Disclaimers and Author's Notes: The characters and situations of "Weiß Kreuz" are copyrighted by Koyasu Takehito and Project Weiß. They are used without permission, with no mean intent or desire for remuneration. This is merely a fan tribute. Still, please don't forward, archive, or use without permission.

"Scarlet Ribbons" is written by Danzig & Segal (1991) and, again, was used without permission.

Rating is PG13 (Wow, haven't done one of _those_ in on a while. ;) Look, folks, a het pairing!) Shounen-ai implications as with regards to a certain katana-carrying redhead and bugnuk-wielding brunette. (I tried! Seriously. This was going to be a straight fic all the way, but I couldn't do it!) My knowledge of WK is sadly lacking, having seen a grand total of 12 episodes, not including the last episode, and some inconsistencies are bound to be present.

This story is dedicated to my grandmother, Francisca Sagun, who died April 20, 2001 and to my grandfather Alfredo Sagun, who died April 21, 1996. I guess _someone_ decided five years apart was too long. Inang and Tatang, like Aya-chan says, the only thing that makes this bearable for me is I know you're together. I love you both.

"Princes, you realize, are terribly inconvenient creatures."

She turns from the window to face him and raises an eyebrow. "What brought this on?"

He waves a hand, airily, dismissive. "Just listen, if you please," he requests, loftily. "Princes," he repeats, "are terribly inconvenient creatures."

She shrugs, as women throughout history have shrugged at men's peculiarities, with an inward sigh of both resignation and amusement. Dutifully, tongue-in-cheek, she concedes to ask: "Pray tell, how so?"

Quite matter-of-factly, he answers. "Ponder upon it, Princess. What are princes good for, anyway? Slaying dragons, rescuing damsels in distress, carrying them off on white horses…"

She grins, looking at him from underneath her lashes. "Sounds pretty good to me."

"But to what end?" he responds, his hand again making that blithe gesture. "Princes are the bane of fairytales. If not for the prince Sleeping Beauty would still be in her castle, forever young and beautiful. So would Snow White. Rapunzel would still have her hair. She'd still be in her tower, safe. Princes ruin the story. They show up and it's all over."

She cocks her head, curious and bemused. "You have something against happy endings?"

He snorts, rough and uncouth. "No such thing, Princess. Endings are endings."

Fujimiya Aya surveyed the flower shop that comprised her kingdom and smiled. Her 'brothers' were out in full-force today, and like every young woman within a thirty-kilometer radius, that was enough to make her day. That, and the bright sunlight streaming through the glass doors and windows of the Koneko no Sumu Ie. Spring was such testy season - drab drizzles, sudden storms, the odd sleet-and-slush mixture that fell drearily from the sky. Winter was ending, and it was being nasty about it.

But today, the sun was shining brightly, though the breeze that wafted through the doors whenever it opened to admit yet another deluge of giggly teens was cool and smelled of wildflowers.

She almost laughed at that, for the scent of hothouse blossoms and greenery hung heavy in the air of the Koneko no Sumu Ie. How silly, she thought. Wildflowers, yeah, right. But the day was much too perfect to worry about such things.

She smiled genially at the fresh wave of teens, feeling much, much older. Too bad none of them, not even the young boys that were starting to find their way to the shop - once they'd learned that so many girls hung around there - and who spent a seemingly inordinate amount of time asking Aya questions, had very much money to spend or the shop would be doing better. Still, she supposed they are doing okay as it is.

Ran sat at the worktable, creating an arrangement guaranteed to wrench gasps and tears of delight from its intended recipient. Coolly ignoring the group of girls that sighed with each deft movement, he chose each blossom with deliberate care, tenderly cradling and placing each meticulously into some seemingly random spot that made superb and perfect sense once the arrangement was complete. Later, she knew, it being his night to take care of dinner, he would prepare their meal with the same deliberate consideration. Some people - Yohji! - may throw random foodstuff haphazardly in a wok and by some miracle, some unexplained grace from the kitchen gods, produce dishes that were technically edible. Not Ran. Even while cooking Ran's movements were like a dance - never forced, never jarring, never senseless. And, of course, the result always perfect.

He made it look easy, she thought. Everything seemed to be accomplished with complete, careless grace. But she knew this was simply because he placed everything he had in the things he did. That was her brother - so contained he seemed cold, when the exact opposite was true. So focused, so directed that nothing of him was allowed to veer away or break free. Caring for every one and everything around him with unspoken intensity. A freezing outer shell, a golden burning core.

