Chapter Text
Shmi looks as nervous as Feral’s ever seen her, eyes slowly widening as the landing platform looms closer and closer, their sleek ship slowly engulfed by the chaos of Coruscant. It’s a city as vast and as deep and complicated as any ant colony. Though it may be where Feral grew up, it’s still overwhelming at times. There’s nothing else quite like it.
The golden line connecting him to Maul shivers just the slightest, a strange sort of trepidation flooding through his veins. Though the site of Coruscant filling the viewport should be comforting, it’s not as reassuring as Feral had expected. The last couple of days, Maul’s ever-lingering presence in the back of his mind has only grown more restless. Anticipatory. The slow-suffocating weight of dread pressing down on Feral as Maul expectantly waited for— Waited for what?
Maul’s mind is his own, so there’s no telling whether the feeling has anything to do with Feral. And yet… Maul’s mind isn’t really his own. Not anymore. Because he’s linked to Feral in a way that neither of them understand. It’s intimate. More than a friendship bond, more than the link between Master and Padawan. It’s like—
It’s like Feral and Maul share a mind. Like they’re two halves of a whole, and somehow they’re only just noticing.
Master Mace told him to remain vigilant. To observe Maul and take note of his emotions and memories and reactions. So Feral must remain aware of him at all times, but stay cautious, because Maul can learn just as much about him as Feral can learn about Maul.
The urge to reach out and touch Maul’s mind, to sink into it, is as tantalizing as it is terrifying. With every dream-memory, Feral has woken shaking and overwhelmed, filled both with a desire to turn away and forget every new thing he’s learned as well as to reach out and grasp Maul’s hand, to pull him close, to press into his mind and understand.
Feral can only guess that Maul must feel the same. He prowls on the edge of Feral’s consciousness, inching closer and closer like the swelling tide, lapping at his toes, darting forward to snatch bits and pieces of Feral like a skittish, ravenous Loth wolf.
Maul plucks at that bright golden thread now, an insistent uneven rhythm. Anxious, like he’s drumming his fingers, distracting himself from more pressing concerns. It leaves Feral feeling vaguely sick to his stomach.
Anakin’s bright laughter is like a wave crashing against a cliff, pulling Feral away from restless black-tattooed fingers and bright golden threads. The boy’s awed exclamations are incredibly endearing as he huddles with the pilots, raptly listening to their indulgent explanations. Feral watches as Shmi glances at her son, mouth tightening, a strange sort of grief making her look older than her years. There’s something uncomfortable in her eyes. Something uncertain. It’s not unlike how Savage sometimes looks at Feral.
Hearts aching, Feral steps closer to Shmi’s side, hand hovering at her elbow. “Whatever happens,” Feral murmurs, “know that I am here for you.”
She turns to him, eyes bright and watery. Shadows of passing ships dart across her face. Feral wonders if she’s ever been to Coruscant. If she’s ever stepped onto another planet as a free woman with everything yet nothing to lose.
“I am so fortunate to call you baschna,” Shmi says, equally quiet. Unhesitant, she reaches up and grips his hand. Squeezes it once, twice. Her hand is cool and calloused, worn from years of work and hardship. It is a very pleasant hand to hold.
“And I, you,” Feral returns, smiling, hearts full of overwhelming gratitude. If nothing else, he is so incredibly thankful the Force has led him to the Skywalkers.
The bright golden thread in the back of his mind shivers with a strange feeling of envy as Maul creeps closer, curious and hungry for— for something. It doesn’t feel malicious. More…aching. Lonely. Full of shame and worn-weary resentment.
Feral’s hearts ache in an equally strange way. Cautious, he inches up that golden line of connection, lets Maul know he’s garnered Feral’s attention. Maul flinches back, uncertain, but that surge of envy laps forward like the hungry push and pull of the tide.
“Mom! Mom, come look at this!” Anakin calls across the cockpit, waving an arm excitedly. His eyes shine, oblivious to the indulgent grins of the pilots surrounding him. “Coruscant’s got over five thousand levels! Did you know that?!”
Shmi laughs, visibly brightening as she meets her son’s gaze. “I think Qui-Gon might have mentioned that, yes.”
“Y’wanna see the flight path we’re taking? It’s super cool and complicated ‘cause there are so many different kinds of traffic lanes and- and—”
The ship dips, curving around a set of high-arching buildings, and one of the pilots reaches out to place a friendly hand on Anakin’s shoulder.
“After all this over,” the man says, grin tired but incredibly fond, “we can fly you and your mother around Coruscant and give you a tour or something. I’ve got a cousin in the mid-levels so I know my way around.”
“Hey!” one of the other pilots protests, nudging the man teasingly with her elbow. “I actually grew up on Coruscant so I think I know it a bit better than you!”
“I didn’t say you didn’t!” the first pilots laughs, throwing up his hands.
“Can we go now?” Anakin asks, eyes bright and sparkling.
