When I open my eyes, the world still feels heavy around me. My limbs ache, and there's a dull throb in my head. I can't speak, my throat is too raw, my body too weak. But I can see well enough to notice the tubes leading from my arm to a humming piece of medical equipment. Nutrients and hydration, I think, though my frail body doesn't seem entirely convinced.
The room itself is grand, like a small library turned into a makeshift infirmary. Tall shelves laden with tomes, and ornate sconces casting soft light. Despite the open space and expensive decor, the atmosphere is oddly comforting. The warmth I sense in the Force, swirling gently around me.
And then I see him, Count Dooku, seated in a high-backed chair near my bed. He's dressed in robes of dark brown, simpler attire than last night's. His posture is upright, with one leg crossed over the other. In his hands, he holds a heavy book.
I couldn't make out the title. The script is ornate, full of curved letters and elaborate flourishes. He reads aloud. "It is through the application of one's will, tempered by clarity of thought, that true mastery is gained..."
I lose track of the exact words. They're too advanced, talking about philosophy, maybe about the Force, maybe about governance. Still, there's something mesmerizing in his tone. His voice is deep and unhurried, almost soothing, even if I don't fully grasp every sentence.
A small, involuntary sound escapes my mouth, something like a cough or a weak coo. At that, Dooku pauses and carefully sets the book down on a side table. His brow furrows, and he turns that intense gaze on me. It's not a look of anger, but concern.
He speaks softly. "You're awake again," he murmurs, half to himself. "Good."
There's an odd warmth in his tone, a sort of guarded relief. Part of me, perhaps the part that remembers something from before, wants to reassure him that I'm fine, that I can understand but that would be weird. All I manage is a faint gurgle.
Dooku stands and takes a step closer. Even from my bed, I can see the uncertainty flickering in his eyes. The slightest tension in his jaw, the careful way he moves. He's not sure what to do next, and it surprises me. Count Dooku, a former Jedi Master, so composed in crisis, is actually at a loss when faced with a helpless child.
He clears his throat as if preparing for a speech. "You must eat," he says, and gestures to the tubes. "The droid has assured me these will keep you stable for now... but I confess I do not know how long we should continue with them. Once you've regained some strength, we'll see to more… natural means of feeding."
My stomach growls at the thought of real food, but the tubes are likely necessary. I'm too weak to argue either way. Instead, I try to move my hand, just to see if I can. It twitches slightly, drawing his eye.
He leans forward, placing one elegant hand over mine. "Steady," he murmurs, voice gentling in spite of itself. "Your body is still fragile."
I find myself focusing on his face. His expression is stern. There's a seriousness in him I recall from the movies, books, and comics, Dooku was often portrayed as distant, even arrogant. Here, though, I see something else: a flicker of genuine concern, as though he's stepping onto unfamiliar terrain and doesn't know how to navigate.
After a moment, he turns away and picks up another book from a nearby table. This one is smaller, the cover a deep burgundy, with simpler lettering. I spot a line of aurebesh across the spine. He eyes it with something akin to embarrassment before opening it. His voice is softer now, "Basic Child Rearing Principles: A Guide to Early Development and Care."
I can't help myself. The sound that comes out of me is a reedy, breathy laugh, not quite normal. For a moment, Dooku actually freezes. His head snaps up, and his eyes narrow slightly.
I'm aware that a two-year-old laughing at a parenting manual might be unusual. But I can't contain it. After everything that's happened, a new father who is both a Count and an ex-Jedi, flipping through pages on burping techniques and nutritional guidelines for toddlers.
He arches an eyebrow. "I see you find this amusing," he remarks dryly, but there's no malice in his tone. If anything, he sounds faintly relieved.
He goes back to the book, clearing his throat. "Yes, well… Suppose I should read it anyway. There are certain conventions one must learn when caring for a child." His gaze darts back to me, as though checking whether I'm still listening. "I was trained in the Jedi Temple, you see. They rarely taught such… domestic skills." He took a moment to open the book. "Chapter One: Establishing Routine. The early years of child development require consistent structure and a sense of safety…"
He reads each word with the same measured care he probably once reserved for reading historical texts or Jedi manuscripts. It's an odd contrast. Yet it's strangely comforting. I honestly loved his voice, it was so nice to listen too.
Time slips by in the quiet hum of medical devices and the faint scratch of pages turning. Occasionally, he pauses, either to glance at me or to consider a line. More than once, he sets the book aside to look at the monitors attached to my bed.