Red hair, shining in the sunlight, completely at odds with his dark scowl.

She smiles in response to his utterly irritated glare.

*Don't say it, Princess. Don't even think it.*

Yohji-kun manned the front desk. 'Man', she thought, what a perfect word, for what he was, for what he was doing. She watched with a small smile as he flirted, quite outrageously, with a couple of fresh young things that managed enough courage to actually talk to the object of their fantasies. Quite an accomplishment, really, for she knew only too well how intimidating Yohji-kun could be. Not because he scowled at them, like Ran sometimes would, or because he ignored them, (Ran again, she sniffed) but because even in their innocence they knew that Yohji personified every danger possible to a female heart. It wasn't the coldly arrogant ones you had to watch out for, their feminine instincts whispered. It was those who smiled with lazy, sensual charm, hinting of forbidden knowledge and unimaginable delights. She watched as the girls giggled in pleasure, Yohji's playful wink sending their young untested hearts into hyper drive.

Mortal danger, indeed.

And yet, despite his wealth of admirers, Yohji took no one for granted. One would think he'd get sick of all the attention, but he reveled in it, craved it, absorbed it like a sponge.

Aya knew that like Ran's coldness, Yohji's outrageous sexuality was simply his public face. His playfulness may scandalize his friends sometimes, and no doubt give those girls' parents conniptions, but she was as certain of his heart as she was of Ran's.

Despite his seemingly bendable morality, Yohji had the clearest, most defined sense of right and wrong, good and evil, and the Kami-Sama help those who got in the way. Yohji had Rules: absolute and intractable despite their seeming flexibility. This far, no further. No one under eighteen and no one who was not absolutely aware of what they are getting into. 'It's not worth it,' he'd told her once, under the influence of both pain and painkillers. 'There's a huge ocean out there, and many, many willing potential partners. The world's full of danger as it is, lurking on highways and mini-marts at midnight. No sense seeking it in places where only pleasure should rule.' He'd said that with a twinkle in his eyes, and something resembling a smirk on his generous mouth, but she'd caught the hint of hurt, of longing in his voice. Or perhaps it had only been the sedatives.

He was, at heart, of the old school. A gentlemen, through and through, and those girls, indeed all of them, couldn't be in better hands. Even Ran, the most protective of brothers, had no qualms about placing her safety in those hands.

She thought, sometimes, that she was almost in love with Yohji, a notion that would have given Niichan a heart attack, and probably get her banished to a nunnery, had she cared to voice it. There was something about him that she finds almost familiar: that lazy smile, that wicked charm, the artless lure of his body language. For some reason Yohji made her wistful, made her yearn for something she could not quite name.

Cat's eyes; green, like glass, like spring leaves.

Restless and restful, an undeniable presence filling up the small room, caged and yet comfortable.

The languid smile, the lazy drawl. *See anything you like?*

A touch on her cheek, soft in spite of himself, an almost pained whisper.

*What choice, Princess? Tell me what choice?*

What caught at her heart her most were the quiet moments, the times she saw him staring off into the distance. The occasional withdrawal, the sudden weight on his shoulders, the bleakness that dulled those jade eyes. What kind weapon, she wondered, what kind of blow, could have wounded such a large heart?

She knew without a doubt that despite the seeming casualness of his affections, Yohji would have cared for her like a treasure. He would have been gentle, careful, he would have treated her like a lady. Like this riverboat gambler she'd seen in an American film once, was Yohji. Bluffing and blustering through life, undaunted honor backing his bets.

The girls giggled again, before bowing low and scampering away, their eyes shining like stars. No doubt Yohji would be the central figure in their dreams that night.

/Sweet dreams, girls./

Ken-kun was out back, tending to the live plants in the greenhouse. From her chair she could see him, a watering can in one hand, plucking off dead leaves with the other. His mouth was moving, and no doubt he was chattering away at the shrub he was tending, much more vocal when it came to his green friends than he was with his human ones. He looked up, saw the girls staring from outside the greenhouse and waved, his smile natural and open.

Ken was a lot more patient with their 'non-customers,' than the rest of them, partly because he was naturally polite and gentle, but particularly because he truly cared about people, particularly children. The kids of soccer team he coached were his pride and joy. Next to the residents of the Koneko no Sumu Ie, they were the ones he cared about the most.