The first pilot shakes his head, expression dimming. “Sorry, Ani. We still need to deliver the Queen safely and refuel and inspect the ship. We don’t—” The man’s mouth pinches unhappily. “We still don’t know what’s going to happen to Naboo. We need to be prepared for whatever’s going to happen next.” He sighs, a full-bodied thing. There are dark sleepless bruises beneath his warm eyes. He’s a shivering ache in the Force, as all of the Naboo are.
Something beeps, high and insistent, and one of the younger pilots leans over the console to read the lines of text flickering over a dark, tilted screen. “Ah. Captain Olié. They’ve changed our landing platform. We’re being redirected to Sector Besh-two-Vev-four-six, Platform Grek-Esk-nine-eight-two-Besh. It’s marked high priority. Senator Palpatine must have pulled a favour with Chancellor Valorum—”
Feral’s heartbeats stutter, stumbling over each other as the breath is stolen from his lungs.
Panic. Pure, unadulterated panicfearpain.
It quakes along that perpetual golden line in the back of Feral’s mind. Surges forward, floods Feral’s veins in a violent wave of foreign emotion.
Biting back a gasp, vision shuttering for the briefest of moments, Feral’s knees threaten to buckle. Desperate to stay upright, he clenches the hand in his and squeezes his eyes shut, barely registering the immediate sound of alarmed concern. Fighting to breathe through the fearpanicpainfearpanichatefearpanicshame, Feral flings out a hand across that tremblingshiveringwrithing bond and grasps it tight, holds it steady, pulls it close.
I’m here I’m here I’m here, Feral echoes over the bond, nearly buried beneath the sound of spitting, crashing waves. The instinctive need to reassureprotecthold overwhelms him and he fights his way through the hotsick flood of panicfearmemoryofpain—
—and remembers Deenine crashing into the wall in a tangle of broken limbs, glowing brightred eyes flickeringsputtering only to go dark and dead.
Feral fights to reach out and touch—
—and remembers that scarlet and black fish writhing on his plate, eyes rolling and wild, Master’s grin crooked and bone-white in the shadows of his draping hood.
Fights to breathe—
—and remembers the softness of Kilindi’s smile, the clever quickness of her hands, the blood spattered across her face as she looked up at him with dark hollow eyes and said in a tone he couldn’t understand, “I guess you’re not interested in the surprise that Daleen and I had for you.”
Nearly retching at the roiling griefhateshame that threatens to swallow him whole, Feral crumples into himself. He staggers, knees buckling as he fights to make sense of the tangled knotted mess of his mind intertwined with Maul’s.
Blindly, Feral drags himself forward along that golden writhing bond, through the disorienting crash of icecold waves and the stench of burning flesh. Presses forward forward forward forward one heavy, aching step at a time through memory and grief and rage and fear until he thinks— until he sees— yes.
Hearts racingachingtumbling along, Feral blindly flings out a hand and barely manages to catch scarlet stark-black-tattooed fingers. Grasps them tight. Pulls them close close closer until Maul’s startled face parts the dark rushing currents and foaming tides, emerging from writhing swells of spitting stinking lava. His sulfur-yellow eyes shimmer on the edge of gleaming gold.
“What—?” Maul rasps, tattoos twisting like the tides about them as his face contorts in confusion. But his hand wraps around Feral’s, nails biting bloody crescent moons into his flesh, and he does not let go. Neither does Feral.
The dark thrashing currents threaten to knock them right off their feet so Feral grits his teeth and digs his heels in. Ignores the feel of jagged lava rock cutting into tender flesh. He stares into that face that looks so familiar and yet so strange, hands spilling over with grieving rage, ears filled with the wailing of the hungry tides. Feral clutches at that golden thread and the scarred calloused hand in his. Holds on tight and doesn’t let go.
Doesn’t let go.
“Whatever this is, whatever you fear,” Feral tells Maul, “we face it together.”
Maul flinches, eyes wide wide wide. His ragged nails dig deep, dark scarlet blood welling up from the wounds he makes in Feral’s flesh. There is something so desperately young in his face. Young and uncertain and hungry.
“I’m with you,” Feral says, determined and aching and furious with the need to let him know. With the need to make him understand, even if Feral himself doesn’t understand. Not really. All he knows for certain is that Maul is scared and hurting and alone, and Feral— after nights of watching Maul suffer, Feral can’t stand it any longer.
“I’m with you,” Feral repeats, steady in the face of everything that wishes to devour them whole. “You are not alone. Not anymore.”
“I—” Maul’s mouth twists in a way that Feral cannot name. His eyes shine. Twin suns in the flickering dark. “Why—?”
Something in Feral’s hearts softens, twin heartbeats thump-thumping in his throat, the faint echo of a baby’s cry ringing high in his ears. Feral grips that achingly strange-yet-familiar hand in his own, opens his mouth—
Maul flinches, a full-body shudder, and his eyes go animal-panic wide, the whites of his eyes stark against the black of his tattoos and the vivid bloodred of his skin. His gaze darts up and away, seeking something Feral can’t sense.
