Chapter Text
Feral stares up at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the ship, the beating of his own hearts. His fingers curl into the blanket. He cannot sleep. That bright-hot bond shivers every so often, plucking notes that nearly make tears spring to his eyes. Over the last few hours the bond has settled into a kind of normalcy that’s almost frightening. It’s like…it was always meant to be there. Like it’s always been a part of him.
Qui-Gon seems less than convinced, and Feemor pensive. They’d barely had any more time to speak before the Queen pulled them back up to discuss the mission and what’ll happen once they reach Coruscant. By the end of it all they’d been exhausted and Feemor insisted Feral get some rest before they comm the Council. All too jittery and far too brittle, Feral readily agreed.
But he can’t sleep.
The sounds of the crewmen snoring and shifting in their bunks is reminiscent of the crèche, but not nearly as comforting. Everyone’s taking shifts so they all get the chance to sleep in an actual bed. Once Feral’s allotted time is up, someone else will hunker down where he lays now. They’ll pull these same covers up over their chest and tuck their limbs close to stay warm in the chill of hyperspace.
The minutes slowly tick by in the back of his mind. Once it’s ended, he’ll have to lever himself up, swing his legs over the edge and force himself to stand up. There will be no avoiding that thread in his head. He’ll have to put to words something he doesn’t understand. He’ll have to explain how he feels when he doesn’t even really know himself.
Qui-Gon will tuck his chin into his fingers like that’ll somehow help him think better. Feemor will exude that quiet worry that right now will only manage to make Feral feel incredibly guilty.
And Obi-Wan…
Obi-Wan.
Even as exhausted as he is, his eyes still sting, so he closes them. Lets the dim light fade to black.
He’ll have to speak with Master Windu.
As much as he longs for his Master’s guiding hand, he dreads it. What will Mace say? What will Mace think? Feral feels so far out of his depth he fears he might drown. He’s treading water, frantically trying to stay above the surface, but it’s been so long and the waves are so rough—
Well.
It’ll be a long few days until they can reach Coruscant.
That golden hot thread trembles a bit, the ends curling about his fingers. Possessive. Reassuring. Feral fights the instinct to pull away. He lets the soft ends coil tighter around his fingers. When he rubs a thumb over one strand, it loosens as if reassured that he won’t rip away.
Shaky, he exhales. Tries to imagine that landscape of his mind. But all he can see are the stretching sands and the streaking speed of stars.
“Feral?”
Jolting, Feral squints in the dark. A heavy weight dips the edge of the mattress, then a calloused hand seeks out his own, gliding across the blanket to touch his chilled skin. A warm palm cups the back of his hand, and the slide of skin on skin makes Feral shiver. Familiar fingers tangle with his own.
“You aren’t asleep,” Obi-Wan murmurs, barely more than a breath, mindful of their sleeping companions. Feral can just barely make out his silhouette in the dark. Cool blue limns his cheek, catching on the gaping collar of his tunic. Shadow settles soft in the hollow of his throat. It’s a soft, yet striking picture, seemingly more dream than reality.
“No,” Feral breathes out.
Obi-Wan’s hand squeezes his. “Shmi and Anakin have settled down in the mainhold for now. Masters Qui-Gon and Feemor are prepping them for when we get to Coruscant. Then they’ll have a turn in the beds during the next sleep cycle.”
Feemor almost closes his eyes again. Instead, he lets them trail up the line of Obi-Wan’s arm, they settle somewhere in the dip of his throat. “No matter what happens, it’ll be difficult for them.”
“Yes.”
They sit there quietly for a few long minutes. Feral listens to Obi-Wan’s near-silent breath. Soaks in his warm presence. Carefully, Feral twists his hand so his palm slides against Obi-Wan’s. The pads of his fingertips press into Obi-Wan’s pulse point. The skin there is soft and vulnerable. Delicate bones shift just beneath. Obi-Wan’s pulse flutters against his fingertips, just shy of stumbling end over end.
His friend must be just as exhausted he is.
“You skipping any duties right now?”
Obi-Wan huffs a laugh, the beads in his braid catching the light as he shakes his head. “No,” he says, hushed. “There’s not much to do right now. We’ve doublechecked the hyperdrive for issues, and the ship is clear of tracking devices. I’ve already written part of my report, but there will be plenty of time to finish it.”
