. Din struggled to recall the words. And Grogu… 

Din relaxed. Grogu had been hidden away in a small den, somewhere dark and hidden. The old, empty habitat of some secretive beast. Maul had warned Din to hide Grogu away, and he’d been right. He must have sensed this danger. 

Din was alone. When he tried to sit up, he realized his wrists were bound behind his back, and his ankles were wrapped in twine. His bracers had been removed and his beskar spear had been taken, but he was still wearing his armor. Whoever had captured him had respected the integrity of his beskar. They have given him the dignity of his helmet. 

That surprised him. He felt a bizarre sense of gratitude. If you’re going to kill me, let me die in my armor. 

Din heard the soft sound of water as it splattered across beskar and stone. He looked up. The ceiling of the cave was the source of the strange, brilliant green light - a thousand crystalline formations that dripped with fresh water, vibrant and pulsing luminously. They were in sync, like a heartbeat. They made a noise, too. They sang a song. It was something lovely and eerie. 

Din couldn’t have described it if he tried. It was a little bit like the staticy hum of electricity, but not quite. It was harder to make sense of than that. He wasn’t even sure he was hearing it with his ears, or simply perceiving some low, resonant vibration. 

This place felt good to be in. He felt bizarrely calm, as if he was safe and alone in a protective cocoon. When he rolled onto his side, he found that there was a great reservoir of water that stretched out into the darkness, into the intangible reaches of the cave. In the water, there were more of those brilliant crystals. They were a far deeper shade of teal, and seemed much brighter. 

“They’re kyber crystals,” said a voice. “They were used to make Jedi weapons - and the darksaber, too.” 

Din wasn’t surprised - not even startled - by the sudden voice. The one that spoke was so calm and comforting that it hardly felt out of place. He turned his head, and his gaze fell upon the silhouette of a man. He was standing at the doorway, his shoulders squared back, his head held high with military dignity. 

It was strange. The crystals themselves were filled with light, but that light didn’t touch anything within their vicinity. Only the translucent paintings upon the walls reflected them. Even so, the voice and presence of the man were unmistakable to Din. 

He knew him.

“...Cody?” 

Din had not forgotten the clone’s warning to him: don’t ever bring your foundling around a clone. Not for anything. 

But even tied on the floor of a strange cave, and even after being stalked and hunted, Din couldn’t bring himself to expect anything but sincerity and honor from Cody. And when he asked ‘why are you here,’ he only expected an honest response. 

At first, Cody didn’t answer. He moved to Din, helping him sit up. It was awkward when he was bound and still disoriented from the stun blast, but Din managed to balance himself against the surface of the wall. His beskar cheek rested against a crystal, and he thought he could hear it whispering to him. 

“After you left, I was afraid you’d get yourself killed,” said Cody, his voice respectfully hushed within the hallowed confines of the cave. “Confronting Maul, I mean. I guess I regretted not going with you. It felt… cowardly. I said I was worried for your foundling, but I-- I know my chip isn't working anymore. I know it.” 

That seemed reasonable enough. That didn’t explain anything about their present situation, though. 

“You were the one who sabotaged our ships?” asked Din. 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

Cody sat next to Din, relaxed and companionable. Almost brotherly. It was so unlike any captivity that Din had endured before. He found it impossible to feel anything other than patience and curiosity. This was some kind of misunderstanding. There was something that he was missing. This situation simply wasn’t how it appeared on the surface. 

Most importantly, he thought: this is not a betrayal. 

“I crash landed,” said Cody. “When I came here. There was a windstorm - a powerful one. My ship was… well… nearly as old as I am. I had no chance.”  

“I remember the storm,” said Din. “When I first came here. …you must have been right behind me.” 

“Yeah. Just about.” 

Cody threaded his fingers together, tipping his head back against the wall. He gazed up at the crystals, and Din could see the green light catching in Cody’s eyes. They shined like the eyes of a predator, like Maul’s. The more Din looked at him, the more he was unsure whether the light was a reflection or emanating from within him, like the crystals themselves. 

“So what happened?” 

“Well…” Cody sighed. “I was lost. My ship was totaled. I was badly injured.” 

Din looked at Cody obliquely, and he could see no visible injury. The darkness made any real assessment impossible, but nothing in Cody’s posture or voice gave the impression of pain or fragility. 

Even so, Din still believed him. It didn’t occur to him not to. 

“So I wandered. Looked for shelter, for food, and water. Set up camp. Old habits die hard, I guess - assess the damage, make a plan, build the tools to execute that plan. I found a place to hide for the night, and I found mushrooms that were safe to eat. I boiled fresh water to drink. I treated my wounds enough to prevent infection and to keep myself moving. I had a nasty broken leg. A good-sized gash that nearly got my femoral artery, too. Three broken ribs, though those weren’t so bad unless I touched them.” 

Cody rubbed a hand over his abdomen regardless. There was no wince, no sign of discomfort. If his ribs had been broken, they were healed now - and far too quickly to be natural. 

“I started hearing voices.” 

Din stirred. He had heard voices on Dathomir, too - but only whispers, little sighs that could be brushed off as windspeak. He wondered what those voices had said to Cody, but he didn’t dare to ask. 

“They came to me late at night,” said Cody. “They led me here.” 

“So Dathomir asked for your help?” Din guessed. 

“Sure. Or rather, it offered a bargain. The first thing I asked for - the first thing I needed, of course - was to heal. And so Dathomir healed me. I found this place, this-- this temple. And when I stepped into the waters… well. At first I thought I would drown. I was lost in the darkness. I sank. You can’t swim in that water, you know. It swallows you up. But then the crystals began to glow, and suddenly…”

Cody trailed off, quietly awed. His hands pressed flat to his ribs again. 

“You were healed,” said Din. 

“Yeah. I was. More than just healed - I was strong. Stronger than I’d ever been. I could move things with my thoughts, you know - just about, anyway. I’m not like the Jedi, but it must be what it feels like. My purpose felt so clear.” 

Din, who had been healed by Grogu before, understood a little bit of what Cody was talking about. That sense of oneness. The warmth. That infinite power and energy. Something that the human mind couldn’t really understand. 

“What purpose?” he asked. 

“I asked for the child,” said Cody. “For his safety. For the strength to protect him.” 

Din was quiet, unsure of what to think. Cody spoke with such sincerity, with such honor… Din couldn’t help but feel moved by his words, no matter the situation. His heart was touched by anyone who wanted to protect his foundling. 

“Why?” 

“Because we clones were the ones who slaughtered his kind,” said Cody. “We were programmed to - literally programmed, forced to do it against our will. We didn’t even have a thought of hesitation in our heads when it happened. None of that mattered, though - being forced, I mean. That objective - to turn on our greatest allies, our commanders - felt as natural as any real choice you could ever make. It never felt like it wasn’t something we chose… even if that was the truth. None of us knew otherwise. Not for a long time, anyway.”

Cody exhaled slowly, unsteadily. Din was sad to hear it, to see a man of such strength and honor haunted by such an unfair burden. Cody was an old Mandalorian, at least in Din’s eyes. By all rights he should have felt pride at the life he’d led, and the battles he’d won. But he didn’t. His regrets stretched out into a dismal nothingness. 

“By the time we did find out the truth… what difference did it make? None. Absolutely none. We’d lived with our choices every day since it happened. Since we slaughtered them.”  

Din inclined his head. He perceived the grief in Cody - subtle, composed.

“The chips in our heads stopped working, eventually,” said Cody. “By the time that happened, most of us clones were dead anyway. The Empire purged us before we got old enough to know anything. We were sent on suicide missions - or just executed discreetly. Who would know, anyway? Who would care? Only a few of us ever integrated into the new Empire. Even fewer of us lived long enough to remember that the Jedi were ever our friends. We didn’t think about it much, honestly. And by then… what could we do? We were Empire, through and through. The last full battalion of clones died on the Death Star.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Din. More quietly, he asked: “... why weren’t you with them?” 

For a moment, Din wasn’t sure that Cody was going to answer him, or even stay. Cody moved restlessly in the darkness, his face turned towards shadow. 

Towards the water. 

“Because a few days before that, the Empire announced that Darth Vader had killed the last Jedi,” said Cody. “Obi-Wan Kenobi. The Jedi that I thought I’d killed. The Jedi that I once served under! My friend.” 

Cody clenched his hands tightly and sharply exhaled. Din didn’t rush him. He let the silence stretch between them. 

“So… I ran,” said Cody. “Took a handful of my men and deserted. The others you met at the bar. Thire, and Bly. Dogma. Spark.” 

Din had not forgotten their names. 

“A few more, too,” said Cody. “Others that went and fought for the Rebels, and a few more died for them. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. After I found out the truth, that I hadn’t killed General Kenobi, that I’d never really been responsible for what happened… it was like all the guilt and responsibility hit me right then. I’d have turned my blaster right on myself if I could’ve, but I-- I just…” 

Cody broke off, frustrated. 

“When I discovered the truth about General Kenobi… it should've been a reassurance, a relief. But it wasn’t. Suddenly I just… knew myself. Knew who I’d been before the Empire, and what I’d done. I guess that’s when my chip broke - or I did.” 

“We spoke of him before,” said Din. “Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Cody nodded. 

“Kenobi was a great man,” said Cody. “Maul wasn’t General Kenobi’s greatest enemy, but he would’ve liked to think that he was. Maul hated him. The General was the one who took his legs, that much you can guess - but I don’t know for sure. Not really. Not the why, not the how. The General never talked about it much… not to us clones, anyway.” 

From what little Din knew of the Jedi, he supposed that was about what he’d expect. Yet even so, he could see the ache in Cody - the sense of… not abandonment, not anger. It was sadness. It was the frustration of having such a barrier between himself and someone he regarded so highly. 

Din tried to imagine himself being forced to kill the Armorer. The resulting pulse of nausea was about as close he could come to understanding Cody’s pain. He could see the shame on every inch of Cody’s body - in the tension of his shoulders, the furrow of his brow. He could sense grief, so long suppressed and denied… now overflowing. 

“So you wanted revenge?” said Din. “Against Maul?” 

Maul was not responsible for the General’s death, but he could understand if Maul had become a proxy of sorts. Vengeance and anger did strange things to the mind. It sought means of escape, excuses for violent thought and action. It was nearly as irrational as Din likening benign astromechs to the droids that had murdered his family. But then again… Maul actually was a killer. 

Cody wasn’t wrong to feel this way. 

“...maybe,” said Cody, although he sounded unsure. “Partly. But, if I’m being honest, we clones have a bit of a-- a complicated relationship with Maul.” 

“Because he was the Mand’alor?” 

Cody jerked back as if hit, his shoulders rounding angrily. He stubbornly shook his head, the green light caught in his eyes glowing all the brighter. They looked like bioluminescent insects, alien and dangerous. In the darkness, they were almost all that Din could make out of the man. 

Din wished he could see him clearly, that he could see his face. His kindness. But it wasn’t there. 

“Maul destroyed the New Mandalorians,” said Cody, and there was no question of his disdain - but that disdain, Din realized, was not for Maul. “The-- pacifists that ruled Mandalore. And maybe it’s shameful to say, but we clones weren’t too choked up at the loss of them. We thought they were cowards for being neutral during the war, you know. And those of us who cared about being Mandalorian hated what they represented, what they believed about their own history. We felt like they were destroying the only heritage we had left. They were…” 

Cody sighed, frustrated. “Yeah. Like I said. It’s complicated. None of this is straightforward, not at all. After all, the New Mandalorians were right to suspect us, right? We did terrible things to that planet, in the end. We occupied and destroyed them. But Maul… he ran. He ran away. He left them behind.” 

Maul is a survivor, thought Din. It was not necessarily a flattering thought. 

“I know good and bad,” said Cody. “And I know what Maul is. I want to protect the child from him. I want to protect you, too.” 

Din shifted, tugging at his restraints. His shoulders were aching. “I’m tied up,” he said. “You shot me in the back. You trapped us here.” 

“I am sorry about that,” said Cody, rising to his feet. “But it’s part of the deal I made. Dathomir promised not to hurt the child, like I asked. In turn, I have to help her destroy Maul. That’s the exchange - the cost. And you’re not going to help me do that, are you?” 

Din wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t. 

“You know he’s a monster,” said Cody. “He’s killed so many innocents, destroyed so many lives… and with no guilt. None.” 

You can’t know that for sure, thought Din. But he did not argue. His willingness to believe in Maul’s strength and loyalty belonged only to himself - and Cody’s lack of forgiveness was perfectly justifiable. Din could not fault him for it. It was not his place to assuage the hatred of Maul’s enemies. 

“I want to protect the child from him,” Cody repeated. 

“I know.” 

“Why are you helping him?” 

Din heard the deep earnestness in Cody’s voice. The curiosity and disgust was utterly sincere. But Din knew that Cody was a man who came from a different state of mind than himself - a man ruled by the sins of his past, by the mistakes and acts of violence he had committed. If Cody found it impossible to forgive himself (not even for actions that did not belong to him), then there was no chance that he could forgive the actions of Maul. 

It was impossible to tell Cody he was wrong. He wasn’t. But Din couldn’t help him. 

“I only know who Maul is right now,” said Din. 

That’s enough for me.

But he did not share more than that. If Cody’s choices had been made in oath, nothing Din could say would force the man to break his word. Just as Din would not break his own. 

Cody brought him fresh water and food - fresh meat that was far more cooked than the meat Maul had given Din before. Cody untied one of Din’s hands so he could feed himself (the other hand he attached instead to Din’s ankle, which was awkward but effective at keeping him right where he was). Cody then turned away so Din could eat and drink in privacy, which Din did without reservation or suspicion. 

His eyes remained on the silhouette of Cody’s powerful back. 

“You haven’t asked me where Grogu is,” said Din. 

Din doubted that Grogu was where he’d left him. But he also did not feel afraid. He wasn’t certain how, but he knew that Grogu was safe and protected, and that he would remain so. 

“You won’t tell me if I do, will you?” said Cody. 

“No.” 

Cody shrugged. No point in asking, then. 

“I know he’s not with Maul,” said Cody. “Maul left - I saw him go. I didn’t realize why at first, where he could go with that little fuel… But it’s the relays, right? You were trying to send a message. But to who?” 

“I don’t know,” Din admitted. “I thought I might send one to you.” 

“Not many friends?” 

“Not anymore.” 

Din was a patient man, and there was no urgency in his heart. Not yet, at least. 

The cave seemed to be set outside of the usual bounds of time. Time in this darkness felt slow, but it wasn’t boring - not even when each long hour felt silently into the next. Cody left him alone there, no doubt searching for Grogu. 

When Din squirmed and stumbled his way to the exit, he was entirely unsurprised to find an immovable boulder at the exit of the cave. It wasn’t impossible to move, but with his legs bound it was impossible to gain the leverage he needed. 

Disappointing… but not surprising. Cody was thorough. 