“He’s coming—” Maul whispers, voice small and frightened and young in a way that makes Feral so so incredibly sick. “He’s here.” His ragged nails dig even deeper into Feral’s flesh. Maul glances back at him, expression desperate. Fear writhes about them, curling wicked spindly fingers about their throats.
He’ll take you away from me, Maul realizes, a relentless tattoo of thought pricking against Feral’s skin. He can’t have you. Not this, too. He can’t. You’re mine mine mine mine mine.
Feral shudders against the press of desperate protectiveness. Desperate possessiveness. It feels worse than Savage on his very worst days where the writhing wraiths of Dathomirian memories haunt his every waking moment, influencing his every word, his every action. Because this—
This is Dark and it is desperate and it is near-deranged.
The tides swell, pressing in and in and in—crushing and ravenous and driven dangerous by Maul’s devastating dread. Tantalizing terror like sparks on his tongue, Feral chokes and gasps and stares into the burning hot coals of Maul’s eyes until all he can feel is the scorching chaos of the tides, the sharp press of lava rock beneath his feet and Maul’s nails digging into his flesh.
He can’t have you he can’t have you he can’t have you I won’t let him take you I won’t let him kill you you’re mine mine mine
“I don’t—” Feral rasps, “I don’t need protecting.”
Maul’s eyes narrow, disbelieving, but Feral only shakes his head, shaky and insistent.
“I don’t,” Feral tells him, “And I’m not anyone’s to take. I’m not a thing. I can’t be owned. I am my own and you will respect that.”
Maul flinches, jerking back. His hand spasms around Feral’s as fury then grief then humiliation flit across his face. For a brief moment the tides recede and— for a brief moment— it looks like Maul might slip from his grasp and disappear between the writhing lava and seafoam. But Feral takes that golden bright bond and deftly twists it about his hand, uncaring that it bites into the flesh of his palm and the straining crest of his knuckles. Using it as a leverage, he jerks forward and slips his fingers up until he can wrap them tight and unwavering about Maul’s wrist.
Resolute, Feral yanks Maul close until they’re nose to nose, breathing the same breath, saltspatter sharp on their lips.
“I’m not yours,” Feral tells him, words fanning across Maul’s cheek, “and you’re not mine. But that doesn’t mean I won’t stand by you. It doesn’t mean I won’t help. I meant what I said. I’m with you. I don’t know what you’re so afraid of you, but you aren’t alone. Not anymore. Please. Let me help you.”
Maul shakes his head, a tiny movement nearly lost in the roiling of the crushing waves. “You don’t know what you’re up against.” A faint snarling sneer bares his teeth in quiet terror. The shadow of a great, unnameable terror looms behind him, lurking in the depths of the roiling currents.
The memory of a sharp bone-white grin and cruel relentless hands swells on the edge of thought and memory, the looming, lurking shadow suffocating and Dark.
“That’s true,” Feral admits, “but that won’t stop me.”
Maul stares at him, despair darkening his bright eyes. “He’ll kill you.” The words spill from his lips in a rush, like he’s lashing out. Desperate to convince Feral to— stop? To help? There is a certainty to his words. Like no matter what Feral chooses, he will die.
Feral can’t blame him for believing it. If every terrible memory Feral’s seen is real, it would be impossible to believe you can escape something as cruel and relentless as your Master’s fist.
So Feral can’t blame that fear, not when he so clearly remembers a little boy jumping up again and again and again, just so he could see the world outside his cramped little room. A little boy too young to recognize his own reflection. A little boy, straining on his toes, desperate hoping the boy in the window could save him.
Set him free.
The crushing realization sits with him still, heavy and nauseous in the pit of Feral’s stomach. That moment Maul realized it was his own reflection and there was no one coming to save him.
I’ll save you, Feral vows silently, miserably furious. I’ll save you. Like my brother saved me.
“He’ll kill you,” Maul repeats more quietly, a moan of despair.
Slowly, Feral raises his hands, one still clutching Maul’s wrist and the other tangled in the golden thread that connects them. Slower still, Feral adjusts his grip so he can tangle their fingers together then press them to Maul’s breast, right over his tumbling twin-beating hearts. Blood wells from the small crescent moons left by Maul’s nails, but Feral pays it no mind. Instead, he cradles the back of Maul’s head, threading his fingers between wicked sharp horns, and gently pulls him forward to press his brow against Maul’s.
Maul inhales, a startled shaky breath.
“He can try,” Feral says quiet and sure, “but that won’t stop me.”
Maul’s eyes burn gold, barely a breath away. Then after a shaky exhale, they flutter closed and Maul presses forward like he’s desperate for touch, for comfort, for reassurance. When a hot drip of blood curls over his brow and down the length of his nose, thin and lingering and vivid, Feral abruptly realizes that the smallest pair of horns digs straight into Maul’s flesh.
That maybe Maul wanted the touch to hurt.
But when Maul opens his eyes he seems steadier, calmer. The roiling tides quell just the slightest, lapping at their elbows, their toes, spattering salt across their cheeks and the napes of their necks. Slowly, a rough scarred hand slides across the back of Feral’s head and presses him even closer. With it comes another swell of hot dripping blood. It splatters between them as Maul burrows closer, horns clacking together. The touch is burning, relentless, familiar.
