#||verse: a lucky child indeed; feemor||

[mayxthexforce]

Dialogue prompts taken from Star Wars: The Old Republic

@mutatiio said:

❝ I am not cute. I am deadly! ❞ ( maul @ feemor )

Feemor smiles. It hadn't been in his plans to linger on this planet for so long. What was supposed to be a diplomatic visit turned into a nice day out when, upon checking the global holomap, he found a nice spot with a shallow stream. Nature. It's good for a child's development to get to interact with nature– and Force knows Maul needs it. The boy went from Mustafar, where the definition of nature involves a lot of lava and equally corrosive creatures; and then to Coruscant, where the closest thing to a tree is the holographic representation that turns neon during night time, and all that is left of the planet's surface is the very peak of the tallest mountain.

He needs actual nature, and this place is just perfect.

But Feemor —comfortable in the moment of peace as he watches over the boy who stands out like a red stone in a sea of green— has committed the unforgivable crime of calling him cute while watching Maul play in the water– no, not 'play', Maul has left it clear that this isn't a game. He's training. Hunting.

"Right, I'm sorry." the smile doesn't leave Feemor's lips. "Although deadliness and cuteness are not mutually exclusive. There are many creatures that can be described as both cute AND deadly."

Like you, he wants to say. But like with the hunting, Maul has already left it clear he doesn't want to be called cute, and Feemor respects that.

"Once you catch something, we can build a fireplace and cook it," he hums. "Or not. We can cook my part, I know you like your meals... juicy."

It was one way of putting it. Feemor had almost had a heart attack the first time he caught Maul eating raw meat. He had picked him up and ran to the hall of healing, only to find out that Zabraks were mostly carnivores and that they could eat many things that humans couldn't: one such thing being raw meat. That had been a relief, knowing his boy wouldn't get sick from it, but Feemor still has to get used to it.

The Grand Masters made interacting with children look so easy. Then again, Maul is not a Padawan yet, he's just... a boy, his boy.

[mayxthexforce]

@mutatiio

when u encounter a kid who is So Small 

[ID: a crudely drawn three-panel comic showing a large figure, representing an adult, and a small figure, representing a child. in the first panel the adult is doing spooky monster hands at the child, who gleefully exclaims “A!”

in the second panel, the child grabs the adult’s hand with their very tiny hand and says, “got u.”

the third panel shows the child happily holding onto the adult’s hand while the adult, wide-eyed and on the verge of tears, thinks “how are u that small.”]

[mayxthexforce]

@mutatiio said

Through the years, Feemor has grown used to a lot of things. He's grown used to Xanatos' less-than-pleasant personality, used to his jabs and lack of manners when they passed each other on the halls. After all, how could he not? He's been dealing with such behavior for over a decade, one of the main targets of it, as other knights would have long since reacted to it, but Feemor has always tried to keep the peace for the sake of his master. He cares not for what Xanatos had to say about him or his origin, as annoying as it could be to have his humble roots pointed out in disgust every chance Xanatos got.

However, he is NOT used to this.

Maul is still too young to be his apprentice. But he would be, one day. Everybody knows that, Maul is Feemor's boy, his responsibility, his to train, his to protect. He stops on his tracks as soon as the word 'kid' leaves Xanatos' lips, aware of the almost sarcastic tone that envelops it, and suddenly feels as if his body is light but his ribcage is tight and heavy around his heart. Without thinking, Feemor turns on his heel.

"HE's not an it." was the first thing out of Feemor's mouth, his voice so serious that it might have as well caused the temperature in that hall to go down a few degrees. "If you have an issue with Maul, you sort it out with me."

He should have left it at that. Deep down, Feemor knew that he should have left it at that. That's what Qui-Gon would have done– that is exactly what Qui-Gon has been doing for years now when it comes to Xanatos: the bare minimum, verbally address the offenses when he witnesses them and never mentions them again, as if nothing ever happened. It's never fixed anything, never achieved anything, never freed Feemor from the burden of being Xanatos' main target practically since the day the younger Jedi joined the Order and was taken as an apprentice by Qui-Gon. Feemor will NOT allow that burden to be passed down to Maul. He will rather burn both his hands with his own lightsaber than allow that. So, he doesn't leave it at that.

"That is, if you have it in you to face someone your own size instead of getting on the level of little children."

