Summary: The origins of Darth Maul, as directly relating to the MOSAIC series. Takes place a couple of decades before The Phantom Menace. A fifteen year old Khameir Sarin, a Zabrak from Iridonia, lives as an orphan on the streets of his home city, and meets a (no very skilled) Durranian bounty hunter named Iyala.

Khameir, however, has been feeling the callings of the dark side, and a Zabrak cult, promising to train him as a sith lord, claims that they seek him to be their leader. Relying on dark side magicks, they foresee that he will sire their long-awaited destroyer. However, Palpatine, who has had his eye on the boy since he was twelve, intercedes, and later demands that Khameir prove his devotion to the dark side by slaying the last shreds of light in his soul. The result is Darth Maul, the cold, compassionless sith lord who destroys all who stand in his path remorselessly.

*********
     Regret. He never wasted time on regret. It was a useless thing. It made him soft, weak,
vulnerable. There was no place for that in him. His heart had long since shriveled up into a cold
lump of shrapnel, ready to tear at anything that dared make its way too close. His insides were
stone, his outsides were living fear, a mask of terror that raked over everything in its path,
stripping it bare, destroying it, sometimes for the pleasure of the task, sometimes out of
necessity. There would be no tendril of compassion to dare snake its way inside him. Not even
when he saw her face. He vowed it upon all the blood of the sith, blood shed by the Jedi, blood
shed because of all the hypocrisy in this galaxy. At least he would not be a hypocrite.
     Master Sidious had sent him here, on this task, so that he could prove that to himself,
once and for all. Because the master knew, deep in his heart, his apprentice doubted. He was
ruled by his own fear, his own lack of true conviction. Should he ever see her again, would it
change everything? Or would he stay true to his vow, to what he had become?
     Slowly, he crept down the hallway. No one was around, not on these floors. They were
secluded, empty. Just like Iyala's soul. He could feel her emptiness as keenly as his own. He was
amazed that his bond with her was still so strong, even after all these years.
     But he pushed all of that aside. Bond or no bond, it would all be over soon. Once he
completed this task, the master would bestow upon him the title he longed for. The title that the
Cult of the Destroyer had denied him because he had been too weak. The title of Darth.
     Darth Maul.
     He gritted his teeth, ignoring the intense pain it caused. They had rotted with misuse,
with abuse and ignorance. But his mouth was unnecessary. Words were often wasted. People
didn't understand words, they understood force. They understood fear. He could bring fear to
faces without speaking. Why should he bother with words?
     She was in her quarters...he could faintly hear running water. Bathing, perhaps? His face
burned underneath the heavy black and red tattoo. The very thought that his lust for her could
distract him after all this time only added fuel to his rage. Perhaps he would take her once more,
just to prove to himself that she meant nothing. One last, glorious time, and then end her life. It
would be perfect. It would be the ultimate revenge.
     He reached the door. Did she know he was there? She would, within a few seconds. How
she knew mattered little. Maybe he would wait here, let her suddenly become aware of him, let
the fear rise up in her--the sweet fear, her fear especially. He relished the taste as if it were a rare
delicacy. That she should fear him, she who knew him best as he once was, was more than he
could ask for. It would be the crowning jewel in his dark crest as a sith lord. The total
annihilation of who had once been...he had to resist the urge to tear open the door and appear to
her, the desire for that accomplishment was so overwhelming. It was nearly distracting--
     Suddenly, she sensed him. He felt her muscles tense, felt her old reflexes coil inside of
her. He smiled. She had not been much when he'd first met her, but the man he had been had
loved her anyway. What a fool he had been. After all, it had been so easy..........
********

     He'd been watching her for some time. He liked watching her, the way she moved, the
way the thick material that hugged her curvaceous body rippled over her muscles. Her dark hair
that gleamed red in the flickering rays of the sunset was tied in a tail that hung down her back It
was slightly damp in the heavy humidity of Reven, the capital of Iridonia. He'd always hated the
humidity. Give him the desert any day, he would take the empty sands compared to the density
of this place.
     Sighing, he let himself slide to the ground. She wouldn't be moving for a while. They had
her stuck in the security wing of the small space port. A heavy satchel slid off her shoulder and
landed on the ground, and he caught the faint clink of metal hitting metal. Maybe she was some
kind of trader...or better yet, a bounty hunter. He felt himself smiling in anticipation. He'd been
playing this game for the better part of the day, and it was only a matter of time before he found
the right opportunity to make his presence known to her. Not that she might care much. What
was an orphan to her? She wasn't even from here--she certainly wasn't Zabrak, not with that thick
head of hair.
     He reached up and touched his hairless crown, feeling the faint ridges of where his horns
should be. They hadn't grown in yet--wouldn't until he finished his growth. Although from what
he'd seen of many of the alien species that surrounded him, he was rather large for his age. But
the Zabrak body always reached its growth in physical size before the rest of the changes kicked
in. Maybe to her he would seem like an adult. He hoped so. He would hate for her to dismiss
him as a child. He could take her repulsion for his street rags before he could take her repulsion
for his immaturity.
     Okay....she was moving now. She had jumped line and was taking a short cut.
Attempting to bypass security? Where would that get her? Even small ports like this one had
excellent security. They would catch her and detain her for even longer than before--
     She glanced over her shoulder. Her skin glowed darkly, as if she had spent too much time
in the sun. Durranian--he had recognized that right off, but hadn't gotten a good look because
most the time he'd spent looking at her had been focused on her back. Now he could even see the
brief flashing of her eyes--a rich, emerald green. His heartbeat quickened. She couldn't escape
him now, not after all the time he'd invested in this stupid little game.
     She slipped down an alley he hadn't even noticed, and he had to nearly run to follow her.
He kept his steps silent--he was very good at keeping quiet. An entire lifetime spent on the
streets of this city had taught him the virtue of silence. Noise was, at times, the equivalent of
death.
     He reached the dark, wide crack and realized that she had disappeared again. He strained
his ears, and heard the faint pattering of feet. He glanced up and caught the barest hint of a
shadow.
     She had taken to the roof.
     He scampered to the nearest gutter and climbed up after her, still keeping silence. His
eyes had just reached the roof level when she dove off the other end, her hair flipping upwards
as she jumped, the tail whipping wildly for a second and then falling. He heaved himself up after
her and for the first time cursed his cumbersome size. Then he calmed himself and used his
strange powers to lighten his muscles. It worked...he was on the other side and jumping off into
the other alley, her shadow in his side vision for just a few seconds. He had to work harder to
keep his silence, drawing heavily on the same powers to keep his feet light and his steps quick.
For a second, as he rounded a corner, he lost her altogether, and then had to reach out with his
mind, not knowing what he was looking for but knowing he would recognize it when he saw it.
     *There* she was, slipping into a building that smelled like day old guric eggs and rotting
creaw meat. It was so foul, he was tempted to just give up and go home. Surely she wouldn't be
staying there. It seemed beneath her.
     He strolled down the alley a few feet away, keeping his mind open, barely touching her
but keeping her pattern firmly fixed in his brain. Maybe he would get lucky and she would come
out. Maybe it wasn't her place, she was just using it as a temporary shelter. Or maybe she was
trying to shake off any unwanted followers---
     Something snagged him from behind. A slender arm was around his neck, and the foul
smells of the building were quickly buried underneath the thick, sweet smell of leather and
sweat. It was almost hypnotic, the way she clung to him, her mind suddenly open to him, wide
and beautiful and furiously angry.
     The cold barrel of a blaster against his cheek wasn't even enough to break the spell. His
hand went up instinctively, his fingers finding only the sleek material that covered her. She was
strong, he would give her that--her grip was threatening to cut off his windpipe.
     "Who are you?" she rasped into his ear. He felt a sudden shiver as he struggled to reply.
     "Kha....Kha...." If she wanted an answer, she was going to have to let up. As if she heard
him, her muscle relaxed just a bit. "Khameir Sarin."
     He felt her frown. "Zabrak," she muttered. "Stupid me for not doing my homework." She
sighed, her breath hot on the back of his neck, sending another chill. "Why are you following
me?"
     He couldn't answer. He didn't know. There was just something about her. He turned his
head a bit, trying to see her eyes, but knowing that their touching minds was as close as he was
going to get.
     Abruptly, she released him, and her mind closed off, as if it had never been there. He
stumbled forward but caught himself with simple grace, his fingers lightly touching the rough
stone of the opposing wall as he finally got to turn and face her.

