It begins the day after Maul makes his return to Dathomir.
The sith is elbows deep in datapads trying to gain background knowledge on the Crimson Dawn's next venture: an escargot farm, of all things, for a particular breed of shellfish. One that acts as a nearly universal aphrodisiac when eaten. Vos had declared the market for it 'an untapped niche' with projected gains in the 'I could buy a moon every other year' category.
He already has a planet. Dathomir is more or less his, but Maul thinks he might like a moon or two. Besides, one never knew when they might need a spare astral body in his line of work. Perhaps for trade, perhaps for crashing into things. He is flexible.
One minute he is reviewing zoology documents made by a mon calamari, and then gently, like a cloud over the sun, he is being watched.
His spine straightens and the sith pulls his sense of self tight to his skin, guarding himself while attempting to observe the observer. The presence slips through his fingers, but he too slips through theirs. They go round and round like two predators in the night, stalking each other through the flow of the force.
Eventually the feeling fades, and Maul is left alone in his office space, perturbed. He waits an hour or more, patient and wary, but the sensation of being sought does not return.
He exhales heavily through his nose and returns to reading about aquarium keeping, stopping only to make snacks, refresh the tea pot, and stretch his back.
Dathomir's red star sinks below the horizon. Domir takes with it the light that had been coming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, leaving the spectacular view of the sunrise canyon in deepening purple hues. Maul takes this as his cue to end the day.
The sith stalks out of his simplistic office, and heads to the end of the hallway. The decor transitions from plasteel to roughly carved redstone at the doorway, from the soft orange glow of sodium-vapor bulbs to flickering oil lanterns and magelight. He had appointed the bedroom den at the end of the hall with far more dathomirian aesthetics than the modern office space.
Some furniture he had been able to scavenge from the temple, mostly of carved stone, though there were a few precious wooden pieces left unburnt by the droid army among them. A small table, a few mismatched chairs, and a hefty trunk. The rest of his furnishings Maul had collected from offworld.
The result is… functional. Quiet and dark. The bed space is large and comfortable, partially carved back into the wall for extra protection. Nowhere is too open. Everything he wishes to be reminded of has a place to sit, somewhere he can see.
Dim candles light all the cracks and corners without hurting his eyes. There are books and scrolls to read, an orb recovered from his mother’s temple, projects to tinker with in idle moments. It is… good, he thinks. Though he might reorganize his memory items again. Later.
For now, he plans to undress, bathe, and-
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Maul whips around, expecting a physical presence, but there is no one and nothing there. He coats himself in a basic spell of obfuscating mist and draws his force presence close to his hearts, under his skin.
The observer tries to catch him up with a searching pattern that feels like smokey claws and gossamer hairs, winding ribbons and closing jaws. Threads, deceptive in their affectionate creeping.
"One?" he rasps in the empty hallway, "No… more. Several."
There are so many aspects of force trying to locate him that surely it must be a ritual, fueled by multiple people. Four or five, at bare minimum. He would guess it was his former master's doing, but surely Sidious would not need to look for him so much as come for him if he decided to spare the effort.
So who? Who?
But to look with that part of him which can See is to open himself, and Maul is not certain of the wisdom in letting this coven of force users near him just for the chance to find them.
Sweat beads on his scalp, dripping down and sliding off his chin. The effort to remain untouchable, hidden from these hunters, is intensely taxing, but the force vibrates in warning whenever he starts to slip.
Then, suddenly, he is alone again.
He waits, just as before, shoulders high and breathing hard as he remains watchful. The air remains still, lacking that dark innervation. Maul falls back against the wall, and presses the heel of a palm to his forehead. The effort has earned him a headache and shaking fingers.
The sith returns to moving down the hall, but changes destination. His den, while comfortable, is not the most secure location available here. That title goes to his mother's sanctum, riddled with runes and steeped in ichor fueled protections. He has not yet deciphered the nature of even half of the witch-made wards from the books and murals that remain of her teachings.
Maul slips into the sanctum, touching his chest where once her spirit had anchored itself.
"Mother," he begins, searching for an acceptable explanation for intruding. "I seek… shelter, in your sanctum. I am hunted by a power unknown, and the force warns me to avoid its touch."
That is an understatement. The force buzzes with indistinct warning, a vibrating drone so deep and ubiquitous it feels physical. Bumblebees underwater, crawling anxiety like marching ants.
No reply comes. He counts that as permission.
The sith goes to sit on the stone floor at the center of grooved patterns and runes. He will meditate now and gather his strength, assuming that eventually-
It returns! So quickly the threads descend again.
Vitriolic green light bursts to his left, then forward, then above him. Sharp eyes survey the room as sections of sigils light and dim along the walls, like fireworks. The grooves in the floor begin to fill with-
"Ichor," he murmurs, watching the luminous waters fill in the circling patterns. He cannot identify the source of where it flows from.
This… is not magick Maul has witnessed before. Savage had, reluctantly, described his own rituals, and the healing the Nightmother had done for Maul after Lotho Minor, but this is… different. Carved into Dathomir’s living stone, commanding the planet’s power even in the absence of a witch to direct it. It is wonderous.
The feeling of being looked for slides away from him with so much more ease, and he sighs in relief.
