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Grand Moff Tarkin felt like one moment ago he was at the peak of his life and the next moment the universe had decided that it was way too generous with him before and toppled his life upside down. Just minutes after the news of the princess’s escape arrived, he received a heart-stopping update from the homing beacon installation team that had him frozen to the marrow, “sir, we’ve been aboard the captured vessel, and we’ve found the bodies of the scanning crews along with the bodies of TK-421 and TK-710.”

Just the phrases “bodies” and “TK-421” combined alone has brought him unmeasurable pains. Of all the 25,984 stormtroopers, or even of all the 1,956,293 total personnel and passengers who were aboard the Death Star, those blasted Rebel scums had the audacity to rob him of the only one that mattered! He wanted to howl, to cry, to draw out a knife and slash open everyone’s throat around him, to order the Death Star to open fire at every planet nearby. But he couldn’t, not now, not when everyone’s watching him and when everything he had worked on for his entire life was just within his grasp.

After the initial burst of anger and grief he forced himself to calm down. Any ordinary man would wallow in despair and self-pity in situations like that. Not Tarkin. He might not possess the dark magic of the Emperor and Vader, but he’s resourceful, and he’s determined. As long as he set his mind on something, nothing, not even death, could take whatever he wanted away from him. Luckily, he knew from experience exactly what to do. Putting on his mask of a politician and a commanding officer, he replied, “how long did they die?”

“I’m sorry, sir?” the technician in the comm sounded comically confused. Forget about the knife. Tarkin now really wanted to rip apart that man with his own hands for the personal insult of such stupidity. He sucked in a deep breath, suppressing his desires for blood, for revenge—he had to reserve those desires for the Rebel scums responsible later—before he could muster up enough patience to reply in his calmest tone, “I said, how long did those troopers die?”

Maybe he overdid that calm tone to the point of chilling, for everyone in the room suddenly became rigid, their eyes darted at everywhere else but him. That unfortunate technician at the center of his attention fumbled his answer, spurting out a bunch of unintelligible sounds before finally being able to stammered out recognizable syllables, “I, I do—don’t know, sir. I’m no, I’m no forensic ex—expert.”

It has been decided then, that this man had to be disposed of, for he could absolutely not hold the SIMPLEST human conversation, but not before he finished his job at hand. THE MOST IMPORTANT MISSION. “Just give me your best guess.”

“We—well, given that the vessel was pulled in a, a subcycle ago, I’d say, emmm, maybe, maybe less than half a subcycle?”

Like a stranded man on Tatooine who suddenly saw the sign of a spring, Tarkin was filled with relief and joy so great his legs almost lost the strength to support his weight. Indeed, not all things are lost. There’s still hope left.

“I believe our station has fully operational carbon freezing chambers, yes?”

“Yes, sir! All maintained in the most pristine conditions!”

Great. To hell with discretion. Time is everything now. The witnesses could be dealt with later. “Send two of your men to transport TK-421 to the nearest carbon freezing chamber. Immediately. I believe the rest of you should be more than enough for your original mission.”

That technician once again stuttered infuriatingly: “Bu—but why, why, sir? It’s just, just a dead trooper, sir.”

The pain was back, as if someone has repeatedly stabbed him in the heart and twisted the knife. Stupid, and nosy. What a waste! Those kriffing Rebel scums stole the precious and heartless idiots like that get to live! “That’s a he. Be respectful to your colleague. And be careful with him. Do not drag him around like trash. Now stop questioning orders and do what I say! Immediately!”

“Ye—yes, sir! You two, you hear what the Grand Moff said. Do it! And what about the, the other bodies, sir?”

“The other bodies?” What bodies? Why does it matter at all? Don’t you have better things to do?

“The bodies of TK-710 and, and the scanning crews, sir, what about them? Do we also send them to carbon fr—”

“—No! Do what you are supposed to do! Leave those bodies there. We need to find where those Rebel scums are hiding and I don’t care about the rest!” He could feel that those around him were surreptitiously giving him weird side-eyes but he didn’t care about the opinions of dead men walking either.

He would do anything to bring his beloved back, but first, those who dared to rip out his heart had to pay for their hideous crime.

Being an admiral and the Chancellor’s close confidant meant that amongst the chaos of the Battle of Coruscant and the kidnapping of the Chancellor, Tarkin was one of the first to be notified of the death of Dooku. The news has brought him a whirlpool of conflicting feelings. On the one hand, he’s relieved. Dooku had tried to ruin everything he valued by tearing the Galaxy apart. His death would be a crucial step to end this war and to restore the order and stability of the Galaxy. On the other hand, he felt grief and loss on a personal level. Dooku was, by all means, an inspiring and charismatic man. Contrary to many of their peers who attained the positions of power and prestige merely through blood or family connections, yet were no more than embarrassing knockoffs of true leadership, Dooku knew what it actually meant to shoulder the responsibility of a whole sector—and an Outer Rim one no less. It was in him that Tarkin had found himself a kindred spirit, even though their positions on galactic politics couldn’t be more different.

