Chapter 56. The End of Count Dooku
Jedi did not swear, or at least, did not admit to it.
But nobility – surely they were permitted to utter an incautious expletive or two, for only fueled by such was Dooku, temporary lord of the manor, able to don the horrible garments that now decorated his body.
Or adorned.
Or some such nonsense, but there was no doubt the outfit was hideous. And thankfully, temporary.
Now "properly attired," and hopefully "presentable" to he-who-deemed-this-necessary, Dooku descended to the library and decanted a very expensive bottle of liquor before sinking into the comfortable seat he had vacated some time before and swiveled to gaze out the windows. Young Kenobi was now out of sight, the only sight to greet him was Serenno itself.
A Jedi could and should find himself at home anywhere, but he still preferred Coruscant above all other places. It had a bustle and an edge to it he liked with the serenity of the Temple there for when quiet contemplation became tempting.
Still, the planet of his birth was quite a nice planet all in all, the living comfortable and poverty all but non-existent. The Six Houses ruled and ruled well, at least on the surface. Dooku had seen so-called "democratic" governments that ruled with little regard for the actual governed; here, the aristocracy had a tradition and a heritage of beneficence that all but excused the lack of formal consent by the governed.
He downed a swallow of the fiery liquid and smiled appreciatively as he leaned back in the seat.
Young Kenobi's white face of not so long ago again popped into his mind. What had so shaken him?
He knew it hadn't been one of his "bad feelings" for Yoda had been quite clear in his recounting of the sordid story that had brought them all to this point. He knew as well that the boy's connection to the light was wrought with static while the Force's connection to the boy was – clear, a comm transmission reaching a switched off receiver.
So, if it wasn't a bad feeling born of the Force, it was any one of several possibilities.
The boy was obviously intelligent and quite likely anything but a fool. He also was confused between the contradictions spoken by his heart and his mind. Only time would tell if his master's influence had hindered or helped the boy's internal balance. Like his grand-master, his personality ran strongly to logic, to linear patterns, but under Qui-Gon's tutelage, his heart had been guided to expression that perhaps any other master would have squashed.
Just as the boy had been molded by affection, too long delayed though it had been, into a far from a run-of-the-mill-Jedi, Qui-Gon had been tempered from a flower-gazing Jedi with no thought beyond the moment into one far more balanced.
No matter his reputation, Qui-Gon was one of the most respected Jedi within the Order, as someday young Obi-Wan would be in turn. Exemplary Jedi. His legacy.
And for just a moment, he let himself revel in his pride.
He looked at his chrono, and set his pride aside.
He had only another five moments to enjoy the fine spirits, sink into the formfitting chair and stare out the window. Thirty-five minutes before reconfirming his commitment to the Order by rejecting a commitment to a family he had no memory of.
Six great Houses of Serenno.
If only everything were a number puzzle. Find the right number, interpret it correctly, and find an answer. If only it were that easy…the Force's eddies slowed, only to resume its normal pattern when it was clear Dooku would not be pursuing that train of thought.
"Gee-Vee-Sss," such a mouthful, Dooku decided, and on a whim amended it. "Jeeves, have the speeder at the front door in two minutes. It is a one and one half cycle drive to the Seat, I have been informed; I should prefer to arrive precisely at the appointed time."
"Very well, sir." For a droid, particularly that old a protocol model, it was not too annoying. Somehow those designed to aid in diplomacy and translation were usually the most irritating, drive-its-owner-to-distraction model of droid ever invented. And the whirring of servomotors…but like all else in the House, even the droids were relatively quiet and not terribly annoying.
He downed the last few sips of his most-excellent brandy (luckily there were several bottles stashed in his personal effects) and stood, straightening his tunic and smoothing the crease of his pinstriped pants. He was, technically, the unacknowledged Count, and had been given the silkiest of suggestions by the legalitor to dress the part. No Jedi tunics for him. The sniff had been there, even if no one but a Jedi could have discerned it.
The fabric was heavy, stiff with embroidery and by his tastes, flamboyant. A deep blue in color, his House's color, they were touched with purple (how Mace would love that) and a rather putrid shade of yellow. The ruffles at his neck and wrists were – overwrought, he decided distastefully. A ceremonial knife, so old it predated vibroblades, adorned his waist where he was used to the weight of his lightsaber. It was not part of the costume and hence could not be displayed – but there were places to stash it.
