Chapter Text
Maul is scared, and he is tired, and he is hurting.
But this is nothing new.
Maul wears fear like a piece of clothing. A constant companion. Worn and thin, nothing to protect him from the chill or his Master’s hand. Or maybe it would be better to say that his fear is spun by his Master’s hand and he is forced to wear it or be left barren and bereft.
Everything is spun by his Master’s hand and it is all Maul has ever known. Everything has purpose, every coincidence a carefully planned conundrum. Maul has long since learned that his Master spins every single little thing to his own advantage.
So Maul is scared and tired and hurting— and angry.
Because the Jedi cannot be a coincidence, and so this must be a test.
It’s almost infuriating, but Maul can only rise to the challenge as he’s always done. It’s either that or die, and Maul knows which outcome he prefers.
From far up in the towering trees of this wild planet, Maul curls his aching fingers into rough bark, does not even wince at the blood his touch leaves behind. Breath quiet and even, presence in the Force wrapped tight tight tight as can be, Maul watches the Jedi with narrowed eyes.
The Jedi is still standing in the clearing, quiet and still. Blood drips down its face, and Maul can’t help but bare his teeth in satisfaction. The taste of the Jedi’s blood is sharp and coppery on his tongue, the tear of warm flesh familiar in his mouth.
He fought a Jedi and lived. It’s more than he could have hoped for, even if the Jedi was clearly taken by surprise.
Distantly, Maul wishes he could tell Kilindi about his triumph. He fought a Jedi and lived. He wasn’t even expecting to run into a Jedi, let alone be anywhere near one. His Master dropped him on this planet for a survival training exercise, not whatever this is turning out to be.
When his Master first picked him up from Orsis Academy, Maul was expected to correctly guess their destination based on the coordinates. When Maul guessed correctly, he then had to recite everything he knew about the planet, from the government structure to its climates to all known species. It’s no wonder that his Master dropped him in the woods and gave him a month to survive in the wilderness with no provisions. Dressel is home to some of the most vicious creatures in the galaxy. Though the training is less hands-on than normal and Maul isn’t eager to fend off more panagra or scavenge for food like a rat, it’s been almost— freeing. Being on his own, with only the expectation to hunt, eat, sleep and survive.
So it really did come as a complete shock when the Jedi appeared.
Surviving not only Dressel’s ruthless wilderness but a Jedi— Maul really does ache to share this one triumph with Kilindi who always seems so eager for him to succeed. But just a few months ago he’d told her that he couldn’t and wouldn’t ever tell her anything about himself, and she’d accepted that.
But… it’s a strange feeling, this wanting. He wants to tell her. He wants to see the curiosity and wonder shining in her dark eyes. He wonders if startled laughter would burst from her lips, clear and bright and lovely. Would she lean in close? Breath warm on his cheek and hand equally warm on his forearm as she asked him to tell her exactly what happened in vivid detail.
It really is a strange want.
But Maul is used to wanting. When he was little, so little he couldn’t even recognize his own reflection, he’d wanted to escape, to be free. He’d strained on his toes to reach that tiny high window in his tiny white room on Mustafar and he’d jumped up again and again and again just so he could see the roiling lava and the dark rock and that strange reflection of someone he didn’t recognize, someone who could maybe help him.
It'd been gut-wrenching to realize that no one could help him, no could save him. Not even Deenine.
No one except Maul himself.
Maul is only made of want. He wants to prove himself to his Master. He wants to be useful. He wants to be stronger, taller, faster, better.
He wants to live.
And, when he’s looking at Kilindi’s smiling face, he wants the kindness that shines in her wide, dark eyes.
He thinks maybe she sees something in him he can’t. Something she wants, or— something to puzzle out, like a challenge. Why else would she sit with him at meals or in class? Why else would she invite him to swim or warn him of Academy Director Trezza’s trickery?
He learned the meaning of kindness from her, and how someone’s smile can be soft and warm instead of sharp and calculating. It’s not a lesson he needs to repay, that he knows. Because people will teach you things whether they mean to or not, and Maul has always learned by observance. But lessons are usually punishment and pain. Lessons are marked by scars on his body not by warm memories or this— this full-bodied, aching want.
It’s hideous. It’s wretched. And Maul doesn’t know what to do with it. Not when it’s so different from everything he’s ever known. This want is different from the want of a foolish child desperately wishing to escape their white-walled room. It’s terrifying in a way that forces him to recall the way Deenine taught him the word please, and how the droid’s own last words were: “Are you finished with me, Master Sidious?”
What does one do, with a feeling like this?
Maul swallows past the strange hollowness in his chest, because he cannot tell Kilindi. Just like he cannot tell Kilindi about any of the training missions his Master takes him on. Every time his Master brings him back to the Academy limping and bloodied, Kilindi never says a word. She merely looks at him with those dark unreadable eyes, and then asks him whether he’d like to sneak into the kitchens with her to grab a snack.
