Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I don’t like this.”

Feral huffs a laugh. Savage’s image flickers before him, tiny scowl clearly evident on his glowing blue face. “It’ll be fine, brother. We’ve done this before.”

Savage crosses his arms. “No, not like this. You’ve never been on a mission this sensitive before when I couldn’t be there. And without your Master.”

Raising a brow, Feral doesn’t dare mimic his brother’s posture. Appearing calm in the face of Savage’s irritation has always garnered the best reactions. Despite his Master’s careful guidance, Savage cannot help but feed off other people’s anger. “Are you saying you don’t trust Master Feemor?”

Fingers twitching, expression pinching, Savage flicks his head. It’s odd not seeing a Padawan braid slap against his throat. But Feral is so proud of his brother for overcoming the Jedi’s expectations. So proud of his brother becoming a Knight. “No, that’s not— You know that’s not what I meant, brother. I just mean that Master Windu knows you well enough to keep you from doing anything foolish.”

Feral grins. “Wait until I tell Master Feemor that you think Master Windu is more cautious than him.”

But Savage doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, anxiety bleeds into his every breath, tension lining his posture. “I just wish I could be there,” he whispers, voice hissing over the holo call.

Feral feels his face soften. “It’ll be all right. Trust your Master, he’s knows what he’s doing. Jinn, too. He was the one who taught Master Feemor. Obi-Wan and I aren’t exactly helpless, either, you know. We’ll finish up here quick and be home soon. You just focus on reconnaissance for your own mission, okay? Or blow off some steam with Bruck and Luminara. My Master is there if you need him.”

Savage scoffs, clearly trying to shrug off his worry. “Like Master Windu is any better. He’s always crawling up the walls whenever Feemor’s gone.”

“I meant with your mission.”

Savage eyes him meaningfully. “Sure you did.” He lets out a gust of a sigh, raking a hand down his face. “Just…keep safe, all right? And you keep that fool Kenobi in line, you hear?”

Feral can’t help the soft grin that curls across his cheeks. “Always, brother.”

-:-

When Feral was barely old enough to remember the muggy heat of Dathomir and the tight fear on all the Nightbrothers’ faces, Savage took him and ran.

Several months later they were found by a Jedi on a distant planet, half-starved and just as desperate as when they escaped.

They were found and taken in by the Coruscant Temple.

-:-

Feral isn’t quite sure why he got put on this mission.

Okay, well, that’s a lie. He does. He works well with the Jinn-Kenobi team and Feral needs more hands-on diplomatic experience. So here he is. At the behest of the Council and under Master Feemor Aylward’s temporary charge. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Master Aylward is here because he and Jinn are legendary together. But Feral knows his own Master, and he knows Feemor is only here because Mace doesn’t trust Qui-Gon with Feral’s well-being. Too often has Obi-Wan come home from a mission gone awry, wide-eyed and bloodied. For as long as Feral can remember, Mace has always been wary of the Jinn-Kenobi team’s odd cases of terrible-good luck.

But it’s not like Feral isn’t looking forward to the mission, because he is. He loves every second he can spend with his best friend, and Obi-Wan’s Master has always been kind to him. Feemor, of course, is almost as dear to Feral as his own Master.

But Feral misses his Master. Misses his steady hands and the exasperated lilt to his voice. The way Mace always manages to make Feral feel safe and understood.

He wishes Mace could be here with him, but as Master of the Jedi Order sometimes he has no choice but to stay and let Qui-Gon or Feemor take his place as teacher on missions.

Such as this one.

“This still feels odd,” Obi-Wan murmurs as they prepare to disembark their vessel and meet the representatives of the Trade Federation. “Four Jedi for this dispute? I grant that something about this whole situation feels…off, but I’m not so sure that four of us is sending the right message.”

Keeping his eyes on Masters Jinn and Aylward who are still in deep discussion over the plan, Feral leans down to murmur quietly in Obi-Wan’s ear. “Master Windu has seen a shatterpoint.”

Obi-Wan tenses. When he turns his head just the slightest, his soft hair brushes Feral’s temple. “A shatterpoint?”

Feral nods, an odd nervousness tumbling in his gut. “He worries. He didn’t want to send me at first, even though it’s good experience. But the shatterpoint…” He drums his fingers along one of his ‘sabre hilts. “It’s connected to me. He said I must go despite his reservations. I’m meant to be here.” Holding his breath, he meets Obi-Wan’s gaze. Something about it causes that tumble in his stomach again. An odd warmth to flush across his cheek. He’s seen that look in Obi-Wan’s eye more and more often lately, but he can never read it.

And he can’t bring himself to ask.

Confused, Feral takes a moment to find his breath again. “You’re meant to be here, too. And Qui-Gon.”

A faint smirk curls Obi-Wan’s lip. “So he sent Feemor to keep an eye on us.”

Feral can’t help but smile in return. “Yes.”

“Your Master worries too much.”

Of course he does, Feral doesn’t say. How can he not? Instead, he says, “And yours barely at all.”

His best friend’s expression immediately becomes pained, tight around the eyes and mouth. “Don’t remind me.”

Guilt eats cold at his insides. Feral gently nudges Obi-Wan’s shoulder with his own in silent apology. The soft smile that crosses Obi-Wan’s kind face warms both Feral’s stuttering hearts.

“Obi-Wan, Feral! It’s time.”

It’s a moment more before Obi-Wan breaks their gaze. “Coming, Master,” he calls. He flashes one last grin at Feral before he steps away.

Feral’s hearts stumble along a bit too quick even as they all descend the ship’s ramp to meet the Viceroy.

-:-

Feral doesn’t remember much of his home planet. How could he, when he left at barely three years of age? It was probably why he fit into the crèche so well. But Savage was older when they arrived at the Temple. Volatile. Scared.

Savage may have been young, but he was still one of the oldest Initiates they’d ever taken in. Six years old was enough to cling to the bitterness of his childhood slavery under the Nightsisters. Old enough to be violently protective of his younger brother. Old enough that he didn’t want to understand the pacifism of the Jedi.

At first, all Savage really cared about was getting help for his younger brother. His starving, sick baby brother. So he’d gone with the Jedi who found them.

But then they were separated. Savage’s new Crèchemaster told him that though his actions were honorable, Savage needed to let go of his attachment to his younger brother.

After that, Savage just saw the Jedi as their new slave masters.

So late one night after Feral was released from the Halls of Healing, healthier and chubbier than ever, Savage snuck into his little brother’s crèche and stole him back.

On the way out of the Temple, Savage ran into Feemor Aylward.

-:-

Things go wrong, as they normally do when Jinn and Obi-Wan are involved.

Though Feral can hardly blame them for any of it. It seems the Trade Federation planned to betray them all along.

Now they’re headed to Tatooine. Alone. Far from any decent help. With a young runaway Queen onboard.

At least everyone’s alive.

Savage and Mace are going to be so angry, though.

“Hey.”

Feral looks up from where he’s sitting in the galley. Obi-Wan stands in the doorway. Exhaustion lines his face, tension holding his limbs taught and close to his body. Sweat makes his hair stand up on end. There’s a smudge of dirt shadowed across the bridge of his nose and worry clearly bleeds into his every breath.

Feral musters a smile. He’s just as exhausted. “Hey.”

Whatever hesitation that may have stayed Obi-Wan, it obviously disappears because the older boy immediately moves towards him. There are a few pilots milling around the galley, quietly conversing and allaying their fears amongst themselves. Obi-Wan pays them no mind as he slides into the seat next to Feral, thigh pressed close to his. Warm in the familiar chill of space.

“Are you all right?” Obi-Wan asks, voice fervent. They’ve barely had a minute to breathe since the attack on the Federation cruiser. Even when they were down on Naboo, all they could do was move close together and step in tandem, exchanging relieved glances at finding the other again. Obi-Wan’s fingers had brushed his sleeve, soft against the back of his hand.

Obi-Wan reaches out now, grasping Feral’s hand with an odd amount of almost-desperation. He studies Feral’s face, eyes flitting over him as if expecting to see some sort of injury blossom to the surface of his skin.

“I’m okay,” Feral reassures, placing his other hand atop his friend’s. “Just bruised. Glad we’re all in one piece. You?”

Obi-Wan’s answering grin is so happily relieved it leaves Feral a bit breathless. “Same as you. Bruised, weary.” His grin goes lopsided and wry. “Annoyed that every mission of ours seems to go sideways.”

Feral can’t help but laugh softly and lean into his dear friend. “It is rather the norm, isn’t it?” He goes silent for a moment. Contentment curls warm about them in the Force. Obi-Wan leans into him, too. They’ve always been able to rely upon one another. Comfort each other. It’s nice to know that will never change.

“Do you think we’ll be all right? With the mission, I mean? Will we make it through this okay?” Feral’s question is soft, almost too quiet to be heard. But Obi-Wan is close enough that he does.

“We’ve been through worse.”

Feral turns to give him an incredulous look.

Obi-Wan raises a brow. “It’s true. Don’t make me remind you of all the times I’ve come home only to find you recovering in the infirmary. We’ve been on hundreds of difficult missions. This is no worse than any of them.”

Anxiety still churns his gut, trembling in his mind. He ducks his head. “My Master isn’t here, though,” Feral whispers, shamed by his admission.

A warm, calloused hand cups his cheek, guiding him up again until he meets Obi-Wan’s intense eyes. They are as stormy as ever. Feral has always admired their colour, so different from his own pale gold.

“You will be okay, Feral. You are resilient and resourceful and nearly a Knight. You’ve survived without your Master before and you will do so again.” Obi-Wan fingertips graze the lobe of his ear, the cool touch of his silka beads. His thumb rubs along the curve of one of Feral’s tattoos. “And you’ve got me. No one will touch you as long as I’m around.”

Shaken, Feral takes a trembling breath. “I don’t need protecting.”

Obi-Wan’s smile has always been so kind. “I know you don’t, but I’m here anyway.”

Something flickers in the back of his mind, something he can’t quite put a name to. Feral lets his eyes slide closed. Doesn’t think about how his exhale is as shaky as he is. Doesn’t let himself think twice about leaning into Obi-Wan’ warm, steady hand. He squeezes Obi-Wan’s other one, lets their fingers tangle a little. He can’t adequately put into words how much Obi-Wan means to him. How dear Obi-Wan is.

He tries anyway.

“There are so many ways my life could have turned out,” he whispers, “and yet I can’t imagine that in any one of them I could possibly be without you.”

There’s a sharp inhale. Then Obi-Wan’s leaning his brow against Feral’s temple. “I feel the same,” he confesses, words barely more than a whisper of hot breath along Feral’s cheek.

Feral’s hearts stutter in tandem in his breast, heartbeats chasing one another along his ribs.

They sit there for a long while, simply breathing together, taking comfort in one another’s presence. In the grand scheme of things, the Naboo milling around them don’t matter. Let them witness this quiet moment between two tired Padawans. Every one of them is trying not to break beneath the stress, so why would they begrudge them this?

-:-

Feemor, rightly so, was worried about two younglings out and about in the dead of night. Especially since one of them was little more than a baby. When questioned, Savage only snarled and tried to make his escape.

But Feemor was experienced and knew how to corner and catch unruly children. However, his touch only induced near madness in Savage who knew what unkind adults could do to children. Savage kicked and screamed and bit, doing his best to gore Feemor with his baby horns.

Disturbed by the youngling’s hysterical behaviour, Feemor immediately backed off, raising his hands in surrender.

Savage’s distress awoke Feral, who quickly dissolved into a screaming fit. Eventually, Feemor managed to coax Savage to the refectory, promising that food would likely calm his younger brother down. Wary, but exhausted, Savage followed at a safe distance and when they sat down, set about feeding his baby brother.

Savage always recounted the tale with a mixture of embarrassment and admiration. Embarrassment at his hysterical and rather ineffective behaviour, and admiration at the fact that by the end of the impromptu meal Feemor managed to wrangle the reason behind Savage’s distress out of him. And somehow, somehow— Feemor managed to gain a bit of Savage’s trust, small though it was.

By the next morning, Savage was curled around Feral and sleeping in Feemor’s bed with the promise that Feemor would never touch either of them without permission. In fact, Savage only knew to trust that promise because Feemor had given the brothers his own bedroom and relegated himself to spending his nights on his cramped sofa. The bedroom was newly keyed to only Savage’s voice and palm print, which had also been added to the apartment’s entrance. It meant that only Savage could enter and exit the bedroom.

It was a private little sanctuary that Feemor had freely and quite readily given.

It wasn’t enough to win Savage’s hearts, but it was enough to convince him to stay a few more days while he figured out what to do once they left the Temple.

Little did he know that as he slept, Feemor was meeting with the Council on how to best handle the brothers’ unusual situation.

There was no way Feemor was going to let anyone tear apart two trauma-stricken brothers. Not out there in the wide galaxy, and certainly not in the Jedi Temple itself.

-:-

Tatooine is dry and hot. The aridity isn’t welcome but at least the heat is pleasant enough. Zabraks are made for inhospitable lands and Feral is no different, which is why he’d insisted upon accompanying Master Qui-Gon into the settlement. Obi-Wan hadn’t looked too happy, but at least he hadn’t argued.

The same couldn’t be said for Jar-Jar who wanted to explore the planet, but Master Feemor managed to convince him otherwise. While Obi-Wan and Feemor stay with the Queen’s entourage as protection and repairmen both, Jinn and Feral are going into town to find a suitable hyperdrive. Feral can’t help his fondness of the little R2 unit accompanying them. The droid possesses a witty attitude and an expansive vocabulary that Feral’s sure would raise his Master’s blood pressure dangerously high.

The handmaiden is something else entirely. Padmé is at the same time so similar and so different from the other Padawans Feral knows that it gives him a headache. She’s kind enough, if oddly naïve despite her station. But Feral supposes it must do with her upbringing on a Mid-Rim planet.

If only she’d stop staring at everything around her like a tourist just waiting to be robbed.

As Feral steps closer to Padmé, glaring at an older man eyeing her with an uncomfortable amount of interest, he can’t help but think of Obi-Wan.

“Be safe,” Obi-Wan had murmured low in his ear before Feral left the ship. His plea could have been stolen from Savage’s lips, but it had felt so different hearing it from Obi-Wan. The way the older boy had slipped his hand into Feral’s own and simply held it tight for just a few moments—

Feral’s cheeks are hot, but it has nothing to do with the twin suns.

“Your brother would kill me if you returned injured,” Obi-Wan had continued with some levity, a faint smirk quirking his lips. “And I dare not think of what Master Windu would manage to inflict upon me.”

Then Master Jinn had declared that if they were to leave, they must leave now, and Obi-Wan’s hand slipped from his own like fine grains of sand.

Unable to contain his frown, Feral fiddles with the fraying end of his tunic. He watches passersby with suspicious eyes, and yet he cannot banish Obi-Wan’s sweet smile from his head. Nor is he able to shake the odd sense of foreboding he’s had since the beginning of this mission. Since Master Windu sat him down with grave eyes and said:

“There is a shatterpoint and you are at the centre of it.”

It is a relief when Master Jinn leads them into the first little junk shop.

-:-

The Council could not grant custody of the two boys to Feemor, but they did allow the both of them to be placed in the same crèche. Feemor nodded and demanded they see Mindhealers, as well, for Savage especially. Feral was young enough that they only needed to make sure he grew healthily.

Savage clearly had much to come to terms with.

Feemor also pointed out that if Savage felt threatened enough to attempt to leave the Temple with his baby brother and nothing but the clothes on their backs, then clearly the Jedi had gone wrong somewhere.

This dissolved into hours’ long arguments and by the time Feemor made it back to his apartment with the younglings’ new housing assignment, it was already late afternoon.

-:-

Anakin is a peculiar, sweet little boy. He eyes Feral’s tattooed face and crowned horns with a kind of fascination that is far more charming than he expects.

Of course, he realized immediately that the boy is a slave. It’s impossible not to. There’s a particular stubborn set to his jaw that he shares with Savage. The sharp gleam in their eyes is the same. The way they regard the room, like they’re judging the threat each person presents and how to best use it to their advantage. How they focus on the largest, meanest of them and- and—

Feral hates that look. Hates how vulnerable and haunted it makes his brother feel. Once, Savage and Feemor were sent a mission that involved slavers. They had no idea it would until they were in the thick of it and by the time they came home, his brother was little more than a wooden husk. Feral spent the next few days curled into Savage’s clinging embrace, desperately trying to reassure him that he was okay, that they were both going to be okay.

When Obi-Wan came back from Bandomeer with a Master and scars both, when he told them how he’d been kept in shackles with a collar of explosives around his neck—

Savage had gone still, shields slamming shut, but not before Feral felt the white-hot rage that coursed through him. His brother had known his own Master wouldn’t give in to the desperate, half-feral look in his eyes. Feemor wouldn’t want to take him to the mats of the salles and beat him back back back until Savage had exhausted all that rage. Until he’d become himself again, and not the deepest, most feared parts he’d wanted to leave behind when he fled Dathomir with Feral in his arms. Feemor, for all his kind wisdom, was not that kind of Master, and he never wished to be. Not when it would make him like the Nightsisters of Savage’s childhood memories.

But Master Windu would do it, had done it before, even, when Savage was young and reckless and struggling to find himself. So Savage had marched right up to Feral’s Master and asked for a sparring match.

It didn’t fool anyone. Not Feral, not Feemor and certainly not Master Windu. Feral had been half-sick with worry, because for all that Savage spent careful time letting Feral know exactly where they came from, exactly what they escaped— Savage wis always hesitant to show how Dathomir had twisted him. How it had beaten him bloody and left its nasty scars and how it whispered in the back of his mind every day.

Every day, Savage spends a long time meditating, using the techniques Feemor and Mace taught him in order to find that serene centre he’s worked so hard to achieve.

So seeing Savage so unhinged had frightened Feral more than almost anything, because Savage always did his best to hide those moments from Feral, worried that it would somehow spoil his little brother. Like even touching Feral during those moments would smear Dathomir and all its atrocities upon his soul.

When his Master agreed to a training session, Feral stared at Windu wide-eyed and scared speechless. But as they passed, Master Windu paused, placed a hand upon Feral’s shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. His face hadn’t been kind, he hadn’t even smiled. But there was an empathy there that thawed Feral’s hearts.

“I’ll take care of him,” Master Windu said, and Feral believed him.

Obi-Wan and Bruck hadn’t let Feral simply suffer in anxious silence. They’d led him away from the salles, refusing to let Feral huddle by the doors for the entire afternoon, wringing his hands and listening to his brother beating and being beaten. Instead they led him to the Room of a Thousand Fountains and found solace amongst the plant life. Feral couldn’t find it in himself to swim in the ponds, so instead they danced through katas like they were simple Initiates, so young and bold and rambunctious. It was so easy to fall into step with them. It was less easy to steady his heartrate and his breath and his mind, but with them he managed it.

With his best friends, he always could.

By the time they’d run through their katas several times, he was centred and exhausted in both mind and body. They collapsed by the side of the pond and leaned against each other, sweaty and gross and breathing hard. Obi-Wan laughed into his hair, a breathless sound that never failed to make Feral so happy.

“What are you laughing about, you crazy boy?” Bruck had grumbled. He clumsily swatted at Obi-Wan. This was when he still had all his flesh limbs, so the impact didn’t hurt and only made Obi-Wan laugh again.

“I thought I’d never get this again,” Obi-Wan finally admitted, his words bittersweet, some strange longing lingering in them.

Immediately, Feral and Bruck lurched towards him and they all tumbled into the grass.

“You’re a Jedi,” Bruck said fiercely. “You’re staying with us.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Feral reassured somewhat desperately. “You’ve got us and a Master and Feemor and Savage and Master Windu, too—”

“I know,” Obi-Wan said, voice small as he ducked into Feral’s shoulder. Bruck’s arm tightened around them both. “I know.”

They lay like that for the rest of the afternoon, taking simple comfort in quiet companionship. By dinner, Feemor found them. In his arms was a basketful of food pilfered from the commissary. His smile was weary and gentle. Soon enough, Mace and Savage joined them, both bruised and rumpled and more than exhausted. But the weight had clearly been lifted from Savage’s shoulders and Feral took comfort in the smile that Savage offered him.

Halfway through their meal Masters Qui-Gon and Xanatos joined them, each complaining that the other had made them late. It was the first meal they’d all had together and Feral still cherishes the memory.

 “You’re a Zabrak,” Anakin pipes up, pulling Feral from bittersweet memories. Padmé watches the interaction curiously.

Feral can’t help but smile. The boy has managed to remain so bright and curious despite everything. It both lightens his hearts and tightens a sick deep pit in his stomach. He doesn’t want to see Anakin grow up broken and forlorn. He forces the smile to stay on his face. “Yes, I am.”

The little boy peers curiously up at him, eyes tracing over his face. “I’ve never seen anyone with tattoos like yours!”

Raising a brow, Feral says, “I doubt you would have. They’re specific to my homeworld.”

Frowning, Anakin narrows his eyes at him. “But, why would that…”

“My homeworld is…” Feral trails off, vaguely uncomfortable. He only really knows what Savage has told him, and even then, that’s from a little boy’s perspective. “My homeworld is very isolated. No one ever really leaves and there aren’t very many of my people to begin with.” He leans over so Anakin can get a better view as Feral traces the lines upon his own face from memory. He’s spent many long hours in front of the mirror studying them.

“When we are born, our Brothers mark our bodies with these tattoos. It’s a secret language. They show familial connection, where we’ve come from and where they hope we go. They’re a kind of talisman, too. They tattoo symbols for protection into our skin, as well as valued traits like strength and loyalty or a keen eye for hunting.”

Anakin stares wide-eyed up at him, mouth agape in wonder. “What do yours say?!”

Feral can feel his face tighten in distress. “I- I don’t know. I was very young when I left my homeworld. My older brother thinks one of them might mean strength…And we share one same symbol, so I think that’s supposed to show we’re related.”

Padmé frowns. “I thought J—” Quickly, she bites the sentence off, casting a slightly wide-eyed look at Anakin who stares up at them intently. “I thought Jinn said you didn’t have family.”

“I have my brother,” he says perhaps a bit too defensively. “I’ve always had him. And family can be more than blood.”

Padmé stares at him for an odd, intense moment, then ducks her head apologetically. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

Anakin’s frowning too by this point. “Why did you leave so young?” he asks hesitantly, glancing at Padmé.

Barely biting back a sigh, Feral folds his hands into his sleeves. “My people are slaves. My brother smuggled me off our homeworld so we could escape.”

Anakin flinches. “O-oh.” He blinks rapidly. “You were like me…But now you’re free.” There’s a strange spark in his eye. A light that wasn’t there before. A determination that colours his face and strengthens his jaw. There’s something about him that calls to Feral, smoothing warm across his senses.

“We’re leaving,” Master Jinn says, striding back into the shop.

Hesitant to follow the Master, Feral’s gaze lingers on Anakin. He doesn’t want to leave him. Everything in him is telling him to stay stay stay. To hold on tight to this bright little boy’s hand and never let go.

“Feral!” Jinn calls, Padmé already on his heels.

“I’ll see you again,” slips out of Feral’s mouth, a truth he wasn’t expecting.

Anakin lights up. A fire, a beacon, and- oh.

Oh.

Anakin grins, all teeth. “See you around, baschna.”

-:-

Savage and Feral did not move into the crèche as wholly as the Council expected them to. After they were given twin bunks which Savage ignored in favour of just the one, Feemor pulled aside the head of Dragon Clan. Crèchemaster Vant didn’t like anyone sticking their nose into her crèche’s business, but she realized the unusualness of the situation. Somehow, she agreed to letting Savage and Feral retreat to Feemor’s quarters if they got too overwhelmed.

This does not mean, she emphasized, that they would get any special treatment beyond that. She merely recognized that the two brothers had different needs that had to be met and if letting them retreat to a safe space once in a while was included in that, then so be it.

It took a few more days for Feemor to convince Savage that staying at the Temple was best for now.

“You do not have to become a Jedi,” Feemor said, words slow and intent. “That is your choice and your choice alone. But at least give yourself a few more years of safety and comfort. Let your brother grow up enough to think for himself. You cannot handle it all on your own. Give yourself a break and figure out what you want to do. When the time comes, you can make your decision. No matter what, I will do my best to help you.”

To this day, there is no one who loves and idolizes Feemor Aylward more than Savage Opress.

Chapter Text

“Heyy pretty girl! Why don’t you come over here!”

Padmé ignores the comment as they walk the streets of Mos Espa and Feral steps a bit closer, blocking her from view as best he can.

“Hey! Hey! Chuba! I’m talking to you, schutta!”

Faltering just a moment, Padmé’s lips tighten. Feral doubts she’s ever been talked to like this before.

“Best to ignore them. Keep walking,” Feral murmurs, because he’s been in this position before. He knows what it feels like to have lecherous people running their eyes over you, foul words on their lips. A pretty boy like him? Of course he’s had his fair share of unwanted attention on missions. So many politicians or princesses or rebellion leaders thinking they can charm their way into his bed and sway him to their side. Mace has done his best to protect him, but there’s only so much he can do short of locking Feral up in the Temple, and that’s no way to live. It’s not uncommon amongst the Jedi, so Feral has always grinned and bore it.

Managing a tight nod, Padmé’s calm façade smooths until she’s as composed as the Queen, if she isn’t actually the Queen herself.

But there’s a commotion as the man who called Padmé over makes a show of kicking his chair back and making his way over to them, a Dug on his heels. They push through the dining crowd and out into the street, leaving Feemor and Padmé no time to scurry ahead out of reach. Feral pushes in front of the young girl and stares down the two men.

The human male sneers at them, breath reeking of alcohol, hair unkempt and clothes a little scruffy. Dark paint circles his eyes, lending them a menacing look. The Dug leers at Feral, then tries to peer around his shoulder at Padmé.

“Stoopa,” the human snarls, “you deaf? I’m talkin’ to you.” He jerks his head at Padmé. “I’m offering your girl a drink.”

