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batsutousaiTitle: Nothing in This Soul Left to Save
Series: Make a Brand New End
Fandom: Star Wars
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Alternate Universe, Qui-Gon Lives, time travel, Fallen jedi, jedi families, Dooku's a dick
Summary: On his way out of the Temple after tendering his resignation to the Jedi Council, Dooku is stopped by the last member of his lineage he would have expected.
A/N: So, technically, AU timeline-wise, this fic is before We Start and End With Family, but I wrote Family first and figured y'all would prefer getting some dumbass!jedi family feels before you read Dooku being a dick, so I put Family first in the series order.
Eventually, I will actually read Dooku: Jedi Lost. Until then, all my knowledge of Dooku comes from the films, the animated series, and the Legends-era comics. (And stalking Wookieepedia.) So, if something doesn't mesh with your own acknowledged characterisation/timeline, sorry? This is all for fun.
About the time I decided Dooku wouldn't be attending the lineage dinner, I also decided he and Feemor were going to have a run-in, clarifying that he was, in fact, leaving the Order, despite Feemor's hopes about Qui-Gon's survival changing things. This is that scene.
This starts out from Dooku's perspective, with a final scene in Feemor's. Dooku is...an asshole. He doesn't care for Feemor, doesn't respect him, and it shows. Just, y'know, keep in mind that he thinks and says some seriously not nice shit; if you don't wanna read Feemor getting dunked on by his about-to-be-a-sith grandpamaster, you may want to skip this ficlet.
One last note, then I'll let you lot have the fic: There is at least one more one-shot done for this series, look for it in a couple days. (It's Ace challenging Qui-Gon to a duel.) And, if ACNH doesn't distract me too much, and someone stops dragging things out, there is another fic maybe about half done? That one's more plot focussed and less with the family feels, but it had to happen eventually. XD
Cross-posted to Archive of Our Own and LiveJournal.
"We are on a collision course with disaster," he'd told the Council, speaking to Windu because, no matter how much he told himself otherwise, he truly couldn't bear to see the pleading and grief—or, worse, the lack of either—in his former master's eyes, "and I cannot remain a part of this body if it follows the wills of the Senate."
"And if we were to remove ourselves from the Senate's influence?" Windu had asked from behind steepled fingers.
He'd smiled, mirthless, and replied, "After two decades? I'll probably die of shock before I can comm a request to return."
"Reconsider you will not?" Yoda had asked, his voice that carefully crafted blankness that hid any manner of emotions, and he'd known he wouldn't see anything worth looking for in his old master's face.
"No, I won't." He'd bowed and unclipped his lightsabre, stepping forward to hand it to Windu. "I wish I could say it's been a pleasure," he'd added as Windu accepted the weapon, and he'd cast a look at Yoda, took in the perfectly blank expression turned on him, and let any lingering regrets go. "Master."
"Padawan," Yoda had replied, stiff.
He'd turned and left, keeping his head high.
He'd truly thought that would be the last of his lineage he'd see before he left the Temple properly. Qui-Gon was in Temple, of course, but based on the message he'd received from his former padawan earlier, he was likely holed up in his flat, attempting to cook, or else harassing that newly-knighted padawan of his whilst he attempted to cook. And Komari, was, of course, nowhere near the Temple, was likely dead.
As for Qui-Gon's first padawan, the whelp he'd tossed aside and suddenly had a change of heart about? Sheev had mentioned the boy would be serving his his jedi advisor once he was released from the Halls; knowing how Qui-Gon and his padawans had always been about the Halls, the whelp was almost certainly sedated up to his eyeballs to keep him from escaping.
Which was why it was a shock to hear, "Master Yan?" as he was stepping from the archives, precious information about hyperspace lanes hidden away inside his tunics.
Yan turned and took in the unruffled appearance of his repudiated grandpadawan, the glaring brightness of his orange tunic an absolute eyesore in the muted tones of the Temple, though at least he'd more recently shaved the unsightly scruff he called a beard than he had the last time Yan had seen him. "Feemor," he replied, voice flat, unwelcoming.
Feemor's head tilted, something too sharp, too knowing in his blue eyes. "Hm," he said, and then, "I assume you got Qui-Gon's invitation?"
"For a 'lineage dinner'?" Yan returned, and scoffed. "It will be a small gathering, since you no longer count."
