Chapter Text
The comm came through in Dooku’s office. From here, at the very top of one of the castle’s spires, he could see out across the old, dangerous forests, which stretched as far as the eye could see. Beyond them lay Carannia, with her tall, modern buildings and dense old apartments. Castle Serenno, with its grounds and constituent buildings, was a legacy from various spheroid and oval architectural periods, and would have stuck out like a sore thumb anywhere else on the planet it ruled. To Dooku’s mind, it was beautiful, but it didn’t numb his grief in the way he would have liked.
That same grief clawed at him as he looked down at the incoming transmission. It was on his Jedi line, which he’d kept despite his feelings towards the Order, and the ident associated with it flashed up, over and over again, as Qui-Gon Jinn.
Now that wasn’t true, he knew. It couldn’t be true because he had felt the force sing discordant, awful notes at the death of his long-ago padawan. Someone was calling him, pretending to be Qui-Gon, and it made Dooku sick to his stomach. Had he not already felt enough?
He answered the call to yell at the offender, and watched the form of a disheveled young man take shape on his desk. The description was familiar, though he’d never looked upon the face in life.
“Padawan Kenobi,” he named, but the man in question shook his head. There was no braid there.
“Knight. Knight Kenobi.”
A hollow prize to be won in the death of a master. Qui-Gon, he knew, from many long conversations, had believed his padawan more than ready for the title, but to see him receive it alone was still a terrible tragedy. Qui-Gon would have been immeasurably proud, had he been there to see it.
“My congratulations,” offered Dooku, slowly.
It was like a dam breaking, the grief and distress that suddenly seemed to flood from Kenobi all at once. “Master Dooku, I need your help. Qui-Gon trusted you and I haven’t anywhere else to turn, nobody will train him, and Mace won’t let me, he’s said he had a vision and I-”
Dooku raised a hand to cut him off. “Start from the beginning, Knight Kenobi.” No, that wasn’t right. This was the boy Qui-Gon had come to love like a son. “Obi-Wan.”
He could almost feel Kenobi releasing his emotions into the force, finding a Jedi Master’s calm. “On our last mission together, Qui-Gon found a boy on Tatooine. He was nine, and the searchers had missed him because he was a slave. His Midichlorian count was… higher than that of any living Jedi that I know of. Qui-Gon freed him and brought him back to the temple. The council refused to admit him, and Qui-Gon threatened to train the boy himself. He-” Kenobi fought to hide his own emotions again. Such Jedi foolishness. There was no weakness in crying in times of great grief. “He asked me to see the boy trained with his dying breaths. At first, they let me. I’ve shown him as much as I can, braided his hair. However, Mace – Master Windu – has received a vision. He now says that my training the boy will be the ruin of us all. I’ve been given two weeks to find the boy a new master, or send him home. Without having been an initiate, they won’t even let him join the corps.”
It was all of the foolish arrogance Dooku would have expected from the Jedi Council, and from Mace Windu in particular. Just because he could see a few shatterpoints, suddenly he was the most important Jedi who’d ever lived. Dooku knew from Qui-Gon that Kenobi had visions himself, and wasn’t nearly so obnoxious about it. Even Dooku had been granted a few, in his time.
“What do you want me to do?”
Kenobi shuffled slightly, like a child who was sitting on his hands to avoid fidgeting. “I need you to take him as your padawan.” At a questioning eyebrow from Dooku, he elaborated, “Qui-Gon… cared for you deeply.” Not love, for course, because they were all Jedi. “Anakin will be more likely to trust someone who Qui-Gon would have trusted, and you have the respect and the resources that even Mace couldn’t stop you.”
It was all true, and yet, “they will never let him try for knighthood, if I train him illicitly.”
Kenobi gave a tiny shake of his head. “If you don’t, then he’ll be sent back to Tatooine. I can’t allow that. He’s a child; he’ll be forced back into slavery.”