“She’s not interested,” Feral says smoothly, Padmé tense against his back.

“Oh, really?” the human drawls. He waggles his eyebrows. “How much?”

Feral blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

A slow smirk slants nasty across the man’s face. “How much for the girl?”

“I am not for sale,” Padmé bites out, stepping forward despite the jerk of his hand. She stands tall and proud, face severe. Under the blanched make-up of the Queen she might even be terrifying. But Feral can sense the slight tremble in her arm, can see the twitch in her brow. As powerful as this girl might be on Naboo and in the Senate, she is still just a girl in slaver space, far out of reach of the Republic. She knows full well what can happen to her and the people who are trapped here with her.

“Really.” The man cocks his head, squinting at Padmé, then Feral. “Ah, I see. Where’s your Master, then? They around?”

“We don’t have a Master—” Padmé near-snarls before Feral cuts her off with a firm hand on her shoulder.

“The pretty ones always do,” the Dug drawls, condescension dripping from his tongue. “Your Master sure is careless for leaving you two alone. Who knows what might happen? Especially with so many people in town for the Race.” He takes a small, menacing step forward but before Feral can do anything someone calls out.

“Better be careful, Sebulba! He’s a big-time outlander!”

Anakin struts up, a cocky little smile on his face that almost makes Feral’s hearts combust with anxiety.

The Dug and his companion startle, then focus all their ire on the little boy. There’s a rapid-fire conversation which gives Feral the impression that the three are actually acquainted, though obviously there’s no love lost between them. In the end, the two companions retreat to their table in the shade with a huff, but not without matching sneers and a pointed spit at their feet.

Anakin watches them leave with a raised brow and a little quirk to his lips. Force how has the boy lasted this long? Then he glances up at Feral with a wide, gleaming smile. “Hello again, baschna!”

“Anakin!” Padmé blurts.

The little boy turns sparkling eyes on her, clearly delighted. “Padmé! That sure was a close one! You’ve got to be more careful! You’re lucky I was nearby! Sebulba and Nym are pretty dangerous.”

“Feral?” Master Jinn steps up to his shoulder, a concerned frown creasing his brow. R2 trundles along at his feet, beeping inquisitively.

“It’s alright,” Feral reassures, glancing over to where the Dug and his friend have settled back down at their table, swigging drinks and watching them with disconcerting gazes. “Anakin here helped us out of a bit of trouble.”

“We can’t draw any attention to ourselves,” Jinn murmurs quietly.

“That’s gonna be hard,” Anakin pipes up. “Anyone can tell you’re foreigners. People are gonna try to take advantage of that. And, well…” he trails off, casting a pointed glance at Feral and Padmé, expression apologetic.

He doesn’t have to say it out loud. Feral already knows. It’s exactly as the Dug implied.

Awkwardly, Feral pulls the hood of his wrap up, covering the tell-tale horns and casting his tattoos in shadow. Then, with a glance at Padmé, he sighs and unwraps the cloth. Gingerly, he lays it across her shoulders.

Uncertain, she pulls it around herself, wrapping up her hair and covering some of her face. Thankfully, it does make her a bit less noticeable.

“We’ll have to make do,” Feral sighs again. “Thank you, Anakin. We’re grateful for your help.” He can’t help the frown. “I hope it won’t get you in trouble.”

Anakin shrugs. “It shouldn’t.”

The response doesn’t ease the anxiety eating away at Feral’s hearts.

Jinn puts a steadying hand on Padmé’s shoulder and stares down warmly at the boy. “Thank you, my young friend.”

“You’re welcome!” Anakin cocks his head. “Do you guys want some help? I know where everything is in Mos Espa! I’ve lived here all my life!”

“We don’t want to take up any of your time,” Jinn says. “I’m sure you have more important things to do.” I’m sure your Master would be unhappy, he doesn’t need to say.

“No, I’m free for the rest of the day!” Anakin proclaims cheerily. “Come on! Let me show you around!” He grabs Padmé’s hand and tugs her along. “Stay close! Don’t want any more trouble,” he laughs.

Jinn meets Feral’s eyes, a fond helplessness in his gaze.

“It might be smart to follow him,” Feral murmurs under his breath. “I doubt anyone else around here would be willing to help.”

Jinn sighs heavily. “I fear you may be right.” With that, he easily catches up with their young companions, R2 still hot on his heels.

Feral moves to follow as well, but there’s been this odd prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Like he’s being watched by someone other than the Dug and his friend. It only heightened when he’d removed his wrap and given it to Padmé. Surreptitiously, he glances back over at the area at the side of the street where tables cluster together, desperately seeking the scant shade.

There, at a table with another man, sits someone with long black hair, dark clothes and a slash of yellow across his face.

Feral actually stumbles, breath catching as he meets the man’s dark gaze.

Quin.

He stares a second more before Quin breaks the contact to reply to his companion. His shoulders shake like he’s laughing, head tilting in amusement. But Feral has long since been able to read the tension in his friend’s limbs. Quinlan has recognized him, but— he must be undercover. Otherwise he would have immediately stepped in when they were being harassed. There’s no scenario in this galaxy where Quinlan Vos doesn’t immediately rush to his friends’ aid.

Feral schools his expression, gaze nonchalantly slipping off his old friend to inspect the rest of the shade’s occupants. Inwardly, he frantically tries to remember anything about why Quin might be here. His friend is a Shadow, so many of his missions are classified and as goofy and relaxed as Quin can be, he is an excellent Shadow.

Feral has no idea why his friend is here. He hasn’t seen him in a few months, and this must be Quin’s current mission which Feral has just crashed spectacularly. Feral can’t see Aayla anywhere nearby though. Thinking of the many Twi’lek slaves he’s seen he sincerely hopes this is one mission the young Padawan was told to sit out on.

He hopes doesn’t mess anything up for his friend. The most he can do for him right now is pretend he didn’t recognize him and walk away as quickly as possible.

So that’s what he does.

-:-

Because many species developed differently, not every youngling in the crèche was the same age. It could be difficult for Initiates who aged particularly quickly or slowly. Of course there were crèches that specialized in younglings who needed particular care, but the Jedi had never shied away from different experiences. They made sure all their younglings interacted so they could understand and appreciate one another. There was never a crèche that consisted of only one species or one age or one gender. The Jedi did their best to make their crèches as diverse as possible, while still meeting the needs of their younglings.

So while it was a little unusual to have two brothers in one crèche, it was not unheard of. And while Savage was several years older than most of his fellow crèchemates, it was not to anyone’s disadvantage.

The brothers had never been around so many children before. The Nightsisters took care to control the Nightbrothers in any way they could. The men could be strong, but not so strong they could beat the Sisters. The men could outnumber the Sisters, but not so many that they could overpower them. The process of selecting mates was very, very strict and only at the behest of Mother Talzin could a Sister seek out a mate. So there were never many children at one time.

Of course, neither Savage and Feral knew this. They were far too young to. All they knew was that they’d never been surrounded by so many children. They’d never been clambered upon by excitable children. They’d never been asked to join a game of tag or had to endure the wail of several tantrums at once.

It was a lot.

Too much, in fact.

Savage and Feral shied away from questing sticky hands and hid in their blankets or ran back to Feemor’s room. The man would watch as Savage shakily clutched his brother to his chest as they slipped into the bedroom. He knew it had been the right decision to allow the brothers a safe, quiet space where they could calm their frazzled nerves.

Whenever this happened, Feemor would settle himself on his sofa with a cup of tea and a book, keeping an ear out for any unusual noises in the bedroom. Then after a while, he’d get up and begin to quietly cook a meal. The smell inevitably drew out the brothers who would peek their heads around the corner, watching with longing. Feemor would make a point to smile at them occasionally but not for too long. He’d make sure he was aware of them, but not obviously focus on the brothers because that would only make them run off.

When he was done cooking, he’d plate up three dishes and wordlessly place them on the table along with cups of tea, and then sit down to eat. After a few minutes the brothers would creep up to the table. At first, they simply snatched the food and ran back to their room. But after a while they began to eat at the table. Feral clambered up onto Savage’s lap and dutifully swallowed everything his older brother spooned into his mouth. Savage always made sure Feral finished his food first.

They settled into this comfortable, quiet routine. Feemor careful not to push but always making sure he was there. Uncomfortable with the thought of leaving the boys alone during such a critical time, Feemor was granted temporary leave from away missions. Instead he helped in the Archives and with several Initiate classes. He was determined to help acclimate the brothers to the Temple and he feared what might happen if they never felt safe enough to connect with anyone.

Luckily, after a couple months of this new routine, Feemor’s fears were vanquished.

One evening, Savage and Feral stood in line with the rest of their crèche waiting to get their food in the refectory. Savage always led his brother to the back of the line. He’d learned that there was always enough food for everyone so he never worried about rushing them ahead. He preferred to draw as little attention to themselves as possible, so the back of the line it was.

Feral bounced on his tiptoes, pulling on Savage’s sleeve as he excitedly whispered about the sweetbuns Crèchemaster Vant had mentioned earlier. They only got them once a week and they were Feral’s favourite thing to eat. But as they drew closer to the front of the line the brothers saw that the basket of sweetbuns was rapidly dwindling and no one was replenishing it.

So Feral grew quieter and quieter until they silently stepped up to the counter and the youngling in front of them grabbed the last sweetbun.

Lip trembling, Feral ducked his head while Savage gritted his teeth.

Then:

“Um, you can have my sweetbun if you want.”

The brothers turned. Standing just a couple feet away was a boy from their crèche. He clutched his tray awkwardly as he held out a bun in one small hand. Auburn hair curled over his wide grey-blue eyes and freckles speckled his nose. He might have been a year older than Feral but no older than that.

Feral stared for a few long seconds, then hesitantly reached out and took the proffered bun. “Thank you,” Feral whispered.

When their crèchemate grinned it was wide and toothy, showing off the gap where he’d lost one of his incisors.

“You’re welcome! I’m Obi-Wan! What’s your name?”

-:-

Eventually they wind up at a tiny fruit stand owned by an old woman named Jira. She calls out to Anakin with a fond smile on her face and indulgently nods as Anakin introduces them as his new friends. Feral has a feeling that Anakin is very quick to pick up strays and claim them as his own. Jira certainly doesn’t seem surprised by their appearance.

Despite Anakin’s protests, Jira tucks a few fruits into his hands. “For all that you’ve done to help me, little Ani,” she insists. “Make sure you give one to your mother. She’s been working hard.”

Anakin ducks his head. “Thank you,” he says sheepishly. He stares at them for a moment before he twists and offers a couple to Feral. “Here, baschna! You’ll like these pallies.”

Instinctively, a refusal rises to his lips. He doesn’t want to take anything from Anakin. Not when the boy clearly has so little already. But he pauses before it can fall into the arid air. Something tells him he should accept the little boy’s offering. For someone with so little to give him something…he feels he’d be offending him by refusing. So instead Feral smiles and gently takes the fruit.

“Thank you, Anakin.” The fruits are small and hard in his hand. Curious, he finds a natural seam and splits it open. Sweet-smelling pink fruit drips onto his palm. “Here.” He passes one half to Padmé and the other to Qui-Gon. Then he splits open the second and yet again offers one half, but this time to Anakin. The boy smiles and readily takes the fruit, sucking it between his teeth and idly watching as Qui-Gon pulls a small cloth from his belt to wipe the stickiness off his hands.

Jira eyes Feral approvingly before looking off into the horizon. A worried expression creases her aged face. “Oh, my bones are aching. Storm’s a coming, Ani. You better get home quick.”

Anakin nods and turns on his heel. “Bye, Jira!” He stops and considers them, still sucking at the fruit. “Do you have shelter?” he asks concernedly.

“We’ll head back to the ship,” Qui-Gon reassures.

“Is it far?”

“It’s on the outskirts,” Padmé admits as they all begin to hurry down the street.

“You’ll never reach the outskirts in time,” Anakin exclaims, hand dropping from his mouth. “Sandstorms are very, very dangerous. Come on, I’ll take you to my place!”

Footsteps faltering, Feral frowns. “Are you sure? We don’t want to impose, and we don’t want to surprise your mother, either.”

Determined, Anakin shakes his head. “She’d be mad if I didn’t help! Come on, it’ll be fine. And we don’t have long, either. Sandstorms come up quick.”

So they follow him.

It doesn’t take very long to reach what must be the slave quarters of the city. Feral can’t quite put his finger on how he knows. Maybe it’s the way everyone here is so obviously beaten down and in more raggedy clothes. Maybe it’s the way all the houses are squished together, built on top of each other with dangerously narrow staircases winding between like seams of a haphazardly patched cloak.

By the time they reach a little corner of the neighborhood, the sand and wind has picked up. Padmé has tied Feral’s wrap tight around her face, leaving only her eyes free to the sand that rasps harsh against their skin. It’s a blessing when they finally step into the quiet solitude of Anakin’s home, sheltered against the raging winds. Anakin was right. They never would have made it back to the ship in time.

“Mom!” Anakin immediately calls as they trundle in, Qui-Gon bringing up the rear. “Mom, I’m home!”

A woman ducks through a doorway down the hall, wiping her hands off with a rag. She falters a bit when she sees them, footsteps slowing, but she doesn’t immediately stop or demand why they’re there. She looks worn from the twin suns and the life all slaves lead. Premature lines crease the skin at the corners of her eyes and at the edges of her mouth. Her dark hair has been pulled back into an intricate but practical bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes are dark but warm, like rich soil or the bark of an old tree.

Freckles dot her face like constellations. Inexplicably, it reminds Feral of Obi-Wan. Of the gentle curve of his shoulders and the speckle of soft brown across his bare skin. The way they scatter in dark patches across his face when he’s been out in the sun for too long. They way they’ve even crept up his hands, a few scattered and nestled against the delicate bone of his wrist.

Feral takes a deep startled breath, Obi-Wan’s absence an ache in his breast. Tucked away beneath his breastbone.

“These are my friends, mom.” Anakin grins.

“I’m Qui-Gon Jinn,” Master Jinn offers, a bashful expression upon his face. “Your son was kind enough to offer us shelter.”

“And this is Padmé,” Anakin eagerly cuts in, “and R2D2! And baschna Feral!” He points at each of them proudly.

But his mother’s gaze immediately locks on Feral. Her eyes are intense as they examine him and Feral is so startled he can’t find it in himself to say anything. Instead, he just inclines his head and offers a hesitant smile.

“Come on.” Anakin grabs both Feral’s and Padmé’s hand, dragging them down the hall. “I’ll show you Threepio!”

As they disappear down the hall, Feral can still feel Anakin’s mother’s gaze on the back of his neck like a brand.

-:-

Obi-Wan and Feral quickly became friends. Obi-Wan was a thoughtful, yet eager friend. He seemed to understand Feral’s anxiety and quietness and he even managed to coax him out of his shell. Soon enough, Savage found himself watching over two younglings instead of just his brother.

At first hot jealously bubbled in his stomach whenever he saw the two together. For so long he’d been used to Feral relying only on him, paying attention only to him. Loneliness ate away at him, too, because Feral was the only person he really talked to. With Feral suddenly having someone other than him…

Savage began to wonder if Feral even needed him.

Savage was tempted to begin leaving Feral alone with Obi-Wan. Sometimes, when the crèche became too much and Savage just wanted to escape to Feemor’s rooms, Feral would refuse to leave Obi-Wan. He’d sprawl flat on the floor and refuse to move or he’d hide under the blankets and, more horrifyingly, he began to scream.

Savage did not like this and he did not know what to do. What had his sweet, compliant little brother turned into? No longer did Savage fall asleep with Feral tucked into his arms. Instead, Feral and Obi-Wan hid under their blankets and giggled even after lights out. Savage sat on the edge of the room and watched as they played, too frightened to look away in case something happened to his brother and too frightened to step closer because- because did Feral even want him?

Certainly no one wanted him here as a friend. They all avoided him, giving him a wide berth as he sat glowering at Feral and Obi-Wan.

It- it wasn’t like Obi-Wan was mean. Quite the opposite in fact. Obi-Wan traded food at dinner with Feral so his little brother could have twice the amount of his favourite foods. Obi-Wan showed Feral how to work the datapads that Savage was still too uncertain to touch. Obi-Wan hugged Feral and kissed his cheek and held his hand and- and-

Savage didn’t know what to do with that.

So one night after Feral had fallen asleep in Obi-Wan’s little bunk, Savage snuck out of the crèche to Feemor’s rooms. The Jedi was already asleep on the sofa, bundled up under several blankets. Pausing at the door to the bedroom, Savage watched the rise and fall of the man’s chest. A strange sort of hollow feeling opened up in the pit of his stomach.

Savage slipped into the bedroom.

In the morning, Savage was awoken to the sounds of thumping and muffled cries. Eyes half-lidded, he watched the sway of dust in the sunlight filtering across the room before realizing that the cries were a child’s.

They were his brother’s.

Hearts pounding, acid in his throat, he flung himself out of bed and through the door. There in the entranceway knelt Feemor and in his arms were two small younglings. Feral peered over Feemor’s shoulder, eyes red-rimmed and watery, snot dripping from his nose.

“Savage!”

The little boy leapt out of Feemor’s arms and hurtled into his brother, nearly knocking the two of them off their feet.

“Where were you?” Feral sobbed over and over. “You were gone!”

Shame filled Savage’s eyes and he tucked his face into Feral’s neck to hide his hot tears. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

They stayed like that for a while, clutching to each other until a small hand touched Savage’s arm. Startled he opened his eyes and met Obi-Wan’s teary gaze. The little boy bit his lip, his other hand on Feral’s back. He held Savage’s gaze as, slowly, he hugged the both of them.

It felt strange to be hugged by someone other than his own brother.

But it wasn’t bad.

Soon, Feemor herded them over to the kitchen where he sat them down at the table and began to cook them breakfast. They ate with Feemor sat across from them, their own chairs scooted as close to each other as they could get so Feral could clutch at their hands. Reluctant enough to let them go, his little brother took turns with each hand to feed himself, taking quick, large bites so that as he chewed so he could hold onto the two people most important to him.

Feemor watched them with a knowing smile, and for the first time ever, Savage found himself smiling back at him.

-:-

Evening falls upon them quickly. Feral and Padmé offer to help Shmi, Anakin’s mother, with the cooking and while she looks reluctant, they insist upon it. Feral feel badly enough that they must be using up their meagre food supply but Shmi doesn’t seem bothered by it at all.

“Our home is your home,” she says unequivocally as if she’s repeating some sort of rite.

Feral bows his head, knowing that to refuse would be incredibly rude. “Thank you.”

Padmé chops soypro and vegetables and crushes seed pods while Shmi shows Feral how to fold everything properly into grainy batter and then form it into fist-sized balls. This seems to be Anakin’s favourite part, as he takes delight from carefully sprinkling the seeds then mashing the rest in. He makes a competition out of who can roll the most perfectly spherical ball of dough and Feral finds himself laughing throughout it all.

While those bake, Shmi seasons some lamta, a kind of dry vegetable that grows in the crags of ravines, and tosses them in a spitting, oiled pan. Spice lingers in the air, stinging Feral’s nose in a way that is strangely nostalgic. He closes his eyes and lets himself breathe deep. There’s a flicker of memory. A strange haze of thought and feeling and colour. The heat of a fire. Hands gentle upon his head, his back, engulfing his cheeks as warm gold eyes stare down at him between dark tattoos. Laughter rings in the distance, guttural and delighted.

Padmé coughs, startling Feral. Her eyes are watering and red-rimmed. “Sorry,” she rasps out. “I think it’s too much for me.”

“That’s alright,” Shmi says kindly and motions at Anakin who hops down from the chair he’d dragged over to the counter. “If you aren’t used to the spices it can be too much while it cooks. Anakin, why don’t you distract yourselves until dinner is ready?”

Anakin is eager to comply and he takes Padmé’s hand again, calling over his shoulder, “Bye, baschna!”

The two children squeeze through the doorway where Qui-Gon lingers, speaking lowly to Obi-Wan over the comm. Feral can’t help but watch his best friend’s Master for a moment. Vaguely, he can feel a tense wariness radiating off him that has nothing to do with the Skywalker household. He aches to speak with Obi-Wan for more reasons than he can explain. They’ve been on treacherous missions before. They’ve not seen each other for months at a time. But now- now all he wants is to be standing next to his best friend. To hold his hand and know he’s okay.

It’s a strange feeling. A warm one that aches and bubbles in his breast. It tingles down his limbs and he must turn away only to flinch when he meets Shmi’s assessing gaze.

“What’s ‘baschna’?” Feral blurts.

Shmi raises a brow, then turns her gaze back to the sizzling pan. The lamta have begun to brown and crisp golden at the edges, the meat of their insides blushing a brilliant purple. “It’s a word that belongs to slaves,” she tells him. “Literally, it means brother. But it’s more than that. It’s acknowledging a shared experience, a shared life. When someone calls you baschna it does not matter whether you are man or woman or neither. It does not matter whether you are child or adult. What matters is that you have both suffered and you both understand each other’s pain. There is respect in calling someone baschna. You can hate someone and yet still be baschna. Hate is put aside, even, because despite everything, you know you are baschna and will always be baschna.”

Shmi watches Feral from the corner of her eye. “A slave is baschna. A freed one, too. It does not matter. You have gone through the same torment and you’ll carry it for the rest of your life. But it also means you are never alone.”

Feral ducks his head, hearts trembling along his ribs. “I- I don’t deserve it,” he rushes, words tumbling from his lips. “I barely even remember— my brother is the one who’s baschna. He’s the one who remembers. He’s the one who- who saved us. Who escaped.”

He grits his teeth, unexpected shame flooding through him. Savage has always, always carried this darkness within him. Dathomir hurt his brother in ways that can never be named. If Feemor had never found Savage, Feral fears what would have happened to his brother. Fears what might have happened. Some awful part of him feels guilty that he can’t share his brother’s burden. No one can truly understand his brother and what he went through. What would drive a child of six to grab his brother and flee the only home he’s ever known?

Another, much more terrible part of himself that he keeps buried deep and dark where no one can unearth it— That part of him is glad that he can’t remember. He’ll never know what it was like to live in constant fear. He’ll never know what it was like to be forced to turn on his brothers or die. To be snatched up by a Sister and- and—

A hand settles gentle on his back, startling him into looking up again. Shmi’s smile is so kind, but there’s a ferocity in her eyes. A knowing that leaves Feral equal parts uncomfortable and relieved. “Whether you remember or not, slavery leaves it’s mark,” she tells him. “Any slave can see it in another, and I see it in you, baschna.”

Unexpected tears burn Feral’s eyes.

Her hand strokes comfortingly up his spine until it curls behind his head, fingers threading between his horns. She leans in and presses her forehead to his, a steady, warm contact. Feral can only close his eyes and breathe shakily.

“Our home is yours as long as you have need of it,” she murmurs. “Baschna must always help each other, otherwise we are lost in this galaxy.”

Shmi is as warm in the Force as her son. Perhaps not quite as blazing, but certainly just as strong. A thing that endures. They’re like the twin suns that bubble up from the horizon, promising light and life and merciless forgiveness. He wants to wrap his arms around her and protect her from everything in this universe. Wants to curl up in her warmth and sleep away his guilt and regret and weariness. With her, he feels inextricably safe.

He wishes Savage could meet her.

Wishes, quite unexpectedly, that this woman could be his mother.

When he looks up again, Jinn has disappeared from the doorway, and so, too, has Obi-Wan’s faint voice.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan was infuriatingly easy to like.

But no, Savage shouldn’t think that way. Feral clearly adored Obi-Wan and it was just as clear that the feeling was reciprocated. So Savage sucked it up and dealt with it. At first, he did as he always did: sit on the sidelines and watch as his little brother and Obi-Wan played. Savage continued to ignore any and all offers to play from the other younglings. In fact, most of them didn’t ask anymore because they already knew what the answer would be.

Savage refused to acknowledge the sinking feeling in his gut. Refused to admit that he was beginning to become desperate for Feemor’s familiar, easy smiles.

Sometimes, they still went back to Feemor’s to get away from the noise, but Obi-Wan usually accompanied them. The little boy knew when to be quiet and so they spent many evenings in Feemor’s apartment, curled up in the bedroom far away and safe from the rest of the galaxy, or curled up on Feemor’s couch as he read to them.

Savage loved it when Feemor read to them. One of the only things he let himself remember were the stories the Brothers told each other over the fire. Grand, free things that made Savage forget where he lived. Back then, it was so easy to forget that he was trapped in a way none of the characters in the tales were. They’d always free themselves or be saved, and in the end they were always happy and loved and surrounded by family.

Now, listening to Feemor read from his datapad, or one of the rare few printed books he’d managed to salvage over the years— it was equally freeing. But in a strange way he never felt back on Dathomir. As Feemor read, Savage knew he was just like in those stories. He’d freed himself. He’d freed his brother. And here he was. Maybe it wasn’t safe, he couldn’t let himself believe that quite yet. But at least here, in that moment, he could let himself feel something like it. Here, with Feral tucked into his lap and Obi-Wan curled into his side watching Feemor’s face as he exaggerated dialogue—

Here, Savage let himself feel at home.

And maybe he was.

-:-

“All slaves have a transmitter placed inside their bodies somewhere,” Shmi tells them as she refills Feral’s glass of water.

He murmurs a quiet thank you, resolving that that is his last one. He’s a Zabrak, which means his body is built for harsh climates. It’ll be fine to go without water for a while.

“I’ve been working on a scanner to try and locate mine,” Anakin rushes to say, tone far too matter-of-fact for Feral’s tastes.

“Any attempt to escape—” Shmi starts.

“And they blow you up! Boom!” Anakin slams his hand on the table and Feral wants to be sick. Wants to clear the image of blood and gore and Anakin’s limp form from his mind.