Despite everything, it was also in him that Tarkin found respite—albeit shortly—from the currents of said politics.

They both knew the fling was not going to last. Indeed, it developed and ended as rapidly as the emergence of the Separatist Crisis. From then firstly the Clone Wars, following by a new love interest, had demanded Tarkin’s attention so fully they did not leave him time to mourn for a relationship doomed from the start.

Until now, that was.

And to think that it was Anakin Skywalker that had killed Dooku.

Anakin, Anakin—the mere thought of that name hurt him even more than the demise of Dooku. He had such high hopes for their relationship. Despite the initial friction, they almost clicked instantly. He thought Anakin would be the partner in his ascension to power his father once promised. He thought Anakin understood.

He was so, so wrong. What was once his greatest love had become his greatest disappointment. Anakin’s priorities were so fixed on those closest to him that he failed to realize that the fate of the Galaxy was far larger than both of them. It was inexorably then that they would be walking on different paths.

And the path to power was such a lonely one.

It was probably that void in his heart that had driven him to the impulsive decision of retrieving Dooku’s body when the battle ended. In the aftermath of such a devastating event no one took a moment to question the order—even a questionable one like that—of the Chancellor’s favorite admiral. Now left with the body of his once-lover, he suddenly was unsure what to do.

Was he seeking closure by finally setting his eyes on the indisputable signs of death and decay? Did he want to cremate the Count’s remains as one would for a fallen Jedi, and to bury him like a widower would?

Or was he still trying to deny the fact that now he was truly alone?

Looking back at the Count’s body, Tarkin finally made up his mind. Dooku’s severed head still retained his last expression: waxy face twisted with glassy eyes wide and mouth open in shock. His whole body shrouded in a greenish-gray veil of color and the putrid smell of rotten flesh. A coward might be scared of such sight, but death was just another old friend of Tarkin. He calmly ordered preparation of a carbon freezing chamber before extending a hand to smooth out Dooku’s postmortem expression. The touch felt clammy and ice-cold, as if Dooku’s skin had sucked out the life from his fingertips.

“Now it will just be you and me then,” he whispered.

He didn’t have the luxury to look at the love of his life for the last time before those technicians sealed that lovely face inside of a carbonite block. A whole Rebel base needed to be destroyed, the murderers of his sunshine hunted down, and even he was not brave enough to bet on whether the sight of his beloved’s lifeless body would give him more motivation to properly distribute just deserts, or finally break the spell which somehow had miraculously kept him functioning still. Besides, this was but a temporary separation. It had to be. He could not accept the other possibility.

When it was all over, the Rebel base blown up in smithereens, and it was only time for surviving Rebel rats scattered across the Galaxy to come to terms with the inevitable, Tarkin didn’t feel the satisfaction he should have felt. The bloodlust has been sated, yes, but the taste of sweet revenge has not filled the void in his heart. The celebration of everyone around him has only rubbed salt into his wounds. How could they still be so cheerful when I suffer like that? The worst part was that he had to play his part of a proud yet dignified leader and pretend to be gleeful about the Empire’s greatest victory, for there were some people on the Overbridge too important even for him to dispose of. And it wouldn’t be long before he had to deal with endless felicitations from the Emperor and all the dignitaries, the latter a bunch of sharks who would gladly tear him apart if they smelt any blood. It took all his willpower to keep his perfect diplomatic mask from cracking and revealing his dead inside to these vultures.

In the short intervals between celebrations and congratulatory comms he has managed to order those technicians to bring his treasure encased in the carbonite coffin to his quarters (one last useful thing they’d do), and for his personal medical droids to prepare an autopsy report without unfrozen the carbonite block, unable to bear the thought that his lover would get cut open like a piece of bantha meat on a butcher block, and fearing the process might add additional risks to his future plans.

At the end of the day, after firmly refusing Motti’s invitation to continue the party at the Death Star’s best bar, he was left alone at last. The whoosh of his quarters’ blast doors separated his world in half: the outside world a festival ground full of joyful drunken people loudly singing and partying; and the inside world, what used to be so much like a cozy home for him and his lover, only a crypt so quiet and cold. He trudged into his bedroom, not bothering to change his boots into slippers. That Wilhuff Tarkin under any other circumstances would throw a huge fit for such a sacrilege against his favorite carpet—this baby was worth more than a fleet of Star Destroyers, but right now he could not care less. He was not one prone to clutter up his living space. Everything here—from the priceless carpet to the Veermok skin chair to the karambit made from Eriaduan tiger claw—had carried great meaning to him, but they were meaningless now, for his attention has been fully drawn to the center of the display.