*********
     Iyala glanced up. He was here. Somehow, she knew he would be. She had always been
able to sense him, sometimes before even he sensed her. Rarely, though. Less and less rarely as
the years had passed. Out of practice, she wondered. But Khameir had never been one to be
subtle. He had always been so heartwrenchingly blunt, it was ridiculous.
     For the first time in a decade, she remembered...............
*********

     Iyala frowned down at her new captive, confused. She didn't sense anything malicious
from him. He was a Zabrak, and a Force sensitive one at that. But many Zabrak were, it wasn't
unusual. They had what was generally known as mind control, but she hadn't really believed it
until now.
     He hadn't spoken more than his name, but the soft quietness of his voice, the deep,
velvety tones, told her much more than any words he could have said. She couldn't tell how old
he was--all these Zabrak seemed to be the same size. He looked mature enough, except for his
lack of horns. The thickness of his muscles, the smoothness of his face...surely he had to be old
enough to know better.
     And the way he was looking at her....it was almost arousing. Unless he was trying to use
that mind control thing of his on her. She didn't lower her gun, even though by now she was sure
he meant her no harm. Well, not the hurting kind of harm, anyway. Maybe he thought she was a
prostitute. She couldn't really be insulted, considering the way she was dressed. But most johns
didn't stalk prostitutes. They didn't have to stalk them.
     He turned and leaned against the wall, watching her as she watched him. She'd felt him
for a while now, at first brushing him off as just being idly curious and then allowing him to
follow her just to see where it would lead. Now that she was here, she slightly regretted her
decision, for now she had no idea what to do about him.
     He wasn't exactly unattractive...and his clothes were pretty pathetic. Standard black
issues, the kind that charities gave away because the material was too course to be sold and yet
durable enough for those who had to live on the streets. As tempted as she was to feel sorry for
him and his obviously impoverished condition, she couldn't help but be wary of the way he
moved. It was with a certain delicateness and grace that made her suspect he was not at all what
he seemed. Still, there seemed to be something so...needing...about him....
     She sighed again, her gun hand dropping. Maybe they were all right about her. Maybe
she should just go back home and work for some public charity service. She was just too soft
hearted to live this kind of life. After all, she was about to say--
     "Well, since you've gone through all the trouble of catching up with me," she said,
swinging her bag over her shoulder and holstering her gun, "you may as well come along."
     He straightened, surprised. But he did not hesitate to follow her retreating form down the
alley, even as she swore under her breath the entire way.

*********
     Now...it had to be now! She knew he was here--there was no sense in waiting any longer.
He extended his hand toward the door and the internal mechanisms creaked and groaned as they
gave in to his will. The door slid back and Maul realized that the room inside was completely
dark.
     Perhaps she had known he was coming even before he had decided to come. It was not
the first time that had happened, but it would be the last. The hold he had on her would end,
now.
     He stepped into the chamber, pulling his lightsaber from his belt. He did not ignite it--no
sense it being so aggressive. Perhaps he would toy with her a bit. This would be the last time he
would see her, after all. There would be no turning back.
     "Khameir?" came her voice, slightly rough with age, from the back corner of the room.
She stepped forward, and he caught the glint of metal in her hand. So she had that cortis ore
wand in her possession still. Perhaps it had been a gift from Zenar, his last effort to protect her
from her misbegotten Zabrak mate. Maul grinned. She would be no match for him, not with her
meager Force skills, even with that wand. But it would make the game a bit more fun.
     "My name is Maul," he growled at her through his malicious grin. But she did not flinch
as she usually did whenever he referred to himself in that way. The first time he had used it, she
had nearly started to cry. He remembered with unwanted shame how he had almost turned back
at that moment, even though the Cult had only been a stepping stone to his destiny. There was no
turning back, not anymore.
     Instead, her face was a mask of stone. Beautiful, golden stone, with hard, cold emeralds
where her soft eyes should have been. A grim line where her lush mouth should have been. Deep
lines of distress where she should have been beaming with pleasure at their reunion--no, all of
that was gone. He had turned Iyala into this walking corpse. And he could feel the rage coming
from her, banishing all of the fear he desired, the outrage that he would return to her now, after
all he had done to her. Her fingers were nearly white where she gripped the golden-colored base
of the wand, the crystal blade catching the faint light and sending it into his eyes, nearly blinding
him.
     This revenge should have been the sweetest of all. She did not fear him. She hated him.
Hated him with every inch of her being. And as determined as he had been to destroy her, so she
was determined to destroy him.
     "No," she rasped, hearing his thoughts. He scowled at her intrusion, but she made no
effort to pull back. "You have already destroyed me. You destroyed me the first time we met."
*********

     The first thing Iyala realized when she awoke was that she hurt all over. It was a deep,
grinding pain--not entirely unpleasant, but definitely striking. A groan escaped her lungs as she
attempted to roll over, her legs feeling like dead weights as they refused to follow. And then
came the real pain, the loud, screaming ache from between her legs. She let out the rest of her
breath as she finally got her elbows under her, the covers sliding off her chest and revealing her
naked breasts.
     Her eyes focused and she realized that it was the middle of the night. What had
happened? The memories were foggy, as if she'd had too much of that thick, sweet liquor that
was a delicacy around here and often flowed too much in abundance whenever she paid this
planet a business visit. But no, she didn't remember drinking anything. The bitter taste of the
hangovers the stuff caused was absent from the back of her throat. So what else could it have
been?
     She turned her head to the side and saw that the bed was empty, but the covers had been
ruffled. She managed to slide a hand over to touch them, and realized that they were still warm,
and had a distinct, musky odor. Her eyes widened, and this time her groan was in earnest.
     What had she been thinking? A thousand curses filled her mind as she proceeded to pour
them onto her own head. Falling onto her back, she let the pain come, let it punish her. Would
she never learn? How many times did she have to fall before the lesson finally took hold? Never
take in strangers...especially young, well-muscled, good-looking ones who watch you like---
     Okay, enough of that, she told herself. Damage done. Time to assess it. Reaching deep
into her mind, she struggled to control the pain until most of it faded away into a low,
thrumming ache. She could live with that--or rather, work with it. She knew she should live with
the whole ball of wax, but right now she had to take care of business and deal with whatever
immediate consequences this situation was about to present. Although she knew she was not
very sensitive in the Force, she did have a bit of a gift for using its calming techniques and
suppressing pain. Today, they would come in handy.
     Slowly, so slowly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. What time was it,
anyway? A few hours before dawn, she guessed. It had been early afternoon when she'd found
that Zabrak and taken him in. A lot of hours needed to be accounted for. The last thing she
remembered was ordering him to take a bath because he smelled like a combination of her
niece's dirty diapers and her father's smoking pole. There was no way she was going to tolerate
that. But that had all taken place within an hour, and she was sure that everything had started
when she'd smelled him all cleaned up and--*Yejion have mercy,* she thought as a few
memories flittered through her mind. No wonder she was so sore! The man may have been a
Zabrak, but he had to have the hormones of a newly-pubescent bantha to have done this kind of
damage to her. She was sure she had passed out a few times. Memories this vague without any
drug to blame meant only one thing--it had been a wild night she may not want to remember.
Ever.
     Now she was on her feet and striding--stiffly--over to her satchel. Everything was there.
Okay, he hadn't been after her loot. That was reassuring. At least he was an honest horn-dog. Of
course, if she had detected anything malicious from him, she would never have taken him in.
She remembered that the intriguing thing about him had been his intense interest in her. Well,
after last night, she was sure his interests were sated. He's skipped the traditional speech, though-
-good night, thanks for all the sex, see you around the galaxy, yadda yadda yadda...she snorted.
Her judgement in character was severely flawed. No more relying on Force vibrations, she
vowed. Maybe she should just go back to Durran and join the convent. It might keep her out of
trouble that she couldn't keep herself out of, apparently.
     She found her way into the bathroom and turned on the water. The tub was still damp
from last night, with shriveled bits of foam dotting the lip of the large basin here and there. She
wiped them away, noticing that they had captured his scent. She shook her head again at herself.
She'd heard stories about Zabrak men, but hearing the stories and experiencing them were two
different things. Maybe someday she would be able to remember this night clearly enough to
share a story or two of her own. She found herself hoping not as she stepped into the steaming
liquid. Within minutes, she was covered up to her neck, the heat working away at her soreness,
and the soothing feeling comforting her stinging conscience. Everything would be okay. All she
had to do was get a little restful sleep and get back to work. Put some distance between her and
this embarrassing situation. Soon, she would feel anything at all about it. She would tell her tales
with the same dispassion as all the other whores she knew. Maybe they would even admire her.
At least someone would.

