[[a small treat to all my good boys and girls, any anything in between]]
The rain had not yet broken, but gray clouds pressed low over Carannia's skyline, muting every color outside the study's tall, lattice-framed windows. Count Dooku, cloak shed, tunic's sleeves rolled, stood at the glass and watched the distant spires until the first patter of droplets began to speckle the pane.
Rumors travel faster than storms, he thought.
It had taken less than a month for half of Serenno's great households to learn he had "taken in a child." Some versions claimed she was an orphaned cousin, others whispered she was his child from when he was a Jedi, and was one of the reasons he left. None guessed the truth, but all wanted an invitation to see for themselves.
Dooku turned from the window, crossing to a broad mahogany desk scattered with datacards. Each contained a terse request for an audience, couched in the velvet phrasing of nobility. Respectful … but insistent. House Vane sought to renew trade agreements, House Malraux wished to "extend blessings upon the newest member of Clan Serenno." Even the planetary Regency Council had asked whether a formal birth record would be filed.
They smell uncertainty. And where uncertainty blooms, leverage is never far behind. The door chimed. Jenza entered without waiting for permission, sweeping off a travel cloak beaded with rain. "You look like a man cornered by protocol, Thats not like you, brother," she said, eyeing the sea of datacards.
"Protocol I can manage," Dooku replied, rubbing a thumb over his beard. "It is curiosity that concerns me."
Jenza laid her gloves aside and moved closer. "They'll push, but no one on Serenno will outright challenge you, brother. Father's line still carries weight."
"Weight, yes. Inviolability, no." He tapped one of the datacards. "House Malraux has quietly funded holonet reporters before, always 'anonymous sources' and conveniently timed leaks. If Liora's existence jumps from polite rumor to off-world spectacle, the Jedi will hear of it." He paused, voice sharpening. "And they will come."
Jenza leaned a hip against the desk. "Then we stay ahead of them. Present a coherent story and close every gap they might pry open."
Dooku exhaled. "I have drafted a declaration: Liora Serenno, ward and legally adopted daughter, parents deceased in a freighter collision over the Cademimu sector. No living relatives." He lifted his gaze to Jenza's. "You were once apprenticed to House Lawlor's archivists. How cleanly can such records be placed?"
"Cleanly enough," she answered, a hint of pride slipping through. "I still have friends in the census office. A quiet midnight insertion, the right seals, and the file becomes fact."
He offered a single nod, an admission that he needed her help even if his pride bristled. "Very good."
Jenza folded her arms. "But that only solves half the problem. Liora's midichlorian count—"
"—is not public knowledge," Dooku finished, sharper than intended. He looked toward the door that led deeper into the manor, where Liora slept under 2-1B's unobtrusive surveillance. "No scanners, no healers from outside the estate. I have replaced most of the household staff; those who remain have sworn new confidentiality oaths."
"And if the Jedi send envoys?"
He stared at the rain-slick window again, jaw set. "Then I will meet them at the spaceport gate. Alone."
Jenza's expression softened. "You're walking a blade, brother. Serenno's courts obey you, but the wider galaxy is less polite."
"I know." He picked up one datacard, then another, sweeping them into a lacquered box and sealing it shut. "But I will not surrender her to the same institution that stifled every instinct I once trusted. She is my responsibility, mine to shield, mine to guide." He glanced back at Jenza. "And yours, if you still wish it."
She smiled, wry but warm. "You couldn't keep me away if you tried."
For the first time that day, tension eased from his shoulders. "Then let us begin." He pressed a control on his desk, dimming the room's lights to a studious glow. "Draft the adoption record. I will compose replies to the nobles, polite deferrals. Curiosity may be inevitable, but access is a privilege I grant at my choosing."
Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, Count Dooku dipped a stylus into real ink and began to write.
One month later
Count Dooku wakes before the first servants stir. He lies still, eyes on the carved ceiling of his bedchamber, because something is wrong, a tremor in the Force. The sensation is gone in a heartbeat, but the cold it leaves behind lingers deep in his chest.
Qui-Gon?
The thought forms, and he finds he cannot dismiss them. He rises, dons a plain tunic and cloak, and paces the corridor that overlooks the inner gardens. The marble tiles chill his bare feet. Outside, songbirds begin their tentative first notes, but they cannot drown the hollow ringing in his mind.
When the estate's comm chime finally sounds, hours later. Dooku is already in his study, standing before a curtained holo-projector. He answers with a touch to the control pad. Master Mace Windu's image flickers into being, full-scale and solemn. Beside him materializes Master Yoda, staff in hand.
"Count Dooku," Windu begins, voice low, "I wish this were a courtesy call."
Dooku inclines his head, face carved from stone. "I felt it. Qui-Gon Jinn."
Yoda's eyes close. "Fallen, he has. On Naboo. Faced a Sith Lord, he did."
A Sith. The Order had not confronted a living Sith in a millennium, yet Qui-Gon had crossed blades with one. Dooku remained calm even, He had long ago mastered the art of keeping his mask on.
"His padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi, slew the attacker," Windu continues. "Young Kenobi is alive. The Council has elevated him to the rank of Knight."