Telling her would mean punishment. Telling her would mean a lesson unlearned. Telling her would mean that Director Trezza would kick him out of the Academy and he’d never see her again. And Maul— Maul doesn’t even want to fathom that. It was abrupt enough, when his Master destroyed Deenine. But perhaps that was a lesson in and of itself. Don’t become attached. Don’t fall to weakness. And if Maul tells Kilindi of this Jedi then she’ll figure out he’s Force-sensitive and if anyone but the Director learns he’s Force-sensitive…
Well. It would mean Maul failed the test, and Maul has no idea exactly what his Master has planned if he does. Unimaginable pain, for certain, as it always seems to be. But beyond that? It’s a terrifying thought.
So he must figure out how to pass this test, too.
Because this, as everything else in Maul’s life, must be a test. Maul is certain of this.
Pass, or die. There is no other option.
The Jedi in the clearing shifts, inspecting the bright crimson blood on its hand.
Vicious triumph sparks up Maul’s throat. He’s not fool enough to think the injury will kill the Jedi, but it’s enough to know that he wounded it. It’s a heady, familiar feeling, though he feels less detached to it than he has in the past. He’s killed before, but never anyone like a Jedi. This must mean that Maul is getting stronger. This must mean that one day Maul will kill a Jedi for their crimes against the galaxy.
Maybe even this one.
From this distance, Maul’s sharp eyes can just make out the frown on the Jedi’s face. Then it looks up again, peering into the dark of the forest.
Maul wonders what it’s doing. Whether it’s trying to look past the tree trunks for Maul, intent on finding his trail. Whether it’s wondering if it should go after the panagra and kill it after all. Maul wonders if it regrets letting the creature live. It’s a foolish thing to have done, letting the vicious thing go. Why would the Jedi do that? The creature nearly killed it. And instead the Jedi decided to— what? Spare its life? Appeal to it? Did the Jedi feel poorly about killing in the name of simple survival?
Maul has done far more for far less. He simply cannot understand it.
Then again, Maul reasons, his Master always said the Jedi have wretchedly soft hearts. It’s what makes them weak. It’s what makes them vulnerable. Jedi just do not seem to understand the simple give and take of the universe. Something wounds you, and you wound it right back. There is balance is that act. A rightness that Maul understood well before he could even speak.
But perhaps, Maul thinks, he can use this to his advantage.
When Maul had attacked the Jedi, the Jedi hadn’t attacked him back. If it had, Maul is certain he wouldn’t have gotten away so easily. Instead, the Jedi had held him tight when they tumbled down to the forest floor far below. It had— Maul isn’t quite sure what it had tried to do. Maul, full of terror and the desperate need to survive, had bitten and scratched and snarled and the Jedi—
The Jedi had just laid its big warm hand upon Maul’s cheek. Looked at him with those bright sea-blue eyes. Said:
“You don’t have to be scared anymore.”
It made Maul want to rip the Jedi’s face off.
How dare the Jedi say such a thing? Maul is— he is built on fear. It’s what makes him strong. It’s how he’s survived. Fear builds strength and cunning and resourcefulness. If Maul did not fear what his Master would do to him, then he wouldn’t sink his teeth into life so deep and refuse to let go.
If Maul wants to live, he must earn the right to live.
“You’ve done very well up until now,” the Jedi had said, a strange calming warmth flooding Maul’s limbs like the oncoming tide, steady and relentless and Maul helpless to escape it. “You’ve done so well, young one, to have survived for so long.”
Maul bares his teeth as the strange, hateful words ring in his ears. Maul has done very well. Maul will continue to do well and he doesn’t need some— some random, idiotic Jedi telling him so.
The bitter tang of blood lingers in his mouth and Maul must swallow against the memory of such a warm, steady hand upon his cheek. His Master’s hand has never felt so— he doesn’t know how to describe it. He doesn’t want to try. He just knows it is like day and night, his Master’s hand and the Jedi’s. Two things exactly the same, yet so fundamentally different.
“You don’t have to keep fighting,” the Jedi had said like Maul’s entire existence wasn’t about fighting— fighting in the training ring. Fighting the aching hunger in his belly. Fighting to understand his Master’s tricks. Fighting for the top spot at the Academy. Fighting to keep his usage of the Force in check. Fighting against the strange desire to turn into the warmth of Kilindi’s smile, to press his shoulder against hers, to offer a small, hesitant smile in return. “I’ll take care of you.”
Something deep inside of Maul aches.
Then, far below, that pale face turns up to the treetops like a flower to the sun and for a bare instant Maul is struck by the sight of bright blue eyes, as clear and vivid as sunlight glimmering on an endless sea.
Hearts caught in his throat, Maul barely manages to duck behind the colossal trunk in time, pulse thrumming an uneven beat. He holds his breath, pressing himself tight against the thick branch beneath his belly. He counts the seconds, lets the breath go achy in his lungs, but it is nothing he cannot bear. Nothing he hasn’t already borne.