A well-dressed not-quite-Count would not be seen with such a thing; a well-dressed Jedi would not even consider going out in public without it somewhere on his person.
Catching a last glimpse of himself in the looking glass in the marbled entry with its enormous chandelier (fake candles and everything) he was aghast enough to again shudder and indulge his sartorial horror. He was inordinately thrilled young Kenobi was not present to bite the inside of his cheek and swallow a well-intentioned "social lie" that just yearned and itched to be shoved aside for some unrestrained commentary. The young man had a wry sense of humor, but he was in no mood to appreciate it right now.
Shmi Skywalker straightened up, a hand rubbing her back. Long hours at Watto's counter followed by long hours at her work bench at home were taking a toll. It was worth it, though. Her Ani was free.
Her mother's heart grieved for his absence, yearned for his presence, and celebrated his life apart from her.
Watto daily grumbled and complained how he was cheated out of "his Ani" but Shmi easily tuned him out. As sometimes happened, her thoughts turned to the three who had been her Ani's salvation.
The cheerful, excitable Gungan had charmed her even as he wore on her. There was no guile and no deceit within him, much like a young child. Like Ani had been once, before slavery had claimed his spirit and tried to tame him.
The pretty young lady, Padmé, inquisitive and well bred. She had hated the thought of her Anakin racing on their behalf almost as much Shmi herself. The young lady was good with children; you could see she adored Anakin and he her. No matter how gentle, one could see she was a bit of a spitfire, a durasteel inner core draped in soft velvet. Why someone like her would accompany the other two was a puzzle, but there was no reward for finding an answer and so Shmi accepted her without further thought.
And the Jedi. Strong, powerful, exuding a powerful masculine charm that evaporated her barriers – why, her heart beat just a bit faster to think of him, to remember the feel of his hands upon her skin. She had sworn long ago not to let her heart lead her except when it came to her son, but then he had touched her and stirred it to life, a flickering flame that had needed the tenderness freely offered. She shivered, remembering his arms around her, his lips against her hair, his breath warm on her neck.
One night of tenderness after so many years without: she had not thought to question such a gift. Sometimes there was no why, just time that transcended such things.
He had touched her cheek, and she in turn, his. That was enough. It was so much more than she had had in years.
He had said nothing, not in words, anyway. Each little movement, each gaze of his eyes had betrayed his compassion. His kindness and honesty had been like a pail of water to a parched plant. In the silence of their time together, she had grown to understand just what a trusting and naïve young girl she had once been, to accept soft words and kissed palms as a substitute for gentle consideration.
She jerked out of her introspection a moment later.
"Shmi!' Watto hissed at her as he flew past her, hovering before the customer who had just entered the shop. "What can I do for you, stranger?"
"I need some parts for an evaporator."
"Sure, sure. What's'a your model, friend? Forget the woman, she's'a no help to you."
With a small shrug and "Sorry,Ma'am," in his eyes, the gruff sounding but gentle-eyed customer nodded to her as he followed Watto outside the shop.
Absently brushing a stained vibroshive against his pant leg, BB checked his chrono as he swung into a fast ground speeder. Timing was everything; the good Jedi master had always been known for his punctuality.
His grin widened. He had best be; one who had been left alive, slowly dying, was meant to linger long enough to delay the esteemed Dooku. Everything this day depended on timing.
Said legalitor had been left alive enough to keep the soon arriving Jedi master focused on saving his life, rather than making a speedy return to the estate.
To Kenobi.
He giggled and cracked his knuckles. The look of sheer terror on the legalitor's face, the stench of fear and impending death in the Force, almost made up for the restraint he had forced on himself. Such lovely rivulets of blood, the outflow of lovingly carved marks and the sour odor of a human so lost in fear that bodily control had failed, leaving its own marks upon the shimmersilk suiting.
Both to console himself and with time to kill – he, of course, had to sure the perhaps fatal wound would not be too soon fatal - he had forced himself upon the gagged and bound comely assistant, stripping her of gag, bindings and in-the-way clothing, inhaling her protests and reveling in her struggles before leaving her sprawled in satiated death. Few were so fortunate to die as she died, in the throes of physical love.