It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It feels right.
“You don’t even know me,” Maul says and it sounds like it should be a question but it isn’t.
Feral’s hearts scamper across his ribs in a tripping, galloping rhythm and the Force sings a high, familiar song that tastes of campfire and blood and sharpsweet fruit.
I think I know you like I know my own soul, Feral doesn’t say.
“I want to know you,” Feral says instead. “Is that so bad?”
Maul’s mouth parts in another silent snarl. “Yes.”
Gently, Feral clacks their horns together again. Like he sometimes does with his own brother.
“Let me anyway,” Feral insists with a smile.
Lips pursing unhappily, bright sulfur-golden eyes roiling like the tides, Maul studies him searching for the lie. Then, with a weary miserable sigh, Maul gives in. “He’ll kill you,” he insists again. “You’ll regret this.”
“I won’t regret it,” Feral promises, smile widening, “because even if I die, I’ll die trying to help you.”
Maul flinches, expression furious and despairing. He sneers again. “Maybe I’ll regret it. Maybe you’ll make everything worse. You don’t know the things that I’ve done, little Jedi. Maybe this is a trap, set for a Jedi as foolish as you.”
Feral takes care not to tense, takes care to shrug with a confidence he doesn’t fully feel. Because Master Mace’s words linger in the back of his mind. This could be a trap. But Feral doesn’t want to believe it. He can’t. Everything in him is screaming at him to trust this, and so he will.
“You’re right. Maybe I am foolish,” Feral says. “And maybe you’ve done terrible things. But a maybe will not stop me. And your past does not count against you. Not in my eyes.”
Maul snarls for real this time. “This is why the Jedi must die. You trust too easily. You’re too soft, too weak. Maybe I should just sit back and watch my Master tear you apart like the rat you are.”
And Feral— it’s too much to unpack. Too much to address. Not here and now. Not with horns biting into vulnerable flesh and those twin hearts beating beneath their intwined fingertips.
“Is it soft to care?” Feral asks instead. “Do you really think my compassion makes me so weak?” Feral shakes his head. “Compassion is what gives me strength.” He insistently presses their intwined hands against Maul’s twin hearts, feels the pulse of dual heartbeats echoing just off-beat from his own.
“My brother’s love saved me,” Feral tells him, hearts full and aching. “The Jedi opened their home and made it ours, though they didn’t have to. I have built a family of people who love and support me just as I love and support them. Compassion is what drives me, just as the Force does. It guides my hand and my heart and it is what led me to you. And so I will do everything in my power to help you.”
Maul’s expression flickers, snarl softening in confusion. “Do you think compassion is greater than rage? Greater than hate? Hate and greed have felled entire civilizations. Anger has killed countess people and it will kill countless more. And you think compassion is your strength? It will be your downfall. Mark my words, little Jedi.”
“Kindness has saved countless people in return. It may even save you.” Feral smiles, hearts racing. Says, “My name is Feral, by the way. Though I think you already know, don’t you?”
Through dream and memory, Feral doesn’t need to say, because Maul’s face has already slackened just the slightest with uncertainty.
“In my experience, kindness has only led to more suffering, Feral,” Maul spits spitefully.
Hearing his own name on Maul’s lips sends a strange little shiver up Feral’s. An anticipatory little thing, it zings with a certain kind of rightness that settles the frantic beating of Feral’s hearts.
“Well, I hope to prove you wrong,” Feral tells him, something hot and gnarled in the back of his throat. He thinks of Savage when they were young. When Feral himself was too young to understand the miserable rage his brother kept locked away deep inside his chest. Thinks of the raging grief that haunts him even now, for all that he’s worked hard to grow past it.
“Don’t pity me,” Maul snarls. But he doesn’t pull away. Not yet.
“I don’t,” Feral admits. “Not really. I’m mostly just really sad.”
Nose wrinkling, Maul bares his sharp teeth more fiercely. It should be terrifying, but Feral feels an unexpected fond amusement more than anything else.
“Pity,” Maul insists, furious.
Feral shakes his head, horns clacking gently against Maul’s own. “No,” he insists, too. “You just…” He trails off, uncertain. “You remind me of my brother.”
Curiously, Maul perks up. “Your brother,” he echoes, tasting the word on his tongue, feeling the unfamiliar shape of it in his mouth. His eyes gleam, bleeding scarlet at their golden edges.
Feral wonders how much of Savage Maul has seen in Feral’s memories. Quite a lot, he can imagine.
“Well,” Maul continues, somewhat petulant. “Do not mistake me for him, because I am not your brother.”
“I know that,” Feral reassures him, soothing yet frank. “I know you aren’t him. You need not fear that.”
“Good.” Maul sniffs, and suddenly, inexplicably, Feral wonders what it would have been like to grow up with such a strong-willed, petulant, possessive boy like Maul.