Obi-Wan had always been diligent, His old student spoke much of him. Dooku draws a steadying breath.
"And Jedi Kenobi has taken on a new student," Windu adds. "A boy Qui-Gon discovered, Anakin Skywalker. The Council believes he may be… the Chosen One."
Dooku closes his eyes. The prophecy that had obsessed Qui-Gon for years, now anchored to a child. A child whose fate would be shaped by the same Council Dooku no longer trusted.
"We will hold a memorial on Naboo in seven days' time," Windu says. "Qui-Gon spoke of you often, even after you left. The Order would welcome your presence to honor him."
Yoda leans on his gimer stick, gaze brimming with something unspoken, perhaps a request that Dooku set grievances aside, if only for a day.
"I will be there," Dooku says, the words tasting like iron. "Thank you for informing me, Master Jedi."
The holograms fade. Silence settles, thick as dusk.
Later that morning
Jenza finds him in the nursery, buckling the straps of a travel satchel while 2-1B quietly logs Liora's latest vital scan. Sunlight pools on the carpet; dust motes drift like tiny stars. Liora sits propped against embroidered pillows, cheeks fuller, green skin no longer pallid. When she sees Dooku she stretches small arms toward him, babbling a greeting.
Jenza arches a brow. "You're packed for off-world travel, and the suns are barely up. Explain."
He lifts Liora, settles her against his shoulder. "Qui-Gon Jinn is dead. A Sith killed him on Naboo. His funeral is in a week."
Shock flits across her face, quickly tempered by concern. "I'm sorry, Dooku. I know what he meant to you."
"He was the finest apprentice I ever trained." Dooku presses a hand to Liora's back, feeling her tiny heartbeat. And I was not there. "I leave tonight, on a discreet charter. I will return as swiftly as ceremony permits."
Jenza's gaze softens on the child. "You want me to remain here."
"There is no safer place for her than this estate, with you overseeing security." He tilts his head. "And you keep the household in better order than I ever did."
She smiles, wry, reassuring. "Flattery noted. I'll handle everything, brother. Liora and I will make do with stories and block puzzles. Though I will see how she takes to studying."
Dooku exhales, tension easing fractionally. He turns to 2-1B. "Medical protocol omega-nine: maintain her electrolyte schedule, monitor cardiovascular strain, and alert Lady Jenza of any spike above baseline."
"Yes, lord Dooku," the droid replies.
He shifts Liora into Jenza's waiting arms. The toddler fusses, small fingers clinging to the lapel of his cloak.
"I will return," Dooku murmurs, smoothing a lock of white hair from her brow.
She gurgles, a soft protest or maybe trust; with infants, the sounds blur. He feels her presence in the Force, bright, nascent, already threaded with a serenity he never possessed at her age. The thought steadies him.
Jenza bounces Liora gently. "Go," she says. "Mourn your friend. Say whatever words you need. We'll be here, your family, waiting."
Evening
Dooku's shuttle lifts from the private launch pad. As the stars sharpen outside the viewport and Serenno dwindles to a jeweled crescent, Dooku folds his hands and allows himself a moment of unguarded sorrow. He pictures Qui-Gon's easy grin, the way the younger man once said the living Force will guide you, Master, if you listen.
I am listening, Dooku thinks, eyes glistening. Too late, perhaps, but I am listening.
Theed's domes gleamed ivory in the late-afternoon sun, but Count Dooku had admired the view only through the hotel's balcony doors. two days of polite seclusion, no receptions, no Senatorial dinners, no holocams, just silent meditation and the soft chime of palace bells drifting on river air.
Yet even behind drawn drapes, he could feel it: collective sorrow humming through Naboo's plazas, the heavy knot of unresolved fear since the sith ruled by the rule of 2, those another one remained. He let that current wash through him but never lingered long; each time it brushed the raw place in his chest, he went to his breathing exercises.
Day of the funeral
A hush fell over the Royal Plaza the instant Queen Amidala's ceremonial choir began its low, wordless chant. Marble colonnades magnified every footfall, every rustle of mourning robes. Dooku walked near the middle of the Jedi contingent, shoulders squared, hands folded inside wide sleeves. Masters Windu and Adi Gallia flanked the Royal Handmaidens at the front; behind them came healers, archivists, pilots, all gathered to honor Qui-Gon Jinn.
Dooku kept his eyes forward. He had greeted no one beyond the briefest courtesy nods, saving his composure for the twin figures he knew he must face once they reached the pyre.
The bier waited at the plaza's center, a graceful lattice of electrum bands suspending Qui-Gon's body as though he merely slept beneath a braid of flowers. Pale linen wrapped him from throat to boot tips, but his face remained uncovered: strong brow relaxed, silver-flecked beard neatly combed.
Seeing him so still wrenched something deep inside Dooku, but he swallowed the ache and took his place at the edge of the Jedi semi-circle. Queen Amidala began a short address diplomatic, heartfelt address, and when she finished, the Grand Master stepped forward.
Yoda's voice, usually gravelly and warm, carried a brittle undertone Dooku had not heard since the Stark Hyperspace War decades earlier. "A loss great as any in recent memory, this is. Yet sing of life, the Force does, even through sorrow."
