=== Dooku ===
The shuttle's landing ramp hissed open with a hydraulic sigh, letting in the filtered sunlight of Coruscant's upper atmosphere.
The Terminator guard descended first, forming lines on either side of the ramp as the "delegation" descended after them.
Nira was first, though Dooku was at her side.
Behind them came Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, and the remaining Masters who had once belonged to the Jedi Order, who had chosen to walk a path divergent from its stagnant ways.
They were "honored" guests of the Imperium, arriving for the funeral of the most venerated Jedi Grand Master in living memory.
And yet the moment they stepped into the Temple, it was clear that the Jedi Order did not see them that way.
The ancient halls were familiar, towering stone pillars, mosaics of long-dead Masters, the faint echo of training sabers clashing somewhere far below. But every set of eyes that turned toward them held suspicion. Contempt, and a bit of fear.
Padawans muttered under their breath and pulled back as the group passed.
A pair of young Knights stepped aside, whispering harshly.
"…deserters…"
"…traitors…"
"…shouldn't even be here…"
Dooku did not look at any of them.
His expression remained calm and regal.
He would not be moved by the opinions of children.
Ahead, more Jedi gathered along the balconies.
One Padawan, barely more than a boy, couldn't resist.
"Why are they here?" he whispered harshly. "Didnt you tell me they abandoned us?"
His Master silenced him with a look, but Dooku heard. They all did.
He did not stop walking.
Only the slightest narrowing of his eyes hinted that he had noticed at all.
They passed one of the primary training halls. Younglings halted their forms to stare. Even the temple guards, normally as still as statues, shifted ever so slightly, hands brushing the hilts of their weapons.
He felt every accusation pointed at him like a dagger.
Abandoned us. Betrayed us. Consorted with outsiders.
If they only knew what had truly happened. But they did not know. And many would never understand.
The group reached one of the high council chambers, not the main one, but one of the lesser strategy halls used for private deliberation. Its doors parted automatically at the group's approach.
The room was circular, lined with simple seats, soft blue light filtering in from the panoramic windows overlooking Coruscant's skyline.
He stopped in the center.
The others filed in behind him, their footsteps echoing in the quiet.
Only then did Dooku allow the mask to falter.
He closed his eyes, just for a second.
Yoda was gone.
The weight of that truth pressed hard against his chest.
Yoda, his Master. His friend.
Now gone. Burnt away in service to the galaxy.
Soon his old Apprentice came to retrieve them.
Qui-Gon stepped through the doors, pausing when he saw them.. His gaze lingered on Dooku for a moment longer than the rest.
"…It's good to see you, my old Master," he said quietly.
Dooku inclined his head in a faint bow. "It is good to see you as well, Qui-Gon. Are you feeling alright?" He asked, to which Qui-Gon nodded.
"I am."
Ki-Adi-Mundi followed in behind him, arms folded inside his sleeves, offering a stiff nod. There was no condemnation in his expression, only exhaustion.
"The ceremony will begin shortly," Qui-Gon said. "We'll take you to the pyre now."
No one argued. No one spoke.
They fell into step behind him and out into the temple halls. The walk was silent except for the echo of their boots on polished stone. They could feel eyes on them from every corridor and balcony.
Some Jedi whispered.
Some simply stared.
No one stopped them.
They stepped out into one of the great meditation courtyards.
Thousands had gathered.
Jedi of every rank lined the stone terraces, robes rippling in the wind, hoods drawn low. Torches burned in a perfect ring around the center platform where the pyre had been built.
And there, laid gently upon the wooden structure, was Yoda.
Small. Still. Wrapped in white cloth, his cane resting across his chest.
Dooku felt something crack deep in his chest. For a moment, he could not breathe.
Plo Koon lowered his head. Shaak Ti pressed a hand against her heart. Even the younger knights fell silent as the ex-masters approached and took their places closest to the pyre.
They had fought at his side.
They would see him off.
Qui-Gon took a slow breath, looked at Dooku, and lowered his head to him. "He would have wanted you here."
Dooku did not answer. He only laid a hand on the edge of the pyre, fingers brushing the grain of the wood, and closed his eyes.
Qui-Gon led them to a section a bit separated from the others, though still next to the Pyre.
"Here." he said, gesturing to the section.
"Thank you." Nira said, taking the second slab meant for kneeling, gesturing for Dooku to take the first.
The others filled the rest in no particular order.
When the moment came, the crowd fell into an aching silence.
Cin Drallig stepped forward, torch in hand, expression unreadable.
Cin Drallig stood before Dooku, his jaw set, face unreadable.
Dooku half expected a confrontation, resentment, perhaps, but instead the Battlemaster extended a burning torch toward him. His voice was low, almost distant.
"You are the last of his Padawans," he said. "It should be you."