He wonders how many arguments they would have gotten into, how much blood would have been spilt. If they would have tussled over favourite foods or Savage’s attention. If, maybe, they could have slept curled into each other, safe in the knowledge that they had each other’s back. What would it have been like, to have such a rage-filled boy by his side in the Temple? On Dathomir itself?
It wouldn’t have been such a bad thing, Feral thinks. Difficult, maybe. But not bad at all.
Maul’s golden gaze quietly flits over Feral’s face, searching for something. Whether he finds it or not, Feral doesn’t know. But Maul does seem to come to some kind of decision, because he pulls Feral’s hand away from his own twin hearts to press them against Feral’s jaw. He holds Feral steady between his hands. Blood drips from his brow, curling along his Nightbrother tattoos.
“He’ll come for you,” Maul tells him, gaze a golden-sulfur, voice full of fear and trepidation and cold certainty. “He’ll come for you and there is nothing that can stop him. No Jedi can.”
That terrible, lurking shadow fills the edges of the waves whirling about them, darkening everything like the black void of space slowly eating up all the stars in the sky. Despite Feral’s unwavering certainty, fear creeps cold and heavy into his gut.
“Who is he?” Feral asks, quiet, urgent. “Who do you fear?”
Maul’s lips purse into a thin, tight line. He just shakes his head. His fingers tighten, curling into the back of Feral’s head, nails pricking along his jaw. The bones in Feral’s hand creak. Then he leans in close, closer, until his lips touch Ferak’s ear. Until his words are nothing but a near soundless hiss of breath, like he’s afraid of being heard.
“Don’t trust anyone.”
Maul pulls back, eyes bright and strange. “He’ll know I’m here. I have to leave.” His hand slips from the back of Feral’s head and his fingers unknot themselves from Feral’s own. He pulls back and away and Feral suddenly feels— desperate. Unmoored. Terrified. He can’t lose him, not now—
“Wait!” Feral cries, inexplicable terror punching the breath from his lungs. Why is he so afraid? What does he have to lose? Why why why—?
Maul shakes his head again, eyes gleaming a sick sulfur as he ducks out from beneath Feral’s hands and turns into the tide. The frothing foam slings to his horns and slips over his cheek, then the dark water swirls over his nose and his brow, lava lapping up his knees, and Maul is swallowed by the tides.
Frantic, Feral plunges forward again, golden thread tight about one hand, the other empty and aching—
—and he comes to with a choking gasp, surging upright in the middle of the Nubian cockpit.
Someone shouts, darting back, and Feral barely has the presence of mind to realize he just narrowly avoided goring someone right in the face. All he can really do is curl over his knees, heaving for breath, hearts beating twin stumbling rhythms against his sore constricting ribs, as he tries not to fall apart over the feeling of scarred fingers slipping from his own and the sight of Maul’s pained face disappearing beneath hungry water and blistering lava.
“Feral!” Cool, calloused hands slip over his knuckles and gently pry his trembling fingers apart. “Feral, what happened?”
“Baschna…?” More hands, tinier ones, grip the edges of his tunics.
“I- I don’t…” Feral shakes his head. Something warm drips down his cheeks, dripping from his chin.
Pounding footsteps, then the screech of boots sliding across the flood. A warm body falls into him, hands warm and familiar and steady. “Feral. Feral, are you alright?”
“I don’t know,” Feral says, helpless, and turns like a flower facing the sun. turns, so he can gaze up at Obi-Wan’s anxious face. Feemor and Master Qui-Gon stand just beyond Obi-Wan’s shoulder, watching them with twin expressions of concern.
“You just— collapsed,” Shmi says, equally anxious. She runs careful fingers over Feral’s trembling ones, then gasps. “Oh. Oh, Feral. Baschna, you’re bleeding.”
Blinking away the memory of swelling, foaming tides and ravenous, whirling lava, Feral turns his gaze to their entwined hands and finds that— yes. Yes he is bleeding. Five little crescent moons, cut raggedly into his hand, welling with blood. Feral watches the slow swell and drip, curving along his skin, as vivid and crimson as Maul’s skin.
“Oh.” Anakin’s voice, small and shaky. “Your horns.”
Unhesitatingly, Feral slips one hand out from beneath Shmi’s and reaches up to touch the two lowest horns along his brow. His fingertips come away smeared with blood.
“What kind of Jedi osik…?” one of the pilots mutters, clearly shaken.
Feral shakes his head, mute. In the quiet chaos of his mind, he reaches out to touch that glimmering golden thread. It thrums beneath his palm, sings bright and true. But there is no resonant answer. No curious awareness. The end of that thread feels muffled, echoing hollowly, like it simply stretches out into a great endless void. The connection is not broken or withered or dead.
It is not gone.
But it’s like Maul has hidden himself from Feral, and it leaves him feeling unnaturally barren and bereft.
How is that that he’s spent his entire life not knowing Maul exists, and yet somehow the moment that inexplicable constant connection is torn from him, Feral suddenly can’t bear the thought of living the rest of his life without him?
It’s a terrifying thought. Heady and heavy near-suffocating.
How can so much change in so little time?