He adjusted the pillow beneath my head with surprising gentleness. Eventually, he shifts in his chair and lets out a quiet sigh. "You're asleep?" he asks, barely above a whisper. His gaze flicks to me. I'm not asleep, just resting my eyes, but I'm too tired to offer another laugh.
I can hear the city beyond the estate walls. Carannia is bustling now, airspeeders hum in the distance, and the soft echo of voices drifts through. But for now, I can barely lift my hand.
I felt him tuck the blankets around me a bit more snugly. In the hush of the morning, he speaks again, "You will heal," he says quietly, as though willing it to be true. "And I shall learn to care for you properly, Liora. You have my word."
Too exhausted to stay fully awake, I drift. But before sleep claims me, I feel the gentlest touch, his hand lightly brushing my forehead, checking my temperature.
One Week Later
The days have blurred together, medical checkups, and the steady hum of machinery regulating my fragile body. My eyes grow stronger day by day; I can pick out more details in the grand chamber, the high windows that let in beams of sunlight, and the ever-present swirl of incense that drifts through the halls.
During that time, Dooku himself has remained a near-constant presence. Sometimes he reads to me; sometimes he simply watches, arms crossed behind his back, like a silent sentinel. The medical droid, 2-1B, fusses with nutrient tubes and monitors my vitals. If I had the strength to protest the occasional pinch of a needle.
I've grown used to the stillness, the subdued hush of footsteps outside my room. So when the large double doors swing open with a loud hiss, followed by two raised voices, I jolt a little in surprise.
"I have every right to see her, Dooku!"
A woman's voice, sharp, insistent, echoes in the hallway. She sounded angry. My gaze flicks toward Dooku, who's standing near one of the bookcases. He stiffens, lips pressing into a thin line.
"Jenza," he says, low and measured, "there's no need to shout. You're in my home, and you will lower your voice if—"
"Oh, don't lecture me about decorum," the woman snaps back." I find out you've taken in a child, your child, without so much as a word? When exactly were you planning to tell me?"
In my bed, I clutch at the blanket, feeling the tension thick in the air. This woman must be Jenza, Dooku's sister. He had mentioned once, in a rare moment of reflection, that he had "family matters" unresolved.
Finally, Dooku steps aside, allowing Jenza to enter. She strides in, dressed in fine Serenno fashion, dark, flowing garments with delicate embroidery that evokes noble lineage. A few steps in, she stops short, eyes finding me in the bed.
The anger in her expression softens almost instantly. She looks at me for a long moment, as if measuring the reality of my presence against her expectations.
"This is…her?"
Dooku inclines his head. "My daughter, Liora Serenno."
She moves closer to the bedside, tentative, as though she's never been in a sick room quite like this. From my vantage, she's a tall figure with the same refined posture as her brother, though there's a warmth in her eyes. Gently, she offers a single finger toward my hand.
I try to reach out. My fingers clench around her offered digit, trembling with effort. It's an imperfect grip, but I manage it. A faint smile touches Jenza's lips. "She's so small," she murmurs, more to herself than to Dooku. "How old is she?"
Dooku watches with unreadable eyes. "Not quite two, but her growth has been…stunted. Prolonged neglect and malnutrition. She's stronger now than she was a week ago."
Jenza places her free hand gently on my forehead, almost motherly. "Poor thing," she whispers. I let out a small sound, a cross between a coo and a sigh, partly to maintain the illusion of my babyish state and partly because the gentle touch actually does soothe me.
She looks over her shoulder at Dooku. "I'm sorry I barged in. I only just heard rumors…some of your staff mentioned you brought home a child from the lower district. I had to see for myself."
Her voice holds a raw edge, like she's both perplexed and relieved. Dooku nods curtly. "And so you have."
She sets her jaw, as though wrestling with her next words. "I'm—glad," she finally says. "Glad that you…that you're doing this. You've been gone for years, Dooku. Off with your Jedi, and with the Republic Senate, ignoring your own family because of those rules. Then you came back to Serenno, but you still kept yourself distant. Now you're taking a child under your wing…" Her gaze returns to me, eyes shining.
For a moment, the room falls quiet. In that silence, I hear the beep of the monitor beside me and the gentle hum of the nutrient drip. Outside, footsteps pass in the corridor.
Dooku breaks the stillness, tone guarded. "I left the Jedi Order," he says, "but that doesn't mean I simply gave up on the galaxy. Nor does it mean I was prepared for—" He hesitates, glancing at me. "For fatherhood."
Jenza's expression softens. She steps away from the bed, letting go of my hand gently. The absence of her touch leaves my tiny fingers curling at the air. "I'm sure it wasn't in your plans," she remarks, a ghost of a smile on her face, "but life seldom cares about our plans."