“I can’t believe there’s still slavery in the galaxy.” Padmé exclaims incredulously as Shmi refills her glass, too. “The Republic’s antislavery laws—”

“The Republic doesn’t exist out here,” Shmi cuts in, curt. Padmé has only known the luxuries of the Mid Rim. Shmi clearly understands the girl’s naivete but rightly will not let it stand in her house. “We must survive on our own.”

Shmi shifts and Feral’s eyes catch on the slip of her sleeve across her wrist. There’s a pale scar there, rough but precise and far too close to the vein. Alarmed, he glances up at her and catches the edge of a second pale scar at her collarbone. She meets his eye and smiles. It’s a thin thing stretched far too tight. A chill spreads through his veins and his hearts stumble offbeat.

Feral knows, he knows they’re self-inflicted. They’re old and make Feral wonder if maybe she tried to cut her transmitter out. Once, twice, as many times as it would take, before they hid it well enough and deep enough that she could never hope to find it.

He wonders if she tried the same thing for Anakin.

If her slavers learned their lesson once and dug that awful thing deep into him, too.

Feral nearly retches, which would be a damn shame because the lamta are delicious, sparking heat along his tongue and down his throat, lingering in the corners of his eyes.

“Has anybody ever seen a Podrace?” Anakin interrupts the awkward silence and Feral is guiltily glad of it.

“They have podracing on Malastare,” Master Jinn says, biting into a piece of the Ahrisa they’d baked. “Very fast, very dangerous.”

“I’m the only human who can do it.”

There, that matter-of-fact tone again. So many times today have Feral’s hearts stumbled and ached. This little boy will be the death of him. Feral doesn’t think he can take worrying about him for much longer, though for some strange reason he doesn’t mind the thought. Welcomes it, in fact. Anakin is such a bright little light and Feral— The Force sings in a way he’s never felt before.

“You must have Jedi reflexes if you race pods,” Qui-Gon says amusedly and Force they haven’t had a moment to speak about Anakin but does this man not feel the- the sheer and brilliant potential surrounding this boy? And his mother even?

Anakin’s gaze drops and his fingers scratch idly at the table. “You’re a Jedi Knight, aren’t you?”

Grasping at his cup of water, Feral takes a slow sip of water. Exchanges a glance with his best friend’s Master, sees the wary calculation in them.

“What makes you think that?” Jinn asks mildly, if somewhat curiously. It’s a test, as so many things are with Jinn.

“I saw your laser sword. Only Jedi carry that kind of weapon.” The boy knows he’s caught them out on a lie. A lie of omission, at least. The Force rises like the tide, like the crest of a wave and Feral wonders if this is the shatterpoint Master Windu saw. If Feral was meant to be here for this.

“Perhaps I killed a Jedi and took it from him.” Qui-Gon leans back and glances at Shmi who watches everything unfold with a master sabacc face.

“I don’t think so,” Anakin proclaims triumphantly, condescension colouring his voice. “No one can kill a Jedi.”

“I wish that were so,” Jinn says, old grief roughening his voice.

Feral must close his eyes for a brief moment. It’s been years since Master Tahl’s death and yet it’s still an awful blow. She always looked out for their little friend group, always willing to lend an ear and some hard-to-swallow but wise advice. As much as Bant adores Master Fisto, she clearly still grieves for her first Master.

For Master Jinn, it had been almost harder. He and Tahl were crèchemates. They’d known each other for as long as they remembered. He hadn’t known a life without her friendship.

Jedi are not immune to death. Far from it.

Feral- he can’t—

Force.

He can’t even imagine a life without Obi-Wan. The very idea makes his hearts break. Makes him want to- to—

Anakin seems to notice the grief wash across Master Jinn’s face because his gaze drops. “I had a dream I was a Jedi,” Anakin admits. “I came back here and freed all the slaves.”

Feral can’t help but be drawn to Shmi again. She watches her son with mixed pride and grief.

“Have you come to free us?” Anakin looks at Jinn, then, awfully, his gaze lands squarely on Feral. There’s terrible hope there. Anticipation. “Baschna?”

Feral nearly breaks down into tears.

“No,” Jinn confesses sorrowfully, “I’m afraid not.”

“I think you have. Why else would you be here?” Suddenly, Anakin seems far older than his years, and yet so much younger. For all that he’s been a slave his entire life, he still has so much hope. He sees so much good in the galaxy. Feral stares into those bright-blue eyes and thinks:

I will.

I must.

You will be free, even if I must die for it.

And yes, it’s a startling, awful, shattering thought. But- Feral is surprised to find that it is true. It feels right. He must free them. Maybe this is why he’s here. It must be.

Feral is meant to free this child and his mother.

-:-

So with Savage beginning to like Feral’s little friend, there was no way he was going to stand by when one of the other younglings pushed Obi-Wan into a pond.

Their crèche went to the Room of a Thousand Fountains a couple times a week. It was the most beautiful place Savage had ever been. The plants were so soft and vibrant in a way they weren’t on Dathomir. Of course there were many different kinds of gardens in the seemingly endless room and Savage enjoyed roaming everything from barren rocks with spiky plants to towering trees with swinging vines. He’d even heard there were underwater gardens, but he didn’t know how to swim yet so he couldn’t go down and look. He couldn’t believe they’d managed to fit everything in here but Feemor said it’d been cared for, for several thousand years.

On this particular day, Savage sprawled out in the sunlight and let the rays soak into his skin as Feral and Obi-Wan played at the water’s edge. Savage had drilled it into Feral’s head not to go in unsupervised, not until they learned how to swim.

By now Savage was comfortable enough to relax a bit as Feral and Obi-Wan played. This is why he didn’t see Bruck Chun watching Obi-Wan and Feral with jealousy. Nor did he see Bruck stalk up to them and push Obi-Wan into the water.

He did hear the splash and he did hear Obi-Wan’s little yelp.

He heard Feral’s sharp scream.

Immediately he bolted up. He zeroed in on Bruck standing with his hands on his hips, on Feral safe and sound but terrified. He couldn’t see Obi-Wan. Not anywhere.

But there were the flailing arms poking out of the water and suddenly Savage’s hearts were in his throat and he was dashing to the water, not even thinking that he couldn’t swim he just had to get Obi-Wan he had to protect him.

Luckily the water wasn’t deep. Savage was able to snatch Obi-Wan and dig his feet into the stones at the bottom of the pond and push them up and out, gasping for breath. There was water in his mouth, so he coughed and spluttered as he scrabbled for the edge of the pond and pushed Obi-Wan up first. The little boy weakly clambered up and collapsed in the grass.

Fear still making his hearts spasm against his ribs, Savage tugged himself out of the water and came face to face with—

A fight?

Still coughing, Savage watched, flabbergasted, as Feral pummeled his little fists into Bruck’s already bruised and bloodied face. He watched for a second more, before stumbling up and snatching Feral’s collar. He dragged him off the other boy and held him back as Feral struggled to twist and kick himself free.

“Feral,” Savage bit out sharp and rough.

“He hurt Obi!” Feral shrieked, tears spattering hot from his lashes, dripping down his cheeks. “He- he—”

Pride welled up in Savage’s chest, and disappointment, too. It was good that Feral fought for what he loved. Savage wanted his brother to fight tooth and nail for what mattered most. Wanted him to fight for his own life and not just take abuse laying down.

But, staring down at Bruck whose cheeks were also wet with tears. Seeing that hurt and fear, sharp and painful upon the boy’s face. How the bruises from his little brother’s fists were already blooming bright and ugly—

Savage didn’t want his brother repeating the past. This is how all Brothers grew up. Fighting tooth and nail, bloodied and beaten. Savage looked down at Bruck and his little brother and all at once he was back on Dathomir amidst the fear and the desperation and the cruel savagery. He was only lucky Feral hadn’t tried to gore the other boy, for his horns were just starting to sharpen.

Savage didn’t want his brother growing up like that. That’s why he’d smuggled him away in the first place.

And the Jedi- The Jedi would never stand for this.

He could easily imagine disappointment colouring Feemor’s face and it made his stomach knot heavy and cold and sick.

“Apologize,” Feral demanded, staring into Bruck’s eyes.

The little boy hiccupped and nodded. He turned ashamedly to Obi-Wan who gaped at them. “I’m s-sorry,” he mumbled.

Feral sneered in triumph, but then Savage shook him lightly by the collar. “Apologize.”

Feral turned wide, startled eyes up at him. Then they narrowed into stubborn anger.

“You shouldn’t have hurt him back,” Savage said sternly. “You don’t repay violence with violence. Apologize.”

Feral stuck out his lip and crossed his pudgy arms. Then, reluctantly, he bowed his head and turned back to Bruck. “I’m sorry,” he muttered petulantly.

“Good,” Savage said, satisfied. Then he dragged them all up to the infirmary.

Somehow, it was the beginning of an unbreakable friendship between the three little boys.

And somehow, Savage became Dragon Clan’s older brother.

-:-

“What if this plan fails, Master?” Obi-Wan’s voice crackles over the comm uncertainly. “We could be stuck here a very long time.”

Feral watches Anakin from his perch upon the tiny terrace huddled between the upper entrances to several slave residences. They’d already been by Watto’s and thankfully the Toydarian had agreed to Master Jinn’s proposal. Feral hadn’t pushed for the Skywalkers’ freedom. Not yet. He knew if they pushed too hard from the start, the Toydarian would never agree. He hasn’t even brought it up to Qui-Gon yet.

The plan rolling around in his head…It’s risky. Maybe too risky. As rebellious as Jinn can be, Feral knows the Master would immediately object to it.

He knows Obi-Wan would hate it.

So, he’s just going to have to do it his own way.

“Well, it’s too dangerous to call for help,” Master Jinn tells Obi-Wan, “and a ship without a power supply isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

“I agree,” Master Aylward pipes up over the comm. “Our mission is time-sensitive and I doubt the Queen will be willing to sit around for much longer. We don’t have enough provisions to last us much longer. We could try to get work or even gamble but it would draw too much attention to ourselves and we wouldn’t be able to earn the amount of wupuipi we need quickly enough.” He pauses, clearly weighing the situation. “In lieu of a safer plan…I trust you, Qui-Gon. If you feel this is the right decision, I’m willing to follow it.”

Feral swallows. Feemor has always respected Master Jinn, but he never hesitates to speak his mind or oppose Jinn’s opinion. If Feemor really thinks this is the only option they have…

“Thank you, Feemor.” A hint of a smile curls Jinn’s lips before he continues. “The Force is…It’s insistent. And…” He glances at Feral. “There’s something about this boy.”

A noise of interest crackles over the comm. “Another one of your strays?” Feemor half teases, though there’s an air of seriousness in his voice. In the background Feral can just barely hear Obi-Wan’s groan and he grins at that.

“Perhaps,” Jinn acquiesces. “But…I think it might be more.”

There’s a distant shout as Anakin fusses with his podracer, then Padmé’s laughter.

Jinn’s eyes stray towards them, lips pursing. “I’ll check in with you later, Feemor, Obi-Wan. If anything comes up, please contact me.”

“Of course, Qui-Gon,” Feemor says, Obi-Wan echoing him.

Master Jinn tucks the comm back in his belt, then casts Feral a significant glance. “Now might be a good time if you wish to speak with my Padawan.”

Startling, heat burns Feral’s cheeks and he nods, hurriedly retrieving his own comm as he hops up onto the roof. He turns and wanders a little bit away from Jinn, treading carefully upon the uneven stone.

The comm beeps for a few long seconds before it’s answered.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Feral!”

Affection washes over him, soothing his soul in the way that no one else can. He closes his eyes against the onslaught and lets out a soft, shaky breath. They don’t normally contact each other while they’re on missions. No matter how much Obi-Wan means to him, they’re Jedi. It would be unprofessional if they lost focus. Deadly, even. But right now, Feral doesn’t really care. This mission looms upon the horizon like none other, lingering in every breath. Like the air right before a lighting strike.

It unsettles him in a way that only Obi-Wan can soothe.

“How are you doing?” Feral asks quietly.

“Well, the Naboo are restless. The message we received from the Governor has shaken them and they’re eager to leave. Jar-Jar is in relatively high spirits. He seems to have realized it was the right decision to stay aboard. He went outside once and immediately turned tail to head back into the ship, saying it was too hot.”

“No, how are you doing, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan’s silent for a few moments. When his voice crackles through the comm, it’s significantly softer. Wearier. “I’m also eager to leave. I’m worried about Naboo. I’m worried about you.”

Feral’s hearts stutter, but it feels quite different from when Anakin shocks or saddens him to his core. He takes a second to breathe. Stares out into the endless blue sky stretched out across the rooftops of Mos Espa. Hearing the anxiety in Obi-Wan’s voice…he can’t tell Obi-Wan his plan.

He can’t.

Guilt gnaws away at his bones.

“I’ll be alright,” Feral reassures, uncertain whether he’s lying or not. “We’ll be back by tomorrow evening. As soon as the race is done we’re leaving.”

There’s a slight chkt across the comm, like Obi-Wan’s clicking his tongue in disapproval. “You’re resting all our fates on this boy.” And yes, the disapproval is clear in his friend’s voice. “I expect this from Qui-Gon, but not you.”

Feral can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed. Ordinarily this is true. But Obi-Wan hasn’t met Anakin. He hasn’t walked the streets of Mos Espa, where it teems with slaves. Hasn’t sat at Shmi Skywalker’s table and watched pale scars stretch across her tanned skin as her son slams his hand against the table and yells boom!

“I think—” Feral swallows uncertainly. “I think I’ve found the shatterpoint.”

There’s silence for a moment. Then:

“The boy?”

“Yes.”

More silence. It doesn’t put Feral on edge. When not in the thick of action, his friend takes the time to turn the facts over in his head. To examine them from every angle and pick them apart until they’ve laid all their secrets before him.

Feral watches the twin suns chase each other across the sky. Watches their endless cycle.

The Tusken Raiders call them the Sky Brothers, Anakin told him sleepily late last night. The floor of the boy’s bedroom was uncomfortable, but not overly so. Feral had slept in far worse places, with far worse company.

One day the younger brother showed his true face to the tribe, which is forbidden, Anakin had continued. A- a sin, I guess. I don’t know why. But because of that, the older brother tried to kill his young brother. It was what duty demanded. But he failed. Burning, bleeding, the younger brother chased his sibling across the sky. The older brother ran for the hills, but his younger brother never stops chasing him. They can never rest.

What a sad story, Feral had said, staring up into the darkness.

Yeah, Anakin had replied, then yawned. The younger brother exposed his face, and the older brother exposed his failure. And they couldn’t hide that. Everyone knew. They’d seen what happened. That makes the brothers ashamed and they turn that shame into anger and they turn that anger on everyone they see. Their gazes burn through flesh to reveal our secret selves. Anakin had paused for a few long, lingering moments. So long, in fact, that Feral thought Anakin might have fallen asleep.

But the little boy finally piped up again. Quiet and weary. It’s- it’s about expectation, I guess. Being unable to forgive.

And sorrow, Feral had said quietly. They were brothers, he didn’t say. They were supposed to protect each other. Love each other.

Feral isn’t worried that his friend will strip his words bare to expose his insane plan beneath. If Obi-Wan was here, then yes. Yes, Feral would be afraid. Obi-Wan’s stormy gaze would burn right into him and he would see.

But Obi-Wan is not here. He is a whole city away, cooped up in a ship far too conspicuous for these dusty wastes, tethered together only by the tenuous crackle of their comms. Far away from Feral’s desperation. His churning guilt. Unable to feel that pinprick at the forefront of Feral’s mind, where the mirrored, jagged edges of dark and light splinter against each other. A kaleidoscope of memoryvisionemotion that Feral cannot hope to comprehend.

So no, Feral is not afraid Obi-Wan will figure it out, and Feral is determined to give him no reason to.

“Be careful,” his best friend finally relents. “Don’t make me lose you.”

“You won’t.”

-:-

Savage just kept gathering up more and more younglings into their little circle. First, it was Reeft who tripped and fell and Savage found himself on his knees, calming the little boy down before Crèchemaster Vant got there. Then it was Bant who quite decisively decided she should teach the brothers to swim because “the water is so nice and great and there’s nothing better than just jumping right in!”

Then came along Garen with his exhausting pranks and Taria with her rib-cracking hugs and then Lin and Hu-Van and Rocun and Zielyana and—

Well.

Before Savage knew it, the entire crèche was under his bewildered wing. They weren’t scared of him. They didn’t avoid him. They didn’t mind when he wasn’t up to playing and when he was they were amazingly enthusiastic about it. Crèchemaster Vant seemed entirely too pleased.

Once, when Feemor was tucked under a blanket on Feemor’s sofa, taking a much-needed break from the ruckus of fifteen-odd tiny children, Feemor asked him how he felt.

Savage stared down into the cup of tea cradled between his hands. He wasn’t sure whether Feemor was asking how he felt about suddenly having fifteen baby siblings or how he felt about being with the Jedi as a whole. Maybe the man even meant how he felt in that moment. Tired? Hungry? Ready for bed?

Savage stared down into that cup, steam wafting warm across his cheek and he realized that for the first time in a very long time…that he wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t eager to leave. And maybe he’d felt like that for a while and just hadn’t noticed.

“Good,” Savage murmured. “I’m good.” And he glanced up at the man’s gentle expression and found he trusted this Jedi implicitly. That, in itself, was a little terrifying. But he found he didn’t like being scared, and so he let that fear go and said, “I am a little hungry.”

Feemor’s food was always the best.

-:-

Ending the call with Obi-Wan leaves Feral feeling sick with guilt, but more determined than ever. He will save Anakin and Shmi. He must. Obi-Wan will just have to worry about it when they get back all safe and sound. But by then, there will be nothing to worry about.

So.

Feral heaves a sigh, exhaustion pulling at him. Even from up on the rooftops, Anakin’s laughter soars high and loud. Feral’s attention is drawn to Shmi. Qui-Gon has left her to join the others on the ground. She casts a lonely figure upon that tiny terrace, arms wrapped around herself. Like she’s hoping to hide that aching grief, her constant companion.

Feral wraps the Force around himself, seeking that soothing warmth as he breathes through his anxiety, his own grief. It takes a minute for his composure to return, but when it does, he pulls a small smile onto his lips and hops off the roof. He exchanges a nod with Shmi but cannot find it within himself to speak with her just yet. So instead he makes his way down the narrow winding steps so he can join the rest of his companions.

Except just as he steps away from the foot of the staircase, a scruffy Twi’lek bumps into him.

“Oh!” Feral exclaims. “My apologies, are you alright?”

A delicate blue hand grips his forearm and pulls him into the scant shadow of a doorway. Already Feral’s twisting, leg whipping out to catch them off guard. They expertly twist with him, hopping over the sweep of his leg only to grab the back of his neck and attempt to slam him into a doorjamb.

“Feral!” a very familiar voice hisses before he can jab a cruel elbow into their gut. “Calm down! It’s me!”

Faltering, Feral goes slack as his opponent lets go. Disbelief trembles in the back of his mind. But really, what was he expecting? This is Quinlan’s apprentice he’s talking about.

“Aayla,” he breathes, turning on his heel so he can meet the younger woman’s gaze. Her eyes are just as fierce and piercing as usual, which is a relief. Though the state of her clothes and the grime upon her skin is not. At least she’s not in a revealing outfit, instead hiding beneath unflattering rags.

“What are you doing here?” Aayla demands before he can ask the same of her. “Master Vos said he saw you in the market yesterday! Picking fights! Tatooine is very far from the Temple. It’s dangerous here!”

“We didn’t pick a fight,” Feral sighs resignedly. “We’re just- too noticeable.”

Aayla eyes him up and down, lingering on the stark tattoos upon his face. “I’ll say,” she says sharply. “All Master Vos could figure out is that you’ve got a ship on the outskirts and you’re asking around for parts. What’s going on?”

“A mission, same as you.” Feral gestures at her get-up and Aayla isn’t even embarrassed. She rarely is. It’s something she learned from her Master.

When her eyes only darken, Feral sighs again. “It’s- a delicate mission. We were supposed to facilitate negotiations between Naboo and the Trade Federation which has blockaded their planet. Instead they attempted to kill us and now we’re on the run with the Queen and her contingent. We’re here completely by accident. Our ship’s hyperdrive is busted and we don’t have any local currency.”

Aayla frowns, crossing her arms as her eyes go distant with thought. “That is a predicament. Unfortunately, Master Vos and I don’t have the wupuipi you’d need to get those replacements, and there's not much we can do without getting our cover blown. Our mission is very sensitive and very important. It was a huge risk even coming to find you here.” Apology softens her features.

“It’s alright, Aayla,” Feral reassures. “We have a plan.”

One eyebrow raises in a delicate arch. “A Jinn kind of plan or a Windu one?”

Awkward, Feral shrugs. “A bit of both, but mostly neither.”

“Hmm.” Aayla considers him for a moment, then nods. “I’ll let Master Vos know what’s going on. We’ll keep an eye out, but like I said, there isn’t much we can do. If you get in serious danger—”

“We’ll be fine.”

The girl stares at him for a moment more, and for all that they are both Padawans, she is much younger and Feral—

Well.

Mace Windu is Feral’s Master. Feral’s learned how to persuade people to do what he wants, whether they like it or not.

“We’ll keep an eye out,” Aayla repeats, and with that she’s gone, easily drifting out into the sun and between wandering slaves. Feral loses sight of her almost instantly. There certainly are benefits to having a Shadow as a Master.

-:-

Savage met her in the Archives. He had his tongue pinched between his teeth as he carefully learned his letters. He stubbornly hadn’t told Crèchemaster Vant that he didn’t know Aurebesh. It was so strange and angular, very different from the curving, elegant script his Brothers had begun teaching him. In reading lessons, he stared at the pages and flipped them when he saw the other children do so. He strained his ears listening to their quiet murmurs as they carefully mouthed the words.

Sometimes he even raised a brow and asked one of the kids to read aloud to him for practice. They did it dutifully, strangely eager to impress him, and he was only slightly sick with guilt as he desperately tried to follow along on the page, peering over their tiny shoulders.

Feemor noticed though. Of course he did. Savage doubted there was a single thing that the man didn’t know. It was slightly terrifying but awfully relieving when Feemor knew how Savage felt before he could even express it. Not that Feemor didn’t encourage him to express himself. Feemor seemed to want Savage’s opinion about everything. Seemed to think Savage should tell people what he thought rather than bottling up everything inside.

What would you like to eat today? Do you like this story? Why are you frustrated?

It’d taken a while, but Savage was slowly becoming more comfortable with the Temple and the people inside it.

He was more comfortable with himself.

So when Feemor casually brought Savage down to the Archives only to sit him down at a table with a couple of datapads, Savage was only slightly anxious. The anxiety spiked when Feemor patiently showed Savage how to work them with the audio assist so he wasn’t left floundering with a thing he couldn’t read and thus couldn’t use.

But then Feemor left with an encouraging smile, saying that he would just be on the other side of the Archives if he wanted help or company. It was…freeing. Feemor trusted Savage on his own. Trusted that Savage could learn on his own and that-

That meant everything to him.

So Savage curled over the tabletop and carefully learned his letters.

Then a girl sat down at the other end of the table.

Savage startled. He hadn’t noticed her approach and usually that meant bad things. But when he looked up she wasn’t paying him any mind at all. She was a Mirialan around the same age as him. A dark brown headdress fell about her shoulders, complementing the sweeping browns and blacks of the rest of her clothing. The curve of her cheek was sharp, a lovely pale green, and when she glanced at him he realized her eyes were a startling, deep blue.

Suddenly self-conscious, he stared down at his pads, mind whirring and mouth snapped closed. He could move. He could go find Feemor or wander until he found another open, empty table. But- he’d already been here a while. He liked this table. It was his.

Before he could make his decision, the pad at his elbow beeped and the one clutched in his hands reminded him: “You have not repeated the given phrase. Please repeat and retrace the letter Vev.”

Ears burning, Savage hurriedly slapped the mute button, but it was too late. The girl had fully turned her head to stare at him. He couldn’t bear to look back. Out of the corner of his eye, he could tell she was studying him. Shame and embarrassment churned in his belly.

“You are learning Aurebesh?” she casually asked, as if she weren’t asking him to reveal the secret he’d done his best to hide. As if she didn’t know this made her better than him. As if she didn’t know this was one of the many reasons why Savage wasn’t meant to be a Jedi.

There was a lump in his throat, so of course he couldn’t answer back.

“It can be difficult,” the girl continued mildly. “Some of the letters look really similar and the grammar can be confusing. Sometimes it feels like I’ll never stop learning it.”

Startled, Savage hesitantly peered up at her. Her lips were dark and kind as she smiled as him. A tiny, diamond tattoo sat in the middle of her chin like a blessing.

“I’m Luminara. Maybe we can help each other?”

Chapter Text

After helping Shmi with some chores, Feral finds himself out on the sandy veranda beneath the sweeping dark sky. The breeze borders on chilly, but after the scorching day spent double checking Anakin’s podracer, metal blinding and engine air scalding, it’s rather welcome.

Legs hanging out over the barrier, Feral watches the slow spin of the stars and breathes deep. Somewhere across the city Obi-Wan might be staring out a viewport at those same stars. He might be trailing his gaze over the endless line of the desert. Or he might even be in his bunk, taking a well-deserved reprieve from the rest of the crew.

Two moons trail across the sky, fat little things that shine bright. He purses his lips, grief swelling inextricably as he’s reminded of the Tusken Raider tale Anakin told him late last night as they wavered on the cusp of dreams and waking.

Twin suns. Brothers both doomed by their duty as they betray their own hearts.

Betrayed by each other.

It’s- a strange feeling that ebbs and swells within him, trapped beneath his breastbone. It trembles awkwardly along his ribs, pressing against his hearts, his lungs. Feral can only breathe against it. Breathe past it. Just breathe breathe breathe.

The feeling of something lurking upon the horizon rises once more.

