Promises var yviContents='http://us.toto.geo.yahoo.com/toto?s=76001078 The OZ
Promises

Part One A.C. 186

"That is a very impressive picture. He must have been a great man."

The young boy had thought himself alone among the dusty ruins. He had managed to side step the watchful eyes of his elderly caretaker long enough for him to steal away and come to this place. He supposed it wasn't fair, somehow, that he had been found. Thinning his lips, his hands clenched at his sides, he turned slowly. He was prepared to face his caretaker, and explain, if possible, why he had disappeared for all those hours. Why he was standing among this ruins, staring up, enthralled, at a worn portrait of a kindly old man with flowing beard. He was more than prepared to humbly excuse himself. Turning, he began to bow respectfully.

He started nervously when he looked up from his bow and discovered that his silent audience was not his caretaker at all. His apologies died in his lips, replaced by an embarrassed stammer. Leaning casually against a pillar was a young man, clear blue eyes quizzical and slightly amused. He gave the young boy the whisper of a smile and, stepping forward, executed an elaborate bow.

"Forgive me," the young man said, "I did not mean to interrupt your meditations. Pray, continue. I am merely a passer-by." So saying, he turned and began to walk away, brushing at the dust from the pillar that had stained his coat. Each measured step he took rung hollowly on the cracked corridor.

The young boy watched him walk away in silence, uncertain as to what he should do then. For a while, he just stood there, still half bowing, listening to the stranger's footsteps die away. He was feeling foolish for having been found by a stranger. Biting his lip in embarrassment, he turned his gaze once again to the portrait hanging, a silent sentinel, on the wall. The old man's eyes stared out at him in tired benevolence. They seemed too bright. Much too bright.

"Wait," he called. For a moment, the young boy thought, logically, he presumed, that the other boy was probably already gone, or beyond hearing range. He sighed. How unworthy of him to call out like that. He was just acting all jumpy out of guilt. And it was all his fault, anyway, for having come to the ruins in the first place.

To his surprise, though, the footsteps sounded again a while after he'd called out. The young boy turned around, more than a little perplexed, as the young man walked casually up to the pillar again and leaned against it. He gave the younger boy a mischievous smile. "Yes ?", he asked, his tone mocking. The young boy set his lips in a thin line and bowed stiffly.

"You can stay if you want to," he said.

The young man stood away from the pillar and bowed again. "If you insist," he remarked. "But only if you are completely sure that you do not mind."

"No. I do not mind. Please, stay."

Smiling, the other boy walked towards him. He stood beside the younger boy and gave him the wry grin of someone who is about to break some inherent, unquestionable rules of society, and does not care. "In all cases," he said, "I should be the one ordering you to come or go, young sir. But you look like a fine young man in need of company. And one simply does not impose one's company, regardless of how pleasant it may be, on fine young men in need of it." He laughed then, and his laughter echoed across the halls, sounding like many silver bells. The young boy looked up at him and sighed.

"I'm Zechs Marquise," he said. The name sounded plain and hollow to his ears, and he almost regretted having said it. His words echoed briefly across the hall, mingling momentarily with the young man's laughter. Sighing, he turned his face towards the portrait again.

The man staring down at him from the portrait seemed sad, and the young boy's brows came together in melancholic shame. It had been five years already. Five years of introducing himself simply as Zechs Marquise. But he never felt any closer to being Zechs. There was always a mirror, an old history book, some photographic journal of the tragedy of five years past, reminding him exactly of who he had been. And who he was now. Mirialdo Peacecraft.

Hanging his head, he sighed softly. The name Mirialdo saddened him as much as Zechs. It stood for all that he had been, what he could have been. And now it was just a guilty secret that gave him no comfort. Something to lie about, afraid that one day someone would grab his wrist and turn him around, flinging that name into his face. Taking him back to the nightmare of five years past. Would they kill me, if they ever knew ? He had no doubt that they would. He was, in a sense, a political blunder on behalf of the Federation. If he were ever to show himself, he would only be courting death. The Federatives would not doubt for a moment that his motives for ever reappearing would be vengeance, regardless of whether they would be right or not.