Dooku exhales through his nose, a sign of mild exasperation. "Indeed."
She folds her arms, studying him. "But you're trying." It's not a question, more like an observation a long-delayed approval. "That's all I ever wanted, Dooku: to see you commit to something beyond the Temple, beyond your personal crusade against the Senate. Commit to…" Her eyes flick toward me. "Family."
He seems to mull over the word. "Family." There's a note of resignation, or maybe acceptance, in his voice. "Jenza, I know we haven't spoken. Our last conversation… ended poorly."
Jenza lifts her chin. "Finally we agree."
I sense the old hurts between them, though they remain unspoken for the moment. Dooku clears his throat, shifting to face her fully. "You're right. We've had our disagreements, primarily because I felt the House of Serenno was—" He stops, uncertain. "Irrelevant to my duties as a Jedi."
Jenza arches an eyebrow. "I hope you don't still feel that way?"
Dooku's silence stretches out. Then he turns, casting a long, contemplative look at me. My eyes meet his, and for the briefest moment, I sense an echo in the Force—a quiet resonance that passes between us. I don't have the words to describe it, not at two years old, not even with my hidden understanding. But it feels like a promise.
When he speaks, his voice is low, measured, but resolute. "No," he says at last. "Things have… changed. I'm still unsure what to do, how to balance my obligations, but—I have made my choice."
Jenza's gaze shifts from him to me, then back again. "Will you let me help, brother?" she asks softly. "I may not know much about children myself, but I can't stand by and watch you struggle alone. Let me come by, see if I can assist with her care, or at least keep you company. We can try to… mend fences."
For a moment, Dooku looks as though he might refuse out of habit. His pride is a formidable thing, and I can practically feel the conflict in him: the desire to remain in control, to handle everything on his own, warring against the knowledge that he cannot possibly do so. In the end, he exhales through his nose, a quiet concession.
"Very well," he says, nodding. "You may visit—on my terms, mind you."
Jenza's face brightens, a momentary flicker of relief. "I wouldn't dream of dictating anything else in your house, Dooku." She glances at me again, her voice dropping. "But I do want to be here for her. She's…my niece, after all."
I shift my weight on the bed, letting out a feeble whine. Immediately, Jenza is by my side again, placing her hand lightly on my forehead. "Poor darling," she coos. "How are you feeling?"
I can't answer, so I let out a soft babble, the closest I can come to a babyish reply. She laughs a little, a sound that chases away the last of the tension in the room. Even Dooku's posture eases.
"I'll have 2-1B come in shortly to change her diapers," Dooku says, stepping forward. "She tires easily, and the droid insists on careful monitoring."
Jenza nods, pulling back to give me space. She watches as Dooku checks one of the medical instruments, a role he's grown surprisingly adept at in the last week. When he's satisfied with the readings, he inclines his head politely toward his sister.
"Jenza… thank you for coming. But—" His eyes narrow, as though he's remembering something. "Kindly knock next time, rather than barging in."
She smirks, her earlier warmth transforming into that sisterly sass I suspect Dooku rarely encounters. "I'll keep that in mind. For now, I'll leave you two to it." Her gaze softens again as it settles on me. "And I'll be back soon, Liora. You can count on that."
I let out a faint squeak, half-lament at her departure, half good-bye. The corners of her mouth tug into a small smile, and she glides out of the room, dress swishing behind her.
The door closes, leaving me once more with Dooku. He's silent, watching the place where Jenza stood a moment ago. He steps over to me, folding his arms behind his back in that trademark stance. "You see, Liora," he murmurs, as though speaking to someone older than a toddler, "your aunt has a flair for the dramatic. She always has."
I respond with a small gurgle, my eyelids drooping. The day's excitement has worn me out. Dooku's eyes linger on mine, and he leans down, speaking quietly. "Rest, little one. We'll continue this tomorrow."
One Month Later
A gentle breeze came through the tall windows of my room. I felt so much better than before though I'm still attached to various monitors. The tubes in my arm are smaller now, and I can finally manage spoon-fed meals instead of surviving solely on nutrient drips.
Today, Count Dooku stands at my bedside, a small bowl of broth in his hand. His expression is composed but focused. He tilts the spoon carefully, bringing a warm spoonful to my lips. I open my mouth, letting the soup wash over my tongue.
"Steady," Dooku murmurs. "I won't rush you. Just a little at a time."