Master Windu told him there was a shatterpoint and Feral was at the centre of it. Last night he was so sure that he’d found the reason for it. He’s still sure. There’s just- something about Anakin that calls to him. Something familiar about Shmi that he just can’t shake off. They’re bright in the Force in a way no one else is. There’s no way they’re meant to languish out here on Tatooine, beaten and used and suffering. He’s supposed to be here, he must be, and if not for them, then what?

“Baschna?”

Anakin slips up beside him, clambering up onto the barrier. Feral holds out a steady hand in case the boy falls, but Anakin moves like he’s done this a hundred times. Gently kicking out his legs, Anakin peers up at the stars with him.

“There are so many,” the little boy breathes, awed. “Do they all have a system of planets?”

“Most of them.”

“Has anyone been to ‘em all?”

Feral grins. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so.”

“I wanna be the first one to see ‘em all!” Anakin exclaims. Sheer joy and hope radiate from him. “I come out here a lot just to look at them. I wanna be a pilot, you know?”

“Oh, really?” Feral says, fondness creeping into his voice.

“Yeah.” Anakin’s eyes shine with the glow of the twin moons. “I mean, I already am. But I wanna be a proper pilot with my own ship, big enough for me and mom and Threepio. That way we can travel wherever we want, whenever we want. Just us three, exploring the galaxy.”

“You think Threepio will like that?” The droid seems a bit too anxious to be galivanting around like Anakin dreams, not that Feral would ever dissuade him.

“He’s a lot braver than you think,” Anakin says matter-of-factly. “I found him in pieces in a junkpile. Only a few of his vital components were left, like his memory processors. He’s his own person, he’s baschna like most droids aren’t allowed to realize. His memory isn’t erased. He remembers what it was like before I found him. He was a slave.” Anakin takes a moment, fingers curling white-knuckled at his sides.

“Threepio is family. Even if I want him to help mom, he also wants to help mom. He likes her. Threepio won’t serve someone if he doesn’t want to. He has that choice.” He grins up at the stars. “So, yeah, Threepio might get a little nervous, but I know he’ll want to explore the stars with us, too.”

Feral can’t quite find anything to say in response so he stays quiet. They sit like that for a while. Staring up at the stars, the moons slowly climbing higher and higher.

“You said you have a brother.”

Anakin peers at him from the corner of his eye.

“I do.” Feral nods, smiling slightly. “His name is Savage. He’s three years older than me.”

Anakin is silent for a moment longer. “Padmé seemed surprised that you had one.”

A sigh escapes him. “It’s…unusual. For blood relatives in the Order to have the relationship my brother and I have. We all arrive at the Temple when we’re very young. Sometimes siblings like us are found or given to the Order. Sometimes Force-sensitivity runs in families, and so you might know an uncle or cousin in the Order. Twins are more common than anything else. What’s unusual about Savage and I is that we’re several years apart, yet we’re still very close.”

Anakin frowns. “Is that bad?”

Feral shakes his head. “Not necessarily. My brother and I love each other very much. I would do almost anything for him.” He pauses. “The Jedi Order worries about attachment. If you become too attached, you put your own desires above everything else and you risk Falling to the Dark Side.”

“What’s that?” Feral has Anakin’s full attention now. There’s curiousity in Anakin’s face, as well as a tinge of fear. And there’s that hint of the unknown horizon again. It simmers like the oncoming dawn. The sun bubbling out into the endless dark. Stars fading and dying. Or perhaps it’s the twilight instead. The dark engulfing everything as the horizon swallows the sun whole.

“The Dark Side…” Feral starts, then stops. This boy knows nothing. He’s so strong in the Force, yet he knows nothing. If he was younger this wouldn’t be a problem, but Anakin is nine years old. He already has a whole life, a family. He’s experienced loss and hardship in ways that Feral can’t even begin to fathom. Feral must be careful about this. He must explain it in a way that Anakin will understand.

“Jedi can access and use something called the Force. Bodies put out heat, but they also put out energy. This is the Force. It is an energy that exists because we are alive, and it connects us all, too. It’s like…Mos Espa wouldn’t be a city without the people within it, right? And because we’re all here, we’re all connected.” Anakin nods and so Feral continues. “Without people, the city is nothing. Without living things, the Force is nothing, but without us being connected, without us living in this same universe, we are nothing.”

Anakin looks a little confused by this so Feral backtracks. “Because the Force is an energy we all create, it connects everyone. Some people can feel it, like the Jedi, and some cannot. It depends on how sensitive you are to the Force. The more sensitive you are, the more midichlorians you have. They’re little microscopic creatures that feed off the Force. So if you put off more energy into the Force, you’re making more food for them, so more of them will come to you.”

Anakin’s lip curls. “You’ve got- little creatures living on you?”

Feral laughs. “They’re like bacteria. Everyone has bacteria living on their skin, or good bacteria their bodies produce. They’re harmless.”

Seeming to accept this, Anakin nods. “So what’s the Dark Side then? Are Jedi the only ones who have the midi- midichlorians?”

Pausing, Feral turns his gaze back to the sky and its sweeping stars. “The sky is the sky, right? Even if it’s day or night, it’s still the sky. Moons, suns, stars, it doesn’t matter.”

Anakin shifts beside him, nodding. “Yeah, of course.”

“Well the Force is the same. It may look or feel different sometimes, but it’s still the Force. The Dark Side is like the night. It’s secretive. You can’t see as well unless you make your own light. It can be scary, too, because you don’t know what’s out there. If you’re scared you’re more likely to lash out and give in to your fear. It’s harder to make decisions because you don’t know if you’re making the right ones in the dark where you can’t see anything. You’re hindered by your own overwhelming emotions and the Dark around you. But if you learn the Dark, if you don’t make your own light and instead wander by feel alone, you can learn to navigate it. Yes, you might still be caught unawares by a cliff edge or a prowling beast, but you become used to it. You use it to your advantage. You become the prowling beast, using the Dark to confuse and scare your prey as you hunt them down, corner them.”

The moons are so bright above, so reminiscent of those twin suns.

“The Light Side of the Force is what all Jedi serve. It’s like the day. You can see everything. You don’t fear plunging to your death by stepping into a hidden ravine. Our view might be hindered by mountains but all we must do is climb them to see the other side. We are knowledgeable because we can see what’s around us, and because we can see everything it’s easier to stay calm and collected. To think of others instead of just saving yourself in the Dark. The Light Side is tranquility and compassion, selfless and unconditional love for all living things.” Feral meets Anakin’s wide gaze.

“The Dark Side feeds off anger and fear. Hatred, passion, aggression. These emotions cloud our thoughts. When you feel these things it’s harder to see, like you are in the dark. So it’s easier to succumb to the Dark Side.”

Anakin frowns, the fear trembling along his skin. “But- so—” He gulps, shame roiling hot. “Is it- bad to be angry?”

“No,” Feral rushes to assure him. “Everyone feels anger or fear. You can’t help it. It’s part of life. It’s what you do with those feelings that’s important. You must seek to understand them. Why are you angry? Why are you fearful? What can you learn from it? How can you resolve the situation to help yourself and those around you?” He pauses for breath. Calms against the swelling of the Force’s tide, the flicker of light upon the shifting surface. “Then once you understand them, you can let go of it. You can move on, wiser for having understood your emotion and the experience.”

Anakin is silent for a long time. When he speaks, his voice is small and it grows with every word that spills from his mouth. “I’m angry that slaves exist. I’m angry that my mom has been hurt because of it and I’m afraid we’ll be separated.” Tears fill his voice as his lip wobbles. “I love my mom. She and Threepio are all I have. I can’t lose them. I can’t. I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

Hearts swelling in his chest, Feral stares down at this little boy who has opened his heart to him. Who has willingly shown his vulnerability. He wonders if Anakin has ever told anyone this before.

“Why are you angry that slaves exist?” he asks gently.

Anakin head whips up, expression incredulous. “Because slavery is evil. It hurts people! It kills them! No one should made forced to do something they don’t want! Everyone deserves to be free!”

Feral nods. “It is an injustice. Everyone deserves basic rights. That anyone believes others can be treated as property is- It’s awful. Worse than any words can explain. Are you angry at the people who have slaves? Who capture and sell others for profit?”

Anakin stares up at him, eyes swimming. “Yes.”

“You are right to be.” He hesitates. “And what do you want to do with that anger?”

“I—” Brows scrunching, Anakin stumbles over his own words. Purses his lips. Gulps. Glares into his own lap. “I don’t know.”

Feral considers him. The Force swells swells swells. “You’ve been a slave all your life,” Feral prods gently. “Surely you must have imagined what you could do if given the chance.”

“Maybe,” Anakin mumbles, stress and guilt making his voice go tight.

“Then what do you want to happen to them?”

“I want them to die!” Anakin exclaims, voice ringing out across the rooftops. He pants, tears splattering down his cheeks. “With them gone, then everyone would be free! Everyone would be happy and safe and- and we wouldn’t have to worry about slavery anymore!”

The fear of rejection quivers so strongly in the Force it nearly makes Feral sick. But there’s stubbornness there, too. A fierce righteous belief that pushes it out out out until it’s hot as the desert sands upon Feral’s skin, and just as abrasive, too.

“Would it actually solve the problem?” The words are difficult to keep even in the face of Anakin’s blazing fury and desperate longing, but Feral manages it.

This makes Anakin falter and he glances up, confusion contorting his young face. “Wha- of course it would. All the Masters would be gone!”

Ruefully, Feral shakes his head. “Evil isn’t something you can destroy once and be done with it. Do you think people have been enslaved since the beginning of existence? Because I certainly hope not. If you do somehow manage to kill all the slavers, someone will always rise up again. Somehow, slavery will return even more insidious than before because they’ll remember the people before them being slaughtered. They’ll return with a vengeance, Anakin. You will have created more problems than you will have stopped.”

Tears leak down Anakin’s cheeks as he furiously shakes his head.

“And in the end, what will it cost you? How will you live with yourself knowing you killed so many people? How do you even know you killed the right ones? Evil is…subjective. Evil can be willful ignorance. Evil can be inaction. Would you kill the young daughter of a slaver simply because her father gave her a slave? She is too young to know this is wrong. People can be taught. Would you kill her before even giving her the chance to change?”

“That’s- that’s different,” Anakin stutters.

“And what about the people who have no slaves yet have done nothing to help them? Will you kill them, too?”

“I- I don’t know.”

Sympathy curls sharp between his hearts, but Feral pushes on at the insistence of the Force, as well as his own need to help this boy before it’s too late. “You should never hurt others for you own gain. You should never take pleasure in hurting others. By giving into violence, we become just like them. Not to say we can’t ever resort to violence, because sometimes it is inevitable, but it should not be our first choice. Not ever.”

Sniffling, Anakin rubs at his nose. “Then- then how am I supposed to change things?”

“That is a very difficult and complicated question that I am not quite sure how to answer,” Feral admits. “You can try to appeal to them. To convince them what they are doing is wrong, but I rather suspect that’s been tried before.”

Ferocity light Anakin’s eyes. “Then I’ll make them believe! And if not- then- then—”

“By robbing them of their free will and forcing them to do what you want, wouldn’t you become a slaver yourself?”

Pale and shaking, eyes wide, Anakin’s chin drops to his chest.

The swell of the Force crests and crashes, violent and freezing. Seasalt spatters and Feral remembers to breathe breathe breathe.

Sighing heavily, Feral reaches out a tentative hand and Anakin willingly tucks himself under his arm. Small, calloused hands clench at Feral’s tunic as the boy presses himself into his side. He shivers in distress and Feral rubs a careful, soothing hand along Anakin’s arm.

“This is why the Dark Side is so dangerous, young one. As Force users with powers so few possess, we can cause so much destruction if we cannot control ourselves and master our emotions,” Feral says softly, thinking of Savage and his wild eyes. Savage and his aching, consuming anger. This is why Master Windu taught Savage Vaapad under a very cautious eye. Too easily can someone become consumed by the Dark if they slip upon that razor-edge. But if utilized correctly, it can help you confront that anger and control it without giving in to it.

Just as it helps Savage.

“The Dark Side preys upon your fears and weaknesses. It whispers your deepest doubts and tempts you with power. It is seductive, venomous and it will eat you alive from the inside out.”

Hiccupping, Anakin curls a little closer to Feral. The front of his tunic is already damp.

Quietly, Feral recites, “‘Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony. Death, yet the Force.’ All Jedi are taught this from a very young age. It is okay to feel these things, but we must not let them consume us. Instead we confront them. We work to understand them. We let them go and move on, having learned all we can. It is a careful balance we must maintain through constant work.” He squeezes Anakin’s arm comfortingly. “You have already begun to do the same.”

Anakin stills, then his head jerks up to meet Feral’s gaze. His eyes are red and puffy even in the long- stretching light of the doorway. “R-really?”

“Yes,” Feral reassures, smile soft and kind. “You’ve done really well. You already were doing well. In the face of cruelty, I have seen that you are kind. Despite hardship, you are generous and giving. Despite all the darkness, you remain bright in the face of it. Your mother must be proud.”

Anakin sniffles again, rubbing his sleeves across his nose. “Yeah, well, she’s the kindest person I know.”

There’s movement in the corner of his eye and Feral follows it with a slight tilt of his head. Shmi stands in the doorway watching them. Concern shines bright in her eyes, but there’s appreciation there, too. It slips like an early dawn along his senses, warm and soft and bright. Feral’s not sure if it’s because he’s comforting her son or because she heard their conversation.

Feral soothes his hand along Anakin’s arm again but it makes the boy hiss and flinch. Immediately, Feral draws away, alarmed. “Are you alright? Have I hurt you?”

Anakin shakes his head. “No- sorry. I just got cut when I was fixing up my podracer earlier.”

“What?”

A shadow falls across them. “Did I hear that right?”

The both of them look up to see Qui-Gon’s concerned, yet amused expression as he steps closer. He settles down at Anakin’s other side and gestures for the boy to extend his arm. “Come. Let me see.”

The boy spends a few embarrassed minutes fidgeting as Qui-Gon carefully cleans and bandages up the cut.

But not before he manages to sneak a blood sample.

At Shmi’s insistence, Anakin scampers off to bed, offering Feral a small, shy smile. Feral watches him go, an odd feeling in his chest.

“You couldn’t have been subtler, Master?” Feral murmurs.

Qui-Gon chuckles. “I suspect it was the subtlest I could be with him. I saw an opportunity and took it.”

Feral eyes the device in Jinn’s hand with trepidation. “You can feel it.” It isn’t really a question.

“Yes,” Jinn says, staring down at his hand, too. “There is a reason we landed on this planet,” he says slowly. “The Force leaves no room for luck.”

Feral doesn’t tell Jinn he thinks he’s right.

He doesn’t have to.

When he eventually slips back inside, Feral glances out over Mos Espa and pauses. Just peeking over the skyline is a bubble of light. Abruptly, he realizes it’s a third moon.

He doesn’t remember it being there the night before. Uncertain, his eyes trace its brilliant rim as he tries to recall last night. But no. He’s sure it wasn’t there. Frowning, he watches it as if expecting it to suddenly spring up and reveal itself entirely.

Apprehension simmers low in his belly. It aches in his bones.

Maybe he’ll ask Shmi about it tomorrow.

He steps back into the safety of the Skywalker’s home, leaving behind the night sky as the third moon slowly yet steadily climbs up to reach his brothers.

-:-

Luminara quickly became a staple in Savage’s life.

At first, he only saw her whenever he visited the Archives. Then their paths began to cross in the halls, the commissary, the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Whenever Luminara’s Hawkbat Clan joined Dragon Clan for instruction, Savage and Luminara cast each other small, hesitant smiles from across the room.

I wonder if I’ll see her today, was Savage’s first thought every morning, mind still thick with sleep. Anticipation curled in his gut, shivery in a good way.

Apparently the little tattoo was a blessing Luminara’s family bestowed upon her when they gave her to the Temple.

“It’s supposed to symbolize pride and good fortune,” Luminara said, fingertips idly grazing the diamond. “They were happy to give me to the Jedi, but not because they didn’t want me. They were proud their daughter was chosen.”

Excited, but nervous, Savage pounced on their unexpected similarity, quick to tell her about his own tattoos. He couldn’t remember all their meanings. He was supposed to learn it all when he got older but- well. He’d never have the chance now. So he shared what he could and grinned when Luminara traced fascinated fingers along the crown of his head.

The first time Feemor caught the two of them together in the Archives, bent over the same pad, his steps faltered. But then he grinned wider and brighter than Savage had ever seen. Savage couldn’t help but sink into himself, a strange guilt and shame eating away at him, but Feemor—

Feemor only asked them what they were studying, voice perfectly casual and pleasant.

Before long they needed to make their goodbyes and as with every time they did so, Savage’s chest went tight when Luminara disappeared out of sight. As the two of them made their way through the hallways towards the crèche, Feemor glanced down at him. Stubbornly, Savage clutched his pad to his chest and kept his gaze fixed forward as he marched down the hall.

“I like your friend,” Feemor said perhaps a bit too nonchalantly.

Savage’s steps faltered, glancing up at the man in shock. “F-friend?” he stuttered.

Smile far too kind, Feemor nodded. “She seems like a good one.”

Savage stayed silent the entire way back to the crèche, even when little Feral and Obi-Wan slammed into his knees and welcomed him back.

Friend.

The word repeated itself over and over again in his head. It echoed, long and loud until it was soft and worn and familiar instead of strange and sharp and terrifying.

Friend.

He rolled it over and over. Traced along its edges with hesitant fingers until he was brave enough to cup it between his palms and cradle it close. It was warm. Comforting.

“Friend,” he whispered to himself in the dead of night. It felt good on his tongue. New but- good.

He’d never had a friend before. Not ever. Feral was his brother, he looked out for him. Even the other kids in the crèche— he looked after them, too. He loved them, but they weren’t really his friends. They were more family than anything else.

Even Feemor wasn’t really his friend.

But Luminara— She was his friend.

It felt good to have one.

(To absolutely no one’s surprise, they remained best friends for the rest of their lives)

-:-

Feral wakes with a choked gasp, hearts pounding erratic stumbling rhythms against his breastbone. Sweat trickles between his horns, dripping down his brow and pooling in the creases of his cheeks. The fading wail of a baby echoes in his ears, too loud at first for him to really realize what it is. The sound rattles around his skull, razor-sharp and bone-dry, it drags against his mind leaving ragged wounds in its wake.

He lays in the dark, ears full of the wail and his panting breath and the twin stumbling gallops of his heartbeats. There’s wetness in the corners of his eyes but his limbs are so heavy he can hardly move, so it takes a minute or two or three maybe even longer to lift his hand to his face. His numb fingers come away wet. He rubs at his eyes and more warmth trickles down. The slip of his silka beads is cool against his throat.

Hearts refusing to calm down, Feral curls his arm over his face and fights to breathe. The wail of the babe eventually fades but that foreboding anticipation only swells and swells just as it did last night. Except now, instead of the promise of relief it continues to rise. Slow at first, but steadily it tumbles up up up until it surges so high above he is dwarfed he is lost he is alone—

“Feral?” Anakin mumbles in the dark. There is a shifting of cloth and the boy rolls over to face him, peering through the dark in a vain attempt to see his friend. “What’s wrong?”

“I-it’s fine,” Feral chokes out, voice quaking. “Just- just a dream. Go back to sleep, Anakin.”

Making a dubious noise, Anakin shifts again more purposefully. Before he can slip off the bed, Feral forces himself to sit up, limbs aching and weak.

“You have a big day tomorrow,” Feral manages to say more levelly. “It’s important you get your rest. No use having you fall asleep in your podracer in the middle of the race.”

Scoffing, Anakin shifts again but Feral can tell the boy is laying down again. “Like I’d do that,” Anakin mumbles, grumpy. He’s silent for a few moments. Then he asks, voice hesitant, concerned, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Affection blooms warm and steady in Feral’s chest. It helps soothe the frantic beating of his hearts. “Yes, Anakin. I am sure. It was just a strange dream.” Pauses. Breathes. Speaks the automatic reaction when neither his Master nor his brother are here. When Obi-Wan is gone. “I’m going to go meditate on it before breakfast.”

“Okay,” Anakin accepts sleepily, so trusting.

Feral’s hearts clench. But he doesn’t want Anakin to worry. Standing up is wobbly, but doable. Making short work of tidying his makeshift bed and leaving everything folded in the corner, Feral finds the strength in the dark to slip out of the room. He pads silently to the doorway of the veranda and it quietly swishes open and closed for him as he passes through.

The sky dawns a deep, gentle blue as night gives way to the day. The air is still cool and sharp, but Feral has no doubt it’ll soon begin warming up. The slave quarters are quiet, some people already up and shuffling about. It’s easy to relish the quiet of the sleepy city. To take relief from the open air and the burgeoning dawn that peels him open like a particularly stubborn fruit, laying him bare and warm for the world to see. He’s not hunched in on himself, huddled and alone. Trapped in the dark of his own mind.

He settles cross-legged upon the barrier where he and Anakin sat only last night, laying his hands open-palmed upon his knees. The slight breeze tickles him through his thread-bare shirt, running across his chest. Even now he can feel the sand. Little bits of grit in his lashes, caught between cloth and skin.

There is a certain relief in opening yourself up to the universe, connecting you to the rest of it. Feral takes advantage of this as he closes his eyes and breathes deep. Running careful fingers along his connection to the Force, to the people around him and the planet. The thin-thread lines that extend to places he can’t see, beyond the stars.

Bruck has always described the Force as an ocean. A swelling of the tide, the spray of sea salt, the cries of the gulls above. We linger upon the shore and tread out into shallow waters, he once told Feral. Non-Force-sensitives are landlocked. They cannot see the water, only hear it in the distance, occasionally catching the smell of brine and seaweed. But we Jedi can swim out. We can float upon the waves and move with the current. But the Dark… Feral’s friend had trailed off, eyes going distant. If we overtax ourselves, we will sink, and if we’re lured far below the touch of the sun by the promise of spiny neon secrets and haunting behemoth truths lurking in the shadows— we’ll lose ourselves in the Dark as the pressure slowly crushes us alive.

It’s an apt interpretation of the Force, Feral won’t begrudge him that. It’s one that Master Feemor even shares.

But Feral has always seen it as the sweeping landscape. The suns and moons above. The shifting of the clouds and the whirl of the wind.

Feral has always been more of a literal person, which is sometimes his downfall. He understands things best when he can visualize them clearly. When he can hold and examine them for himself. It sometimes frustrates his Master who always understands the vague intricacies of the Force better than anyone, but Mace is endlessly patient and has never hesitated in attempting to paint indescribable things with words so Feral can see.

So when he pictures the Force, he pictures the landscape around him. It makes everything much simpler. He also thinks it helps him better understand and adapt to every planet he visits.

And right now, the Force feels like the sand. All-encompassing, it swallows the planet, affecting every part, every creature. Connecting everything, it leaves nothing untouched. It is not inherently good or evil. It just is.

He meditates as Master Windu taught him: opening himself fully to the Force, mind blazing bright, and feels for those places that are most tangled. As he wanders the narrow alleys and gaping ravines of his mind, he examines each place carefully, hands full of the tangles of his thoughts. He goes through them one by one, confronting his fears and his doubts. Replacing an upended pot here, carefully repairing a broken table leaning against the alley wall, coaxing a hurt creature out from a tiny cave. Equating his emotions and thoughts with tangible things has always been soothing.

As he examines each and every overwhelmed part of himself, he slowly pulls the threads of his fears apart, inspecting the crinkle and curve of each, learning from them as he smooths them out into calm lines of thought and emotion and connection. It’s time-consuming and slow-going, but Feral has always been a patient person. Master Windu has only helped him cultivate that.

With each fear untangled and the landscape of his mind straightened out, Feral slowly calms, and his own connection to the greater Force becomes clearer. There are those twin bright threads that lead him straight back to Anakin and Shmi. There’s that old, ever-present cord that leads him back to his brother. Full of love and comfort and protection. Master Windu is of steel. Strong, solid. But there’s bend to it, like a wire. When Feral runs his runs along its warmth, he can grab on and centre himself.

And there’s Obi-Wan. Of course there’s Obi-Wan. He can hardly remember a time when he didn’t feel their connection. When it didn’t bloom bright and lovely within his mind. A seed taken root, flowering under the constant care and affection of Obi-Wan’s attentions. It warms him from the centre out, trickles through his limbs and fills his lungs and his hearts and Feral—

Obi-Wan sees him like no one else can. Obi-Wan wakes him like no one else can. Seeing him is like the dawn rising to break the night, just as it is now. And he is helpless in the face of it, turning just as a flower faces the sun, roots stretching deep, leaves reaching up up up.

His awareness of the universe becomes so much clearer, so much simpler.

Obi-Wan sits there in his mind, warm and precious and Feral cradles him between his hands for just a moment. But the weight of him in his hands makes the obvious even more apparent, and his dream echoes within him. A thin surging line of fear and trepidation, aching loss and fury— it pulses into him from somewhere beyond the horizon. A distant wildfire, faint wisps of ash and ruin traveling along the winds.

Feral wonders if it’s always been there, that line pulled so taut and thin he hardly noticed. The fire too far away to notice. But now—

Something…something is coming. Something familiar and blazing and sharp and bloody. It sweeps across the landscape, devouring everything in its path, leaving nothing but death and suffering in its wake.

And it’s coming for Feral.

When he opens his eyes again, Master Qui-Gon’s hand is upon his shoulder and the suns have once again begun their steady, sorrowful chase across the sky. His skin is warm and his eyes are dry.

“It’s time to get ready.”

-:-

The years passed and slowly Savage and Feral stopped sequestering themselves in Feemor’s bedroom. Instead, they visited Feemor just for the sake of visiting him. When they first arrived, he was their simple patron. Now, he was much more.

Obi-Wan, Bruck and Luminara joined them sometimes, all of them jostling for space as they helped Feemor cook breakfast. They tried to follow his careful, patient instructions, but there was a period in which meals were hardly edible even with Feemor’s futile attempts to save what they’d ruined.

