I do not own Shoujo Kakumei Utena. I believe TV Tokyo can find better avenues of profit than suing a poor-ass fourteen year old.
Warning: This story contains (GASP!) girls having romantic feelings for each other. If you've seen the movie, I need not tell you what happens. If you haven't seen it, the worst of it is Anthy touching Utena in strange places and Utena being naked and horny for a few minutes-not simultaneously, mind you.
Resurrection
Wood splinters and rose petals fly past her eyes like a swirling whirlwind of sharp and soft edges. She twists the wooden broom handle in parry after parry, focusing on keeping the deadly flashing steel away from the corsage-it's the only thing she's able to do without a sword.
There's rage, too; anger at the idea of this girl being treated like an inanimate object, traded around like a pawn in some game. She's angry at him, as he slashes at her, for touching the girl like that, for not using her name, for being just as willing to hurt her as he is to kiss her.
She voices her rage, question after question, and he simply shouts back that she doesn't understand, can't understand-his katana slices through the wood, and she feels the rush of air from the strike on her collarbone as the other half of her "sword" flies uselessly off to the side.
He seems indignant, at first, about having been fighting a girl, but that passes into condescending discouragement as she stands and refuses to quit.
He strikes once more, and now she doesn't even have half a broomstick to rely on. Eyes like blue flames still burn in his direction, as he prepares to finish her off.
Suddenly, there are hands on her shoulders, green eyes and violet hair in her vision, and soft lips against hers-for one second, suspended in time, the ground is far away, and there is nothing but the two of them, one surprised and one calm.
They crash to the ground, still embracing, but the dark-skinned girl's attentions are elsewhere. She leans back, and an orb of blue light hovering over her heart appears, sucking in energy from some unknown source all around them and growing until a bejeweled sword handle bursts forth from it.
Unable to question, she reaches for it, feeling the power of pure victory flowing in through her fingertips.
She goes in for the final strike, a battle cry flowing off of her tongue.
The Rose Bride
The lamp casts a soft blue light over the room. Where her violet hair falls over her neck and shoulders, the rose bride is wreathed in shadows like a dark black shawl. She feels the victor's arm in the small of her back and her hands grasping her arms, her gaze intent and sharp like ice.
Something stirs where the rose bride's soul once was, and she finds herself unable to truly return the eye contact- but she can't help looking into the deep blue pools like they were enchanted mirrors, drawing out her long dead narcissism. For the first time in centuries a shiver of excitement ran down her spine, following a pale hand's descent.
Then it's gone again, and her counterpart raises a hand bearing the rose signet, and asks her a simple enough question:
What.
She answers simply, with another question.
It just is. Don't you know?
She asks her a more difficult question, and the girl with green eyes merely smiles mysteriously and chuckles to herself in response, trying to divert the situation to some semblance of what she's used to.
The rose bride takes her victor's delicate and soft hand, caressing it gently. She chooses to focus on it instead of the cerulean eyes that continue to inquire, to pry at her emotional walls. She presses it to her chest, reveling in the unfamiliar but pleasant sensation. She brings it from her chest to her lips, running feather-light kisses across her knuckles.
She asks again, quietly, stopping first to demand she call her by her name. This isn't something the rose bride objects to, and she lets the name roll off her tongue sensually, in a voice dripping with desire, like she had pretended to do so many times before.
The other girl's query still hangs in the air, and she gives her programmed answer nonchalantly, moving her other hand to feel her cheek, then slide slowly down the side of her body, feeling her contours through the fabric of her uniform.
She comments on the feel of her figure, her hand sliding off of the small of the pink-haired girl's back and stopping to slide under her shirt, feeling the flat, toned stomach underneath.
She isn't reacting to her actions positively, but she hasn't pushed her away yet. Acting almost entirely on its own accord now, the dark hand moves away from the pale flesh under her shirt and finds the zipper on her trousers.
Suddenly, the room is light once more, and the warm body next to her is gone-she's standing a few feet away, with the faintest trace of a blush on her cheeks and a slight tremble to her voice, reprimanding her half-heartedly.
The rose bride just barely flinches and frowns at the accusations before a sly smile crosses her lips. A feeling of elation comes over her, for she's found her prince.