There is no sound. Not a rustle of wind or leaves or boots upon low forest growth. Not even the cry of distant birds. And then—
“Youngling?”
Maul flinches, the Jedi’s call echoing up through the trees, the eerie sound of his voice strange and discordant in his ears. Maul curls the Force tighter about himself, trying to become as small and unnoticeable as possible, locking up that bright spark of life flickering between his aching ribs. Wills don’t see me don’t see me don’t see me as hard as he can.
Fear, sharp and bitter on his tongue, Maul thinks that it’s good he’s had three years’ practice hiding at the Academy, where the Director can literally smell the Force on him if he isn’t careful.
A good lesson, Maul thinks grudgingly, as bitter as he is for it.
Quiet still, and then again:
“Youngling? Please come out. I will not hurt you. I promise you.”
Baring his teeth in a silent snarl, Maul refuses to move. Refuses to be swindled. He knows what the Jedi are: Weak. Cowards. Tyrants. The Jedi may claim to not wish to harm him, but Maul knows what the Jedi would do if it caught him. His Master made that very clear. As soon as the Jedi realizes Maul is Force-sensitive, it will give him a choice:
Join the Jedi, cease using the Force, or die.
Maul is not willing to concede to any of these options.
To cease using the Force would mean death in nearly every sense of the word. To condemn himself to a life without the Force would be impossible. Over the last few years, he’s realized that the Force is as much a part of him as he is of it, intrinsically intertwined. And to deny that part of himself— it would be akin to rending himself in two.
And as for joining the Jedi… that would be a kind of death, as well. Relinquishing his individuality, his freedom. They’d probably even force him to use a new name, declaring Maul to be too violent or treacherous. Not placid or pleasant enough.
His Master’s warning from a lesson long-learned rings in his ears:
“Just remember, the Jedi do not tolerate Force users outside their Order. It is because of them that you and I live in secret. Had they discovered you on Dathomir before I, they would have attempted to mold you into one of their own. A mindless, obedient servant for the Republic. Had they failed, they would have destroyed you.”
So, no. Maul does not trust the Jedi.
Nor will he ever.
--
The Jedi is annoyingly persistent.
The Jedi’s plaintive cries, all some variations of “Please come out! I can help! I won’t hurt you!”, echo up into the trees for such a mind-numbingly long while that Maul fears he’ll be here clear through the night until the next morning.
If only he’d taken advantage of the panagra’s distraction. He could have lost himself far into the darkness of the trees and the Jedi would never find him. But Maul had— shamefully— been panicked and hurting and scared. And so he’d scrambled up the nearest tree he could find and hunkered down to watch, wide-eyed, as the Jedi tamed the damn creature.
And then he’d been stuck. Because if he moved, the Jedi would surely spot him and then Maul would be done for.
So between Maul’s irritation at himself and the Jedi’s infuriating persistence, Maul fears he might go mad. At one point, he nearly resorts to scampering down the wide tree trunk and giving his position away just to strangle the Jedi silent.
Luckily, he doesn’t need to resort to such tactics.
Maul’s fingers have just gone numb, his limbs aching, when abruptly—
The Jedi falls silent.
The sudden quiet is so startling that Maul nearly topples from the branch. As it is, he flinches hard then holds his breath again. But after a couple minutes of no movement, his aching lungs remind him that he does, in fact, need air to live, as unfortunate and inconvenient as that may be. And so he allows himself to take a long, careful slow breath before inching further up the branch to peer beyond the wide trunk.
The Jedi—
—is sitting on the ground.
What a karking revelation, Maul thinks, annoyed both by the Jedi and by the thought itself, because it sounds like something Kilindi would say. His Master would never tolerate such language, and so he must be careful not to slip up in the future.
Scowling, Maul watches as the Jedi sighs, deep and long. Its shoulders sag beneath its silly beige robes, golden head bowed. Then the Jedi untucks its knees out from under itself and falls into more of a sprawl, thighs spread.
What is it doing? Maul wonders, annoyance and anxiety tight in his throat. Is this some kind of ploy? It gave up on trying to trick Maul with promises of safety and now it thinks it can lure Maul out with— with what? Looking vulnerable? Does it think making itself look tired and defenseless will tempt Maul to attack it like some rabid beast?
Well, the Jedi is in for a nasty surprise, because Maul isn’t some rabid beast.
He’d attack the Jedi anyways, if given the chance. Maul has survived much worse than a rampaging panagra and the Jedi has no idea what he is capable of. But Maul is intelligent and he is cunning and he is used to biding his time.