     The water was cool when she stepped out of it half an hour later. Finding a scraggly
towel, she wrapped herself in it and trotted back out into the main room. Her clothes were in a
tangled heap on the corner, and it took her several minutes to untangle them. Then she realized
that her undergarments were nowhere to be seen. With most of the soreness gone--except for
some painful scratches she'd found on the lower left side of her back--she was able to search for
them in earnest for the better part of fifteen minutes before she gave up and sat down on the bed,
her face red from indignation. So much for an easy clean-up, she thought to herself as she
grabbed at her satchel, praying to find a fresh pair. Those panties weren't easy to come by. She
would have to go all the way back to Durran for another pair, as they were made from the
planet's unique and incredibly sturdy linen. Then, as she reached for her body suit, she realized
that the scratches down her back matched a newly-discovered long tear in the suit perfectly, and
she let out a long, angry growl as she hurled the clothes across the room.
     Just as the clothes slapped against the wall beside the door, the door opened. A bald,
ridged head with what looked like horns peeking out from the center of the ridges appeared, and
for the first time Iyala got a good look at the red-yellow eyes of her Zabrak suitor, looking down
at her in confusion.
     "Something wrong?" he asked in that voice of his. She scowled at him.
     "What are you doing here?" she asked.
     He had stepped all the way into the room and had been closing the door behind him when
her words stopped him short. He almost looked hurt. "You did not wish me to return?" he asked.
     The tone of his voice was like a hand smoothing over her angry features as she felt them
disappear. "You were gone. I assumed that was it."
     He shook his head. "I left for only a short while. Have you been awake long?"
     She sighed. Okay, so she had assumed too quickly that he wasn't coming back. Now she
would have to disentangle herself from this situation, and quickly. She had to try and leave again
at dawn, before security got too tight. "Long enough. Where did you go?"
     He stepped closer to her and she realized he was holding a bag. He reached inside of it
and pulled out a fine, bright-green tunic, woven from Durranian linen. Her eyes lit up when she
saw it, even wider when he produced a pair of black trousers to match it.
     "I...ruined your clothes," he said, his smile bashful and achingly endearing, even as he
glanced over at her suit, which had landed in a pile on the floor. "I see you found that out. I am
sorry if I angered you."
     She was fighting the urge to laugh as she waved her hand dismissively. "Forget it," she
said, then reached forward to take his gift. "Thank you, but you didn't have to." Then she paused,
her frown returning as she took in his appearance, realizing he was still those same ratty black
clothes of his. "How in the world did you get these?" she asked.
     He smiled again, but this time it was not bashful, but knowing. "I have ways."
     She frowned harder. Durranian linen was notoriously expensive offworld. "I hope you
didn't steal them," she said in a low voice.
     His face froze. "I did not want to steal from you to pay for them," he said softly. And
then, she felt his embarrassment, his shame...it was frighteningly like her own, what she had felt
when she had awakened and realized what she had done. But it was what she did, her flaw in
character, something she felt powerless to control, even to the point where she was sure it was
almost necessary for her to do it, just to maintain who she was.
     She shook her head, detaching her mind from his. What was with this guy, anyway? How
did he affect her like this? She leaned back in the chair, letting her back rest against the rough
fabric as she held the green tunic. Then her eyes drifted back up to his face again, and realized
he was sitting on the floor, his legs folded under him, his expression patient and guarded.
     "Is it my imagination," she began, "or did you start to grow horns since I last saw you?"
     At her words, his face brightened and he stood up, rushing to the small mirror in the
bathroom. She leaned forward, the scratches in her side complaining as she made an effort to
stand, forcing her to change her mind. He was in the bathroom for a few minutes and she took
the opportunity to pull off her towel and slip the tunic over her head. When he did emerge, there
was a huge smile of pride on his face, and his fingers were idly running over the ridges, where
the tips of the horns were just peeking through.
     "Soon they will be fully grown," he said, his low voice husky in excitement. "Then I will
be an adult, and I can marry you."
     The expression on her face had to be comical, as she felt her jaw slack and her eyes
widen with his words. She didn't know which ones to examine first, but found that the ones
expressing his desire to marry her caused her lips to abruptly part in a soundless, breathy laugh.
"Excuse me?" she said.
     He dropped to his knees, his hands reaching out for her legs, closing around her bare
thighs and making her skin tingle. She had to force herself to pull away, but it did little to
dampen his excitement.
     "I cannot marry you until I am a full adult," he explained.
     Okay, that was the second part of the sentence she should have noticed. An eyebrow
arched. "And you aren't an adult?" she asked dully.
     He shook his head. "Not yet, but soon."
     Now she was scowling, not sure whether to be angry or outraged. "Then how old are
you?" she asked, her voice rising slightly.
     "Fifteen," he replied.
     "FIFTEEN!" She stood up, forgetting that she was nude from the waist down. The tunic
covered her well enough, but the sudden burst of cool air between her legs was a startling
reminder. She stepped around him, her agitation so intense it made her arms shake as she
scooped up the trousers and struggled to put them on.
     "Fifteen!" she cried again. "I slept with a fifteen year old....boy!" She whirled around as
she finally got the trousers to her waist, the rage sparking out from her and snapping around him
like electricity. "Great Yejion, it's not enough for me to be a whore but I also have to be a child
molester!"
     If she had been calmer, she might have seen his face darken and his rage begin to grow.
He was no *boy,* he was almost a full grown man, and certainly old enough to take care of
himself, and her, if she wished it. He had survived his life and lived to be as old as he was not
just by good fortune but because he was smart and strong, and he had special gifts. The outrage
that she should suddenly be rejecting him because of the number of his years swelled out of him
and he snapped, reaching for her with both hands, yanking her to him even as she swung her fists
at him in resistance.
     He pulled her so close their chests were pressed together, and he glared down into her
face, his expression fierce and overwhelming. "I am no boy," he growled, and before she could
say another insulting word, he pulled her lips up to his and kissed her.
     Instantly, everything came back. Every sensation, even the tearing pain of her suit being
ripped open and her flesh being torn, came rushing back into her mind, and it all made sense. He
was no boy, but he was not yet a man, either, and unable to control himself. It explained why she
hurt all over, why she couldn't remember everything that had happened last night. He was
reaching the peak of his growth, and he everything in him was very soft and malleable. His
hormones and his emotions were raging as they formed, at first soft like clay, but going into the
heavy heat to become hard and forever concrete. His attachment to her was overwhelming,
considering they had just met, but the timing had been everything. As the kiss softened, she
realized that he meant every word he had said to her. He meant to marry her, and even if she
refused he would follow her to his dying day, ever her faithful servant, ever her footstool, her
protector, her lover. It was too much--it scared her. She had never meant for this to happen,
never meant to get so involved.
     Still, it was something part of her had always expected. She had been stupid, had let all
of this happen. She deserved it, deserved him, come hell or high water. She was stuck with it,
and while a part of her was excited by it--by him--another part felt like she had just been chained
a shackled, and was finally going to pay the price for her sins.
     Despair threatened her as he finally let her go. She wanted to cry, wanted to hit him,
wanted to turn and run. But she couldn't go anywhere. There was nowhere to go. Slowly, she
sank to her knees, her face in her hands. She felt his confusion, his own pain as he watched her
reaction. Minutes passed, and then he picked her up and carried her to the bed. The sudden fear
that he would force himself on her rose in her, but he soothed it away with gentle kisses in her
hair and the breathy warmth of his voice as he murmured reassurances into her neck.
     Long minutes passed, and she waited, calm. Their emotions were tangled--she could not
tell one thing from another. But she could feel something warm there, something hopeful and
bright. And even though she wasn't entirely confident in the source of his emotions, she was sure
of one thing.
     For whatever reason, he loved her. Instantly, and totally. His heart had become her slave.
     She reached deep within herself and used the calming techniques. Maybe this was the
work of the Force. Maybe Yejion, in His Wisdom, had seen fit to do this to her as both her
punishment and her reward. She wasn't sure what she thought about any of that. But there would
be plenty of time to think about it. She raised her head and looked at him, this new part of
herself. Her fingers reached up and danced over the ridges, scraping slightly against the very tips
of his horns.
     "Khameir," she whispered, and wasn't sure if she had even said his name before.
     He touched her face, his fingers threading heavily into her thick hair. "I am yours," he
whispered back.
     Hesitantly, she lowered her face to his, and kissed him. He returned it with gentle
eagerness.
     Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, after all.

***********
     "Then I have come to finish the job."
     She sneered at him. "You unimaginable bastard. I'm a mere shell of the person I once
was. What is there left for you to do? Taking my life would be a mercy. You've already taken my
son, taken my honor, taken my love. There is nothing else!" She raised the wand and turned it so
that I was pointed at her own chest. "I will not give you the pleasure of showing me mercy! I will
take my own life before I'll let you have it!"
     He lunged at her, lightning fast, using all his Force-trained reflexes. His gloved hand
reached out and slapped the wand from her grip, and the expression of horror on her face was
almost satisfying. She tried to pull back, but he was too fast. He caught her around the waist, his
hands locking around her wrists and pinning them against her as he crushed her chest into his.
His lightsaber fell to the floor behind him, forgotten.
     "LET ME GO!" she screamed, her face a horrible, twisted mask of rage and pain. Her
eyes bore into his, the emerald stones finally falling away as tears streamed down her cheeks. He
could have killed her in that instant, snapping her spine in his grip, as iron-tight as it was. But he
suddenly felt no need.
     She was already broken. Completely and utterly crushed. He had defeated her. He had
destroyed her. There was nothing left. She didn't even have her pride or her dignity.
     He looked down at her, his fierce expression falling away. His feelings were betraying
him now, even as he struggled to contain them. But he lacked the discipline. He lacked the
ability. He lacked the strength. Even now he could feel the master chastising him, ashamed of
his weakness. If there had been any room for color on his tattooed cheeks, they would have
burned red with indignation. But still, he could not to it. He could not kill her. Not like this. Not
after everything.
     He bent his head close to hers. She had stopped struggling now, waiting for the
inevitable, like an old, dying dog waited for the final crack of gunshot. He searched her face,
searched her mind, running over the memories that were burned into her. He found the one of
their son, and she flinched, letting out a small groan. If he could not kill her, he would make her
suffer. It was her own fault, after all, for ever having gotten involved with him. If she had just
kept running that day, or had never come back to Iridonia--even though she had promised she
would--none of this might have happened to her. He could have taken his destiny alone. It would
have been the same either way. She had done this all to herself.
     "Look at me, Iyala," he whispered, his voice still unchanged after all these years. She
flinched again, but shook her head, her last act of defiance. He clenched his gloved fingers
around her chin and brought her eyes up to meet his. He touched the memory again, the face of
his son before he had put the purple mask on his face burning bright and fresh in her mind. The
tears streamed down her cheeks, and he relished the pain.
     Then he kissed her.
     Summoning all the power at his command, he dove into her mind, searching for it. Surely
it was not dead--if his lust for her had not died, surely her lust for him had not died, either. Now
that he had already done all he could to betray her, it was time to make her betray herself.
     She moaned when he found it, and called all of her remaining strength to her as she
struggled against him. But it was no use. He was too powerful.
     Carrying her to the bed, he found that what was left of her lust for him was not as strong
as his lust for her. She still struggled, still cried as if she were being forced. He used his Zabrak
mind control to finish the task, and she gave into him, even though her body struggled. He found
he didn't mind. He had been with too many complacent concubines over the last several years.
Let her struggle, he thought. It would just make this sweeter still.