Maul ends up sleeping there, curled in on himself on the stone floor. Every few hours the cloying tendrils return again, and he wakes to watch the wards and push away the hooks that stretch for him.
It is only after a week of being chased back to his mother's room, day and night, that he realizes he is trapped on Dathomir until the hunt is ended. Until he ends it. To do that, he will have to learn to hide all on his own. Without becoming an unhinged, sleepless mess incapable of hunting these new enemies.
Maul faces this reality with easy acceptance. He has survived harsher challenges before, and will again. Mustafar, Lotho Minor, Hypori- the dark sustained him every time.
This will end no differently.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
To his dismay, Wei Wuxian discovers that Jiang Cheng wasn't the only friend of his whose golden core was dissolved. Now he has to figure out how to get them to not give up, defeat the Wen, and help Jiang Cheng rebuild the Lotus Pier. And find a way to re-grow their golden cores.
Read the prequel on Ao3, links at the bottom. Updates Tuesdays.
When Dryden had gotten a holocall ping at three in the morning, he knows there was only one person it could be. His organization, as a whole, knew not to interrupt his beauty sleep unless the consequences of waiting until morning were in the 'millions of credits' range, and that just didn't happen on a tight ship like his. With rare exception, of course.
So he dutifully gets up, puts on his nubian cashmere robe -the long one with the embossed gray lilies, not the short black number with cranes- and sends a servant to go fetch him caf. Then, he answers.
"My lord," he smiles at the hooded holo form sleepily, "how may I be of service?"
"Vos. Listen carefully: My Enemies have decided to try a new track. They have unleashed some kind of spell or device which-"
As soon as he hears 'my enemies', capital M, capital E, Dryden knows to get comfortable.
The sith lord starts in on one of his legendary rants, with all the effortless panache of a born thespian. Maul paces in the tight space allotted by the holocomm, throwing his entire body into the little performance. Facial expressions that tell entire stories. Sweeping gestures with fists and- ah, he’s grown out his claws. Lovely.
"-these… instances vary in length and frequency. The lack of discernible pattern tells me that-"
One of the staff drops off his caffuccino with extra whip and cinnamon, and the head of the Crimson Dawn sips on it while learning a fair amount about a variety of things. Who Darth Maul suspects is doing this, what they might be using to do it, when it started, where the technique might have come from, why they might be doing this, and how poorly holoprojections capture the infernal yellow glow of his eyes when Maul is pissed .
The complete story just isn't possible via holocall. A shame… his sith is ever so entrancing when furious.
"-so now you understand what we must be looking for. I suspect the line of Darth Morpic might have texts which-"
He's still going. Dryden snuggles with his caf and waits for his moment.
"-then you will have to bring whatever resources you find here to me, on Dathomir. I will ensure the temple's defenses do not… impede you, also-"
Still going.
"-renovations to that area are a work in progress. Do not land on the east side of the cliffs. Leaving is not an option or I would-"
His caf is gone, but the moment is here. Opportunity sings to him. He stands to meet the zabrak’s energy, gesturing grandly with his empty caf mug.
"My lord, please! It would be an honor to visit your home, bringing you aid." Stage secured, Dryden sets a hand to his breast, leaning in toward the holoprojector's camera. "My collection of esoteric references is nowhere near as extensive as yours must be, but I will begin combing it immediately."
Maul looks pleased. Or, no, he looks faintly murderous, but he’s just blinked the way he does when something has pleased him. Dryden smiles, indulgent, and sweetly promises, "I will also have a team begin checking the usual auctions and private collections for additional resources. Whoever has dared to inconvenience us like this is very quickly going to discover the error of their ways, yes?"
By 'discover' he means 'die for', and by 'error' he means 'interrupting his business and keeping Maul away'. How dare they? His sith is a necessary feature to Dryden's routine. To the Dawn itself.
Working under sithless conditions would be, well, possible , of course. Allowing their criminal empire to fall over such a loss would be inexcusably negligent on his part. No, the Dawn would come regardless of Maul’s involvement, but operating without his cold-blooded, yellow-eyed warlock would be so much more… unsatisfying. Dull. Dreary.
Untenable!
"Very good," Maul says, haughty. "I will expect you."
"Of course," he simpers, bowing slightly.
Maul scowls and hangs up.
Dryden grins at the inactive holocomm. Dathomir! Finally, his patience is beginning to pay off. What knowledge, what power, a planet of such repute might hold. With the demise of the witches the only thing left to guard Dathomir’s secrets is the planet itself, and… well. If any one being is capable of protecting the wisdom of an entire culture, perhaps it is Lord Maul.
But, oh, he has come to understand the sith like no other, earning more of him with each conversation. Maul could be a truly formidable obstacle, if he chose to be, between Dathomir's lost arts and the rest of the galaxy. But, with time, he will not be to Dryden Vos.
Flushed with victory, the crime lord wanders to the small archive he has onboard, still in his night clothes. Most of his collection is on an unnamed ice moon in a vault -not on a ship that could get scuttled if his luck soured- but there were a few things here that might provide either answers, or something to whet the appetite. At least until more robust materials could be found.
He makes a call to the caretakers on his private moon base, and sends them digging. Then, the near-human starts in on trawling the materials onboard.
"Fear not, my dear ," he tells the quiet stacks, "I shall find us answers."
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