Under all his Jedi trappings and grief, Dooku could already tell that Kenobi was gaining some affection for the boy. It was so wrong to deny the bond between padawan and master, that gift of the force. He remembered Qui-Gon, Master of the Living Force that he had been, describing the pure certainty that he had felt finally accepting Obi-Wan as his own, knowing what he was intended to do. In his mind’s eye, Dooku could still see the legacies of his own long-severed bonds, Rael’s, still very much alive but distant, and the empty blackness where Qui-Gon and Komari had once been.
“I will transfer you the funds,” Dooku said, “to charter or book passage on a ship to Serenno. Leave at your earliest convenience.”
He couldn’t return to the temple now, after everything he’d done. His Master would know, and there was some part of him that was not ready to see hatred in the little creature’s beady eyes.
“I can’t come,” protested Kenobi, “as a knight I must-”
He was still a child, despite the title. “I will also send you an official diplomatic request from the Count of Serenno for your presence in resolving the aftermath of a local coup. I believe the Jedi are meant to be impartial arbiters in this sort of thing.”
The relief in Kenobi’s eyes was all the confirmation he needed that this was the right thing to do.
“Thank you,” he murmured, and reached forward to end the communication.
Suddenly feeling a pressing need, Dooku stopped him. “Knight Kenobi, Qui-Gon was always proud of you. He would not have wanted your duty to the boy and your duty as a Jedi to come into conflict. If he had known the pain this would cause you, I doubt he would ever have said this burden should be yours to bear.”
He turned the transmission off himself before Kenobi could see him cry.
In the months since Qui-Gon’s death, the grief had burned cold, an abyssal numbness at the core of him from which only faint winds whispered. With methodical precision, Dooku had left the order in all but name, taken the title of Count upon himself, and secured his position, both on Serenno and within the Republic. He’d spoken to no one of what had happened, save for the initial call from the temple records office to inform him of Qui-Gon’s death. In fact, aside from his own aides, his opponents on Serenno, and the new Chancellor, he’d barely spoken to anyone of anything at all. The hole in his heart had gaped, and Dooku had felt nothing.
Now, all at once, the dam broke. The gorge in his throat rose, choking away his breath. Qui-Gon was gone. They had barely seen each other, these last few years, and now they never would again. He would never receive another letter, quickly scrawled in the minutes between resolving various political crises. Nothing else mattered. He was never going to cut his padawan’s braid, or call Dooku in the middle of the night to talk about some trivial point of some old book he’d read. The way they had come to trust each other, in losing first Xanatos and then Komari, would be a burden only for Dooku himself, now. He would remember their dead alone. He was so profoundly grateful for every second they had shared, and yet he could not help but greedily wish for more. It was a final, killing blow after a duel’s worth of wounds. Dooku’s muscles twitched without his consent.
It felt good to grieve, openly, to cry and release the emotion into the force. Seizing the grief at the heart of him, Dooku reached up and shoved it out, into the universe. It was like a scream, but silent. Every force-sensitive with enough power to dream could probably feel it, a twinge of loss at the corner of their mind. It was powerful to be known.
Then, having finally let go of all the anger that festered in his heart, Dooku curled up in his chair and wept into his knees.
--
Obi-Wan seemed nervous, as they came down over Carannia. Anakin had wanted to go look at the city as they landed, but he’d been refused. Instead, they’d sat in silence broken by Obi-Wan periodically interrupting to quiz him.
“What is the capital of Serenno?”
“Who is the ruling family?”
“Who is their representative in the Senate?”
By now, Anakin knew all the answers. Obi-Wan had been upset by his not knowing, and worse about him paying appropriate respect to ‘Master Dooku.’ Apparently, Dooku had once been a Master of Master Qui-Gon’s, all of which struck Anakin as very strange. It had been explained to him several times that Jedi Masters were-not-the-same-thing, but Anakin, who was now being sent away to serve a stranger, found the difference unclear.
Even when the ship was opening like a jaw to allow them to walk down into the green-white city, Obi-Wan was still continuing with his lessons.
“Master Dooku is one of the most venerated of the Jedi.” He was half-whispering. “Being called by that title and addressed with deference will be important to him.”