For a moment Dooku did not move. His fingers felt numb, his chest tight. He had prepared himself for anger, rejection, even scorn, anything except this kind of solemn respect.
He stared at the flame, unable to make his hand rise. Then a gentle pressure touched his fingers. Nira, kneeling beside him, had reached out. She said nothing, only offered that soft, steadying squeeze.
Dooku drew a slow, shaking breath.
He rose.
All conversation throughout the courtyard ceased. A single figure walking toward the pyre in that heavy silence, torch in hand.
Dooku stopped before Yoda's body. Time seemed to stretch thin. For a heartbeat, he was a boy again, standing in the Temple halls with a training saber too large for his hands, listening to that dry, amused voice correcting his every stance. He saw battles fought. Lessons given. Disagreements. Respect. Love. He had left the Order, but he had never stopped being Yoda's student. Not truly.
He lowered the torch.
The flame kissed the kindling, then the wind stirred. Just a whisper of air, but it fanned the flame upward and outward, until fire bloomed across the pyre in a sudden warm rush of gold. The Force itself seemed to breathe upon the fire, lifting the smoke gently toward the sky as if carrying something unseen with it.
Dooku stepped back, returning to his place beside Nira. He sank to his knees once more, the warmth of the pyre brushing his face. No one spoke. The flames roared quietly in the night, consuming wood, cloth, and flesh. Consuming the last physical remnant of the greatest Grandmaster to ever live.
Around them, some Jedi bowed their heads. Others wept silently. A few stood like statues.
Dooku simply watched, letting the tears fall, unashamed. The fire reflected in his eyes, bright and terrible, and for the first time in decades he felt so very small. He had seen wars, civilizations burn, but this… this was the closest thing to a true ending he had ever known.
Beside him, the others remained silent. Even the wind seemed unwilling to intrude.
No Force vision came. No final whisper of guidance. Only the soft crackling of sacred fire as it devoured his master's mortal form.
And Dooku bowed his head, not as a Jedi, not as an exile, not as a noble or a warrior, but simply as a student saying goodbye.
=== Obi-Wan ===
Obi-Wan walked alone through the silent halls of the Temple after the pyre was extinguished, and Anakin had long gone to see Ahsoka in the medical wing.
The murmur of thousands of Jedi had faded behind him hours ago. Now, only the distant echo of footsteps and the low hum of Temple machinery filled the vast corridors. The warmth of the funeral flames still clung to his robes, and the smell of burned incense followed him like a ghost.
He should have gone to his quarters. He should have slept.
But something gnawed at him. Something that had been gnawing for months.
A whisper in the back of his mind that something… was missing.
He reached the Archives door. It opened with a soft hiss, bathing him in cool, pale light. Rows upon rows of holobooks and terminals towered into the shadows, and not a single Archivist remained at this hour.
Obi-Wan walked deeper inside, his boots soft against the polished floors.
He didn't know what he was searching for, not truly. It had begun before Mortis. Before the war began. Little fragments that should have led somewhere in his mind but never did. A feeling of unfinished conversation. A face, always just out of reach.
He accessed a terminal and began digging.
Temple records. Deployment logs. Mission transcripts.
Nothing. No gaps. No convenient erasures.
But the feeling would not go away. Something was wrong. Something had been taken from him.
So he dug deeper.
The restricted section opened for him automatically, he was a High Council member after all, having been voted in after the war. He began searching medical logs, psychological evaluations, archival requests.
And then he found it.
A single entry with his clearance code.
"Memory Adjustment Request – Initiated by: Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi."
His breath stalled. He opened it.
"At request of Master Kenobi, selected memories connected to classified Warp incident have been suppressed. Procedure overseen by Grandmaster Yoda. Reason: emotional compromise, operational priorities."
Obi-Wan sat back, staring at those words.
He tried to remember ever having this conversation.
Nothing surfaced.
So he tried harder.
He pressed fingers to his temple and reached out into the Force. He felt ripples, echoes of something cut away. Like torn pages in a book, the binding intact, but the chapters missing.
His hands trembled. He had willingly asked for this. He had begged for it, according to the wording.
But why?
What had he seen that frightened him so deeply he would rather forget than live with it?
Was it fear at all? Or maybe… the information was too valuable?
He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
Moments flickered. A man's voice, calm but sorrowful. A blade of shimmering brass. Screaming of daemons. A feeling of unbearable grief. Then…
Nothing.
A clean void.
Someone had been there. Someone important.
Someone he had chosen to forget.
A cold chill swept through him.
He didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified.
Very slowly, he stood and turned off the terminal.
He did not speak. He only stood in the dim silence of the Archives, surrounded by the recorded memory of ten thousand Jedi, and realized that his own had been… edited.
By his own choice.
Which meant only one thing:
Whatever he had forgotten, he must have believed that remembering it would destroy him… or the Republic.
===
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