His lover was still so devastatingly gorgeous even in death. His final expression perfectly preserved by the carbon freezing process. He looked so serene as if were in deep slumber, like every morning in the past week, waiting for him to blow on his lashes jokingly and kiss him awake. The slate gray of carbonite had concealed all those lovely colors on him—his blonde curls glimmering like sunlight, his creamy skin, his rosy cheeks and lips, and even that little red blemish on his chin—but this was not a concern of Tarkin, for his world has lost colors without him anyway. He raised his hand and trailed his fingers along the lines of that bas-relief of his sleeping angel. Every part of him was so perfect, the very personification of love and beauty, a remarkable piece of art that would put all of Grand Admiral Thrawn’s collection to shame, except—his fingers gently caressing his lover had suddenly come to a stop, trembling as if electrified—that glaring blaster hole in his chest. Tarkin didn’t even need to read the autopsy report to make an educated guess on the cause of death: severe damage to the heart and left lung, most likely combined with heavy blood loss. The situation wasn’t ideal—usually people who suffered from such conditions would use pulmonodes as replacements for heart and lungs, but the process he’d be using to bring his lover back had the unfortunate side effect of frying any cybernetics and thus rendering his efforts moot. He would have to find organic replacements for these, but what made the situation even worse was the fact that the very existence of cybernetic technology has made the practice of organ donation obsolete.

Nevertheless, there’s nothing, NOTHING, that he wouldn’t do.

“I will bring you back, Emil. I promise,” he muttered, and like every morning in that seven cycles before the fateful day, cradled the face of his sleeping beauty in his hands and kissed him. As hard as he tried to imagine kissing his lover alive with his eyes closed, there’s no way to mistake that cold, hard feeling for those warm, soft lips, and the bitter taste with a tinge of tangy metal couldn’t be more different from the taste of clean skin, and the scents of shared personal care products. Then he tasted salt, and realized that he was crying.

Why, even with all the power one would ever dream of, could he never keep those he had loved?

He had thought that he’d figured it out. In his younger years he had eyes only for those who were his equals, but such strong minds and wills were bonded to characters proportionately strong. And two top predators would not coexist long before they unavoidably turn on each other. Even though whatever happened on Mustafar had taken the feistiest spirit out of Anakin, it would still take years for Tarkin to find his way around Vader, and he knew he was walking on thin ice. No, he did not need a counterpart, he needed a partner.

And then Emil barged into his life with his striking good-looks and his fearless big heart. It had been decades since anyone would see him as more than a boogieman or a living legend. It had been decades since he had just been Wilhuff and not the Governor, the Admiral, the Moff or the Grand Moff to someone. It was… liberating.

They were so happy together.

For the past year Tarkin has been exceedingly busy. There were loose ends of a galactic-wide war to be tied up, an empire—Sheev’s Empire—to be built, and a New Order to be enforced. He’s no longer an admiral but a Moff, and with his elevated status and power have come even greater responsibilities. When he’s not practically living in a Star Destroyer pacifying unruly regions and expanding territories for the new Empire, he’s attending various committee meetings and summits drawing up blueprints to realize the vision shared by both the Emperor and himself. There was barely time home, and even less time to think about his peculiar spoils of war.

Until Dr Hemlock and his Project Necromancer had enter the picture.

The Emperor—no, Sheev—was hiding something even from him. It was not exactly news to him. After all, a politician’s words could not all be trusted. He should know, being a politician himself. He figured that Sheev wouldn’t want to get rid of him anytime soon, having spent decades to guide and shape him into who he was now, and Hemlock’s subsequent death had removed whatever potential threat he might have brought to him out of the picture. Still, it would be prudent to check if there were any conspiracy against him, just to be sure. And if what Hemlock was working for were indeed of vital importance to the Empire, then he might have to revive the project later, this time under his very eye.