********
     Khameir Sarin turned and walked out of the landing bay, feeling a little less whole but
confident that Iyala would keep her word to return to him. Maybe she was not Zabrak, but she
had been with him enough times for her body to be quite in tune with his own, and perhaps she
too would feel the terrible ache once there was a few days absence between them.
     He smiled to himself. He had been told many times by the various workers that had run
the shelters where he often ate and slept that when he hit maturity such a thing would happen to
him, but he had scoffed at it. There had been no room for such things in the future he envisioned
for himself. He would be too busy with his big plans for a mate, let alone a family. But even
though she did not know it yet, Iyala already carried his child, and he would be a father soon.
The thought filled him with a strange, alien joy. The mere fact that he had bonded with her so
quickly and completely was enough of a shock. This last part would have been enough to drive
him over the edge if he did not feel so confident in his love for her.
     He felt like a new man entirely, thanks to her. Being with her had even made the dreams
go away.
     He turned down a nearby street, his eyes roving over the old haunts where he had used to
hunch, waiting for the next thing to happen to him, watching the world dance past him, caught
up in other people's lives, wishing for one of his own. He even paused to purchase his own
dinner from a nearby vender, relishing the feel of money in his pocket, the freedom of being able
to say when and where he wanted to spend it. Even being alone in their room didn't bother him
much later on, as he lay on the empty bed. It was a roof over his head that wasn't cracked and
decayed, on a bed that didn't stink of the hundreds who had used it before him. He could spend
as long as he wanted in the warm waters of his bath, he could sleep as long as he wanted on the
cool sheets of the bed.
     Such simple things so many took for granted. He vowed to never lose appreciation for
them, no matter where his life took him. But such a vow was quickly forgotten after his first
week of his new life. He grew restless, waiting for Iyala to return, and found himself wandering
his old haunts, searching for a familiar face or two.
     "Khameir!" came an old, cracked voice from a hidden alley. He stopped and looked
down to find an old Zabrak sitting on the ground, hunched on top of an old paperboard box with
the faded markings of some old shipping company.
     "Frenor!" Khameir returned the greeting and even reached down to shake the man's hand.
Frenor's old red and yellow eyes widened.
     "You old devil!" he crackled. "Look at you! Changes your ways, have you? Find a bit of
good fortune?" Then he sniffed the air. "Or found a rich mate, did you?"
     Khameir chuckled. "All of the above," he replied.
     "Ah..." The old man coughed and hacked up something that he found fit to spit out onto
the street beside him. Khameir found himself wrinkling his nose in distaste, and quickly
banished his disgust. He had only been respectable for a week, he reminded himself. "You know,
that tattooed-faced man was looking for you."
     "Knar?" Khameir frowned. "What did he want with me?"
     Frenor shrugged. "What he always wants, I imagine. To sell you more of his little tricks."
     Khameir shifted his feet, feeling uncomfortable. "What did you tell him?" he asked.
     "What I always do. That I didn't know where you were." Frenor scowled up at him. "I
don't like him, Kham. Full of dark things, that one."
     Khameir nodded. "I know." He didn't dare say more. He hadn't even though about the
man with the blue and black tattooed face. He didn't want to, not right now. It made him think of
worse times, desperate times, when Khameir did anything he had to in order to survive, to keep
his place on top of the streets rather that under them, in a cold, unmarked tomb.
     For the first time, he was rather glad that Iyala had left him. He had to deal with Knar,
and soon. If Knar was looking for him, he would find him eventually, and he didn't want Iyala
around when he did.
     "Well," Khameir said, "thanks for letting me know. Take care of yourself, old man."
     The old man crackled something Khameir didn't catch as he hastily moved on down the
street.

     When he returned to his room, he found that someone had gotten there before him. He
sensed the familiar presence the second he reached his door, and almost didn't go in. But where
else could he go? Back to the streets? Better to face this now than to have Knar chasing him all
over the galaxy.
     Which he might do, if Khameir's feelings about him were correct. Steeling himself, he
clenched the knob and pushed the door open.
     The man sat in the empty chair where Iyala had been when Khameir had returned to her,
bearing gifts. However, even Iyala's anger had not made the room so dark as Knar's presence.
     "Welcome home, Khameir," the man purred.
     Khameir turned on the light. Somehow, it made the mosaiced face less frightening--at
least, that was what he told himself. The harsh bulb illuminated the twisting marks of blue and
black, but it did not take from his presence. It seemed that the shadow pulled itself tighter
around Knar, keeping him safe in its embrace, his dark presence intact.
     "What do you want, Darth Knar?" Khameir growled.
     The sith lord shrugged. "What I have always wanted, young one. But until you agree, I
must be content with this arrangement."
     Khameir shut the door behind him, struggling for a grip on his mind. There was
something so beautiful and intriguing about Knar, about his presence, about the way the dark
side wrapped itself around him like a lover's arms. It reminded him of how he'd felt three years
ago, when the first dark man had come to visit him, the one from Naboo, and cajoled him into
setting up a trap for those bullies that had been trying to kill him and the few street rats like him
that he was protecting. The result had been not only the death of the bullies, but of the Jedi
Knights that had been stationed nearby when they had tried to interfere and save the bullies
lives. Seven of them perished. He remembered feeling their deaths through the Force, relishing
the sense of power it had given him. They had sought to side with his enemies, and they had
fallen. But fear had taken hold of him, fear of the grip of the dark side, and he had run.
     Not too long after that, Knar had come to him, and the temptations had begun in earnest.
Knar was not the dark man from Naboo, but he was a sith lord, and his offer had been
considerable. It was considerable even now, as he stood in Khameir's room, the dark power
radiating from him.
     "I cannot kill a man with my own hands," Khameir said, but his voice lacked conviction.
     Knar shrugged. "If you cannot, you cannot. I will not force your hand. I am not like the
first man who came to you, Khameir. I will not take your control from you. I seek to serve you,
not to be your master. I seek to make you a king, not a slave." He stepped closer, extending his
hand. "And as always, I offer you another gift."
     Khameir looked down at the outstretched palm, and saw a glittering object there. He
blinked twice and then saw that it was a ring--a magnificent ring, made of deep red stones set in
bright yellow gold. The tone of the stones matched the deep richness of Iyala's hair.
     It was perfect.
     "How did you know?" Khameir whispered.
     "I know many things, Khameir." Knar's eyes bore into his, but they were still gentle,
seductive. "You belong with us. You were chosen for us, so even if you refuse your honor, you
are still a part of us. We know all things that pertain to you. When you love this woman, we
know it. When you leave with her, you will take us with you, even if we remain here. You still
do not see your destiny, Khameir, even though you desire it. You still are afraid of us, even
though the darkness has always embraced you."
     Khameir shook his head, but it was a futile denial. The way Knar made him feel when he
spoke to him in this way...what made him resist it? He did not understand. It seemed to be the
easiest thing in the universe to simply accept these words and act upon them. What Knar offered
him was incomparable to anything this world was capable of giving him. Yet he still refused,
again and again.
     Knar sighed. "Perhaps it is the woman," he suggested, knowing Khameir's thoughts.
     Khameir glared at him. "If you dare to touch her--"
     Knar waved his hand. "We would never dare to do such a thing," he whispered, his smile
never wavering. "She is your consort, and we respect that. But that will not interfere with your
destiny with us, Khameir. You can sire the Destroyer---"
     "NO!" Khameir stepped back, remembering. That was it. That was what stopped him.
The thought of the Destroyer--the thought of losing all that he had when he fulfilled his purpose
with these sith lords by siring their long-awaited chaos lord, the great Destroyer--that was what
stopped him, kept him from accepting their offer. The power and the control were everything he
could desire, but he would not be used as a pawn in some universal, cosmic game being played
between some God and His enemy. He was his own master. He would always be his own master.
"Get out," he growled. "My answer remains unchanged."
     Knar sighed. "Very well, Khameir. But if you should ever need us, we will be here to
serve you. You do not have to call us. We will know." He nodded his head and gave a small bow
before leaving Khameir alone in his new room.
     Khameir didn't know whether to be more angry at Knar for upsetting him yet again, or at
himself for refusing Knar once again. But as he glanced at the nearby table, he realized that Knar
had left the ring behind.
     He picked it up. It was, after all, just a ring. Who cared where it came from? And Iyala
would love it. That thought was enough to make him clench it tightly.
     He could hardly wait for her return.