Five years ago—the last time they'd spoken—that would have struck true, and his coward of a repudiated grandpadawan would have beat a hasty retreat, letting Yan make his final escape from the Temple without any further conversation.
Except, Feemor seemed to have grown a backbone at some point, because his eyes flashed and his spine stiffened, but he didn't flee. Rather, he smiled, white teeth flashing in the glow the day's dying light shone through the windows lining the hallway they were stopped in. "Didn't you hear?" he asked, too-casual. "Qui-Gon never meant to repudiate me. He corrected himself to the Council and filled the necessary forms the day we returned."
Returned from Naboo. Where they'd purportedly faced and defeated a sith. A mission Feemor hadn't been meant to go on, and had been badly wounded taking part in. And yet, here he stood, stronger than Yan had ever seen him.
"How delightful for you," Yan replied, unimpressed. "Acknowledgement from your former master doesn't suddenly make you a good knight, boy."
Feemor's expression went flat and cold in a way Yan had never seen on him before, had only ever seen on jedi who had survived the worst of missions; torture, suffering, war. Had fighting a sith finally turned the whelp into a man?
"I know my worth, Grandmaster," Feemor said, a hardness in his voice that matched nothing of the boy Yan had watched struggling through his padawan years and knighthood. "I don't need your approval, nor do I appreciate your sarcasm." He straightened, shoulders going back a little. "Will we see you at dinner? Obi-Wan says he's never met you, and I know you've never met my padawans and grandpadawan."
"I thought you didn't need my approval," Yan returned, sneering.
"I don't. But I thought you might like a chance to meet the rest of your lineage." And suddenly he smiled, sharp and just shy of threatening. "Assuming you're not afraid one of them might get too attached to you."
Yan couldn't stop from drawing in a sharp breath, more shocked that the barb had come from this whelp than to hear it at all; such had been rather common after he'd refused to continue Komari's training.
It seemed that facing a sith truly was a singular Trial; no wonder the Council had chosen to knight Kenobi for his part.
"Unlike some in my lineage, I have no fear of attachment, nor of the betrayal that follows," he replied mildly.
"No," Feemor said, tilting his head to the side again, considering. "Betrayal through attachment will never be your downfall. I do wonder, however, if it mightn't be your salvation."
Yan sneered. "Utter bollocks. Attachment will be your downfall, mark my words, boy, you and my former padawan."
Feemor's expression went completely blank, the mask of an accomplished consular. "Perhaps," he said quietly, "but at least we won't die alone."
His lungs seized for reasons he couldn't understand, and he spun away, showing his back and his intention to leave. "I won't be at your dinner; I'm leaving the Order."
"You're quitting?" Feemor asked, but he didn't sound particularly surprised.
Yan glanced back over his shoulder, something cutting on the tip of his tongue, but the grief in the whelp's eyes stole the words. "Yes," he said, instead. "You're not surprised."
Feemor's eyes closed. "No," he admitted, quiet, pained. And then he looked up again. "Grandmaster, please," he said, something desperate in his voice. "Stay. Keep fighting for the jedi to be better, for the Republic to be better. Do it from inside the Order. Don't– Don't go where we can't follow."
Yan scoffed. "Where you 'can't follow'? There's nothing that's holding you to the Order, Feemor. Nothing except your own attachment."
Feemor shook his head. "Don't take this path. Please."
Yan turned away again, refusing to be moved, to let himself be convinced by the heartfelt plea that was too little, too late. "I have wasted enough of my life pushing against the immobile object that is this order. I will find my own way to clean the corruption of the galaxy."
Feemor blew out a breath that sounded shaky, and then he let out a quiet, broken laugh. "I don't know what I expected," he said, quiet enough, Yan wasn't certain he was meant to have heard. "Why would my words be the ones to reach you?"
Strangely, that hurt. It shouldn't have—he didn't care about the boy, never had—and, yet...
(He'd never expected anyone to try to fight for him, certainly not the boy he'd spat on the moment Qui-Gon had repudiated him.)
"Count Dooku," Feemor said, and his voice was hard and cold, again, the hereditary title he intended to claim dropping like a chasm between them.
Yan turned, meeting icy blue eyes. "What?"
"If you ever raise a lightsabre to a member of this lineage, I will kill you myself."