“Join me, then?”
The pulse beneath his fingertips staggers, so brief Feral wonders if he imagined it. Obi-Wan is utterly still for a very long moment, then he nods. One jerky movement.
“Sure,” Obi-Wan rasps.
Worry nearly steals Feral’s breath, but he can’t find any words beyond a general tense feeling of confusion. Something tingles just beneath his skin and his chest is tight. When Obi-Wan untangles their hands, the slide of callouses against his palm leaves him strangely breathless. His friend makes quick work of toeing off his boots, lining them up next to Feral’s. As Obi-Wan shucks off his tunics, Feral finds himself unable to tear his eyes away. Watches the reveal of the long muscular lines of Obi-Wan’s back, the flex of his arms. The dip of shadows caressing his chest. The fall of his braid against his throat. The dim light catches the fine hair upon his forearms, the faint scars there. His Zabrak eyesight is just good enough to make out the spatter of freckles, constellations speckled like stardust across his skin.
Obi-Wan’s eyes meet his for a split second. They gleam. Feral’s hearts stumble along his ribs.
Then Obi-Wan crawls into the bed like when they were children. It’s a well-worn shuffle: Feral scoots to the other end of the bunk and Obi-Wan lifts the covers to slip beneath. Before he settles, Obi-Wan flicks on the bunk’s privacy screen that Feral hadn’t bothered with before.
The bunk is narrow so Feral turns onto his side, back to Obi-Wan. Cold feet press into the backs of his calves and he hisses. A hushed breath of apology whispers against his ear and he shivers. A muscular arm slips beneath his head while the other curls around him, elbow tucking into his waist comfortably. Long fingers dip into the open fall of his undertunic, gliding across his bare skin. Warm breath puffs along the nape of his neck, a contrast to the cool slip of his own silka beads. The peaks of Obi-Wan’s nipples are noticeable even through the fabric of Feral’s shirt.
They slot together like they always have: comfortably, naturally.
Years have passed since they last did this, though. They’re both so near Knighthood that they’re almost constantly on missions. The Temple can offer no more classes so it’s all up their Masters and the experience that missions provide. Though their Masters are friends, spending time alone together is more difficult than it ever was. These days, it feels like even when he’s standing right in front of Obi-Wan, Feral has never missed him more.
He was so excited for this mission. It was a chance to reconnect with his dear friend. A chance to finally just- be alone with him like they never manage in the Temple. It’s not as if they’ve ever stopped being friends, or any less of friends. But- there is a marked difference between those precious days in the crèche and now.
Obi-Wan’s warm breath whispers along his ear and Feral shivers again, chest tightening again in that strange way. Obi-Wan shifts against him, settling, and his fingers brush one of Feral’s nipples, curling along his tattoos, tracing them like he knows them by heart. Abruptly, Feral realizes he just might.
Hearts stumbling, Feral settles himself into Obi-Wan’s warmth. The thread shivers gold in his mind but it’s softer, somehow. Its song a melodious murmur.
Tenderly, Feral curls himself around the warmth of Obi-Wan’s blossom in his mind and lets himself be lulled to sleep by the rise and fall of Obi-Wan’s chest, the slow breaths in his ear, the warm and steady weight of him.
Here, like this, Feral can believe that everything might turn out alright.
-:-
There was a face of a boy outside the window. He was small and silent and weak, but he was all the shades and ferocity of the world outside. Spitting lava and noxious ash and jutting, jagged stone. He stood out there, eyes wide and mouth gaping as he stared back through the glass.
If he could reach him, maybe the boy could save him.
But the window was too tall. Straining up on his tiptoes wasn’t enough. He had to jump and scrabble at the windowsill, clawing his way up, trembling with the effort. His toes dug into the wall and his nails threatened to bend as he peered out into that terrifying world and the boy caught within it.
“Please,” he hissed. It rolled clumsily off his tongue. It was a word he learned from TD-D9.
Please wash your dishes, the droid would say. Please get up before the sun rises. Please make your bed properly.
Please is a polite form of address, and if you are to serve our Lord you must know when to use it.
But the one time he’d tried to use it, his Master laughed in his face and Maul woke up slumped against the far wall, head throbbing.
Please is for the weak, his Master had hissed. Used to beg for their pathetic lives. For mercy.