It was comfortable. It was- it was family, Savage eventually realized.

His brother was growing up healthy and strong, with more friends than he could count, sometimes. Feral took delight in lessons and the Force. He soaked up everything like a sponge and didn’t even seem to realize how brilliant he was. Feral was meant to be a Jedi, and Savage was slowly beginning to hope that maybe, just maybe, he was meant to be one, too.

But sometimes, Savage watched his brother laugh with his friends and wondered what would have happened if the Jedi hadn’t found them.

It was an awful thought, one he allowed to fester and rot within himself along with that anger he couldn’t quite hide.

But whenever he allowed that to happen, Feemor saw it. The man took him aside for meditation in the Room of a Thousand Fountains or to practice katas in the salles. Sometimes they’d cook together, just the two of them. Quiet and purposeful, the act of making a meal almost meditation in itself.

It was-

It was…

It was more than Savage even knew to hope for, all those years ago. When he grabbed his brother and stole that Nightsister’s ship. It shouldn’t have been possible but somehow- somehow—

Perhaps the Force willed it.

It was all he could really reason. There was no other way a child of six could have done it.

So when he looked up at Feemor’s gentle, smiling face, Savage thanked the Force for what it had given him.

Chapter Text

Feral leaves before everyone else.

Ostensibly, it’s to get the eopie from Watto so they can ferry the podracer to the race. But Feral has additional plans. The Toydarian eyes him up and down when Feral arrives at the shop and he takes this as a good sign. He hasn’t had much interaction with Watto, so this should work. He opens himself to the Force and prays and prays and prays.

“Thank you for your generosity,” Feral says as he takes the leads from Watto. He takes a moment to soothe the animals, petting their noses and whispering warmth through the Force.

The Toydarian huffs a derisive laugh. “For all the good it will do you! I wanna see your spaceship the moment the race is over.”

“Oh?” Feral keeps his tone casual and innocent. Peers at the slaver from beneath his lashes, a carefully façade. “Do you not think we can win?” He presses a little anxiety into his voice, but not too much. Just enough to appear fretful and easy to take advantage of.

“Don’t get me wrong, no. I have great faith in the boy! He’s a credit to Humans, but Sebulba is going to win, I think.”

The image of the Dug from a couple of days ago flashes in Feral’s mind and he flushes his disgust into the Force. “Sebulba?”

“He’s an experienced racer and he always wins! Not a little slave boy,” Watto laughs. “I’m afraid you’ve made the wrong bet and now you’ll stuck here on this dusty ball like the rest of us! I’m betting heavily on Sebulba, and because of you by tomorrow evening I’m gonna be a whole lot richer!”

Feral purses his lips, stubbornly jutting his jaw. There’s a little desperation in his voice when the words tumble from his lips. “I’ll take that bet!”

The Force rises rises rises, ringing loud and clear in his ears:

Yes.

Watto’s laughter dies. Hovering closer, he squints at Feral. “What?”

“We’re going to win,” Feral says a bit tremulously. “We bet you will. I’ll— I’ll even bet myself!”

The Toydarian peers at him with hungry eyes, greedily devouring the jut of his regal horns, the fit line of his body, the handsome profile of his face. The exotic tattoos. “Oh, really?” Watto hovers a bit higher, clearly smelling a deal he can’t refuse. The way he leers makes Feral want to shudder and so he does. Any weakness will only help him at this point.

“Yes,” Feral grinds out, echoing the Force’s insistence. The Force’s blessing.

“And what do you want if you win?” Watto demands a bit suspiciously.

Feral pauses so he doesn’t seem too eager. Like he hasn’t already planned this all out. “The Skywalkers. Both of them.”

Watto rears back, lip curling. “You want to bet one person against two? No no no, it is not an equal trade!”

Telling himself not to panic, he already expected this, Feral forges on. “No? A little boy and his aging mother? I’m in my prime. I’m healthy, I’m strong, I can fight. I haven’t even seen any Zabrak slaves around. How common are they? And you can’t tell me you’ve seen anyone like me.” He gestures at his tattoos. “If you don’t want me yourself, you can always sell me. How much do you think you could get? Enough for a larger shop? A few more slaves? A nicer home?”

Watto eyes him speculatively. For a moment Feral fears he appeared too confident, too prepared. But then the Toydarian mutters, “Not so intelligent, I think.” He grumbles for a few seconds, but there’s clear triumph in his eyes. He thinks he’s already won.

Feral sure hopes he’s wrong.

“Yes, yes I think I will take your little deal.” The Toydarian laughs. “But no funny business after the race! I will be looking for you, pretty Zabrak! You won’t be able to hide from me!” He twirls away back into his shop, laughter lingering as he disappears into the darkness.

Disbelief rushes out of Feral in an exhausted, heaving breath. But his own triumph flickers like fire in him belly. He- he did it. He actually did it. Clenching the eopie leads tighter, he guides them down the street.

Now Anakin just has to win. He must.

Anxiety quakes along his skin. If this doesn’t work, he’ll be a slave again. A proper slave.

His brother will never forgive him.

Guilt makes him swallow hoarsely, throat clicking. He can’t think about it. He can’t. Not until the race is finished and ideally not even then.

He can’t think about Master Windu or- Force. Obi-Wan. The look on his friend’s face when he realizes…

Stubbornly, Feral shakes his head. It’s an incredibly dangerous risk, but one he had to make. One that will pay off. He knows it. He’d known what he was going to do when he left for Watto’s, and the Force felt right in that moment. Singing and sure.

If he hadn’t done it, he never would have forgiven himself.

-:-

It was inevitable that Savage and Feral would eventually meet Qui-Gon Jinn and Xanatos du Crion. Though the two of them had been on many long missions for a while, Feemor had prevented their acquaintance until he knew the brothers would be comfortable.

He carefully orchestrated their meeting on neutral ground: a picnic in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

At first Savage was wary of the two tall men. Jealousy curled low in his belly when he saw Feemor smile and laugh with them. Feemor was his. Then Feral clambered up into Qui-Gon’s lap and Savage fought not to snarl.

But as soon as Feemor said Xanatos was his Padawan-brother and Qui-Gon his old Master, well…

Savage understood family.

So clearly Qui-Gon and Xanatos were his now, too.

-:-

Master Qui-Gon is a towering menace of tightknit fury and disbelief when Feemor arrives in the hangar with the others. Behind the man, Watto hovers, lip curling as he laughs and laughs. Dread sinks low and Feral braces himself as the eopies hunker down to their knees beside him with twin groans.

“Feral,” Jinn snaps, rushing over.

“Master Jinn.” Feral raises his chin high.

“Master?” Anakin gasps, stunned fear in his voice.

Feral bites back a curse and immediately turns to the little boy. He’s managed so well to avoid using it, unwilling to make the Skywalkers uneasy. “Anakin, it’s okay. It’s- it’s a title of respect in our—” he pauses, aware of the workers around them, “—culture. It just means he’s earned the title by becoming a Master of his studies. It takes many years and a lot of work to become a Master, and only after he’s taught a student.”

Anakin stares at him from the back of the eopie, face tight with apprehension.

“I promise you,” Feral says slowly, carefully, “it does not make me utterly subservient to him. I must defer to him because he is more knowledgeable and experienced, but it doesn’t mean I am his slave. A student might have less freedom than a Master, but we choose it in order to learn from them and we can always walk away if we want to.” Not often, but not unheard of.

Biting his lip, Anakin studies his face as if searching for the truth. Then, slowly, he nods.

“I wonder, then, why you did not defer to me about this.” Master Jinn doesn’t quite manage nonchalance.

Feral takes a deep breath and turns. “You know why I did it.”

Master Jinn has rarely felt this furious and Feral abruptly realizes that he’s never been the cause. Until now, that is.

“I had a plan.”

Hearts stuttering, Feral reaches out to the Force and finds comfort in the steady strength of the twin suns. In Anakin and Shmi. “For both?”

Pausing, Qui-Gon studies him. “Of course I did.”

“Would it have worked, though?”

Lips pursing, Qui-Gon’s expression goes sour. “It would have been better than what you’ve done, Feral.”

Sorrow tightens Feral’s throat and the Force tightens, too. “No.” Feral shakes his head. “No, it wouldn’t have. You know what would have happened, Master Jinn. This was the only way.”

The silence between them is thick and terrible. But Feral doesn’t falter.

Eventually, Qui-Gon heaves a sigh. “You know that if it fails, Obi-Wan will rob himself of a Master before I even reach home, right? Mace and Savage will raise me from the dead just to slaughter me again.”

Relieved laughter bubbles up his throat. “No, Obi-Wan wouldn’t dare. He loves you too much and he’s too afraid of Master Mace to try it first.”

Qui-Gon gives him a long, incomprehensible look. “You underestimate your relationship with Obi-Wan, then.”

Hearts stuttering stumbling skipping, Feral takes an aborted step back. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Come, then,” Qui-Gon says tiredly, helping Shmi down from the eopie. “Let’s get ready.”

“What did you do, baschna?” Anakin whispers as Feral helps him down, too.

Something that will free you, Feral doesn’t admit. Instead, he smiles and ruffles the boy’s hair. “Nothing you need to worry about right now. Qui-Gon will get over it.”

But Anakin stares at him in a way that makes Feral think the boy knows he’s lying. That’s not something Feral wants. But he also doesn’t want to put even more pressure on Anakin by knowing that his freedom hinges on whether or not he can win the race.

“I did something perhaps a little foolish,” Feral says ruefully. “But it will be worth it in the end. You’ll see later, I promise.”

Frowning, Anakin sighs. “Fine.” Then, quick as a lightning strike, he wraps his arms around Feral and squeezes him tight. Before Feral can react, the boy flounces off, chattering away with his friend Kitster as they start prepping the podracer.

“What did you do?”

Startling, Feral turns just as Padmé slips off the eopie. She pins him down with a sharp, suspicious look.

He raises a brow. “It won’t affect your safety, my lady,” he reassures. “Nor that of your Queen.” There are already three other Jedi on this mission. If Feral does lose his freedom, it really won’t affect the Naboo at all.

Her frown is so disapproving that Feral can so easily imagine it behind a mask of painted white.

Ah.

“You’ll tell me if it does.” Her tone brooks no argument.

Inclining his head, as befitting when addressing a Queen, Feral says, “Of course, my lady.”

-:-

The day started like any other normal day.

Savage awoke to sticky hands pawing at his face, Feral and Obi-Wan already chattering in his ear. He turned over, grumbling, but Feral only snuck his cold fingers beneath the blankets and pressed them into Savage’s side.

Nine years old should have been far too old for that kind of behaviour, but Savage couldn’t help but indulge his baby brother. And so he snatched Feral around the waist and dragged him under the covers, tickling his sides as they went. The next few minutes were spent screeching in laughter as Obi-Wan and a few other crèchelings tried to rescue Feral and pull Savage out of bed. Then Crèchemaster Vant stepped in with an exasperated, but fond look and soon everyone was off to breakfast.

It was one of the lucky days where the Dragon and Hawkbat Clans had breakfast at the same time. Luminara was already in line for food by the time they arrived, but she waved when they entered and motioned that she’d snag a table for them.

“’Nara,” Savage breathed when he eventually slipped onto the bench beside her.

She smiled at him like she always did, which is to say: she was always pleased to see him. “You have a good morning?”

Feral and Obi-Wan settled across from them, trays clattering as they jostled for room when they didn’t need to. But, again, nine-year-olds. After a moment, Bruck caught up and squeezed his way between them, laughing when Obi-Wan scowled and tried to shove him away.

“Yeah, I guess.” Savage grinned, raising a teasing brow. “And how was yours?”

Luminara paused, gaze falling to her tray as she considered the question. Savage was no stranger to her careful deliberation. Took comfort in it, even. She was slow and steady while Savage was quick and sharp. They balanced each other out in a way that benefited them both.

“Yesterday Master Cyslin Myr expressed interest in becoming my Master,” she confessed. She did not look up.

Savage froze. “That’s- that’s great,” he stuttered, hearts constricting even as excitement shivered along his skin. “You’re going to be an amazing Jedi! Did…” he swallowed, gaze dropping to his own tray. “Did you accept?”

It took a few moments for his best friend to reply. “I told her I’d think about it.”

At that, Savage’s head whipped up to stare at her. Her gaze was still locked on her untouched food. Her hands were twisted together in her lap. Abruptly, Savage realized she must have been anxiously waiting all night to tell him this. He wondered what she would have done if their Clans hadn’t gone to breakfast at the same time. Maybe she would have only picked at her food. Maybe she would have spent the rest of the day silent, stressing about a choice that should have been so easy.

He wondered if she would have slipped away from her crèchemates to find him. To tell him.

“’Think’ about it?” Savage repeated slowly.

Her hands twisted tighter. “Yes.”

Savage considered her. “Are you worried she won’t be a good match?”

The shake of her head was immediate. “No, I know she will be. She trained Master Windu. I’ve spoken with her a few times before. She’s incredibly experienced and very kind. A Mirialan like me. I know we’d work well together, but…”

“But what?”

Lips pursing, Luminara glanced up and met his eyes. “I- I’ve been trained to become a Jedi my entire life. My family wanted this for me. I want this for me. It’s the only future I’ve ever seen for myself. But- now that it’s finally here…”

Reaching out was so easy. He loved her. She was his best friend and she needed him, despite whatever complicated emotions were tangled in his chest. He slipped his right hand over the bundle of her fists and squeezed them tight. “You’re nervous,” he knew. “You’re scared.”

Her eyes were wide, but they weren’t wet and for that Savage was grateful. Despite her doubts, she’d always been so strong. “You,” he said fiercely, “are a good Jedi. You always have been. With Master Myr’s help, you’re going to become an even better one.”

Her smile was shaky, but warm upon her lovely face. That diamond tattoo upon her chin stretched along with it. “You think?”

“I know so.”

The curl of her arms around him was more than welcome because Savage was going to miss her. So much.

“I’m going to miss you,” Luminara whispered like she’d read his mind.

Savage tightened his hold on her and only nodded, choked up. And maybe she really did know what was on his mind because he’d told her how he came to the Temple. He’d told her how Feemor convinced him to stay for the sake of his baby brother. Feemor made sure to let Savage know he didn’t have to become a Jedi if he didn’t want to.

Savage knew this. It had always been in the back of his mind, even as he grew to love the Temple and the people within it. Even as he began to hope that maybe this could be his life.

Could it be his life?

He didn’t know. He didn’t think he could answer that question. Was he really allowed to be a Jedi? Would the universe allow it? Was he right to be one? He was too angry, too judgmental, too erratic and emotional with his actions.

But here was the most damning fact:

No one had ever asked him if he wanted to be their apprentice. No one had even expressed interest.

So this- this might really be the last time he saw her.

“You’re going to be an amazing Jedi,” he whispered, stomach tight and knotted, just as her hands had been.

“Thank you,” she whispered back, and held on even tighter.

-:-

“What are the symbols on your flag?” Feral asks Shmi as he watches Threepio cross in front of the podracers along with the other flagbearers. They’re strange, a combination of angles and curves, no language he’s ever seen before. Shmi spent most of the evening sewing the flag from precious scraps of cloth. They’re some of the same symbols that Shmi and Anakin meticulously painted onto the podracer before dinner.

Shmi is quiet for a moment, following Feral’s gaze. “The blue symbol is our family’s. It’s one of the only things I can remember from before I became a slave.”

Eyes wide, Feral turns to stare at her.

“The other is a slave’s marking,” she says more quietly. “It means freedom and perseverance. Our language is very secret. It must be, if we wish to communicate with each other. Because of that it usually looks like little more than scratches. Only a slave’s practiced eye can read them.” The smile she gives him is small but filled with teeth and her eyes glint like steel in the sun. “We want our baschna to know that one of our own won.”

Feral finds himself grinning back.

Pointing to the podracer, Shmi traces the extra symbols they painted on it. “Speed and good fortune. Safety. Victory. I wanted to bless my son as well as I could.”

“He’s already blessed by having you as a mother.”

Shmi’s grin goes crooked, eyes sparkling. “You flatter an old woman.”

Scoffing, Feral shakes his head. “Hardly old.”

She laughs and goes to speak with her son. Feral is glad to have eased some of the tension from her shoulders. Since the moment Anakin mentioned podracing, worry has guided every one of her movements, lacing through every one of her words. It has only worsened since the suns rose this morning.

A hand settles upon his shoulder as Qui-Gon stops beside him. “I apologize for my earlier frustration,” the man offers quietly. “But you must realize that what you’ve done is very foolish and very reckless. If your Master was here he would berate you quite thoroughly.”

A sigh escapes him. “Perhaps, but he’d recognize that I’m only following the Force’s will.” He thinks of Mace’s face as his lips formed the word shatterpoint. Thinks of the quiet, stressed resignation there. The hope. The dread. The warning. “He would support my decision.”

Qui-Gon’s grip tightens and then he sighs, as well. “It is no wonder you’re such a good match. You’ve only inherited his staunch sense of duty.”

“Well, there’s a reason why he likes me best.”

“Depa would disagree,” Qui-Gon warns.

Feral only grins. “She likes me best, too.”

With that, they make their way to Anakin.

“You all set, Ani?” Qui-Gon asks as the boy looks over his podracer with experienced eyes.

“Yup!”

“Right.” Qui-Gon easily lifts the boy up and into the seat of the podracer. Feral can’t help but grin at the boy’s surprised woah!                                                                                             

Intent, Qui-Gon leans forward and meets Anakin’s wide eyes. “Remember, concentrate on the moment. Feel, don’t think. Use your instincts.” These are the words of an experienced Jedi Master speaking to a youngling who is only just coming to know the Force. It makes Feral remember when he was young enough to still be in the crèche. Young enough to still sit wide-eyed at the front of the class while their teacher lifted her lightsaber with will alone.

“I will,” Anakin promises, determined.

Qui-Gon nods, content. “May the Force be with you.” In a fond gesture, he strokes the back of Anakin’s head, then turns on his heel to leave.

Anakin stares up at Feral, wide-eyed and clearly still a little nervous. So Feral smiles wide and reassuring.

“You can do this, baschna,” he encourages, word strange on his tongue. But it feels right, and it seems to calm Anakin.

“Yeah,” Anakin says, determined. “I can.”

-:-

Luminara’s confession rattled around in Savage’s brain for the rest of the morning. It picked and peeled at the edges of his thoughts. Clawed at the scabs of his insecurities, and that years-old question:

Will he become a Jedi?

It bothered him enough that Master Drallig even paused by his side during class and un-judgmentally suggested Savage find a quiet place to meditate. Savage was quick to take up the offer despite how much he loved ‘sabre practice. Casting a quick reassuring look at Feral, Savage cleaned up his space, returned the training hilt and left to find Feemor.

It was what he always did whenever he was unsure of himself. Like a moth to flame, Savage was drawn. And like a moth to flame, he always seemed to know where Feemor was.  

So his feet led him to Feemor’s quarters.

There was no reason to chime the bell. There never had been. Instead, he palmed open the door and found Feemor lounging on the sofa, datapad in hand. The man’s gaze flickered up and once he caught sight of Feral, a smile immediately bloomed upon his face.

“Savage! I wasn’t expecting to see you until later. Isn’t your ‘sabre class right now?” There was a touch of concern on his face as he sat up, feet slipping off the cushions.

Savage’s eyes lingered on the soft blue fabric. It wasn’t the original sofa for the apartment. Just barely, Savage could remember a smaller, cramped thing. Mud brown and worn. This one replaced it not long after the brothers began sleeping in Feemor’s bedroom. Feemor had spent so long sleeping on this couch, simply to help two scared little boys find a way to not be so scared anymore.  If he hadn’t, Savage and Feral would have escaped this Temple, too.

But it wouldn’t really have been an escape.

It would have been their doom.

“Why don’t you have a different apartment?” Savage blurted out.

Lifting a brow, Feemor set his datapad down on the side table. He studied Savage with those soft green eyes of his. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Savage scowled. Fought for words. He’d never been very good with them. “When you gave us your bedroom. You could have asked for another apartment. One with two bedrooms so you didn’t have to sleep on the couch.”

Four years, he thought. Feemor spent four years sleeping on this couch, robbed of any peace or privacy. He’d willingly given it, welcoming two, traumatized little boys into his life. Savage didn’t even know what Feemor’s life was like before this. Nothing beyond missions and tea with Qui-Gon and Xanatos, and in the last couple years he’d only just started leaving the Temple again.

He’d gotten in from a three-week mission yesterday. There’d been a delay that left Savage twitchy for a few days. But Master Qui-Gon made sure to drop in every morning to keep Savage informed. Yesterday morning had been a relief when Qui-Gon greeted him with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. Feemor was just about to arrive, and if Savage hurried, he’d be able to greet him in the hangar bay.

It was no surprise that when he rushed down the halls, Feral was right on his heels.

They’d darted around Masters and Knights and groups of younglings, offering hurried apologies to Masters Windu and Yoda when they nearly barreled them over rounding a tight corner. Once they made it to the hangar bay they skidded between the ships, dodging pilots and mechanics, mindless of their surprised shouts. And then there he was.

Feemor stood at the end of a ramp of a small, cramped ship, speaking with a mechanic, a serious look on his face. Then, before Savage could even shout, Feemor glanced up, eyes immediately finding him.

And he smiled.

Savage- Savage didn’t really understand. Feemor was kind and wise and so patient. He was good in a way few people were. Good in a way Savage had never experienced before meeting him. The Force brought them together. It must have. But- Savage just didn’t understand why.

Feemor considered him. He’d only ever been honest with Savage, and he was nothing but genuine now. “You and your brother needed a place that felt safe. The only thing I could offer that could be yours and yours only was my bedroom. If I’d requested a new apartment after offering it to you, your safe space would have been stolen from you. You would have felt uprooted, vulnerable. I would have lied to you. Maybe if I’d been able to requisition new quarters that very night, but you know that’s not possible. It would have been at least a week. I knew you wouldn’t stay if that happened.” He lowered his gaze, hand idly running along the blue cushions, smile small and warm. “So I got myself a nice, comfy couch, instead.”

Something twisted behind Savage’s breastbone, lungs shuddering as his breath hitched, traitorous. Clenching his fists grounded him. Kept him in the moment. Kept his eyes from going hot and scratchy. “You’re always- so nice.” His voice wasn’t as level as he wanted. Sort of trembly and tight. “You- you let me and Feral stay here in your home. You let our friends come here. You cook us food and you read to us and you stayed in the Temple for four years. For- for us?”

Feemor gaze was calm and steady, as was his answer. “Yes.”

Now his eyes did itch, vision going slightly wobbly. “Why?”

“Because you needed help.”

The answer was so simple, all at once so personal yet so impersonal. Feemor was a Jedi, of course he helps people. But he’d also become such a huge part of Savage’s life he couldn’t imagine living without him.

If- if Feemor did all of this just because he saw two scared two little boys who needed help and not because it was Savage and Feral, he- he didn’t really know what he’d do.

Maybe his hearts would break.

Slowly, Feemor stood and approached him. “I did it because you needed help, but also because I felt a connection.”

Sniffling a bit, Savage dragged a furious hand across his face. Confused, not daring to hope, he bit his lip.

Feemor stopped just a foot away from him. His eyes were so gentle. They always were when he looked at Savage. “Did you ever wonder why I was up and about in the middle of the night while you tried to escape?”

Shaking his head, Savage sniffled again.

Feemor knelt. Savage had always been a scrawny child so in this position they were equals, and it set something inside him at ease. “I’d felt unsettled for days. I knew something was coming. The Force echoed back at me like the steady push and pull of the waves upon the seashore. But I couldn’t figure out what it wanted. What it wanted me to know.” He paused, studying Savage’s face. “But then I woke up in the middle of the night. Something was calling me. I was needed. Someone needed me and if I didn’t hurry I’d be too late, and I didn’t even know what for. But it scared me. If I didn’t run it’d be gone, and I didn’t know if I could live with that.”

Feemor had never, ever told Savage he was scared. Until this moment, Savage didn’t even think Feemor could feel fear. Feemor was kind and strong and wise. He was invincible. So how could he be afraid?

Feemor reached out and laid a steady, warm hand on Savage’s shoulder. “And then I found you.”

Tears spilled from Savage’s eyes, but he didn’t stop them. Just let them splatter hot down his face.

“You were such a tiny, fierce little thing. So full of life and strength and I knew you wouldn’t hesitate to tear me apart if I even looked at your brother wrong.” His eyes were so intense. So green. “I knew the Force had guided me to you.”

Savage’s shoulders shook but he couldn’t stop it. Something swelled inside of him. Strange and warm and vast. It rose in his throat, pushed against the corners of his mind, pushed up all his fears and doubts and hopes.

“Why did you come find me today, Savage?”

“‘Nara- ‘Nara is gonna be a Padawan,” Savage gasped between little hiccups. “She’s gonna to be a Jedi and she’s gonna to leave me.”

Feemor’s expression was so gentle. “The Temple is still her home. She is not leaving here.”

“I- I know, but—” Choking, Savage swallowed back sobs.

“It’s more than that, isn’t it?” A squeeze to his shoulder, encouraging. “Why are you really upset, Savage?”

It took a few seconds for Savage to find the words, and when he did, they scraped up his throat. Reluctant, painful. Ashamed. “B-because she’s gonna to be a Jedi and I’m not. My best friend and my baby brother are gonna be Jedi and I- they’re just gonna forget about me!”

Feemor was silent for a moment. Then he spoke carefully, as if he’d very consciously chosen his words. “Do you not want to be a Jedi, Savage?”

Wordlessly, Savage tucked his chin to his chest.

Feemor was silent again, as if waiting for an answer, or steeling himself for something. “Because it’s okay if you don’t want to be.” There was something very, very sad in Feemor’s voice and it made Savage look up. Made him frown at the stressed crease of Feemor’s mouth. “I told you, you don’t have to be a Jedi if you don’t want to. We aren’t forcing you. We’d never force you, Savage. You are your own person, and you have a right to choose what you want to do with your life.”

