A/N: Well, here we go again.

Chapter Twenty:

His body was not the thing that hurt this time. It was not his leg, nor his chest, or even his back. This wound was new. He had never experienced anything of its like, and thought alone made him sick with regret.

It was his heart.

Ripped from his chest, shot one-thousand times over, stomped, beaten, burned, torn to minuscule pieces, and then some. The feeling of repulsion. The feeling that he had just denied the only home he ever knew. Knowing now that could never belong in light, or dark.

His face...

His face was the only thing that did not contradict everything that he ever was, or would become. His face meant the unification of love, and hate. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Red and black. He was none of these things. He was neither a lover, or a hater. A good, or an evil. A right, or a wrong. He was gray. The darker shade of gray. Just another face in the crowd.

Surely... surely no one cared for another face. They were just too common to be cared for.

Maul felt as though he had been broken apart, and put back together the wrong way.

Something twinged, and he winced impulsively, though the feeling of pain was welcome. He knew pain. It was something that he could always count on to be there, even if others were not.

"Oh, sorry..." Came the apologetic whisper.

Maul, unable to decipher whether or not he was still unconscious, carefully moved his hands. They were no longer numb, but rather sore. He could feel fabric beneath his fingers; warm and inviting, but it took his sluggish mind a few moments to register that he was no longer lying on a hospital bed.

Breathing in slowly, he found that everything about him was still aching; from his feet to his head, and he could no longer find the strength to fight it. His last reserves were gone, and frankly, he was not disappointed. All he wanted to do was lie in a dark corner, and die. Nevertheless...

He painstakingly forced his eyes to open a sliver.

Darkness. The lights were out. He breathed.

"You gave us all a good scare, you know."

Anamaria. Simplistic. Naive as ever. He did not respond to her. It was impossible. Despite the fact that he would have killed himself at a moment's notice, he humored her, and continued forcing himself to breathe.

Her hand touched his jawline. "I'm sorry if you are in any pain..." Her voice, so soft... "They had to allow the medicines to flush from your body..."

Slowly, his lips parted. He forced his throat to work; vocal cords protesting against the abuse.

"Where..." It was no louder than a whispered breath.

"They let you sign out of the hospital. You're in my flat, next to the Jedi headquarters." She answered softly.

Silence. He could not speak for a moment.

"Do you feel like you can eat something?"

Carefully, and so carefully that the movement took no less than seven seconds to accomplish, he moved his head down once. Anamaria's weight lifted from the bedside, and he was left in the dark while something bubbled in what he assumed to be the kitchen.

With patience unusual for his character, Maul moved each part of his body to ascertain whether or not all of his limbs remained intact as he waited for the girl's cooking to cease. All arms and legs seemed to be in order, with the exception of the one that remained immobile in a plaster cast. He could only assume that this would cause him a great deal of trouble when he was up and walking again.

If he was up and walking again.

Briefly, the Sith wondered what would become of his life from now on. The link between good and evil had been severed, and he was a nomad, wandering the paths rarely known to any creature. Perhaps he might settle down on a deserted planet, light-years away from any other living organism, unable to further instigate a sense of obligatory confinement. Or, he could go with his first plan, and die in a small corner.

The further sounded much more realistic than the latter.

Sounds in the kitchen ceased suddenly, and he heard Anamaria's light steps echo throughout the room. Strange... he saw no light from the hallway. Perhaps it was night.

No noncommital sound left his lips this time as she put her hand beneath his neck, and propped him up on numerous pillows. He neither had the strength, nor the will to oppose her.

"There." She put her hand on his shoulder, and squeezed it gently. A movement so small; so insignificant, yet... so complex. Her touch contained a strange, euphoric healing sense that soothed him in more places than she knew. His heart ached and hurt, but the unification between flesh, and flesh was enough to comfort the near-lifeless organ, even for a moment.

Maul suddenly felt a compulsive need to see her face.

Dragging in a gravelly breath, he forced the words from his dry lips.

"'S.... dark... n'to... the lights..."

The effort had left him totaled, and he had to stop to calm his racing lungs. Anamria seemed confused.

"The lights?"

Again, with bone-crunching effort, he nodded, and paused. This was too much to handle in such little time.

"You want the lights... on....?"

Dammit, woman! He gritted his teeth, and hissed in exasperation. His body was beginning to calm, though.

"Y-Yes..." His voice was barely above a whisper. Good Lord, the effort he put into requesting for a menial task like that! There was silence for a long moment.

"Kalaskein..." She began slowly. He paused, nearly dead with impatience.

"The lights are on."

Quiet.

Dead. Quiet.

Not one thing in that room moved for ten minutes. No one dared to breathe louder than absolutely necessary, and even the strongest of men could not withstand the unparalleled silence that plagued it like a malignant disease.

"He... took... them back..." Maul finally whispered.

"Oh, Kalaskein..." Anamaria said mournfully. Her eyes were filled with tears.

"Y-You... did e-every...thing... you could... I.... I understand..." Something clogged his throat.

"We should have done more..." She replied.

"It is... nothing... a... asmall price..." His voice shook.

"Does anything hurt?"

Slowly, an undefined movement, he shook his head no.

"Are you hungry?"

"A... little..."

A sad smile drew on Anamaria's lips. "Do you like chicken noodle? It's good for the immune system..."

Maul was not looking at her. "It... doesn't matter..."

The young padawan lifted the steaming bowl into her lap, and began to feed him. Slowly. One spoonful at a time. He did not struggle, but emotionlessly allowed her to serve him without a fuss. Soon, however, his eyes overflowed with tears, and he began to cry.

"Oh, Kalaskein..." Anamaria said, putting the bowl down. She sat down at the edge of the bed, and drew his bony frame into her arms as he wept dead black tears against her shoulder.

"P-pathetic-"

"No, you aren't..."

Clinging to her like a lost child, he shook and sobbed. "Bastard... bastard... I g-gave... him... everything..."

"You didn't give him your heart..."

"I d-don't... have one..."

"Shh..." Anamaria rocked him gently, and held him there for what seemed like hours. Finally, he calmed. The pain, and the physical exuberance were exhausting his weak body. She laid him softly upon the pillows once more.

"We'll get through this." She told him as his swollen eyes drifted shut. "If I have to relinquish my title as a Jedi... then so be it."

It was all he heard before he fell into unconsciousness.

A/N: WOOT!!! I AM SIXTEEN!!! FEAR ME, AND REVIEW THIS STORY, OR I SHALL EAT YOUR UNBORN FETUSES!!! RAHWR!!!!

Good Lord, this had to be the worst chapter I've ever written.

Excerpts of the above conversation were borrowed from Logospilgrim, the best freakin Snape-angst fic writer I have ever had the privilege to kiss the feet of.