A/N: okay... my first Star Wars fic. Yes, The Mandalorian is my new obsession. Yes, I did watch The Clone Wars and Rebels (*sigh* Kanan) and now I'm slightly in love with all of it! Baby Yoda (obviously) renewed my love for the fandom, having watched the films a few times... and yes, now I know how much of a big deal it was to have Bo-Katan, Ahsoka and Thrawn in The Mandalorian, and yes, Darth Maul really did something to me!

Anyway... I hope whoever reads this enjoys it! I really did have to work hard not to include any Treknobabble!

"I can sense your fear." His voice was ice. She froze.

She knew he was there. That someone was there. The windows were tall, broad and the orange sun threatened to blind her. Shards of light fell, dispersed, could have consumed her.

Slowly, she turned around, her hands leaving the cold wall. Her breath was ragged, her heart was thumping in her chest. She could taste salt, bile. She stood, silently, stared at him. She knew him. She had seen him, had heard what he had done. And she knew what he was capable of, what he could do to her.

"I'm afraid?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper, her gaze fixed on his yellow, unblinking eyes. Her words were heavy, resonated, in her helmet. "You're the one who's cloaked, hiding in a corner." Nothing but an outline, menacing and enthroned, revealed itself to her. She knew that voice. She could see the turrets of horns upon his head.

"Zabraks do not hide." His words were smooth, almost soft. If he had been anyone else, if this had been any other situation, she might have called his voice tender. Then he stepped out of the shadows, metal bootprints heavy and quick on the concrete floor of the Grand Salon. He stalked then was still, considering.

"Then you can't be a very good one," she quipped, before realising what she had said, as she focused on his golden eyes, his scarlet face, marked with black and rage. She could see nothing but what the shadows revealed.

"Yes, I am cloaked but there is more than this darkness that shrouds me. You would not understand." The corners of his mouth curled, twisted. He was smiling.

"I don't want to understand." She looked away, if only to catch her breath. She dared to look away. That was her mistake.

Unseen, he reached his hand out then, long gloved fingers curling into a fist. Her throat caught, she was winded. She was also floating, flying. She kicked, wanted — no, needed — to feel the ground beneath her feet. Gasping, with unseen eyes, she stared at him, pleading. Not that pleading could help her. It was his whim, and so it would happen. The air was tight, warm and she was stuck and her helmet was suffocating her. Then she was free. Through her visor, she saw that his sneer faded and his hand dropped back down to his side and she dropped back down to the floor. She was curled up, wrenching, almost writhing, as she struggled to compose herself.

Drawing herself back up, she looked out of the window. Sundari. Mandalore. That was all she could see. That was all she knew. The moment she glanced back at him, he was further than before and yet she hadn't noticed him move. Narrowing her gaze, she watched him, alarmed, alert and ready. Her helmet flashed up warnings, beeps, lights. She turned them off. Was still.

Her hand moved to her hip, her fingers curling around the barrel of her blaster. It wouldn't take long, would it? She would reach down, draw it out, aim it, fire it. He wouldn't see it but he would feel it. Yet the lightsaber hanging at his side told her differently. Then she could move no more. He was not force-choking her. He hadn't crept over to her to restrain her but he was looking at her, glaring at her. That seemed to be enough, for she was held, imprisoned, in his gaze.

"I do hope you weren't going to use that?"

"Use it?" Her voice cracked, her words deserted her, as she pulled the blaster out. She saw his eyes widen ever so briefly, as if he were… indignant. Then she dropped it and it hit the floor with a clatter. "I wasn't going to use it."

His mouth curved into a grim, self-satisfied smile. "Good," he said smoothly, his eyes flickering down to the discarded blaster-pistol.

And then she was crossing the distance between the two of them. "Why?" She was pursing her lips, waiting, daring him to look her in the eyes, to see her fear and her fierceness.

