2017
"Dammit, will this infernal contraption ever stop making so much bloody noise."
Ion Nicolae Dooku reached for the cell phone going off in his pocket. Even though he was a well-established barrister who made a handsome salary, he still had a flip phone, considered woefully old-fashioned by most who knew him, even those in his age group. Yet, this was all new to Dooku, who was in his late sixties and remembered the days before cell phones even existed. He felt like the world was changing at a pace he couldn't keep up with, and the cell phone in his pocket was like a ticking timebomb, an unpleasant reminder of his age and impending mortality.
He at least had finally caught onto the concept of ringtones, if only for the convenience of knowing who was calling before he saw their number. He had an Enya ringtone - "Boadicea" - for his unofficially-adopted daughter, Leja Bollasdottir. The phone was also vibrating, which jarred him.
Leja had herself been legally adopted, by Bolli Ornasson, an Icelander that Dooku had met at Oxford's law school, decades ago. Bolli and his wife Bría couldn't have children, so they adopted Leja and her brother Lúkas, the children of a Romanian countess and her non-aristocrat, working-class American lover, which had caused a small amount of scandal in the noble family; when the children were infants, left with a governess, the countess and her lover had been killed while traveling, in a plane crash caused by terrorists. Dooku was himself descended from a Romanian count who had fled Romania for the United Kingdom at the turn of the century to avoid the scandal of marrying outside nobility - the family surname had been misspelled upon arrival in the British Isles. Dooku's father had been very proud of their background, and Dooku had learned fluent Romanian and had been to Romania a few times over the course of his lifetime. As such, he asked by Bolli to teach the children about their Romanian heritage, even as they were immersed in Icelandic and British culture, going back and forth between Reykjavik and London. Leja saw Dooku as being like another father to her, and as he'd never had children of his own, he doted on her as if she were his own.
Usually, he didn't ignore her calls. He'd been late coming home from the office, and she'd called five times while he was in transit. He was still stressed out from work and the late commute, and not really in the mood to talk to anyone, but he took the call anyway, this time. "Hello."
"Dad, why didn't you pick up the phone earlier? Are you all right?"
"I'm sorry, dearest. I just got home, and couldn't answer before now. How are you? Is anything wrong?" Dooku figured if Leja had called him five times within the last hour, it must be urgent.
"You haven't RSVPed yet for the gallery opening tomorrow."
Dooku took a deep breath. Indeed, he had not.
There was another pang of guilt. He wanted to be supportive of Leja's endeavors, especially as a great lover of the arts himself and especially because Leja had been working towards owning her own gallery for years. She was married to an entrepreneur, a half-Danish, half-Japanese man named Hans Sulu, but she wanted to do this independently, without her husband's money. So she'd run a small business for years, saving up the funds needed. And finally, her goal was complete. Dooku was proud of her ambition and determination.
But Dooku was also an introvert. He'd had a rough week at work, more difficult than usual, in the middle of a heated court case. The gallery opening party started within less than two hours after his expected arrival home from work. He wanted to just put on pajamas, the BBC, and unwind with a hot cup of tea, not be expected to put on the same social mask he had to wear all day whether he wanted to or not.
Leja knew this. And normally would not ask it of him. And yet, this was an important event for her. She was finally making a dream come true. Dooku opened his mouth to come up with some excuse, and then slammed it shut, sensing the pouty face on the other end of the phone. Since she was five years old, Leja had figured out how to make Dooku indulge her. She just had to give him sad eyes.
"I will be there," Dooku said, finally, "but I may be a little late. It has been a bad week -"
"The party ends at midnight, so as long as you're there before then, you're good, já?"
"All right -"
A little squeal. "ThankyouDadImsoexcitedIcantwaityourethebestDadIloveyou!!!"
Dooku chuckled, not able to help himself. "I'll see you tomorrow night, dear heart."
"Yes! You will!"
Leja hung up, and then Dooku pressed his forehead against the foyer wall with a little sigh. He would rather eat bugs than spend a night surrounded by people, but... he would do it for his daughter. One of the few rays of warmth in his life.