*********
     Everything had just been a matter of time.
     Maul paced the chamber, agitated at himself for getting into this situation. He should not
have been so arrogant as to have been so physically intimate with her. Even now, he could feel
his resolve weakening. But it was just sex, he told himself. Sex was nothing. A pure, physical
function meant to assuage some of the baser needs of his body. As much as it irritated him to
find himself in need of it, it was still just a function, like bathing or dressing, or eating.
     He glanced toward the bedroom, detecting her faint groans as consciousness finally
returned to her. She'd passed out somewhere in between--he didn't remember when. He hadn't
felt the need to awaken her. He needed time to think, and that time was getting shorter. It
wouldn't take her long to assess the damage, pull herself up and strike again.
     Not that it would matter much. Perhaps he should give her that bit of dignity. Maybe he
should even offer her a choice. Serve him, or die. She could never be trained as a sith, but that
wasn't even in question because she simply wasn't strong enough. She was what he had, many
years ago, affectionately referred to as a tweak. She was not even strong enough for Master
Sidious to want her destroyed. No, he wanted her destroyed because she was the last shred of
light in Maul's dark soul.
     He continued to pace. There would be no turning back once he struck her down. He had
already hesitated so much. Why bother with any more? Or perhaps more hesitation did not
matter, because he had waited so long. He scowled, confused and angry at himself.
     Rage was Master Sidious' weapon. He didn't even carry a lightsaber, his power of the
Force was so strong. But Maul knew a different weapon. He had embraced it the day he had
joined the sith cult and assumed his red and black mask.
     That weapon was fear.
     The problem was...she was not afraid.

     Iyala opened her eyes. She had been conscious for a little while now, but the pain had
been hazy and distant. Now, it jarred her, as if some outside force had suddenly jerked her body.
     She lifted her hand and brought it to her face. It felt sticky and wet--blood. Thick and red
against her dark skin. She already had many marks on her body from her years with Khameir.
That was what a woman accepted when she mated with a Zabrak. But these were heavier marks,
and there were more of them.
     Sitting up, she ignored the rest of the pain as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
He was out there, waiting for her. She grimaced. *I hope you're satisfied,* she growled to no one
in particular. She didn't dare send her thoughts to him, not in his current state. The last time she
had regretted it. All the black rage and dark forces that swirled through him were things she
couldn't even picture in her worst nightmares. She would be just as happy living the rest of her
life without seeing it again.
     The question was--how long would that be?
     She glanced at her clothes, noticed that they were ripped to shreds. She sighed. That was
Khameir, dark side or not. Calmly, she stood up and went to the nearby trunk, still ignoring the
pain. It meant so little now. She accepted it, as she had accepted everything else as inevitable.
She had sinned, and she had to accept the punishment. It was the only way to fight it.
     Zeren had taught her that.
     She sighed and shut her eyes, the memory of him suddenly familiar and comforting. She
had not thought of him in a while. Perhaps that meant something.
*******

     The heavy lavender and citrus scents of her parents' home was not enough to banish the
nagging worries at the back of her mind. Iyala found herself even ignoring the splendid beauty of
the pyramid-like homes, carved of heavy grey marble and laced with the thick silver ore that was
so abundant here. It had been a little while since she'd set foot here, but her mind wasn't with the
sentimentality.
     She felt like she was going to vomit. Rushing to some nearby bushes, she let loose her
lunch of ration bars and that Zabrak cheese she should have known better than to eat. She would
have been inclined to dismiss the sudden illness on it, but there was an odd feeling at the base of
her stomach as she finished her last retch.
     "A wonderful way to greet your homeland," came a familiar voice from behind her. She
turned to see a familiar, black-clad figure making its way toward her.
     She smiled in spite of herself. "Good to see you, Zeren," she said, her voice slightly
shaking. She had the sudden urge to run to him and hold him, but stopped it. She shouldn't do
such things to Zeren...it only encouraged him.
     He smiled, his handsome face tinted with concern. He was one of the few Jedi who wore
black, as most took to the traditional uniform of the white linen underclothes and heavy brown
cloak. But Zeren was a Jedi of a particular Durranian order, and they wore long black robes with
no overcloak, robes that fell to his ankles and then parted to reveal black leggings underneath.
They were desert clothes, designed to catch the breezes and yet be mobile. The upper part of the
robe crossed over his chest, revealing a small portion of his dark-skinned chest. She had been
forced to wonder on occasion if his choice in order had not been motivated by fashion, as the
dark colors brought out the blackness of his shoulder-length hair and goatee, the whiteness of his
teeth.
     But no, such things were beneath Zeren.
     "How did you know I would be here?" she asked, pulling a cloth from her pocket and
putting it over her mouth.
     His smile widened. "The same way I always know, Iyala."
     She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, forgive me for forgetting about the great and powerful
Force." She snorted. "It's overrated, trust me."
     He moved closer to her, but she hastily stepped away. He frowned. "Something has
happened, hasn't it?" he asked, his voice knowing. Her cheeks burned and she glared at him.
     "None of your business," she hissed as she turned on her heel and stormed away from
him. She *hated* the way he always knew! Who was he to judge her, anyway? Just because she
had refused him didn't give him the right to stand over her shoulder for the rest of her life and
see into her most private secrets!
     He grabbed her from behind, jerking her around so hard she almost threw up again. The
cloth fell away and she was disgusted by the smell of her own breath, but it didn't seem to phase
Zeren as he looked down into her face. His fingers flew to her jaw, and ran along the heavy cut
that she had concealed under a layer of facial paint.
     "This is different, Iyala," Zeren said, his voice suddenly distant and haunted. "What have
you done this time?"
     "NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!" she shouted again, yanking hard to get away from him,
and it would have worked under normal circumstances, but Zeren's face was now clouded in
shadows and his eyes had taken on a nearly unearthly glow.
     "A Zabrak," he said, and her face was burning so badly she was surprised it didn't set
itself on fire. Tears threatened her as she continued to resist his grip, yanking and yanking even
though it made her even more nauseous. "You've bonded with a Zabrak." His eyes clearned and
he looked at her in alarm. "Iyala, this is dangerous. I've been having visions---"
     "Stuff your visions!" she howled, and stomped her foot down onto his. Abruptly, he let
her go, but quickly siezed her again, this time his grip so hard it made her shriek in pain.
     "LISTEN TO ME!" he shouted into her face, but his expression was serenely calm. "This
Zabrak...did he have his horns already? Because if you mated with him during his maturity,
Iyala...you have bonded with him for life."
     "Oh, suddenly you're an expert on Zabrak hormones!" she sobbed, her voice angry.
     "Stop being so flippant!" he shook her, and the world swam around her for a moment as
she lost her will to struggle. "This isn't someone you can casually cast away, like one of your
many other pets," he continued, his voice agitated. "I told you, Iyala, I've been having visions
about you. If you don't leave this man now, it will be your ruin." With that, he let her go. She
nearly fell back, stunned by his abruptness, then stunned by his audacity, then horrified at his
accuracy. Was she so transparent? Or was Zeren that powerful?
     She could only stand here, quaking in rage, her fists balled so tightly that her nails cut
into her palms. "I'm sorry I ever came here," she whispered, her pride stinging as she realized her
parents had come out of the house and had heard much of the exchange. Even with her limited
sensitivity, she could feel what they were thinking.
     "Let me finish before you run away again," Zeren said, his voice still calm. He pinned her
in place with his eyes, and said, "the Cult of the Destroyer comes from the world of Iridonia.
They have been seeking a new leader, as their old one was executed for the murder of several
female Jedi. In this vision, Iyala, I see you being murdered as one of their victims."
     "Trust me, this guy doesn't have the tattoo," she said, but shuddered slightly,
remembering watching the execution on the holonet, the man's black and red face a terrifying
sight to behold in spite of its helpless and distant state.
     Zeren shook his head. "Visions are symbolic, Iyala. This Zabrak you have met could be
whom they have chosen as their next leader."
     There was a long silence. "And what would that mean to me?" she asked, but the words
were not mocking, merely questioning.
     Zeren shrugged. "He is your mate...what do you think it would mean? Perhaps they would
seek to make you the mother of their Destroyer. Does it matter what the details are? It's
dangerous either way."
     "So what do you want me to do?" she asked, her voice suddenly small as she stepped
closer to him. "I promised him I would return. If I don't go back, things could go worse...."
     He shook his head. "Always choose the lesser of two evils, Iyala. I am begging you...do
not return to him. Whatever protection you need---"
     Iyala stomped her foot. "No," she said firmly. "You are so quick to assume that if I go
back, terrible things will happen. Perhaps these bad things will happen if I do *not* return, have
you considered that? If I break my promise to him? What happens then?" She scowled, feeling
the sting of her pride. "I will go back. I promised I would and I will. That is it."

***********
     "What are you doing?"
     Iyala turned to see him standing in the doorway, the bright red of his tattooed visage
standing out in the shadows. She turned away, pulling the familiar green linen tunic over her
head.
     "Dressing," she replied evenly. She could detect his discomfort with her choice of
clothing. She stood up, letting it give her the bravery to meet his eyes. "You gave these things to
me," she said in a low voice. "Why should it bother you that I wear them?"
     He stepped back, and immediately regretted it. The memories were sharp and bitter, and
he took in his breath. "The man who gave you those things is dead," he growled.
     She sighed. "Yes, I guess he is. So why are *you* flinching?"
     He glared at her, silent. She pressed the advantage.
     "Perhaps," she said, stepping toward him, "before you finish whatever task you've set
yourself to here, you could answer a question for me."
     He continued his glare, saying nothing.
     "Maybe you could tell me what happened?"
**********