Din’s mind was as calm and clear as still water. He could see his path, little by little, revealed. The binds on his wrists were secure. Din couldn’t count on the hope that Cody had not restrained him properly. He did not entertain the thought that he could free himself by wriggling free or picking the twine apart. 

All the while, he held Cody’s words in his mind. I thought I would drown. 

The water… it was water that had once been used by the Dathomirian witches, thought Din. He didn’t know much about them, but Maul had spoken of their magic often. Maul had revered it. 

Was the water itself a kind of magic? A conduit for the Force? 

Din contemplated this for what felt like a long time. His mind was not sluggish, but… patient. Every thought seemed heavy and profound, slow to take form - but when it did, it was correct. 

The Force can help me, he thought. It wants to help me. 

He didn’t know how he was correct about that, but he knew it was true all the same. 

Eventually, when there seemed to be nothing else for him to do, he squirmed and rolled his way to the water’s edge. 

Getting his helmet off was easy enough. Din laid on the hard ground and pressed the rim of his helmet against the stone. It was an awkward and slow process, but eventually he was able to slip free. 

The cool air against his face refreshed him. He breathed deeply, sighed, and laid on the hard stone. 

I won’t be able to get it back on easily, he thought. Cody will see my face if he comes back soon. 

But it was too late to worry about that now. 

Din moved to the edge of the water, looking down at his own reflection. His face was unfamiliar to him - he almost never looked at himself. He didn’t have cause to. 

Eventually, his eyes moved to the turquoise array of crystals in the water. Those crystals had been used by the Jedi and other magical beings. Those crystals protected them, aided them… not altogether unlike the beskar that the Mandalorians so cherished. Those crystals had the power to heal. They were Force beings, just like Grogu. Just like Maul. 

Perhaps now, they could help him. 

Din dipped his face into the cold water, and drank. 

Inexplicably, Din fell asleep. 

When he was wrapped within the cradle of a lucid dream, he found that the cave was far brighter than it had been before. The crystals were glimmering as they had been, but with a strange urgency. Din’s eyes followed the flickering path of light, and he crawled his way to the reservoir again. 

When he looked down into the water, it seemed impossibly deep - far deeper than it had been before. The kyber crystals within it seemed far away, distant glimmers in a black void - like stars. 

“I want to protect Grogu,” he said. 

Din was so certain that something was listening that it didn’t feel strange to speak. 

“I want to help Maul. …And Cody.” 

There was no response, of course - nothing verbal, at least. Din felt certain that whatever was listening, it did hear him - and it did understand. He had seen glimmers of ghostly figures on this planet; he had heard their whispers. Some (many) were surely violent and dangerous beasts. But there were others that were curious and calm. Good and gentle, in the way that Grogu was. 

“Are you the Jedi?” he asked, quietly. “The… Force?” 

There was no answer, but that was okay. He knew the answer, to the extent that it could be known. It was a dream. Dreams revealed answers without words, without sound. The truth simply was. 

When Din slipped into the water, he sank like a stone… but he wasn’t afraid, and he did not need air to breathe. It felt good and refreshing, invigoratingly cold. 

It was not the soul of Dathomir that he found in the depths, although she was surely there… it was the Force itself that he perceived. His mind was filled with gentleness and love. The experience of being Grogu’s father was made tangible in the depths. It was an energy and power that did not recognize the barrier between one planet and another, a vibration that playfully tangled its way through matter and thought. It imbued itself into every molecule of the cosmos, and Din could feel it. 

He was not a Jedi, he was never going to be capable of the power that Grogu and Maul were able to wield… but it didn’t matter. In such a holy place, not even an insect could not escape such grandness. 

And for what felt like an eternity, Din simply allowed himself to slip through dark and peaceful dreams, sinking into a darkness so complete that he was simply part of it. And the deeper he sank, the clearer everything became. The disparity of dark and light grew all the more as he fell, the brightness of the stars piercing against the tangible blackness of the void. 

He wasn’t afraid. The darkness was full of cold and unpleasant things, but it was also mournful and somber in a way that Din understood - a way he recognized. He did not fear it. He resonated. 

Ni cuy' echoy'la.

The stars wrote poetry, the water sang songs, and truths of the universe were as clear as glass. All of these truths were revealed to him in beloved Mando’a. The Force whispered to him, as loving as a parent, as powerful as a king.

It speaks Mando’a, he thought. Because it’s speaking to me. 

The meaning of this truth revealed itself to him quickly. Instantly. 

The Force is a reflection, he thought. A mirror of the one who wields it.

Din opened his eyes. He was standing in the water, cold and dripping. It wasn’t deep; his feet were firmly planted on the hard stone beneath him. He stood there, confused but calm, struggling to make sense of what was real and what wasn’t.

Was he still dreaming? 

The cave was dark. The crystals were no longer alight, and he was alone. 

His hands were unbound. He noticed that right away, and he didn’t feel much reason to question it. He knew the Force, somehow, had released him from his captivity. The dream - or seance, or vision, or whatever it was - had been real. Real enough to unbind his wrists and legs, at least. 

Like Cody, his wish had been granted - small though it might have been. But Din felt like the entity granting it had been different from the one that Cody had known. It was some other facet of the Force that had reached out to him. 

If Din was correct in his assumptions about the nature of Dathomir itself… then there was no doubt of that, in fact. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

He felt like he should express his gratitude. It also felt awkward. He didn’t feel like anyone was listening this time - at least, not with the attentiveness that had been given before. The cave felt quiet and empty, cold. No different than any other place in the universe, really. 

Or perhaps what little connection he had to that great power had been used up, and he just couldn’t see it anymore.

Chapter Text

Maul looked up at a pair of grand statues, and wondered how he had never found them before. They stretched out into the sky, beautiful and austere. One was a Goddess, the so-called Spirit of Dathomir - she had no name for herself, because nature itself did not have a single unifying name. It simply was. 

The other statue was of her consort, a Nightbrother who knelt in awe and worship before her. A sword balanced upon his outstretched hands in offering. There was an element of sensuality in the act of submission, offering himself to her as lover and acolyte. 

Maul’s eyes lingered upon them; in wonder, in disdain. 

This place was completely unrecognizable to him. It was tucked away in a deep valley, shrouded by a thicket of black trees and thorny vines. It was abandoned, like all the cities on Dathomir were, but the paint was still bright and beautiful. Every stucco surface was covered in picograms and spells. There were precious gems, too. The jeweled eyes of the painted figures caught the red glimmers of sunlight. They sparkled brilliantly. They were beautiful. 

Maul knew that stealing even a single one of those gems would likely result in death. They were sacred objects, full of magic. They would not suffer the touch of greedy men. 

The Force was powerful here. It flowed through him, igniting his blood and soul. 

This was perhaps the largest settlement that he had seen yet, but it didn’t seem like a place to live. There were many temples, all of which revealed altars and statues and overgrown, poisonous gardens. The largest of these structures appeared to be some kind of a bathhouse, a vast pool of stagnant water and crumbling, inert fountains. The thorny vines had long since overtaken it, greedy for the water there. 

This must have once been a place of worship and grandness, a place surely only inhabited by the Nightsisters. No male would have been permitted to enter such holy ground, and Maul felt something akin to shame at his presence within this valley. It was an intuitive feeling, and he was quick to reject it. 

But it was where the rancor had brought him. He had to trust that its sharp sense of smell had guided him to the Mandalorian. And Grogu, too, seemed sure that this was right. When he looked up at Maul, it was with warmth and certainty. 

“It seems this is where we were destined to come,” said Maul, his voice hushed. “Well… do you sense him, little one?” 

Grogu’s answer was not ambiguous. He knew Din was here. 

“Be careful,” came a gentle voice. “The hunter isn’t far from here.” 

Maul had sensed Qui-Gon’s presence with him for the entirety of his journey here. The Jedi Master had not spoken, though. He had allowed Maul to rest and recover first. 

“If you know where he is,” said Maul, “then why don’t you just tell me?” 

“I don’t know where he is,” was Qui-Gon’s simple answer. 

“Hmm. No. You are obscured from this place… just as I was.” 

“Yes. I believe all men are - usually.” 

Maul slid down the side of the rancor, landing on his feet smoothly enough. He looked at the statues, his eyes lingering upon Lady Dathomir for a long time. Her face, to him, was so much like his mother’s that he could not help but feel bitter longing. He turned his eyes instead of the thin outline of Qui-Gon. 

“I’m sorry,” said Maul. 

The words slipped past his lips, escaping him before he could bite down and devour them. They had been lingering at the edge of his lips for a long time, and he had only thinly managed to avoid uttering them. They had finally snuck through his defenses. 

Maul supposed there was no taking them back now. 

“For killing you,” he clarified. His tone was defensive and cold despite his sincerity. 

Qui-Gon inclined his head, bowing his large shoulders. He was gracious, and he neither rejected nor downplayed the significance of the apology. He accepted it with grace and gratitude. 

“You suffered more from my death than I ever did,” said Qui-Gon. 

“That was inevitable.” 

“I bear you no ill will.” 

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t have,” spat Maul. He couldn’t deny himself the sarcastic bent. “It wouldn’t have been very Jedi of you if you had.” 

Qui-Gon smiled. “I’m afraid not.” 

Maul closed his eyes for a moment, sighing sharply through his nose. He could not linger long, but for a moment - just a moment… he didn’t want to leave. He felt Grogu’s warmth folded in his arms, and he felt the resonant energy of Qui-Gon’s spirit within his chest, winding its way around his hearts. Strengthening him. 

Maul felt unworthy of that strength. And even as he accepted Qui-Gon’s forgiveness and his gratitude, he felt himself denying the connection that threatened to tether them. He remained cold to that warmth; distant. 

But at least I apologized. 

“If I get myself killed, you will keep Grogu safe,” said Maul. It was not a request. “Train him. I know he can see you.” 

There was no question of that. Grogu’s large eyes remained fixed on Qui-Gon, full of wonder and intuitive affection. Maul couldn’t help but feel a stab of possessiveness, a reluctance to allow the Jedi Master anywhere near his apprentice. His own inadequacies smothered him. 

When Qui-Gon reached out to Grogu, the child reached out to him in kind. Their fingers brushed together - but of course, did not touch. 

“Are you exchanging your apology for that promise?” 

“Yes.” 

“I would have trained him regardless, Maul.” Qui-Gon’s tone was chiding. “You know that.” 

“Good.” 

Maul looked down at the child in his hands. There were many words to speak, but Maul was unfamiliar with words spoken in gentleness or affection. His emotional vocabulary was elusive and abstract, and he did not chase those words. 

He didn’t need to. 

The child understood a different kind of language. Speech was a strange and complicated thing, something that Grogu’s mind still struggled to parse. But the heart, the spirit, the intention… Grogu could understand those things very well. 

Grogu grabbed at Maul’s horns, cooing softly. Maul pressed his forehead to Grogu’s cheek and lingered there, his eyes closed. 

When this is over, and if I still live - I will no longer call you apprentice. I will call you padawan. You will become what I cannot be, little Jedi. 

But no one needs to know that but us. 

Maul left Grogu with the rancor. 

The rancor was a strange caretaker, but Maul felt little concern. Rancors were intelligent and empathic creatures, deeply social by their very nature. They bonded fiercely to their packmates, and Maul imagined that the beast would be heartbroken if Grogu were to ever permanently part from it. 

Grogu, through his wordless confluence, could guide the rancor’s actions if need be. It was a strange Jedi power, but not necessarily an uncommon one. Grogu’s wordless nature made it important for him to find other means of communication, other means of connection. 

The rancor held the little one with deep gentleness, and Maul was satisfied. 

Even knowing that the child would be safe, it was difficult to walk away. Maul felt his own heaviness, his reluctance; a troublesome touch of paternalism. There was pressure and inevitability in every step, coupled with the sureness that he was close to his enemy. 

This would have been an exciting prospect, once. But Maul didn’t feel excited. He felt tired and bitter.

He wanted this all to be over with. He wanted a moment’s peace. He wanted to wrap himself in the beskar embrace of his Mandalorian consort, to train the apprentice he had taken, to stay on the planet of his birth. But what was simple for most was nigh impossible for him, and he was filled with grim disappointment… but not surprise. No, no, never surprise. It would have been delusional to think that he could enjoy the simple pleasures of the domestic, the wholesome. 

These are not things for someone like you. 

He allowed himself a moment to savor his own bitterness before moving on. 

If Dathomir had twin hearts, then they were surely tucked away in this dark place. He could almost feel the dual pulse beneath his feet, the subtle vibration. The valley narrowed and became dense with wild, untamed greenery. Every breath tasted of soil and charcoal, of water and stale sunlight. He felt the Force there, as tangled and torrential as the gardens before him. It was a storm beneath the earth, a writhing ocean of restless memory. 

It felt… strange. This place was not familiar, not exactly… but it felt like he had been here before. Deja vu. 

Maul cast his mind outwards, trying to make sense of this magic. He felt uneasy. The more he reached out towards the truth of it, the less he wanted to understand it. 

He could feel eyes upon him. 

“I know you’re there, hunter,” he said. 

“I am.” 

This time, the hunter did not hide himself. He walked out into the open, fully armored. He was not a Mandalorian, but… 

“A clone?” 

“Marshal Commander CC-2224,” said the clone. “Loyal to the Grand Army of the Republic. I was one of the 212th - led by General Obi-Wan Kenobi.” 

Maul raised his eyebrows, dubious. In the past, he would have said something sharp, something unkind (yet incisive). But though many potential jibes crossed his mind, none were given voice. He remained neutral and withdrawn, a hand moving towards the darksaber at his hip.

I am out of practice, he reminded himself. 

The clone had no doubt came here with the intention of dueling Maul, although Maul didn’t entirely understand the reason for it. What could he gain from a direct confrontation? It made more sense for CC-2224 to operate from the shadows; to entrap him, to steal from him, and eventually abandon him on this planet. Would a simple death be sufficient vengeance on behalf of Obi-Wan Kenobi? It didn’t make sense. 

Din’s beskar spear was clasped in CC-2224’s hand. 

Maul felt a rush of fierce and violent possessiveness at the sight of that holy Mandalorian weapon in the hands of a clone. He very nearly broke the calm and lunged, but no, no, he knew he must be patient. There was more at stake than just his base instincts, more to lose than just his life. 

Maul restrained himself only through sheer force of will - although he did not quite manage to stop himself from growling. He was very eager to behead the vile thief standing before him. 

“And on whose authority have you come to Dathomir, CC-2224?” asked Maul, stalking closer to his enemy. “Your superiors are dead - your army, destroyed. And you are old.” 

“So are you,” said CC-2224. 

Maul’s eyes narrowed. “A Sith can live for many centuries.”

“Is that what you are, then? A Sith?” CC-2224 shook his head. He clearly expected no answer. It didn’t matter. “Whatever you are, you are my enemy.” 

And nothing more need be said. 

Maul dug his feet into the earth, and he lunged. The darksaber sprang to life with a resonant, metallic thrum! The sound excited him, set his blood alight. It called the Force to him - a signal, a cry for strength and protection. 