At Times, Love is…
There is nothing she hates more than being weak. Being vulnerable. To depend on someone else is an indignity she avoids at all costs.
She'd been broken when she went after her. Broken and blinded by shining memories that refused to fade yet did not repeat themselves, mockingly showing her something she had lost forever.
She'd become what she was because of him, in a strange imitation of her perceptions. She'd cut her hair, changed her clothes, spoke differently, swearing never to rely on a prince again; she'd be her own prince, noble and strong, just like she thought he was.
Then she'd found him again. For the first time since, she questioned her conviction, doubt creeping into the corners of her mind. If she was with him, with her prince, could she be a princess once again? Was it possible to go back, to forget the ideals she'd clung to for so long? Could she really just throw away her new persona and fall into his strong arms, never worrying about this princess again?
Then she'd felt something when she'd seen her princess and prince together: Envy. Burning jealousy, stewing with confusion, sadness, and loss to form anger, boiling over until she couldn't take it anymore.
It was then that she went to her, walking angrily up the curling flight of stairs towards the rose garden, the platform illuminated with light on wet roses.
She steps from the shadows, blue eyes like a sea of storming water, anger evident on her face. The rose bride turns from where she stands on the precipice, violet mane flowing in the wind and obscuring her like a veil.
She stands there, the same expression growing in intensity as she tries to speak calmly; the rose bride proclaims her title in a tone of faked politeness, watering the flowers as she asks her fatal question.
The girl-prince snaps, her flood of emotion compelling her to shake and push the smaller girl violently, to shout at her, angry words, accusations and talk of lost stars bursting from her lips in a rush of fury, until its reserves were emptied and she continued in quiet, suppressed sobs.
Even though she's hurt her, blamed her, rebuked her, the rose bride feels nothing but sadness-empathy she doesn't even understand herself. She raises her torso from the concrete and kisses her forehead gently, every tiny sob like a needle to her heart. In the back of her mind, she realizes how painful it is to feel.
Losing her façade of strength completely, she collapses her head into the rose bride's lap, crying like a child while a dark hand runs soothingly through her hair and a soft voice whispers some meaningless words of comfort before she falls asleep.
She awakes, drenched in water, a rose floating past and gently tapping her face. She is shocked at what she sees, the water reflecting the diamond stars like a grand mirror that stretches across her entire peripheral vision, making it feel like she were floating in the night sky itself; an optical illusion framed by red roses.
She turns towards the sound of running water, seeing her there-smiling a kind, genuine smile, emerald eyes shining like the stars surrounding them.
She utters her name in dumbfounded amazement, and the other girl extends a welcoming hand in response.
Among the stars and roses, they dance. In one reflection, they are simply two girls in their school uniforms, but in another they are prince and princess-in both, green and blue eyes meet in the purest of understanding and love. Their feet move in the rhythm of some internal melody that rings throughout their souls, a secret song known only to those who have felt such joy with one another.
Sadness is forgotten as the reflections blend together into one reality, and it is perfect-if only until morning comes.
Importance of Essence
Music rings through her head, silencing the sounds of the classroom around her. Her mind is swimming with ethereal daydreams and the rose bride is in every single one-violet tresses dancing around her jubilant smile, her hand in hers, pulling her into the stars.
Who is her impromptu princess, anyway? She's known her only for a few days, and yet even after she said those horrible things, hurt her, and selfishly cried on her shoulder, she did not push her away; she didn't even flinch in the face of it, giving her nothing but kindness and love.
Was she an angel, perhaps? Or did she just act that way around all the other victors-was it the role of the rose bride? She mentally cursed at herself for even considering the possibility.
She is brought out of her reverie as she takes notice of the other students leaving the room in pairs. She turns toward the door, and notes how uncanny it is for the one infecting her thoughts to be standing nearby, an impish smile on her face and a sketchbook in her hands.
She chased her down endless halls, twisting passages, and paradoxical stairways, shouting her name, asking her to wait; the strange girl walked on, seemingly oblivious, not stopping for even a second.
They reach an elevator, and while the tomboy catches her breath, the rose bride calmly tells her where they're headed. She receives a breathy question in response, asking whether or not they're allowed. They reach the top of the tower and the bell rings as the door opens, and she walks off with that same calm expression, disappearing at the top of the stairs.