What would my Master do? Maul wonders, then dismisses the thought immediately. Maul is not his Master, and therefore he shouldn’t approach this like his Master would. His Master, for one, is capable of gutting the Jedi before it could even blink. But even that is a silly thought because Maul knows his Master, and his Master would take his sweet time playing with the Jedi like a nexu plays with its terrified prey. It would be a long torturous death, built upon the Jedi’s own foolish mistakes.
Maul, much as he is loath to admit, has neither the skill nor the time to accomplish something like this.
The Jedi, so far down below on the forest floor, leans back on its hands and tilts its head back, eyes closing. Blood has congealed into a dark mess along the side of its face, splattered along its strong jaw and the collars of its tunics. It hasn’t yet tended to the ragged mess of its ear, or the bitten flesh beneath its tattered sleeves. Maul can’t understand why.
Hearts in his throat, a reluctant curiousity needling at him, Maul inches forward just the slightest more. Not enough to be noticeable but— just to see more clearly.
Sunlight flickers across the Jedi’s face, dappling along its dirty tunics as the leaves far above shiver and sway beneath the fading light of the day. The Jedi breathes in deep, then exhales long and slow. Then it rolls its neck as if to relieve the tension there, throat a long line of vulnerability.
Maul’s teeth ache as he imagines leaping down and sinking his jaws into that pale flesh. Imagines feeling that body jerk beneath his, the Jedi’s pretty sea-blue eyes rolling with fear in its sockets as the life slowly bleeds out of it, pulse fluttering and sputtering beneath Maul’s tongue.
But no. No. This is certainly what the Jedi wants. Lulling Maul into a false sense of security. If Maul leaps down now, the Jedi might capture him. And Maul cannot afford that. It’s becoming more difficult to ignore the sharp ache in his ribs where the panagra struck him across the side.
Everything in him aches, really. He hadn’t expected the panagra’s attack as he’d been more focused on killing what must have been the panagra’s prey. He’d found the astrigia flailing upon the ground, wings broken and curled beneath it as it keened a long mournful cry. Maul had thought himself so lucky, but how utterly foolish he’d been. He’d already fought off a few of the large predatory birds but he hadn’t yet managed to kill one. And here one was ready to die, he’d thought, something giddy yet hollow in his chest. He’d been lured through the trees by its broken song and felt himself a prowling predator when really, the real predator was waiting in the trees and ready for the kill.
Not again, Maul thinks with vicious certainty. I won’t be lured in by the promise of an easy kill.
So Maul stays right where he is, even as the Jedi gives up whatever it had been doing to rummage around in the various pouches attached to its belt.
The first thing it pulls out is a vaguely curved container. The Jedi untwists the cap and lifts it up to— ah. It must be a canteen. The Jedi takes a long pull of liquid, pauses to— rinse its mouth perhaps? Then swallows with a faint grimace, throat working. The jedi then recaps the container and sets it aside. Maul can’t help but eye the thing. It’s been— well. It’s been a few days since he was able to find a clean water source and watching the Jedi so casually drink makes Maul want to spit in its face and rip the canteen away from it with a snarl.
It takes a few shamefully long seconds to drag his eyes away from the canteen, but when he does he finds the Jedi fumbling open what looks like a medpac. Again, vicious envy coils tight and hot in Maul’s belly. The Jedi is methodical in its inspection of itself. Clearly deeming the torn ear the most pressing injury, it carefully cleans off its skin with a sanitation wipe, wincing when it touches the jagged new line of its ear.
Maul hopes that for the rest of its days, the Jedi remembers it had been bested by a child.
Once the Jedi had cleaned and awkwardly bandaged its ear, it turns to its forearms. Maul had bitten and scratched them quite thoroughly, so it takes somewhat longer to deal with those injuries. At one point the Jedi’s hand strays back to its belt, lingering over a dark leather case worn with use, but then seems to dismiss the thought and returns to smearing its forearms with bacta, plastering a few bacta patches on the worst of it.
By the time its done cleaning itself up, Maul is startled to see that the Jedi has actually done a pretty poor job of returning to Jedi perfection. The Jedi is still covered in flaking blood and dirt. Some of it is smeared across its skin from where it used the sanitation wipes. Maul’s lip curls in reluctant amusement and he can’t help the silent huff. Even Maul’s better than that. Not that Maul particularly cares what he looks like, but he does know what infection can do to the body when hygiene is not properly maintained.
Kilindi had certainly been appalled when once Maul returned from training with his Master and simply fell into his bunk without bothering to clean up any of the sludge and blood coating his skin and clothes. She’d skidded into the refectory the next morning, gaze wide and wild as it frantically skittered over the crowded tables until her eyes landed on Maul tucked away in the corner. She’d stared at him with an intensity Maul wasn’t used to, then she’d slumped, tendrils twitching in a strange shivering way. Then she’d marched across the refectory hall, halted right next to the edge of Maul’s table, planted her fists on her hips and demanded to know what the kark he’d been thinking.