The darksaber met the beskar spear in a shower of sparks. The clone dug his feet into the earth. The man was hardly taller than Maul himself, but he was thicker and more physically powerful. Maul had always been prone to slimness; to lean and wiry muscle rather than brute, animal force. When Maul pushed forward, he did not manage to dislodge the clone’s balance.

Maul snarled and stubbornly pushed, trying to leverage himself against the clone’s greater bulk. His metal legs kept him steady, but CC-2224 still didn’t budge. 

The clone slammed his elbow into Maul’s ribs, brutal in a way a Jedi never would be. He fought close and dirty, like a Mandalorian. Maul was caught off guard, stunned by the blow. He was tired, he was sore, he was old. He stumbled and snarled through the pain. He swung the darksaber towards the clone’s helmet - in desperation rather than violence. 

CC-2224 caught the blade with his arm. Maul was stunned by the block; CC-2224 shouldn’t have been capable of blocking. It was then that Maul noticed then that the clone wore Din’s bracers - the only thing that could stop such a blow. 

“Did you kill him?!” growled Maul, pushing forward. “Answer me, clone!” 

CC-2224 didn’t answer. He slammed his forehead against Maul’s so hard that there was a crack! One of his horns had been chipped, and Maul felt a white-hot pain lance through his skull. 

Maul staggered, panting wildly, conscious now of his own vulnerability. If he fell to the ground now, he wasn’t confident that he wouldn’t immediately lapse into unconsciousness. 

“That blade doesn’t belong to you,” said CC-2224. “It never belonged to you.” 

And what did that matter now? Maul gripped the darksaber tighter, staring up at his enemy. 

“It’s not for you, either - you are not Mandalorian.” 

Maul felt a sharp, sudden hurt - a hurt that did not come from himself. It spoke to him through the Force, as violent as a shout. There was some insight into the mind of this clone, an awareness of him. 

(Cody - his name is Cody.)

Maul shared that restless, lonely pain as if it were his own. He felt the depth of separateness that this clone experienced - a sense of being part of something whole, and then callously discarded. Severed. A mote of dust carried by the wind, scattered and meaningless. It was so intense that Maul wavered and lost focus. 

Of all things that would undo him, it was empathy that struck a disabling blow. 

Maul didn’t want vengeance. He didn’t want blood. He wanted to throw the darksaber at the clone’s feet and be left alone forever. 

In that moment of terrible weakness, Maul had another insight. The Force reached out, a violent and powerful burst of rageful heat that swept across him like a storm. 

This clone, somehow, somehow, had access to a power he shouldn’t have. 

No!

Maul felt the Force wrap around his body and squeeze. His ribs strained; his organs were compressed beneath the power that held firm. The clone’s hand reached towards him, trembling with the desperate, brutal effort that it took to wield that power. 

Dathomir had lent her magic to CC-2224. She had given him the Force… for a little while. 

In a duel with a Force-user, there was always a part of one’s attention that needed to be entirely devoted to repelling telekinetic attacks - to raise a ward against it. Maul had always struggled with that. It was a defense that Sidious had never wished for Maul to excel at, for obvious reasons. Those wards were the only way to prevent your enemy from using the Force to grab you. 

Maul hadn’t realized the nature of the threat in time. CC-2224’s power snaked into his body before he could stop it. The Force snared him, and tightened. 

Pain. It tore through Maul, a terrible agony that gripped his spine, his ribs, his hearts. He felt the clone pull him forward, his metal feet digging into the ground in a vain attempt to stop him. 

“Cody!” 

It could only be the Force, thought Maul. Only the Force could have brought Din Djarin here at this crucial moment. Just long enough to create an opening. Just long enough to save him. 

When had the Force ever been so kind? When had it ever been so merciful? 

CC-2224 turned towards the Mandalorian, spear raised. Maul used the momentum of CC-2224’s pull to leap forward, slamming against the clone with the full force of his body. It only took a moment of distraction to find the opening. 

This time, it worked. 

CC-2224 fell back with a cry. Maul lifted the darksaber, the blade humming; beautiful, lovely, pure. It had felt so natural to wield it in violence before, to remove Pre Vizsla’s head from his body. But as Maul lifted the blade, he found it suddenly heavy and unwieldy in his hand. He felt the resistance, the reluctance. 

Such a thing could only happen if his intention was not aligned in the Force; if he was himself unsure of this path. 

Unsure, perhaps, that he wanted to survive this encounter at all. 

Maul swept the blade downwards, but it was too late. His hesitation had betrayed him. CC-2224’s spear greeted the weapon, and the Force was soon to follow. Maul was slammed backwards. 

Familiar hands caught him as he stumbled. He felt the Mandalorian’s beskar chestplate against his back. Din grabbed him around the middle, steadying him; keeping him upright. Maul felt relief flood him, but it was a short lived respite. 

CC-2224 was on his feet in an instant. A change fell upon him. Before Maul’s eyes, his body strained against the armor - his muscles thickened. The cracked visor flooded green as the eyes behind them began to glow. Dathomir poured her power into the clone, a power Maul recognized. It was the same power that had once given Savage access to the Force.

This was not CC-2224. This was not Cody. This was Dathomir’s agent; a primordial beast clad in old and crumbling armor. 

Master, do not leave me now. 

It was not a plea, nor a request. A demand. 

And Maul trusted that this demand would be met. 

Maul did feel Qui-Gon Jinn in the Force. He drew that strength into himself; borrowed it just as CC-2224 borrowed Dathomir’s power. The darksaber sang. He felt the light fall upon him, bright to the point of pain. He felt exposed and naked before that light - but awake. Joyous and powerful. 

Maul surged forward with renewed vigor. Dathomir’s acolyte parried his blow, but Maul was ready. He snarled and swept his leg, catching his enemy in his armored leg. Duraplast shattered under the force of the blow. CC-2224 grunted in pain and staggered, but Dathomir’s magic would not allow him to fall. 

The Mandalorian joined the clash, although he had no weapon to aid him now. That did not make him weak nor useless - he could fight well enough with just his fists. He used his armor as a weapon itself. He slammed himself into Cody’s body. He kneed and elbowed and slammed his beskar helm against him. Din was a fearsome warrior in his own right, and his viciousness allowed Maul enough time to catch his breath; to reorient himself. 

Maul was old. He was aching. He wished to be free of these burdens. Yet, he would fight. He had persevered through much worse kinds of suffering, and through much worse physical punishment. With the Mandalorian at his side, he felt more himself than before. He felt more whole. 

Mand’alor. 

Maul was a leader of Mandalorians. Even a single Mandalorian was enough to bring clarity of purpose. The darksaber spoke to Maul then; wordlessly, and full of love. 

You are to protect Mandalorians with this blade. This is what is owed to us. This is your bond. 

Maul threw himself into the tide, and the Force guided him. He submitted to it utterly, allowed it to guide, to protect, to persevere. He felt Qui-Gon’s steadying hand. He also felt the darksaber. He felt a mingling of both light and dark, heat and cold… and the wild storm that followed in the wake of that disparity. 

As Maul grew stronger, the enemy grew weaker. 

Even so, Maul suffered many wounds; he was stabbed and struck. His body suffered. His spirit, though - it remained pure and bright. Focused. He felt oneness. 

CC-2224 was valiant despite it all. As they fought, Maul felt echoes of many battles he felt before; Mandalorians that he had sparred with or slain. CC-2224’s spirit was the same as theirs. The way that he fought was an echo of the warriors that had preceded him. The familiarity was so intense that Maul felt his mind slide back to decades ago; to the Mandalorians that he had himself had fought with, trained with, and been rescued by.

Finally, Din slammed the exhausted and wounded clone to the ground. He held firm. Maul was given that crucial moment to strike a killing blow. 

But he stopped. Again. 

The darksaber deactivated. And the three of them were still and quiet, apart from their heavy, wrenching breaths. CC-2224 remained in an exhausted heap on the ground. Din held him down by his throat, his other hand pinning the arm that held the spear. 

Maul stood before them, staring down at the broken armor. The visor had been shattered. The green eyes behind it stared up at him with the unthinking hatred of a dying predator. 

That gaze felt familiar to Maul in so many ways. He understood it. 

“Yield,” he breathed, when he could speak again. “CC-2224 of the Republic. Yield.” 

CC-2224 snarled like a beast. He tried to fight. CC-2224 - the real CC-2224 - likely could not hear Maul, much less respond to his demand. This was a mindless vessel of Dathomir’s power, and it did not surrender. It would fight until it was carelessly discarded and left for dead. 

Maul felt rage bubble up inside him. He felt injustice burn through him. He also felt a deep stubbornness. And as his gaze slid to the Mandalorian, he felt that he could see Din’s face plainly. He could see that their hearts were aligned. 

This is your choice, Mand’alor, Din seemed to say. But you know what I want. 

Dathomir wanted him to strike this clone down. Dathomir wanted him to shed its blood on her soil in offering and in violence. 

But Din wanted him to stay his hand. 

Maul looked down at the clone again. 

“I will not kill a Mandalorian with this weapon,” he said. “Not again. Yield!” 

This time, it was not a request. Those words were also not spoken to CC-2224 himself. Maul reached out with the Force, with all the magic and power he had inherited from the darksaber and from Qui-Gon Jinn. He cast out the infection from CC-2224’s body with the last bit of strength he could muster.

The darkness fought him, of course - but Maul had no choice but to suffer that terrible violence. It was the only way. 

It was the way. 

CC-2224 snarled and writhed as the green mist of Dathomir’s magic was drawn from him. He fought it, but Din held him firm to the ground. There was no violence - there was only pain, and fear, and deep, dreadful sadness. 

As Maul pushed that darkness away… he found familiarity in it. There was no part of the Force that was not changed by that which touched it. All consciousnesses had a fingerprint. They left an impression. 

Maul wavered. Weakness consumed him, dragging him to the ground. He felt himself sinking into the darkness, his vision blotting. The darksaber slipped from his hand. He reached up to touch his own face - to try and shake off the terrible dizziness that overwhelmed him. He knew that there was no chance. He was so tired, so deeply and utterly ruined. He felt he would die if he did not sleep. 

When Maul finally collapsed, Din lunged forward to catch him. Maul felt the reassuring pressure of beskar beneath his cheek. 

Maul remembered many Mandalorians - Mandalorians from long ago. Mandalorians that he had carelessly forgotten, until this moment. Those that had served him when he was their Mand’alor. Those that had rescued him from his imprisonment. He remembered the heat and pressure of Gar Saxon’s arms around him as he had collapsed, exhausted and brutalized. He remembered, too, the Mandalorians that held him back when he desperately tried to return to his dying mother’s side.  

He remembered their fealty; their love; their devotion. All of these things had been forgotten, discarded… never recognized for the treasures that they truly were. 

He had done the Mandalorians a great disservice. Of all the evils he had committed, this was perhaps the one that Din would not forgive him for. 

But it didn’t matter. That choice, whatever it might be, was out of his hands. 

You felt it, didn’t you?

Maul felt a shock of fear. He jolted painfully awake. 

Din pushed him down against the ground, his hand firm against his chest. Maul’s hearts were racing. 

“Easy, Maul. I’m trying to stitch you back together.” 

Maul felt it - the needle sinking into the skin of his arm; the unpleasant tug of thread as it pulled through the tiny holes. It was a small pain, though. The rest of his body was throbbing. His ribs were broken. His back was swollen and strained. He had a terrible headache; the muscles were so tense that he wasn’t sure he could even open his jaw. 

He closed his eyes, growling softly. He reached out with the Force, and he found that Cody was lying beside him. And between them…

“Grogu,” Maul choked. 

“He’s fine,” said Din, firm and reassuring. “He healed Cody. He didn’t have enough energy left for you, so you’re getting stitches.” 

“Hmm.” 

Maul snaked his free arm outwards until he found the small bundle in the darkness. He placed his hand over Grogu, sensing the steady rise and fall of his breaths; reassuring himself of Grogu’s safety and peace. 

Slowly, Maul opened his eyes again. They were in some sort of cave. It was… intoxicatingly powerful in the Force. It smelled of water and minerals, refreshing and cool. Even if Maul was in terrible pain, this place was calm and healing. 

“Felt what?” asked Maul suddenly. 

“What?” 

“You asked a question. Asked if I felt it.”

“...not aloud.” 

Maul looked up at Din’s visor. 

“You were thinking it loudly,” said Maul, impatient. “What did you mean?” 

Din sighed. His fingers slid between Maul’s. Maul grabbed him tightly and held firm, staring up at the Mandalorian. Waiting. 

“I wondered if you knew what Dathomir is,” said Din, his voice quiet. “I had a… I guess some kind of vision. When I was trapped, the Force helped me escape. I guess. But…” 

He bowed his head and sighed again. He looked at Din, the shape of his eyes just barely visible through the dark pane of transparisteel. 

“It felt like you.” 

Maul looked up at the ceiling of the cave. His eyes followed the glimmer of the kyber crystals there. To him… those crystals were very bright. He could see the Force. He could feel the physical pressure of that light. It touched him like a breeze, refreshing and electric. The wind before a storm, perhaps. 

“It was like you were trying to…” Din hesitated. He did not rush. He considered his words carefully. “I think you did this. That you were the reason that Dathomir--” 

Maul’s grip tightened on Din’s hand - a warning rather than a display of affection. He felt anger bubble up in his chest, only thinly contained by his exhaustion. 

The Mandalorian tightened his hand in kind, rebuking him for his violence. Maul’s anger settled into a sullen calm. 

He growled and looked away. 

“You asked,” said Din wearily. 

“Forget that I did,” said Maul. “Let the question remain unasked.” 

Maul let go of Din’s hand. Din reached up to touch the side of his face, his gloved thumb sliding along Maul’s cheekbone. It left a trail of heat in its wake, and Maul could not deny himself an affectionate nip. 

“You’re going to have to answer eventually,” said Din, his voice hushed. “You know that, right?” 

Maul uttered a soft, humming growl. But he didn’t not answer. Not yet. 

Din returned to stitching Maul’s wounds. Maul pillowed his head on the Mandalorian’s thigh, his eyes half-closed as he was tended to. He dozed there, allowing himself to find peace in Din’s presence - to trust that Din would keep him safe. The cool trickle of running water was a lullaby, and the darkness was calm and gentle. 

It was only on the edge of a dream that Maul remembered, distantly, that stitching the wounds of a fellow Mandalorian was considered an act of courtship.

Chapter Text

Maul couldn’t sleep. Not for long, anyway.

This didn’t surprise him. His body was aching, utterly wrung out. His old injuries returned to him along with the new; a familiar agony. 

Yet, Maul felt a bizarre relief at their return. Grogu had healed him before, yes… but that was only a temporary solution. The pull of metal legs on his spine, the compression of his  organs, the fundamental tension that came with the discomfort of his injuries… healing was simply never meant to last. 