“I-it’s not that,” Savage confessed, throat tight, hearts pounding twin awful rhythms in his tiny chest. “I just—” And it hurt to admit it, but after everything, he at least owed Feemor the truth. “It’s just- n- no one wants me, right? No one’s asked. I-I’m twelve and I’m the oldest one in the crèche and I should be ready but I’m not. I must not be, ‘cause no one’s asked.”

For once, Savage can’t read the emotion in Feemor’s eyes. “Do you want to be a Jedi, Savage?”

“Yeah,” Savage sobbed. “Y-yeah, I do. More than anything.”

And it was strange to say it. Strange to admit what he hadn’t even been able to admit to himself. Because he wanted nothing but a good, happy life for his brother. He wanted nothing but the best for him— so did it make him an awful brother, an awful person for wanting this for himself?

He wanted so much he could barely breathe.

And he knew that wasn’t what Jedi were like. Jedi didn’t want things. They didn’t need things so badly they lay awake at night, desperately hoping the Force heard their prayers.

“B-but I’m angry and emotional and- and I’m a little slow to learn things. So w-why would a-anyone want me?”

Savage felt his face crumple. He’d never cried so much. Not ever. He always had to be strong for Feral. He was Dragon Clan’s big brother. People came crying to him, not the other way around.

“I do.”

Startled, Savage sniffled and rubbed at his face, peering at Feemor through swollen eyes. The man’s expression was as fierce as he’d ever seen it. Fierce and loving and it took Savage’s breath away. “W-what?”

“You are kind. You care so much about the people around you. Your crèchemates adore you. You feel so deeply and it might be difficult to control, but it only proves your inherent connection to the Force. It only proves your empathy. And everyone learns at their own pace. You take care to understand what you’re taught. You have real talent. And you are far braver than anyone I know. Who else could have escaped when they were so young?”

“But the Force—”

“No. That was all you. The Force may have aided your escape, but it did not magically free you. You chose to leave. You stole that ship and you kept your brother alive for months until the Jedi found you. That was all you, Savage. Take credit for your accomplishments. For your strength.” Feemor’s eyes shone. “You are an incredible boy, and I would be honoured if you agreed to become my Padawan.”

“I- I don’t understand,” Savage sobbed.

Expression cracking with grief, Feemor squeezed his shoulder. “I care about you, Savage. I always have. I want you to be my Padawan, but only if you want it, too.”

It felt as if his whole body crumpled as he leapt forward into Feemor’s arms. Bawling, quaking, clutching as tight as he could. “Yes!” he choked out. “Yes yesyes!”

Feemor did not hesitate to hug him back, arms wrapped around him tight and grounding.

“Thank you, Master.”

“Always, my Padawan.”

Chapter Text

The crowd’s roar still rings in Feral’s ears. He can hardly believe it. Even if he knew it would happen, the shocked relief still spreads cool through his limbs. The Force has settled upon him, too, a steady weight. The image of slaves crowding around Anakin’s pod, tears in their eyes, disbelief etched across their faces— It’s burned itself onto the backs of his eyelids. There was a fragile hope there, blossoming into something full and strong and vibrant as they stared at Anakin and screamed in triumph.

It’s so wonderful, Ani, Shmi had said, eyes full of life in a way Feral had never seen. You have brought hope to those who have none.

So young and already doing so much, Feral thought. I was meant to find him. I was meant to free him. I know it.

And so with that resolve in mind, Feral and Master Qui-Gon step out into Watto’s viewing box.

Immediately, Watto turns. “You,” he growls, eyes flicking from Qui-Gon to land squarely on Feral. “You swindled me! You knew the boy was going to win. Somehow you knew it.” His expression crumples a bit. “I lost everything.”

“Whenever you gamble, my friend, eventually you’ll lose,” Qui-Gon says. Pausing, he steps over to the edge of the balcony, gazing out at the dissipating crowds. “Bring the parts to the main hangar. I’ll come by your shop later on so you can release the boy and his mother.”

“You can’t have them.” Watto sneers at Feral. “It wasn’t a fair bet.”

Qui-Gon turns, expression carefully blank. His eyes glint like steel. He stands there, poised like a Nexu ready to strike. Then he stalks towards Watto, all grace and carefully contained vehemence. “Would you like to discuss it with the Hutts?” He steps right up to Feral’s shoulder, angling himself in front of Feral. “I’m sure they can settle this.”

Lip curling, desperate but knowing he’s outmatched, Watto fixes Feral with a furious glare. Then, all at once, he wilts. “Take them.”

Qui-Gon inclines his head, then sweeps out.

Hearts racing a little, anxiety trembly along his skin, Feral watches Qui-Gon leave. Meets Watto’s accusatory gaze once more— before hurrying out on the Master’s heels.

He catches up to Qui-Gon’s long strides a bit down the hallway. Carefully, he tucks his hands into his sleeves and peers up at the man through the corner of his eye. Qui-Gon’s gaze is fixed forward.

“If Anakin had lost, I would have found a way to get you back, Feral.”

Steps faltering, Feral can only stare at Qui-Gon’s retreating back before he remembers to catch up again. It’s not much effort to match Qui-Gon’s gait, Master Windu is the same height as the man. All the same, he cannot find it himself to croak out a response.

Qui-Gon glances down at him, eyes intense and resolute. “I would have found a way, Feral. We would not have left you here alone. I promise you.”

Hearts full and throat dry, Feral shakily nods his head. “Okay,” he whispers. His exhale is just as unsteady as he feels.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and grips it tight, pulling him to a stop. People grumble, forced to swerve around them.

Qui-Gon has always been a kind person, but Feral has never felt it as much as he does now with the man looking down at him. “I’ve known you since you were a little boy clambering up onto my lap, so full of trust and innocence. Though you are not part of my lineage, you are still my family. As Jedi, we must do our duty. Our lives do not wholly belong to us. But that does not prevent us from loving or caring for others. That does not prevent us from doing what we can to help those we love.” He pauses, then continues, voice approving. “Though it was foolishly done…You acted as a Jedi. You listened to the Force and put others above yourself. It is clear you will be a great Knight someday, Feral. Your Master will be proud.”

Feral ducks his head, eyes burning. “Thank you, Master.”

Qui-Gon squeezes his shoulder again, warmth radiating from the contact. Then he chuckles lightly. “If I had done nothing, you would have had many people tearing this planet apart to bring you back. Either way, you would have found your way home again.”

Laughter bubbles its way up Feral’s throat and he grins up at Qui-Gon. “If the Force willed it.”

“It would,” Qui-Gon says, so certain.

Feral can’t help but believe him.

It doesn’t take long to make their way back to the Skywalkers, and though there is relief that they won, there’s an undercurrent of urgency, too. By the way Qui-Gon speeds up his pace, Feral knows Qui-Gon also feels it. Not only do they need to finally make their way back to Coruscant, the Force pushes at them, insistent. Something is swelling on the horizon, getting closer and closer and they need to leave.

But they’re uprooting an entire family. They need to tell the Skywalkers as soon as possible. So before they even gather up the hyperdrive for Watto, before they even go back to the ship or the slave quarters- Qui-Gon and Feral usher their little group to a corner of the hangar bay and tell them they’re free.

Shmi stares, shocked to silence, eyes blown wide. Anakin’s mouth gapes, but then he lets out a whoop.

“What?!” the little boy exclaims. He turns stunned, hopeful eyes on Feral. “Baschna, is that true?!”

Feral grins. “It’s true.”

“Oh, my,” Threepio cries, reaching out to steady himself on Artoo’s dome as the little droid trills enthusiastically.

Padmé gapes, then quickly composes herself.

“Mom,” Anakin turns to Shmi, eyes shining, “did you hear that?”

“I…” Shmi swallows. Blindly, she reaches out for her son and pulls him close, nestling him into her skirts. Slowly, she sinks to the ground, Anakin quietly going with her. “Oh.” She stares blindly at Qui-Gon.

Tears prick at Feral’s eyes. Her overwhelmed feelings bombard him in the Force. Shock and old grief and sharp, terrible disbelief. But under that, under everything, is that burning bright sun filled with hope and triumph and steel.

“I thought…maybe Anakin…” Her hands thread into her son’s hair and she tilts her cheek to press against the crown of his golden head.

“You’re free, Lady Skywalker,” Qui-Gon says simply. “Both you and your son can do as you like with your lives.”

“Mom?” Anakin murmurs, turning his head into Shmi’s shoulder.

She closes her eyes, breathes. Slowly, carefully, pulls herself together again. Draws back those turbulent emotions, gathers her calm and joy and revels in it. Releases her grief and age-old anger and the clinging shadows of a past no one can even imagine. All blazing power and careful control.

Feral can’t help but stare. Never has he ever felt someone feel so much like a Jedi without even being one.

Shmi stands, guiding Anakin to his feet, as well. When she opens her eyes, she is renewed, revived, alive. She’s still the same Shmi Feral has gotten to know and love the last couple days, but suddenly he can see who she was so long ago. Who she is meant to be. It punches the air out of him. Leaves him reeling.

“Will you take him with you?” She focuses on Qui-Gon. “Will he become a Jedi?”

Anakin gapes again but manages to cut himself off despite the excitement in his eyes.

Qui-Gon studies Shmi. “If you allow it.”

“But you think he should.”

Qui-Gon sighs. “Yes. Our meeting was not a coincidence. Nothing happens by accident.”

“You mean I can come with you in your starship?!” Anakin looks absolutely ecstatic, ready to run off into the great wide galaxy at a moment’s notice.

Qui-Gon shifts, a serious look crossing his face. It’s one Feral knows well from when he and Obi-Wan were younger. “Anakin, training to become a Jedi is not an easy challenge, and even if you succeed, it’s a hard life.”

“But I wanna go!” Anakin takes a step forward, leaving the safety of his mother’s skirts. “It’s what I’ve always dreamed of doing.”

But Feral is brought back to the previous night, the stars a familiar swathe of brilliance. Two moons slowly crawling above them, a third tucked beneath the horizon.

I wanna be the first one to see ‘em all! Anakin had exclaimed, stars in his eyes. I wanna be a proper pilot with my own ship, big enough for me and mom and Threepio. That way we can travel wherever we want, whenever we want. Just us three, exploring the galaxy.

Feral bites his lip.

“Can I go, mom?” Anakin turns back to Shmi, desperation on his face. So eager for something that was only ever possible in his dreams.

“Anakin, this path has been placed before you,” Shmi says, but it’s clear it pains her. They’re both finally free and she might lose her son anyway. “The choice is yours alone.”

“I wanna do it.” Then Anakin frowns. “But- you’d be going with me, right? I mean- we’re both free so we can do whatever we want!”

Shmi looks even more pained, stress lines clear on her face. “I don’t think it works like that, Ani.”

“But…” Anakin turns to Qui-Gon, then Feral. “Baschna, you said you have a brother. It’s not weird if Jedi are related. You only said it’s weird you’re so close, but it’s okay, right? Mom and I can both go to the Temple. She doesn’t even need to be a Jedi! I can be one and support her and- and—”

Feral doesn’t want to tell him no. Desperately doesn’t want to. But he does it anyway. He must. “It…doesn’t quite work like that, Anakin,” Feral forces out.

Anakin frowns, confusion playing across his face. “What do you mean?”

“Jedi don’t keep in contact with their families,” Qui-Gon tells him. “There are many reasons why, but mainly it’s to avoid unhealthy attachments and bias. Jedi must be impartial. We’re part of the Republic, yet separate. We help people, but in order to do that we can’t go into a situation already favouring one side over the other.”

“But- that doesn’t- what does that have to do with mom?”

“It’ll already be difficult enough with you being so old. Even Feral’s brother was pushing the line and he was six when we found them. If we add your relationship with your mother on top of that…”

“But—” Fear and anger twists Anakin’s face. “That’s stupid. I don’t- we’re finally free! I can’t lose mom now!”

I’m afraid we’ll be separated, Anakin had cried last night, fear and darkness dug deep into him. I love my mom. She and Threepio are all I have. I can’t lose them. I can’t. I don’t know what I’d do without them.

“If you want to be a Jedi, you must let her go, Anakin.”

“But I don’t want to!”

“Anakin.” Shmi sinks to her knees again and takes her son’s shoulders in her hands. Stubborn, the little boy glares at the dirt beneath his feet. “Anakin, please look at me.”

Reluctantly, Anakin lifts his teary gaze.

“My son, I wasn’t sure you would ever be free. But you’ve always been meant for so much more than this. You deserve so much more than this, and you deserve more than what I can give.”

Immediately, Anakin opens his mouth in protest but she shushes him.

“I love you so very much. I want what’s best for you.” She breathes deep, exhales grief. “As slaves, we know our lives are not our own. Anything, everything, can be taken away from us. It is why we guard what we do have so close to our hearts. But someday, always, what we love gets taken from us. We must always be prepared for that. As slaves, we must learn to let go. Though we are no longer slaves, it is a lesson we must never forget.”

Shmi cups Anakin’s cheek with her calloused hand. “This is your decision and your decision alone. But you must not be afraid to follow the path that is right for you. It is time for you to let go.”

“I don’t want things to change.”

“But you can’t stop the change any more than you can stop the suns from setting.” A small smile curves her lips. “Without change, we would not be free. That is not so very bad, is it?”

Anakin’s face crumples. “It is if I lose you.”

Shmi’s face tightens and she pulls him close. Whispers, “Oh, I love you.” Says, louder. “We will be homeless by the end of the day. Watto will not allow us to stay in the slave quarters now that we are no longer his. All we’ll have are the clothes on our backs and whatever we can fit in our pockets. We have no work. No shelter. No money. It will be dangerous if you stay, Ani.”

“But we’ve got friends!” Anakin protests. “We can stay with them until we get work! Baschna help each other!”

But Shmi’s already shaking her head. “Life here is difficult enough without having to worry about feeding two families. We can only stay with friends for so long, and it will be difficult to get work when people find out we’ve been freed.”

“You don’t have to stay here.”

Shmi and Anakin startle, glancing up at Feral who’s already taken a step forward.

“We can take you to Coruscant,” he rushes, hearts skittering along his ribs. “If you want, Anakin, you can see the Temple. Talk to other Jedi. You can see if that’s a life you actually want. If not…” Feral swallows, unwilling to consider that Anakin might never be a Jedi, but also unwilling to tear mother and son apart. “The Jedi frequently help people set up new lives. We have contacts and resources.”

“Naboo will help you, as well.”

Now Feral startles, having completely forgotten Padmé was there.

She’s never looked more like the Queen she is. Resolute, compassionate, drawn up to her full diminutive height. “My people are generous, and the Queen will want to thank you for helping save them. Whether Anakin decides he wants to join the Jedi or not, we will help you both.”

Shmi’s hands grip her son tight. Her face softens. “You both are kind, but I do not want to put us into any debt so soon after being freed.”

“No debt,” Qui-Gon reassures. “Feral is right. The Order frequently helps people relocate and build new lives. We dedicate our lives to helping others, not to collecting debts.”

“You’ve already helped us,” Padmé insists. “If anything, we are in your debt.”

“Baschna.” Feral approaches the Skywalkers, kneels down beside them, places one hand on Shmi’s shoulder, the other at Anakin’s elbow. “‘We must always help each other, otherwise we are lost in this galaxy.’” Feral squeezes Shmi’s shoulder. “You told me that, Shmi Skywalker. Are we not baschna? Will you not let me help you, like you helped me?”

There’s fear there, hidden deep in Shmi’s eyes. He wonders how long she was a slave. How many years she fought tooth and nail to escape, slicing into her own flesh seeking the freedom buried so far beneath. He wonders how she felt when she realized she was pregnant, how she felt when she cradled Anakin in her arms for the very first time.

Fear is understandable. Fear is necessary. Without fear, you cannot be brave. Without fear, you cannot make the right choice despite everything screaming at you not to. Darkness does not exist without light, nor light without darkness. It is a constant balance. A continuous choice.

Shmi understands her fear. Perhaps she always has. This is why she’s able to accept it, learn from it, move past it. Just as she does now.

“Yes,” Shmi says, eyes all steel and sunlight. “We will go with you.”

-:-

It was both incredibly easy and awfully difficult to transition from Initiate to Padawan.

Learning from Feemor felt natural, good. Feemor was already such an important part of his life, it was easy to slip in just that much further. His guidance was welcome, his wisdom easily understood. The cool slide of silka beads was grounding, a constant reminder that this was his home. He was worthy. He would be a Jedi.

Joining his peers in Padawan lessons felt almost as good. He and Luminara finally got to sit together every day, helping each other with concepts and homework, spending long hours studying in the Archives.

But there were other things that weren’t as easy to get used to.

For one, Feemor did actually request a new apartment with two bedrooms so neither of them would get stuck on the sofa. Savage was reluctant to say goodbye to the little space that had been a staple for half his life. It was the first place where he’d ever felt safe. There were so many memories tied to the place. It was his and Feral’s and Feemor’s and Savage didn’t want to leave.

But Feemor took his hand, looked into his eyes and said:

“This place has served its purpose. It is time to let go and move on.”

So that’s what Savage did. He and Feemor lugged everything up two levels to their new home. They deliberated about the angle of the couch, how to hang the plants, where to stash the tea. Savage even got to pick out his own bed from the Quartermaster’s inventory. He reveled in his new little bedroom. His own private sanctuary.

Except—

He’d never slept alone before. Not in his entire life. He was used to cold little feet pressing into his calves. Used to slow, steady snores in his ear. When he first arrived at the Temple the crèche was overwhelming, but it had since become a little haven full of people he loved. Every creak of a mattress and hiccupping little snore was reassurance that Savage was safe and surrounded by family.

Now, sleeping in his room was lonely. Eerily quiet. He kept waking up in the middle of the night, hearts racing, ears straining for the shifting of children safe in their beds.

Worst of all was Feral.

All their lives, they’d been attached at the hip. They weren’t together every second of the day, of course. But they were used to seeing each other first thing in the morning. They shared meals and laughter and classes and meditation in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Every night they bumped foreheads, horns clacking, and slipped into bed.

It wasn’t that Savage and Feral couldn’t see each other once he became a Padawan, but their paths were suddenly diverged. Savage spent half his day in completely different classes and the other half with Feemor. Occasionally Savage would share meals with his brother. More often, Feral would slip into their apartment and Savage would find him curled in his bed.

It was…difficult. More difficult than he realized it would be. Feemor was a part of him. An extra limb suddenly gone. Savage had duties that in no way included his brother, and Feral, well…he was still a youngling that regularly played hide-and-go-seek in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. He could be a child and Savage couldn’t. Not really.

It simmered low in his belly, heating that awful angerfrustrationguilt that he’d always tried to stuff deep down inside himself. Buried away in the dark where no one could see. Not even him.

But every time he saw his brother’s tears, every time he fell asleep alone in the dark— Every time he looked inside himself and wondered: This must be too good to be true.

It is too good to be true.

Every day he became closer to the Force. Closer to understanding it, closer to becoming part of it. Training brought knowledge and skill. Of course it did. But with every passing day it also brought him closer to things he’d rather leave behind.

It brought forth that awful, twisted thing he kept tucked away. It stank like the swamp and it hung ghostly at the edges of every thought, haunting him throughout the day and tormenting him at night.

Dathomir rose up from the dead of the past, whisperingchantingwailing. The Nightbrothers pressed in from every side, horns slick and covered in blood, their hands mangled and boney, their backs bent and broken. Tattoos twisted like writhing shadows across their skin and the Nightsisters loomed out of the mist beyond them, faces twisted in gruesome smiles full of sharp teeth. Their eyes glowed neon like the spiky, drooping vegetation that bit at his heels.

The wailing of the baby pierced his ears, echoed in that hollow space behind his breastbone where his hearts should have been.

But they were gone. Torn one two from him, leaving him bleeding and retching and quaking from the shock of it. The grief of it.

He’s gone, Savage cried in his dreams. He’s gone he’s gone I’m never getting him back.

The Nightbrothers dug their broken fingers into him, shards of bone tearing through flesh, holding him back as he screeched pleaded howled through wretched tears.

Give him back

Please give him back

I’ll do anything

Anything

During waking hours, he began to twitch at unexpected sounds. Shadows bruised beneath his eyes. His temper shortened into such a tight fuse even Luminara treaded carefully around him. He could hardly look at his brother. He could hardly bear to leave him.

Feemor watched his beloved apprentice slowly splinter apart and nothing he did seemed to help. It broke his heart. He wanted to help. He had to.

In the end, there seemed to be only one option left.

Luckily, Mace Windu was never one to refuse a plea for help.

-:-

Dropping by Watto’s first is a priority. Not only do they need the hyperdrive as soon as possible, the sooner the Skywalkers can be handed their freedom, the better.

Watto’s expression is sour as they load up the hyperdrive to a hoverskid that the eopies will haul back to their ship. But when Watto tries to quietly hand over four little devices, Qui-Gon’s lips pinch and he steps back. Confused, Watto opens his mouth but Shmi quickly steps forward. Silent, she holds out her hand, expression flat.

Watto’s mouth snaps closed and he grimaces. With clear reluctance, he drops them into the palm of her hand. They land with a faint clatter. Shmi stares at Watto for a few tense moments before inspecting the things carefully.

“These are the deactivator wands?” she asks, indicating the two smaller pieces of tech.

Watto grunts an affirmative.

“So these other two are the trackers.”

Another grunt.

Shmi inspects the tiny screens on each, thumbing away grime so she can more easily read the Aurebesh. She spends a long few of minutes scrolling and clicking. When she’s done, she glances back up, expression so well-guarded. “Where is my son’s transmitter chip?”

Watto scowls. “It says on the tracking device. Can’t you read?” he sneers.

“I want a simple confirmation. Where is my son’s transmitter chip?” Her tone brooks no argument.

Watto grinds his teeth, then hisses through them. “Left hip.”

“Where is my transmitter chip?”

“Your belly.”

Feral’s breath hitches, but Shmi’s expression does not change. He cannot help but imagine Shmi, young and pregnant. Anakin tucked away in her belly alongside the thing that could kill them both at someone’s else’s whim.

Not even acknowledging the Toydarian’s answer, Shmi inspects the devices again, taking one deactivator wand and presumably the corresponding tracking device. She scrolls and clicks her way through the information again. Then, hands trembling slightly, she inserts the pointed end of the deactivator wand into a slot on the tracking device. Twists. There’s a click and she selects a couple of commands on the screen. A thin whine rises into the air as the tracking device vibrates. Unfaltering, Shmi slams her thumb down on a tiny blue button and yanks—

The device comes apart in her hands with a cracklewhine. It sparks as Shmi turns her fierce gaze on Watto one last time.

“We belong to no one but ourselves. We are not yours to keep.” With that, she turns on her heel and stalks out into the light of the twin suns.

Anakin scrambles after her, Feral close behind, leaving Qui-Gon to deal with Watto’s spluttering. They find her standing just outside, tears trickling down her face as she deactivates and dismantles the last tracking device.

“I wasn’t sure if it would activate,” Shmi murmurs, voice quaking just the slightest. Her hands are dead-steady though. Competent and confident. It’s easy to see where Anakin gets his talent from. “I didn’t know if the instructions on it were lying as- as a preventative measure. In case a slave got their hands on their own tracking device. I couldn’t trust Watto to tell me how to do it. So I had to do mine first. I couldn’t risk it.”

I couldn’t risk Anakin, she doesn’t say, but Feral hears it anyway.

The device in her hands falls apart with a crackle. Immediately, Anakin wraps his arms around her, burying his face in the folds of her clothes. Quietly, Shmi tucks the ruined pieces of tech into a pocket, then hugs Anakin close.

They stay like that, quietly holding each other, until Qui-Gon and Padmé emerge from the dark shop. Unwilling to leave the Skywalkers right after they were freed, Feral volunteers to help them pack up what they can while Qui-Gon, Padmé and Artoo escort the hyperdrive back to the ship.

It’s…strangely emotional work. As a Jedi, Feral has very few possessions. Any furniture in his shared apartment really belongs to the Temple. All he has are a few knickknacks from missions. Little things he’s picked up along the way, or things his brother thought he might like. Sometimes Obi-Wan even gives him something. A pretty stone or tiny wooden animal he carved himself. They sit on the shelves in his bedroom. Even Master Windu has a few things, like Depa’s Padawan braid which is proudly displayed in their living room. But Jedi do not need material things. They are not attached to them like so many other people.

A Jedi’s life lays in the Force. In the connections they make. In the people they help. It’s passed on through Master and apprentice.

A slave…a slave’s life is strangely similar. They leave their mark through the people they’ve touched. By helping and loving each other despite everything, they pass on a certain goodness not unlike that of the Jedi.  But their servitude and nonmaterialistic life is not a choice they willingly make.

So, obediently packing up what Shmi and Anakin decide they cannot do without…it’s difficult. Some of what they have is not theirs. It belongs to Watto, just as their home does. They’ve gathered a mishmash of things over the years. Things they’ve scavenged, gifts from friends. Odds and ends that don’t necessarily make sense but would be foolish to pass over. You never know what you might need.

Shmi separates everything into three categories:

What Watto owns.

What can be passed on to others.

What they cannot do without.

Feral finds himself oddly silent as Shmi carefully sorts through her tools and extracts three worn pieces that actually belong to her. While Feral and Threepio pack up the Skywalker’s belongings, Anakin runs things over to their neighbors. With Shmi’s blessing, he even hands Kitster their folded flag and half their earnings from selling the podracer.

Feral doesn’t witness their parting but when Anakin comes back from telling Kitster goodbye, his eyes are red-rimmed and there’s a particularly determined jut to his jaw.

All too soon, Qui-Gon returns with the eopies and the hoverskid, but Shmi, ever the practical woman, has parsed the house’s content’s down to what they can carry. They decide it is best to drop the eopies back off at Watto’s when they return to the ship.