—

The Jedi Code might have many rules, but none of them forbid gossip. News spread as fast as an electric fire in the lower districts of Coruscant. Everyone knows each other on some level, most know at least a few dozen other Jedi well enough to tell when someone is doing something uncharacteristic of them. Those are the news that spread the fastest.

Young apprentice-to-be Quinlan Vos is the one to burst into the youngling clan's quarters with the news. "What are you all doing here?!" he exclaims, urging his fellow younglings out the door. "Master Feemor challenged Xanatos to a duel!"

[mayxthexforce]

feemor. how do you feel about baby maul?? 🥺👉👈

SEND MY MUSE ANONS!!

"He's smart, and quick, and adorable– but don't tell him I said that last part because he's really proud, the kind of proud that doesn't let him accept that he can be perceived as strong and adorable, because I cannot convince him that both things can coexist. He's stubborn like that, and I'm really proud of him. I worry about him a lot, too, because I've never had someone so young be my responsibility and rely on me to be a guide and a protector as much as Maul does. It makes me question if I'm capable of protecting him, if I'm worthy of him putting that much trust in me. But... he doesn't seem to question that about me, and I trust his judgement.

He's the best thing that's ever happened to me in a long time, and he makes me really happy."

[mayxthexforce]

@mutatiio SAID

it's not that he was careless about his belongings - he's the exact opposite, likes to keep his things it good shape. but he was reckless. more often than not, he thought himself invincible. returned to his master's side without noticing that he was injured or that his robes were torn.

he now wore a vest, his robes folded over his arm. they had been his last intact pair that actually fit (he was growing so quickly!!).

"master feemor," he begins, a mix of embarrassment and shame tinting his cheeks and ears red. "if you have the time... could you show me how to fix these??"

Since he became old enough to not have to use the hand-me-downs that most Jedi younglings went through when, Feemor loved making his own robes. He was far from the most eccentric Jedi in the Temple, but he liked what he liked and he wasn't afraid to make and wear what he liked so, his robes had some unusual colors for a Jedi. Instead of shades of beige, white and dark browns, he'd gone for a reddish brown that reminded him of the clay-rich soil on the planet he'd been born at, and yellow. It made him easy to recognize and easy to spot, but he liked them.

He also liked making clothes in general. It was a sort of hobby. He'd make clothes for himself. Back before the unfortunate mission that led to Xanatos leaving the temple, he'd provided the rebellious and self centered Padawan with his first ever pair of black robes, before Xanatos had replaced them for "something more worthy of him." some robes from a renowned brand. He'd also worked on robes for Obi-Wan, back when Kenobi was a child. It was the least he could do for Qui-Gon's Padawans Feemor enjoyed making clothes for others ten times more than he did making them for himself, but it'd been way too long since he'd gotten to make anything for anyone else. Maul didn't need his made a size bigger anymore, nor did he damage them as much as he used to.

So, when Anakin came to him asking if he could show him how to fix his robes, Feemor didn't hesitate to agree.

Feemor grabbed the boy's robes, unfolding them. His eyes widened as soon as he saw the damage. It wasn't a tear, undone stitches nor a hole, there were CHUNKS of fabric missing. Feemor lowered the robes.

"Child, what beast did you fight?" he said, not scolding, because it wasn't his place to scold Obi-Wan's boy, but trying to make sense of this.

He takes a minute to further inspect the robes, mostly to make sure there isn't a trace of blood in them, because he already knows there is no saving these robes and that the only use they can be given now is to be made into rags for Anakin to stock up on for when he fixes droids or other things. But for clothing? There is no hope for them.

"I could fix them," he lies, not wanting Anakin to be upset about messing up his robes beyond repair. "But I'm bored, I've been meaning to go buy new fabric and sewing material, and I don't really have a specific project in mind, I just know I want to make something, so... how about I make you new robes?" he smiles, folding the RAGS robes again and handing them back. "You can come with me and help me pick everything if Obi-Wan doesn't need you to stay at the Temple."

[mayxthexforce]

For a moment, a very brief one, Feemor thinks that perhaps the fumes are playing tricks on him the same way that the heat beating down on arid planets can make someone think they see water. Some sort of mirage caused by the light produced by the lava when it filters through the clouds of different, foul smelling gases. But he still speaks, as there is no loss in trying and no shame in being deceived by nature, and the sudden movement and the sound of the creature's steps makes it clear he is not seeing things that aren't actually there.