Maul climbed to his feet, grunting softly with the effort. In the darkness, his sensitive eyes could see the clone clearly. Cody was fast asleep, his helmet removed. His face was handsome despite its age, the tangle of scars over his temple strangely lovely. 

He looked unburdened. 

Maul stared down at him for a moment, surprising himself with his own lack of violence. There was no part of him that felt hatred towards this clone. He felt, instead, a kind of… possessiveness? Familiarity? The feelings surprised him. None of Maul’s thoughts felt straightforward now. He floundered in the ambiguity of his own intentions.  

Did he feel compassion because this clone was, in his eyes, a Mandalorian? Was it because he fundamentally understood what it was to be used, corrupted, and discarded by Lord Sidious? 

Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. 

Maul walked to the mouth of the cave. It was night, and the valley was so deeply immersed in shadow and fog that even his eyes struggled to see through the gloom. He could see the haunting silhouettes of crumbling temples and thickets of ugly, thorny bushes. He could smell the subtle acidity of the bog that stagnated at the base of the valley, the breeze funneling the stench through the narrow walls. He heard the low, rumbling snore of the rancor sleeping somewhere nearby. 

He stretched and yawned, calmed by the darkness. The coolness of the midnight breeze was invigorating, if slightly painful. There was a strange emotional emptiness in his chest, a hollow pressure that pushed at him from the inside. 

Was this it, he wondered. The end? 

The only option now was to go back to the transmitter and send out a message. And then… Maul wasn’t sure. He could leave (he didn’t want to), they could leave (he didn’t want them to). But now that one of Dathomir’s acolytes had been stopped… was that a meaningful victory? 

…what did that victory even mean? What would change in light of his mercy?

Did it change anything? 

Maul couldn’t make sense of it. Grogu had healed the clone, but to what end? To honor Maul’s wish to spare the clone’s life? Or was it something else - some other reconciliation that Maul was not privy to himself? 

He would have been frustrated by the questions if he wasn’t so wrung out. 

A glimmer of blue light caught Maul’s eye. He saw it in the distance, a whiteness that appeared in a sudden, brilliant flash. He stared at that strange apparition, trying to make sense of its shape. 

A man, he realized. Another ghost. 

But it was not Qui-Gon Jinn. 

Cold familiarity swept through Maul. 

Maul began to move. He ran towards the light, snarling with frustration as it slipped into the mists at the base of the valley; a place where the rainwater settled into a low, swampy basin. The trees were stark and tangled, vines and carnivorous flowers draped across the pools of black water. 

His metal legs did not tire, but the Force that he needed to properly move them (for they were directed only by the Force) exhausted him regardless. But pain and physical weariness did not make him tired; he felt awake, very awake. 

He felt angry. 

“Come back!” he snarled. “KENOBI!” 

Maul threw himself into the thick of the swamp, into the water. He was uncaring of the dangers that resided there. He slogged his way through the mud, feeling mad, feeling just a little out of touch with reality. He had not believed himself capable of such raw hatred any longer, but no, no - he was wrong. Very wrong. The thorns, the creeping insects and reptiles that bit at his skin were not enough to slow him. 

He bled and suffered, but felt none of it.

He could only see that blue light. That glimmer. 

Maul activated the darksaber and cut through the large, roving spiders that fell upon him now - the creeping beasts that Dathomir sent to harry him in this desperate pursuit. He sliced through the serpents that snapped at him as he passed; he stumbled under the hands of giant, leviathan beasts hidden in the murky water. They tried to drag him under, but his metal legs were too heavy for them. He broke their bones under his feet. 

The darksaber, unlike the red blade of his usual lightsaber, did not cast light. The darkness became a tangible pressure as he moved deeper into the fog. He felt wild. His hatred poured across his mind like molten metal; scorching and violent. 

All at once - everything stopped. 

A burst of blue light illuminated the forest, and his enemies scattered. It dimmed quickly, and Maul was left in a deep silence. He could only hear the dripping of water and his own trembling gasps. 

“Maul,” said a voice (both familiar and not familiar at all). “Are you alright?” 

Maul grabbed onto a vine and hoisted himself back to his feet. He leaned against a thorny tree trunk to steady himself, too tired to balance himself any longer. 

He could see Obi-wan Kenobi before him - an apparition of him, just like the apparition of Qui-Gon Jinn. He was old. His voice had deepened and his skin was marred with wrinkles. Maul might have entirely failed to recognize him if it weren’t for the familiar shape of his eyes, and that damnable beard. 

Kenobi stood in the murk of water, but… where he touched it, it was clear. The light that emanated from him cut through the poisonousness of Dathomir - not eradicating life, but changing it. The flowers that wreathed the Jedi were beautiful, no longer deadly. They simply existed for the sake of existing, brilliant purples painted with white tips. 

Dathomir was always quick to change under the touch of the Force - light or darkness. It didn’t matter. 

Maul was unimpressed. 

“Those will die when you go,” he spat. 

“Will they?” Kenobi smiled at him. “Will you let them?” 

Maul remained at the threshold of clear water, avoiding it superstitiously. He watched Kenobi with suspicion, with hatred, with distrust. 

Perhaps, too, with fear. 

“Why are you here?” 

Maul’s voice shook. His hatred smothered him, as familiar as the pain in his back, as familiar as his nightmares. It was as if no time had passed at all between here and there. His loathing for Kenobi was still utterly, painfully intact. The vile intensity of it was frightening. 

Maul hadn’t thought himself capable of such raw, breathless hate any longer. He hated himself nearly as much for being so helpless in the face of it. 

Kenobi regarded him for a moment, an expression of gentle curiosity in his eyes. 

“You reached out to me,” he said. “Through the Force, I felt you. It… well, it surprised me.”

“Me?” snapped Maul, disbelieving. “I would sooner die than reach out for you.” 

“Dathomir compelled me here, then,” said Kenobi. “But I suppose that makes little difference.” 

“She compelled you?” asked Maul. “Another torture, then?” 

“No… not torture,” said Kenobi. “An opportunity, perhaps. An opportunity for both of us to put old grievances in their place. Qui-Gon was always much quicker to forgive than I was. It’s something I’m still learning, I’m afraid. But one must always try to learn.” 

The arrogance! Maul felt a raw and bitter laugh snake through his teeth. All the pain of his wounds and weariness was forgotten. To think he wanted Kenobi’s forgiveness - as if Kenobi should be the one forgiving him!  

He sliced the darksaber into the apparition before him, right through the middle. 

Maddeningly, Kenobi just smiled. “I’m afraid you’re too late for that, Maul.” 

“I know,” said Maul, deactivating the darksaber. “But it felt good.” 

“Did it?” 

Maul’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you here, Kenobi? I’m not in the mood to be given life lessons - not by you.” 

Kenobi remained maddeningly unperturbed. “Alright. Then let’s assume that I came here for my own peace of mind, then. Will that satisfy you?” 

“No.” 

“Of course not.” Kenobi smiled, but Maul was glad to see some genuine exasperation in his face. “Maul, what happened?” 

“What do you mean what happened?” 

“Why couldn’t you just leave it?” he asked. “Leave me alone. Set off on your own.”

“You know why.” 

“I don’t.” 

“I wanted you to suffer.” 

“I did suffer.” 

“I wanted--” 

Kenobi stepped forward then, and Maul recoiled from his light. It was scorching; blindingly beautiful. 

“You ruined so much for me,” said Kenobi. His voice remained gentle and measured, despite his pain. “You realize that, don’t you..? You murdered a dear friend of mine. You took my master from me before I was ready. Believe me, I’ve certainly suffered my fair share of nightmares on account of what you did. And yes - yes, I suppose I hated you. In fact, I hated you so deeply, so poisonously, that I could hardly bear to think of you at all.” 

Kenobi tipped his head up towards the sky. There was no humor in him, no playful disrespect. His usual defenses were completely absent. 

That scared Maul more than he cared to admit. 

“Does any of this bring you peace of mind, Maul?” he asked. “Does any of this make you feel better?” 

In a petty sort of way, it did make Maul feel better… but it was brief and bitter satisfaction. It was also short-lived. It went without saying that he took no joy in Master Jinn’s murder any longer. 

“It’s not enough,” he said. His voice was unsteady, and he was humiliated by his own evident weakness. 

“Well, Maul, what would be enough?” 

There was no easy answer to that. Maul knew there wouldn’t be, but it annoyed him that Kenobi was cognizant of that. Hatred and revenge were gluttonous beasts, and no amount of suffering ever filled the pits of unquenchable despair that hatred spawned. It was no more effective than trying to fill up a black hole. 

The real answer, he supposed, was that he hated that Kenobi had been worthy of hate itself. 

It was a recursive despair. 

“You never have to stop hating me, by the way,” said Kenobi. “Not if you don’t want to.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Even so… I ask you to let go of me. To move on. You are no longer bound by any sort of fate, Maul. Only the one you make for yourself.” 

Those words were salt in a wound. Maul uttered a low and bitter laugh. He sank down into the mushy, poisonous water beneath him, his back pressed against a tree trunk. He was smeared in blood and dirt, and the water was warm in an unpleasant, feverish sort of way. It disgusted him. 

“I tried to change my fate,” said Maul. “But Dathomir herself won’t allow for it!” 

“Maul…”

“Quiet!” spat Maul. “I do not need pity! I don’t need your lies! I had a chance at something different, and Dathomir was quick to deny me that.”

For a moment, Kenobi was silent. The halo of brilliant light sent silver ripples across the black stretch of water. Maul could see many beasts lingering in the shadows; the brilliant emerald of eyeshine. 

The beasts cowered from the light, just as Maul did. They were stayed by Kenobi’s hand. 

“The Force reflects only what is put into it,” said Kenobi, his voice hushed and unhurried. “Good or ill. On its own, the Force perhaps means nothing - nothing at all. It sees nothing. It just… exists. But when a man puts forward a little bit of himself into the universe, the Force takes that piece of him… like a gift. It becomes him, in a way. Is that not what you feel? That this fight between us - between all of us - is a desire for goodness to triumph over evil? The Force lends its power to both, but chooses no side. Not really.”

“There is no light here,” said Maul. 

“On Dathomir? You’re right. You were right, anyway.” 

Maul frowned. He plucked a centipede off his head and flicked it away into the water to drown. 

“Grogu, then.” 

“Yes.” Kenobi tipped his head, smiling fondly. “Grogu changed Dathomir.” 

The implication was nothing short of offensive. Maul bore his teeth. “You imply that he’s at fault for this?” 

“Maul, think better of me,” said Kenobi. “He’s a child. He’s innocent. No one is at fault for what’s happened here. Not intentionally, anyway.” 

Maul felt a dizzying rush of frustration. He wanted for Kenobi to leave him alone - wanted to stop hearing his voice, seeing his face, feeling his presence. But he knew that if Kenobi left now, the void left in his wake would feel terrible; an infinite blindness. 

Maul recalled that feeling very well - the pit of terrible, unfeeling nothing that had consumed him upon Kenobi’s death. Hatred felt better than emptiness, and he clung to it jealously. 

Maul closed his eyes. “Dathomir wishes for me to be her subject. Her slave.” 

“Maul,” said Kenobi. 

“What is that, if not fate?” asked Maul. “That she would demand that I destroy the Mandalorian, or myself be destroyed? If not fate, then what is it? Karma, perhaps? Punishment?” 

“Maul…” 

Maul was on his feet now. He couldn’t cut Kenobi. He couldn’t hurt him, neither physically nor with his words. How could one taunt a dead man regarding the death of his master? Kenobi had been reunited with the one that Maul had stolen from him. 

He was at peace. Kenobi had won. 

Maul knew that. The bitterness of his own defeat was like acid in his throat. 

“What is the point of all this suffering?!” cried Maul. “And what is the point of your interference?! All paths I have taken - all paths I have foreseen - have led me to this end! To this planet! To this solitude! But I saw that child, I heard him, and I saw a vision of the Jedi that was fated to take him, and I-- I thought, just this once, the universe owed me--” 

“Maul!” said Kenobi; a sharp rebuke. “None of this was fated. Goodness, will you listen to yourself? What is it with the Sith and becoming so utterly attached to their own chains?” 

“We break our chains. That’s the whole point of our doctrine!” 

“I know your doctrine,” said Kenobi. “I know it and I reject it utterly. Your chains - the pain, the suffering, all of that - are as unbroken as they ever were. You cannot even look at me without flying in a blind rage, and I’m already dead.” 

“You still exist.” 

“And what does that matter? If I didn’t exist, then I wouldn’t exist to suffer, and you’d find that outcome just as disappointing! Your revenge is at a dead end. It has been for a long time. You outlived all of us. You’re the last one, Maul - the very last! And yet you still refuse to let go of your hatred! What is that, if not a prison?” 

Maul angrily turned away, staring at the spider silhouettes of the trees, and the scattering of stars through a veil of ochre mist. It was a sight that was almost more beautiful for being so grim. He did not long for green fields of blossoming flowers. He did not find himself moved by the sight of snowy mountains set against violet skies. He wanted this - the murky darkness, the shadows that shrouded many beasts. 

The beauty of decay and rot and ruthless survival. 

I want to stay, he thought again. No… I have to stay. This is the place where my body will rot. This is the land that my essence will bleed into, and become a part of. All paths lead here.

“You’re… not wrong,” whispered Maul. “Yes… yes, I would be disappointed if you ceased to exist. It would feel cheated that I still suffer still while you were granted the bliss of everlasting death.” 

“Yet you did not end your own life, when tempted.” 

Maul growled. Qui-Gon had told Kenobi, then, about the incident with the poisonous berries. But even as Maul considered that, he decided that Qui-Gon wouldn’t have. Kenobi knew about it because he and Kenobi were intrinsically connected to one another. 

Kenobi knew because it was his own death that nearly drove Maul to that end. 

“Not yet,” said Maul. “No, not yet.” 

Kenobi sighed sharply, grieved and exasperated all at once. “And yet I hope that you do not! You speak so carelessly, Maul - you are careless. I feel your love for Dathomir, just as I feel your love for the child, and for the Mandalorian. And yet you twist these things, use them as a means to bring more harm upon yourself. And all the while, innocents are caught in the hell of your own making.” 

Maul’s temper flared, but he did not turn. He kept his gaze out at the blackness, away from the light of Obi-wan Kenobi. “I did not choose this! I wanted them! I want them, Kenobi - and yet the Force denies me even this small, insignificant respite…” 

“You did this, Maul,” said Kenobi. “Surely, you must sense it..?” 

Maul scoffed. “If that were true, Master Jinn would have told me.” 

“He didn’t know,” said Kenobi. “What I am - and what he is… it’s hard to explain. We’re not omnipotent beings. We can see the Force from the other side of the veil, yes, but I cannot look into the heart of it anymore than you can. Qui-Gon doesn’t know very much about you at all - not really. And he certainly knows very little about Dathomir herself. He could only see the ways in which the Force was warped by your presence here. I don’t believe he suspected the true nature of it.” 