No. He had to become Zechs, whoever that was. To survive. For what, he did not know. Perhaps just survive for the mere sake of survival. Perhaps for something else.

Mirialdo clenched his hands tightly, feeling a familiar anger well inside of him. He could not understand why his family had died. It seemed worthless. What good did it do to murder so many people ? Clenching his hands tighter, he felt his fingers bite painfully into his flesh. He looked up at the silent portrait, a quiet rage burning his eyes. Father. Why did they have to kill my Father ? His heart was beating much too fast. And he could not afford to let that happen. The strange boy was most likely looking down at him, trying to read him.

"Are you all right?"

Mirialdo jumped at the words, his paranoid thoughts making him swing around anxiously, eyes wide. When he saw the look in the other boy's face, he blushed. There was no sort of recognition in his eyes, only worry. He drew back as the older boy reached out for his shoulder, and this made the other boy laugh.

"Easy now, I don't bite. You looked a little pale there for a moment. Are you sure you would like me to stay?"

"Yes. Please, stay."

The other boy looked at Mirialdo quietly for a moment, something unfathomable in his eyes. Mirialdo tried to hold his gaze steadily, striving to seem as relaxed as possible. He did not want to be alone, even if his company had to be this boy. Because he did not want to leave the portrait. He had waited such a long time for the right moment to leave his caretaker and come here. He would just have to wait patiently for the other boy to accept his veneer of calm. He almost sagged in relief when the other boy grinned and turned away.

Mirialdo looked at him closely then, as he stood before his father's portrait, hands casually folded behind his back. He was considerably taller than Mirialdo, and he must have been about 15, judging from his lean build. And he was obviously rich. Mirialdo sighed and tuned once again to look at his father's portrait in silence. He would have to be careful around this strange boy, regardless of how unwilling he was to part his company

"He must have been a great man," the older boy said suddenly. His voice was oddly quiet, almost respectful. Mirialdo gave him a weary look from the corner of his eye. The boy was looking at the picture as if enthralled, the shadow of a smile playing across the corners of his mouth. It perplexed Mirialdo. Why is he smiling like that at the picture of my Father? It made no clear sense to him. And being unable to read the strange boy made him nervous.

He turned his face back to his father's calm countenance, hoping to find some comfort there. However slight. He supposed it was just as well that the strange boy had appeared. If it had not been so, he would have probably broken down eventually. Even now, looking up into his father's clear, blue eyes, long since paled and worn out with dust and grime, he could feel a familiar, empty pull at his heart. His anger spent in fruitless indignation, he had little left now but a defeated melancholy. Images came unbidden to him. His father leaning over the breakfast table, urging him to eat more, kissing the boy's mother good morning, reading the evening paper and looking up, smiling, as his young son came towards him. He could see his own hands, the tiny hands of a five year old, rise up before his sight, reaching out for his father's soft beard. He could hear his mother's laughter. It had all been there, in those rooms they stood in now, in those empty shells of war. And there were too many memories, too many images flooding into his mind. It was too much for him to bear.

Closing his eyes, he turned away from the picture. He could feel the eyes of the older boy following him, and he wished suddenly that the boy would leave him alone. Alone, so that he could cry. But.

No. He couldn't cry. Not there, not in front of that stranger. Slowly, he looked up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling, following the criss-crossing scars of the split foundation. Trying not to remember anything of that ceiling. It was somewhat of a surprise for him to realize that, although his heart ached, the ceiling did not really remind him of anything. Stripped of it's familiar possessions, it was just like any other plaster ceiling he had ever seen. It was just knowing that it had once been his ceiling that saddened him. Sighing, he dug his hands into the pockets of his overcoat.