He sees just enough of this being before they hide behind a rock to be able to tell that he's looking at A CHILD.

Slowly, Feemor holds his hands up, his knuckles and the back of his hands pointed towards the child because, as a Jedi, he's come to figure out that holding his hands up with his palms facing people doesn't really do much to make them feel less threatened. He could probably still use the force with backhand motions if he tried–if he really focused, Feemor could probably use the force without using his hands at all to channel it. But it was a matter of trying to show he didn't mean harm. In the end, it was always the other person's choice to trust he was being honest or not.

His gold and crimson robes stood out against the dull and dark colored surface of Mustafar as he lowered himself to the ground. Could this child be a Mustafarian? Some kid whose parents might be working at the mines? Feemor had no way of knowing, not without asking questions, questions he didn't think a frightened child would care about answering. But what he does know without the need for any questions is that the child is small, too small, most likely malnourished.

Feemor rests one hand on one of his knees, while the other searches in the satchel he's carrying without taking his eyes away from the rock that shields the boy from his sight. He pulls out a relatively round, oval shaped object, neatly wrapped– or it was neatly wrapped until Feemor makes a point of making as much noise as he can with the wrapper, to get the child's attention.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. He breaks a piece and also makes a show of bringing it to his mouth, showing that it's safe to eat. "It's a denta beans bun. It's like bread, but it's sweet."

He's suddenly glad he decided to save that last bun for a special occasion, as he's far too far away from anywhere where anyone cares to make such bread to buy more. But he didn't think he'd end up in a situation like this. Not even trying to bribe the kid out, just trying to feed them because that's the right thing to do, even if he has somewhere to be. So, Feemor fully unwraps the bun, flattens the wrapper on the ground like an improvised tablecloth, and lays the bread on top of it. Then, his hand goes into his satchel and he produces a water canteen. Like with the bun, he takes a sip to prove that it's safe to consume.

"I have to go, but I'll leave this here for you," he says, taking a few steps back before he stands back to his full height. "I'll be back later with more water, and I'll see if I can find you something more filling to eat. Just be around here in... an hour or two."

He isn't going to linger with corporate representatives for long. Feemor already wasn't planning to before, and he definitely won't now that there's something far more important than being sweet-talked by greedy businessmen for him to focus on. But he has to complete his duties before he can focus on the child.

Feemor will make it quick.

@mayxthexforce (Feemor is signing the adoption papers as we speak)

Feemor hates having to work with the Techno Union.

Corporate neutrality or not, he just can't grasp how the Order could agree to this. Sure, the Republic believes that the Union is better kept as a neutral, sometimes-ally, asset, that the resources and contacts they have to offer are worth sometimes turning a blind eye on... well, everything else they do. But Feemor can't trust anyone, whether they are a person or a corporate entity, whose only purpose in life seems to be to amass immeasurable amounts of wealth and power. It makes him feel sick just thinking about it.

And speaking of feeling sick...

The sensors on his ship go crazy as he makes it through Mustafar's atmosphere and into the aerial territory of the planet. The heat, the fumes, the lava, the heavy and dark presence of this whole planet in the force, everything just worked together to make this place unpleasant. Even the nickname, earned from eons of wars against the Sith that had thankfully come to an end a few centuries ago, makes him uncomfortable: the place where Jedi go to die.

He isn't there to die. He's there to supervise the recently inaugurated mining station and make sure that the place is following what little regulations the Republic enforces on such corporations. Being there to die would honestly be, by far, a less unpleasant affair.

The nature of the planet forces him to land a ways away from the mining station. He was told that it was safe by the Techno Union representative's secretary, but Feemor didn't trust any of them farther than he could throw them with one finger, which —force sensitive or not— wouldn't have been very far. So, he would not risk landing anywhere near the lava. Feemor doesn't care if he had to walk.

Or at least he didn't care, until he actually starts walking and feels watched.

The force works strangely on this planet, not in his favor at all. There's too many things his senses pick up on and while he can't focus on what it is that is to blame for making him feel watched, something —his gut, which he can always trust to make calls when the force and the mind fail to— tells him it's not a threat yet.

Then, Feemor sees it.

Among all the dry dullness of Mustafar, something bright red– no, not something, SOMEONE.