None, he was sure, had been left to decorate the holy shrine of defilement.
Casting his senses around him, he found his prey ahead.
And the hunter began his stalk; the pounce gloriously yet to come.
The man without a heart now had one.
And a spare.
One made of flimsiplast, one of muscle, each as fragile as the other. Inconvenient, damnable – and no longer possible to ignore.
He still wanted to deny it; wished to deny it. Hearts were inconvenient things; they brought neither riches nor power. They brought pain and regrets. Hearts were inconveniently allied with compassion and a conscience.
Yet too often his fingers strayed to the crinkled flimsy, to the gift of an orphan boy now resident in a pocket.
A heart – a conscience – scruples, a bitter path that. He was more than that – above all that. What need had he of any of that?
Damnable scruples.
Scruples hurt. They confined and squeezed. That was why he had discarded them so many years ago.
Scruples were a fence, a barrier and an obstacle to all that was pleasurable in life – they made one question one's choices and one's actions. He had never cared to question, only to experience. To drink, to wench, to gamble, though such was anathema to those who raised him, those who tried to teach him his duty was to others, not himself.
To serve, and not even at his own whim, but at the whim of others.
He was a princeling amongst men, and so he had left the men and the women, the servants behind. He had had for years now one of the finest cellars in existence, any woman beneath him he wanted, and wealth enough to gamble away an entire planet before winning the next one back.
And it meant nothing without her.
She whom he had found so long ago, when some scruples had not been set aside, some chains yet unbroken.
He had not known then that the delight and satisfaction of the seduction of one so young, so innocent, so giving would be the cruelest self-destructive act of all. She had captivated him even as he had used her for self-pleasure, and in so doing had sealed both their fates.
She had become his only weakness, his one need, and his greatest temptation. So he let her go – and tracked her down again. Abandoned her; gravitated back to her. Loved her, and then lied to her. Spoke of their tomorrows together as he bid her farewell.
But no matter how long it had been, she welcomed his return, believing his lies, believing one day they would be together.
Believing in his promises.
I promise we will be together as soon as I can arrange it. Nuzzling her neck, wrapping her securely within his arms once his need for her was satisfied, he could almost believe he meant it. For a few precious moments he could believe love conquered all and love was enough. Life had taught him different. Love was pain and betrayal, temporary and fleeting.
Wait just a bit longer. Wait for me, my love, wait.
And for years she had waited, and for years she had loved him. For years, she had believed him.
And then one day he had felt her faith in him slip, her welcome less effusive. How dare she. How dare she – and so he had taken her by force, ripped her clothes and her love to shreds with bitter anger and fierce possessiveness Then, as she had softly wept into rumpled sheets, a stray scruple caused him to wipe the encounter from her mind after he had forced the bruises to fade to nothing.
He had borne those bruise ever since, in a part of himself he had thought safely locked away.
The night that he forever wished to forget became the night that never was; it had become as well a night the ancient prophecy had come to fruition. He had intruded so deeply into her being in his attempt to wipe her memory clean he had stumbled upon knowledge so long sought that he scarcely believed it. This was she; the mother to be of a yet unconceived son. Vanity and greed and the knowledge conspired to make his meddling even deeper.
When he was through, she had never known the man who loved her and for whom she waited for so many years had been there, or that he had left something behind.
The Chosen One, to ripen in her womb.
All those years he had suspected; all those years she had been barren. And his plan was born. He wrested control of the prophecy as with his body he wrested Fatherhood from the Force. It was, literally, child's play for him. A little nudge here, a little nudge there, a touch of Force to ripen the egg to perfect receptiveness.
His perfect son, his perfect tool, had been born nine months later. Some three years later, the boy's training had begun.
Double those three years and the prophecy adjudged true: the son of the Force through the means of a man using the Force called the Jedi to him and in turn was taken into their care. The viper in their bosom, the means to an end and a balance caused by the eradication of Qui-Gon Jinn's soul through the devastation of his padawan's soul.
He had been supremely confident, no qualms and no hesitations, committed and conceited enough to believe he could reshape the galaxy to his liking.
He had gotten a nasty shock from Naboo; there was malevolent evil out there, with its own agenda.
A man without a heart did not care. But a child had changed that.