The older boy chuckled, and Mirialdo turned to look at him. The boy had his eyes fixed on the portrait again, his smile wider now. It made Mirialdo even wearier. It was almost as if the older boy had discovered his guilty secret. Almost...

"Marquise?" the boy said casually, one hand rising to rub his chin thoughtfully. "That's odd. You seem so well bred. Still, I do not recollect ever having met any family with the name of Marquise." Turning his head slightly, the boy gave Mirialdo a brilliant smile, his zaphyre eyes sparkling mischievously. "Where did you say you were from?"

Mirialdo clenched his hands inside his coat pockets, his lips thinning. His mind was desperately trying to work out some good cover up lie, his heart racing. Another part of him was mocking him for even daring to fear that that boy would know every single wealthy family in the world. And a little, frightened voice was whispering to him to just let the whole truth come out. What would that boy care? Would he even believe him?

The boy laughed. "You look so guilty," he said, smiling. "Please, relax. I was just curious. You're obviously foreign."

Tapping his lips with his finger, he looked up at the picture again. Mirialdo bit his lip in frustration. He must have looked so incredibly foolish. It must have been painfully obvious that he had been about to lie. Just as it must have been painfully obvious that he had lied about his name. He kicked at the debris at his feet, watching as the dust rose momentarily, some of it settling over his boots. He should just leave. Yes. He would leave.

Looking up at the older boy, he set his lips in a thin line and bowed stiffly. "Forgive me," he said, his voice sounding strained to his ears, "but I must be leaving you now. My caretaker will be wondering where I went. Please excuse--" Mirialdo stopped then, his eyes widening in startled surprise as the boy before him began to laugh, loud and clear, his head flung back in uncontrolled mirth. Mirialdo frowned slightly. "What's so funny?" he asked quietly.

Stepping away from the picture, the older boy folded his arms across his chest. He cocked his head to the left, his eyes glittering with an almost scientific interest. "You're really very polite, Messire Zechs Marquise. That's more than I'm willing to give half of the aristocratic brats I know, myself humbly included," he added, spreading his arms wide in a sweeping bow of self ridicule. Mirialdo didn't know what to make of the sight.

"What are you doing?" he asked, perplexed. The other boy sighed and rubbed his head.

"I'll be damned if I know. I'm complimenting you. I'm politely insulting you. I'm asking you, if I'm not being too rude," and as he said that, he smiled, and it seemed to Mirialdo that the smile was even slightly kind, "can you fence?"

Mirialdo took an involuntary step backwards, blinking. Could he fence? He looked at the other boy's face, expecting to find a mocking smile there. He found none. The boy's smile was open and frank. He wanted Mirialdo to be able to fence. And Mirialdo could not understand the boy's need for that at all.

The older boy walked past him, and Mirialdo, still perplexed, followed him with his eyes. "What do you mean ?," he asked. His voice sounded small and petty. He cursed himself silently for it. Should he allow himself to be cowed by this upstart ? Straightening, he repeated his question. This time, more clearly, his voice stronger, almost authoritative.

He saw the older boy stop and look over his shoulder at him. "That's good," he murmured, "a strong, clear voice."

Mirialdo gritted his teeth. "Surely deserving of an answer, if I am not mistaken."

The boy grinned. "Most assuredly, young Marquise. And that answer is, simply, that I asked you to fence. Meaning, have they taught you, this illustrious Marquise, how to handle a sword?"

Mirialdo frowned. The boy had come to a stop before a high, white plaster wall. It was taller than the rest in the room, rising to the vaulted ceiling in a semi-arch. A tapestry had hung there once, bearing the insignia of the royal family, but nothing had remained of it from the attack of five years past. Two swords still hung on the wall, though. Crossed over each other in silent, dignant old age. The boy stood beneath the swords, one hand rising to idly caress the anterior one.