"...hello?" he speaks, craning his neck to try and see his 'stalker' better as he takes a step closer. "I mean no harm. I am just passing by."

maul wasn't surprised when he woke to a loud roar. to darkness. to almost insufferable heat. his master had left him stranded, with no supplies, in the middle of nowhere on mustafar. but maul was a clever boy. he knew his master was offering him a way to impress him, to earn his respect.

he'd adjusted to the hot, acrid fumes. no longer coughed in that uncontrollable way that gave up his location. had stopped rubbing his eyes too, quickly learning that it did nothing but make them sting more.

he thinks it's been nine days. it's hard to keep track... he's only slept once so far and he's not sure for how long. he'd been determined to find his way back to his master without giving in to his need for sleep. only relented when he began hearing things that weren't there and seeing even worse. he thinks that was two days ago.

it's been hard, but he enjoyed it so far. he was free for the first time in his life. should he live or die, fight or flee, eat or starve, it was his decision. no one was here to order him around. and when given the option, he finds himself wanting to live.

his wounds still hurt. he'd gotten injured during training with td-d9. usually they would have healed by now, but with no treatment and with maul needing to fight for resources... he thinks he might have rebroken his arm. it was twisted in a way that made even attempting to move it hurt. he avoided moving it unless he was fighting. his ribs still ached too (another injury caused by td-d9). they looked uneven when maul tried to inspect them.

he'd strangled a few mustifarians. had raided their small, remote village. he'd stolen armour off their dead bodies, it didn't fit him very well. they were much larger than him, larger than his master too. only once did he try to face one head on. after that (the incident that he believes rebroke his arm), he went about sneaking up on them. striking them with a rock or strangling them from behind was much easier. though, nothing was without its share of difficulties. one mustifarian had been quick enough to process what was going on. he'd fallen backwards with a decent amount of force. maul thought he might have been crushed, he would have been, but his hold on the man's neck was too tight to escape. maul had squeezed the oxygen from his lungs before he could do much else. still, this was when maul began to suspect that a rib was broken again. it stuck out, throbbing with pain when he stands or lies down or sits. but he had won. that's what mattered.

he's done everything he thought necessary to survive up to this point. everything he could to prove that he is a strong boy. and when he finally finds the facility again, he hopes it's enough for his master to praise him.

he spots the ship first. it looks different from the ones that he's occasionally seen landing. different from his master's shuttle. he knew it would be best to avoid ships, his master often told him to he had to stay hidden from people until he was ready... but he hasn't been having great luck in the ways of food recently.

the man was tall and easy to track, his light clothes making him stick out in the dark terrain that was mustafar. this man really isn't trying to sneak around at all, he's moving as though he's completely oblivious to any potential threats. maul feels a burst of pride in his chest. maybe he's starting to get good at pursuing-

he freezes, golden eyes wide as the man looks directly at him. he's so covered in ash, he should partically blend in, maybe if he stays perfectly still the human will think his eyes are deceiving him. maybe- and then, he speaks directly to maul.

maul nearly jumps out of his skin before he's scurrying behind a nearby rock.

[mayxthexforce]

Send me   “⚠”   for my muse to discover a wound yours has been hiding from them! 

@mutatiio said:

reverse ⚠ maul for feemor

Feemor wasn't getting any younger. That was a fact that became clearer and clearer every time his joints cracked, every time he looked in a mirror and spotted the gray hairs growing at his temples, and now: as he rose to his feet after being knocked down and realized that he was not as sturdy as he used to be.

He also realized that, perhaps, using the force to redirect a ship that would have otherwise crashed into innocent people was something he should leave to younger Jedi.

There was a point in his life when he'd been able to handle being tossed around without any consequences. Now, as he wrapped his left arm around his own torso and pressed his fingers onto his right side, instantly feeling pain that heats up his nerves like lightning coursing through his body, he realizes that those days might be long gone. That, or he was thrown way harder than usual and didn't quite realize. Adrenaline was one hell of a painkiller when in life or death situations. That and he couldn't muster up too much concern about himself when he had something much more dire to focus on: finding his Padawan.

Fixing his robes and ignoring the broken rib, Feemor's gaze scammed his surroundings as he searched for Maul. He whistled their secret-but-not-really-secret call for each other and waited for an answer, not quite realizing that he was holding his breath until he heard Maul's response and spotted red and black skin moving among the leftover smoke from the wreckage.