His cat Dragos greeted him at the door, rubbing up against his legs with a chirp. Dragos was another one of the things that kept him going. Dragos was an old man now - fourteen - but he would always be Dooku's baby; Dooku had Dragos from the time he was a small kitten. Dooku reached down to stroke his absurdly fluffy, silver companion, who responded with a throaty purr and then flopped down on his side for belly rubs. Dooku obliged, stooping down for better access, and then rose to his feet. "You must be hungry," he said, as if Dragos could understand him. He made his way to the kitchen, and Dragos trotted behind him, knowing what the kitchen meant, eager for a can of food.
As Dooku produced a can of the cat's favorite food - compensation for being home later than usual - thunder rumbled outside. It was starting to rain on Dooku's journey home, and he'd made it just before the storm hit. The rain was coming down now, and after Dooku fed the cat, he decided to sit and watch the storm for awhile. He found thunderstorms relaxing - he'd always had an affinity for nature... the Living Force felt strongest when the weather changed.
Dooku made tea, then walked down the hallway, midway between his drawing room and bedroom, and placed the tea service next to him as he sat on a cushioned ledge designed as a window seat. Then he used the Force to bring his teacup over, and sipped until he needed to refill his cup, and used the Force to pour a fresh one.
Part of his stress, and why he disliked being in crowds of people, was having to contain himself, not demonstrate displays of the Force in public. The world was not a kind place for the Force sensitive. Lúkas and Leja had been taught that when Dooku realized their Force sensitivity. Leja was better at hiding this than Lúkas was - Lúkas was living the life of a hermit now, not wanting to deal with the pressure of having to "fit in" and "pretend to be normal". Dooku lived in the heart of London, a house in Bermondsey, and his job as a barrister involved clients, court cases, and dealing with other barristers. But even as he'd had over six decades of experience with learning to not call attention to his use of the Force, it wasn't easy, and Dooku sometimes envied Lúkas his decision. Still, Dooku might as well have been a hermit, a lifelong bachelor, no children of his own blood... precious few friends...
Alone. That was, just as much as his dislike of hiding his Force sensitivity, the biggest reason why Dooku didn't like the type of gatherings he agreed to attend tomorrow night - they were a reminder of how alone he felt in the world. Indeed, the Force had set him apart, put him on this path of loneliness.
Dragos meowed and gingerly hopped up on a footstool Dooku kept near the window seat, to climb onto Dooku's lap. Dragos didn't like the storms, but he craved affection, and Dooku welcomed it now.
_
A little over ninety minutes after the gallery opening celebration began, Dooku arrived. He'd asked Leja about the dress code and was informed tuxedos were too formal, but "casual dress" was not in his vocabulary either, so this evening he wore a simple black tunic over black trousers, with a brown cape styled after a painting he'd seen once of one of his ancestors. The six-foot-five, caped, silver-haired and bearded man commanded attention when he entered a room, but he was uncomfortable with it nonetheless. He did a quick scan of the gallery, intending to make a beeline for Leja. Of course, Leja was occupied, schmoozing with guests.
So he decided to look at the paintings. Most of them were not to his taste, too modern, too abstract, so he didn't spend much time looking at the ones that disinterested him. And then there was one that stood out from the rest.
What caught his eye first was the aurora, in the shape of a phoenix, shades of teal, green, blue, and cyan, melting into a sea of stars. The phoenix and night sky were over an ocean, turbulent with storms... the ocean was also on fire, a strange green fire that seemed supernatural in origin. The fiery, stormy ocean crashed onto a stony shore, and a few rose petals were scattered on the shore, the rose itself - white, tipped with red - being washed into the sea.
It hit him - a chill in the spine, gooseflesh breaking out on his arms, hair standing on end, feeling wrenched in the heart and gut, eyes burning with sudden tears that he dared not shed around these strangers; he was not even comfortable crying privately, and rarely did so. He didn't know how to put it in words, but the painting affected him, visceral and powerful.
Before he turned away from the painting he caught a glimpse of the artist's name - Sören Sigurdsson. Icelandic, by the looks of it; probably knew Leja personally.