“We’ll be landing in a few minutes,” Captain Olié informs the cabin, quiet and tense and more than a bit apologetic. “The Senator is already waiting for us.”
“Mace will be waiting, too,” Feemor says. He kneels next to them and places a steady hand on Feral’s knee. “Come. Let us get you cleaned up, and then we can discuss what happened. Can you stand?”
Feral considers his quaking knees, then nods. “Yes, but— some help would be appreciated.”
Obi-Wan immediately curls an arm around his waist while Shmi takes his elbow and helps lever him up. Master Qui-Gon has already rushed out into the belly of the ship, probably in search of a medkit. Feral tries not to feel embarrassed. Visions are like this sometimes, though he doesn’t have much experienced with them.
If it even was a vision.
It felt more like—
As they shuffle out of the cockpit, Obi-Wan catches Feral’s hand in his own, fretting over the bleeding crescent wounds.
“How did this happen…?” Obi-Wan murmurs beneath his breath.
Feral shivers as his friend gently traces a fingertip over the bloodied smears on Feral’s fingertips.
How indeed.
-:-
When Maul was young, he learned the cruelty of kindness.
The droid who raised him taught him the word please only for his Master to kick it out of his mouth. The droid who raised him hurt Maul to save him from even greater hurts. The droid who raised him— Deenine— the first person Maul considered a friend for all that they broke each other more with every passing day— and it was destroyed by his Master.
Maul knows it was a test. Everything is a test. And Deenine was a test in trust, a test in deception, a test in the fatality of becoming attached.
Attachment meant compassion and compassion meant weakness and weaknesses were meant to be exploited.
So.
Deenine was a lesson.
And so was Orsis.
Maul doesn’t like to count the number of years he spent at the Academy, though he knows exactly how many have passed since then. For all that it was one of his Master’s longest, cruelest and most effective lessons, Maul doesn’t like to think of it at all.
Not the classes full of oblivious, bloodthirsty children.
Not the demanding, cruel trainers.
And most definitely not Kilindi Matako.
Orsis Academy was one of his Master’s most effective lessons and Maul learned more than he cares to admit from it, things that his Master never intended for him to learn. Like how pickled fins make his mouth pucker in an unpleasant way. Or how relaxing the ocean can be, when all you have to worry about is floating on its sparkling surface with the sun far above.
Or how strange it feels to have someone’s soft smile directed at you, their eyes filled with a warmth as bright and lovely as a candleflame cupped between your palms.
So yes, Maul learned many things during his time at Orsis Academy, because the kindness of Kilindi’s face and her steady hand of friendship thawed Maul into something much too vulnerable. Much too wretchedly weak. Something that could be hurt.
And they both paid the price for that.
So as much as Feral’s strangely bright heart pulls at Maul, this is not a lesson that he is eager to relearn.
Not now.
Not ever.
-:-
Master Mace waits beside the delegation on the landing platform.
Something settles at the sight of him, and Feral lets out a slow, quiet breath. His limbs are still just the slightest bit shaky and his mind strangely hollow, but he is steady on his feet and waves off Shmi’s concern with a smile. There was just enough time for Master Qui-Gon to apply bacta to the wounds and to clean the blood from his horns, so he is at least presentable. There is no time to dally. Not when a whole planet is at stake.
Masters Qui-Gon and Feemor lead the way, exiting the ship nearly before they’ve settled onto the platform. Feral and Obi-Wan follow close on their heels, with Shmi, Anakin, Threepio and Jar Jar right behind. They bow before Chancellor Valorum and Master Mace, then step off to the side as the Queen moves forward. Well. The Queen’s double.
Obi-Wan curls a finger around his. His friend leans against him, subtle and reassuring. “You sure you’re alright?” Obi-Wan murmurs under his breath. “You looked…”
Feral curls a second finger around Obi-Wan’s, soothing a finger along those familiar ‘sabre callouses. Obi-Wan shivers. “I’m alright as I can be,” Feral reassures, equally quiet. “Do not worry.”
“I always worry,” Obi-Wan grumbles, but squeezes his fingers back and doesn’t say another word.
“It is a great gift to see you alive, Your Majesty,” the Naboo senator is saying. “With the communications breakdown, we’ve been very concerned. It was a relief to hear that you had been in contact with the Jedi Council. I’m anxious to hear your report on the situation.”
While Feral and Qui-Gon were in Mos Espa, Feemor was able to fix the damage done to their communications when they’d escaped Naboo. As a precaution, they wouldn’t have even contacted Coruscant. But then Feral locked eyes with Maul on Tatooine and that thread blossomed alive and vibrant between them and- well.
Here they are.
As the politicians confer with each other and begin moving off to their transport, Master Mace slides up to them, eyes dark and warm.
“I’m glad to see you safe,” Mace says, sincerity clear upon his face as he looks at them all. Then his gaze lands on Feral and he smiles. Feral can’t help but return it. Nearly all the lingering tension in his shoulders eases. “You especially, my Padawan.”
“Playing favourites?” Feemor teases, though the words are not as bright as they would usually be. “Did you not trust me to take care of him?”