But he was desperate. All he’d known was this dark blank bedroom, the training hall and the cavernous dining room with its long, sleek table and its many-legged chandelier. He wanted to leave. He hated it here. Hated the bruises and the cracked bones. Hated the kaleidoscope of TD-D9’s glowing red eyes and the long, crooked legs that carried its bulbous body around.
He hated his Master.
He hated the window so far up on the wall.
Hated the fire and the ash and the jagged black stone roiling outside his window, a constant storm.
So he scrabbled at the window and pled for a freedom he didn’t understand. Because he was weak and he didn’t want this.
Shamefully, he wanted mercy.
“Please,” he croaked, eyes burning and blurring. “Please.”
But then- then he realized the boy’s mouth moved as his did. The boy’s face scrunched in pain and- and the jagged rock and spitting lava formed patterns eerily similar to the ones on his hands, his chest, his legs.
Breath caught in his throat, twin hearts galloping painfully along his ribs, he opened his mouth slow and stuck out his tongue.
So did the boy in the window.
And Maul—
Maul screamed himself to sleep that night.
And every night after that.
-:-
“—al! Feral! Wake up!”
Gasping, Feral’s eyes snap open, scream choking to a quick death in his throat. His chest heaves, limbs quaking as someone looms over him. Calloused hands cup his face as Feral fights to find peace to find his breath, but his hearts gallop so loud and so hard that all he can do is stare blindly up into a shadowed face and—
“Feral,” Obi-Wan breathes, voice cracking. His eyes are dark and deep in the cramped space of their bunk. “You were screaming.”
Feral swallows hoarsely. His throat is certainly ragged enough. “Sorry,” he croaks. “Sorry.”
Expression fierce, even in the dark, Obi-Wan shakes his head. “No.” His palms are steady and warm upon Feral’s cheeks. “Don’t be.”
Tears sting Feral’s eyes as words tumble from his lips, “I- I had a dream.”
Obi-Wan’s thumb strokes just beneath his left eye, tracing the shadow of his tattoo there. “About what?” he asks softly.
“I-” Feral swallows again, more thickly this time. His heartbeat has barely slowed. “I was trapped in a room. There was- lava and ash outside my window. I wanted to escape, I wanted to be free.” Hot tears wet his lashes. “I saw a boy outside and I thought- I thought he might save me. I pleaded— But then- then I realized it was my own reflection. I’d never even seen myself before. I- I hadn’t even known it was me.”
Hands tensing for a second, Obi-Wan’s gaze darts between his eyes, lips pursing. Gently, his thumb wipes away stray tears. “You aren’t there,” he reassures, intent. “You’re here, with me. You’re safe.”
“But that little boy wasn’t,” Feral rushes, distressed, chest tight and aching.
“It was just a dream.”
“No.” Feral shakes his head, certainty rising like dread. “No, it wasn’t. I think- maybe it was a memory.”
Frowning, Obi-Wan peers down at him. “From…” He hesitates. “From Dathomir?”
“No. I think- I think it was- Maul’s.” The name falls naturally from his lips, bittersweet.
Obi-Wan’s frown deepens. “Who’s Maul?”
That gold thread tings bright and true in the depths of Feral’s mind.
“The Nightbrother from Tatooine.”
-:-
The thing is, Maul doesn’t remember Dathomir. He doesn’t even know it exists.
There are no memories of creeping, neon vines. Nothing of the bonfires the Nightbrothers danced around, laughing and telling stories of people who found freedom and happiness and love. He has no idea of his parentage. Doesn’t even fathom to think of it.
When he was younger he wondered if maybe, maybe there was someone like him out there somewhere.
But over the years Sidious beat it out of him. The Dark Lord sunk his claws into him and dragged it out one bloody piece at a time until Maul was left a ragged, open wound full of hate and fear and anger.
But then-
Then.
Tatooine.
And that bright hot thread of gold within his mind, far kinder than anything he has ever known.
-:-
Master Mace’s pensive face flickers blue in the dimmed light of the ship’s Throne Room. Since the Queen has retired for the night, one of the handmaidens suggested they use the room for their private call to the Temple. Feral had gladly taken it, not eager to take the call in the open at one of the tech stations.
Under different circumstances, they might not have even called the Temple. They are being hunted, after all. It would have been safer to remain silent and isolated until they reach Coruscant.
As it is, circumstances have changed.