She follows her, and she sees an expanse of blue sky and feels wind caressing her face gently. The rose bride smiles inwardly at how it matches her prince's eyes.
They stand on the balcony together in comfortable silence for a few minutes, both marveling at the view.
As the rose bride sits quietly, a half-hearted smile plastered on her face, the sound of a pencil scratching across paper can be heard, and the artist's eyes are focused intensely on her work. She brings sharp, quick lines together to make a vague image of the girl sitting in front of her. She uses softer lines for her hair.
She hesitantly speaks, apologizing and thanking, rambling on nervously, but asking for friendship with all the earnestness she can muster; and it's true, she does want to be her friend, if nothing else.
The rose bride interrupts, saying they should switch-she puts down her pencil, deciding that it's good enough. She's never been very artistic, and it's even more apparent when she tries to put something like this subject onto paper.
Flustered and trembling slightly-from the wind, from a feeling she couldn't quite explain-she stood there, unclothed, her sketchbook covering her breasts and the area between her legs.
She didn't get how she'd been coerced into this, but she had been. She was still wary of letting her guard down for any reason, and she felt exposed and vulnerable, on a fine line between sanity and madness.
The rose bride echoed the words of the teacher, and then the tomboy's words: Words about essence and defrauded secrets. She quietly asks if it's what she wants before dropping the sketchbook to the ground and slowly positioning herself on the bench.
The other girl stares for a few moments, taking in and remembering her features before she begins to draw them.
Her face is bright red; she's breathing heavily and is filled with an indescribable heat. She hates the vulnerability, how weak she seems, but the feeling taking over her is starting to drown out all other thoughts.
The artist is using soft, curving lines for her portrait, trying to capture the expression on her model's face before it fades away.
A World Without Roads
It is well known to those who know it well that effort, no matter how great, can often lead to failure. Putting a lot of hard work into something doesn't necessarily mean it will turn out how you want it to-sometimes, no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you put into an ideal, it can still crumble to dust before your very eyes.
That had been how the rose bride felt about a lot of things. She had failed to love her brother, just as he had failed to accept it; she'd created the academy, that illusion, as a way of fixing that mistake, as she searched for a new prince to share in her fairy-tale eternity. She has suffered greatly at the hands of different duelists, none of them anything at all like her prince once was.
Then she had found her prince, in the guise of a former princess, and she felt her efforts had paid off. That she would have eternal bliss with her prince in their castle of dreams and live happily ever after.
It was only when she saw that ideal washed away-by her own actions, no less-that she realized how stupid she'd been. It was so fake, such a twisted version of love that she couldn't believe she had once worked, suffered, and died for.
It was her new prince who shown her the way to freedom, who opened her eyes to the farce she herself had created-she rejected power in favor of liberty, rejected pretend miracles in favor of her love.
She was the one who carried her to the outside world, who was both her steed and guide; she was with her when she stared in the face of the fallen prince as he tried to coax her back into the closed, lifeless world she'd built.
He could only be a prince there-Her love was a true prince in spirit, no matter what world she was in; a prince that did not need royal blood, did not need a title, was not even a man-but was the truest and noblest of souls the former rose bride had ever met.
They are lying next to each other as the piles of steel whirl past and the towers fade into the distance, bodies naked and unhindered, hair flying back and twisting together on the wind of a new world.
She realizes now what her love knew all along-You do not need miracles to be happy, you don't need magic to be in love, to feel this blissful; love is greater than any power the ones dueling for her could ever hope to obtain.
They stare into each other's eyes as if they were seeing them for the first time, both glistening with joyful tears and adoration. The one with green eyes leans shyly forward, and the prince welcomes her.
As their lips meet and their bodies intertwine, they are not the prince and the rose bride; they are just Utena and Anthy, and they are in love.
That's right, the outside world has no roads…But you can always build new roads.
That's why we have to go-as we travel, the world will get bigger by that much, I'm sure.
Owari desu~
This was an emotional piece to write. I felt like it got a little too flowery at the end. What the hell, I like happy endings. Please let me know what you think.