Maul had blinked up at her, confounded and vaguely fearful in a way he’d never felt before. He’d fought the urge to fidget because, as his Master taught him, fidgeting was a sign of weakness. Instead, his fingers curled around his fork and he contemplated whether he should finish his tray of half-eaten food or reverse the grip into a defensive position.
“What do you mean?” Maul had asked, slow and careful and quiet.
The conversations at the surrounding tables had lulled and it made Maul uneasy to see the faces of his classmates peering over shoulders to watch whatever was happening. Kilindi was never one to fade into the background, but she also never went out of the way to bring unnecessary attention to herself, not unless she felt she had to. So this entire situation was very, very confusing for Maul.
“I thought—” Kilindi started before she cut herself off, face twisting in a strange expression. It was one Maul had never seen before, akin to pain perhaps.
There was always something new and frighteningly exciting about Kilindi. Every day he learned a new mannerism or word or concept he’d never encountered before. Sometimes it was exceptionally useful, but sometimes it incited a deep terrible dread in the pit of his gut. Like Maul was touching something that would only hurt him in the end, something warm and bright and fatal.
Maul waited for Kilindi to put into words whatever she was thinking, whatever had made her skid into the hall like some horrific fate was nipping at her heels.
“I thought you’d died,” she admitted through clenched teeth.
Maul stared, baffled, mouth falling agape. “What?” he said stupidly.
Kilindi’s brow furrowed, a dangerous light in her eyes. “There was all this mud and seaweed and blood on your sheets and I thought— Well. I thought something had…happened.” Her hands left her hips so her arms could cross tightly over her chest. Over the three years that he had known Kilindi, she’d gained a considerable amount of muscle and while Maul annoyingly remained small and lean, she was close to becoming a whole head taller than him. It showed in the way her muscles bulged in her arms and in the broad width of her shoulders.
But Maul had never seen her look so uncomfortable.
“You thought something had happened,” Maul repeated, slow. He lowered his fork to the tray but did not let it go. Despite Kilindi’s strange behaviour and posture, it did not seem as if she would attack him. It would be startlingly out of character even, though this was startlingly out of character, too.
Face pinched, Kilindi glowered at him. “I thought maybe you’d died.” Thankfully she didn’t resort to more foul language because Maul was having a hard enough time figuring out the logic of her statement.
“You thought I’d died,” Maul echoed, “even though there was no body in my bed.”
The reaction was startlingly immediate. The dark teal of her cheeks flushed an even darker purple shade, making the lighter green splotchy patterns on her skin stand out. She looked— mortified. As she should. Kilindi was usually more intelligent than this.
“Do dead bodies just pick themselves up and crawl away?” Maul asked, mystified and vaguely amused. His face felt strange, but he didn’t pay it any mind. His attention was solely on the way Kilindi’s own face was contorting into a scowl.
“Why are you being such a smartass about this?” Kilindi demanded.
“Why are you being so frightfully foolish?” Maul countered, that peculiar tension in his mouth increasing.
Kilindi blinked as if startled. Then her face softened and Maul suddenly felt strangely vulnerable.
She didn’t say anything like I was afraid, even though it was clear she had been, for some startlingly unknown reason. She didn’t even say I was worried the death of my project partner would mean I have to do all the work myself, because they were partners for a class project and if Maul was dead she would have to do all the work by herself. And that was a lot of work.
Instead she said this:
“I don’t want you to die.”
And Maul—
Maul hadn’t known what to say to that.
So in the end he said nothing at all.
She’d stared at him with a weirdly complicated expression twisting her face, and he’d felt the tension in his own mouth ease into a familiar frown. They’d stared at each other for such a long while that the chatter at the other tables increased as everyone went back to their own inane conversations.
Then Kilindi had sighed and she dropped onto the bench next to Maul. The metal seat juddered with the impact and Maul along with it. It shivered right down to his bones. He watched, struck silent and wary as Kilindi planted her elbows on the table and shoved her face into her hands. Her shoulders were tense and up around her ears as she slowly scrubbed at her face. The flush was fading, leaving her skin its natural pretty teal. When she let out a deep full-bodied sigh a couple tendrils slipped over her broad shoulders, writhing in a way that Maul interpreted as irritation.
Cautious, Maul raised his fork again and stabbed at a thick cold noodle. Eyes still fixed on Kilindi, he shoved it in his mouth, chewing as she fought to win whatever internal struggle she was having. Maul felt he was being particularly gracious in giving her the time to deal with whatever it was. His Master was never so lenient.
Kilindi’s hands dropped to the table and she turned her head to watch him. Maul froze mid-chew.
Silence stretched between them for several painfully long moments. Then Kilindi sighed again, except this time it sounded almost like a huff of laughter. Maul had no idea what was so amusing about this situation.
“You going to eat that?” Kilindi asked tiredly, nodding at the untouched pile of pickled fish fins on the corner of Maul’s tray.
