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Anakin is twelve when he declines one of Chancellor Palpatine’s invitations for the first time. The resulting devastation looks wrong on his kindly old face, and Anakin wants to take it back—besides, it’s just an opera and a glass of bubbly, where could be the harm?—but he remembers golden eyes pleading up at him and then a skull-patterned face scrunched up into a splotch with how hard it’s trying to hide utter desperation, and he repeats his invented excuse.
It doesn’t matter that this one-sided rivalry for Anakin’s attention that has developed between the mutilated imprisoned murderer Sith (slave) he has befriended and the Chancellor of the Republic is honestly deeply stupid, from Anakin’s point of view. It’s not like he couldn’t spent time with them both: his missions with Master Obi-Wan have increased in number recently, but still, he’s been talking to Palpatine once a month and he’s also managed to fit in the regular trips down below to the high security carcer. It’s ridiculous.
But Anakin understands loneliness—and fear and attachment and jealousy and all the other disturbances of the peace he shouldn’t feel—he didn’t have friends for years in the Temple, after all, and it makes sense, at least a little, that Maul is scared he’ll be forgotten down there when Anakin has any other option. Not a lot of sense, because really what he’s saying is that he thinks Anakin so disloyal he’ll just ditch the only real friend he made on Coruscant, and Anakin would get back at him for the insult if it wasn’t for an energy gate perpetually between them and the fact that it’s a just a little bit unfair to tussle with a guy crawling on the floor because he doesn’t have legs… The jealousy is still kriffing stupid, but if anyone knows stupid fears it’s Anakin.
So he declines, and he keeps declining, and two years later the invitations stop.
⋮
Anakin is eleven when he starts smuggling droid parts down into the top security oubliette underneath the oldest parts of the Jedi Temple. The first time is, in retrospect, a terrifying accident. He’s built a tiny moving starfighter that Master Obi-Wan just glanced at and said, “Well done,” nothing more, like Anakin didn’t need to use pincers to weld the tiniest engine parts together, like he didn’t cast the alloy all by himself. He sulks in his room, the ship buzzing at his head, and then remembers that there’s at least two more people who might like to see. Palpatine is probably busy, and that leaves…
The Sith prisoner is a far more appreciative audience than Anakin’s Master. His eyes glint and widen when he sees the presence next to Anakin’s head, and he even pulls himself off his berth: pulls himself off the edge and tumbles down head-first, and then panting and with his nails dug into the duracrete he drags his torso over to the energy trellis that separates him from Anakin.
He looks up at the droid in childlike wonder.
There’s a tenderness to his questions that he hasn’t shown Anakin up until now, and it’s not just the hoarse panting of exertion that takes away the last dregs of his usual intimidating mien. He wants to know everything, from the full-size model of the ship it was based on to the assembly process to details of every single one of Anakin’s new projects.
“I can—I could feel the movement of the droids I built, in the force,” the prisoner whispers reverently. “They were a constant presence when I was young.”
“Right? Right?” Anakin is excited. The Jedi have been trying to tell him that droids don’t have force presences, and he’s almost believed them by now, but if he’s not alone in feeling it then he was right. Master Obi-Wan was wrong. He knew it.
He brings down the next droid he builds—yes, two days after the first trip he did realize he brought something easily used as a weapon to the dangerous Sith prisoner, but all he did was talk mechanics with Anakin so clearly it’s harmless—and the next and next. He watches the prisoner drag himself across the floor. He sees the abrasions covering the prisoner head to abdomen—covering him on every inch of the body he still possesses—the injuries that he must be sustaining from his only mode of movement. He feels the shame radiate out from the prisoner down on the floor, painful, cloying. He watches him try to play it all down.
One day, Anakin brings down a ship that he designed himself to meet the exact dimensions and functionality of a short humanoid’s prosthetic thigh. He pushes it against the barrier. It moves through.
⋮
Anakin is almost ten years old, and he knows that down in the bowels of the Jedi Temple there lives a monster. The Sith is caged so deep below that no-one can hear his growls and mutters, his whimpers, his pleas, or so Master Obi-Wan promised Anakin yesterday when he’d worked up the courage to ask about the sounds he keeps hearing whenever he closes his eyes. He’s locked down so deep that the shivering of his despair and the gall of his hatred must be a hallucination. He’s been caged for months, first interrogated daily, then found useless and forgotten. But not by Anakin.
(He saw the monstrous enemy of the Jedi for the first time when he’d just turned nine. It pulled its black hood off its bright head and panicked Master Qui-Gon and Master Obi-Wan, and Anakin was sent away for safety that quickly turned into cosmic warfare. Before that moment, he knows, on Tatooine it tried to run Anakin over with its bike. After that moment, he’d seen the monster—or what remained of it—being carried out of the Naboo palace on Master Obi-Wan’s back, moaning and delirious with pain, but dangerous nonetheless. It had bitten Obi-Wan so hard he’d flung it reflexively to the ground.
Down there, it had begged. “Honor,” it had rasped. “Give me honor. Give me death.”
Master Obi-Wan had picked it up by its arm, and it had whimpered in protest, “I fought with honor!”