"I don't think you are in any position to be asking questions." He gestured to the blaster and it raised up, floated over to him. It settled in his hands and he felt the weight of it. It was heavy and yet it was nothing.

"I can go?"

He laughed, a short, quick cackle. "You wouldn't want to go." He studied her, considered. Her helmet would not reveal her face, her identity. It didn't matter. He could see her shape through the fabric, through the armour. Curves, slenderness, fierce. He knew who she was and yet he regarded her all the same.

"Why? What are you offering?" Then she caught herself, shook her head, and her narrowed eyes grew wide. The ground shook, somewhere outside a rabble rose, was shouting. A rebellion. Then the tremor became so much more, and the building seemed as if it could have been ripped from its foundations. She wondered which of her friends the explosion had consumed. "No, whatever it is, I'm not interested."

Completely nonplussed by the shudder, the explosion, he gave a heavy shrug, and with blaster in hand, he slunk over to the throne. The throne to Mandalore. Treating it as if it were but a simple barstool. And it made her sick. Her people, her traditions. They were nothing to him. Then… she thought. He was nothing to her, either. His legs dangled lazily, and on his mouth was a sneer.

"I am offering you your freedom."

"My freedom is not yours to give."

"Besides," he carried on, waving a hand. The movement startled her and she reached up to her neck but nothing came. "Your blaster, I fear, will prove far less useful than the weapon that you deserve."

"This—" She realised where it was, in whose possession it was now in. "That blaster… it's a sign of my people."

"Your people?"

"I am not Mandalorian by birth, no," she conceded. Then she caught herself, realised that she had tripped, and he wasn't about to catch her. "How did you—?"

"I have had my suspicions."

Suspicions. A cold shiver wracked through her, destroyed her. Every imagined voice, laugh, face, warning, whisper, howl of the wind, none of them were imagined. She had been watched, for so long but always by the same face, by the same golden eyes.

Dramatically, emphatically, he sighed. "Mandalorians aren't Force-users. Their like hasn't been recorded for one thousand years."

He knew. And that was enough for hot tears to spring up, to burn her, to suffocate her.

"Surely, you know what they did to your family?" He paused, sneered, came closer to her. "What they'll do to you."

"You don't know anything." She was glad for her helmet, for he couldn't see her tears. She folded her arms, glared at him though all he saw was the blank helmet dipped slightly downwards. "Not if I can help it."

"There's not a lot you can help, I am afraid," he said, and his words were solemn, sombre, cold.

"Whatever," she muttered, daring herself to look away from him. And this time, it paid off.

Maul sighed, leisurely drew himself from the throne, twirling the blaster carelessly in his fingers. He threw it at her and her fumbling hands caught it. He began to pace.

"You may use it," he muttered. "I can sense that you would like to."

"Did you need the Force to tell you that?" she asked with a snort.

He didn't smile. He didn't force-choke her, either. That was a start.

She hadn't wanted to give him the satisfaction but then she reconsidered. She didn't have anything to lose. Briefly, she looked down at the blaster. Her fingers sought out the trigger, found it, pulled.

A spark of red erupted, shot across the hall. It was met by shimmering grey-black, and there was the hum of the double-ended lightsaber catching the energy. It fizzed, was silent.

Now, Maul was smiling.

She raised an eyebrow, stalked over to him, something which seemed to amuse him. And she was speechless.

"That's… no." She shook her head, desperately telling herself that she was wrong. "That's the Darksaber."

"How very perceptive of you."

If she didn't have her helmet on, Maul would no doubt have grinned. He would've seen her wide eyes, her quivering lower lip, her quick breathing.

"Only a Mandalorian can use that. Tarre Viszla—"

He shot a silencing hand up, and she was quiet. "Yes, yes. I'm sure the history is fascinating."

She crossed the hall in a few seconds, the light from the windows painting her, framing her, and she had the horrible feeling that the whole of Mandalore could see her. None of that mattered. What mattered was that she had handed her blaster over to Maul, over to the pretender who had slaughtered the rightful ruler and had taken her throne.