     It had started out slowly. Providing for a wife and a child was not easy. Khameir had
tried to get Iyala to sell her ship, and Iyala had objected vehemently. She would not be pinned
down to one planet. So they took the other option--they got into the ship and traveled.
     At first, it was not so bad. The first few years of their life together were a new
experience, and they resigned themselves to adjust. After a long absence from her home, Iyala
returned to Durran to present her husband and son to her parents, who accepted both with open
arms if not with an open heart. They were not so keen on Khameir, judging him from his harsh
appearance--his red and yellow eyes, and of course his nine horns. They stayed with them for a
few years, but things did not go well. The boy was five and already strong in the Force.
     The worst of it was Zeren. Khameir disliked him instantly. He did not like the way the
Jedi looked at his wife, he did not like the way his wife looked at the Jedi. But worse than that
was Zeren's comment about how their son, named Khameir for his father, should be taken to
Coruscant for training, because his Force powers were too strong to be ignored.
     Khameir flatly refused. There was no way his son was going to be stolen from him by
those Jedi. Iyala agreed with him, but they both knew that raising the child on their own with no
training themselves would stunt young Khameir's potential, and it stung their pride. Why should
their son be ruined because they wished to keep him, because they wished to be normal parents?
     The thoughts began to fill Khameir with a black rage.
     When young Khameir was five, Zeren tried one last time to convince his parents to let
the boy be taken for training. But instead of agreeing, Khameir demanded that he be trained as
Jedi so that he could train his son.
     The demand was outrageous and the council rejected it immediately. In complete
humiliation, they left Coruscant and Khameir vowed he would not only never return there, but
he would not go back to Durran either, so that he would not have to face that arrogant Jedi Zeren
and have him hound him about his son.
     Iyala began to get quiet. Soon, Khameir found himself avoiding her, even though they
were the only person the other had. They stopped talking...they stopped making love. By the time
their seven-year mark came, Khameir knew that Iyala was going to try and leave him.
     He turned to the cult. He was desperate. Unwilling to repent of his arrogance and give his
son the training he needed, he asked the sith lords to train him,  who had already softened him
with their gifts. They agreed with whole hearts, knowing it was only a matter of time. They
poured upon him adoration, seduced him with their twisted versions of the truth about the sith
and their history. They had Khameir's attention, now they lured his mind and heart in after his
body with their sweet words and promises. By the time Khameir found himself accepting their
offer to train him, he found himself picturing his own face with the red and black mask.
Suddenly, its terror was not so repugnant.
     Iyala learned of his doings with the cult, even as he tried to keep them secret. Even
though they had become estranged in bodies, their minds were still locked together, bound for all
their lifetimes. He could not expect to have kept it from her for long, but her reaction was
considerably disfavorable of the sith lords.
     "Sith lords?" she screamed at him in rage on the small bridge of their ship. They been
docked on Iridonia for a few days and she was already anxious to leave. She spent much of her
time in the ship, prepping it. And she kept young Khameir with her, always at her side, even
putting a simple leash around her waist and his to keep him close to her no matter where she
went. His Force abilities had given him the gift of levitating things, and she lived in fear that one
day he would start to fly and never come back.
     Khameir waved his hand at her briefly, a sure sign for her to fall silent. But even though
she was used to showing him throat, the aggrivation of her life was finally too much for her and
she kicked back, not even giving him a moment of silence.
     "No. Absolutely no. You go train with sith lords and I am out of here. And Khameir is
going with me. I promise you, I will take him!" She crossed her arms over her chest, and for the
first time in several months Khameir found  her attractive. Her defiance was arousing, so long
had it lain dormant. Perhaps he would keep her around, just to keep him interested.
     "You are not going anywhere," he said calmly, reaching out a hand to caress her cheek.
She paled at the guesture, knowing it was not meant in the way it might have been interpreted by
any passer-by. Khameir always played himself down, knowing exactly what his strengths and
weaknesses were. Trained or not, he knew the Force and used it for his own advantage. His
mock-calm was as much a cloak as the one he'd taken to wearing around their ship---or
anywhere else, for that matter. "You are my mate and you will stay here with me."
     "Wanna bet?" she hissed, and then turned around. If he wanted to play rough, he was
going to have to slug her until she was unconscious. Whether he was dangerous or not, she had a
weapon, a back-up that he didn't know about. She would be damned if she'd let him have his way
without a fight.
     Besides, getting black and blue from an encounter with him did not frighten her so much
right now. Maybe it was her Jedi calm. Maybe she had grown, being around him. Or maybe she
just truly believed in herself. Whatever the case, the fear refused to ignite even as Khameir
siezed her from behind and yanked her around viciously, pulling her face close to his.
     "I never gamble," he purred, and kissed her. Her stomach turned...always that mock
sensuality, that taunting lovingness that meant less and less to him each day. He had become
loveless and cold..she didn't know for how long, or even how or why it happened. She'd heard
stories about women marrying men who turned out to be completely different people after some
time under the bond of marriage, but she wasn't even legally bound to Khameir! He had never
permitted a formal ceremony. He claimed that their sexual union was all his species needed. He
wouldn't even set foot in the First Temple.
     She slugged him in the stomach, and was satisfied to hear him groan. She wasn't going to
take his bantha dung anymore.
     For a moment, she just stood there, her entire body feeling warm and numb. Maybe it
was a fear reaction that wasn't reaching her brain, so locked it was in her anger. Maybe it was the
dark side holding her there, her desire to punish herself for her mistakes. But still, she stood, her
feet carbon-froze to the deck, waiting for him to retaliate.
     He looked up at her and smiled. His red and yellow eyes glittered with a kind of
madness, and he straightened himself up to his full height. All these years, and he had never
seemed so massive, so terrifying. But still, she stood her ground, her finger clenching around a
metal object tucked up under her jacket, a weapon Zeren had given her. The only material in the
galaxy that was so strong it could even resist a lightsaber.
     It was her cortis ore wand.
     The handle was longer than the blade, but the blade appeared to be sheer and glassy,
made of cortis ore that had been heated into its crystal form, which was harder than almost any
substance in the galaxy. In its black form, it would have crumbled in her hand from the mere
pressure, even as it still repelled a lightsaber. But in its crystal form, she could have cut through
the diamond windows of Alderaan's grand palace with half her physical strength.
     He pulled her closer, his eyes calmly slightly, as if he were checking his rage. It was even
more frightening than their mad glow, but she still held her ground, waiting. "Iyala," he
whispered, "you cannot fight against me and win. In the end, I will do as I please."
     "I know," she whispered back. And she pulled the blade from its hiding place and stepped
away.
     Khameir looked mildly startled, but his grin did not ease. Instead, he turned his gaze
toward something behind her, and Iyala spun around in time to dodge one of the heavy metal
pots from their kitchen supplies. She slashed it angrily with the blade and it split in two cleanly.
     "Enough!" came a sickeningly familiar voice from behind him, and he turned to see
Zeren standing in the doorway to their ship, his green lightsaber ignited. Khameir was only
mildly annoyed that he had not sensed the Jedi's presence, but knew that his powers were not
strong enough for him to focus them into two areas at once.
     Then, he glanced back at Iyala, the full betrayal of Zeren's presence sinking into him like
a mynock's fangs. A low growl came from his throat, and his rage soared out of him like a black
living thing, pushing her away and pinning her to the wall. She squealed with astonishment, her
eyes now wide with terror, but Zeren nimbly stepped around him and got in his path, and Iyala
slumped away from the wall, rubbing her stinging muscles.
     "Fine," Khameir hissed, stepping away from them. The rage was still heavy around him,
thick and smothering like smoke. He turned toward the ramp, the urge to leave them both
overcoming him. He would leave and never look back. *If Iyala wants Zeren, she can have him,*
the voices whispered. *You have us.*
     He had them. He had the cult.
     They worshipped him. They adored him as their chosen one. So what if his purpose was
to produce for them their own destruction? Better to rule over the sith in glory than to serve here
with the Jedi in humiliation and shame. He would still be better than these. As he glanced back
at them, they hardly seemed worth his emotions anymore. Just a heavy hatred blanketed them,
making them gray and obscure in the Force.
     He found he no longer cared.
     Then, he found himself stuck. His feet refused to move, his eyes would not look away
from the site of Iyala trying to pull herself together, Zeren staring at him with a deep suspicion,
as if he expected Khameir to hurl a bolt of Force lightening at him. Iyala stepped forward, a look
of desperation on her face.
     Of course she felt it. Her heart was still joined to his. He scoffed at the bond, sought
around it for a way to detach it, but she sunk her mental claws in and held fast, refusing to be
cast away.
     "Khameir," she breathed, her eyes pleading. "Do not do this! What about your son? What
about our life together?"
     The truth, he knew, was more painful than any scathing remark he could make. "You do
not desire your life with me any more. Your heart seeks to be with another. So do not claim to
love me, Iyala. It is a lie."
     She shook her head fiercely. Perhaps it was he who was lying to her after all. But then
why did the words feel like such truth even though her bond with him so clearly denied it? Only
one could be correct! He scowled at her, but she did not draw back.
     "I love you, Khameir. For better or worse, I do. I have chosen to love you, and I always
will. So I will give you this chance. You can walk away from them, you know you can. I will do
everything in my power, and I will make Zeren help us to train the boy without taking him from
us. You can have all you ever wanted, Khameir. You can have it all back, it isn't too late!"
     He stared at her, mute. Long minutes passed as his mind turned over her words. Perhaps
he would be willing to wipe the slate clean...if there were no consequences. But there would be,
they voices told him. *It is inevitable that you will pay. Leave now while you can still be free!*
And what did he care of the boy, anyway? He did not need his son...his true son would be the
Destroyer, who would bring him power over the essence of the Force itself! What did he need of
their meager Jedi training when his hatred was capable of giving him so much more strength? He
even found himself scoffing at the lusty ideas he always carried with him of Iyala. What was she,
anyway? Just another female.
     He smiled at her, his teeth looking more rotten than they had ever been. "It may not be
too late," he mocked, "but I'd rather wait until it is."
     With that, he turned and walked away.