Obi-Wan had ignored it. Anakin would have, too; this thing had killed Master Qui-Gon, and whether it had done so with honor or not didn’t matter when Master Qui-Gon was dead. It had killed the Jedi who’d won him, who chose to train Anakin, who was the only guarantor of his future safety, and he didn’t know what would happen now, and he hated it.
It had grown more frantic then, terrified. “Kill me, Jedi, please, when my Master—”
And Anakin had swallowed a cry of shocked recognition.)
Anakin will be ten in two months, and today he’s gonna see the monster again. It’s not the force that calls him down staircase after staircase to the oubliette below the oldest parts of the Jedi Temple. He’d be able to explain if it was the force, if he got caught, he thinks, but that’s not what’s going on. It’s just homesickness, and loneliness, and it is that word.
The way he said it.
Anakin has met more Masters in the last year of his life than ever before, has uttered the word more often than on Tatooine, and he’s doing pretty well, he thinks. He doesn’t flinch with his body when he says it and not with his face either, and even the highest Masters—there it is again—they can’t feel the acid in his force presence anymore.
He greets Master Obi-Wan in the morning and he bows to Grandmaster Yoda whenever they meet.
He doesn’t talk about his childhood. He doesn’t talk much, nowadays, to anyone but Master Obi-Wan or his teachers. He knows he’s weird. He wasn’t on Tatooine, but here… He doesn’t know the things the other padawans do, and his reflexive associations, his interests, his memories shock them. There’s no point, Anakin has learned, in expecting people who can say Master without galling—who don’t need to pretend to enjoy it—to listen to him. They’ll never wake up in cold sweat and feel for the bomb that was cut out of their neck, that was injected into it while they were awake and their mother cried, that had so often almost gone off. They don’t cry for their Mom. They’ll only shush him when he talks of his past.
When he talks of his fears.
Of himself.
They’ll never understand him. No-one will. No-one will let him be the Anakin he really is, without fussing over him and muttering and looking like he should know better by now. No-one wants anything beyond the parts of himself he can salvage that are untainted by his past. The parts that don’t remember his mother.
The only person who listens to all of him is Palpatine, and even he often doesn’t know what to say.
No-one will understand, possibly, but…
The monster that lives down below the Jedi Temple had forced out Master like the word tastes of fire and dread.
Like it heralds pain.
The monster is a fellow slave, Anakin is sure. He’s the only being on Coruscant who might understand; the only person who will let him be whole. He’s killed Master Qui-Gon, yes, but he didn’t have a choice, just like Anakin wasn’t allowed to disobey his Master and neither was Mom or Kitster or Beru or anybody else back home.
It was so obvious, the moment he said it.
The monster’s a slave.
Point: Anakin is so tired of having to pretend he never was a slave.
Point also: He just found a map of all the layers of the temple in a garbage chute, wedged in a decommissioned droid’s dataslit. A map that shows the oubliette for ancient evils.
Point also also: Master Obi-Wan’s fast asleep, and Anakin can’t get his thoughts to stop racing.
The monster’s a fellow slave.
Ergo: it’s time to sneak down and make a friend.
What must be hundreds of meters below the current Jedi Temple, at the bottom of the bottom-most staircase, smells faintly of sweat and boredom and despair. The only illumination Anakin can make out is a set of force trellises, and if the schematics he found were right then that’s exactly the spot that he’s looking for.
Pulling his hood down deeper just because it’s chilly and definitely not because he’s nervous and needs something to fidget, he sneaks closer.
Victory!
The Sith’s inside the cell. He looks just like the attacker Anakin remembers, with a red-and-black face and some horns and a scowl. He looks completely different, too: he’s naked, or at least his torso is. The lower half of his body is just missing. Did the Jedi—but no, Anakin can dimly remember Master Obi-Wan mention the way he beat him. That he’s still without prosthetics, even though his scars are well-healed… Anakin knew a woman who’d survived a bomb blowing off her leg, on Tatooine. She lived off of fellow slaves’ charity, for a few months. Her head wasn’t all there anymore from the pain, Mom told Anakin, and her Master had just let her leave. Why invest in a prosthetic when you’re not getting any use from its recipient?
The Sith is doing better than her, at least, even if he’s missing way more flesh. He’s doing pull-ups off the head piece of his callow berth. His yellow eyes gleam in the soft light of the force trellis when he looks over. When he notices Anakin. For a long moment, he looks stunned, and only then he remembers to snarl.
“Hi,” Anakin says.
The prisoner puffs up his defined arm muscles, as well as he can when he’s still hanging off the frame of his bed. He must have decided that dropping down onto his torso—and probably his face—would be even less dignified, though, because he stays put, sweaty and glowering out at Anakin from under his armpit, like he’s desperately trying to look threatening and tough in an unfamiliar situation where the other person has all the power.
It’s a scene Anakin has known intimately for most of his life.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Anakin says.
A beat.
Right.
“The Jedi didn’t send me,” because in his situation that’s what Anakin would most like to know. The Jedi are not this guy’s slave masters, but they do have all the power over him right now.