Mace’s lips stretch into a grin. “Now you know that’s not true. I have complete faith in you, Feemor.” Something warm and soft sparkles in his eyes and Feral bites back a snicker, glancing over at Obi-Wan to catch a barely-there eyeroll. Discreetly, Feral nudges his friend and doesn’t budge an inch when Obi-Wan treads on his foot.
The moment is gone when Mace smoothes his face into solemnity and he turns back to Feral. Reaching out, he places a steady warm hand on Feral’s shoulder and Feral can’t help but lean into it. Mace’s mind blossoms open, as warm and welcoming as it always is, and Feral basks in his master’s steady strength. “That being said, I felt something— unusual— just before you landed. Are you alright, my Padawan?”
“He is not,” Obi-Wan mutters, petulant and stressed.
Mace raises a brow and Obi-Wan sheepishly ducks his head even as his fingers curl tighter around Feral’s own. Mace meets Feral’s gaze once more and there’s something unusually anxious inn those dark eyes. “What happened?”
“Don’t trust anyone,” Maul’s voice whispers in the back of Feral’s mind.
Uneasy, Feral glances at the crowd spilling their way across the landing platform towards their waiting transport. Most of them are entirely focused upon the Queen and her retinue, while others glance curiously at the gathered Jedi. One of the Handmaidens catches Feral’s eye and she nods before turning away again to listen to the Naboo Senator and the Chancellor speaking.
Don’t trust anyone. Don’t trust anyone? What did Maul mean by that? Does he mean everyone? Or just the people Feral doesn’t know? Because there’s no one Feral trusts more than his own family.
“Not here,” Feral murmurs without ducking his head. There’s no use garnering even more attention. If it looks like he’s trying to keep secrets it will only attract more curious ears. And this whole thing with Maul…
It’s best to keep it as quiet as possible, for too many reasons to name.
Mace studies him for a moment, then concedes, nodding. “Alright,” his Master says easily, then continues as if nothing usual has happened. “The Council will be ready to hear your complete report once we reach the Temple.” His gaze slides past them to Shmi, Anakin and Threepio who stayed behind while the Naboo departed with their escort. Feral suspects Padmé will be in contact when she can. But she’ll have much on her mind and much to do until then.
“You must be the Skywalkers,” Mace says with that careful, friendly politeness of his. Though Feral can tell his Master doesn’t quite know what to think of them yet. “I’m Mace Windu, Master of the Jedi Order.”
Shmi smiles, all carefully poised just like Mace, though Feral suspects she must be nervous. There’s a second of hesitation, then she inclines her head. It must be a relief to choose to do so. “I’m Shmi.” She strokes a hand over Anakin’s head. “This is my son, Anakin, and this is Threepio.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Threepio chirps while Anakin shyly ducks his head and murmurs a quick hello.
“Qui-Gon told me you helped them on Tatooine. You have the Order’s gratitude.” Mace bows low to Shmi who looks a bit startled at the move. “We’ll do our best to help you restart your lives.”
“The situation is…a bit more complicated than that,” Qui-Gon admits, tucking his hands into his sleeves.
Raising a brow, Mace regards Qui-Gon for a long moment. “Is it?” His voice drips with veiled sarcasm. It obviously isn’t any surprise that Qui-Gon opted not to inform Mace of the entire situation before they reached Coruscant. Honestly, Feral doesn’t blame him. The situation is too complicated to explain over comms, especially when Qui-Gon obviously wants Anakin to join the Order. If he’d admitted it beforehand, the Council would have had days to deliberate before Qui-Gon could give his rebuttal and convince them it was the right thing to do.
As much as Feral doesn’t want to separate the Skywalkers…The Force pulses at him and he knows the Skywalkers were freed for a reason beyond the fact that it was the right thing to do.
Shmi straightens just a bit, expression placid as Mace studies them. His Master’s eyes sharpen, examining some unseen thing. Then his eyes shift to Anakin and they widen minutely, then narrow. The shatterpoint, Feral realizes abruptly. His Master’s gaze flicker to Feral, considering. Then he nods.
“I think it best we discuss this with the Council.”
-:-
Mace first met Feral after a long session in the salles. Though Savage had journeyed to Ilum and made his lightsaber a couple months before, Mace hadn’t let him use it during practice yet. So as the two of them cooled down, moving through the katas slowly, sweat dripping down their temples, there was a soft knock at the door.
“Come in!” Mace called, watching carefully as Savage diligently paced himself, not even breaking concentration. From one sweep of an arm to the next, the door slid open, letting in muffled whispers. Curious, but unwilling to turn his attention from Savage, he watched as the boy stumbled slightly. Savage’s eyes darted to the side, but he quickly corrected himself, resolutely jutting his jaw.
“It is important to be aware of the space around you,” Mace reminded him. “You must be aware of any threats or innocent bystanders. But you mustn’t let it distract you. It can kill you, and any misstep with Vaapad can not only hurt you, but others as well.”
“Yes, Master Windu,” Savage said, a bit winded. “Sorry, Master Windu.”
