It does not go as poorly as Satine had feared.
Perhaps Maul, too, was drained from their experience in the cave- it is as if all the rage and malice she has come to expect have been leeched out of him. He takes the device, and the twitching of his fingers gripping it are the only signs of emotion she can detect. Even the golden sheen of his eyes is muted as he stares at the message.
"This is extremely poor timing," he says at last, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing before her.
Understatement of the year Satine thinks. Out-loud she simply replies, "Yes, Lord Maul." Her use of his title seems to please him somewhat, but his eyes quickly darken again.
"Saxon has information for me, as well," Maul informs her. "He is afraid of delivering it. Although, I cannot imagine it will be worse than this." A strange expression crosses his features, a sort of joyless amusement. He grimaces. "I should see to that." There is not much more preamble before he leaves, as deathlessly quiet as a shade.
She waits for only a moment, gathering her thoughts, before leaving the room they were in, eager to get away from it. Even the air there feels stale and frigid. She tells herself it is just the cave getting to him, just like it got to her. She remembers the deep crush of hopeless she experienced after the bond was severed, and thinks that even Maul of all people cannot be completely immune.
The other explanation for his uncharacteristic behavior - the one she doesn't wish to consider- taunts her, glimmering coldly in the back of her mind. She attempts to sequester it away, but it will not be denied; it raises itself to the forefront of her thoughts, mutinous and defiant. Perhaps it whispers to her he has simply given up. She dismisses it, but not without some trepidation.
Without Maul to protect Mandalore... without Maul to protect Satine, who now again has the privilege of influencing legislation and thus determining the lives of his subjects on a much more real and pronounced way for them then the matter of who calls themselves their king... the world is lost. Their option of a peaceful future, their ability to choose for themselves a life in service to harmony, is only possible because they are shielded from the shroud of galactic war and zealots like Bo-Katan. Shielded by strength. Satine ruminates on a Mandalore abandoned, and she despairs at the thought of it. She sees a world in flames, cities in ruins, bodies turned to ash, survivors sold into slavery.
There is a wolf at their doorstep, dressed in Jedi garb, one that is a far more dangerous opponent because it thinks itself a savior.
She knows that even if she personally pleaded with him to stand down, it would be for naught. He is too stubborn, too narrow-minded in these circumstances. He has grown and matured since she first met him, but some of that reckless, brash spirit still resides inside of him, and Satine knows that he would simply refuse to believe any message from her that so dramatically went against his image of her.
Typical of the Jedi, she thinks bitterly, long-dormant resentment rising inside of her. To blunder into a situation, protected by an impenetrable barrier of self-righteousness, completely unaware of the larger context. She notes that her despair has now curdled into an impotent anger, and she doesn't try to stifle it. She fumes at the thought of Obi-Wan's Jedi Order. She does not blame them for the clone wars- not entirely - but she has always believed their meddling and short-sightedness helped fan the flames of the conflict. She had always tried to keep Mandalore neutral, and the thought of all her careful efforts and alliances wasted.... She forces herself to breathe in and then out deeply. She closes her eyes, letting herself focus on the inhale and exhale of her breath, of the rise and fall of her belly. She is lost in the repetition, the soothing reassurance of the familiar, meditative action... so much so that she does not hear him until he is directly in front of her.
When she opens her eyes, she almost trips back. She wonders how long he has been waiting there, how long he watched her obliviously suck in air. Embarrassment creeps across her cheeks, and not for the first time she wishes she weren't quite so pale. She may be skilled at controlling her facial expressions, but she's never been able to tamp down on her blush response.
"Hello, Savage," she says at last, for he seems content with the awkward silence between them.
"Duchess," he responds, the sound more of a low reverberation then a word, and it echoes pleasantly in her ears.
There is a brief pause, and Savage frowns slightly. "You have spoken with him."
"Maul?" she guesses. At his nod, she continues. "Yes, recently. I assume he's summoned you as well?"
"Yes." There is another pause, this one long and pregnant, before he finally chooses to elaborate. "There are pieces moving, into places Maul did not anticipate."
Satine's stomach twists into a knot of cold, hard dread. "Tell me."
He is unmoved by the demand, but his amber eyes seem to shine more brightly. "You will find out more soon," he promises, deep and lulling.
"He's with Saxon now," Satine says quietly, her mind racing to puzzle out the implications of Savage's remark. She wonders at what they're discussing, away from her and Savage. Some kind of denser strategy then she'd be knowledgeable about, perhaps. Or maybe it's something even more immediate, some piece of news or secret that Saxon wants to share with Maul alone first.
Savage doesn't seem particularly concerned with the ramifications of Saxon and Maul's meeting. But he still growls lowly at hearing Saxon's name. "The dog," he grumbles.
Satine shrugs, certain any attempt to defend Saxon will be in vain. And besides, despite her reluctantly growing affection for the man, she's not sure exactly how she'd vouch for him.
He may be a callous asshole, but at least he's a loyal callous asshole! To Maul, at least. Probably not for me, if shit were to really hit the fan, and definitely not for you. Time for trust falls!
"You've seen the witch," Savage says suddenly. "Her scent is all over you."
A vague alarm begins to buzz through her, but Satine forces herself to remain unperturbed. "Is that so?"
Savage is a massive creature, and one rarely in a rush- more prone to looming and lumbering then moving with any true grace or agility. As such, she sometimes forgets just how fast he can be when he wants to be. Lightning-quick, he has bridged the gap between them, and lowered his face to hers. His hands cradle the back of her head with a surprising gentleness, and he pauses for moment, eyes tracking hers, silently asking permission. She does not try to break away, and he ghosts his lips over hers, the softest imitation of a kiss. It is over before she has truly registered what's happening, and her breath stutters out of her.
"I was right," he rumbles, almost smug. "I can taste the witch on you."
Satine is almost afraid to look at him- she does not think she could bear to see his disappointment- but when she raises her gaze to meet his, Savage's eyes gleam with nothing more than a faint amusement, only lightly tinged with dissatisfaction. His hands drop from where they still rest against her head, and before she has time to mourn the loss of his touch, he has risen back up to his full height.