"I was taught to fence," he said, his smile cold, "as soon as I could walk. I am yet to discover why. Still," raising his chin slightly, he regarded Mirialdo in friendly disdain, "it is a sport that I enjoy thoroughly. And," here, he nodded, smiling, "since I like you, I wish therefore to engage in a friendly duel with you." The boy bowed then, his eyes cold and daring. "That is, if you know how to. I think that perhaps you do."

Holding his chin up in dignant defiance, Mirialdo held the older boy's slightly mocking gaze. "You are right. I was also taught to fence since I was a child. Forgive me, though," he added, bowing formally, "if my skills are not as polished as yours, being that you are older, sir."

The boy laughed, and Mirialdo clenched his fists at his sides. The older boy could be quite annoying. But fencing would perhaps give him a chance to beat some of that smugness from his face. Although.

Biting his lip, he watched as the boy reached up to lower the swords. All of his movements were measured, graceful. His body was lean, like a dancer's. He had the build of an athlete, and the easy strength of youth. Mirialdo wasn't all that confident of his skills as a fencer. And he certainly wasn't confident in his probabilities of beating this boy. Still, to turn him down would be dishonourable for him, and, as much as he hated to have to concede to such a notion, dishonourable for the older boy as well, since he had requested the duel. He would just have to accept and strive to give this boy his best performance.

He took the sword the boy held out to him silently. Their eyes met briefly as his hand closed over the rusted hilt. Stepping back, the older boy hefted his sword expertly in his hand, rapidly attuning himself to its alien weight. He ran a finger slowly down its edge and smiled as he discovered that it was virtually harmless. Mirialdo set his lips in a grim line as he hefted his own sword carefully in his hand, feeling it no lighter than when he had taken it from the other boy.

Turning, the older boy tapped his sword to the palm of his hand slowly. "Take your time. I want this to be fair."

Mirialdo tightened his grip on the sword and flicked his wrist helplessly. The sword seemed much too heavy, too ackward in his hand. He tightened his grip, hoping. There. Lowering his head, he allowed his bangs to come forward and obscure his face. Safe under his platinum canopy, he allowed himself a tight little smile. He had found his balance. Looking up, he nodded, once, to the older boy.

He startled slightly as his opponent suddenly swung his sword before his face, its hilt coming to rest before Mirialdo's eyes, but he never flinched, and his eyes never lost their hold on the older boy's. The boy gazed at him silently for a moment, his blue eyes cold and impassive, before he smiled slowly and brought his sword up. Mirialdo did not return his smile, but held his gaze silently. He watched as the other boy executed the fencer's salute gracefully. Mirialdo executed his own salute as coldly as possible.

"You're probably wondering why I'm doing this, aren't you?" the older boy commented casually as he fell into the fighting stance, left foot forward, slightly bent, right hand folded comfortably behind his back, sword held out with ease in his left hand. Mirialdo fell into a fighting stance opposite him, frowning. "No, I do not need to wonder about it."

The boy smiled. "You're lying, Marquise," he said quietly. Before Mirialdo could tell what he was up to, he had lunged forward, sword thrusting towards him in a harmless feint. "Your eyes, Marquise, they give you away."

But Mirialdo had no time to consider the boy's biting comment. He could see that he had been right about this boy. He was an expert at this. It took half his concentration just to keep his balance long enough to parry his opponent's forceful blows.

Mirialdo was loosing ground. The battle seemed unreal to him. His opponent was little more than flashes of pale grey silk revolving around two bright zaphyre orbs. His sword flashed brilliant silver before Mirialdo's eyes, clanging hollowly with every expert thrust, every simple parry. Now a full circle of easy dismissal, now a biting arch, a swing, a touch. Drawing him back persistently, expertly.

Mirialdo bit his lip in frustration. He couldn't loose. Not to this smirking, mocking boy. Not after he had found him gazing at his father's portrait. Gritting his teeth, he lunged forward in what he knew to be a painfully inadequate attack. His thrusts were too careless, too wide. Not enough strength behind them. He cursed himself as, laughing, the older boy turned away every one of his attacks.

