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*“Your hand is shaking,” Yoda says.
“Yes.” Dooku frowns down at it. “Age.”
Yoda smiles. “Fear.”*
Indeed.
“Told you, didn’t I? Years ago,” Yoda presses on. *“When you fall, catch you I will.”*
*But he has gone too far down the dark path ever to return.* There is a path back, there always is, but all the beasts inside him already ate the bread crumbles he left as a trail back. One has to draw the line at somewhere. Dooku’s altitude is subzero at this point. He is too deep down in the well. Too deep down that gravity hurts, nose bleeding and ear ringing.
Yoda’s face softens as he read his thoughts. An open book, most beings are. After nine hundred years. Yet, reading them won’t work. He is not the author, thinks Dooku, with a weird satisfaction.
Rebellious teenager nonsense.
And… there already is another author. A merciless one.
His thoughts are too conflicted, and far too incoherent, he knows, but the truth is… behind all his futile rebellion to his old master—
Dooku actually wishes Yoda were the author. Because Yoda has ruth, on the contrary.
“I cannot turn.”
Not from dark, not to the light. Not from his own prison, to another prison on Coruscant. It would be foolish to desire that.
“However,” he starts, and in the whole conversation for the first time he has the complete attention of his former master. “You are right, master.” This time, his backtrack slip of a tongue to the word “master” doesn’t anger him. In fact, if he weren’t so arrogant, he would admit that it was a conscious decision. If he tried hard enough, it could be an old conversation of theirs, back in the Temple, sunlight sweeping around.
“Yes. Fear. I fear the future.”
Like Sifo-Dyas.
Well, perhaps it was wrong to think that way. Because Sifo-Dyas didn’t fear it. No, opposite. He was always forthcoming at enduring it timelessly. That was their difference, perhaps. A line of cowardice. A line Dooku couldn’t leap forward. Sifo was unnecessarily brave.
Thus unnecessarily dead.
Future. Not fear of it but itself, yes, that was their common ground. Trying so hard to do something about what is yet to come.
And failing.
He couldn’t do it alone. But it was all he was: Alone, alone, alone.
A question, all those years ago, on Coruscant: What are we, padawan? An answer: *A knot tied in the Force, master.*
Another one, another day: *The agency of fate.* Yet another night, another shrewd attempt: *Cells in the body of history.*
No. They weren’t satisfying enough.
*Alone, master. In the end, we are alone.* And he fears.
Fear is the path to the dark side; he almost expects a rebuke for the emotion.
“Why?”
Ah. He forgot it, didn’t he? He already crossed that path. And his cause is…
“Because it is not in motion. Not this time.”
“So sure of yourself, you are, hmm?” Of course he is. Of course he is! Flare inside him sparkles briefly, with rage, and then it is gone with the wind.
“There is deception beyond deception, plot beyond plot.” he calmly answers. On the outside. “What can we do if we are nothing but a dejarik piece to be used?”
And then to be thrown away. Disposable. Alone, alone.
“Then, ask the players, I will,” Yoda smiled, like he just made a tactful joke. “Who are they?”
His hands shook against everything he faced, the future, the bleeding patient called the Republic, he couldn’t stop it, he tried, and now his hands are bloody, soaked to the bone—
And his master was… well, his master.
Ever the teacher.
Dooku didn’t know what to feel at the face of such frustrating serenity. Rage? Find comfort? Perhaps both. Like the good old days.
“There is only one player.” Of course only one. Rule of two is just a joke, the laugh of the master, a lie. Power; other one will not crave it, no, other one will perish, simply perish.
And the player listens.
Always, always. Day after day Dooku found himself shielding more, guarding his thoughts deeper, preserving emotions away. Defenses raised, but they are not enough. They never are. One mistake, one wrong turn of a conversation, and—
Childish and paranoid. That’s what he has become. *Ask yourself, better, which master’s love is?* Answer is too obvious. Too frustrating.
Here he is, butcher of the galaxy, blood dripping from his hands and his former master still implies he loves him. As he is still the crying boy in the garden of the Temple all those years ago.
It must be hard to see that boy in his face still.
Not naivety, there is nothing naïve about Yoda, but… But foolishness.
“I cannot turn.” he repeats. He is too deep in the forest.
“Alone, you are not.” Yoda squeezes his hand with life. “Help you, let me.”
He knows what he thinks. He always does.
“I have bitten more than I can chew.” he says abruptly. And I am choking, master. “I thought I could do it alone.”
Alone, alone.
He didn’t want to be alone.
“I asked Rael.” he tries to explain. He was dismissed with an insulting indifference. “And talked to Obi-wan, too,” which also earned nothing. No, not nothing, but a hiss: Traitor.