When the speech ended, the choir resumed, softer now, and those not bound to protocol drifted inward to pay final respects. Dooku waited, first row, second, third, until at last his instincts warned him that a slim, that a presence approached from behind.
"Master Dooku?"
He turned. Obi-Wan Kenobi bowed, auburn hair tied back, face gaunt from too many sleepless nights. At twenty-five, the young Knight carried no braid, only the fresh aches. At his side stood a boy of nine with wheat-blond hair and wide, watchful blue eyes: Anakin Skywalker.
Dooku inclined his head. "Knight Kenobi." The title felt foreign; he remembered Obi-Wan at thirteen struggling through Makashi footwork until he mastered every angle. "I am… sorry we meet under such a grief-laden sky."
Obi-Wan's voice wavered but held. "Thank you, Count Dooku. He spoke of you often." He nudged the boy forward. "Anakin, this is Count Dooku of Serenno. He trained Master Qui-Gon when they were both with the Order."
Anakin offered an earnest bow more suited to a much older Padawan. So much intensity, Dooku thought. The Force around the child was a sun behind thin clouds, brighter than any presence he had sensed. Far brighter than even Liora's budding spark, though more turbulent too.
The boy spoke first. "I'm sorry about Master Qui-Gon. He was going to teach me the living Force." He swallowed hard. "But Obi-Wan will now."
A flicker of pride softened Obi-Wan's features; grief returned just as quickly. "We'll do it together, Anakin."
Dooku studied them, teacher and student. Obi-Wan's aura, once flickering candlelight, had steadied into a disciplined flame since the duel on Naboo. Dooku mused. Still, the older Knight's shoulders sloped under invisible weight. Training a prodigy this powerful without guidance from the Council's more flexible minds would test any Jedi, let alone one who had buried his Master.
"Carry his lessons gently," Dooku offered at last, voice low. "Qui-Gon valued intuition above formality. Let that be your guide."
Obi-Wan nodded, words catching in his throat. "I will." With that, those two left.
The line thinned; the plaza's hush deepened. Dooku approached the bier alone. The scent of Naboo rose oil mingled with ion-sterilized cloth, too clean, too final.
Forgive me, my apprentice, he thought, letting the words roll inward on the Force. I should have been at your side. Had I not turned away from the Order, had we walked together, perhaps…
No answer came, only the soft wind threading through archways.
"Regret serves little, my old Padawan."
Master Yoda halted beside the bier, gimer stick clicking on marble. Age creased the little Master's eyes, but there was a note of steel beneath sorrow.
"Too great a burden, place upon yourself, you do," Yoda said quietly. "Paths we choose, each of us owns. Choose to face the Sith, Qui-Gon did. Die for his convictions, he was prepared."
Dooku turned to look at his master. They regarded one another, student and teacher reunited under a funeral pyre neither had wished for.
"I left him to walk alone," Dooku answered, voice rough. "I left you to shoulder what rot had settled in the Council's bones. That was my choice, yes, but it birthed consequences I must own."
Yoda's ears slanted back, grief and pride mingling. "Return to us, would you? The fight grows larger than any of us alone."
"I cannot." He glanced toward Obi-Wan and Anakin at the plaza's edge.
Yoda accepted this with a slow nod. His cane indicated Anakin. "Greater than any seen for centuries, his light is. Brighter also the shadow cast."
Dooku followed the gesture. Anakin had pivoted to study the swells of gathered Naboo citizens, awe flickering across youthful features, then a flash of raw sorrow he tried valiantly to bury beneath Jedi breathing drills, Obi-Wan whispered. Such weight, such promise.
"Would Qui-Gon approve," Dooku murmured, "Of the way you will teach him?"
Yoda huffed. "Proved stubborn, he always did. Yet trust, also, he did. Trust, now, we must." Softly.
They stood in silence as robed attendants placed torches beneath the bier. Blue flame bloomed, spreading along electrum filigree until it kissed the linen. Incense curled upward; heat shimmered.
Dooku felt the Force stir, Qui-Gon's presence sliding into the oceanic whole, ripples already fading. Farewell, my friend.
Across the plaza, Anakin's chin trembled. Obi-Wan rested a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder and spoke low reassurance no one else could hear.
Dooku watched the gesture. He bowed his head to the flames, then stepped back into the ranks of onlookers.
That night, long after the pyre's embers died, Dooku slipped from Theed's grand landing pad aboard his charter. He left behind only a brief letter for Obi-Wan: Trust instinct over doctrine.
In hyperspace, star-lines streaked like silver water. He closed his eyes and sought Liora across the gulf, found her easily, a distant ember of sleepy contentment beneath Jenza's watchful aura. The raw emptiness Qui-Gon's death left inside him warmed, just enough, at that fragile spark.
"My path diverges from yours now, Master," he whispered to the memory of Yoda's counsel, to the last wisp of Qui-Gon's warmth, to whatever unseen currents listened. "But should the Sith rise again, know that Serenno will not fall."
He opened his hand, imagined a small green palm curled within it.