There were a few more paintings that weren't to Dooku's taste, by different artists, and then there was another one from this Sören Sigurdsson. This one was of a waterfall in the heart of a forest, with a rainbow shining in the falls, cascading into a lagoon. The forest itself was lush, exquisitely detailed, and as Dooku continued looking at it he noticed the details included old dead forest and new growth growing around and even from the dead parts. Close to the lagoon, Dooku noticed a small stone circle that was also ringed with mushrooms, and gold glowing wisps that seemed to dance around the circle. And then Dooku noticed the same small gold wisps flittering through the forest.
Qui would love this.
Joaquin Gonzalez, or Qui-Gon as many called him, had been mentored by Dooku when Qui was in law school... and then Qui had dropped out and become a veterinarian. The decision was not a complete shock to Dooku - Qui had an affinity for nature, and they had taken day trips into the countryside. Qui was also highly sensitive, as well as Force sensitive, and the call of the Force had made him too sensitive for the pressures of a courtroom; caring for animals was more his speed. Dooku had tried to be supportive of Qui's decisions, but their friendship had grown strained nonetheless. And that had been painful. Dooku still thought of the younger man who was like a son to him - Qui was Leja's age - and being reminded of that here and now hurt, though there was also the warmth of nostalgia to soften the blow.
A few more not interesting or just ugly paintings by other artists, and then another one from Sören Sigurdsson. Dooku saw the title of the painting before the canvas itself - it was entitled "Unfolding". Another seascape, a grey gloomy day, grey-green tides rolling into sand and scattered shells. In the bottom right corner of the painting, there was a close-up of a spiral shell in a pale, weathered palm... and within that shell was space, stars and nebulas. A few stars floating up from the shell, shimmering in the air.
Dooku's breath caught in his throat.
A soft male voice spoke near him. "You like?"
Dooku turned and looked. There was a young man, a few inches shorter than him. A nape-length mop of curly dark hair, neatly trimmed dark beard and mustache framing full lips - a shy, yet radiant smile. Dark eyes, like his... sad but kind, like his. The young man was pale in contrast to his olive complexion, and the young man was wearing a black ruffled shirt, like a pirate's, and black leather pants. A slim, lithe figure. Black leather ankle-high boots that Dooku guessed were Doc Martens from the yellow stitching. He smelled a little like lavender and cloves, and as he fidgeted with his hands Dooku saw the younger man's nails were painted black, with a touch of violet sparkles. Dooku's nostrils flared - he didn't approve of the nail polish. But he remained polite, nonetheless.
"Yes, I do," Dooku said. "I like the other two I've seen from this artist so far. He is quite talented."
The young man's smile turned into a grin, showing his teeth, and then back to the shy smile. He reminded Dooku of Dragos getting eager when he saw cat food or a treat bag. "I am the artist," he said. He had an accent - an Icelandic accent, with the lilt, the rolling of the r's. "Sören Sigurdsson." He put out his hand, to shake.
Then Sören said, "I have two others in this exhibit. I'll show you."
Dooku followed Sören to the other side of the gallery. "Edge of the World" featured a sole figure at the edge of a mountain, with a beautiful view of sunset clouds and a town or city below, tinged with the dying light. Then Dooku noticed the figure on the mountain wasn't just looking at the clouds or what was down below, but another human figure that was flying in the clouds, smiling, wild and peaceful all at once. "Turtle" was a large sea turtle, swimming underwater, and then Dooku noticed the turtle's eyes were starry space again, and the turtle's shell had glowing knotwork and runes, and the turtle seemed to be swimming towards a glowing portal. The other aquatic life, as well as the ripples and bubbles in the water, was lovingly detailed.
Dooku was impressed, not just by the art itself, the intricate detail and beautiful colors, but he was also impressed with the depth of metaphor and emotion that had gone into the work. It spoke to him, sang to him. Dooku wanted to say something about it, but all he could say was, "Very nice." And then, immediately, felt like an ass.
Sören smiled again, and before Dooku could go on to apologize for the trite words, Leja's voice called out, "Father! Sören! I see you two have met."
Leja came over to them - she was wearing a white pantsuit, with her hair in a braided bun. She hugged Sören, who leaned down and kissed her on both cheeks, and then she gave Dooku a warm hug. She barely came up to Dooku's elbow; he leaned down to kiss the top of her head.
