Chapter Text
“Once again.” said the Count, and their rhythm began. The low hum of lit sabers -- the electric crackle of the duel. One two, one two. The same patterns as always. The Count parried the overhead strokes with ease, then brought his blade down and around to catch his partner’s twin side swipes, low and to the right. Step in, pushing within comfortable range, past the wall of spinning blades on which the other duelist relied, and--
“No.” said the Count, his weapon hovering scarcely an inch from where, once, his apprentice’s collarbone had connected to his neck. He dispelled his blade. “You still make the same mistake. Again. Once again.”
“I have better things to do than spar all day.” growled the cyborg as they took their positions. “This war will not be won by lingering in palaces.”
One two, one two , and the Count was within his guard again, just inches from his partner’s mask, one of the few marks which still revealed the Kaleesh Dooku had known. It was hard, this close, not to think of him still as Qymaen . Dooku lingered -- and then pulled back. “You are right, of course. Yet this war will not be won at all unless we -- you and I can match the Jedi. So, once again.” He lit his saber, and prepared for Grievous’s advance across the ballroom floor.
This war will not be won at all . The guilt of that burned at Dooku, though he knew in that guilt was the seed of weakness. This war would be won -- by the Sith, if not by the Separatists. But there was no need to tell Qy.. To tell Grievous of that. Perhaps when he was stronger. Perhaps if Ventress was still on the table. Ten thousand contingencies, and all of them hurtling toward the same conclusion.
The grand ballroom of Castle Serenno was once the home of lavish masquerades and vital political ceremonies. Now it sat predominantly empty, as did the rest of the castle. The Count was here so rarely... There was too much to be done. But still, the room rose up, the way it always had, the gilded pillars which climbed the walls an architectural mirror to the flora which grew below them, at the base of the cliffside which the wide windows which ran the length of the hall overlooked. There was a balcony, and the wide doors were open -- the room grew stuff, otherwise. The Count had thrown them open himself, before their sparring began. He preferred to handle small things himself, even if the droid caretakers existed for little other purpose.
The floor was tile, polished -- polished countless times, polished daily, even when he was far away, by the army of droids who did better work than any breathing staff could have hoped. From above -- from high enough up -- the tiles were a beautiful mosaic, a diagram, the long branches of the Serenno family. Dooku knew well enough that he did not appear on that particular tree -- prodigal son, abandoned infant, last scion of the House of Serenno.
Grievous advanced. One two, one two . The General had four arms, but he did not use them to full advantage. His slashes brought two blades from either side -- but they were two blades which could easily be blocked with a single parry. This time, the opening was yet clearer -- the Count went on the offensive, bringing the curve of his weapon around Grievous’s defense, an impossible angle for a traditional saber. His partner was forced backwards, and the Count stepped in again. “No. You have four blades. Defend all sides. Prepare for all contingencies.
Qymaen -- Grievous -- growled, resheathing his sabers and folding his extra arms away. “I am prepared. We are prepared. And this war has dragged on long enough.” He strode across the empty ballroom, clawed feet clicking on the tile. Dooku followed.
They stood on the balcony, overlooking the cliff of Castle Serenno. Far below, the trees of this world stretched out as an endless blanket, stirring slowly in the breeze.
They were alone.
“We might have won this war in a month.” growled Qymaen, looking out over Dooku’s homeworld. “But you called for patience. And now the war has stretched into years. We had an overwhelming force on Geonosis -- and you counselled us to wait. Geonosis was a slaughter. Again and again you have counselled caution , hesitation . We have seized great victories and yet failed to press the advantage.” Grievous turned, and Dooku came face to face again with the mask -- with Qymaen’s eyes looking out. “ Why , master? Why will you not permit us to strike with all available force?”
Standing there, with the wind of his home washing over him, Count Dooku nearly confessed. He might have -- for this man whose eyes met his was not Grievous, supreme commander of the Separatist droid army but Qymaen , the freedom fighter who Dooku had met so many years ago. But who was responsible for that change? Who had stripped away his body? Who had bombed his ship? Acting on orders , Dooku might have said -- but he knew better than that. And some things could not be absolved.
Qymaen did not break eye contact. Qymaen -- and yet also Grievous. For what was the Separatist fight if not an extension of Qymaen’s own war for freedom? The Republic had supported the Yam’rii -- supported the slavers who had come for the Kaleesh. And now Dooku was offering a new system -- a better system, a galaxy without the petty tyranny of republican politics, a system in which power would not be given based on one’s ability to occupy the senate floor. Qymaen -- to the extent that Qymaen still lived and breathed, beneath the trauma, beneath the reconditioning-- was with him. But it was a lie. All power would soon be in the hands of that same senate, unless --
But Dooku did not tell him. Qymaen was not strong enough, not yet. In a week’s time, they would depart Serenno -- and then it might be time to make a change. But for now... Grievous was a talented soldier, but lacked in any sense for the Force. That was a weakness which would need to be accounted for before changes could be made. Until then, it would not be fitting to... grow too attached. Consider Ventress, after all. Nevertheless, Dooku lingered there -- for a moment, on the balcony whipped by the winds of his homework, and the look which he gave Qymaen conveyed more than he would have preferred. They were inches from each other -- Dooku could feel the infernal heat which radiated from the servos in Grievous’s joints -- and for a moment a vision of the future was possible.
It was an entirely inappropriate moment between the two leaders, wholly unpolitic. It prepared for no contingencies. We will topple him , Dooku told himself. Soon . He almost believed it, and broke off the moment.
But first... The Count lit his saber and turned back to the ballroom. “Once again.” he called, and the General followed.