“And you know better?” 

“Yes, I like to think so,” replied Kenobi. “I do know a little about Dathomir - I’ve met the Nightsisters and seen their magic at work. I’ve seen the consequences of that misused power, too. I’ve wandered these lands before, long enough to see through the delusion you’ve created for yourself. This planet is so sensitive to the Force, more so than any planet I’ve seen before. Your presence here is causing a reaction, and your attachment to your own pain--” 

“And what difference does it make if it’s me?!” cried Maul, turning to face Kenobi again. “It was my choice that brought this upon myself, when I chose not to sacrifice the Mandalorian!” 

“That is a choice you imposed upon yourself,” insisted Kenobi. “Out of fear. Out of cowardice, too. You orchestrated a situation where you could preempt the grief of loss by creating that loss yourself. Yet you spared the Mandalorian, and you spared my friend, Cody… and I am grateful for that, by the way. I am grateful.” 

Maul was tempted to kill the clone out of spite now - but it was not a serious consideration. He had meant what he said. I will not kill a Mandalorian with this weapon.

I will never kill a Mandalorian again. 

“This being, Dathomir… she’s just another facet of the Force itself,” said Kenobi. “But she is still the Force. She herself does not have a conscious will - not really. The animals, the plants, the bacteria… all of those beings are manifestations of the raw power of the Force. Just like all life is, really. They’re an expression of Dathomir’s power. But the blood sacrifices? Those were your invention. You could not imagine a power that exists without the desire to be worshiped.” 

“The blood sacrifices are Dathomirian tradition, to appease--” 

“To appease the Nightsisters!” Kenobi interrupted, his voice rising. “Or to make sense of a wild, untamable nature that frightens you! Maul, you want to believe in the power of this planet - and I grant you, it is a profound power… but the cruelty that she unleashes upon you is an invention of your own pain. Dathomir is your slave. The chains that bind you to her are the same chains that bind her to you.”

Maul closed his eyes tightly, pressing his hands against them in frustration. He searched desperately for the lie - for some shred of evidence that proved that Kenobi’s assertions were meaningless. 

…he couldn’t find the lie. He felt nothing but truth. 

Maul had reached out and asked for torture and violence, and Dathomir herself had responded to his will. Just as the Force always did. 

“Why tell me any of this? Why help me at all?” asked Maul. Every word felt like a knife in his throat. “Jedi compassion?” 

“Compassion?” said Kenobi. “For you? Maul…” 

Kenobi sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. Maul regarded the Jedi fully now - the hardness of his eyes, the softness of his face. It was clear enough that this was no easier for Kenobi than it was for Maul. 

“Maybe compassion,” said Kenobi, gathering his composure. “I would certainly like to believe that. And… Qui-Gon certainly feels compassion for you. He’s always been a kinder, gentler person than I am.”

Kenobi took a step closer. This time, Maul did not recoil. He looked up at him, unwavering. 

“But if I’m being honest, I don’t think you need my compassion, Maul,” said Kenobi. “Not really. So what does it matter? I’m far more concerned with the child’s survival.” 

“Then why not encourage me to surrender him to the Jedi?” asked Maul. 

“I would, if I thought you’d actually do it.” 

At least Kenobi was honest. 

“You’re right. I would refuse.” 

Kenobi smiled faintly. “And perhaps you’re right not to.” 

“If you believe that, then you’re more delusional than I am.” 

“Maybe so,” admitted Kenobi. “But now, you can see through this terrible delusion that you’ve imprisoned yourself with. This place will change. How could it not? The very nature of what Dathomir is will change. And if you cannot find something to replace the dreadful punishment you’ve imposed upon yourself, well… Dathomir may become something far worse.” 

And just like that, Kenobi was gone. 

And Maul knew that was the last time he would ever see him. 

The underground tunnels sprawled out into many dark places. Maul chose one at random, too numb to consider the choice thoroughly. He crept his way down into the echoes, searching for perfect silence. His bloodied body stung and ached and burned. But he was awake.

He found a place to rest - an underground cavern, much larger than the one that he had awoken in. The pool of water here was so large that it seemed to be an underground ocean. The water rolled across the rock; an unnatural tide. The rock was smooth with erosion. Water dripped from stalicites on the ceiling. 

Maul stripped off the remaining tatters of clothes he had and dropped the darksaber on top of them. He slid down into the water, letting it roll gently across his feverish skin. 

It was, at first, debilitatingly cold - but that chill quickly proved refreshing. It shocked him from his emptiness. He became aware of the scent of damp rock and moss. He tipped his head up towards the drips of water that trickled from the ceiling, catching them on his tongue. 

He wasn’t certain how long he stood there, immersed in cold water. Silent. Still. 

“Maul?” 

Maul opened his eyes, turning them towards the entrance of the cavern. The Mandalorian was there, calm and relaxed. He emanated sureness in every part of himself - quiet confidence. Maul envied it. He felt attracted by it, too. 

“I’m not in a particularly sociable mood tonight, Mandalorian,” said Maul shortly. 

“Alright.” 

But the Mandalorian didn’t leave. He walked to the water’s edge, his beskar bright against the backdrop of dark stone. Maul could see the subtle ripples of watery light scattered across it. It made the Mandalorian appear very beautiful. Handsome, perhaps. Maul wasn’t keen to use such words, even in the quiet of his own mind. They were complicated, ill-defined concepts to him. 

He turned his face away. 

“So you realized what this is,” said Maul. “Before I did. The danger of this planet was created by myself. The manifestations of my own insanity.” 

“I wasn’t sure of that.” 

“You were, though. Don’t lie.” 

“I’m not lying,” said Din, soft yet uncompromising. “I don’t know the Force. I only felt it. I guessed that it had something to do with you… but if you told me it didn’t, I’d believe you.” 

“And yet…” Maul trailed off, uncertain. “Mh. I was going to say, ‘and yet you stay.’ But do you?” 

“Yes.” 

No hesitation. No compromise. 

“Why?” 

“Dathomir freed me,” said Din. “Or you did - I guess. You needed my help. You wanted my help.”

“And so there’s hope for me yet?” scoffed Maul. 

“Something like that.” 

Din shed his armor, piece by piece. He set them on the water’s edge gently, ritualistically. Maul watched him silently, strangely wary of the intimacy that the act implied. Divesting oneself of armor was always a meaningful act, where a Mandalorian was concerned. Maul felt a shiver that felt like lust (but he suspected it was actually adoration).

“Turn away.”

Maul’s eyes lingered for a moment… but he did as he was asked. He heard the soft hiss as Din removed his helmet. 

A moment later, Din slipped into the water with him. Maul felt bare hands slide over his sides. He wasn’t sure anyone had ever touched him like that. 

No, he thought. I am sure. No one has. 

Maul sank against Din’s chest with a weary growl. He was wrapped up in a warm, wet embrace. His skin burned in a pleasant sort of way. He felt his muscles tense and then release. He sank back against Din, his eyes fluttering. 

It felt good. Good. 

“You’re covered in blood.” 

“Mmm,” hummed Maul, uncaring. 

Din washed him off, attentive and unrushed. Maul closed his eyes against the contact, breathing slowly. He focused on the sound of the waves rolling across stone, the chilly tickle of droplets as they slid down his skin. Meditation came easily to him now. He was exhausted, beaten down, and entirely too fatigued to feel the sharp edges of his own pain. Surrender came easily. A deep, silent darkness washed over him. 

Little by little, his pain began to diminish. The water stole it away. 

At first, Maul thought it was the cold simply numbing him… but it wasn’t. The wounds were binding together. Healing. The blood and grime disappeared into the water, carried by the lazy current. 

Maul’s fingers tangled with the Mandalorian’s. 

Perhaps, he thought (quietly, secretively), I can keep this small indulgence for myself. Just for this moment, I will enjoy a little worship for myself. 

But that small thought became something more. And as the Mandalorian’s hands moved across his ribs, and as his gentle lips descended his spine, Maul realized there was no power in the universe great enough to shake his resolve now. 

He would have this. He would keep the Mandalorian and Grogu here, with him. 

He would find a way. 

Chapter Text

Din awoke to the dull push of Maul’s horn against his cheek. 

He was relieved to find that Maul’s horns weren’t nearly as sharp as they looked. They scratched but didn’t cut. Din twisted his head away with a long, sleepy yawn. He shrugged Maul’s head away, but that only made the zabrak press stubbornly closer. 

Din’s first impulse was to reach around for his helmet and retreat into the usual haven of his armor. He rarely ever slept with his face uncovered, for obvious reasons. It was a nightmare to think of who might find him, and who might see him while he was caught unawares. 

But those were old nightmares, he realized. Old dreams. Everything was different. He was still a Mandalorian, but maybe not in the way that he used to be. 

He hesitated. 

The cave was dark. His eyes had adjusted to the thin, reflective light of the many kyber crystals here. Their glow blanketed the glass-smooth surface of water in a haze of green and turquoise. He could see the stark outline of Maul’s tattoos, but his features were a bluish haze. 

There was peacefulness in the veiled silence. Din didn’t put his helmet back on. Not yet. His hand instead moved back to Maul’s head, fingertips absently stroking over his horns. 

“You’re awake,” Din yawned. 

It was a guess - Din hadn’t been sure. But Maul exhaled and stretched in response, catlike. His yellow eyes flickered like a guttering flame as he blinked awake, but he did not look at Din. His gaze fixed on the ceiling of the cave, moving over the geometric patterns of stalactites and crystal. 

“Have you ever heard of Lotho Minor?” asked Maul. 

His hushed voice was amplified in the empty cavern, and seemed to come from all around them. The echo made Maul wince, and he uttered a rough, irritated noise. 

“No.” 

“I’m not surprised,” said Maul, his voice softening further. “It’s a junk planet. There’s nothing there, really - the junk isn’t even interesting, most of the time. The air is acidic. The terrain is nothing but refuse. Mountains of it. Scrap and other such unwanted things.” 

Maul’s voice wasn’t rough with sleep. He obviously hadn’t slept, or he’d been awake for longer than Din had been. 

“And?” 

“And it was just about the most terrible, violent planet you could ever imagine. Dar’yaim, I suppose.” 

Not home. Hell. 

Din understood the concept very well. 

Maul found Din’s hand, his sharp nails absently scratching the skin of his knuckles. Like all affection from Maul, it was both pleasurable and a little bit painful. Din flexed his hand and sighed. 

“Mmh. If I had been given access to the Death Star, it would have been the first planet to go,” said Maul. 

Din frowned, tipping his head. “The first?” 

Maul was quiet for a moment. He chuckled. 

“The first… the only, probably. But who knows what evil a man is capable of, when he is given such a power? Lotho Minor was uninhabited for the most part. And anyone who does live there would much rather be dust, I can assure you. Only things that are not quite alive are able to survive - the kinds of beasts that don’t realize how dreadful their circumstances really are.” 

Din turned on his side, gazing at Maul’s dim profile. His hand slid over Maul’s stomach, mapping the smooth, rough plane of his belly. His skin was a little rougher than a human’s would be - thick and durable, no doubt because zabraks were themselves so prone to biting and scratching. 

Din wondered how many scars Maul’s skin would carry now, were he human. 

“When I was injured, that was the place I found myself,” said Maul. “I don’t quite remember how I got there… I remember very little of it. Just pain.” 

“How long were you there?” asked Din, his voice hushed. 

“Years.” 

Maul lapsed into silence, and Din did not press. Anything beyond a year was a hell beyond imagining. And Din suspected it had been far more than just a few years.  

“I survived through my strength in the Force,” said Maul, his voice so quiet that Din had to strain to hear him. “It is a power that many covet - indeed, a power that I coveted… an immortality that could carry me far beyond the edge of death. But the Force exacts a heavy toll for such a power.” 

Din thought of Grogu. The child lapsed into deep unconsciousness each and every time he healed another person. Maul’s injuries were beyond anything that Din had ever seen Grogu mend. Even with the Force to explain his survival, it still felt impossible. 

Din’s hand settled on the seam between metal and flesh. His thumb absently stroked Maul’s navel. 

“If you draw strength from another to heal, then it isn’t… nearly so terrible, I suppose,” said Maul. “But I was alone. So the only place I had left to draw upon was myself. From my own mind. I was reduced to little more than an animal - a pained, shrieking beast in the dark, trapped on a planet of immense hostility.” 

“Like Dathomir?” 

Maul shook his head and exhaled. His eyes winked in the darkness before they turned away entirely. 

“Nothing is like Lotho Minor. Mmh… Dathomir, for all its danger, is still beautiful. Nourishing… Dangerous and evil things can be beautiful, can’t they?” 

Din agreed that they could be.

“Lotho Minor wasn’t beautiful. There was only decay - unnatural decay, a pollution that had no aesthetic merit. There was no… wildness in that place. Not so much as a breeze of fresh air. Not a single lovely creature to marvel at. It was just… rust and rot. The most vile nothing you could imagine. And surviving there was a matter of desperation. I was always starving, always cold, always in pain, always--” 

Maul broke off. Din did not think for an instant that Maul could weep, but there was a rawness in his words that communicated that misery all the same. 

“For the first few years, I was almost like myself,” continued Maul. “My mind wasn’t quite shattered. I remember… I sent out a transmission somehow. Built some radio out of junk. I offered a reward for my own capture. A desperate bid for escape.” Maul growled bitterly. “Obviously, that plan fell to ruin. I killed my would-be rescuers… I think. I don’t precisely remember…” 

Maul drew Din’s hand to his mouth, absently nipping his knuckles. Din had figured out that zabrak bites were like a Mandalorian headbutt - their version of a kiss. He let his thumb brush over the tip of Maul’s nose, absentmindedly affectionate. Comforting.

“How did you escape?” 

“My brother found me,” said Maul. “...Savage.” 

To Din, that sounded impossible. Years of being so completely lost, and his brother came across him? Like most inexplicable things, there was really only one answer. 

“He found you with the Force?” 

“With magic, yes,” said Maul. “A talisman… our mother gave him a pendant that showed him the way. He used it to find me. It’s Dathomirian magic, something… mmh. A very powerful object.” 

Din was quiet. A talisman…

He pushed himself up and groped around in the darkness for his armor. He found one of the leather satchels. From it he produced the strange pendant that he had taken from Maul’s things. It had seemed lovely and important, full of power that he could not understand. He remembered that it had felt shameful to discard it. 

It glowed a brilliant turquoise in Maul’s presence. The cave was suddenly illuminated by the pale, ethereal glow. 

The same kind of glow as the crystals, Din noticed. He wondered if they were the same. 

“It’s this,” said Din. “Right?” 

Maul looked at Din’s bare face, and Din looked back at him. In the light of the cave, he knew that Maul could see him clearly. Din didn’t hide it. The zabrak had already seen his face before, after all. 

As much as Din believed in the way, as much as he valued that part of himself… he also felt like Maul needed to see his face now. In this quiet, holy place, it did not feel like a betrayal. 