Nose scrunching, Maul did his best not to think about red and black striped fish on gleaming silver platters while his Master watched with a sharp wicked smile, and shook his head.
“Thanks,” Kilindi had said and plucked up a couple fins with careful fingertips before tossing them in her mouth. Her sharp teeth gleamed between her dark lips and Maul watched as she chewed and swallowed. She reached over again to snatch up a few more pickled fins and Maul slowly returned to chewing his own food.
Kilindi sighed again as she chewed, shoulders slumped as if she hadn’t slept in days, though Maul knew she had. “You’re going to be the death of me,” she muttered, barely a breath of air before she tossed more fins in her mouth.
Brow furrowing, Maul regarded her cautiously. Kilindi wasn’t even looking at him, so he had to assume she hadn’t expected him to hear her. And maybe she was talking about the pickled fins because they were definitely her favourite food served at the Academy and she went to startling lengths to eat as many as possible. But Maul rather suspected she was talking about him.
Did she truly think he would be responsible for her death? He had already killed before and he suspected that she knew. But he was under the impression that she didn’t care, especially because Kilindi herself had already killed plenty of people. Everyone at the Academy was expected to kill someday. That’s what the Academy was for.
It…bothered him. That Kilindi thought he might kill her. Though it shouldn’t have. Maul wasn’t sure what he’d call Kilindi but he thought she might think of him as an ally. Not like Deenine who had been a lesson in endurance and duplicity and pain. A teaching hand and also a dishonest one. Maul wasn’t sure that he could describe what Deenine had meant to him, other than the fact that the droid had taught him to speak and taught him to want and also taught him the weakness of relying on others. Thinking of Deenine only brought forth a hollow pain in his chest and so he turned his thoughts away from the dead droid and back to Kilindi.
Because she was right. Maul would be the death of her if his Master so wished. If, years from now, they met fully grown and on opposite ends of clashing blades— Maul would kill her. He’d have to. And he knew she’d understand.
Kilindi reached out again, elbow brushing Maul’s forearm, and he blinked out of his tangled thoughts. He watched as her faded green fingertips scraped the depths of his tray and when she pulled back they dripped with stringy bits of pickled seaweed. She pressed the last of the fins into her mouth, chewing contemplatively. Then she swallowed and turned her eyes on Maul who sat frozen with a tangled knot of emotion writhing somewhere deep between his clutching brittle ribs.
“Just— clean up after yourself next time you’re like that,” Kilindi told him, chiding. “Clean up in the sonic, hit up the infirmary, I know you know it’s always open. Just don’t leave yourself and your bed such a mess.” She rolled her eyes like she couldn’t help herself.
It was a bit thrilling, seeing her so out of sorts.
“The Dormitory Advisor will have our heads,” she continued, clearly irritated. “Come on. Finish up and we’ll go back and I’ll help you clean it up before he finds out.”
Maul had felt his brow furrow. “But you haven’t eaten yet,” he pointed out, baffled.
She glared at him and he felt a frisson of something shiver up his spine. It— wasn’t unpleasant. It felt like— Maul didn’t know what it felt like. But Kilindi didn’t feel hateful or cruel, just sharp-tongued and sniping and Maul wanted to snipe right back.
“I know,” she’d said pointedly. “Which is why we’re going to do it together and we’re going to get it done quick so I can run back here before classes start.”
“Okay,” Maul had said, both uneasy and delighted in a way he couldn’t understand. He’d pushed his mostly eaten tray towards her and she eyed it before raising a brow at him. “I’m done,” he’d said, because it seemed she was a little slow on the uptake that day.
“Riiight,” she said all slow and wary.
And that was when Maul realized that her muttered you’re going to be the death of me had been a figure of speech.
Oh, Maul thought, strangely relieved as Kilindi quickly scarfed down what was left of his meal. She did it with her hands, as she always did, fingers dripping with sauce. It was always oddly satisfying, watching her eat in a way few others did at the Academy. Maul could only assume it was normal for a Nautolan. None of the datatapes he’d reviewed before the Academy covered mundane intimate parts of the culture such as this, his Master surely deeming it unnecessary in the face of far more useful things like the history of political factions and the wealth of planets’ mines.
His Master had certainly beaten the use of a fork and knife into him.
But Maul liked to watch Kilindi eat with her hands. Because it did feel intimate and freeing in a way that Maul was not allowed to feel.
Just a figure of speech, Maul reminded himself, heartbeats quick and galloping in his throat. He pressed his fingertips to the soft vulnerable part of his wrist, just to feel the pulse there.
Kilindi finished the meal by swiping Maul’s half-eaten roll along the bottom of his tray, letting the bread soak up all of the lingering sauce and crumbs. Then she licked her fingers clean and scrubbed them dry on the hem of her shirt.
Maul resisted the urge to point out that licking her fingers clean seemed like just the kind of unhygienic his own Master would punish him for.
