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His eyes were dull and unfocused. Fresh scars littered his wrists. His nails dug uselessly into his palms. His jaw clenched tight. He looked like a feral animal, preparing for an attack. He didn’t trust her anymore. He didn’t trust anyone anymore.
Yellow suns stared into the wall. Rook didn’t dare to speak.
She knew he couldn’t hurt himself. Not here. Not when Saxon and the others were holding onto Maul’s weapons. Not when he had willingly given up his ‘saber.
Maul was still. His jaw relaxed for a beat as his hands fell open. He took a deep breath. Nothing seemed to change.
There was still a darkness in his eyes. His grief— like any other weakness— was hidden away from prying eyes. From her eyes.
Nonetheless, she saw through his mask easily. Looked through the cracks and saw the horror laid underneath. His terror. His guilt.
Rook quirked a smile under the helmet.
He looked a mess.
In his place, Rook thought, I would be sobbing.
He lost his brother and his mother in the same week. All he had was them. Now, all he had was the Death Watch.
Maul was all the Death Watch had.
So, they protected him. From his former master. From the Jedi. From himself.
(It was Rook who sat next to him. It was Rook who stared at him— at the half-comatose Zabrak— and remembered everything her childhood had taught her. Everything the Death Watch had taught her.
His hand gripped his ‘saber loosely. She didn’t touch him. She knew what happened to people when they did.
“Lord Maul.” Her voice was gentle, probing. He didn’t glance away from the wall. She didn’t need him to. “We need to make sure you don’t… follow in his footsteps.”
His hand balled into a fist. His jaw clenched. “I wouldn’t.”
“I know. We know. We just need to make sure.” Maul’s grip wavered. She was almost there. Just another word. Just another push.
Saxon crouched down beside her. He sighed. “Just let us help you, Lord Maul.”
She stabbed an elbow into his side. He grimaced and took the hint.
“Some people eat their blasters,” she murmured. His eyes turned to meet hers. A thousand stars burst behind her vision. Burning and blessing and breaking her in a second. She saw his grief. His anger. His love.
A master’s love.
An apprentice’s love.
A brother’s love.
Tears burned in her eyes. She felt thankful for the mask, if only to protect her dignity.
He lifted his lightsaber toward her. An offering. A promise.
He wouldn’t.
She hoped he was telling the truth.)
Maul closed his eyes. A peace filled the air. Rook smiled.
This was peace.
(This was the worst week of Maul’s life.)
Maul was silent. Once,— before the two of them ran into enemy territory to save Maul — Savage would have stood by their Manda’lor’s side as he spoke to them in reverent tones. He was Maul’s opposite; his equal.
His brother. A fellow Sith.
Maul liked to tell them about the Sith— about threats they could never hope to overcome. His old Master, with the power to make anyone bend. To make anyone break.
When Savage was by his side, Maul was confident. He spoke about his master without fear. Talked about him as if he was just another boulder in his path.
If it were up to Gar, he would urge Maul to attack him for what he had done to Savage. Use their slugthrowers and watch him burn. He deserved it— for the tortures and the scars and the death he’d wrought upon Maul.
Maul deserved revenge.
Maul was alone now. No imposing shadow by his side. Merely a corpse left to decompose. Only scraps left to bury.
Maul stood in front of the Death Watch, silent. Exhaustion burned in his eyes. Gar could see the faint embers of that familiar rage, suffocated by his grief.
He yearned to set Maul’s master ablaze. To reignite the spark in his eyes. To see him fight and win.
He wanted to see Maul strike the final blow on his master. To watch Maul get his revenge on Obi-Wan Kenobi. To see him burn with victory. To make them pay .
Sith eyes met brown. Gar could see the beginnings of a supernova— a fire in his eyes and a ‘saber strapped to his waist— in Maul. He would reach into the earth and recreate it. Fire and ash would cover the world. Lava would cover Gar, and he would be remade. Recreated, revived, reborn.
Gar’s eyes lit with recognition. He knew what Maul was. A fairytale monster. A demon in Zabrak skin. Something larger than life— with hellfire on his heels.
Maul was a demon, and he would drag Gar down into hell. Resurrection from the magma. A phoenix’s first life.
Gar smiled. His hand rested on his flamethrower.
Hell would be so much warmer with Maul beside him.