Maul reached out to touch the talisman with delicate fingertips. 

“You found this?” 

“When you were throwing everything else off the cliff, yeah,” said Din. “I thought--” 

Whatever he had thought was apparently unimportant, because Maul kissed him. 

Din leaned into the contact with a deep sigh. It was an inelegant and amateurish sort of kiss - more of a wet bite, really. But it felt good. Din melted all the same. 

“Mandalorian,” Maul said against his mouth, rumbling with delight. “You are a wonder.” 

Din flushed. He suddenly missed his helmet. 

“You weren’t done with your story,” said Din. His voice was just a little bit weaker. 

Maul was quiet for a moment. 

“Does this story really need telling?” 

Din realized that it didn’t. 

Leaning close, Din buried himself into another kiss.

Din understood what he needed to understand. He understood what Maul had wanted to tell him. A part of Maul had been left behind on Lotho Minor - a part of him still existed in the darkness and decay of that wretched place. And yet, he carried its absence all the same. It had accompanied him here, and transformed this world into something a little like the one before. 

And the radio signal, just like before, had been a desperate attempt to reach out for a savior that simply wasn’t there. 

Din understood the nature of this suffering, at least to some small degree. Din himself was still the frightened child hiding in the cellar, alone in the darkness. But his terror had been for just a few short and terrible moments… and he had been saved. He had been loved and comforted throughout his grief. 

Maul had not been saved. Not in that way. 

Not until Grogu. 

And Din could understand that too. 

Din sighed, and he absently slid his fingers over the talisman he held. Maul took it from him. He fastened the chain around Din’s neck, his sharp fingernails tickling against the back of his neck. 

Din shivered. 

“Is Dathomir still dangerous?” asked Din. 

“Like Lotho Minor was? No…” Maul frowned. The subtle light of his eyes illuminated the edges of his face. “It won’t be dangerous to you.”  

“And to Grogu?” 

“No more than usual,” said Maul. “The wildness of Dathomir is still well beyond my power. And the Force here is… dark. Very dark. But not cruel. It does not seek power for its own sake. Do you understand?”

As far as he could understand something as unbelievable as the Force…. Din understood. But he was certain, too, that it wasn’t just darkness. Din had felt something else when the Force had freed him - a gentle warmth. Light. 

Perhaps Maul couldn’t see it. 

“I’d still like to stay,” said Din. 

“And yet you know the risks.”    

“Like you said. It won’t be dangerous to us anymore than usual.” 

Would Dathomir still be especially dangerous to Maul? But if Din could protect him… 

Did Maul even need protecting, really? 

Din didn’t think so. But as he sank against Maul, he felt the tension and hesitation that wracked his body - the expectation of pain, perhaps. Din smoothed his hands over Maul’s back, over his chest. He felt that resistance melt away. He didn’t need the Force to feel the easing of pressure in the air. A passing storm. 

And Din found himself enraptured by it all - the power and strangeness of this world, the wonder of this magic. He had been fascinated by it from the first moment he set foot on Dathomir’s soil. He didn’t love this world in the way that Maul did, but… perhaps he could. Din had always been too nomadic to love any particular place. There was no world yet that had felt like home. Yaim. And Dathomir was so empty, full of silence and melancholy. 

(But an empty thing can be filled, surely?)

There was still so much here. The endless expanse of the wilds beckoned him. The quietness and the ruthless beauty fascinated him. There was still more to discover. More ruins to unearth. More monsters to find, and to hunt. 

With Maul. With Grogu. 

And as much as Din couldn’t trust that he could stay in one place forever, he found himself wanting to stay. Not for Maul’s sake, and not for Grogu’s sake. The valleys and mountains and black forests whispered promises that he could not yet understand. But they were powerful, and worth deciphering. 

He was so certain that there was a future here. This was a place where warriors could live and thrive. The wilds could not be tamed, but they could be learned. 

And what Mandalorian wouldn’t relish the challenge? 

Maul slipped away from him, and back into the pool of water. He moved with grace and ease. His injuries had been soothed away, and Din was glad to see there was no trace of them any longer. 

Din admired the ripples of watery light as they scattered bluish light across Maul’s back. Whatever Din’s feelings for Maul, there was one thing that he was perfectly conscious of - his attraction. Maul’s strangeness, his exotic alienness was captivating to Din. He was not like any person that Din had met before in his life. 

Truthfully, Din couldn’t quite imagine what Maul would be like if he was taken away from Dathomir. He felt so enmeshed in the nature here. He was a part of it. Defined by it. 

No… he wouldn’t be the same outside of this place. He would be crueller, and colder. Taken out of his environment, out of his context, his fathomless power would be removed from its natural outlet. 

Din wouldn’t excuse Maul’s past cruelties on simply having been torn away from the planet of his birth, but he could see plainly enough that Maul belonged here. This was his place. And without it, there was a deep, desperate homesickness that could not be quenched. 

Maul looked back at him, his yellow eyes so lovely in the darkness that Din sharply exhaled. 

“You’re thinking something,” said Maul. 

Din swallowed. His throat felt dry. 

“Dathomir isn’t like Lotho Minor,” he said. “Even if you thought it might be.”

Maul slid smoothly under the water, immersing himself fully. He emerged a moment later and sighed, running his hands over his face. 

“One thing I recall from that dreadful pit was the lack of water,” said Maul. “The absence of things is what I recall most. There was junk, certainly - more than you can imagine. But it was devoid of organic life. There was barely anything to properly rot - much less eat, or drink. Nothing was nourished there. The acid rain destroyed it all.” 

Din followed Maul to the water’s edge. He knelt at the edge, his hand absently skimming the surface. The distance of a few feet between them suddenly felt too great, and Din slipped into the water himself. It was punishingly cold, but it quickly became refreshing. It was as if pain itself was forbidden in the pool. 

Din felt Maul’s sharp nails tease over the small of his back, his wiry arms sliding around Din’s waist. They fell together into the water. Din drank deeply and felt the whisper of oneness that the Force promised. The harmony. 

Din would never be able to put it to words. But in this place, he understood the Force perfectly. And when Maul spoke again, he heard the words with his mind rather than his ears, although he wasn’t sure if it was his imagination. 

But it didn’t matter. 

Dathomir could never be Lotho Minor, murmured Maul. Never.

When Din exited the cave, he found that Cody was already awake. He was sitting at the base of a gnarled, black tree, his legs stretched out before him. He appeared to be deep in thought. 

Maul was already gone. He had taken Grogu with him. They were out hunting in the swamplands, supposedly. Din suspected that meant they were looking for frogs and bugs somewhere. Din was happy to leave them to it; he was much happier with stale ration blocks. 

“Morning,” said Din. 

“Morning,” replied Cody. 

Cody sounded alert and awake. Din suspected he’d been awake for some time now. He was looking up at the gloomy scarlet light rising over the cliffs, his handsome face bright with vitality. He was peaceful, just as lovely as the morning that Din had seen him standing in the glow of Coruscant’s dawn. 

Din didn’t say anything. He sat down next to Cody and offered him his canteen. He wished he had something stronger to offer than water, but Cody smiled gratefully all the same. 

For a little while, they just sat together in silence. Mandalorians were good at the unspoken - the quiet, long stretches of reflection after a tiring battle, or a long day of training. Being in Cody’s presence really didn’t feel different than being around any other Mandalorian. 

But that didn’t need to be said. 

“The kid healed me,” said Cody. 

“Mmhm.” 

“My brothers killed his friends,” said Cody. “His family. Can’t say who exactly did it - my brothers from the 501st, yes. I know that much. But it would probably be just the same to him, wouldn’t it?” 

Din looked at Cody for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he said. 

Din didn’t think there was much chance that Grogu could mistake Cody for an enemy. 

“I suppose you didn’t get that radio working,” said Cody, smiling. “If I ever plan on leaving Dathomir.” 

“We did get it working… I think.” Din smiled. “Are you in a rush?” 

Cody shook his head. 

“Not really,” he admitted. “It’s not so bad here, you know. It seems ugly at first, and then… I guess there’s something about it. I don’t know.” 

The direction of the conversation seemed obvious enough. Even so, Din didn’t rush to find the words. He let Cody consider his answer before he asked it. 

“Do you want to stay here?” 

“Yeah.” Cody looked at him. “Not forever, of course. But for a little while. For the kid.” 

Din felt relieved, of course - the relief that Mandalorian companionship brought. He missed being around people like himself. He had been on his own for far too long, looking after the kid - floating like a mote of dust across the universe. Din needed his people like Maul needed Dathomir. He knew that. 

“You’ll stay here to protect him?” 

“No, not that,” said Cody. “I would, if he needed it. But whatever my own opinion of Maul, I don’t think anyone has a chance of hurting the kid while he’s watching over him.” 

Cody looked down at his hand, absently touching the deep, aged lines of his palm. It seemed to remind him of the great space of time between this moment and his youth. But the way Cody spoke of it all… it didn’t seem like very much time at all. 

“I knew a lot of Jedi,” said Cody. “Friends of mine. General Kenobi… General Skywalker, too. Ahsoka Tano. Master Yoda. General Koon. I thought maybe I could tell him a little bit about them. I don’t know if he’d understand, but--” 

“He’ll understand.” 

Cody nodded briskly. His eyes shined - but like any good soldier, his composure didn’t break. 

“I hope you’re right,” he said. 

They left the valley soon after. 

The landscape of Dathomir spread before them, an endless tapestry of rich crimson - a perpetual dusk. There was much beauty to admire, and many things to see. Most of the journey was quiet and contemplative, their thoughts drifting along with the restless breeze. 

They were returning to the radio tower, because no one had a better idea right now. It seemed like the only place worth going to, although none of them could agree on just who they meant to contact. 

“We could reach out to the clones on Coruscant,” Cody had suggested. 

They would contact them, of course. That was a given. They had to let the others know that Cody was safe and well. 

“But what will we ask?” said Din. “For them to come get us? We don’t want to leave.” 

“Maybe they’ll want to come here themselves.” But Cody was less confident in this idea, and he didn’t bring it up again. 

But the truth was, apart from that on courtesy call, there really was no point in contacting anyone. They didn’t want to leave. Maul was confident that given time, they could find other ships on Dathomir, as well as the means to repair their own. They could find fuel. The Dathomirians only traveled to space sparingly, but they still did travel. There had to be ships out there somewhere. And with Grogu and Maul to listen to the Force, they would surely find a path to wherever they needed to go. 

So it remained that they weren’t certain what their objective was. But they made their way back towards the tower regardless. 

They spotted the rancor, now and then, but it kept its distance. For a while, Din wasn’t sure if it was guarding them from afar or if it was diverging from them. Every time he was sure it was gone for good, he would hear its rumbling snarls echoing from some far off ravine, or see some violent rustling in a thicket of black trees. But then it would go again. 

The rancor remained scarce enough to evoke interest. When it revealed itself, they always stopped and watched to see if it would return to them. It didn’t. 

And after a few days of quiet wandering, the blind beast did finally return to nature for good. Din felt its absence, and he stopped looking for it on the horizon. Strangely, he missed it. 

For the most part, they traveled in silence. They ate sparingly, usually fruits that Maul pointed out to them (but never himself ate). Otherwise, they would set crude traps for small mammals and lizards. Maul and Grogu seemed happy enough to eat whatever they could get their hands on. All of them were a bit hungry, but it wasn’t unmanageable hunger. And the pace was slow enough not to exhaust them. No predators interfered with their journey. 

But that didn’t mean all was safe. Din kept a watchful eye on the shadows, and towards the sky. He also kept an eye on Maul, as if he might see Maul’s mind sliding into dark places - dangerous places. 

At night, he made a point to sleep as close as he could get away with. Maul was a restless sleeper who suffered nightmares commonly. Grogu’s solution seemed to be to bite at Maul’s fingers until he woke up. Din was more discreet - he took Maul’s hand in his own and squeezed it until the nightmares passed. 

Maul clung to him when given the opportunity. Din didn’t think he would if he was conscious of it. It seemed to reassure Maul all the same, and he usually settled into a calmer sleep when Din was close. 

So Din stayed close, and hoped it was enough. 

“Do you hear that?” 

Din was tired. The sun had set nearly three hours ago, and he was beginning to feel the pull of sleep. The only thing stopping him now was that the idea of trying to make camp felt more exhausting to him than walking did, so he was putting it off. He hadn’t been listening to anything in particular except the stormy drone of a growing windstorm. 

Tonight, they were walking through rocky, mountainous terrain. There were many sharp ravines that funneled the storm into a harsh, noisy gale. 

Din wasn’t sure much of anything could be heard underneath that. 

“What?” asked Cody. 

Maul held up a hand, and he cocked his head. His sense of hearing was more acute than Din’s, but Din had his helmet on. He turned up his audio receiver and listened closely. 

At first, he only heard the wind - the endless sigh of the migrating storms. But beneath that… 

Rustling. Fluttering. 

Wings, he realized. 

“Birds?” 

“Mhmm.” 

Maul handed Grogu to Cody absently. The child cooed and perched on Cody’s shoulder, his small hands clutching at the helmet’s antenna to steady himself. Cody rested a hand on his back to steady him. 

Grogu’s large ears fluttered like little flags. Din smiled. 

“Come with me, Mandalorian,” said Maul. “Commander Cody - find a place to set up camp while we’re gone.” 

Cody did as he was bid without complaint. Din felt guilty to leave him to do all the work on his own, but he had an idea of what Maul wanted to explore. And if he was right, Cody would be well-rewarded for the effort. 

It was difficult to find the source of the noise at first. Everything felt loud, and the terrain was unyielding. There was no obvious path through the jutting rocks and narrow passageways, and the rivers that snaked their way through the stone were deep and fast-moving - difficult to cross. Everything felt like it took three times longer than it should have, and Din’s exhaustion was making it feel even longer. The windstorm also grew more violent. Every step felt like pushing against a river’s current. 

Eventually, though, Maul found the way. They descended a gravelly slope, and suddenly the noise of wings became a cacophony. Maul slipped through a narrow corridor in the ravine. Din followed him through the narrow path until it opened before the base of a plateau. 

It was not unlike the plateau where Din had met Maul for the first time. The cliff face before them was laden with hundreds of birds. They were struggling against the harsh winds of the storm. Despite their considerable size, they were still too light to ground themselves against the harsh winds. They tumbled from their nests, shrieking with offense as they were forced to wait for the winds to die down again to reclaim their spots. 

In the deepening night, they were almost invisible - ink black shadows dancing in the moon shine. 

Tonight’s storm also wasn’t unlike the windstorm that had carried Din to Maul and Grogu. Everything felt familiar, bizarrely nostalgic. It wasn’t so long ago, and yet it felt like it had been years. 

Din closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled slowly. He didn’t feel quite so tired anymore. Hunts were always an invigorating experience, and tonight was no different. The hunger in the pit of his stomach only made the venture that much more tempting. 

“You’re sure about this?” asked Din. 