When they step back outside, the street is crowded with slaves. Humans, Twi’leks and Togruta. Duros, Cathar and Rodians. Species that Feral can’t even name. They all peer out from doorways, lean over the edges of verandas, perch on twisting staircases. In many people’s hands, they hold the things Anakin was tasked to distribute. It’s definitely not everyone that lives in the slave quarters, but clearly everyone who was available has turned up. They’re silent watchers as Qui-Gon and Feral step out into the heat. Then Shmi ducks beneath the doorway with Anakin close behind and a collective whisper starts up.

Startled, Shmi freezes, eyes wide.

Kitster pushes through the crowd, flag clutched in his hands. Expression unusually solemn, he holds it high, short arms straining. The slaves around him take the edges and spread it wide until it billows up and out, shielding them from the twin suns as Kitster opens his mouth and cries:

“Baschna!”

“Skywalker!” someone else cries, and then suddenly hundreds of voices rise up, jumbled and heartfelt, until gradually they coalesce into one:

“Kala junda oun ha’ansi, baschna. Kala baurn e leyaah, en ju ansir kiid, si.”

Tears fill Shmi’s eyes, hands rising to cup her heart. Her head dips and she kisses her fingertips, then touches her forehead and offers her hands to the twin suns above.

“Baschna!” she cries, voice nearly lost in the cacophony. “Ina uhn kiid uhnir, uhn valaa e’jut. Uhn baurn zat ha’ansi.”

After a shocked moment, Anakin clumsily follows. Hurriedly he cups his heart, kisses his fingertips, touches his forehead and then presents his hands to the sky. “Baschna!” he repeats, bewildered tears filling his eyes. “Ina uhn kiid e uhnir, uhn valaa e’jut. Uhn baurn zat ha’ansi.”

Later, much later, Shmi will hold Anakin’s hand as he sleeps aboard a cold ship. Her eyes will be soft and sad as she tells Feral the blessing of parting slaves. A blessing time and fortune do not always allow:

Our hearts go with you, brother. Our souls are free, and now your body, too.

Though my body is my own, my sorrow is not. My heart stays with you.

But right now, the slaves all cup their hearts, kiss their fingertips and then raise their palms to the endless sky above. Hands filled with Shmi’s gifts. Hands filled with nothing but callouses. They’re all freely offered to the suns as the Skywalkers step forward. As Shmi passes them by, her people reach out to her, fingertips trailing over her hair, her clothes.

“Baschna, baschna,” they murmur, voices filled with grief, joy, promise.

They bless Anakin, too. They say farewell in the way they caress his hair, the way they kiss their fingertips then press them gently upon his shoulders, the nape of his neck, his brow.

The crowd follows them through the slave quarters. Once Shmi steps out into the main streets of Mos Espa, her people gather up against the edge of their prison, watching them from the sandy street, the high arching rooftops, each and every narrow stair.

Anakin nearly turns to peer over his shoulder but Shmi’s hand is firm yet gentle as she guides his cheek to face the path laid out before them.

“Be brave, my Ani, and don’t look back,” she whispers. “Don’t look back.”

-:-

The simple answer was Vaapad.

Unfortunately, it was also the more complicated one.

Mace Windu met them in a private salle. The instant Savage crossed the doorstep, the Jedi Master’s gaze snapped towards him, glued to Savage’s anxious, haunted expression. A quick, encouraging squeeze to the shoulder and Feemor veered off to the corner to observe.

Warily, Savage approached the Jedi Master who sat cross-legged in the middle of the mats. His customary robe was folded and laid off to the side, as were his boots, leaving his feet bare. His ‘sabre lay before him on the floor.

Windu gestured to the empty space before him and Savage accepted the silent invitation. He shrugged off his robe and tugged off his boots. Placed them to the side just as Windu had done. Then he knelt and awkwardly copied the Master’s posture.

Mace’s gaze flickered to Savage’s empty belt.

“You have no ‘sabre?”

Savage shook his head. “I haven’t gone to Ilum yet. My crèchemates are too young, and…” He swallowed uncomfortably. He couldn’t say that Crèchemaster Vant hadn’t thought him ready. Otherwise, how could he be a Padawan? It took special permission to go to Ilum, and unless it was an emergency, it usually took a few weeks before it was granted. If not for that, Master Feemor would have taken him already.

“That’s alright,” Windu said and Savage couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. “Why are you here, Savage?”

Savage blinked. “I- Master Feemor said you’d—”

“That it is not what I meant,” Windu interrupted, not unkindly. “Why are you here? What has brought you to this point?”

Savage’s mouth snapped shut. Windu’s eyes were dark and serious. Something shivered around him, deep and vast. It lapped against his feet, tickled his cheeks with fine mist. Brine and fresh air filled his nose and Savage’s eyes slipped closed. His brows furrowed as the distant cry of gulls circled above.

“I…I’ve been having…dreams.”

“Dreams? Or nightmares?”

Eyes hot, Savage squeezed them shut even tighter. “Neither. Both.” He breathed in. Out. “Memories.”

“Memories from when?”

Barely biting back a snarl, barely biting back grief and rage and terror, Savage ground out, “Before the Temple.”

“And where is that?”

“A cage.” Bile rose in his throat. It burned. “Dathomir.”

“How does it make you feel?”

Shame nearly made Savage retch. It choked him, stole the words from his breath. He fought to steady it. Steady himself.

“How do you feel, Savage?” There was no judgment there, only guidance, yet still all Savage could feel was shame.

“Angry,” he managed. “Ashamed.” Tears filled his voice. “Afraid.”

“Why are you angry, Savage?”

His hands clenched into fists. “A lot of reasons.”

“Name one.”

“I’m angry because- because Dathomir was awful. We had to run.”

“Why was it awful?”

“Because we were slaves!” Savage ground out. “The Sisters kept us as pets and our lives weren’t our own. They tore us apart. They tore my family apart!” Scalding tears leaked out from between his lashes. They burnt down his face. Angrily, he scrubbed his sleeve across his cheeks. “We couldn’t stay. I- I couldn’t- I couldn’t let them tear us apart, too.”

Windu was silent for a moment as Savage counted his breaths. Calmed down. Then:

“Why are you ashamed?”

More tears spilled down his cheeks, but this time Savage didn’t bother to hide them. “Jedi aren’t supposed to feel this way,” he whispered.

“What way?”

“Tangled up. Knotted. Like- like everything good inside is just twisted and shadowed and I don’t know how to untangle it all. I don’t know how to not feel this way anymore. I’m so angry and afraid and Jedi are supposed to let it all go.”

“Why are you afraid?”

“I don’t want to lose my brother,” Savage confessed in a rush. “I can’t lose him. He’s- he means everything to me. He’s the only reason I even ran in the first place.” He gulped. “And I’m afraid I can’t be a Jedi.”

“You are already a Padawan, though. You have your Master. Why are you afraid you can’t be a Jedi?”

“Because of everything I just said. There’s- there’s darkness in me and I don’t- I don’t know how to control it. I don’t know how to make it go away.”

Windu hummed in acknowledgment. “All Jedi feel fear. We all feel anger and shame. Every creature does. It is a natural part of life. What makes us different from everyone else is that we let it shape us, but we do not let it control us.”

Savage flinched.

“I can help you learn to control it, if you wish.”

Savage’s hearts stuttered to a stop and his eyes flew open in shock. But Master Windu’s expression was nothing but solemnly sincere.

“It is not an easy path,” Windu warned. “Vaapad walks a fine line between the Light and the Dark. One misstep and you will go spiraling down without a way to return. It is a mastery of complete, continuous control. Only myself and my former Padawan are able to use it.”

Hearts in his throat, Savage opened his mouth. A pointed look from Windu had it snapping shut again.

“Vaapad is dangerous. You draw upon your anger and passion without giving in to it. Instead, you channel your inner darkness into worthy ends. It is the complete mastery of emotion. If you are not able to do that you will fail, and you will Fall to the Dark Side.”

Savage swallowed, throat dry. Windu assessed him with dark, steely eyes.

“Can you do that? Can you confront the deepest, darkest parts of yourself and not give in? Can you learn to control them?”

“I want to,” Savage rasped.

“Many people want things, but they cannot have them. Can you do it, Savage?”

“Yes.” Savage swallowed again. Swallowed back his fear, the guilt, the shame. But he let that anger rise, jagged and deadly. Let it sharpen his voice, let it rage hot behind his eyes. “Yes, I can.”

Mace Windu studied him for a long, near-unending moment. Then he nodded curtly, a strange sort of approval in his eyes. “Good.”

The Master rose to his feet and called his ‘sabre to hand. “We will begin, then.”

It was several months later, after evenings full of grueling meditation and practice, when Mace Windu finally met Savage’s little brother.

Feral was small and skinny, with sweet eyes and gentle hands and an even gentler disposition. But there was a fire blazing within him not unlike his older brother. A curiousity, a vibrancy, an incredible willpower that lined his spine with steel. It resonated deep within Mace, alighting a place that had lain dormant since Depa was Knighted.

Mace Windu looked into Feral’s young face and he knew.

The Force had led him here.

Straight to his Padawan.

Chapter Text

The desert stretches endless along the horizon, and still that raging wildfire blazes ever closer. Ash clogs his nose, burns his tongue. Stray embers flicker along his skin, leaving twisting trails of hurt in their wake. Something in him screams to flee flee flee, but something else drags at his steps, like he’s slogging knee-deep through burning sand. Unknown things flicker at the edges of his vision. Shadows where none should be. The roiling, spitting mass of magma. A voice, hissing—

“You feel it,” Qui-Gon says, voice tight as they hurry across the sands. But Threepio can’t manage much more than a fast waddle. He’s still wobbly on his feet and laden with as much as his fragile body can carry.

“Yes,” Feral manages to gasp out. “It’s- it’s been coming. For a while. I thought maybe—” we’d get out of here before it caught up, caught us, he can’t finish. Because something sparks within him like a match struck and set upon a treacherous trail of oil. It lights up within him things best left forgotten. Things filled with cobwebs and spiky, drooping neon vegetation and the pale, twisted phantoms of skeletal faces. Tattooed hands cradle him too tight, like the talons of a bird seizing its prey. There’s a long, ringing wail in his ear, hot tears on his face, a high familiar scream and he opens his mouth to scream, too—

“Baschna!” Calloused hands grip his arms, touch his cheeks, guide him up and away from the dark and the terror. Away from the clutches of those taloned hands. “Baschna,” Shmi repeats, “you must hurry.”

Looking into her eyes Feral knows she can feel it, too. The rising heat of that untamable fire devouring everything in its path. She breathes through the choking of ash and ember just as he does. She squints through the haze of billowing smoke and blinding sunlight.

“I see the ship!” Anakin cries.

Shmi pulls Feral along faster, and he just barely registers Qui-Gon lifting a shrieking, anxious Threepio with the Force, ferrying him along as they sprint across the blazing sands.

High above them, the twin suns race along with them, caught in their endless chase across the sky. Just peaking above the horizon is that strange third moon, pale and ghostly. It rises before its brothers, caught in its own erratic orbit.

“Faster, faster,” Shmi chants under her breath, grip unrelenting. She reaches for Anakin, too, and pushes him forward, faster.

Something flickers sharp at Feral’s heels, like the tongue of a flame, and Qui-Gon turns on his heel, shouts, “Drop!”

All three of them hit the sand as a speeder darts over them. Blindly, Feral reaches out with the Force, grasps- wrenches— and the speeder crumples with a sick sound, spinning wildly through the air. But its rider has already flipped over their heads, a whirl of shadow and scarlet, and with a snaphiss an unfamiliar blade ignites.

Panting, shadows closing in and that strange place hidden so deep within him blazing, Feral lifts his head only to find Qui-Gon locked in battle with a black robed figure. A shadow with a crimson blade.

“Go!” Qui-Gon yells. “Tell them to take off!”

They scramble to their feet and Anakin rushes to where Threepio was unceremoniously dumped onto the sand. Twin blades flash and crackle like lightning, and Feral stares with his hearts in his throat, thunder rumbling in his bones.

A hand grips his shoulder and Feral twists to meet Shmi’s unwavering gaze. “Go,” she hisses. “Help him. We’ll make it to the ship.”

Feral grits his teeth, nods sharp. Then finds himself on his feet, ‘sabres atwirl in his hands and he leaps forward with a cry. His hilts snap together, and twin yellow blades ignite as he slams it down. The crimson blade catches his Djem So attack with a cracklehiss, pushing up and to the side and so he moves with it. Lashes out, Force rushing like fire through his veins, strengthening each move. He ducks beneath a kick, ducks again beneath a sweep of crimson. Tries to slam his heel into his opponent’s knee but ends up tucking into a roll as Qui-Gon gets violently thrown back. The sand hisses and spits, melting into lightning trails of jagged glass. The man hits the ground with a cry but Feral’s already popping back up on the balls of his feet, twisting, stepping back with his dominant leg, ‘sabrestaff raised high—

And freezes.

His own face stares back at him, awash with blood and twisting shadow. Eyes a sickly sulfur-yellow limned with crimson.

A wail rises high somewhere in the back of his mind, a long-forgotten memory that pierces through shadow and terror and suddenly he wants he needs he grieves because a heart has been torn from him robbed and now he’s left with one stuttering, stumbling, weak thing that trembles against his brittle ribs, lonely and aching and ash swells as it fills him burns him and the fire rages a living, roiling thing and suddenly-

Suddenly he sees a strange young face peering back at him from the beyond a window, the soft shape of it lost in the violence of the magma and jutting black stone and crackling skies beyond. And there’s terror there again, too. Terror and pain and this awful, awful desperate hope that maybe- maybe maybe maybe he can be rescued he can be free too and he strains up on his toes, scrabbles at the sill, screams for help—

But then- abruptly, he realizes it’s himself. This is him. A reflection of the worst and weakest parts of himself, wreathed in violence and its unending cycle, trapped by the lines of his own body—

Feral blinks, breathes through a shuddering gasping breath as he staggers forward and realizes that face is not his own. It is gaunt. Tattoos more angular, the horns larger. And there is the blood-red of his skin. He’s never seen a Zabrak so starkly vibrant. Those strange sulfur eyes stare at him as the Zabrak reels back. His hood slips from his head to pool about his shoulders. It leaves him…oddly vulnerable. Younger. Abruptly Feral realizes that this man is shorter than he is. But undeniably intense power is packed into his frame. A raw strength there that burns in his eyes.

It burns within Feral, too, and the Force screams familiarity and belonging and fear. That awful, awful fear that rises up from memory and dream and the drag of tiny fingers across his palm as they’re torn from him. It’s like something slotting into place. A heart beating alongside his own. Twin suns chasing each other across the endless sky.

Those are Nightbrother tattoos. There’s no denying that.

None at all.

“Who are you?” Feral whispers hoarsely.

The man’s face twists, but- he’s more boy really. Feral’s age. Caught in the trials between childhood and adulthood. He bares his teeth in a snarl, but Feral can feel the turmoil beneath. Confusion and inexplicable longing war within him as the hold on his ‘sabre falters. “Is this a test?” the Zabrak demands, voice just as rough as Feral’s.

And Feral- he knows that voice.

Knows him.

Just as surely as he knows himself.

There’s a cry and a flash of green and the strange Zabrak barely dodges Qui-Gon’s furious strike. The roar of engines comes from above and sand kicks up around them, as stifling as the whirl of ash from a raging fire.

“Feral!” Qui-Gon cries, but he can only stare at the line of the Zabrak’s back. The curve of those deadly horns. The flash of his crimson blade, just as brilliant as his skin.

Qui-Gon leaps and suddenly Feral is left alone with this shade of himself. The Zabrak twists, expression conflicted, uncertain. Desperate.

“Feral!”

Obi-Wan.

The pull is automatic. He cannot help but be drawn up and away to that bright, warm flower in the Force. He leaps—

—and the Zabrak is swallowed by the sand as Tatooine shrinks into the distance.

-:-

Once, long long ago, Savage had two brothers.

He can’t tell anyone. He can barely even admit it to himself. And what would be the point? He failed his baby brother. He was gone and he was never, ever coming back. So Savage tucked that shame and inconsolable grief away into the deepest, darkest parts of himself. Let it fester, let it rot. He let it turn into humiliation, into anguish, into fury and terror and no, he can never tell Feral. His baby brother has no idea what he even lost.

He can’t do that to him.

He’d already failed him enough.

But as much as it hurts to touch those old, jagged-edged memories, he still cradles them close. As if that could somehow bring his brother back.

He barely remembers him now. It’s been so, so long. But he remembers the blood-red of his baby brother’s skin. The strange sharpness to his horns, even though they should have been new-soft. He remembers how it felt to hold that baby in his arms. A tiny, fragile little thing. Warm and squirming like he could fight anyone who put their hands on him. In those rare moments where his baby brother calmed, gold eyes would blink lazily up at him, that little mouth opening in a wide, gummy yawn.

Savage remembers loving his brother. He’ll never stop loving his brother.

And after they took him— after Savage screamed and howled and Feral wailed, too, like somehow somehow he understood—

Savage knew he couldn’t go through that again. His only remaining brother couldn’t be torn from him like Maul. He couldn’t.

He didn’t think he could survive that.

So when Feral was young enough to remember the muggy heat of Dathomir but not old enough to remember much more than that, Savage looked at him and thought: I can’t lose another brother.

So Savage took him and ran.

-:-

That worn thread that has somehow, impossibly, always connected him to that Nightbrother, no longer dormant and hidden— It stretches fine and taut as the ship streaks through the stars, far far away from Tatooine and everything that happened there. The distance grows and yet still it remains. A bright point of pain and grief streaked through him reaching out out out. And at the end, darkness. Familiarity. Scarlet fingers tangled with his own.

“Feral?” Hands touch his shoulders, hesitant, then firm.

Slowly, Feral blinks back into himself. Draws back from where he’s unfurled across that strange connection. Slowly, carefully, tucks himself back into his own skin one frazzled edge at a time. He breathes through it, centres himself in the landscape of his mind. Wraps clumsy fingers about the blossom that radiates warmth and comfort and belonging because that’s what Obi-Wan has always been to him. Forever and always. He curls around it and cups it against his heart and from one blink to the next finds himself staring at the sleek floor of a ship.

“Feral?” Fingers slide between his horns, cupping the back of his head. Then they drift down to his cheek, turning it up from where he’s kneeling frozen on the floor. Obi-Wan’s ever-stormy gaze is filled with worry. “Are you all right?”

“I…” Feral croaks. It feels like he’s been screaming. “I…”

There’s a quiet schk and then the pounding of approaching feet. “Are you all okay?!” Anakin cries, skidding to a halt beside him, then immediately dropping to his knees. “Mr. Qui-Gon?” Then, more tentatively, “Baschna?”

“What was it?” Shmi asks, voice tight with apprehension as she nears them.

There’s a quiet huff. “I’m not sure,” Qui-Gon admits, “but it was well-trained in the Jedi arts.”

“Probably after the Queen,” Feemor guesses, somber.

“I knew him.”

It takes a second to realize he said that. It was him. He pulls away from Obi-Wan’s hands and eyes and blindly seeks Feemor out. The man is the closest he has to a Master here. Feemor has always looked out for him, and Feemor knows Savage. He knows things that no one else here does.

He swallows painfully. It feels like sand coats his throat. It probably does. “I knew him,” he repeats hoarsely. “I- I know him.” Distantly, he realizes his hands are shaking, but only once Obi-Wan reaches out and holds them tight.

There’s silence, then quietly Qui-Gon admits, “The tattoos were similar.”

Haltingly, Feral shakes his head.  “Yes, but- yes, they were. He’s a Nightbrother or- or he was born one, at least.” He shakes his head again, unsteady. “But- but that’s not what—” Frustration wells up and that thread within him pulls tight, shivers. Like someone’s clutching the other end, trying to feel out their bond or pull him closer, he’s not sure.

Untangling a hand from Obi-Wan’s grip, he raises it to his temple and curls into himself. “I know him. I felt him.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Feemor and Qui-Gon exchange glances.

“What do you mean?” Feemor asks gently.

“I…” Feral swallows again, eyes going distant as he tentatively touches that thread deep within himself. The shivering stops, and there’s a vague feeling of surprise, then it shudders again with a firmer touch, a firmer pull and Feemor stutters out, “I-I can f-feel him. A- a thread in my mind. Bright and hot and it aches it hurts and when I looked at him—” He swallows again. “I looked at him and saw me. He was me and I was him and I saw- memory. I felt it. It burned and I was so scared and desperate and alone.”

His vision goes blurry, eyes stinging. The shrill, distant wail of a baby echoes in his mind as that string quivers. “I know him,” Feral whispers. “I know him.”

Strong arms wrap around him, pulling him close to a firm chest. Overwhelmed, Feral tucks his face into Obi-Wan’s throat, breaths shaky but deep.

“Do you feel him now?” Feemor asks, low and urgent.

“Yes,” Feral admits, unable to help but touch that thread again. It’s near blistering with urgency and turmoil not his own, but it cools at the contact. Still a bit too hot, but not nearly as dangerous. “He’s- confused. Anxious. Desperate.” The thread pulses. “Furious. But- I don’t know what about.” Feral winces. “He’s- curious about the- the connection. He won’t stop touching it, or- or trying to reach me.”

“Does it hurt?” Feemor asks, still urgent.

Frowning, Feral shakes his head. “Not- exactly. I mean it does, but it hurt more at first. Now- now it’s more like someone’s scraped off a scab in my mind. It aches like a muscle I didn’t know I had.” There’s a sharp tug and the faint scent of ash and Feral winces again. “Well, okay. It does hurt a bit more than that. But I- I think it’s because he hurts. He’s…Darker than anything I’ve ever felt.”

“It sounds as if this creature didn’t expect the connection, either,” Qui-Gon murmurs thoughtfully.

A strangely sharp flash of irritation has Feemor twisting his head to glare at Qui-Gon. “He’s not a creature.”

Startling, Qui-Gon blinks. “I apologize,” he says with a tilt of his head.

“Do you think you can safely block it off?” Feemor’s expression is pensive, brows furrowed just the slightest. “I think it would be wise not to do any more than that until we reach the Temple.”

Something within him recoils at the thought, but Feral shakes it off. “I can try.”

He closes his eyes, and grips Obi-Wan’s robes tight. The simplest way to break the connection would be to cut the thread but no. He can’t do that. Who knows what might happen to his mind and, strangely enough, he really doesn’t want to do it. So instead he tries to visualize their connection as a canal. Slowly, he begins to construct a lock, so the flow of their connection will be blocked but not flooded over.

Almost immediately he senses a surge of confusion, then- sheer and utter horror. A flood of emotions surge down their connection like a tidal wave. Overwhelmed by terrorpanicdesperation, Feral cries out, frantically trying to throw up a wall between them, but the emotions flow over, crashing like waves upon a cliff, spraying tiny anxious thoughts:

nonono

alonenopleaseno

mineminemineminemine

Then:

s t a y

It’s half plea, half command, and Feral recognizes it for what it is:

Vulnerability.

“No,” Feral says slowly, letting the lock crumble away and the canal fade back into that bright golden thread. He reaches out slowly, settles his hands along it. Curls his fingers around its sharp edge. It tings as if someone has just plucked it. It’s a bright, clear sound that vibrates between his palms and up through his bones to settle in the nape of his neck, the crown of his horns, the aching space between his ribs.

“No?”

Feral meets Feemor’s troubled gaze.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to block myself off from him.” The thread tings again, vibrating all the way up to Feral’s twin beating hearts. There’s confusion there. Wariness. But also fragile wonder. “I think he needs help.”

I think he needs me.

-:-

Long ago when Savage was just a very little boy, his father took care of him.

It was unusual for Nightsisters to keep their mates after their offspring was born. Usually, Nightsisters disposed of their mates, declaring their duty done and usefulness spent. But for whatever reason, he was granted the false mercy of prolonged life. But eventually Savage’s mother returned to him, demanding his compliance once more.

Savage will never remember his father. Well, he’ll remember nothing more than a large, scarred hand cupping the back of his head in a gentle caress. He’ll remember nothing more than low, gravelly laughter in his ear. Nothing but the distant, vague feeling of love and protection. Sometimes, when he’s holding Feral close, he’ll be reminded of that feeling. Even more often, when Feemor smiles at him fondly or when Feemor grips his shoulders or- in an action even more treasured- when Feemor wraps his arms around Savage and holds him tight—

Savage remembers. As much as he can. As much as he is allowed, from those distant days on a planet so many lightyears away.

But here, this is the important thing:

Nightsister Kycina went to her mate once more to demand another child.

She certainly didn’t love Havoc. Maybe he was just convenient. Maybe it went so smoothly the first time she thought she might as well keep him around. Whatever the reason, she wanted another child. Perhaps she wanted a girl to raise as another Nightsister. Or perhaps she thought the Nightbrothers needed a few more members.

Maybe, even, Mother Talzin demanded the coupling for more nefarious purposes.

Whatever the reason, Kycina became pregnant.

On the day her water broke, she hunkered down in the craggy hills with Havoc, as was tradition. From blood and suffering and sacrifice, a Nightsister is born anew and far stronger than before.

So with only her mate for company, she screamed her fury into the dark sky and her body bowed in agony while Havoc kept silent, anxious watch. And then—

A wail. Far shriller and higher than Kycina’s own. Havoc stared down at the apex of her thighs. At the smears of dark blood upon her moon-pale skin. A small, grotesque mass gleamed wetly in the night, flailing and shuddering like a creature in agony. A dying animal.

It screamed again, and Havoc juddered forward to lift it up and out of the way. It squirmed against him, wet little hands warm against his bare chest. They clawed but it was so young that its nails were soft, its horns mere nubs, so no damage was done.

Havoc stared down at the thing that was smeared with blood, smearing him with blood, tiny mouth wide and gaping and wailing.

This thing that was his child.

This bloody thing.

This baby.

His son.