Maul didn't snatch the blaster, didn't seem desperate to have it. He let her slide it into his hand, his gloved hands scraping against her cold fingers, and then he waved her away and she stepped down the steps, away from the throne. Once again, she was alone, surrounded by nothing but vast space and silence, except for the cloaked Zabrak.

"You've made your point," she said roughly. She told herself that she wasn't nothing, that she wasn't insignificant, that a kick from one of Maul's mechanised legs wouldn't send her hurtling not only across the room but also very likely through the walls and down onto the streets below.

He placed the blaster on the floor. Then he stepped on it and with a crash and a spark, it was crushed.

She looked down at it, at the weapon that had been at her side for so long, that had protected her, fought for her, and yet she wasn't sad. Hatred boiled over inside of her and she scowled at him.

"War is a way of life for your people, isn't it?" And then a dark smile twisted upon his features. "For the Mandalorians, I mean."

"You haven't exactly helped us with achieving peace."

He blinked. But he would not be beaten and the dark smile returned.

"You don't have any family, do you?" she started, faltered, furrowed her brow.

"I am a Nightbrother. Family is all that I know."

Whatever that last sentence had made her think, she ignored it, could've laughed at herself for it. "You haven't answered my question."

"I have a brother. Savage."

The air in her helmet was hot, stale, and she needed to breathe. "Who?"

Maul rolled his eyes, waved a hand, and the walls around them seemed to shake. She gasped, ordered herself to be still. She moved her gaze away from the fizzling wreckage of the blaster, away from Maul's dangerously smug face, and towards the hulking figure who was slowly walking over to them. Two eyes, orange beacons, came closer.

"I think I've heard quite enough," Maul said, and he sounded almost as if he would yawn.

She bit her bottom lip, crossed her arms and her gaze settled upon Savage. To her dismay, she saw that he, too, had a lightsaber hanging from his belt. It looked ridiculously small, almost non-threatening, compared to his bulk. Maul was strong, she could see that, and yet his brother was nothing but muscle, sinew, uncompromising rage and power. Power that knew no control.

Savage bowed his horned head, his unblinking gaze steadily on Maul and never once straying over to her.

"He is?"

Her surprise seemed to annoy Maul, and that, at least, amused her somewhat. Maul was calm, considered. He nodded and seemed to regarded his brother not with love or even respect but with need. "He is."

"But he's—" she broke off, unsure of how to carry on. A smile threatened to show itself upon her lips and her voice was playful.

"Yellow?" There was that sigh again, that irritation, that threat.

Then the smile showed itself and she was beaming underneath her helmet. "Well, yes…yellow. But he's big."

Maul raised an eyebrow, and he was fighting to appear tired but failing. "Big?" he asked, with a heavy sigh.

"That's an understatement," she murmured. "And you're, well, normal."

"There's nothing normal about me." For a minute, she thought, feared, that he would raise his hand again, that he would curl his knuckles into a fist and squeeze. He took another step towards her then turned his back on her, walked away. "Size doesn't necessarily guarantee quality."

"Don't you ever presume to know." He curled his lip, and she knew that she was on a knife's edge now, that she had been all along. "To understand."

"You're right," she said, defeated. "I could never know. I don't want to understand."

"And yet." His voice was soft now but it was still there, that danger, that threat. She didn't let down her guard. "I know you. I understand you."

"No."

"No?"

"You don't . You understand nothing!" She was angry now.

"I do," he muttered. "I'm going to tell you something and I'd like for you to listen very carefully." He was speaking so quietly, his voice so low, his head cast down, that she nearly believed they were alone. That the whole of Mandalore wasn't staring in through the windows, that Savage wasn't standing, hulking by the wall, one huge hand forever hovering over his lightsaber.

She swallowed. "Whatever it is, I don't want to know."