Maul’s yellow eyes glinted. He wasn’t quite smiling, but his expression was confident. …Relieved, perhaps. 

“Yes. Are you?” 

Din nodded. “I follow my Mand’alor.” 

The words were delivered with perfect seriousness - more so than Din intended, in fact. But Maul merely lifted his eyebrows and held out his hand to him. 

“The spear, then.” 

Din placed the beskar spear into Maul’s hand. Maul twirled it a few times, the beskar rippling with subtle light. Maul stepped forward, soundless beneath the gale and the fluttering of wings. 

Din didn’t follow him, but instead knelt down and drew the rifle from his back. He lifted it, switching his input viewer to night vision. Everything was immediately plunged into a green light, crisp and visible. 

Maul moved to the base of the cliff. He coiled his body and leapt upwards, clearing a distance far more significant than an ordinary man could manage. He landed with effortless grace on a ridge. He didn’t even need to hold out his arms for balance. He moved with feline confidence along the wall. 

The birds continued to grumble and squall in annoyance at the storm, but they did not react to Maul’s presence. They flapped and fluttered around him, restless and ill-tempered. Din could see Maul’s squinting against the wind, a hand held up over his eyes to offer protection from the dust and the feathers. 

None of the beasts seemed aware of the danger that was carefully threading his way through the narrow pathway of steep ledges and shallow caves. Maul searched carefully for a suitable target. He was unhurried and completely controlled in his movements. When Din narrowed his vision, he could see the predatory tension carried in Maul’s powerful back - the slow and purposeful steps he took, as not to alert the birds to his approach. 

Din was aware of his finger on the trigger of his rifle. He was tense. He waited for the birds to notice Maul’s trespassing and turn on him. He waited for the creatures of Dathomir to shift into brutal, suicidal violence. 

If they did, would Maul be safe? Probably. He had the Force, and Din was there to cover him. But it would prove that Dathomir was not, in fact, safe for them. They could fight this battle, sure… but not every battle. And certainly not while raising a vulnerable child. 

Din held his breath. 

Maul suddenly tossed the spear into the air. He caught it with the Force, drew it back, and launched it with power that would have been impossible with simple raw muscle. It pierced straight through the elegant neck of one of the birds, mid-flight. 

There was a flurry of motion as the birds around the fallen prey exploded outwards, finally sensing the danger… 

…but they did not find Maul. 

After a few moments of noisy squalling and flapping, the birds settled down again. Maul waited until they were calm to drop back down to the ground. He observed the tempest of feathers above him for a long, curious moment. 

Maul bent down, pulling the bloodied spear from his kill. He wiped off the beskar clear with his hand and flicked away the excess blood. Maul did not use the Force to carry his kill. He hoisted it over his shoulders.

Din deactivated his night vision. He exhaled the breath he’d still been holding onto, his chest aching. To say that he felt relieved would have failed to convey the release in tension at that moment. 

Dathomir was returning to normal, then. 

“They didn’t attack you,” he said. 

“No,” said Maul. “It seems--” 

Din lunged forward, grabbing the back of Maul’s neck. He bumped his forehead against Maul’s, hard enough to bruise. Maul grunted and reached up to grab his breastplate tightly, tense with surprise. Maul nearly dropped the bird from his shoulders, but Din was quick to grab one of the fragile wings. He held firm. 

Maul hesitated for just a few moments before his free hand came to rest on the side of Din’s neck. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped him. 

“I feel the same way, Mandalorian.” 

The meal was exactly as delicious as Din had expected it would be. 

Although everyone was tired, there was a great deal of conversation at camp. None of the three of them were particularly conversational storytellers, most of the time, but there was something about the glow of the fire and the warm meal that put them all in good spirits. 

Cody had found a shallow basin in the canyon that had afforded them some protection from the windstorm as well, and they didn’t need to fight against the shrieking gale to be heard. The fire burned deep into the night. 

Cody talked about his service during the Clone Wars, which Din listened to with rapt attention. Maul spoke a little about the zabraks of Dathomir (“we were never native to Dathomir itself,” he said. “We chose this world. We came from Iridonia.”). Din mostly talked about the covert, and the Mandalorians that had raised him. 

It surprised Din, but his stories of the covert were what seemed to stir Maul’s curiosity most of all. He asked question after question about the covert itself. How many Mandalorians were in your covert? How many other coverts did you know of? Did you ever follow a Mand’alor? How many foundlings have you raised? 

And so on. 

Cody was just as interested in the answers as Maul was, and Din didn’t feel too bad that so much of the conversation seemed to have been co opted for the discussion (or interrogation) about Din’s culture and history. 

But all the same, Din was strangely pleased by the interest. It was not just because Maul obviously wanted to know about him, but because Maul himself knew so much about the Mandalorians. Perhaps even more - at least where their history was concerned. 

When the conversation finally died down, Cody was the first to sleep. He settled back against the root of one of the barren, black trees, his head pillowed against his chest. He never seemed to mind sleeping just about anywhere with a flat surface. He was just as used to enduring discomfort as Din was. 

Grogu, despite his best efforts, couldn’t keep his eyes open either. He sleepily perched himself on Din’s knee, his head balanced against his small hands. He had spent the evening chasing after small bugs and greedily pawing for the tea that Maul had brewed for him. Din had thought he’d never tire. But he finally did. 

Maul curled up at Din’s side. His head came to rest against Din’s opposite leg, his clawed fingertips absently curled around Din’s shin. 

Maul wasn’t asleep, of course. His yellow eyes were reflected dimly against the armor covering Din’s thigh. 

“Mandalorian,” said Maul, his voice hushed. “There’s a question that I’ve been meaning to ask.” 

Din reached out, absently tickling a black feather over Maul’s horns. Maul looked up at him slightly, but he didn’t bat Din’s hand away. 

“How many Mandalorians are left, I wonder?” asked Maul. 

Din paused. He moved the feather aside, spinning it between his fingers. 

“Thousands, I think.” 

“So few?” 

“To me, it sounds like a lot.” Din tipped his head. “Why do you ask?” 

Maul turned onto his back, looking upwards. He didn’t quite meet Din’s visor. He looked beyond him, up towards the skies. The hazy clouds streaked swiftly as the storm raged on, but the stars were mostly uncovered. Din leaned back to look at them. The fire had dimmed into embers, and there was little light to compete with the universe above them. 

“No reason,” hummed Maul. “No reason, Mandalorian…” 

There was a reason, of course. Din looked back at Maul, scrutinizing him… 

…but he said nothing. There was a tightness in his throat that would not break, and he eventually gave up trying. 

Din didn’t sleep. He knew he would regret not waking Cody or Maul to take watch, but he doubted he could have slept even if he laid down and closed his eyes. His body felt heavy and sore, but it wasn’t near the limit of what he could tolerate. 

He slipped free of Maul and Grogu. The child stirred and crawled his way under the warmth of Maul’s arm, his small face flat to Maul’s bicep. His ears drooped. 

Din stoked the remains of the fire to coax out a little more heat. It wasn’t particularly cold, but fire - light in general - seemed to be a deterrent for the beasts of Dathomir rather than a temptation. But even if they had, Din wasn’t sure he would have felt concerned. These rocky plains were barren. 

Din walked for a little while, yawning but strangely alert. His mind felt as sharp and clear as a knife. 

How many Mandalorians are left, I wonder? 

The question lingered in the back of his mind. 

It could mean nothing. Or everything. Din couldn’t be sure, but he couldn’t chase away the thought, either. 

Could this be a place for Mandalorians? 

It seemed impossible… but why? As long as Mandalorians still lived and breathed, nothing was impossible. 

Din’s mind was cast back to the quiet longing that they had shared when looking at all that had been left abandoned upon the deaths of the Nightbrothers. He remembered that emptiness in Maul at the loss of those unknown brothers. 

But Din thought of his own emptiness, too - the drinks he had shared with the clones, and the covert he missed so desperately. 

The desperate longing he felt for the company of his own people. 

The spaces of this world felt empty and derelict. The nature was wild and beautiful, and Din could see the ways in which it was waiting to nourish and protect. 

Dathomir could offer so much. Everything, perhaps. 

…

Or perhaps these were just lonely dreams. 

Din was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t hear Maul approach. Yet, when he felt Maul’s hand touch his back, he didn’t jump. Some part of him had been aware of Maul’s presence. 

He realized he had noticed the bluish glow of the talisman resting against his breastplate. 

Din turned to face him. Grogu yawned against Maul’s chest but did not open his eyes. Maul had a protective arm coiled around the child. 

“The radio tower,” said Din, suddenly. 

He hoped Maul understood what he meant. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say the words aloud. There was a vice tightening around his lungs and his heart. 

“You assume I would know where to look for Mandalorians.” 

So Maul did understand. There was no doubt that this was a thought that had flourished in his own mind. Mand’alor Maul. The last Mand’alor. 

“So you can’t?” 

Maul narrowed his eyes. 

“...I didn’t say that.” 

Din swallowed. If Maul was toying with his hope, it was cruel. Now that Dathomir had folded them back into her nurturing embrace, Din could only think of all the ways that the Mandalorians could integrate themselves into this ecosystem too. 

How natural a fit they would be here! And what a culture and tradition Grogu would inherit! To be a true Mandalorian, perhaps, but also a sorcerer, a Dathomirian… a Jedi. 

Could he not be all of these things? 

Was this all too much to ask? To hope for? It felt like too much. 

“Maul--” 

“I have regard for you and my apprentice,” said Maul. “That does not extend to your brothers and sisters.” 

“Ni cuy' echoy'la,” said Din. “We have all lost our people, Maul. It’s not only me, or you. Grogu, and Cody… they’re just the same as us. Maybe, if there were Mandalorians here…”

Din trailed off. He wasn’t a man that found it easy to express things he wanted for himself. He was quiet-natured, withdrawn. Every word of desperate hope had to be wrenched from his lungs by force. 

There were so many things he wanted to say. Uninhabited planets outside of the jurisdiction of the Republic were, predictably, difficult to come by. The Mandalorians could settle here and be free of those systems and those laws. Dathomir itself was a violent and tumultuous planet - a fortress that only a strong people could navigate and thrive within. 

The more that that thought grew, the more difficult it became to ignore how right it felt. Din knew that now that possibility existed, he would never be able to erase it. 

“You have the right to call Mandalorians to you, to bring them here if they need a place to find some kind of life,” said Din. “Don’t you? Mand’alor?”

Maul scowled and looked away. In the darkness, his eyes were strangely more expressive - Din noticed that. He could see the subtle tension in Maul’s brow. His glare seemed far more pained than angry. 

You ask too much, his eyes seemed to say. 

In his arms, Grogu looked up at Maul with sleepy grumpiness… but the child was curious and questioning, too. Had he sensed Maul’s unease? When Maul lifted him, Grogu reached out to grab at Maul’s horns with absentminded affection. Maul was reluctant at first, but it didn’t take him long to give in. He bowed his head forward obligingly, sighing. 

A quiet communication passed between them. Maul’s bitter expression relaxed. He shook his head, as if astonished at his own calm. He nipped Grogu’s ear with catlike affection, tucking the child against his chest again. Grogu was all too happy to curl up against his throat and fall back to sleep. 

Maul reached up to touch the talisman resting upon Din’s chest. His fingers absently traced the symbols there. Din wondered if he was thinking of his brother. Of Lotho Minor. 

Perhaps he was thinking of the absence of those things - the absence of his suffering, and of his brother’s company. 

The dread of nothingness. 

“If the Force wills it to be,” said Maul reluctantly, “then it will happen, Mandalorian. Does that satisfy you?” 

In a strange way… it did. 

It was enough. It had to be. 

Maul had only just saved himself. Saving others was perhaps a step too far. 

For now.

Din could be patient. 

This is the way, he thought. If the Force wills it to be. 

Chapter Text

They could continue on like this, Maul told himself. They could simply be like this - himself, Din, Grogu. Even Cody could stay, if he chose to do so. 

Time tumbled from one moment to the next in the blink of an eye, and Grogu remained just as he was. It was easy to pretend that time itself did not move - that Dathomir was unchanging, eternal. A place outside of time. 

All could remain static. 

Not safe… but always the same. 

…

Of course, it couldn’t - not really. Dathomir was a place of change, of evolution. It was a place where familiar paths could be swallowed up by fresh growth in the spring, and ravaged by floods in the summer. 

The only thing that one could adapt to was the very nature of change itself.

If they were complacent, Maul knew that the child would one day be left alone on this world. Or worse… he would leave it entirely. Dathomir would be abandoned, just another stepping stone. 

Someday, Maul would be devoured by the floods and the spring weeds, as all creatures would. That did not concern Maul. Death was an inevitability that proved less harrowing than it had been in his youth. He had suffered fates worse than death. It took away the sting of it. 

But Grogu was young - impossibly young, given the immense reach of his life. What Maul left behind would decide where his path would take him. 

Unfortunately for Maul, he found that this mattered to him a great deal. 

The climb to the summit was easier than Maul remembered. 

It was early and already hot. Dathomir had settled into a wet, scorching summer over the past few months. For the most part, Maul preferred to remain indoors as often as he could justify it. He loathed the heat. He could not imagine how Din tolerated his armor - the Mandalorian rarely complained, and he never quite submitted to the drowsy languor that Maul and Grogu did. They could often be found melodramatically draped over the bed, but Din went about his usual routines. Train. Hunt. Cook. Dissemble his rifle, clean it, reassemble it again.

Maul was often exhausted just watching him. 

Maul preferred to move at night, but that was only marginally better. The nights were still on the unpleasant side of too warm - this region clung to humidity, and the jungles and swamps were perpetually misty. Maul could often count on a refreshing breeze, if nothing else. 

He was surprised to find that Cody was himself a nocturnal animal. 

I used to run on military hours, Cody had said. I guess staying up late is a rebellion, of sorts. 

Maul suspected Cody hated the heat just as much as Maul did, but was reluctant to admit to it. He complained even less than Din did. 

They had nothing in common, but they got on well enough. It was easy to like someone’s company at night, when all pretenses washed away. They could be silent and distant while sharing the same space. Cody was a good hunter and more adventurous with his meals than Din was. He doted on Grogu with more openness than either Din or Maul could manage, and Grogu greedily soaked up the attention. Grogu could get away with anything when Cody was minding him. 

Someday, when his brothers joined them - and Maul suspected they would, although likely only in passing - they would spoil the child just as thoroughly. 

It irritated Maul. But when he brought this to Din’s attention, the Mandalorian shrugged. 

That’s what they’re supposed to do, he said. They’re elders.

Maul didn’t understand, but he let it go. 

They moved into one of the empty villages. When they weren’t hunting, they were rebuilding. They found dwellings to claim as their own - moldy and dusty and rotting, but not entirely condemned. They breathed life into those spaces. The rot fled their presence there, albeit slowly. 

Gradually, they found comfort in those forgotten places. 

Maul and Din had separate houses, and Maul guarded his own jealously. In contrast, Din didn’t mind intrusion at all. His door was usually open, and Maul would find his way into Din’s bed when the heat wasn’t too unbearable. 