“Maul,” Mace repeats lowly. “I do not recognize the name. Though…it does bear similarity to your own.”
Helpless, Feral shrugs. “Since he’s a Nightbrother, it makes sense. Our names are supposed to inspire fear.”
“That is true.” Mace nods. His eyes go distant, gaze shifting slightly to the left. “To feel such a connection so suddenly is extremely unprecedented. I’ve rarely heard of it happening, and certainly not that immediately.” He focuses on Feral once more, expression apologetic. “Your brother might know more, but unfortunately he’s already left for his mission.”
Hearts constricting, Feral fights to keep a neutral face. He’d hoped- but no. Though Savage is his brother, they cannot expect to be at each other’s beck and call. Their love for each other does not supersede all else.
“It will take you a few days to return to Coruscant. His mission is not supposed to be a very long one, so it should not be longer than two weeks before we can ask him.” But Mace knows Feral perhaps even better than his brother does. His face softens. “How are you, my Padawan?”
It’s only them in the Throne Room. Masters Qui-Gon and Feemor have already briefly spoken with Mace. They’d left quickly after to give them their privacy, though Feral expects they’ll ask after what they discussed. Concerning Maul, at least.
“I’m…” Feral can feel his face crumple a bit. “I’m confused. A little frightened. It’s…intense. This connection. I know him and yet I don’t remember him. I feel as if I’ve betrayed myself by not remembering, or maybe that something has betrayed me.”
“You can feel him even now?”
That thread shivers with strange anticipation. Maul is mulling something over, but still not quite forgetting Feral’s there. The other Zabrak idly plucks at their bond, as if reassuring himself it’s there, or delighting in existence, perhaps testing it. Feral isn’t quite sure. Maybe it’s all three.
“It’s a constant awareness,” Feral admits. “I know what he’s feeling. It’s different than our bond. It isn’t muted. It’s- sensitive. An exposed wire.”
Mace shifts, leaning forward a little more, intent. “How do you think you know him?”
It is an old trick of Mace’s. He guides and encourages others to explore their emotions and put words to thoughts they aren’t quite sure how to express. Mace could simply tell you what he thinks, but he would much rather you reach your own conclusion. If he does all the work for you, you cannot grow. If he tells you how to think, then the Order is in danger of becoming complacent. It does no good if everyone agrees all the time. Without different perspectives, you cannot see your own faults and you cannot grow and evolve.
It’s what makes him such a good Master.
Feral bites his lip. “I mean, he is a Nightbrother.”
“But do you have that same connection with your brother?”
“No,” Feral says slowly. “No, I don’t.” And it’s true. Savage’s presence is a constant in his mind but it’s not as strong as whatever he has with Maul. He cannot feel Savage’s emotions all the time. If he pushes more, he suspects he might even be able to hear Maul’s thoughts. But- he does not want to try that. It feels too intrusive, too intimate, too dangerous. Especially since Feral has no idea what this bond actually means.
“It’s- as if he’s always been a part of me.”
Mace’s lips purse at that.
“You’re worried it’s a trick,” Feral guesses, hearts sinking.
His Master sighs, leaning back into his seat. “There are many things in this galaxy that we do not understand, many of which we will never understand. I do worry that it’s being used against you, but I can’t think why.”
Feral can think of one very good reason.
“I am your Padawan, Master. It wouldn’t surprise me if someone is trying to use me to get to you. You’re the Master of the whole Jedi Order.”
Mace’s smile quirks crooked and rueful across his face. “Though I appreciate your regard, I am just one man. The Jedi have existed for thousands of years. If something happens to me, it will not bring the Order to its knees. I am but one cog in the machine. Another will take my place.” He raises a brow. “And you are not so easily fooled, my Padawan.”
Heat in his cheeks, Feral ducks his head. He rarely actively seeks out his Master’s praise, but Mace has always given it freely.
Master Mace’s expression goes thoughtful. “However, your line of thinking is not without merit. I did see a shatterpoint in you, after all. There is more at work here than we realize.” He pauses. “I do admit that Maul worries me. He doesn’t sound like a simple bounty hunter after the Queen. You said in your dream he had a Master. He possessed a lightsaber.”
“A red one,” Feral confirms quietly.