Then, smiling, the other boy feinted a step backwards. Mirialdo hesitated before following through. Perhaps he could catch him unawares. Bringing his sword forward, he tried to reach for the boy's sword. With a slight laugh, the other boy moved forward, bringing his sword beneath Mirialdo's. Straightening, he moved his sword arm in a wide, lazy arch and watched, smiling, as the young boy's eyes widened in despair and his sword was snatched from his grip.

Stumbling backwards, Mirialdo heard his sword clang worthlessly on the dusty floor. He darted a look at it, before a sudden, unseen thrust from his opponent shattered his balance. He fell, heavily, his head swimming,

And gasped as his opponent's sword was thrust forward and came to rest sharply before his heart. Barely touching his chest. He stared at it, his eyes wide, his teeth gritted. Looking up, he saw the older boy give him a slow smile. Mirialdo frowned. There was something about the look in the boy's eyes. He looked more than victorious. He was pleased, but not at himself...

The boy's smile widened. He leaned forward, lifting Mirialdo's chin slightly with the edge of his sword. "You want revenge, don't you ?" he murmured. Mirialdo frowned. "What do you mean?" he demanded hotly, hoping to God that nothing more than indignant defeat showed in his face. The boy leaning over him merely smiled all the more widely. "Marquise. Zechs. You yearn for revenge. But you do not have the tools to gain it yet. If you continue in this way, you never will. Do you understand?"

Drawing back, he threw aside the sword carelessly. Mirialdo glared at him from the floor. "I don't know what--"

"Oh, yes you do. You know exactly what I mean. You need someone to help you get what you want. If you do not search out that person, or if you do not perfect yourself, your family will never be avenged." Mirialdo opened his mouth to protest, but the boy held up an authoritative hand. "And do not pretend not to know what I mean anymore. It is foolish, and you know it."

Smiling, he held out his hand to the young boy. Mirialdo looked at it wearily, unsure as to whether he should trust this boy. Brows knitted together, he looked into the boy's face. What he saw there was a silent dare, a strange understanding. A silent push forward into the darkness he had never dared to fully explore. His vengeance. His honour. All the things that had kept awake for so many nights. This boy was coming to him, out of nowhere, driving him towards a path he himself had always considered his own, but, until now, he had never had to courage to face.

Setting his lips in a grim line, he gave his hand to the boy. Their fingers met at the same time their eyes locked together. And, looking into those eyes, Mirialdo smiled, grimly, accepting defeat, but never defeated. The older boy grinned.

"I knew you were good at this," he said "I could see it in your eyes."

Mirialdo brushed the dust from his pants. "I suppose you did. Or maybe you just thought you did." Looking up, he gave the older boy a slow smile. His opponent's own smile never wavered. One eyebrow rose in silent defiance. Then, laughing softly, he turned away.

"I thank you for the duel," he said. "But now it is time for you to go home. Your parents must be worried." So saying, he began to walk away, not looking back again. Mirialdo let him walk away this time. He felt oddly shaken, less frightened that he'd thought he'd be at the truth, strangely peaceful. Smiling, reassured now that the boy could not see him truly smile, he began to turn away.

But then stopped.

"Wait," he called. The boy paused without turning his face.

"Yes?"

Mirialdo hesitated for a moment, then he raised his head proudly. "What is your name?"

The older boy chuckled to himself. He began to walk again, but called, over his shoulder: "Treize. Treize Khushrenada. Try not to forget that, Mirialdo Peacecraft. Let us see if history will bring our paths together again. I, for one, certainly hope so..."




(c) February 1997. Gundam Wing, and all of its characters hereof, are (c) 1995 Sunrise Entertainment. As you may well know by now, my friends, using this without the author's permission, and that would be me, bloke, is prohibited by law. It is also very rude. Thank you very much. Have yourself a nice day, and thank you for reading.