"Stay sharp," he told Maul. "We don't know if any of them survived the crash-"

One wrong step, uneven ground under his boot making his body twist towards his bad side in his attempt not to lose his balance. Feemor's expression instantly twisted into one of pain. Instinctively, he bent forward at the waist, hand flailing to hold onto his own side, apply pressure. It didn't help, didn't bring comfort– not physical, at least. There was SOME comfort in holding onto an injury, something primal that made people grab at their own wounds, even if —like in Feemor's case— there was no blood.

[mayxthexforce]

mutatiio:

he's not entirely sure what he should be expecting from this. feemor said he could heal his arm, but… how?? he doesn't appear to have the medical kit deenine uses - he doesn't have any supplies. he has the force, but if one could heal using the force then it master would do it, right?? last he checked humans can't heal at will and, again, if they could then his master would. a beautiful fracture. maul's head inclines, brow ridge furrowing. clean, oblique, spiral - terms he recalls. beautiful seems odd. it doesn't describe anything. how can something you can't see be beautiful?? unless this man has x-ray vision- his hearts still pounding madly in his chest don't make him feel very brave. but he calms as it becomes clear that feemor has no intentions of jumping him or coming much closer. maul flinches - scolds himself for doing so - and squats down when feemor extends his hand - he doesn't move more. no closer or further. it's just his hand. it doesn't hurt, really. there's a lot of pressure and then instant relief - everything in his arm happy to be righted after days of strain. maul's eyes leave feemor to watch his arm, wide and stunned. so he is using the force for this?? how?? and why hasn't his master told him about this ability. it would cut out lying deenine. sidious hates that droid, surely he would want a way to no longer need him. maul puts his hand to the swell of his left arm, eyes widening as it goes down - feemor's doing!! questions crowd his mind, too many of them wanting out at once. he knows better than to ask too much or too eagerly. calmly and slowly. he does as he's told first. stretches his arm out straight, something that had been impossible moments ago. clenches his fist, spins his arm around in a circle, presses his palms together. no pain, no tension, no feeling of anything really. amazing. deenine had only applied bacta and treated his injuries. he had never been healed. he had never been back to normal so immediately. the skill is so exciting that maul doesn't think to move away. he's still back on his haunches, but looks up at feemor - awestruck. " how did you do that?? "

Once it's done, Feemor moves his hands back, letting them rest on his knees as he admires his own work. A small smile pulls at his lips as he watches the boy pat over the previously swollen area. Now his arm looks as if it's never known the stress of a fracture. It is not the Jedi way to be cocky, but Feemor can admit to himself, in the privacy of his own mind, that he probably did a better job than any cast or bacta injection could. Faster, too.

They're still close. Feemor doesn't dare to point this out or make any attempts to touch the boy. Doesn't want to scare him away again.

"Took lots of practice to get this good at it," he says, smiling warmly. Lots of practice and lots of hours spent at the hall of healing, helping the healers in assisting those who came sick and injured. Lots of patience, too, because all he did at first was clean up after the healing took place. But it was worth it– situations like these made it all worth it. "Fractures are complicated to heal with the force, they take way longer to heal naturally than a cut or most other injuries. So, it takes a lot of focus and some anatomy classes."

Feemor is still trying to grasp the fact that he can sense the force in this voice. A boy that's seemingly alone on such a hostile planet. Injured and with no food or water. How had the Jedi not known about him? It made him wonder if the same dark side energy that made this place be known as a place Jedi go to to die was to blame. Could it be possible for Mustafar to block out the force signature of this child unless someone was really close?

He wishes he could call Yoda. But comm signal is far from good here and even if it was, his hosts would most likely not take kindly to more Jedi getting involved. So, he's alone in this situation. Alone with a child who might decide to go back to hiding any moment now.

"How about you test out that arm now?" Feemor asks, not letting the turmoil of emotions show on his face.

[mayxthexforce]

mutatiio:

