Maul's Journal. File 1: Outcast.

Author: Andrea Evans

E-Mail: cardassifan@eudoramail.com

Rating: NC-17 for violence.

Characters: Darth Maul

Disclaimer: Yes, George, I fully acknowledge that Maul's yours not mine
(and godknows I'm not making any money out of him),
but if you treated him a bit better maybe we wouldn't be quite so driven
to fill in the blanks...

Archives: DMEB, Sith_Chicks, others please ask.

Summary: The second* of a series of short vignettes from various points in
Maul's life.

*Yes, the second.  The files start counting from 0, the Prologue.


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I close my eyes, and am repulsed by how easily everything I left behind
rises up to
claim me once more. In my mind's eye, I spiral back through time. Back to a
vast,
empty world of rock and sand on the farthest edges of the outer rim. A world so
benighted the inhabitants barely understood space travel.

Twenty-four Standard years ago this day, on a world its inhabitants called
*Irahdon*,
Sphere of Stone, I was born. My father's name was Mekar, which means Crag. My
earliest memories paint him as a looming brown hulk of a man, a crag
indeed, though I
well remember how crushed and broken he looked when I saw him last, lying at my
feet as I turned away from my homeworld to walk aboard Sidious' ship. Mekar was
powerful enough in the village to marry well: my mother was of line Sarin,
or Sword, a
bloodline famous for warlords and reputed sorcerers. Her name was Riyen, which
means Sun. She was named for her skin which was true white, as is not uncommon
among us. Pure white, deep jet black, beige and tan and brown: there are
many shades
of hide among my kind, *Azarbrak*, the People.

As was custom, my mother walked alone out of the village when she felt the
first
contractions, because it did not suit any woman's pride that others should
see or hear
her humbled by the pains of birth. When she had not returned by the
afternoon, my
father broke with tradition and walked into the wilderness after her,
tracking her down.

Azarbrak women are strong enough to give birth unaided: accidents of any
kind are
vanishingly rare. Mekar was probably expecting to have his ears chewed off
for his
impudent interruption. At least until he found her.

I sometimes wonder about the ghastly picture she would have made: the shocking
contrast of vivid scarlet lifeblood against her white skin. The thick trail
of it leading
upward over her body, to the wet black baby held protectively in still
arms; squirming
and trying to feed from the breast of a mother already dead.

I also wonder exactly why Mekar did not tear me apart on the spot. It would
only
have been justice: I had done as much to his wife. For I was a freak of
nature: I was
born with a man's full crown of horns.

I even asked him once, when I was a small child, and he was too drunk to
catch and
punish me. I could see that the question sobered him like a drench in
icewater. But he
made no move to approach me. His eyes were wide with something I first took for
alcoholic stupor, though soon I recognized it for fear. He growled, "She
was nursing
you. She wanted you to live. If she did not, she would have killed you
herself, or at
least left you to die." I held his stare. His eyes were so glazed that the
brown rings
were almost gone, swallowed by the green irises. A tangled mixture of
stupor, terror,
and awe made him gape at me, open and defenseless in a way I'd never seen
in him
before. In that moment I heard him whisper, "And you were _staring_ at me, with
those terrible eyes of yours. Just the way you're staring at me now. ...And
I - I
_dared_ not kill." And he shuddered as if the winterwraith trailed its
icicle fangs down
his back.

It was my turn to be stunned. For though I had heard his words as clearly
as if he had
stood with his mouth to my ear, I was watching his face intently the whole
time, and I
knew he had not spoken at all.

***

So it was that my father walked back to the village with a son in his arms,
but without
my mother. When his nine days of Silence had passed and he could be spoken to
again, they offered him what help they could: the grandams told him they
would take it
in turns to care for me, for the first few months, until I could walk and
talk and eat and
keep myself clean. But when they asked him what my name was, he would say only,
"_Look_ at him." ...So, as was natural, I was named Khameir, which means
Fire-Eyes.

Multicoloured eyes are usual among Azarbrak, but cool, soft colours always:
green
with blue or brown rings, blue ringed with violet or grey. Never had anyone
seen eyes
such as mine: either yellow or red were unknown, let alone both together.
As if I
needed anything else to set me apart: the sight of a manly rack of horns on
a boy's
head was enough to draw stares from the calmest onlooker.

Because line-names are passed from our mothers, I was also one of the Sarin, by
blood rather than by rite, unlike my father. ...But now, the name Khameir
Sarin is
erased from record and memory on Irahdon, and only I, and presumably Lord
Sidious, remember it. And even I have willingly left it behind.

The children of the village called me by other names, of course. *Amarisst*,
motherbutcher, was one I heard. But never more than once. It took two grown
men to
pull me off Laishu, the boy who called me that to my face, and the scars of
my claws
on his throat were livid reminders of my rage to all. Still, I was
merciful, and everyone
knew it. One well-placed headbutt would have popped his eyes like ripe
redberries.

I hear that boys often gravitate toward a dominant one, compete to become
part of his
gang, either through a desire to be like him, or to be safe from his anger.
I was never
approached in that way. Instead, the other boys gave me a wide berth, and
banded
together, like kitlings huddling for warmth. I was amused by this, knowing
that it was
motivated by fear. I didn't need them: I despised them for their pettiness,
for judging
me and rejecting me for something I had no control over, for an accident of
birth.

Perhaps it was the Sarin blood in me, perhaps it was purely my own desire,
but as far
back as I can remember, I was interested only in becoming a warrior: I
followed my
father on his hunts as soon as I could keep up with him. The weight and
kick of a gun
was as familiar to me as the toys and games of other children: the scent of
spilled blood
sweeter than the mother's milk I had never known. When I was five, I took a
blackwood longstave that I had carved and fire-hardened, into the hall of
warriors and
petitioned them for training. They laughed at me, at first: training was
reserved not for
boys but for those past puberty. But I persuaded them: fighting an arrogant
youth
twelve years my senior to a standstill. Thus, I took part in the weapons
training that I
thirsted for: but I always thought there was much in common between the
hunter's art
and the warrior's. Sometimes, I would watch the running and laughter of the
other
children at their pointless games, and all I could think of was a herd of
meatbeasts, or a
flock of emptyheaded, chattering birds. I hefted an invisible gun in my
hand, or a
sword. As clear as sight, the visions would fill my mind's eye: I _knew_
how easily
they would fall to my fire, to my blade. Easy prey, lacking even the
wariness of the
wild things. If I had had a weapon with me at those times, I think the
temptation of the
moment would have proved too great. It is as well for the village that my
father kept
his weapons locked away between hunts.

With every day I learned more of the arts I thirsted for: the sword, the
staff, the spear
and shuriken and gun. By the time I was seven I was competing with grown
men from
all over Irahdon in marksmanship, for of course I was far too young for
more physical
competition. And when I returned to the village with the cup from which I
had drunk
the winner's draught of *haska* blood, for once even the boys who had
shunned me
hailed me like a hero, cried my name aloud. Only Laishu remained silent,
swallowing
resentment with his scarred throat.

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