One who cared could fear. And the evil, he feared, was breathing too close. That evil had stirred alert at Naboo and was no doubt sliding through dark and haunted by lanes only it knew, seeking some of the same prey for its own nefarious ends. Sith, the Jedi murmured. Sith, BB had gleefully cackled as he had passed it on, seemingly so long ago. Sith, silent and deadly, childhood terrors come to life.
On its prowl, fangs bared, it may have - must have - stumbled upon BB.
BB, with his unwarranted rages and strange fetishes, had been teetering on the edge of mental instability for some time, he had been slowly coming to realize. He had grasped the floundering boy years ago, rescued him as he had rescued others discarded as so much garbage, and given each an opportunity to earn a place in any one of his enterprises.
BB had been a pearl amongst oysters, flawed and brilliant from the start, his anger honed to serve another.
His fingers sifted data as his mind sifted all else – and a horrible hypothesis took shape.
A BB, who not reported in a while, who had been insolent and impertinent, who had fumbled his job or perhaps merely had shaken off the constraints put on him - a BB who might have been snatched into the hands of a Sith to serve its ends! He shuddered. Cruelty and anger must surely descend then into depravity and insanity.
And a BB given full rein to indulge his simmering insanity….
…a crumpled heart fluttered in the wake of a stifled curse, the swing of a desk chair and the hasty departure of the heart's new owner.
Oh, SITH!
He could no longer trust BB to do only and exactly as ordered. He would not trust Anakin, or even Obi-Wan, to BB. He most certainly would not trust her to BB.
Not with his fears multiplying by the moment. He had to attend to BB, for as good as BB was, he had not been good enough to hide his prying fingers from the man who had trained him. He knew now. BB had the scent and would soon have the trail: somehow he would soon know who the carefully guarded secret of his heart was; somehow know who and what both Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker were to him.
And now, only now – because his heart had been returned to him - he knew as well.
If he had any chance, by Force any chance at all, with her – he had to give up this mad idea of revenge, of using Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker to get at Qui-Gon Jinn. He had chosen his path out of weakness. It was time to choose another path, one with her at his side.
It was time to abandon this idea of position, of honor, of suitability. It was he who was unworthy of her.
He could give up the other women, the occasional men – he would give them up. She would be mistress of his heart, if not his household. He would not deny her recognition as mother of his children yet to come, should such come to pass. Men such as he had no compunction about displaying their offspring, only about which of them they named heirs.
He would give himself only to her, let her adorn his arm at social functions and share the fringes of his life. The one thing he could not do was give her his name. That belonged to his heir's mother, the wife he rarely saw and truthfully despised. After their son's birth, she had not welcomed him into her bed and he had no desire to warm it another time. That marriage was all but a legal sham, a means of bestowing legitimacy on his offspring and a means of acquiring baubles and prestige for the mother.
BB could have her for all he cared; she had done her duty and stayed out of the limelight. She was not unfaithful to him; she cared not at all for any of the pleasures in life or of love and had only fulfilled her wifely duties with little to no enthusiasm.
Just before he left, his eyes had fallen on that heart. A gift that had started his heart thumping once more in his chest; a gift that returned his childish days to him before he had begun to grasp for power and forgotten to hold onto the good.
He had let greed and avarice lead him astray. Even as he had been falling, she had grasped onto him, but still he had slid – no, not slid, walked away, hurried away, fled – her love. His love as well.
He shuddered. He was not an evil man, he had been persuaded. Cruel when necessary, kind when possible; an evil man could not be kind and gentle. He was a man who had done both good and bad in his life, but still, just a man.
He looked at his hands and saw what he had been blind to.
Still, he was a man with blood on his hands – and he didn't know how to wash it off, let alone if he truly wished to. Some stains sank too deep, tainted the soul beyond redemption.
But by the Force, he would not allow BB to taint others any longer. He had closed his eyes but the Force had opened them. He had trained BB and turned him loose to do his bidding. The women and men ravaged by his lust, the families torn asunder, the children – the innocent children turned into – monsters, like him and BB. He prided himself that he had a conscience but he had abdicated the responsibility to another, to BB, to keep his clean.
Who would the Force judge the harshest? The man with the most blood on his hands, or the one whose soul was stained with it instead?