*********
     How had it happened? He could not really remember. The memories were vague...they
jumped from place to place, missing entire years of growth and change. But growth and change
happened without being seen.
     The cult had been true to their word. They had trained him as they had agreed, and for
seven years he was content to be with them.
     But it was not enough.
     Being their leader was not what he had thought it would be. The more they impressed
their religious beliefs upon him, the more he sought to rebel. And the women---the female Jedi
that he had to slaughter because they refused to bear the Destroyer in their wombs---Khameir
realized that their cause was hopeless. What woman in her right mind would agree to such a
thing? And why would they want to? What good was a Destroyer? All it would do would...
destroy things. Khameir did not seek to destroy, he sought to control, to dominate, to gain the
power of the Force. His hunger for more knowledge of the dark side had led him deep into the
history of the Sith, which the Cult of the Destroyer only used for their limited purpose. He
wanted more, he longed for it. The Sith had been so glorious in their power and dominance, and
the Jedi had wiped them out. The Sith needed to be revived, they needed to be avenged. He grew
restless in his limited capacity as a cult leader, and the cult knew it.
     By then, he was no longer Khameir. They had given him a new name, and a bright tattoo
to cover his face and remake him into their own image. They called him Maul. Why they chose
that name he didn't know or understand, but he accepted it, as he accepted the mask, relishing
the fear it inspired. But the fact that he had accepted it with such complacency annoyed him.
True, the cult had given him much--much more than the galaxy, and certainly Iyala, had ever
given him.
     He glared at her from across the room. He didn't know where she'd gotten this new
strength from. She'd been so broken and weak before...the fact that their bodies had had such
intimate contact occurred to him as a possible source, but their recent sexual union had not been
anything holy or loving.
     As he stared at her, dressed in those old clothes that were still almost perfectly preserved,
he realized that his rape of her had indeed given her something. It had given her humility. She
was drawing on it, accepting that she had nothing left, nothing to lose, and it was giving her this
strange new ability to make him speechless.
     Not that he'd been much of a talker, anyway.
     He smiled at her, trying to get his upper hand back again. He still did not speak, not
really knowing any words to say and unwilling to stumble over poor, flimsy ones.
     She sighed, as if she didn't care. "Yeah, that's what you said the last time I saw you," she
said with a flippant gesture. "Stars, Khameir...I think you've become this whole dark and scary
image you've got going."
     His reply was to turn and walk away from her, into the next room. Slow, confident,
willing her to follow him. He reached his lightsaber where he had discarded it onto the floor, and
used the Force to lift it back into his hand. Then he turned to see her in the doorway, her shadow
seeming so small, even smaller as he ignited one of the blades.
     "That's new," she commented. "One blade isn't good enough for you, is it? It has to be
two."
     "It is a Sith weapon," he whispered.
     She shook her head. "Whatever. Just do what you came to do and get it over with."
     With that, she plopped down onto a nearby chair and waited.
     He approached her, his confusion nearly tangible as it tried to get the best of him. He had
never understood her before, never really been able to follow her sudden shifts in mood. When
he had left her, she had been screaming at him that she was going to leave him, and then had
turned around a full one hundred and eighty degrees and begged him not to leave. Now, she had
spat on him and fought him when he'd arrived, and now...nothing.
     She was just waiting.
     She glanced up at him. "What?" she asked, her voice flat. "Can't you do it?"
     He glared down at her, his anger at himself nearly overwhelming. Her face softened in
the harsh red glow.
     "Khameir?"
     "DO NOT CALL ME THAT!" he roared into her face, his usually low, rumbling baritone
turning into a raging storm that could hardly be called sound more than pure force.
     She flinched. "I cannot call you anything else," she said, tears of shock in her voice.
     "Before you die, woman, I swear it...you will call me Lord Maul."
     Her eyes opened and she visibly relaxed. "Then I will not die."
*********

     The seven years passed and Iyala had raised her son Khameir on Durran, surrounded by
her family and protected by Zeren, who trained the young Khameir personally. The Council
balked at the fact that boy was not being isolated from his family, as most Jedi lived a hermited
life, with few if any loved ones. But Iyala could not stand to lose him, not after losing his father
to the dark side. Zeren even offered to marry her, to give the boy a name and a family, and
justify her staying with him throughout his training, but Iyala refused. In her mind, she was
Khameir the elder's wife, and always would be.
     On the boy's twelfth birthday, his father came to claim him.
     It had happened at night, when everyone was asleep. Only Iyala was aware of the
disturbance in the Force, for the intruders hid themselves well, even from Zeren, who did not
reach the scene until it was too late.
     She had awakened from a terrible dream--a man who looked like Khameir, only without
his horns, but instead bearing a thick crown of dark hair, and with great wings coming out of his
back, was fighting a man whose face was a mask of red and black markings, either paint or a
tattoo or something else, she didn't know. The mask moved as they fought, the red and black
shapes twisting and turning, contorting the features but not mangling them beyond
recognizability.
     The man in the mask was also Khameir. And his horns were bright and wet with blood,
and he bore a lightsaber in his hands with two blades, one at each end. And the Khameri with the
wings fought him back with the cortis ore wand. And they fought and fought until they ripped a
hole into time and space themselves, causing the Force itself to scream in pain.
     When the dream crumbled underneath the reality of night, Iyala became aware of
Khameir's presence. The bond between them was not dead enough to hide him. But as she ran
toward her son's bedroom, a horror dawned upon her that Khameir was not alone and he had
succeeded in whatever task he had come to accomplish. When she reached the boy's room, the
bed was empty, and there was only a dark figure by the window.
     "Stop!" she called out, and the figure stopped and turned its head. The moonlight from
the window spilled across his face, and it seemed to shine, as if coated with some thick paint--
     She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound would come out. It was Khameir's face,
hidden underneath the mask, just like in the dream. He had become one of them, become a part
of the cult. His yellow and red eyes blazed out at her, his face set like stone in its ferocity. And
then he turned and vanished.
     "Khameir?" she whispered, and then glanced down at the bed again. He had stolen him,
stolen his son...her son...her only son, her only family, her only reason for living.
     The despair overwhelmed her and she threw herself onto the sheets and wept.

**********
     "Tell me," she said, her voice almost husky in the silence, "what happened to my son?"
     "He became part of the cult," Maul stated. "They gave him the mask of purple and
trained him in their ways. When I left, they gave him leadership by default because he was my
blood." Maul grinned. "They think they can control him because he is young, but any of my
blood will not be controlled for long."
     Iyala frowned. "You left the cult?" she whispered.
     He nodded. "I am a Sith Warrior now, and my master has sent me here. I must earn my
title of Darth. The Cult wished to merely give it to me, but my master claims that it cannot be so.
I must fulfill my destiny."
     "And you have to kill me?" She almost laughed. "What makes me so important,
Khameir? You've been living quite happily without me for the last several years. Why come back
and kill me? Isn't that like beating a dead tauntaun?"
     He scowled down at her. The way she was still able to vocalize the things that troubled
him stung. Was he so transparent, in spite of all his training? Or was his master right in the
strength of their bond? Sure this was why she had to be destroyed. Once she was gone, there
would be nothing between him and the dark powers that called to him.
**********

     "Your training is not complete," Darth Sidious said, his voice low and rumbling in spite
of its quiet tones.
     Maul continued to kneel before his master, his head uncovered and revealing his bright,
sharp horns. There was a draft in the room and he shivered as it drifted over his hairless scalp.
"What must I do, Master?"
     "There is a presence of light inside of you," Sidious stated, his mind raking over his
apprentice.
     Maul shook his head. "I know of no such thoughts, Master," he insisted.
     Sidious smiled softly. "Iyala," he said.
     Instantly, Maul felt as if his insides had just been yanked out of him.
     "Yes," Sidious continued, his smile widening. "She is a powerful presence in your
memories. You bonded with her young, gave her a son."
     "A son I stole and gave to the very people she loathed," Maul said, his teeth gritted hard
but the pain unnoticeable underneath his growing rage.
     "Yes, you have betrayed her. But still, she lingers in your mind, a regret you desire to
return to."
     "Never, Master," Maul said.
     Sidious shook his head. "As long as she exists, she will remain a source of hope for you.
You will be stunted in your control of the dark side unless you allow it to have complete control
of you. She marrs the darkness of your soul. She prevents it merely by her life."
     Maul gritted his teeth. "I wish to control the dark side, Master. Not have it control me."
     His master grunted. "There is no difference in control, my apprentice. What we control
ultimate controls us. You must choose--will it be the dark side and its power and the glory of the
sith, or will it be this woman whom you still think of as your wife?"
     Maul lifted his head, his eyes wide and bright. "What must I do?" he said, his voice
slightly hoarse.
     "You must either turn her, or kill her."
     Maul shook his head. "She will not turn, Master. And there can be only two."
     "Then you must kill her."