“I was a slave too, before they took me here. You can trust me,” and at least that gets a reaction: the prisoner looks absolutely apoplectic and even opens his mouth. Finally! He’s angry, which isn’t ideal—Anakin should have remembered that some slaves don’t want to admit they are—but they’re talking!
But the Sith just closes his mouth again.
He keeps his sullen silence for what feels like hours while Anakin tries one conversational gambit after the other. He just can’t have blown his one chance at talking to someone whose mouth makes the right shape for Master. Anakin refuses to accept that.
But it grows later and later, and Master Obi-Wan will wake up at some point, and he doesn’t have to concede defeat for forever, after all, but maybe for today…
“Fine.” Anakin puffs out his chest. He should say something soothing that’ll buy him a foot in the door next time, but he’s been pleading and pleading, and it hurts. “I don’t even care if you don’t want to talk. I’ve got plenty of friends. Chancellor Palpatine asked me to come over for tea just yesterday!”
The voice is so threadbare that he almost misses it, but it’s there. The Sith clears his throat. He sounds more sure and velvety when he repeats his plea to Anakin. His golden eyes are so wide it looks painful.
“Wait! Repeat what you just said!”
⋮
Anakin is nineteen when he climbs down into the bowels of the Temple for the last time. He hasn’t slept for two days, barely even closed his eyes, because on the insides of his lids is his mother, writhing, pleading.
No-one up in the Temple can give him any help. All they have to offer is platitudes about Uncertain the future is and Let go of attachment you must, but it’s his Mom, and she’s being tortured! She’s dying! She can’t be dying! She’s Anakin’s Mom!
He’s pleaded to be sent to Tatooine on a mission, but Senator Amidala’s protection detail is more important Master Obi-Wan said, and he can’t just go against the will of his… He can’t go. His Mom’s dying every moment he closes his eyes and he can’t go.
Maul is his last hope.
No-one will even notice that Maul’s gone. He’s been locked up for a decade now, and only the meal droids and Anakin still climb down to his level. Anakin’s friends with the meal droids, too, and he can definitely talk them into keeping silent about the Sith prisoner’s disappearance.
Maul’s a fighter, and he was able to find them on Tatooine and follow them to Naboo so he must be able to find Anakin’s Mom, too, wherever she’s been dragged off to. He’ll be able to save her.
He’ll—
Anakin has already sliced the force trellis control panel and turned it off when the fear grabs him. He’s spilled all his nightmares of his mother’s death, has shared the only plan for her survival. He’s received the assent he was sure to get. Now, he’s helping Maul put on the smuggled prosthetics that have been hidden in the stuffing of Maul’s prison berth, kneeling down before him.
And suddenly, all he tastes in the air is raw hatred.
He flinches. The trellis must have functioned as a shield from Maul’s presence before, keeping Anakin from realizing the true depth of Maul’s anger, the extent of his strength.
He could kill Anakin right now. He could attack the temple, and it would all be Anakin’s fault.
The frailty and humiliations of the prisoner’s mutilated body have lulled Anakin into reacting with kindness. He’s seen a man who is weak, helpless, and of course he offered help.
The cadence of Maul’s voice has made him sound like a friend.
But he’s the Sith who slaughtered Master Qui-Gon.
He’s filled to the brim with hatred and jealousy and pain, the force around them screams, will never release them to meditation like Anakin has tried and tried to do; he’s everything the Jedi Council saw in Anakin that day a decade ago and that he’s tried so hard to bury. He’s a Sith.
He’s warm.
It’s not just the hand he rests on Anakin’s shoulder but the very air he expels. Anakin expected the dark side of the force to be frigid, the way his own loathing and terror have kept him shivering and cold, but this is a hearth: protection, purification, an almost magnetic pull. It wraps around them. He shudders again.
“Do not be afraid,” Maul says, and from the soft look in his eyes he has misunderstood completely. “I shall find your mother, apprentice. You will do admirably while I’m gone. Just remember everything I taught you.”
And then, the darkness curls around Anakin again, hot and possessive. “While I’m gone, don’t talk to Palpatine.”
⋮
Anakin is twenty-three when he decides to brutally murder the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic. His wife is laying in the delivery room, holding the boy twin—holding their baby boy!—while he strokes her hair reverently, and there is his Mom beside him, holding the girl twin—holding their baby girl!—and next to the door, scowling, stands Maul.
“Do you want to hold her?” Mom asks Maul gently. She knows him best now, and if she decides Maul’s standoffishness towards the twins—his twins!—is shyness rather than dislike, then Anakin will forgive him for not cooing over the babies—his kids! His and Padmé’s kids!—like any rational person would.
“Even His patience runs out one day,” Maul whispers.
Anakin’s hairs curl in shocked recognition, and he doesn’t even need to hear the word, but—
“I told you, Shmi, he started talking to Anakin as soon as he arrived. Somehow I managed to keep them apart, to interfere with the attempts at molding him, but the very fact He showed interest must warn us… As soon as he learns of this birth, and His spies are everywhere…” Maul turns back towards the door, palms laid across it as if he could keep the gate shut. The force burns with shielding hatred. “My Master will come for your children. Soon. Palpatine likes them young.”