His arrogance and underestimation of Sidious was going to be too expensive. He needed an ally, fast. But of course: “They both refused completely.”
“Surprised, I am not.”
Dooku sighs. Yes, he is not either. “Qui-Gon taught him well.”
“You taught Qui-Gon well.” Yoda clinks his cane at the desk. “And young Rael.”
Dooku will not accept that. He can’t. Nor will he jump up to the other ladder, implying Yoda taught him well. He did. He did teach him well. But it is not a matter of teaching. It is about learning. Something he has clearly failed. Dooku took pride in his abilities, he thought he was a good Jedi, once. Eh, being young. What can he do now, except for laughing grimly at the irony?
At least he is not fooled with such ideas anymore.
He tilts his head; he doesn’t want to comment on that.
Instead, *“This is a trap,”* he says, as it concludes the matter of being taught well. *“I tricked you into coming here.”*
“Trap? Of course a trap, it is.”
He came anyway. It only makes Dooku want to weep and tear his hair out at the same time.
“Trap or not, a question, I asked.” *Ask yourself, more forgiving, which master will be?*
Dooku knows the answer. He wishes it wasn’t the case. Why is he like that? Why did he choose him as a padawan, after everything? After trying to break his own arm in their duel like the unbearable adolescent he was. Why did he forgive him, after… everything? After falling so very, very far—
The glorious dejarik player, on the other hand, isn’t known for his forgiveness, this is clear.
The console comm makes a noise, a little light glows.
Speak of the devil…
“There is a Sith Lord in the Senate.” he says, eyes on the comm unit. He will not answer it. Funny. He has tried the same sentence before too. Once again in a conversation, about turning to dark. But of course, Yoda has made it very clear that he wasn’t going to leave the light. And of course, Dooku knew his struggle was futile.
“Reported this, young Obi-wan already did.”
“But he is not just in the Senate,” Dooku ignores him. “He controls it. As he controls the court.”
Everything a piece of dejarik. He once asked Palpatine if he liked dejarik, or if he would like to play a game. He didn’t know, back then, who he was talking to. Just another idealist with ambitious intentions. The senator only waved his hand vaguely, saying, I hate it.
After playing it on such larger scales, that seemed to be the case, it should have looked dull, naturally. Larger scales. Too large, that Dooku isn’t sure where the board ends, or if it even ends at all.
“As he controls the Separatist movement.”
Not enough.
“As he controls the Republic.”
Not enough.
As he controls me.
“And who this might be, hmmm, this powerful we didn’t see, this powerful playing god?”
This powerful that your student is trembling, Dooku thinks. Yoda’s curiosity is mild, placid.
“You were arrogant. Blind. So was I.”
“Yes, yes… Say that, you already did!” Yoda impatiently remarks, shaking his head. “What does mighty Dooku suggest?”
He cannot suggest anything. Not to that question, anyway, because this question is so old, so… childhood smell like. That question: And what does mighty Dooku suggest, after a little debate of them, after Dooku’s statement about a displease with the Order, perhaps temple, perhaps Republic. Perhaps life.
“Something… beneficial.”
Attempts, attempts, attempts, this is what he is. He will try. Do or do not attitude is not very advisable at this point. His resigned tone must be easily seen because—
“Come to Coruscant, will you?” Yoda asks interestedly, and with… hope.
Now Dooku wants to laugh. He already asked this question, and no, he will not and he cannot.
“Only hypothetically,” Dooku warns, “say that I want to come back. Suppositionally, of course, I want to turn. What happens, master?” He turns to the window. “Then what?”
Vjun is terribly humid, suffocatingly so. Right now, raining, drips, drops. One always feels like drowning, but perhaps it the heaviness of the dark side. Coruscant is opposite of all of it, dry, shiny and while standing in the door of the Temple, bright with light.
Blindingly so, perhaps it is what makes everyone so sightless there.
“Know, you do.”
“Please. Pretend.”
“Take your hand, I do. You, to the ship, I bring. To the temple. To your home.” Yoda would look into his eyes, if he was facing him.
This is the precise reason why he turned his back.
That gaze was too piercing, like he knew everything— from intentions to anguishes in one’s soul. Dooku always wondered if it was a kind of gaze others in the galaxy also received from their, ah, liables. Some called them father, he knew that even back then, but that word never brought the image of Count Gora. Obviously. And Count Gora couldn’t look at him and read his soul as easily. Obviously.
Probably not, he again answered his own curiosity himself those days. Sifo-Dyas said it couldn’t be common in anyway, that eight hundred years was… something.
At the pale eighty-two, in contrast of Yoda’s nine-hundred, all Dooku can think is the word “heavy”. If Sifo-Dyas could ever see that age too, beside him, cracking jokes as always, he would say: “Well, that explains the hump.”