The words were foreign, but Anakin knew the meaning anyways. The man who stood, waiting for them, looked like no Hutt but had the same aura of authority. He wore tight, black clothing that didn’t seem to belong in the temple, but fit well with the colouring of the city around him. Carannia was green. Not like Naboo. Nothing seemed to be alive here. Instead, the cloud-white buildings were covered in vague shapes, forms like the ghosts of trees. After Coruscant, it seemed small, but compared to anything on Tatooine it was massive. Every building was at least three levels, most were more.
Obi-Wan nudged him, and Anakin realized that Master Dooku was looking at him. Avoiding eye-contact, he bowed as he’d seen men do for Padmé, and said, “Master Dooku.”
Master Dooku snorted. It was the dismissive sort of noise that said someone had already made a mistake. Anakin braced against the consequences of whatever he’d done wrong.
“Knight Kenobi.” Dooku’s voice sneered like a bully’s. “If you’re going to teach any padawans you may take to cower, at least tell them the appropriate titles. His Esteemed Majesty, the Count of Serenno, is the highest title I am owed.” He reached out a hand and lifted Anakin by his chin. There were surprising calluses on his fingers. He’d worked. Not just a master, then. “For now, you may call me Count Dooku in public. In private, Dooku will suffice. If you become my padawan, we will re-evaluate our terminology. Do you understand?”
“If?” Obi-Wan cut in, a stressed note underlying his words. “I thought we’d come to an agreement.”
Dooku looked at him like he was a fool. “You and I have. Traditionally, a padawan may choose to reject any such offers. Given our unique situation, I propose we give Padawan Skywalker some time to acclimate.” His hawk-eyes focused back on Anakin. “You don’t understand. In common parlance, Padawan, you may choose to be my student or not, and will wait until after you know me to choose. Alright?”
“Yes,” Anakin managed to butt in, before Obi-Wan could cut him off again. He stuck out his hand. “Deal?”
With an odd look in his eyes, Dooku took it. “Deal, Padawan Skywalker.” They shook on it.
When Dooku pulled away, the careful mask that Anakin had seen before, on all the Senators except the Chancellor, on the council, and even on Padmé, was in place.
“I would be a poor host not to show you what is, in my humble opinion, the finest city in the Republic,” announced Dooku. Eyes shooting to Obi-Wan, he added, “it is a failing of your training that you have not seen Serenno, or the pearl that is her capital.”
Obi-Wan’s fists clenched, but he said nothing.
Anakin wasn’t totally sure what a ‘pearl’ was, but Carannia was definitely a really cool city. There were sleek droids everywhere, cleaning the streets and keeping the buildings shiny. The people were all dressed in tight clothes, and nobody walked like they were waiting for the whip to fall. Maybe all the slaves here were kept inside, like they were on Coruscant. Dooku talked about how it had all been built thousands of years ago, but other than that Anakin wasn’t really listening. A cloud of birds landed on little sticks poking out of one of the fake trees. It was nice to see that something natural was still alive.
By the time they finally took a shuttle back to where Dooku lived – a castle, just like a wizard in a story – Anakin’s legs were so tired they basically felt like they were going to fall off, but not in a bad way. Serenno seemed like a pretty wizard – ha, funny – place.
--
Obi-Wan held in his anger and confusion until Anakin was asleep. Even now, when they would never be Master and Padawan, he could feel the boy in the corner of his thoughts. The force around him was radiant as the two suns of his homeworld, and even the closeness of an almost-bond was enough to be blinded. Slowly, nervously, Anakin’s mind rolled over in sleep. He and Master Dooku were sitting in Dooku’s office, a desk between them, drinking a thick, sluggish wine that Dooku had called ‘a jewel of Talarma – in northern Serenno’. It didn’t taste like a jewel of anything much, but Master Dooku seemed to think of himself as someone with refined taste.
As soon as Anakin was asleep, he set his glass down. Master Dooku did the same, and watched him like a viper, coiled and waiting. Obi-Wan struck first. “What in all the Sith Hells were you thinking?” He demanded. After so many weeks of taking defeat after defeat from the council, it felt good to let go. “If Anakin chooses not to be your padawan, he won’t be anyone’s- they’ll send him back to Tatooine. You know what that would mean.”