Leja and Sören made some small talk in Icelandic while Dooku felt awkward, and then Sören got dragged away by someone wanting to inquire about a painting, and Leja was sucked into the whirlwind of gallery guests once more. Dooku went over to the spread of hors d'oeuvres - there was also wine tasting, but because he was driving home, he didn't want to imbibe too much. He had a nibble, and then went back to look at Sören's paintings again. And again.
The images were doing things to him, hitting nerves, pressing feelings that Dooku didn't know were there, and it was the wrong time for this. Between the waves of emotion and the noise in the Force from so many people in one place at once, Dooku felt an anxiety attack coming on, and politely excused himself to the restroom.
Mercifully, he was alone. He turned on the faucet, splashed cold water on his face, and took a few deep breaths. A little undignified whimper came out of him, and he immediately began clearing his throat to compensate -
- and then he found out he was not, in fact, alone in the restroom. Behind a closed stall, he could hear the sound of crying.
When it didn't subside after a moment, Dooku's instincts got the better of him. He walked to the stalls, knocked lightly on the door, and inquired, "Are you all right?"
No response, and then a minute later, a voice came back, "Jæja, I'm fine. I just..."
It was Sören's voice.
A nervous laugh, and then Sören continued, "Anxiety. Lots of people..."
"I understand." Dooku sighed. "Believe me, I understand." Dooku leaned against the divider between the stalls. "Shall I leave you be, or...?"
"Uh, no. Please stay for a minute." The door cracked open, and Dooku stepped aside so Sören could come out of the stall. He'd been wearing mascara and eyeliner, which was running from his tears, and his hair was disheveled, his face flushed. For some reason this didn't take away from his attractiveness at all, despite the damned nail polish -
- why am I looking at him like this -
- and the shy smile again.
"I'm sorry," Dooku said.
"You didn't do anything wrong...?"
"Your paintings are more than very nice." Dooku folded his arms. "They're... magnificent. I don't know if you have a prospective buyer, but I would like to buy them and I would like to commission you."
Sören's face flushed even more now. He stammered, and then he said, "You don't have to buy them just because you feel sorry for me having an anxiety attack -"
Dooku's eyebrows went up. "It's not because of that. I'm in here, trying not to cry, because whatever magic it is you wield with a brush, affected me that much." And then Dooku felt immediately self-conscious for saying that.
"I put my heart and soul into those," Sören said, "so hearing you say that means... a lot." Sören started crying again. "Ah shit, I'm sorry."
Dooku produced a handkerchief from his trousers pocket, and handed it to Sören, who promptly soaked it as he tried to pull himself together. Then Sören noticed he got mascara and eyeliner all over it. "Oh no, I ruined it... this is expensive, já? Your handkerchief probably costs the same as one of my paintings." Sören smiled, and frowned, and smiled again. "I can buy you a new one -"
"It's not anything that a good wash wouldn't fix."
"OK, but you shouldn't have to pay for cleaning it."
"You don't have to -"
"No, I insist. I'll have it dry cleaned the next time I... uh... do dry cleaning." Something about that statement told Dooku that the young man didn't have dry cleaning done very often.
"If you insist," Dooku said.
They walked over to the sink together, and Dooku turned on the faucet to put some more cold water on his face again. He used his hand... and out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the faucet at the sink where Sören was, turned without Sören touching it. A little gasp escaped Dooku's lips before he could stop himself, and then Sören froze. A few seconds later, Sören waved his hand and said in a firm voice, "You didn't see that."
"That doesn't work on me," Dooku said.
Sören glared at him, and Dooku glared back. Dooku then responded by turning off both faucets without touching them.
Sören's jaw dropped, and Dooku gave him a small smile. But in the Force, he could feel Sören's anxiety building again, this time about to become full-on panic - Sören wasn't prepared to be in this kind of situation.
"Here," Dooku said. He pulled out a pen and a notepad from his trouser pocket. "I'm going to give you my cell. Please call me when you have that laundered -" He gestured to the handkerchief with his pen. "And we can go somewhere and have tea, discuss your paintings, sales, a commission... and what happened just now, if you feel safe doing so."
Sören took the paper with Dooku's cell number on it, and then rushed out of the restroom without another word.
chapter 2 | return to Northern Lights | return to Other Tolkien Fic | return to index