Yoda continues on, clearly taking pleasure in what he is imagining. “I smile. Then… the same for you, I hope.”
Perhaps not so far out, it is. In another reality, they both can smile. Just, not right now, not on Vjun, not on that castle.
*“Each instant the universe annihilates itself, and starts again.”* Yoda concludes. *“Choose, and start again.”*
Choice. What a sweet word. One can never be sure whether it is a deception or not. But he has to admit, Dooku doesn’t have much faith in the latter. “But, master,” he said once, “what if there is no free will? What if my existence just fills the blanks, what if I am only dispersed with the wind?” Then he would most certainly fall, wind was far too strong.
“And what if not, padawan? Free or not— the same conclusion, we have.”
Well, of course, it didn’t change anything actively. And it was a wonderful soothing for a child who doubted his mere existence. Who was afraid he would fall. Who didn't want to be just the agency of the fate, a puppet. Free or not, you will act like it. If a deception, it is; it is a good one.
And when he falls—
*Catch you, I will.*
“This was an awfully lacking description, master.” Dooku turns around.
No one shall forget that: He is a criminal. Thanks the Force not just in the eyes of Republic law but also himself. He will not whine on that, but he is a calculating enough of a person to not desire punishment. He seeks recompence.
Or at least… An advantageous usage of Count Dooku of Serenno, instead of just sitting behind the bars. Let him be the pawn.
“But…” he says. Thank you. This, he doesn’t say. Perhaps it is not needed. Thank you. You are unnecessarily kind— towards children who drown in their own pride and mischief. Unnecessarily patient— towards sinners who carry spine breaking wrong-doing.
His hands are steady now, strikingly. Yoda’s calmness is always contagious. His weird clemency, even towards him, of all people.
It is now or never. Such a precious moment, and such a precious luxury, with one word, to be the architect of his own fate. To be his own master. A privilege, truly.
Not a puppet. Not just the agency. His pleasure drowns out the fear.
He cannot take the help hand but perhaps he can extend his own.
“I may help,” he says, hesitantly.
Yoda’s surprise leaks to his face and… and then, not long after… the same face, shockingly familiar, after seventy years… The approval face. Not just approval, but… pride, happiness, affection, a rare but pure expression Dooku earned with humility, simplicity, a clever answer to a clever question, a creative move of saber and—
And it shouldn’t affect him like that. But it does. He is at the temple again, how easy it is to please his master, his old master. His love is not conditional. Be yourself, you should, he had said, his cane poking Dooku’s chest, *humility is infinite*. So is kindness. So is one’s potential.
“I do not expect to succeed.” Dooku says, because… there is not much to say anymore. Not to him. Not in this room. Except for the truth. “As I said— he listens. Always.”
For a second Dooku imagines how it would be if his former master also listened him in the same, evil way, eavesdropping in his thoughts, prying into his memories.
He smiles, for a second, it would be terribly rude of him, not of Yoda, no, but of himself. His talks with Sifo-Dyas behind his master’s back, ridiculing him, understand what he means, I do not, Sifo! Well, Doo, maybe meditate on this, you should—
He stands up, walking towards the window.
And who might be the reason of the subtraction of years ahead of Sifo-Dyas?
Nausea. Dooku pulls the window open. Raining has stopped.
“And there is malice behind malice. Like the old tale, monster with endless heads, cut one and two will grow back. Machinations, too big, too precise, what I know— Even if the smallest part of what I even know occur—” he takes a breath, hoping his master did not hear how his voice hoarsened.
“Peace, padawan.” Yoda says while lowering his ears, he is thoughtful now. Dooku’s emotions were too transparent, a mistake, a terrible mistake— but Yoda is no Sidious, yes, calm down, padawan, after all… Then it means he died trying.
Not that atrocious. Try. Attempt. Help. Not that atrocious.
But he should be careful with the same transparency in the presence of Sidious. Very careful.
“Peace is a lie,” he replies softly. The Sith code was right about few things. Very few things. And also very large things. Last line: victory… Victory is the ghost of a chance.
“What people deliberately create, a lie is.” Yoda answers swiftly.
Dooku laughs.
His master, always sharp witted. He knew Yoda would have an answer to that, from the first moment Sidious told him. He just couldn’t find it himself. Tasting this sharpness with words is better than facing it in his saber. Much better. Yoda continues with a smile. “Then create peace, we shall.”
Then create peace. Then lie. It is all the same for Dooku. He should only hope for Sidious to buy his lies from this moment on.
“From the beginning,” he nods, finally, and Yoda lifts his ears. “The identity of that so-called unpaired player…”
Because he is not unpaired anymore. Not alone.
Neither is Dooku.