“Come on,” she’d said, picking up the tray and rising to her feet. “I’m still coming back to eat breakfast. A full breakfast,” she said pointedly before Maul could open his mouth.
Maul felt that weird tension in his face again, one he was experiencing more and more frequently. As he followed her across the refectory, he discreetly touched the corner of his lips, wondering if it was something he should go to the infirmary for. Maybe it was an injury, or an infection. Something he couldn’t treat himself. Was it noticeable? And if it was, why hadn’t Kilindi said anything?
But all he felt beneath his fingertips was the soft upturn of his lips, and when Kilindi dumped her tray on the conveyor belt that led back to the kitchens she turned around and distracted him by saying, “I’ll race you. Last one back has to scrub the sheets themselves,” before launching herself out the doorway.
It’d been annoying, seeing her self-satisfied smirk as he frantically scrubbed the sheets clean just a few minutes later. But strangely, he hadn’t been angry about it. There’d only been a lightness in his chest as he’d watched her scurry across the dorm room with a bundle of clean bedclothes spilling out of her arms.
And that strange relief he’d felt when he deciphered the figure of speech had lingered all through the rest of the morning. All the way through Kilindi’s breakfast when she quietly offered him her roll. All the way through class and the droning speech of that morning’s instructor. All the way through katas and weapons training and clear until the moment Director Trezza peered down from the upper balcony in the courtyard to glower down at where Kilindi’s arm was slung across Maul’s shoulders.
After that, there was a pit in his stomach that never quite went away.
There’s a pit in his stomach now, Maul realizes, watching as the Jedi uncaps another container to pop a food capsule into its mouth. Maul hasn’t eaten in a full day, which normally wouldn’t be a problem because Maul has starved for far longer under his Master’s discerning gaze.
But after an unexpected and brutal fight with a panagra that left him exhausted and injured?
Maul could certainly use a bit of sustenance right now.
Envy curls wickedly through his cramping stomach as Maul watches the Jedi chew then swallow the capsule. Maybe if he took the Jedi by surprise he could just snatch up capsules. No further injury involved! Just—
Maul scowls. No. Too risky. Also, too pathetic. Maul can hunt for himself. He doesn’t need to snatch some useless Jedi’s rations like a starving mongrel.
His stomach cramps again and his ribs throb in time with his heartbeats. Scowl deepening, Maul carefully tucks his shredded fingers into his side and digs his fingernails in deep. The pain is horribly satisfying but also serves to distract from everything else he cannot control.
This is a test, Maul reminds himself, horrifyingly aware of how his body is flagging fast. His Master will not be pleased. This is a test, he repeats to himself. Then again, and again, until things start to make sense.
The Jedi is now staring down at the food capsule container in its hand. Maul wishes he could interpret the look on its face. It looks just as complex as Kilindi’s can sometimes get.
One day, Maul promises himself, I’ll be able to understand people the way I want to.
Slowly, far too slowly to be normal, the Jedi clips the capsule container back onto its belt, then does the same with its canteen. It contemplates the medpac for a long while, then carefully and very purposefully unfolds it to display everything that Maul is not allowed to have.
Fuming, Maul bites his lip.
The Jedi has not once glanced back up into the tree branches. Does it know Maul is watching? It must. Is it waiting for Maul to attack? Is it waiting for Maul to be tempted by the idea of food and water and medical supplies?
Maul doesn’t know.
Eyes fixed on the medpac, the Jedi slips its hand to its belt again and a moment later pulls out—
A small cloth bag?
Tense, Maul watches as the Jedi carefully unties it then tips it over a palm so some of its contents can spill out.
Puzzled, Maul squints. From way up here, even with his Zabrak eyes, he can’t make out what’s scattered across the Jedi’s pale palm. But a moment later the Jedi raises its hand to its lips and—
Ah. It must be food of some sort.
Greedy, Maul thinks, teeth bared in a silent snarl. The Jedi has already had a food capsule and now it is eating more? The food capsule should be filling enough. Why is it wasting its supplies?
Almost too idly, the Jedi unclips its canteen again and takes another hateful swig of liquid.
Maul’s mouth is so dry. Blood is the only thing that has wet it today.
After the Jedi has returned the canteen to its belt it packs up the medpac and puts it away, too. Then it leans forward, drags a steadying leg beneath itself, and clambers to its feet.
But Maul is watching closely and so he notices when the Jedi neglects to return that small cloth bag to its belt. The thing tumbles down its thigh and into the forest growth and soil below, lost between newgreen fronds and broken branches.
The Jedi does not notice.
Hearts in his throat, strangely triumphant, Maul watches as the Jedi performs a series of stretches that are quite similar to the ones he’s learned at the Academy. Then, with one last glance towards the treetops which leaves Maul’s hearts skittering along his ribs and his body pressed tight against the branch, the Jedi slowly makes its way out of the clearing and out of sight.