I swallow the broth, feeling it settle warmly in my belly. Although I'm far from full strength, it's a relief to eat normally. I coo in a quiet, childlike way, my attempt to seem like any ordinary toddler. That small sound seems to reassure him. I catch a faint curve at the corner of his mouth: his version of a smile.
As if summoned by some silent cue, the door slides open with a soft hiss. Jenza, Dooku's sister, steps inside. She wears a flowing velvet robe and carries a small handheld datapad clutched to her chest. Every time I see her, she greets me with a warm, aunt-like energy, as though determined to make up for lost time.
"Brother," she says, inclining her head. "How is our little one today?"
Dooku sets the bowl aside, reaching for a napkin to dab at my mouth. "She's improving," he replies, measured and calm. "Eating better, far better behaved than I was expecting her to be."
Jenza comes closer, her gaze settling on me. I can see the curiosity in her eyes, a mixture of familial protectiveness and scholarly interest. "Hello, my sweet girl," she coos, offering her hand. I reach out with my small fingers, grasping at her gently. The greenish tone of my skin contrasts with her fair complexion.
Satisfied that I'm comfortable, Jenza straightens and looks to Dooku, brandishing her datapad. "I've done some reading on Mirialan physiology and culture," she begins, voice steady but laced with excitement. "Since you're quite set on raising her here, we should at least understand her heritage."
Dooku arches an eyebrow, crossing his arms loosely behind his back. "Yes, you mentioned you were conducting research. Please, go on."
Jenza taps a button on her datapad. "From what I've gathered: Mirialans have a strong tradition of spiritualism, which includes ritual tattoos earned through personal achievements. Liora won't be of an age to receive those for quite some time, but we should be mindful of how integral it is to her people's identity."
She pauses, glancing at me. "They also have a reputation of qualities that often make them adept students of the Force. That might explain her… exceptional abilities."
I babble softly, partly because I know it's expected of a toddler. Dooku nods, expression thoughtful. "The Jedi rarely emphasized individual cultural traditions. A failure I refuse to follow."
Jenza's lips press together in a patient smile. "Well, it seems we have a learning curve ahead. I'd like to see her raised with at least some ties to her people's customs, assuming you don't intend to hide her away from everyone."
Jenza was challenging Dooku not to isolate me in the estate, a habit he'd developed with his own life. He gives a slight tilt of his head, conceding the point. "Indeed," he says softly. "She deserves to know who she is."
Then he turns to me, laying a gentle hand on my arm. "I realize I can't keep you a secret from the galaxy forever, Liora. But for now, while you're still vulnerable, I'd rather not risk undue attention."
Jenza crosses to the other side of the room, placing her datapad on a side table. "That's wise. You know the rumors are already out, though—they spread quickly through high society. Your staff may be loyal, but they do gossip."
Dooku's frown deepens. "Yes. I've heard murmurings. Thankfully, it hasn't reached beyond our home planet, but it's only a matter of time before we have visitors I'd rather not entertain."
Jenza moves closer to us, her tone brightening. "Anyway, there's more I wanted to share. Mirialans prize physical and mental discipline, meditation, movement forms, and so forth. Possibly something you could nurture when she's stronger."
Dooku's gaze flicks back to me. "Meditation, yes. Once she recovers. Though it might be some time before she's running around with a practice saber."
I let out a small cough, then whine softly. My energy is fading, and even though the conversation intrigues me, my body remains that of a two-year-old—overexertion comes quickly.
"Jenza, perhaps we should continue this in private. I don't want to overstimulate her."
Jenza nods, kneeling beside my bed to meet my gaze. She reaches out and gently strokes my cheek. "You just rest, little one," she says kindly. "We'll figure all this out in time. We just want what's best for you."
I respond with a weak but earnest attempt at a smile. Jenza stands up and crosses the room in a few strides. "I'll leave you two for now," she says, pausing at the doorway. "Brother, come find me if you need anything. Or if you'd like me to take a shift watching her. I don't mind."
Dooku inclines his head in thanks. "I will. Thank you, Jenza."
After she steps out and the door closes with a soft click, the room feels calmer, as if the conversation somehow brought a new equilibrium. Dooku sighs gently, sitting once again by my bedside. He lifts the bowl of broth and offers another spoonful.
"One more, Liora," he coaxes quietly. "Just a bit more."
I open my mouth and let him feed me, the mild flavor easing some of my fatigue. There's a new softness in his eyes as he watches me swallow.
For a moment, the only sounds are the distant hum of the estate's corridors and the soft clink of the spoon against the bowl. Then, Dooku sets the dish aside and wipes my chin with a cloth.
"Rest," he murmurs. "We'll continue later."