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It was not the first time he had had such dreams, nor did he ever acknowledge them for more than they were. He slept, knew them for dreams, watched them inside his head detachedly, with as little emotion in sleep as he displayed in waking life. But he could not wake. The dreams played in his head again and again and he had no choice but to watch them repeat, the same dreams night after night until of their own volition they let him go.

It frustrated him that with all his power he could not escape from something so simple. It frustrated him more that it was his own suppressed conciousness that would not let him try.

His master had assured him they were simple nightmares, nothing more, dreams born out of the dark side currents he manipulated so readily while awake. They would pass in time, he had said smoothly. Soon, you will embrace the dark side wholly with nothing to hold you back.

So he whetted his skills, watched, hoped, for that day. And the dreams continued.

It was the same tonight as it had been for the past few nights. He was back on Iridonia, in the house where he had been born and raised, had grown up in until he was twelve years old. Except that through the large windows, the scenery outside was not of Iridonia, but of Coruscant. Coruscant, where he lay asleep.

The real Khameir Sarin felt a faint misgiving, knew what dream was being given to him this time. The dream Khameir Sarin did not even notice.

"Mother?"

He could not have pinpointed how old he was in the dream. Young, old, it did not matter. Suddenly he was in the dream, both personas merged together, just for an instant. All that mattered was that he was home.

"Mother? Father?"

He ran through the familiar house, garments whispering around him with each pounding footfall. He stopped suddenly to reach out and touch one of the familiar painted columns, to breathe in the scent of home. His dream self did so almost involuntarily. His real self, hunched behind the dream, savored the sensations. Such a long time ago.

He dashed past the kitchens, paused, turned. Yes, there she was, making dinner. Her back was turned to him. The cityscape of Coruscant shimmered through the window as he passed.

"Mother?"

She did not pause, her hands busy with the food, her ridged, horned head bent over the meal she was preparing. "Yes, Khameir."

"Mother, I have news!"

His dream persona was excited, the enthusiasm bubbling to the surface in his short, clipped words and gestures. Behind the dream, he flinched. He had put such childish behavior behind him long ago, and the thought that he could still display it, even in a dream, was unpleasant.

She dropped the utensils she had been holding, her shoulders slumped. "It can wait."

"Mother-"

He knew what was coming next, tried to stop it, block it, but it was as though the Force had ceased to exist. She turned with a quickness that still surprised him and as he saw her face, he screamed.

There were things, things crawling from her eyes, the nostrils, slimy dead things feeding noisily on her rotting flesh. The eyes were empty sockets, her mouth smiled in the rictus of death.

All time seemed to stop as he screamed, kept on screaming, wanting to vomit, run, but couldn't. The horns on her head cracked, split. Blood ran from the empty sockets, the gaping nothingness, blood that dripped, dark and warm on his hands his tunic, his face, dripped in grotesque slow motion. The things writhed, ravenously tearing the flesh, and then the skull broke, splintered on the floor, wet bone gleaming in the Coruscant sunset, and something was crawling out.

He could barely see through the tears that blinded him and he could still hear someone screaming through the terrible animal fear that surged within him, beat into his brain in crashing waves. The glistening thing within what had been his mother's skull undulated, squirming. He could feel its primal hunger.

And then the windows broke open and over Coruscant's skyline he saw them, hundreds of them, coming for him. He tried to run, to flee, but his legs were rooted to the ground. They reached him, overtook him, entered him, fed deep on his fear.

The pain and darkness overtook him and he plunged into the endless chasm of death and into-

Waking. To hear himself still screaming. He drew a deep, ragged breath, felt wetness around him and recoiled, then realized that it was his own sweat that soaked the sheets and his clothes. He hoped no one had heard his screaming.

He couldn't have slept for very long, but the dreams always seemed to last an eternity. Even the shorter ones, of which this one had been.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and lit the lamp. The room that emerged in the light was austere: a bed, a built-in wall viewscreen, a chair, some garments draped over the latter's back. A mirror in the far corner. He had a sudden urge to go look at himself in it, to dispel the last vestiges of the dream. But he remained where he was, too exhausted and drained to even stand. Besides, he did not like to see his face without the paint his master made him wear.

At first he had protested vehemently, feeling like a fool in clown's makeup. But now he was glad of it. The design inspired terror, had even sent a thin thrill of fear up his spine when he had first seen it on his own face. It was a mask, the bold black and red hiding his true features from the view of others. In sleep, without it, he felt strangely vulnerable, like it was armor he had to force himself to cast off every night. Showing his weaknesses to all who could see.

He looked up at the holoclock in the wall next to the viewscreen. It glowed with a soft light of its own, just out of reach of the lamplight. Midnight. He needed his rest. In all likelihood he was appearing before the heads of the Trade Federation tomorrow and it would not do if here to appear fatigued. Or afraid.

Fear is the path to the dark side...

But he had conquered his fear, he had thought, conquered it with anger. Then again, as the nightmares showed, perhaps not. He hoped that whatever fear he felt would never show on his face.

That's what the paint is for.

Hide me...renew me...

Fear me.

He turned off the light, lay down again on the bed still damp with his sweat, trying to breathe regularly. He felt the dark side close to him, nudging him and then retreating. He let his mind drift. He could control the dark side, but not fully. Not as his master could.

When will I be allowed this power? When may I receive my true reward, the goal for which I have worked so hard toward?

When will these dreams ever cease?

He slowed his breathing, rested, slept.

Darth Maul dreamed.