Maul stares into the darkness between the trees. Just beyond a distant tree trunk, beige cloth catches the dappled light of the sun and then slips away again into shadow. Maul stays right where he is, breath shallow, limbs quaking, and he waits.
And waits.
And waits.
The Jedi does not reappear.
So Maul waits some more before slowly and very carefully prying his hands from the ragged bark, one bleeding finger at a time. Then he quietly scales down the trunk, pausing every so often to listen for movement. But all he hears is the scampering of distant cuirreal and the chittering of birds.
By the time reaches the ground, toe to heel and silent as a shadow, his eyes are already fixed to the spot where that mysterious cloth bag waits. He creeps forward, eyes darting between colossal tree trunks, but still no Jedi. By the time he crouches down in the middle of the clearing, his limbs are practically quivering with tension.
Biting back the instinctive annoyance at his own body’s failings, Maul dips his hands into the undergrowth and detritus of the forest, digging through leaves and dead branches before fingers manage to part the correct undergrowth and reveal his prize.
It’s a small thing, though bigger than his hand. Woven brown cloth with an interlocking blue and white pattern. Maul tilts his head, inspecting it before he dares to touch it. It does not seem dangerous and it does not seem like something a Jedi would carry. He thinks he might even recognize the pattern. Maybe it originates from Dressel. He can imagine nobles wearing clothes with this particularly eye-catching pattern, though why the lower edges of the pattern seem a little sloppier than the rest he can’t imagine why. Maybe it’s a keepsake the Jedi bought, something pretty and fanciful and stylish to gloat over. But maybe it didn’t notice the flaw, maybe it got swindled and paid much more for it than it is worth.
Maul purses his lips. Just like a Jedi to be so contradictory and foolish. But he doesn’t hate the idea of some Dressellian managing to pull one over on the Jedi. In fact, he enjoys that idea quite a bit.
That ever-strange tension in his mouth again, Maul reaches down and picks up the bag. It’s weighted, filled with— a lot of little things. Like pebbles. Or teeth. Maul rubs it between his fingers, feeling whatever it is shift against his palm.
No, Maul thinks. Probably not teeth. Not very Jedi-like. Also, why would the Jedi gobble down a handful of teeth? Unless it was more of a monster than Maul realized.
Curiousity piqued, Maul carefully unravels the tie and peers inside.
A faint spicy odour wafts out, and immediately Maul’s mouth waters.
Stomach knotting in hunger, Maul reaches inside and plucks out a small handful of— seeds? They’re pretty in a way Maul wasn’t expecting and flecked with herbs and spices.
Maul stares at the seeds in his hand, weighing their weight and the hunger in his belly against the chance that this is all a trick and he’s about to be poisoned.
Strangely, his thoughts are pulled to Kilindi. Kilindi and her wide dark eyes and her bright sharp teeth and her pale green fingertips as she scrapes them along the bottom of her tray only to lift them to her mouth and press her palm against her lips, sauce dripping down her wrist.
Maul finds his own hand lifting to his lips and he pauses for just a split second, remembering the way Kilindi sometimes chases the drip of sauce with her tongue, and he feels that strange tension in his mouth as he presses the seeds between his lips.
The taste is sharp and strong, like nothing he’s ever had before. Smokey and spicy but slightly sweet. The seeds crunch satisfyingly between his teeth.
Still chewing, savouring the flavour on his tongue, Maul reaches into the bag again to grasp another handful. The next mouthful is just as satisfying, if not more so now that Maul knows what he’s expecting. Maul generally doesn’t like surprises, as few in his life have ever been pleasant. But this— this is good in a way that Maul wasn’t expecting. This is good in a way that Maul is faintly alarmed to realize is quite addicting.
Maul closes his eyes and lets the flavour linger on his tongue, then swallows.
Equally surprising, his mouth doesn’t feel quite as dry anymore.
Tension drains from Maul’s shoulders and an unfamiliar weariness sits heavy in the back of his eyes. But there’s this bright kernel of curiosity that blooms hot and sudden in the pit of his belly. It’s unfamiliar. It’s startling.
It’s—
Maul opens his eyes and turns his gaze towards the dappled light flickering between the dark shadows of the towering trees. Towards where the Jedi slipped further into the forest. Towards the source of the strange pull in his gut, calling him away from the violence of the clearing and the echoing memory of the Jedi’s frantic mournful cries.
A test, Maul reminds himself as he carefully reties the bag and slips it into his pocket.
A test, Maul repeats as he considers the soil and leaves and broken branches beneath his knees.
A test, Maul concludes as he rises to his feet, body aching but belly warm and a little more full.
It’s a test I will pass, Maul promises himself as he slinks out of the clearing and follows in the oblivious Jedi’s wake.
Because if he does not pass, then Maul will die.
If he does not pass, Maul will never get to see Kilindi again and Maul does not want to think about the look on Kilindi’s face when she realizes he is never coming back.