As he started digging he found it turned out to be a more difficult task than he had anticipated. Hemlock was dead, his fellow researchers either dead or missing, and Clone Force 99 was thorough with the destruction of all databanks within Tantiss Base. All off-world records directly linked to the project was annoyingly classified even to him. Still, he had solved mysteries with even more circumstantial evidences. From the holovids recorded by the team sent to decommission the base it was clear that the base was primarily a cloning facility, which also explained Clone Force 99’s involvement in its destruction. What didn’t make sense was that why a mere cloning project was something Sheev chose to keep away from him. Then a particular room has peaked his interest—a huge enclosure containing an enormous tank, with special security systems and weapons installed. Apparently, this room was used as a containment chamber for some gigantic and dangerous amphibious creature. Given all the traces of giant claw marks, carbon scorch marks, and bodies left in this room and subsequently throughout the base, whatever was held in here has breached the containment and rampaged through the facility. Maybe Sheev wanted to weaponize the unknown creature, considering how much havoc it had wreaked. The question remained unanswered though, that why it was of personal interest to Sheev and in such secrecy. It could have easily been a Tarkin Initiative project anyway.

Or maybe he’s overthinking it and the truth really was the easiest answer that Sheev just wanted some more exotic pets, and he was doing it behind Tarkin’s back simply because he was afraid that Tarkin would have judged him? Well if that’s the case then Tarkin really couldn’t care less. He was willing following Sheev because of his vision and wisdom, and what the man did in his leisure time was none of Tarkin’s business.

Be that as it may, Tarkin had a gut feeling that there’s more to this project than the unknown beast.

The breakthrough came when he was reviewing files indirectly connected to the classified ones—this time an Imperial shuttle’s itinerary to the Wayland System. There’s one name that stood out from the passenger list. A name that Tarkin recognized. A scientist, and a controversial one at that. Tarkin might have been a busy man, but a mind like his needed constant stimulation more than even his challenging job could provide. He had kept various hobbies, one of which was reading science journals. It was a useful hobby, as keeping being informed of the most cutting-edge technologies and discoveries gave him inspirations of weapon development, and sometimes even more unexpected benefits, like the time he earned the friendship of one Dr Erso with his knowledge on crystallography. It took Tarkin exactly two seconds to recall the paper written by that particular scientist that had gotten him into a big scandal and subsequent expulsion from the Republic science corps: Reanimation of the Dead through Electricity with a Special Frequency of Varying Voltages.

He wanted to laugh. So the answer really is that simple! He couldn’t believe how he didn’t connected the dots from the start. Perhaps the military had often adopted way too abstract code names that he ignored the possibility that Project Necromancer might just be about, well, reanimating dead people.

REANIMATING… DEAD PEOPLE?

He quashed that particular thought. It was utter madness. Besides, what that crazy scientist revived was a full corpse. His technique could not brought back a beheaded man.

OR COULD HE?

Before he had more time to ruminate on his new findings, and to track down the disgraced scientist, the Emperor had reassigned him to the Sentinel Base. The official reasons have never been given, though Tarkin has held the suspicion that it might serve as a small warning from the Emperor to not meddle in his affairs. There’s a part of he wanting to assure the Emperor that It’s all right Sheev. I don’t care about your little secrets. I’m digging this for my own goals. But he knew better than that and accepted his new post with the grace of a well practiced politician.

More than three years have passed since he last pursued that matter. Things have again changed. He’s not a Moff but a Grand Moff, the Empire’s first. He’s not stranded on that little moon of nowhere but instead in charge of a third of the vast Empire and a battle station that soon would forever change the future of said Empire. He had… reconnected with Vader.

The most fiery fire that was alway burning in Anakin’s heart was gone in Vader. Whatever happened on Mustafar has broken his spirit and made him a shadow of who he once was, but he’s still unmistakably Anakin. There’s a part of Tarkin that would always mourn the Anakin that he had once fallen in love with, but another part of him appreciated this new version of Anakin, this Vader. Vader has matured, no longer easily distracted but instead focusing on what was most pressing at hand and what was most important to their long term goals. Of course there was no doubt that what under that mask and armor were no longer that handsome face and remarkable body, but the desires of the flesh could easily be sated somewhere else. It was a price Tarkin was willing to pay for the benefits of the Empire.

Too bad that another price Tarkin would be willing to pay for the Empire was that he would not act on his rekindled attraction to Vader. He still remembered what happened last time and he was not going to make the same mistake twice. Vader has changed, yes, but so was everything. Now they were no longer just a Jedi General and an Admiral. They were the two pillars of the Empire. Should things go wrong again and shift that delicate power equilibrium between them that had kept the Empire functioning… no, it’s a risk Tarkin’s not willing to take. The Empire came first.

It’s not like he hasn’t tried to take other lovers in the meantime, but his reputation has finally caught up with him. The things he committed on Ghorman, on Antar 4, on Salient, on Mon Cala, on Western Reaches… he was not proud of them, but they were necessary. Yet these events have shaped the way others saw him. They viewed him either as the Empire’s Hero or the Empire’s Butcher. Either way, they had put him on a pedestal. Be it awe or fears that he inspired on those people, they were ultimately scared of him, afraid to do anything that might have caused his displeasure. To bed them felt like to bed cold fish. And after numerous attempts Tarkin had finally given up hopes that he would find anything more than inadequate toys in them.