His stomach plummeted, and he swallowed the bile burning up his throat. He’d sired another enslaved soul into this world. Another thing that was only going to give its life for another, to suffer for another. It would probably die afraid, betrayed and alone.

He already held enough guilt about Savage.

For some reason it seemed strange to hold it in his arms even though his own son- his first son- was waiting at home, certainly curled up between the other Nightbrothers, for it takes a village to raise a child.

The little thing continued to thrash against him, wet and bloody and clawing, like he thought he could maul Havoc like a wild animal instead of struggle like the new, weak thing he was.

“Maul,” Havoc murmured with a disbelieving laugh. “Strange little thing.” But he really shouldn’t have expected any less. Nightsisters were born from blood and suffering and sacrifice, but the Nightbrothers were born into it. They lived it. It was no wonder his child was a vicious thing. Better to be born strong than weak, in this world.

Finger trailing along the baby’s nubby horns, Havoc marveled at the fragile line of his cheek. Gently, he wiped a thumb along it. His thumb came away wet but the baby’s skin remained blood-red. Frowning, he rubbed it again but the crimson did not wash away.

A curious wonder bloomed between his jagged ribs. A Nightbrother with blood-red skin. He’d never seen a Zabrak with crimson skin. Not ever. It was so vibrant. So stunning. It must be a sign.

It had to be.

Tentative hope stole his breath and he stroked a tender thumb along the baby’s brow.

Kycina screamed again, a great guttural thing that made the tiny hairs on the back of Havoc’s neck stand up. He cradled the baby- his baby- to his chest and watched as Kycina curled and screamed through bared teeth and another bloodied thing emerged from her body. Slightly smaller, lighter. It hiccupped in tiny gulping sobs. Blood streaked its skin, too, of course but it didn’t seem nearly as vicious as its brother.

Havoc hadn’t expected twins.

Neither, it seemed, had Kycina.

“A second,” Kycina hissed through gritted teeth. “A second child.” Something utterly foreign twisted her face into a terrifying thing. She panted like a savage animal, wild and unhinged, ready to rip into the nearest vulnerable thing. “Are either of them female?”

Havoc’s arms tightened around the first baby. “Maul is a boy,” he admitted tightly, unwilling to let go of the child and submit it to his mother.

Kycina let out a short, frustrated scream. “And the second?” But she didn’t bother to wait. She reached between her own legs and pulled the squirming baby up. It whined, legs kicking as its arms curled into itself.

It was a boy.

Letting out a furious shriek, Kycina lashed out and caught Havoc in the throat with her talonned nails.

He didn’t stand a chance.

“Useless!” she shrieked. “Three sons now?! Three!!”

She screamed into the sky as Havoc fell back, gurgling on his own blood, arms still wrapped around his second son. The boy shrieked and clawed, nubby horns nudging against his jaw as blood spilled over them.

“M-Maul,” Havoc gasped through the blood bubbling at his lips. “Maul—”

Kycina’s lip curled. “You’ve already named the child? Great Spirits, it’s a good thing you’ll die here. Far too sentimental for a Nightbrother.” Swiftly, she severed the umbilical cords and tucked her youngest child against her side, then reached down to pluck Maul from her mate’s grip. All three covered in blood, they made their slow, limping trek back to the Nightsisters while Havoc lay in the dark amongst the barren rocks and hungry plants that slithered along the ground to gnaw at his still-warm flesh.

Havoc died afraid, betrayed and alone, as all Nightbrothers do.

In place of his murdered father, Savage gained two tiny, squirming siblings. He was furious and upset and heart-sick, but he quickly became protective, too. He loved the tiny things. Loved that he could tuck them into his arms and feel their hearts beat in tandem against his skin.

The Nightbrothers readily tattooed the twins, as all male-born children were. The secret language swirled across their skin, proclaiming strength and loyalty and familial love. A bond that could never be severed. A history that would never be forgotten. A sacrifice tragically given. The Nightsisters did not care enough to recognize the defiance.

It was strange seeing twins in the village. They were so rare, despite the Nightsisters’ magic. The Nightsisters themselves were fascinated but disgusted. Power and potential shivered in the twins’ every breath. It sunk into their bones like ancient secrets, and the closer the two were, the more potent they became.

If they had been girls, the Sisters would have thanked the Spirits for their mighty gift. But as it was, Maul and Feral were male, and because they were brothers, they were weak. Weak because of each other. Sentimental, just like their father. This was one reason why mates were so often killed. The existence of fathers bred many complications that could upset the already delicate balance of Dathomir.

Already, the twins gravitated towards each other like none other. Already, they were twins in everything but temperament. They responded so instinctively to one another. They were hungry at the same time, sleepy in the same moments, reached out for the same things. It was so easy to see the connection. The Nightbrothers adored them.

The Nightsisters despised them. They were too dangerous together. They were afraid of what might happen if they were allowed to grow up together. Kycina could not find it in herself to disagree.

And Maul- Maul frightened them with his blood-red skin and already-sharp horns. He was a tangle of strangeness in the Dark. Looking at him was like looking into the sun: your vision was slowly consumed, turning mottled and bright.

So when a man came to Dathomir asking for a babe in return for teaching them some of his Dark Magic, they readily agreed. You would like to think that Maul was stolen in the dead of night so there were fewer brothers to oppose them. So Savage would not scream and cry as he watched them take his baby brother away. But they did not wait. They did not care. They knew the Nightbrothers would not oppose them, and they did not mind Savage’s tears.

Maul wailed as he was torn away from his people, his family.

From Feral.

Feral shrieked high and loud and it was so shrill that the Nightsisters’ ears bled. Maul thrashed so violently that the Nightsister carrying him became covered in bloody gouges and she fought to keep him in her arms. By the time he was delivered to Mother Talzin, the Nightsister was exhausted, nose bleeding along with her ears.

“It is good they are separated,” they murmured after the strange man left with the blood-red child in his arms. “There is a power there,” they all agreed. “It is best left forgotten.”

They were wrong.

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.”

Chapter Text

His ribs crackled and scrape inside him. If he twisted too much he feared they’d tear through his skin, but his Master insisted that he learn to deal with the pain. It was good training. After all, as his Master so often liked to point out, your enemy will have no mercy when you are hurt on the battlefield. You must push through the pain, use it.

Pain was strength.

If that was true, then Maul must already be very strong.

“Again,” Deenine called.

Obediently, Maul fell back into the starting stance as Deenine readies the knives. Just one more exercise that his Master had him practice while he was away. Awfully, Maul looked forward to these training sessions with Deenine. At least he knew he had a friend in the droid, for all that he used to despise it. Though Deenine followed their Master’s orders, at least Deenine cared for Maul and tried to help him as much as he could regardless of his Master’s omnipotent eye.

And it was not a trick, no matter what his Master thought. He’d seen it in the way the droid cleaned his room’s walls so it shone dark and blank, free of that bloody landscape Maul had drawn when he was lonely and aching and just wanted his old room again. He’d just wanted a window so he could know there was a world outside of this one.

Deenine had a cruel sort of kindness that Maul craved. The sort of kindness where the droid would readily break his arm to stop a training session that might end in worse injury.

And yes, the droid lied to their Master when he was able, though that was not very often. But the lies Deenine told used to make Maul question whether he even knew the truth himself.

But no. No. Deenine was his friend. His only friend.

And as much as Maul wished it was possible for Deenine to set him free so they could run of together and lose themselves in the galaxy— he knew it wasn’t possible. His Master knew all. If they managed to break free, he’d just come after them again and he’d kill Deenine and put another crueler droid in his place.

So Maul would cherish their friendship for as long as he could. When his Master was gone it was almost easy to imagine this place as their own little sanctuary.

Their own little home.

-:-

Feral blinks awake, hazy and slow. There’s a warm weight across his chest, soft breath fanning across the nape of his neck, his ear. Gradually, he anchors himself in reality. He is not in that high-arching training room. He is not nursing broken ribs, yet still readying himself for another onslaught of throwing knives. He’s not staring into those disconcerting glowing red eyes and thanking the stars for the one kindness in his life.

Is it even kindness?

The bunk is dark, and with the privacy screen he can’t hear the snores of the Queen’s entourage. But Obi-Wan’s low snore is there, right in his ear. Its familiarity comforting. The thread connecting him to Maul is almost silent for once. Reaching out and touching it, it vibrates slightly. When he closes his eyes and concentrates more, he realizes…they’re steady breaths in an out. The solace of sleep. The vibration is snoring.

Biting his lip, he chokes back a laugh. It’s strangely endearing. He wonders if Maul can feel the same for him when he sleeps. Abruptly he frowns, a thought coming to him.

This must be the first time Maul has slept since their encounter on Tatooine. He definitely wasn’t sleeping last time Feral slept, and he didn’t sleep at all earlier today. He hadn’t felt those vibrations as he spoke with Master Mace, or even Qui-Gon and Feemor afterwards. There was nothing as he spent time with the Skywalkers, sharing entertaining stories of other planets and memories from childhood.

There had only been mild curiousity as Feral nodded along with Anakin’s explanations for how he wanted to fix up Threepio. Strangely enough, there’d been a hint of jealousy as Feral spent time with Obi-Wan. It’d been enough for Feral to pause their conversation and touch that thread, feeling the slight pull and possessiveness. But there wasn’t any violence to it. No warning. So, under Obi-Wan’s worried, questioning gaze, Feral shook it off.

He wonders what Maul is dreaming now. Is it a memory from Feral’s own childhood? Master Mace had warned him that the bond went both ways. Whatever Feral feels, Maul feels. So if Feral’s dreaming of Maul’s memories…Of course he’s dreaming about Feral’s.

Is it Savage that Maul dreams of? Feemor? That wonderful moment where Obi-Wan offered that sweetbun and sealed their friendship? Would it even be something that Feral remembers?

“I can hear your brain whirring from here,” Obi-Wan rasps.

The sudden sound of his voice sends his hearts chittering, and Feral fights to keep his breath even. He twists beneath their blanket to face Obi-Wan in the dark. His friend shifts too, hand sliding up from his back and down his side to settle upon Feral’s hip. His fingers leave a trail of heat in their wake.

The gloom of their bunk darkens Obi-Wan’s eyes, but Feral can just barely make out the gleam of blue.

“Sorry,” Feral murmurs, eyes tracing over the cut of Obi-Wan’s cheekbones, the length of his nose. “You should go back to sleep.”

“You should go back to sleep,” Obi-Wan grumbles. His hand tightens on Feral’s hip and Feral can’t help the shiver. Stilling, Obi-Wan peers closer at him, studying his face, looking for something though Feral can’t guess what.

His hearts still stumble along his ribs. They can’t quite manage to calm down. Obi-Wan’s arm is so warm and firm beneath his cheek. His hand like a brand upon his hip. He lets out a shaky exhale, suddenly hyper aware of the brush of Obi-Wan’s toes along the curve of his ankle.

“Another dream?” Obi-Wan guesses, breaking the strange tension between them.

It takes a second to answer, some strange emotion lodged in his throat. But eventually Feral manages a nod.

Obi-Wan considers him a moment more. “Not as awful this time?”

Feral frowns. “No. No, it was. Just…in a different way.” He pauses. Thinking of that bulbous spider-like droid. How Maul considered it a friend despite everything. Maybe because of everything. He’s only seeing glimpses of memory, but- he’d certainly felt that conviction in his chest. That knowledge that this was his friend, trying to do all he could.

Feral really hopes Maul doesn’t see Obi-Wan in his memories, if only so the other Zabrak doesn’t compare his relationship with Deenine. Feral doesn’t want to take away what little comfort Maul might have.

Immediately, Feral chastises himself. How can he say whether what Maul has with Deenine is a true friendship or not? He may be experiencing brief glimpses into his life but he in no way has any right to use that as any authority on the matter.

“He wasn’t raised by the Nightsisters,” Feral admits quietly. “There were no Nightbrothers, no family. Only a droid he thought was his friend, and his Master.” Feral’s lip curls as he spits the word.

Thumb rubbing soothingly along his hipbone, Obi-Wan waits for Feral to continue.

“It’s hard not to wonder what would have been like if, by whatever happenstance, I was in his place and he in mine.” It really is a difficult thought. One that Feral can’t help but keep coming back to. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe I never will. But- right now I could be the one hunting down the Queen. I could have been beaten and manipulated for as long as I could remember. And he could be here. With you.” There are tears in his voice and he struggles to keep them under control.

Instantly, Obi-Wan cups Feral’s cheek.  “Would you feel differently if he wasn’t a Nightbrother?”

Tears choking him, Feral reluctantly nods.

“You don’t know his connection to you,” Obi-Wan reminds him, urgently. “And there’s no use going over what-ifs. Because the fact is that you are here. With me.” His thumb traces the line of Feral’s cheek. Gently, he knocks his forehead against Feral’s, mindful of the two small horns there. Feral can feel the press of them against Obi-Wan’s skin. When he pulls away there will be two tiny indents. He’s seen it hundreds of times before.

“Even if you were switched,” Obi-Wan says low and intent, “he wouldn’t be here with me.” He swallows, and Feral can hear it. Can feel the shudder of his breath fanning across his cheek, his nose, his mouth. Can almost, even, feel the flutter of his lashes. “It’s only you, Feral. Only you.”

All words have slipped between his fingers like fine grains of sand. All thought, too. There is only the brand of Obi-Wan’s palm upon his cheek. The warmth of his breath. The press of his forehead, the brush of his toes. His own hearts thunder in his ears. Obi-Wan’s eyes are so dark, like the depths of the ocean. He finds his own eyes sliding shut as he- as he—

“Up and at ‘em!” one of the pilots calls, rapping on their privacy screen.

They judder apart, Feral cramping up against the side of the bunk and blinking rapidly as Obi-Wan bangs his head on the ceiling.

Muttering quiet curses, Obi-Wan flicks the switch and the bunk is flooded with bright light. Feral ducks beneath the blanket, still blinking rapidly, confusion making him light-headed and his hearts— they gallop away, loud and unforgiving. His cheeks are hot. Very hot.

There’s a quiet laugh and then Obi-Wan’s tugging at the covers.

“What are you, a youngling? Come on, time for our shift, Feral!”

But Feral knows that if Feral didn’t seem so reluctant to get up, he’d be dragging Obi-Wan out of bed.

Fixing a scowl upon his face is a struggle. It ends up lopsided, like many of Feral’s first attempts at stitching. But it feels sturdy enough to bare when Feral peeks out from beneath the blanket. Obi-Wan’s expression is as fond as it always is and it makes Feral’s hearts warm as it always has, too, and for the first time, Feral- Feral, he—

He isn’t quite sure what to make of it.

-:-

Orsis Academy was unlike anything he’d ever known. It was overwhelming. There were more people, more children, than Maul had ever met. It was loud and crowded. But this, like everything else in Maul’s life, was a test.

So when the Nautolan sat next to him during mealtime, he could only assume it was a test, too.

The girl was taller than him, like everyone else here. Her lekku curled over her shoulders in elegant lavender sweeps. Her dark eyes flickered over to him. There was no fear in them at all.

It was strange. Everyone else avoided him since the demonstration fight. His Master had been pleased that Maul was as brutal as he’d been taught to be, but the other students are wary of him. They gave him a wide berth when they could, absolutely refusing to join his table during mealtimes. But now, here this girl sat. Forgoing her usual table and sitting just a foot away. Willingly.

“With all due respect, Master Trezza, this is not a fair fight,” she’d protested just a few days ago when it looked like Maul was going to lose the fight. But of course, how was she to know Maul was playing weak? Rolling across the ground like a broken thing was only meant to lure his opponent in. Curling into himself as he raggedly asked the Abyssin’s name was like spilling blood in the water and waiting for the sharks to come.

The Abyssin had fallen for it, just as Maul knew he would.

The infirmary had released the boy just yesterday. It would be a while before his nose could grow back. Maul could still taste the bitter blood between his teeth. He bared them whenever the Abyssin walked by and there was no doubting the terror in the other boy’s eyes.

“You did know that Dalok’s an Abyssin, didn’t you? That Abyssin’s have regenerative abilities?” the Nautolan girl had asked as she’d knelt over the bloodied boy.

Of course Maul knew. He’d been properly educated on other species back on Mustafar. But the knowledge hadn’t even crossed his mind as he’d walked between his new classmates. All he’d been concerned about was choosing the biggest and the meanest of them.

“No. I didn’t know,” he’d lied, his Master’s eyes burning into him.

“I’m Kilindi Matako,” the girl said now with a smile. It was nothing like his Master’s smiles which were filled with malice and cunning. Hers was…well. Maul wasn’t quite sure how to describe it other than soft. Bright.

Maul didn’t bother to tell her he already knew her name. It was no secret she was Master Trezza’s ward, but that was all Maul has really cared about hearing, and wasn’t like he could have avoided that. Their instructors called their names in class.

He eyed her for a moment, watching as the curl of her mouth doesn’t even falter. “Maul,” he said, though she must already know.

Her smile widened and it- it made Maul uneasy. A weird fluttering warmth in his stomach warred with the memory of his own Master’s smile, a splitting of thin lips and white teeth.

“Well, Maul,” she said cheerily, “the food here isn’t too bad, though Daleen complains.”

Abruptly, his last meal before coming to Orsis flashed in his mind. It was- unpleasant. Maul had done his best to just accept it, to roll with the hurt and the pain and the expectation as he had always done. But it was difficult not to remember the way the fish’s eye had rolled as he uncovered his plate. He’d seen that red and black striped fish grow from infancy in his Master’s strange aquarium. Its gills had spasmed and his Master’s eyes bore into him as he’d bitten the head clean off.

And then there was Deenine.

Deenine.

“It’s funny how droids can make a decent meal when they can’t even taste the food. But I suppose they’re just following directions,” Kilindi remarked as she raised her spoon to her lips.

Maul deliberately hadn’t destroyed Deenine. Why would her hurt his only friend? But he’d been left outside the facility. He never should have said he wanted to see Mustafar again. He never should have drawn that pathetic drawing of the window he’d once had. It was weakness and his Master had smelled it right away.

He hadn’t wanted to hurt his friend, but the trap was the only thing that would impress his Master enough to let him back in instead of being left to Mustafar’s mercy. It was a test, as these things always are.

Maybe Deenine had been a test, too.

“Punishment is a lesson,” his Master told him many a time.

So that’s all it really could have been when Deenine served them dinner and asked, “Are you finished with me, Master?”

And his Master’s only response was, “Most definitely,” before he smashed the droid into the opposite wall.

Maul kept trying to forget that he never even got to say goodbye.

His Master’s eyes had glittered, mouth a thin slit of a thing as he said, “Not the most efficient way to eliminate an old droid we don’t need anymore, but that did feel good.”

He should have known his Master knew everything. Of course he did. He’d seen through years of lies and misdirection and his Master had known Maul and Deenine were friends. In as much as they could be friends.

Maul hadn’t destroyed Deenine, so his Master did it for him.

“Maul?”

He blinked up at Kilindi. Her expression was…tight. It wasn’t fear, but something like it. Another emotion he couldn’t name. It didn’t exactly reek of wariness but- he certainly put that expression on her face. Her mouth was still soft. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he said mechanically.

He didn’t even taste the food.

-:-

“Feral.”

Tears spill down his cheeks, hot and unfaltering. Obi-Wan once again looms over him in the dark, eyes glittering.

Deenine’s crumpled body slumps down the wall of Feral’s mind. That golden thread shimmers in vague curiosity and distress. It pulls, like a hand sliding along it, feeling it out- before it’s snatched away, recognizing raw, familiar hurt.

Maul’s own hurt echoes back at him.

Feral wonders when he last thought of Deenine. His first friend. His only friend?

How old was he when that happened?

Does he realize what Feral just saw? Probably not, since Feral has no idea what Maul dreamed of.

“Feral,” Obi-Wan murmurs again. His hands slide over Feral’s cheeks, wiping away the tears. “You’re here. It’s alright. Come back to me. Come back from wherever you’ve fled.”

“I’m here,” Feral croaks. He slips his hands over Obi-Wan’s own, lacing their fingers together. It grounds him. Just as Obi-Wan’s warm weight across his thighs grounds him. He breathes slow and shallow. It takes far too long to centre himself but Obi-Wan is there, warm and bright in his mind. Feral holds him between his shaking hands as- as Obi-Wan holds Feral.

Eventually he pulls him back together, dragging lingering bits of himself back across the bond with Maul. In the night when his guard is down it seems like he unspools himself, unconsciously reaching out to- to…

He’s not sure what.

But when he does resemble a normal person again, he opens his eyes to find Obi-Wan staring down at him. Eyes dark and fathomless. His hands are warm and gentle upon Feral’s cheeks, his weight settled across Feral’s thighs. Obi-Wan’s almost always been shorter than Feral. His friend has certainly gotten a lot of teasing about it from their classmates. But he’s never seemed smaller. His presence is large and welcoming, and he always wraps himself around Feral like he’s trying to cover every inch of him.

Now is no exception. Obi-Wan looms over him in the dark, expression strange and intense. But- that’s not quite right. It’s an expression Feral’s seen more and more often lately. He’ll catch Obi-Wan looking at him like that in the oddest moments. In the middle of katas, or cooking meals in Feemor’s apartment, or when they’re laughing with their friends and he glances over and catches Obi-Wan already looking at him. In those strange moments the world narrows down to just to two of them.

And right now Obi-Wan seems to encompass the entirety of this tiny bunk. Every point of contact is this slow, rising burn that makes Feral’s hearts stutter and stumble along his sternum, shuddering against the cage of ribs. Suddenly, Feral is more self-conscious than he’s ever been. His cheeks are on fire. Confusion and- something else- roil low in his belly and he opens his mouth as it bubbles up—

“Sorry- thank you,” Feral stutters, blinking rapidly, unable to tear his gaze from Obi-Wan and unable to stop his rambling mouth. “Thank you for- thank you. We should- we should probably get back to sleep. Want to be rested in case, um- anything happens while- while Feemor and Qui-Gon sleep.”

Obi-Wan’s quiet for a few long moments. Then he nods. “Alright.” He slips off to the side and curls around Feral like nothing happened. His arm is a brand around Feral’s middle, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of Feral’s shirt to trail low along his belly.

Face burning hotter, Feral tries to ignore the hyperawareness of Obi-Wan’s proximity. The soft huff of breath in his ear, the brush of a nose along the curve of his head. The solidness of his chest, the way his knee tucks between Feral’s and settles there. It’s comfortable. It’s familiar. But-

That’s just it, though.

But.

And Feral has no idea what comes after it.

-:-

It happens again and again. Every night Feral dreams of Maul and his memories. The hooded Master remains a cruel, unrelenting figure who casts a shadow over everything, even Maul’s slow, tentative friendship with Kilindi.

Every time he wakes up with his heart hammering, tears in his eyes, lost and alone because he doesn’t know where he is- if he’s fending off an attack from cruel, jealous classmates, or if he’s desperately trying not to drown in a freezing lake with his Master standing on the edge and watching with an impassive eye, or if Kilindi is smirking at him from across the commissary table, a private, knowing look in her eye.

And every time he isn’t alone, because Obi-Wan is there. Hands on his face and eyes steady and dark and his presence a blooming blessing in the Force. He coaxes Feral back into the present with a kind of patience that makes Feral want to burst into tears.

A strange sort of frustration builds within him, too.

After that second night, he’s suddenly just- aware of Obi-Wan. All the time. It’s not as if he wasn’t before. His friend has always been a constant thing in the back of his mind. He always so willingly turns towards Obi-Wan to catch his smile or his snarky comment or to share a secret look. But now he realizes that he’s always, always been in Obi-Wan’s orbit, from the very moment he met him. It’s not even as if Obi-Wan’s always been there like the moon, or that he’s a black hole dragging Feral in, helpless against that slow and inevitable pull.

They’re equals. They always have been. And if Savage is his brother-moon as they circle through the cycles of life, then Obi-Wan is his sun. Binary stars caught in each other’s orbit, together forever and always.

He realizes it as Obi-Wan laughs with Anakin, a bewildered expression painting his face as Anakin pulls Feral into some project of his. It’s so obvious in the way the pilots turn to them as one, seemingly expecting them to be attached at the hip. And then when Obi-Wan wordlessly slips into the bunk with him at the end of their shift…

Feral’s reminded of all of Master Qui-Gon’s little comments. His raised brow, that amused quirk to his lip. There have been plenty of moments where he caught Qui-Gon observing them with an amused tilt of his head but Feral just thought—

He’s not sure what he thought.

He’s not sure what he thinks now.

Everything feels new but familiar. Obi-Wan and his intense sweetness. Maul and that bright-gold thread in his mind.

Maul’s still a constant presence. When he’s awake, and he usually is, he constantly plucks at their connection. Sometimes he slips dangerously close, sliding along their bond with a daring boldness that makes Feral nervous but- excited? He waits with bated breath whenever that happens, Maul slowly inching closer and closer, just barely out of reach, almost skimming his mind. But then he slips away like the tide, spatters of seasalt tickling Feral’s toes. Never quite close enough to engulf him.

Everything is overwhelming enough that one night Feral almost pulls away from Obi-Wan. He almost slips to curl against the wall of their bunk. But as soon as the thought crosses his mind, Feral’s hearts ache. Obi-Wan would be confused and hurt at the rejection. And since Feral can’t find it in himself to put words to what he’s feeling…Obi-Wan wouldn’t understand why. Feral can’t do that to him. Feral can’t do that to himself. He’s comfortable with Obi-Wan in a way he isn’t with others. Savage is his brother, Feral loves him more than anything. But Feral’s always wanted to make him proud. And Bruck- Bruck is his dearest friend after Obi-Wan, but it’s always been slightly different with Obi-Wan. Bruck and Obi-Wan are his dearest friends, but. Feral would do anything for them, but.

It lingers on the tip of his tongue, this unknown thing. He teeters on the edge of one thing and another, unable to name either.

It’s almost a relief by the time they reach Coruscant.

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.