"I think you do already." Then he was still, silent. He spoke again, purposefully. "I was once a prisoner, as you are now."

"Don't tell me," she said flatly. "Of yourself?"

He made a noise that, if he had been anyone else, she would've called a laugh. "No, of someone who thought he was more powerful than me."

"He wasn't?"

"He wasn't." Despite the ease with which he had said it, the nonchalance and the patience, she could hear it. She could see it in his face. The anguish, the torment, the pain. All caused by one person, and her Maul would never escape. She saw all of it. And yet she didn't know who the tormentor was.

"Where are you going with this?" She had lost all fear now. All she wanted was answers.

"We're the same."

Her mouth fell open and words fought desperately to come out. They wouldn't . She caught herself, knowing that no good would come from overindulging herself. Her breathing was shallow as she walked over to him. She wondered if the ground shook again, if there was another explosion. There was no explosion, only Savage coming to stand behind her. A shadow fell as Maul raised a hand, waved lazily to the doorway through which she had skulked in, as Maul had stood, hidden, mocking, in an unlit corner.

"Wait, I don't understand." She had raised a hand.

The corner of Maul's mouth curved, became a cruel smile. He blinked, nodded but not at her. At Savage. She felt fingers curl around her shoulder, and she could move nowhere. The huge Zabrak was pushing her, steering her, towards that door.

"Brother," Maul called out

Almost painfully, Savage came to a standstill. He waited, grip forever on her shoulder, right and unyielding.

She reached up, desperate to calm the bruised skin but meeting only Savage's metal gauntlet.

"I forgot to ask for the lady's name."

Savage grunted, turned her around and gave her a shove.

"Lorelei."

Maul said no more and didn't even look as his brother herded her out of the room, out of his view. She could think of nothing else.

In the dim light of the hallway, she was quiet as Savage dragged her, pulled her, stopped. He was still. Unnerved but not undeterred, she looked back at him and he did not look down. She blinked, tired, frustrated. She wanted to take her helmet off but she couldn't. She didn't want Maul to see her face. And she didn't want Savage to, either. She could feel the sting of the stress in her face, taste the salt of the tears, and she knew she looked terrified. And she wasn't going to let them see that. Not if she could help it.

Savage, it seemed, wanted to be there even less than she did.

She took a breath, stepped forward, relieved to find that the Zabrak's hand was no longer on her, though she could still feel the imprint of his fingers. She wanted nothing more than to hurl herself down the hallway, to wait until the lumbering Zabrak had turned away, and run. But the lightsaber hanging from his belt told her that she wouldn't get too far, told her that he has the Force, too, and she knew he would use it. The way that he had looked at Maul. Such obedience. Such devotion. Such blindness. Then something else caught her eye.

As another explosion rocked another part of Mandalore, of the world that had taken her in and called her its own, she looked at the walls. Pure white, polished, with pictures adorning every free space. She recognised them. Artworks of Mandalore's past, of its warriors charging into battle, of its glorious landscapes, of its heroism and ideals. And yet none of the ruins that it had now become. Nothing of Maul's treacherous hands as they tore away at everything that made Mandalore what it was, what it had been, what it should be.

She was sick. Sure enough, another cursory glance revealed that Savage was still there, unmoving, behind her.

"You must really trust your brother," she eventually said, fear pounding in her chest.

The Zabrak met her gaze slowly, unwillingly. He grunted. "Who I trust is not your business."

"You're right," she said softly, the words hollow and quiet in her helmet. "My business is knowing what's going to happen to me."

Savage narrowed his golden eyes, pursed his lips, and said nothing. But she heard the fizz of electricity, and closed her eyes. Waited. But nothing came. Nothing except the feeling of handcuffs, pressing against her wrists. The Zabrak grabbed her hands, held them behind her back, ignored her yelp of pain, and then began walking. Marching, even.

"Where are we going?"

"The royal prison."