This was when he missed Dooku the most. Looking back, the short summer romance was perhaps, ironically, the most healthy relationship he ever had. Without the rose-tinted glasses, he realized that his affair with Anakin was unpredictable even at its best. They agreed on most things, yes, or more precisely Anakin had enthusiastically agreed on nearly everything he said, but there were other matters that would provoke his volatile temper and they’d got themselves into intense fights and even more heated apologies. And things kept escalating until the point came that there was no return. Anakin was fire, and Tarkin got what he deserved by playing with that fire.

Dooku was different. Now that Tarkin thought of it, he might have understood him more than Anakin did. Even though both were raised by the Jedi Order, the Count was, unlike the younger Jedi, a sophisticated and urbane being. This was a companion who was in the same social circle as Tarkin, and they both had appreciations for things like the nuances of politics and intricacies of economics, as well as the finer things in life. To converse with the Count was nothing if not always intellectually stimulating. And the time they spent together has recharged both his mind and spirit.

Dooku would be a perfect partner, if not for the fact that he’s on the complete opposite side of the political spectrum as Tarkin.

But that would not be a problem now, would it? Dooku was after all, a dead person to the whole Galaxy. A new Count of Serenno has already inherited his position and what remaining wealth the new regime has allowed him to keep. Now Dooku would have no secular power to challenge the Empire had him been successful revived. There was simply no power base for him.

That was when he started to look for that rogue scientist. The man might have tried to cover his tracks, but there were ways for people like Tarkin to find out whoever they wanted. Now he was face to face with the scientist, who looked like every caricature of a mad man.

“What do you want? There’s nothing more I can give you,” said the scientist.

“I’m more interested in what you’ve already given to the Empire. What did you do on Tantiss Base?” answered Tarkin.

“I can’t tell you. I’ve signed the NDA and if I tell anyone the Empire will kill me for it.”

Tarkin quirked a brow, “you know who I am?”

“I doubt there’s anyone in the Galaxy who doesn’t know.”

“Then you know what I can do. You can either tell me what I want to know willingly and if I like the answer I might give you my protection and even a job at the Tarkin Initiative. Or don’t. I’ll still get my answers and you won’t like either the process or the end result. You’ll soon find out that to cross me is the same as to cross the Empire.”

In the end the scientist was not as crazy as he looked, and chose the first option that would benefit him the most. Tarkin has soon learned that Hemlock has sought his fellow outcast out at the beginning of the project, but soon decided to drop him out when it was discovered that the process he used to reanimate the corpses had either killed or failed to revive the midichlorians inside of their deceased hosts, and whatever alternative methods they’d tried were not able to amend that particular flaw.

That information was the final piece to a puzzle that Tarkin had long lost interest to solve. So Sheev had wanted to revive some Force-sensitive. It’s definitely not a Jedi he’s trying to bring back, otherwise why tried to kill them all to begin with. It’s probably not a Sith of the Old either. To Tarkin’s knowledge the Sith worked in pairs, and there were already two running in the Galaxy. So maybe Sheev wanted to bring Vader back in his full glory, not that Tarkin would oppose to that idea. Or maybe Sheev wanted to clone himself in case he would die. He was old now and even though Force seemed to give those it favored longevity, they still didn’t live a monstrously long life. However, the Empire needed Sheev. He’s the only one with enough vision to guide the Galaxy and power to hold it together. Therefore Tarkin would be happy for him if that were truly what he sought. Either way, it didn’t matter. What really mattered was—

“Do you think it’s possible, to revive a beheaded corpse?”

The scientist shrugged, “I can’t give you a definitive answer because I’ve never tried that myself. The most incomplete carcasses I’ve brought back were some eviscerated ones. But theoretically, yes, it’s probable, as long as you still keep the head.”

Great. The situation might not be the most ideal for Dooku, given he would lose the Force-sensitivity that he was born with. Being a non Force-sensitive Tarkin could not truly fathom what it would be like for the Count, but he guessed it’s probably something akin to him losing his vision. Yet it would be the best for everyone else. Tarkin didn’t want for the Emperor to take it as a threat to his domination of the Galaxy, and for Vader to mistake it as a challenge to his place in the Sith hierarchy, which would obviously be what it looked like had him brought Dooku back as the fallen Jedi he was.

Therefore Tarkin kept his promise and brought the scientist into the Tarkin Initiative. As powerful as he might be, it was prudent that he kept his true purpose in secrecy, and covers were needed so whatever prerequisite experiments were required before he could put the technique into use in good confidence, they would look like legitimate military researches.