Dooku took his glass back up, tracing circles around the rim in a manner so precise and careful it almost seemed lurid, though Obi-Wan suspected it was a subconscious choice. Unimpeded by someone fighting back, he decided to press on. “And not making him call you ’Master’? Are you saying you aren’t even a Jedi?”
Still silent, Dooku reached into his desk and pulled out his lightsaber. Its odd curves seemed to suit the fluid, curated person of its wielder. It was sleek, an obviously well crafted and maintained blade. That was no surprise; Dooku was one of the greatest duelists in living memory, and the living memory of the order – namely, Master Yoda’s – was long indeed.
“I am still a Jedi,” he said, coolly, “though I am, perhaps, not the man you assume. You know who my master was. Who my padawans were. What made you assume I would be a religious observer of Jedi tradition?”
It was a foolish question. “Qui-Gon always called you ‘Master’.”
This seemed to strike Dooku as a blow. Of course it would. It still struck Obi-Wan every second of every day.
“Not to my face,” said Dooku, his voice half-whisper, “not after he was Knighted. No matter how strained our relationship was as master and padawan, he became my friend. He was my friend.” He straightened in his seat, and the trace of emotion vanished. “Qui-Gon and Rael called me ‘Master,’ yes, because neither of them were ever afraid of me. I imagine that is because neither of them were slaves.”
He said it so coldly, and the words struck Obi-Wan like a dagger through the heart. Because he had been making Anakin use that title. Had been allowing the council to do the same. What an arrogant, foolish thing to do. No wonder Qui-Gon hadn’t wanted him, in the end. He had less empathy than a bantha. If it hadn’t been for the Sith, he probably never would have been a knight at all.
“Whatever you’re thinking about,” Dooku remarked, voice warmed in a way that felt both foreign and familiar, “you should stop. Release it into the force.” He sipped his wine. “I’ve spent many years holding on to grief and anger. Trust me when I tell you it will bring little joy.”
Obi-Wan was a Jedi. He should have been able to do this, but every time he tried to let go, he thought of Qui-Gon, standing on the opposite side of that forcefield, releasing everything into the force so he wouldn’t be afraid to die. He hated the way his heart both raced and clenched at the thought of it. He closed his eyes, and tried to feel the force the way he once had, omnipresent and deep as any ocean. Instead, it felt hard as stone and tasted like ash caught in his throat.
There was a squealing of metal on stone as Dooku pushed his chair out and stood. His footsteps were soft as he came around to place a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. It was a gesture that in a non-Jedi might have been affection, but there was no love between them. When he spoke, it was as Qui-Gon had always spoken when Obi-Wan found himself overwhelmed by the world around him.
“Breathe with my words,” dictated Dooku, “breathe the force deep into your chest, and when you exhale, let the pain flow with it. Good. Now breathe in slowly. One, two, three. Hold. Out, one, two, three.” It released some knot of tension in Obi-Wan’s chest. Against his will, his body folded inwards. Dooku said, “there is no shame in crying, Knight Kenobi. Those on the Council who would tell you otherwise are liars who have no understanding of what the Jedi should be.”
“Path to the Dark Side,” Obi-Wan muttered back. Dooku’s grip on him tightened.
Through gritted teeth, Qui-Gon’s master hissed, “You were trained by one of the greatest masters of the Living Force who was ever born. Don’t let his legacy be that you close yourself off from feeling. He wanted more for you than that.”
There was something about the harsh, almost cruel way that Dooku said it that turned his feeling from grief back to anger. “He never wanted me. Not at the beginning and not at the end. If he trusted me, I wouldn’t have watched him die.” Dooku seemed about to interrupt, but Obi-Wan pressed on. “He chose to face a Sith alone rather than wait a moment or two for me. He couldn’t trust me, and it killed him.”
Voice soft and commanding, like the Count he was, Dooku said, “I hope, some day, you can remember that the blame for Qui-Gon dying falls to the Sith that killed him. Whatever you read into the end of his life, and whatever six kinds of fool losing Xanatos made him act as in your first meetings, I hope you remember that between those points he loved you.”
Calling his lightsaber and his wine to him with a flick of his wrist, Dooku walked out.