*********
     He weighed his earlier thoughts in his mind as he gazed down at her. He had considered
earlier making her his slave--having his cake and eating it too. But his master was right. She had
to be destroyed. He could feel the strength of his dark resolve shaking around him even as he
gazed down at her, as he remembered feeling love for her, as he remembered how she made him
feel when she turned those bright green eyes of hers upon him.
     Perhaps in another time and another place he could have turned her, could have trained
her in the dark side, made her stronger and made her his own. But this was not the path. This
was their destiny in this life. Whatever happened next was inevitable.
     Quite suddenly, she stood up, those eyes turning to the green fire that he had thought long
since dead. "NO," she said, her voice strong. "I won't let you do it."
     His entire body went slack for a split second, amazed that even after all this, she still
defied him. He reached for her with his mind, but she bit back. He detected her confusion, her
grief, but most strongly he felt her love.
     It was amazing, that it had not died after all these years. She was not fighting for her own
life--she was fighting for his soul. She would not let him take her life and make himself pure for
the dark side. She refused to let him slide into the dark oblivion that the stronger side of the
Force promised him.
     Yet she had no idea how to accomplish the enormous task that lay before her. If she
fought him, she ran the risk of making his conviction stronger and his desire to kill her more
fervent. But if she just sat there and did nothing, she let the dark side win.
     She had declared war with no army to back her up.
     She stumbled across the room, her thoughts flailing in every direction, grasping for
something--and then he saw the golden flicker of the cortis ore wand, still in her possession after
all this time. She ignited it and brought it before her, daring him to try her, knowing she would
lose but not seeing any other way.
     He grinned and stepped forward. Yes, he would give her this last dignity, letting her die a
martyr for a cause. Perhaps it was a mistake, but he was tired of this battle and wished it to be
over.
     It was then that Zeren showed his face.
     He appeared in a dark flurry of desert robes, the green fire of his lightsaber tearing
through the door as he fought his way inside. Maul immediately turned to him, bringing his
double-bladed lightsaber to bear, relishing the sudden feel of power that came to him. He called
on the dark side and it answered, latching onto his rage toward this Jedi who had come between
him and his family so many times.
     "Once again you are where you are least wanted, Khameir," Zeren said, his dark face
twisted with anger as he took in the sight of Iyala pinned in a corner, the cortis ore wand
stretched out before her.
     "My name is Maul," was all the dark warrior said before lunging at Zeren with an unholy
fury, double-ended lightsaber whirling with red fire. He tore into Zeren with a glee that was
frightful to behold.
     It was over in a few seconds. Zeren was no match for the dark side energy Maul was
using against him. He pinned Zeren against a heavy statue, knocking his saber from his hand and
using the Force to keep Zeren from calling it to him again. He heard Iyala scream his name, and
pressed hard into Zeren with the dark side to keep him from moving as he dared look over his
shoulder at her.
     "Maul!" he roared, the tip of his lightsaber at Zeren's throat, read to slice its way into
him.
     Iyala just stared at him, not understanding.
     "Say it!" he screamed, and Zeren groaned as the dark powers dug their invisible fingers
into him. "My name is Maul!"
     Iyala shook her head. "Don't do this," she whispered.
     "Say my name," Maul hissed, "or I will kill him, I swear it."
     Iyala considered, her face wide with panic. Her lips pressed together, her chest shaking as
the word forced itself to form.
     "Maul," she said, low, pleading. "Please...spare him."
     "No." And with that, he lunged backwards with the saber and sliced off Zeren's head.
     Iyala screamed, and for a second Maul reconsidered his belief that she was not strong in
the Force. The dark side stretched out to her with eager arms as her rage spilled forth and she
charged, cortis ore wand in front of her, lowered to kill.
     Maul brought his saber around and heard the sickening burning, sizzling sound as it met
flesh and passed through it.
     Iyala stared at him, her face falling in shock. She glanced down at Maul's black-gloved
fingers that clutched the hilt of the saber mere inches away from her chest. Then back at his
face, watching it fall as he realized what he had finally done.
     Finally.
     He deactivated the saber, and she swayed on her feet, slowly dropping to her knees, a
quiet dignity about her. Her eyes reached his and would not let go, forcing him to watch as her
life slipped from her body. She leaned to the side, her arms reaching out to slow her fall,
delicately laying herself onto the ground. Finally, she rolled onto her back, her eyes still locked
with his as her breath left her lungs.
     He knelt down beside her, compelled by a force he refused to acknowledge by name. He
dared not lean too close, afraid of whatever tenderness he might suddenly find for her in his
black heart.
     As her eyes closed, her lips floundered and finally formed a word. "Khameir," she
whispered.
     He shook his head. "Khameir is dead," he said, and her eyes closed to him. "As are you,
my love," he finished, and then rose.
     It was only at that moment that he truly knew the cold bitterness of what he had chosen.
But chosen it he had, and he would not turn back. As he gazed down at Iyala's dead body, he felt
nothing. Not even loss. Khameir Serin was dead. As was his compassion, his remorse, and all his
regrets. The dark side had him now, and it would not let go.
     Khameir Serin was dead. Now, there was only Darth Maul.

*********

     His hatred for the Jedi was unexplainable, but real, and deadly. He relished the feel of the
saber as it sliced through the old man's body, and then pulled away, not even looking back as his
opponent fell to his knees and rolled forward, his lightsaber crashing to the hard metal floor and
clanging away nosily.
     No, he turned his eyes to the young Jedi before him, the one still safe from him behind
the red tinted force-field. But the shield could not keep back the delicious rage that radiated
from the young man, his face snarling in hatred. Yes, this one was nothing like his master. This
one would be most satisfying indeed.
     It happened quickly, but Maul rolled into the movements, letting the boy wear himself
out, thinking it was only a matter of time before he realized that his rage was going to get the
better of him. Then Maul would strike, without compassion, without regret. This person thought
he was a willing opponent, but he was just prey, like the rest.
     Then the loss of half of his lightsaber threw him, and it was at that moment that Maul
realized he had been overconfident. He had to correct it quickly, giving the boy chase for a few
moments before recentering himself and letting the dark side do its work. It worked--he felt his
opponent's anger grow and their sabers crossed. The boy sneered down into his face, his blue
eyes like stars going nova. But Maul recoiled with a serpent-like grace, throwing him off balance
and then giving him a good Force-shove, his hand not even touching the light linen cloth of the
boy's robes. The boy flew backwards, and to his credit he did not shriek even as he fell over the
lip of the pit.
     Maul watched him disappear, but felt through the Force that this was not over yet. The
boy had caught onto something and was hanging on. He almost smiled, and approached the
deactivated saber, giving it a contemptuous kick over the rim of the pit. He reached the edge
himself in time to see the look on the boy's face as he watched his only hope fall past him.
     He taunted him for a few moments, wanting it to be slow, feeding off the rage...but there
was something even more satisfying than rage--fear. The boy's fear as he saw his death hovering
over him was enormous, and even sweeter as his grief over his fallen master folded over it,
magnifying it. Maul reached out through the Force, like a salt-covered hand going into a giant
open wound, wanting to savor it.
     But something happened. It stopped, cut off, sealed up, a power conduit suddenly shut off
from its source. Maul frowned down at the boy, momentarily confused. What did he think he
was going to do?
     Too late, he saw the green flash as the boy shot himself from the pit and landed behind
him. Within a heartbeat he had his master's saber in his hand, and Maul could only stare as he
watched the blade slice into him, cutting him in half.
     He swore he could see Iyala's face, staring at him from the air, in that moment. He
blinked, and it was gone.
     The pain was unthinkable. For a moment, his mind would not acknowledge it. His soul
slipped from his body, jarred by the sudden cutting of its strings, but he fought back, grasping at
his flesh even as it fell down into the pit, the two half flying away, his head scraping against
metal at bone-splintering speeds. He fought and fought for his life even as he hit the bottom,
cushioned only by the curve of the tunnel and the padding of debris that had fallen before him.
     So much blood...he shut his eyes, his fear reaching back for him, the oblivion of the dark
side closing in on him. This was what death was...this was what awaited him.
     He reached out for his Master, and his Master was suddenly aware. He saw the death that
came for his apprentice and recoiled, afraid. Pure madness and oblivion, a place that he could
only call Hell--so his people had been right. Even the Cult had been right, in a way. There was a
Destroyer. It sought his soul.
     He would not give it.
     He pulled himself deep into his mind, pulling away from his body. He had been taught
how to do this by the Cult a long time ago, to be used in situations like this one. Zabrak
physiology was rather unique in the universe. His brain was more open than many species, and
could be used as many different things. Their ability to keep their essences alive was rather
unique in the universe. He would not waste it now.
     As Maul's body died, his mind pulled itself around his brain and stored itself away. Away
from the oblivion of hell, away from the madness of his own fear and rage, and away from the
regret, away from Iyala's face as she died under his hand. He went into his own private hell, the
hell of himself, trapped with his own darkness and loss, his own dark side, made by his own
desires.
     They had done this to him. And there would be another time...he would have his revenge.

**********
     When Palpatine found him, he did not know exactly what to do with him. He had the
droids carefully wrap him and preserve him, even though there was little left. There was so
much blood it took them a long time to clean it up, but eventually it was done with no trace left.
Only that brat Jedi Knight, Obi-Wan Kenobi, would be able to attest to Maul's existence, and
Kenobi did not even know Maul's name.
     That was how Palpatine wanted it.
     He was badly shaken from the loss of his apprentice. But perhaps he had not lost him
entirely. After all, these Zabrak were quite sturdy. Besides, the dark side was never so easily
swayed. There would be another, he was sure of it. And even if there wasn't, time would allow
for him to rebuild with these remains.
     So he had him stored away, like a piece of data on a card, and he waited.
     Another time...another place. Somehow, in some way, this failed apprentice would see
this world again. The Force told him many things, and at this moment, this thing was clearest.
Maul would have his revenge.