come closer. maul makes a wilting sound as he backs up further, completely concealing himself again. he wrestles with why he should do this. the same thought as before plagues him. master sidious will not be happy. but master sidious had told him that there were no other force users like maul and him... maybe his master would be pleased with him for finding someone who could assist them?? if assistance is even something his master wants... truly, maul hasn't the faintest idea what his plan looks like. he's already failed in every other aspect of his current mission... the punishment he is to be dealt can't get much worse (he thinks). if there's a chance that this stranger might be of use then, really, he would be doing his master a disservice to not bring him back. and if his master doesn't want him then he can dispose of him. maul does not allow himself to settle on the twist his stomach does at that thought. if feemor is to be of use, it would be better if he impressed him. that and... he'd like to throw better for him - to hear more kind words. clutching the canteen in his left hand, he steps out from behind the boulder. his chin is down, golden eyes bright and focused solely on feemor. the line seems so far away and so close to feemor. too close. still, he presses on. moving slowly. part of him wants to try bend the rule, test the limit. another part remembers what his master used to do when he first tried. so, as tempting as it is to squat down and determine that halfway is close enough, he doesn't. his hearts are pounding in his chest by the time he reaches the line. from this close, he can see how clean feemor is, despite the ash and soot lingering in the air. his clothes are clean, too. a stark contrast to maul who is so covered in dirt that his skin almost appears black. his clothes are tattered and worn. his right arm is twisted in an odd way, swollen. he remains silent, pupils blown out as he remains completely still.

Feemor doesn't even need to move closer to know, beyond any trace of doubt, that the boy's is the sort of fracture that the healers back at the Jedi Temple would call 'beautiful'. He didn't understand how a fracture could be beautiful back when he was the one holding his arm out to be examined and healed, with the difference that he'd been sitting on a stretcher; and he definitely didn't understand it now. But he remembered how hearing them call it that had confused him enough to give him something else to ponder than the idea of how whatever they did might hurt.

"It's a beautiful fracture," he hums when the boy gets close enough for him to appreciate the injured arm.

From this close, he can also see some cuts and what he cannot really tell if it's bruises- it's hard to tell bruises apart from ash and dirt, and the child is COVERED in it. It just makes Feemor wonder how long the boy has been out on his own.

But now isn't the time to ask. It is time to put the WEEKS of learning how to use the force to heal to good use.

He's not sure what would make the boy feel less nervous: if him talking or staying quiet. He decides to go with talking, but watches his words carefully. "You really are brave for someone so young," he praises, his gaze focused on the child's arm. "I would have been terrified when I was your age."

Feemor might not be sure what age that would be, exactly. But if he has to guess, he'd guess this boy is a youngling. Nowhere near close to puberty, either. Definitely too young to be out on his own like this.

Slowly, he lifts his hands. Feemor doesn't touch the boy's arm, but he lets his hands hover over the swollen area. He lets the force flow through him, closes his eyes and visualizes the skin, the muscle, the veins and the broken bone. Then, as swiftly as he can, he pushes the bone back into place and is quick to focus the force on healing any damage on the tissue and the bone itself. As he works, gradually, the boy's arm begins to look less swollen.

"Great job," he says with a smile because– well, he knows adults who wouldn't have stayed so still through such a process. "Is that better? Try moving it."

[mayxthexforce]

mutatiio:

his head pokes out, narrowing his eyes to see just how far he'd managed to throw. instead, golden eyes end up on the man - more interested in the sound he's emitting. though he's quick to conceal himself again once feemor starts moving. astounding. his chest seems to swell once more, a feeling he can't quite grasp filling him. astounding… he doesn't think he's even been that word. he doesn't think his master has ever called him that. words said by this stranger shouldn't mean anything, and yet… he still longs for more. the force!! alarms sound in his head. his master told him that only special people could use the force. that there were three types of users. the sith, the jedi and people who belong to neither but who have to hide because the jedi would make them stop using their powers if they refused to join them. maul and his master were in hiding - they were hiding from the jedi!! he assumes this man must be too… feemor's words distract, pulling him from the thought and focusing him on the dropped canteen. maul swallows, his throat still rough and sore… he's given in to his bodies needs twice already and each time it just got easier to say yes. he was weak… not astounding at all. pathetic. just a stupid little boy, never good enough. never will be good enough. the voice sounds different from his own - yet familiar, it makes his small body tremble. still, maul step out from his hiding place and reaches for the canteen, eyes unblinking as he watches the man. his master would be disappointed but feemor said he earned it. he tries to be slow, to at least show some self restraint so that he might not be a complete failure. but half the liquid is gone in just a moment. it's not cool - nothing on mustafar is - but it feels heavenly to his mouth and throat. exceptional... his eyes lower at the next compliment, a feeling of shame washing over him. reminds himself again that the words from this man shouldn't mean anything, yet they make him feel good… he's near a pout when feemor speaks again. he could throw better?? his left wasn't his dominant hand so he's unsure of why that might make a difference. the conflict was cut short- i'm brave!! he steps backward, closer to his rock but not fully behind it yet - doesn't like feemor being to be able to see him. clutches the canteen to his chest with one arm, his voice clearer not, but uncertain. "… how do i earn it??"