The first phase of experiments would be performed on non-humans since controversy topics were best pushed through by baby steps, and no one—well, no one of importance anyway—would scrutinize what happened to non-humans. Slaves of different species were brought in and terminated. Parts of their bodies assembled together and reanimated by the scientist’s method, all under the name of creating the perfect soldiers for the Empire. Once the method has been proven stable, the project was cancelled and the resulting hybrid monsters exterminated.

The second phase of experiments would then be performed on humans, for many species had better healing abilities than humans and all variants needed to be controlled. Fresh corpses of different causes of death were provided from the stocks of prisoners (mostly dissidents, the only contribution they ever provided to the Empire in their pathetic lives), then they were dismembered and reorganized in every combination possible. Afterwards the reattached bodies were revived and then when all recordings were done, these unnatural abominations were disposed of. When once the Emperor casually asked Tarkin what the experiments were for, Tarkin told him that he wanted to extract more information from captured Rebels, and with this new tool on his belt even death would not deter him from getting whatever he wanted now. The Emperor gave his approval with a loud cackle. What the experiments concluded was that as long as the head remained in good condition, a person could be reliably reanimated with their full conscious and memory attached.

The silver lining, thought Tarkin, was that at least Anakin made the cut horizontally through the neck and not doing it vertically.

Now with all the preparations done, it was finally time to bring back Dooku.

The carbonite block that had contained his ex-lover for almost a decade has finally been melted. Tarkin’s medical droids have politely advised him to wait outside for the operation, citing the unpleasant smell and sight, yet Tarkin refused. He has worked for this day for so long. It was his right to be there for the definitive moment. As the droids were preparing the body for the procedure, they chatted with him and provided him with assurances that yes, the Count’s body is in relatively good condition, we believe this could work, and yes, we need to remove these layers of tissues because they were cauterized, but don’t worry we’ll connect everything perfectly and he’ll only get shorter for like one or two inches.

Finally, the Count’s head was attached to his body and the droids were left to prepare the electrocuting devices for the second stage of the reanimation. Tarkin has redressed Dooku himself, hiding that ugly circle of stitches around his neck inside of the high-collared shirt. If not for the greenish-gray color of Dooku’s skin and the smell of antiseptic, Tarkin would mistake him for asleep.

The droids came back and started to connect different devices and then attached electrodes onto Dooku’s body. As they began the procedure of reanimation, Tarkin’s heart raced with the beeping of various indicators, as the Count’s chest started to heave and those closed eyes fluttered open, Tarkin’s heart bounced so hard as if trying to leap out of his throat—

And then it sank like a stone.

For he looked into the eyes of Dooku, and was stared back by a soulless gaze.

“Dooku?” he tried to call him in feeble voice. He was answered with silence.

Every indicator showed that Dooku was perfectly alive, except the ones for brain functions.

He had brought back a vegetative.

What had went wrong?

After what felt like an eternity of shock and despair, he had finally gathered himself and summoned the scientist. They went over all procedures. Everything turned out to be done exactly according to the protocol. In the end the scientist concluded that the likely cause of this failure might be the fact that they were using freshly made corpses when they experimented, and Dooku’s body was not a fresh one. Brain functions were the first to be lost when circulation has failed, starting as soon as minutes after death, and Tarkin acquired Dooku’s remains a day later.

Tarkin had tried. He was not a man to give up on the first sign of trouble. He had ordered the scientist to remedy the situation in anyway possible. Countless new methods of electric stimulation were developed and combinations of various drugs were employed to awaken Dooku’s conscious. Nothing was working.

Dooku’s state was deteriorating days after days. The age that was kept away by the Force has finally caught up with him after Tarkin had bereft him of his birth rights. It was the sight of him in this horrifying state that had finally awakened Tarkin from his trance. He realized that he had kept Dooku in such agony just to fulfill a mad man’s selfish dream.

Tarkin was not a man to shy away from making the hardest decisions.

He let Dooku go.

The preparation of his lover’s resurrection has undergone smoothly. Acquiring blood bags and artificial replacement ribs were easy for any galactic elite let alone him. Obtaining fresh organs turned out to be a little tricky, as in this era no one signed up for organ donations anymore. It was not his usual way, abusing the power the Emperor had trusted to him for his own gain, but he reasoned that after all these years of service he had provided to the Empire and all the sacrifices he’d made, was he asking too much for cashing in just a little favor from the Empire in order to save the only thing he wished to keep for himself? So, arrangements were made, favors were exchanged, and he got access to every genetic database in the Imperial Health System. Numerous most compatible genetic matches for his beloved were found and he picked up the potential donor from the pool: a young, fit man, loyal citizen of the Empire. His sacrifice would be noted.