There was a shuffling by the door as two sets of footsteps entered the room, pausing just inside the entranceway.
They spent the last few minutes of their katas in silence, Savage’s breathing heavy. But he’d been getting better. Knight Aylward was obviously an excellent Master despite his inexperience and Savage a diligent, dedicated student. Mace was honestly quite proud of them both. When Knight Aylward had asked for his assistance, he’d been a little dubious. But once he’d met Savage…Well. There was no question that that boy was capable, and Mace was sure he’d master Vaapad.
“You’ve done well,” Mace told Savage as they bowed to one another. “I think maybe next week we might even start the katas with your ‘sabre.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. Mace was relieved that the bruises beneath them were slowly fading. Savage still had nightmares, but they weren’t nearly as bad as they had been. It was a testament to what proper meditation could do, and what Vaapad could help purge. “Really, Master Windu?”
Mace couldn’t help but smile. “We’ll be going slow, of course. Unlit at first. Then we’ll try it at the lowest setting.
Savage grinned, teeth sharp and bright in his mouth. “Thank you, Master Windu!”
Mace laughed. “Don’t thank me. You’re the one who’s improved so much. Though be warned, it will get much more difficult once you actually start with your ’sabre. But I have confidence in your abilities.”
Immediately bashful, Savage ducked his head. “Thank you, Master Windu,” he repeated, voice soft and low.
“Now, I believe your Master has come to collect you.” Mace turned towards the doorway which seemed to be the signal their visitors needed because suddenly a high voice shrieked with joy.
“Savage!”
A little boy hopped over the little step up onto the mats and pelted past Mace. He careened full-speed into Savage who let out a startled oomph. The two of them tumbled back onto the floor, laughing.
Raising a brow, Mace’s gaze traced over their similar tattoos, the crowns of their horns. Knight Aylward moved closer, pausing right before the step. Mace turned to face the slightly older man. There was a soft expression upon Aylward’s face as he watched the brothers. Mace found himself smiling again. He’d never met anyone quite as kind as Aylward, and he found himself thinking, not for the first time, that he was glad Aylward had reached out to him.
“His younger brother?” Mace asked.
“Yes, that’s Feral.”
Savage grinned down at his younger brother as Feral chattered on. Mace and Aylward watched them silently for a few minutes. There was…something about the younger boy. Maybe it was the way his feet were bare, his boots carefully placed just inside the doorway so he wouldn’t track grime on the mats. Maybe it was the way he gazed up at his brother, clear adoration upon his face, or the way he clung onto every word Savage spoke, clearly fascinated by what his brother was learning. The little boy gathered up Savage’s discarded layers and dutifully handed them to his brother one by one. He shone in the Force. All eager and heartfelt.
“Have you had dinner yet?”
Mace blinked, startled out of his thoughts and caught off guard. He glanced over at Aylward who gave him a wide easy smile. People rarely smiled like that at Mace. They tended to find him intimidating and aloof, especially since he’d made it onto the Council so young. He was only twenty-seven, after all. The youngest ever on the Council. That tended to attract attention, and not always the good kind.
Mace didn’t consider himself an overly warm person, but he certainly wasn’t aloof. He smiled pretty often, a normal amount, even— despite what rumours seemed to now be circulating in the crèche. So it was- both startling and oh so relieving to see that Aylward didn’t treat him any differently. Instead, the man was just as warm with Mace as anyone else.
Said man stared at him expectantly, one eyebrow slowly raising. Mace suddenly realized he hadn’t answered.
“Sorry- What?”
Aylward’s mouth curled and Mace found himself fighting back the rising heat in his cheeks. “Have you had dinner yet?” Aylward repeated, not at all irritated.
“Ah, no.” Silently cursing himself for stumbling not once but twice, he valiantly continued, “I was in Council Meetings all day before I met with Savage.”
Frowning, Aylward turned more towards him. “Have you not eaten at all today?”
Mace frowned back. “I had breakfast this morning.”
“This morn— Well, we can’t have that. You’ll be joining us for dinner.” He turned to the brothers. “Come on, boys! Let’s not keep Luminara waiting!”
“What?” Mace spluttered.
Aylward shot him a wry look. “Well, I was just going to ask if you wanted to join us. But clearly you need a little looking after. I promise you the kids aren’t half as bad at cooking as you think.”
“Knight Aylward, I—”
“Feemor.” The man’s smile was so bright and warm, and it caught somewhere unexpected between Mace’s ribs.
“You’re helping Savage and you’ll be eating in my kitchen. I think it’s only proper you use my first name.”
Mace gaped. The boys rushed past him. They skidded to a stop by the door where they scrambled to shove on their boots. “I- Mace.” He swallowed at Ayl- Feemor’s indulgent expression. “Then please call me Mace.”
Feemor’s grinned widened. “Mace.” His name sounded warm and welcome in his mouth, like it was meant to be held there. “Please join us for dinner.”
Mace really couldn’t find it in himself to refuse. “Okay,” he said, and dutifully tugged his tunics back on.