It takes a herculean effort for Feemor to bite back the smile that threatens to form on his lips when he gets the boy's attention– force, he feels like such a creep manipulating a child like this. The kind of creep he'd be threatening away from children in any other situation. Just the fact he's this good at manipulating a child makes him want to hit himself in the head, but he reminds himself that he's doing it in an attempt to help. The end justifies the means, is not exactly a Jedi teaching. But if the end is healing a seemingly orphaned child's broken arm, are the means not justified so long as nobody is hurt by them?

These are all questions to take back to Master Qui-Gon. He makes a mental note to discuss this with him. EVENTUALLY. For now, his attention is solely focused on the child.

"You'd have to come closer," Feemor says. "Much closer. You'd have to stand somewhere over... here."

He stretches his leg out and draws a line on the floor with his heel, about three feet —give or take a couple inches— away from where he's sitting. Then, he goes back to sitting cross legged.

"It takes a lot of courage to approach a stranger. You'd have to be REALLY brave," he hums. Then, he gives a slight shrug. "But if you don't have what it takes... I'll understand."

Force, he really felt so CRUEL doing this. Based solely on the reactions he's gotten to such simple praise, he can tell that the boy craves praise in a way that Feemor finds all too familiar. His former master wasn't ever one to deliver much praise– or, at least, he did so in ways where it didn't really feel like praise. Master Dooku did, but his praise tended to be accompanied by putting others down and Feemor couldn't enjoy that. As for Master Yoda... well, he's always been a complicated one to decipher. Often speaking in riddles, making it hard to tell if he agrees with something or not. A strategy to keep his lineage humble, sometimes even a way to tease them.

He knows what it's like to want validation.

[mayxthexforce]

he'd been about to sit back down, ready to stay put until the human left. his hunger was satisfied - for now - the tremors that had threatened to take over his body easing off. his train of thoughts were becoming more clear. it was in this moment that he really regretted the weakness that hunger brought him. if sidious was to discover that he accepted assistance from a stranger… the unpleasant thoughts were cut off by feemor's voice. an alarming amount of pride swells in his chest at the words. he's got a good arm. a very good throw. he's learned that praise doesn't come easy, that praise is ultimately meaningless. pride is quickly followed by shame. more specifically, the shame of how quickly he reaches for the canteen - eager to hear another kind word. he rocks the canteen back and forth in his hand for a moment. it was full. he swallows, now aware of just how dry his mouth feels. a combination of mustafar's unrelenting heat and the meat he'd just devoured. temptation is soon repressed. maul turns so that he's facing the rock, reels back his good arm and flings the canteen as hard as he can. it shoots out from behind his shield, soars in the air and then crashes down quite the distance away with a thud and a puff of disturbed ash. although he can't see it, the distance of the noise confirms to him that it was fairly far - much further that he'd thrown the bag. a small amount of excitement bubbles inside his chest. before he could stop himself, he speaks. " good?? " his voice comes out quiet, but rough. the scratchiness of it makes him cough a few times

For a moment, he's unsure if their little game was finished. Worry starts to seep in again, whose child was this? Where were his parents? Why was he alone out here? Who'd hurt him so badly?

His thoughts are interrupted when he sees the canteen come flying out from behind the rock. Feemor whistles, a long sound of appreciation that lasts until the canteen hits the ground and he realizes that it is still full. Despite the distance between himself and the spot it landed on, the force of its landing against Mustafar's dry, rocky surface made the sound of the water within the canteen unmistakably clear. The boy didn't drink a drop.

"Not good... astounding," Feemor confirms.

Standing up, Feemor walked over to where the canteen landed, dusting it off as much as possible with his hand and his sleeves as he makes his way back towards the rock, closer than before, but still keeping a respectful distance. This time, instead of tossing the canteen or rolling it over on the floor, he uses the force to float it over the rock, and has it land about half a foot away from the boy's feet.

"You can drink if you want, you've earned it," he says.

Something tells him the kid won't take charity for long– or at least not as easily as when he accepted the food because now he doesn't seem as desperate for it as when Feemor first encountered him. So, disguising the water as something he's WON instead of something that's being given to him seems to Feemor like the smartest move.

Then there's the other thing he wants to bring up, a little harder to address...