Their courtship could best be described as hesitant. Maul sometimes felt like an animal being lured into a trap. It was a difficult anxiety to quell. 

The greatest difficulty, he discovered, was learning to trust others. It was not a switch that could be flipped, but a hill to be climbed. There were times that it felt insurmountable. There were times that he found himself sliding inevitably backwards. 

But there really was no going back to the way things used to be, so he climbed regardless. 

Grogu, for his part, made the journey - both the physical and the metaphysical - a little more tolerable. The child’s mind was open to him in a way that Din’s simply couldn’t be, and Maul never sensed anything beyond calm, peaceful accord between them. There was no question of regard. They spoke secretively through the Force, and Maul felt safe with Grogu in a way that would have seemed impossible with anyone else. Even Din. 

The child was a locus of their feelings for one another, which seemed strange to Maul until he consciously reminded himself what Din was: a Mandalorian. To a Mandalorian, a foundling was sacred. Maul and Din had their own reasons for finding meaning and value in the act of protecting Grogu. That became the throughline, the aspect of their relationship that bound them to the same vision, the same goal… the same need. 

Grogu’s future drifted into an uncertain path that would extend many, many lifetimes beyond their own. When Din taught Grogu to write in Mando’a, or when Maul taught him how to manipulate the magic of Dathomir, they were both perfectly conscious of why they were doing it. 

This was their last desperate bid to remind the universe that they had been here… for a short while. That their people had been here. 

Knowing that Grogu would carry the last guttering flame of memory into the dark and changing universe, it became a little easier for them both to believe that it wasn’t all just an enormous waste of time.

“Unfortunately, everything appears to be functional,” said Maul. 

The relays had not broken again since his lackluster repair. When they made it to the radio tower, everything appeared to be working just as it ought to have. Even before he turned the radio on, he felt the… alignment of it - the intuition in the Force that let him know for certain that his purpose had been seen through to its conclusion. 

The danger he undertook to repair the satellite had not been in vain. 

Maul’s hands moved across the aged metal. He felt the rhythm of the electricity, the resonance of static. He caught radio signals from the core worlds, all in (more or less) real time. He heard music he had never heard before - modern music, he supposed. He heard the names of politicians and criminals and warlords and heroes that were just as unfamiliar. 

The universe had kept moving forward in his absence, of course. Somehow, he resented it. 

Grogu walked around the radio tower as if in inspection. His large ears were lifted, interested in the strange noises it emitted; the low, staticy garble as Maul tuned the analog dials. He went more off of instinct than purpose, just as he had before. 

He wondered, with suspicion, what the Force would reveal. 

The radio tower revealed many things, but none of them relevant, and none provided a clear direction. 

Maul and Grogu meditated, their hearts and consciousnesses converging within the vast and powerful current of the Force. It led them on a journey of quiet reflection through the stars. There was poetry and there was music, languages they did not understand and codes that were impossible to translate without a cipher. They found static and silence, songs and poetry. 

The mystical, and the mundane. 

And yet, despite the fact that no signal seemed to reveal a path forward… none of it felt entirely pointless. 

The act of searching became itself an opportunity for the Force to unravel. Maul’s mind wandered in the strange rhythms he found on the other side of the radio, and Grogu was peaceful and listened to everything he said. Whether or not he understood was unimportant. 

“The Force cannot do what you do not ask of it,” said Maul. “But it’s not as simple as moving a limb. You must utterly intend to wield it, and it will only respond to an intent that is powerful and clear. Many believe that it guides… but does it? Are we not intuitive to the future that it reveals, and influenced by that same future?” 

Grogu most certainly did not understand any of that. Yet, Maul continued, even though the meandering words had not yet revealed their purpose to him. 

“The Force cannot do what you do not ask of it,” he murmured thoughtfully. “It cannot…” 

And so the search continued. 

The first day was not a success. 

Maul wandered back to the village with Grogu. That night, he left Grogu with Cody and crawled into Din’s bed. Neither of them slept much at all. Maul could not enjoy the visceral experience of intimacy, but he found pleasure in the power he had over Din’s ecstasy, all the same. And Din, as he always did, gave nothing he did not wish to give, and what he did give was generous and offered without reservation. Without hesitation. Without fear. 

Afterwards, Maul expected that Din would simply drift to sleep and abandon Maul to a storm of chaotic anxieties. But Din didn’t sleep. His fingertips traced lazy paths down Maul’s spine. A meditation. Up and down. Up and down. Din didn’t stop before Maul fell asleep, as if to assure him of his attention. Din knew that Maul’s mind felt an inclination to pull itself apart; to destroy the little glimmers of joy, as if eradicating a virus. 

Nothing really changed between them when the sun rose again. 

Din remained as he was: quiet, contemplative, but unshakably sincere. And Maul remained as he was: sharp and erratic and difficult to parse. But between them, there was a peacefulness that became a kind of refuge. The long silences became the harbor that Maul returned to, again and again. With gratitude. With relief. 

Din didn’t touch him, didn’t comfort him, but he remained close. He didn’t speak unless spoken to. He seemed content with boredom and comfortable in his own thoughts. In his own way, Din meditated with more skill and success than Maul could ever manage. 

Every day, Maul would go back to the radio tower with Grogu, and he would continue the search. But the Force cannot do what you do not ask of it, he thought. And no Mandalorians revealed themselves in those signals. 

Eventually, every day became every other day. 

And then every week. Every month. 

Time slipped away, and Maul was never quite so happy to let it go. But he felt it moving through his fingers like loose twine. Someday, he feared that he would grab hold and be taken along with it. 

Din did not press matters. He was as patient as a Jedi in this regard, and he rarely repeated himself. The question of inviting Mandalorians to Dathomir hung between them so prominently that there was simply no reason to speak of it aloud. That conversation was still being had, even in their silence. 

Din knew that Maul wasn’t ready. Maul knew that Din would wait. 

And so they were silent. 

Cold swept across the land, and Maul relished in the newness of the environment. Hunting became more difficult, but the water tasted better and the nights were more beautiful. 

Cody, as it turned out, was very good at skinning hides and preparing meat. He did not join every hunt, but he cooked nearly every meal. He made Grogu small charms and toys out of carved bones or woven fur. There was a humble joy in the small gestures that Maul recognized as a product of his age. Cody was old - strong, yes, but old. Each day was a day closer to an end. There was nothing left to plan for; only the present day could be experienced in full. 

And so Cody was unrushed in everything he did. He lingered to look at the stars, and he savored the taste of food. He was unbothered by Maul’s moods, for the most part. He spent a great deal of time speaking to Din of his past, who always listened with rapt attention. He spoke, too, of the Jedi that he once knew. 

Maul found it irritating at first. Eventually, he felt no anger. He supposed apathy was some kind of progress. 

Truthfully, Maul was fascinated by Cody’s sense of calm resolve. He found himself naturally mimicking Cody’s moods. The peacefulness was infectious and the placid, unshakeable certainty was worthy of aspiration. 

Maul liked him. He hadn’t expected that, but he did. 

As the winter wore on, sleeping together became a necessity. It was also an excuse to nestle in close for warmth. By the time the winter began to turn to spring again, Maul had completely abandoned his own bed in favor of Din’s, and he did not leave it. 

Naturally, neither of them remarked upon the change. 

Maul awoke to the sound of the wind. 

It was late and it was very dark outside. Inside, the small solar lamp resting on the windowsill hummed and flickered like a guttering candle. The storms over the past few days had not provided much opportunity for the solar lamp to recharge. Maul supposed that Grogu was going to lose his nightlight before long. 

He stretched and yawned. Grogu was in his hammock, a peaceful lump. Din slept in full armor, as always. His breaths were deep and steady beneath the beskar. He hadn’t stirred at all when Maul moved. 

Remarkably, both of them felt utterly safe - despite Maul’s presence. 

Or because of Maul’s presence, perhaps. But that felt like an impossible thought.

Impossible, but nevertheless true. 

It could not be if they had known him when he bore the titles of his past life: tyrant, crime lord, Sith. But now, as he was (forgotten, alone), he was worthy of trust and regard. It was more than he deserved, but Maul did not feel any particular inclination to bring karma unto himself. He had suffered his fair share of it. Besides, a readjustment of his priorities did not necessarily mean he felt an excess of guilt. The space between himself and the past had grown so much in such a short time that he found himself simply forgetting to remember it at all - both the violence he caused and the violence visited upon himself. 

But not every day was so unburdened. He supposed that he could never expect that to change. The only thing that mattered, perhaps, was now that there were days where nothing seemed to exist except for this world, and those upon it. 

Maul followed whispers and sighs through the valley; the faint impression of memory that lingered shapelessly upon the stone, within the soil. It was an overcast and gloomy night, which Maul usually preferred - a night where Dathomir was separate from the wider universe, where the stars were not visible to make their promises. 

Tonight, it irritated him. He wanted the stars. He wanted the universe. 

By the time he had scaled the plateau and returned to the radio tower, the fog had thankfully  swept its way into the swamplands. He was above the worst of the storms. The clouds parted in icy clarity, and it was going to be a cold day. Maul could already feel the tingle of it on his exposed skin, the lively nip a painful reminder of winter. 

He rubbed his palms against his neck and ears, shivering. His breath fogged. 

It wasn’t unpleasant, even so. He preferred the alertness of cold; the restlessness of it. When the winds carried the clouds aside, the thin veneer of insulation vanished and the chill rolled upon Dathomir like the tide. Up here, there was no cover from the wind. 

The radio tower loomed, just on the edge of invisible against the black sky. Maul’s sharp eyes adjusted to the delicate edges of metal quickly. He reached out to touch one of the struts. He found the metal to be lifelessly cold, laden with frost. 

When he turned on the computer, though, it steamed with heat. The ice turned to condensation and smoke. It seemed very much alive, then. Purposeful. 

For a long time, Maul stood there in the cold. He looked at the familiar dials and readouts. He knew he should be looking, listening to the widener universe. But so far, listening had done nothing. He had found Din’s voice in the stars almost effortlessly, but not a single other Mandalorian. 

The Force was simply not doing what he wanted it to do. 

If he wanted to wait for the Force to do what he wished, then he was going to be waiting forever. His quiet assurances that he could simply wait for the Force to lend its path to him were beginning to feel hollow. 

You have to choose, it seemed to tell him. 

Maul resented that he was still learning the fundamentals. Yes, the Force could only do what one wished - but one could decide to use it in opposition to their fears. 

As a former Sith, this was a rather novel concept. 

Maul closed his eyes, and he reached out with his feelings. His fingers slid over the dials, and he turned them with the certainty that this time, this time he would find them. And for the first time since this whole endeavor began, he felt an awareness of them - a sureness of their lives. 

They were discreet and hidden - but plentiful. He felt certain of that, too. 

Nothing. 

Maul felt the frustration grow and grow and grow, a pressure in his chest that felt like failure, always failure. He could not coax, he could not coerce, he could not bargain. The Mandalorians were hidden away from him, and the Force did not reveal them. 

Old signals were silent. Old bases and old forts were abandoned. He found nothing in the static. The Mandalorians remained inscrutable. 

Maul knew he could use this excuse to tell Din there was no chance of finding others… but that defeat was too sour to even consider. There were few things that he could offer a simple man such as Din Djarin, and few men he owed quite so much to. 

What more could he do to persuade the Force to lead him? 

This was the question that burned in his mind until dawn. 

What could he do? 

Maul succumbed to melodrama, which was no surprise to himself nor the universe. 

There was an impulse to destroy the tower and be done with it all. With the Force, he could tear it apart so thoroughly that it could never be repaired. It was certainly an option… but even in his more impulsive youth, he didn’t think he would have managed such a display of reckless self-sabotage. 

Instead, he paced. The sun bloomed on the horizon and he felt disdain for the coming day - the reminder of the passage of time, and his inability to discover a signal. 

And I was so sure, he thought bitterly. I was so sure it would be now. 

Maul waited longer. He waited for Qui-Gon Jinn to show himself, or perhaps Obi-Wan Kenobi. They would chastise him and then tell him the answers, because they were helpless in the face of ignorant despair. But neither of them appeared. They had left a long time ago, patting themselves on the back for accomplishing their mission - such as it was. 

Maul scowled. 

I was so sure. 

But this was followed by another thought - softer. It sounded a little bit like Din’s voice. 

But what are you doing wrong? 

It wasn’t an accusation. Perhaps it was the Force, guiding him… or his own fatigue. But the question that there was some error in his method was also novel. Maul, like any other individual trained in the Sith ways, was terrible at reflecting upon his own actions. He avoided self-reflection where possible - he had been taught to do so. 

Sith were fragile. It took very little to shatter the lies that they constructed about themselves. Maul knew that. 

But the Mandalorian’s perfect reasonableness was beginning to rub off on him. 

Maul sighed sharply. Even in his own company, he felt fearful reluctance. But he considered the question regardless… What was he doing wrong? He had reached out to the Force, tried to wrestle it into doing what he wished. He had meditated, he had found Jedi calm, he had used Dathomirian magic. But nothing had happened. Nothing was found. 

…

Found. 

That word… stuck in Maul’s thoughts. 

For a long time, he didn’t know why. 

Maul’s mind turned that question (what are you doing wrong?) over in his mind, again and again, observing it like the planes of a smooth stone. He felt the weight of it. 

I found the child, he thought, because he asked to be found. 

It was a simple answer. Trust others to find you. 

How droll. 

Maul was inclined to dismiss the thought entirely. He wanted to continue his search, even if it was proving increasingly pointless. He didn’t want to trust a hope that anyone could find him out here. 

And yet… he felt the weight of the talisman against his chest. 

He touched it absently, tracing the familiar patterns etched upon the surface with his thumb. It glowed with foggy aqualine light. It always would, for as long as he lived. 

There was no guarantee that anyone would hear his message. If anything, it was unlikely. But Maul had survived odds that surpassed unlikely so many times before that he had to believe that anything that could happen, would happen… so long as the Force willed it to be. 

And he felt certain that, in this case… it would. What other purpose would justify his continued survival? He had outlived them all - both allies and enemies alike. Perhaps the Force was granting him mercy for this purpose. For Grogu. 

When his fingers moved across the dials again, he felt the path aligning before him. It came into sharp focus. 

This was correct. This is the way, he thought wryly. 

The message that he would send would cross the universe at the speed of light. It would be simple. He would call them. And if they were true to their creed, they would come. The Force would guide this message to them, somehow. 

That was a matter of trust. Of faith. And perhaps for the briefest of moments, his belief made him feel like a Jedi. 

…but it was only a moment, thankfully. He was not a Jedi. He was not a Sith, either. He was no longer a lord. All he was now, by right, was the Mand’alor. And if that was the only true thing he could say about himself, then he would have to find meaning in that identity. 

Maul activated the radio. 

“Mandalorians,” he told them. “Your Mand’alor has been found.”