There’s silence for a minute as Mace slowly taps his finger upon his arm armrest. “If you had not formed a connection with this Zabrak, I doubt Qui-Gon would have told me his suspicions until you arrived at Coruscant. However, I believe he’s worried for your wellbeing, as well as the Order’s.”
On edge, Feral waits for his Master to continue.
“The existence of the shatterpoint and the appearance of this Force-user suggests a more sinister plot. Something vast and worryingly undiscovered until now.”
Feral bites his lip again. “Do…” He swallows. “Do you have an idea what it might be, then?”
Mace’s gaze is sharp and dark. “I have my theories, but they hardly make sense.” Feral recognizes that his pause means that for now, Feral won’t find out about it. Mace doesn’t like voicing opinions he hasn’t fully formed. He likes to examine them from every angle before putting it out into the world.
So Mace redirects a little. “I worry that if it is part of a larger plot, your connection was fabricated. Because we do not understand it, I do not want to dismiss the idea that the things you feel…they might be misleading. We do not know that you can actually feel Maul’s emotions.”
But Feral’s already shaking his head. “Master, I know it’s difficult to come to conclusions about the bond, but this I know. The Force…” The bond tings again, bright and high and aching. It’s a beautiful sound, like something from a long-forgotten life. “Master, we serve the Force. We follow its will. You know my dedication to it. This, what I feel…it’s genuine. I have no doubt about that.”
Mace’s studies him for a long minute. He squints slightly, like he’s trying to see something that doesn’t quite show up over the holo. Then, he nods. “I trust you, Feral. If you believe the bond to be real, then I will defer to you,” Mace acquiesces. “Perhaps when you return to the Temple, I can help you examine it. But until then…” He frowns. “You said he was surprised. This bond was unexpected. You were unexpected. We cannot lose this advantage.”
“But how?”
“It stands to reason that the effects of the bond go both ways. He can feel what you feel. Don’t try touching his mind directly,” Mace warns. “We don’t know what will happen if you do. If he tries to touch your mind or force himself in, you must block him. Otherwise, pay attention to how he’s feeling. See if you can get any more information about him or who he works for. We don’t know whether he’ll tell his employer about the bond or not. We need to be ready for whatever decision he makes.”
Feral frowns, trepidation knotting in his gut. “Do you think he still has a Master?”
Tilting his head, Mace’s expression turns more serious. “He was a child in your dream. Isolated and desperate. He was kept. That much is certain. And that was all he’d ever known. You do not take care to raise someone to serve you and then simply let them go. Not when you go to those extremes. He is still under someone’s thumb. And,” he continues, “you do not simply go after a Queen yourself. You send someone after them. Someone who is, ultimately, expendable.”
Feral swallows, hearts aching.
“There is something about this whole situation with Naboo…” Master Mace murmurs, eyes going distant once more. Then he blinks back into himself and focuses intently on Feral. “The shatterpoint?”
Anakin’s earnest face swims before his eyes. The feel of Shmi’s steady hands lingers between his horns. The burn of those sick-sulfur eyes eats into him. “It’s more complicated than I thought, Master,” Feral admits. “I thought it was one thing, but now…”
Sympathy colours Mace’s face. “Oftentimes, things are more complicated than they seem. There is no simple answer, no simple solution. No black and white. We must navigate that careful balance between and make the best decision we can.”
“We must seek the answer,” Feral recites softly, “through hardship and pain. We must stand tall despite it. We must stand tall because of it. Do not simply accept what is given to us. There are layers to the truth as there are layers to life. Wipe away the dark and you will see the light.”
Mace’s smile is so fond. “You have learned so much, my Padawan. You have already become an incredible Jedi, and I cannot wait to see where life leads you.”
Blushing, Feral ducks his head. “Thank you, Master. It’s all because of your guidance.”
But Mace shakes his head. “I may have guided you, but no one else has your heart, little one. You are responsible for who you have become.” He pauses, grief briefly lining his face. “I only fear that one day someone will take advantage of your heart and betray you.”
Heartbeat a little too quick, Feral raises his chin and stands tall. “Then that’s where you come in, Master. Because you’ve taught me everything I know, and that includes being careful with whom I place my trust. I follow the Force, Master, and though it may be clouded at times, it does not lie.”
The grin that spreads across his Master’s face is bright. “You truly are my Padawan.”
“Did you ever doubt it?” Feral teases.
“Never.”