"You seem to have a truly exceptional throw for someone your size," he hums, crouching down with his arms resting on his knees. Anyone who came across him right then might think he's crazy, talking to a boulder. But that's because the kid really blends in with the predominantly red landscapes of Mustafar. "But I can't properly judge that in your current state, if only your other arm wasn't hurt... there IS a way to heal it, but I don't know if you're brave enough to earn that..."

[mayxthexforce]

This child is terrifyingly quiet. Never has Feemor met such a calculating youngling, to the point that he feels glad for the force because it is the only thing telling him exactly where the boy is, how close he is, what he's intending to do. And even then, he has to resist the primal urge to open his eyes and check physically, because there is always a chance there's something he's not seeing, something he might not be picking up. There's always a possibility that even a child could try to do harm and, while Feemor doesn't think himself capable of retaliation against a child, he would like to at least try to shield himself if said child was to attempt something to harm him.

Thankfully, that is not what happens.

He opens his eyes only after the boy is scurrying off back towards his hiding spot with the bag, and listens as the bag is opened and its contents are enthusiastically consumer. Feemor can't help make a slight face, there is some disgust due to the sounds, but mostly there is pity. His gut tells him to get over it, because this child doesn't want his pity.

The bag is all he gets back. Feemor's eyes widen and he lets out a slight sound of both surprise and approval at how neatly the boy tossed it. He even ALMOST got it to land back in the exact same spot. That's a good throw, considering the thrown object is an empty back with little weight to aid in its throwing. It speaks of strength that Feemor doesn't miss nor does he ignore.

"You've got a good arm," he praises. "That was a very good throw. Can you do just as well with something a little heavier?"

That gives him the perfect excuse to pull out his refilled canteen and slide it across the dry and reddish ground of Mustafar, getting it where he means to with some assistance from the force, until it stops close to where the boy could reach it without having to abandon his hiding spot. The water inside sloshes around, providing proof that the canteen is not empty even before it is picked up. While Feemor would be just as curious of if this child can throw it when it's full and heavy, he'd rather have him drink it. That had been a big steak, it should have been scarfed down dry but alas. At least he can provide some water for after.

[mayxthexforce]

Feemor would be lying if he said he could focus on the meeting. His mind was elsewhere: out there in the barren, foul smelling plains of Mustafar, with a little boy so small he could hide behind rocks, completely alone, seemingly injured, and following him. But he tried his best– or, at least, he put up a good enough act to make it seem like he was actually interested in the rambles of businessmen, when he was actually relieved when they finally got to the point, providing him with the information that the Council sent him there for in the first place: blueprints of the facility, their plans, the number of people they had working there. Feemor looked it over, holding back a flinch at the sight of some of the names listed. Some workers had their salaries listed by their names, others didn't: slaves.

It made him wonder if that little boy out there could be one of them, if that boy was someone's child or if he'd been sold separately from his parents.

The arduously long meeting proved itself fruitful in a way other than what benefitted the Republic. These men wanted Feemor to like them. So, when he asked for something to eat, they provided it, when he barely touched the food they provided him with and requested for it to be bagged for him to take with him, they obliged.

He was happy when he was finally able to leave, and they were happy to see him go. However, his stay on Mustafar would be longer than expected for reasons that didn't involve the businessmen or the Republic: he couldn't leave without making sure that child was okay, couldn't even think of doing so without feeling his skin crawl with disgust at himself just for considering the possibility of turning his back on a boy in need. But even that thought didn't last long, pushed aside by ideas that took up much more importance: he had to get the boy to come close enough to see him better, see just how injured he was, and to stick around long enough to be able to do something about it.

By the time he came up with a half decent plan, he was already nearing his ship and, once again, he felt watched.

Feemor whistled a simple melody: a low, long sound first, then a higher, shorter one; as his eyes scanned his surroundings in search of red skin and golden eyes. He held the bag up, shaking it to make it make a sound of its own- the weight of the Bantha steak inside made the paper bag rattle.

"I promised I'd get you something else to eat," he called out. "It's meat."

First, he got down on one knee. Then, he thought better of it and sat cross legged. He couldn't get up quickly with Gus legs crossed, it was as vulnerable as he thought he could make himself when dealing with a child who didn't even reach his hip. Still, he tried his best to make himself look as small as possible.

"You can come get it if you want," he said. "I'm Feemor. What's your name?"