An unfortunate accident had befallen the man chosen, but his death was not in vain, for his heart and left lung were packed immediately and would live on inside of another man who was of greater values to the Empire.

It was the first time Tarkin had stepped into the medical room of his family compound since Dooku’s second death. He was standing on the same spot as last time, watching his medical droids transplanting the new organs into his lover. Everything was so eerily familiar, except this time the outcome had to be different.

When the droids have done the most part and were about to stitch his sunshine up, Tarkin insisted on doing that last part himself, for good luck. If he wanted it to be different than last time, he might as well do something different than last time. His childhood hobby of sewing turned out to be beneficial as he quickly grasped the basics of stitching up skin instead of fabric. Once, during the short break of torture, a Rebel scum had snidely remarked that had she not known he’s a butcher, she’d mistaken his hands for ones of an artist or a surgeon. It was ironic, that the hands which brought billions of death would bring life this time. One stitch at a time. One stitch at a time. He’s pouring all his willpower, the one that had moved the Galaxy in his way, into those little stitches one by one.

This time it would work. This time he’s going to bring his lover back.

The electrodes were attached, the machines turned on. Tarkin felt his heart squeezing and bouncing in a mad, irregular way as if he were the one under the cracking power of the electricity. The trepidation alone was enough to kill him.

At last, his precious gasped. His golden lashes fluttered before he opened his eyes. Those two pools of mesmerizing electric blue were looking back at him, unfocused—

No! Not again! Not after everything!

—and the pupils constricted back to the normal size.

“Wil?” the boy croaked. His voice was hoarse from his ordeals, or perhaps because of a new lung, but it’s the most melodic sound Tarkin has ever heard.

It worked.

IT WORKED!

He was momentarily paralyzed with relief and happiness, so much so that it felt like if he were about to explode. Everything he had ever worked on since he was a little boy on the Carrion had led him to this moment, his ultimate achievement.

“Emil, baby, how are you feeling?” he whispered, as if afraid to interrupt a dream.

His lover groaned, “I feel horrible, as if an AT-AT has stomped on me.” Then he blinked confusingly. “What happened? The last thing I remember is getting ambushed by someone in that captured ship. Where am I now?”

He extended a hand to stroke his beloved’s cheek, thumb barely applying any pressure as if worried to break him. His beloved was paler than usual, yet he was heartbreakingly stunning as always. Those lovely blue eyes still retained the innocence of a twenty-year-old. He does not know what I had done for him, and he will never know. “Easy baby, easy. You are safe now. We are in my home, on Eriadu. Those Rebel scums, they hurt you badly. Fortunately the medical droids were able to save your life and awaken you from a coma.” His voice started to tremble. The calm mask he maintained for his lover’s sake was cracking and the pain showing through. “I almost lost you.”

“But it’s alright now, Wil. Turned out I’m a tougher cookie than you’ve thought and now you’re stuck with me again.” His lover smiled weakly, raising a hand towards him as if trying to comfort him. Grateful for the gesture, he caught the hand and gently kissed his palm.

“That’s the best I could ask for. In fact, what happened earlier… had made me reconsider my priorities in life… and I come to the conclusion that I want you more than my dirty little secret, I want us to be able to walk together under the sun.”

His lover gave him a cheeky grin. “Thank you. That was awfully romantic of you. I’d almost mistaken it for a proposal.”

“Yes, it is. Now it’s your time to say yes.”

Those baby blue eyes were widening. “Wait, what?” Then his lover came to his senses and blushed. The color brought some much needed liveliness back to his pretty face. “I mean, yes, of course, but I’m just nobody, a lowly trooper….”

“That could be a problem, yes,” he admitted. “Not that you are nobody, no. You are everything to me and that’s the only thing matters. However, the fact that you were once under my command could fuel some public scandals, which is why you need a new identity—a new name and a new origin.” That was part of the truth, the other part being that the trooper designated TK-421, the 20-year-old human male Emil Kriiger hailed from Troithe, was already proclaimed legally dead. Another fallen soldier for the Empire.

“And that’s even possible?”

“Nothing’s impossible for me. After all, Yularen still owns me several favors. Now pick up your new name, sweetheart. You might want to start with something like a grandmother’s maiden name for example.”

“Can I at least keep my first name? It’s a common name anyway and no one’s gonna put two and two together.” His lover’s pouting stubbornly, and Tarkin’s heart swelled with affection. He took a moment to count how many more mouths he needed to forever silence and decided that with everything his lover went through, he deserved a little treat.

“I suppose that could work.”