Yan wanted to laugh, to sneer, because this boy had never been much of a duellist, had always been far more focussed on the diplomacy. He had never been a threat.
Except, staring into those cold eyes, Yan could believe, for the first time, that this man—this jedi master—had faced a sith, and survived. With help, yes, but he'd still fought. He'd stood against the crèche monster, had been struck down and got back up. He would learn, would practise until he could match Qui-Gon or Yoda or Yan, himself.
"Consider me warned, Master Feemor," he said, the first time he'd ever acknowledged the rank his grandpadawan had earned.
And then he turned away again, and walked away, pretending he couldn't feel those icy eyes following him the entire way through the Temple.
(When he got on his speeder and chanced a glance back, he was honestly surprised that there was no one there.)
Feemor stared after his grandmaster's retreating form, uncertain how to feel. Because he'd failed, Yan was still leaving, was still returning to Serenno and searching for a way to 'clean the corruption of the galaxy'.
(The sith would find him, or he would find them, and he would collect his allies again, would see a droid army built to bring the Republic to their knees. He would start a war that would rip the galaxy asunder, destroying everything beautiful, everything he'd once said he was fighting for. He would stand against his lineage on the field of battle, would raise a red lightsabre and strike at Obi-Wan, at Skywalker, and Feemor would have to make good on his threat.)
But, in the end, Yan had acknowledged him. For the first time in twenty years—in longer, even; Yan had never been particularly impressed with him, too easily upset, too attached to his crèchemates and Qui-Gon—his grandmaster had seen Feemor for who he was and had respected him.
Feemor stumbled over to the wall and leant against it, giving himself a moment to collect himself, to grasp at the tattered edges of his centre and yank it back into place.
As he straightened, he glanced at the doorway Yan had been walking out of when he'd recognised him: The archives.
There had been, in the early days of the war, a joke passed through the crèche, the initiates and padawans, of Obi-Wan's lost planet. Among the knights and masters, the joke turned into a far colder truth: Someone had erased data from the archive.
Someone who currently was or had once been a jedi.
He pushed off from the wall and stepped into the massive room, heading straight for Jocasta Nu's desk.
"Master Feemor," the head archivist greeted with a fond smile, which dimmed as she took in whatever expression his face had twisted itself into. "Is something wrong?"
He gave a nod, too sharp, too jerky, and quietly asked, "Is there a way to check if anyone's made any changes to the archive recently?"
She gave a huffing sort of sound, looking almost insulted. "Of course," she agreed, putting her fingers to the terminal in front of her. "But I don't need to check; this is the only–" She froze, her eyes going wide, colour leeching from her already pale skin.
Feemor closed his eyes. "How many systems did he erase?"
"Thirty-eight," she choked out. "Who–? How did–?"
"It was Master Yan," Feemor admitted. Force, he hadn't wanted to be right.
This was going to break Qui-Gon's heart. Yoda's, too.
"Can you restore it?"
She let out a shuddering breath. "Yes, we've caught it in plenty of time," she agreed, already typing at the terminal. And then she flicked a glance up at him. "I'll need to inform the Council. It doesn't matter how respected a master they are, if a jedi tampers with the archive, that's grounds for an inquiry."
"Unfortunately, he's just quit," Feemor said tiredly, and she froze again, staring at him in disbelief. He shook his head. "Could you...wait? To tell the Council."
"Feemor, this is serious!" she hissed.
"I know that!" he hissed back. Force, he knew better than she could guess. "But I don't want Yoda to have to hear about this in a Council report!"
She hissed out a breath and closed her eyes, looking pained.
"Jocasta," he said, gentling his voice, "the damage is reversible, and there's not much the Order can do against him, now he's gone. He was Yoda's padawan, and my master's master; I'm having dinner with both of them tonight. Let me tell them in private. Please."
She breathed in, then out, tight and controlled, then nodded. "One night," she promised.
"Thank you."
She reached out and touched his arm, there-and-gone. "He was my friend," she said quietly, grief in her eyes.
"Yeah," Feemor whispered, swallowed down the old pain of betrayal. "I'm sorry."
"So am I."
Feemor gave her a bow and took his leave, heart heavy.
Leave it to his grandmaster to ruin their lineage dinner without even attending.
.