“And can I pick Coruscant as my new homeworld?”

“Sure, my dear. Why not?” He gave him an indulgent smile.

“I do get to keep in contact with my family, right?”

“Only if you pretend to be yourself’s third cousin once removed,” he joked.

“You really are the best, Wil!” the young man exclaimed, his eyes glittering like stars, then he coughed as his new lung hasn’t been used to the exertion.

“Careful, my dear.” Tarkin patted his back gently. “Remember, you are still recovering from the surgery. The medical droids are preparing a bacta tank for you. They’ve promised me that you’ll feel as good as new once you finish the one-week treatment they prescribed.”

His lover hummed while looking at his surroundings. “It just comes to me that you have a surgery room and a bacta tank in your home.”

“It was just a drawing room before my father was gravely ill and we purchased all these medical equipments for him. I didn’t bother to sell them and change it back after he died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was before you were even born. Besides, I’m glad that it turned out to be useful.”

“Still, to think that you have so many rooms in your home that you can spare one for a surgery room,” his lover mused in awe. “I grew up sharing a bedroom with three brothers because we only have three rooms in our apartment, and my sisters need their own room.”

“It will be your home on Eriadu too. I’ll give you a tour once you finish your bacta treatment.” He patted the boy’s head.

“Sweet! Can I pick my own room?”

“Anything you want, my love. But may I interest you in the master suite? It has gorgeous views of the bay and the distant shore. Granted, you’ll have to share a room with yours truly, but I believe you’re going to find the arrangement beneficial as once you are back in health—” he winked at his lover, “we could share a lot of fun activities at night.”

The young man gulped, his face even redder. It was utterly adorable. “Intriguing. Does it have overhead lighting?”

He chuckled, “unfortunately all rooms do, but we’ve got a lifetime to fix it.”

His lover batted his eyes at him. “You’ve made a very convincing argument then.”

“I know. It’s part of my job to make convincing arguments,” he smirked.

“Speaking of your job, did you find the Rebel Base? Please tell me you made my attackers suffer as much as I do.”

“Even better,” he gloated smugly. “I blew it up and killed all who dared to lay a finger on you.”

His lover looked at him starry-eyed, “you are my hero.”

Being worshipped by such a beautiful man, a man he has brought back from the dead and would soon pledge his life to, has fed his ego like no other. He leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on his lover’s plump lips. The first kiss of his lover’s new life, of their new life together. It was the most wonderful feeling he had ever felt. It was full of love, tenderness, and hope, the complete opposite of that cold, desperate kiss just days ago, which almost felt like a lifetime. Had it not for his lover’s delicate health, he’d savor the kiss forever.

When they broke the kiss, his lover sighed, “I wish G7 were here. He’d be so happy for us.”

He fell silent for a moment, weighing his words. “G7 has been caught up in an explosion during the battle. We managed to fix him and salvaged most parts of his behavioral circuitry matrix, but his memory banks were beyond repair. I’m sorry, my love.” Another half-truth. He had been the one to wipe the droid’s memory. In his moment of weakness he had told G7 the truth of his master’s murder and invited the droid to witness the destruction of the Rebel Base, and all lose ends had to be tied up.

His lover was so quiet that Tarkin had feared that he might be dead again. His youthful face contorted with the pain. Tears were welling up in those clear blue eyes, and he did his best to hold them back, mouth tightening into a thin line in his effort. Tarkin felt a pang of regret for causing such distress in his lover. If only he’d been more discreet in his grief then.

But then his lover sighed, and smiled at him. It was a genuine smile, though still filled with sadness. “It’s alright, I suppose. We’ll just make new happy memories with him then.”

At that moment, Tarkin was once again reminded why he had fallen in love with that trooper. He’s not sophisticated like Dooku, and he’s not intense like Anakin, but he’s a resilient boy who’s always able to bounce back from setbacks and to find beauty in every situation.

His musings were interrupted by one of the medical droids. “Master, the bacta tank is ready.”

He had refused the droids’ offer for assistance. Removing those attached electrodes and tubes, he carried the trooper to the bacta tank. Before he lowered him into it, the boy grasped his arm. “I’m scared.”

“Why, my dear?” he was patient.

His lover looked at him pleadingly. “What if I were imagining all of this? That it were nothing but a fever dream? You’d be gone the next time I open my eyes, and I’d wake up alone in the Death Star infirmary?”

Instead of answering, he held his lost treasure tighter, sharing warmth with the body that still felt a little colder than usual, and listening to his heartbeat in tandem with a stolen one. After a quiet moment of shared tenderness, he spoke, “you feel it too, right?”

His lover wordlessly nodded in his arms.

“Then you know it is real.”