Unlike Yohji, who craved affection, needing copious amounts of it to function, Ken lived to give it, his need to actively care for something almost an obsession. Ken was a worrywart, a mother hen. He knew exactly how much plant-food each shrub needed, how much water, and how much sun. And if every stray cat in Tokyo seemed to find their way to the Koneko no Sumu Ie backdoor, so what? The house ware store on the corner gave him a discount on saucers.

Ken made sure the fridge was always stocked, that the store was always clean. He nagged Ran about his eating habits, Yohji about his cigarettes and *ahem* sleeping habits, and was forever on Omi's case about the youngest boy not getting enough fresh air. With Aya he was solicitous, always sensitive to her needs. He was exuberant in his affections, on more than one occasion earning Omi's ire by ruffling the younger man's hair absently, as he would a child. And when Omi, exasperated, would throw something at his head he'd simply dodge the object neatly, and chuckle fondly.

No doubt Ken was the kind of boy Niichan would want her to fall for. Ken was completely dependable, completely unselfconscious, completely unselfish. He was the boy next door in every sense of the word.

Well, maybe not in every sense.

She snickered inwardly at the thought, mischief brewing momentarily in an otherwise devoted sister's heart. It'd serve Niichan right, too, if she indulged him, if she decided to one day 'confess' a deep and obsessive love for Ken-kun. Ran would growl at her, no doubt. And then he'd growl at Ken and she'd ruin everything by bursting into uncontrollable giggles, leaving Niichan irritated and Ken-kun confused. Seriously, how was a relationship to progress if one person was completely repressed and the other completely oblivious? But Niichan moved at his own pace; she knew that well enough. She trusted that his good sense would snap to attention one day soon and do what had to be done. And if it didn't, she grinned, well then, that's what sisters were for.

Besides, it was sort of fun, letting Niichan stumble around-figuratively, of course-like this. Especially when Sakura came over. One of these days she'd have to tell Ran Sakura was dating one of their classmates, a boy who'd fallen hook, line and sinker for her friend's big wine-colored eyes. Not just yet, though.

She snickered again, drawing a strange look from Omi. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, going back to work after an overly-casual look to make sure she was alright.

Arms crossed almost defensively over his chest. *You alright?*

She blinks, looking pointedly around the room. *Why shouldn't I be?*

An exaggerated shrug, an ill-tempered glower. *I dunno, just thought I'd ask.* She laughs as his scowl wavers, then intensifies. *You find everything amusing, don't you?*

Omi-dear, sweet Omi-was at the other end of the worktable, almost buried in the shop's 'books.' Order slips and delivery receipts, journals and bank records. It had puzzled her at first that the youngest would be the one who would be put in charge of the store's finances, but she'd learned since that Omi was the most practical of the group, and perhaps the most responsible. He was never late for class, even though he spent way too much time on his computer, as evidenced by the circles underneath his eyes and the way he yawned each morning. He found homes for the cats that Ken would adopt, pointing out gently, but firmly, that they could not only not afford a plethora of pets, they couldn't take care of them either.

As years went, she had lived less than Omi, but he seemed so young to her, innocence in his eyes that she was certain would never completely fade, no matter what he might see or what life would deal him. He was one of those beings her English instructor called a 'new soul.' And yet, she also suspected that Omi was the strongest of them all, a steely determination behind that cheery grin. He'd had his trials as well, she knew. Niichan had told her about the girl named Ouka, indirectly instructing her to treat the young man gently, pointing out that their reunion could bring Omi pain. But he needn't have worried. Omi was inexhaustibly good-natured, eternally optimistic, and had nothing but good thoughts about her presence.

Beauty, charm, tenderness, hope. Such wealth. And her, at the cashier's counter, placed strategically where she would not be in the way, where no over-eager breathless teen could accidentally jostle her, and where all four young men could keep a furtive eye upon her. /And I thought having one over-protective brother was bad,/ she laughed inwardly. /Try four./

*Princes, you realize, are terribly inconvenient creatures.*

The pain caught her by surprise, the naked edge of it. She raised one suddenly trembling hand to her forehead, feeling the cold sweat coating her skin. All at once, her equilibrium was shattered, and her other hand slammed down on the countertop, bracing herself against the wave of weakness.

*What's wrong, Princess? You look like somebody just walked over your grave.*

"Aya-chan?"

She looked up to see Yohji staring curiously, worriedly, at her. "Aya-chan, are you alright?"

"Hai, Yohji-kun," she answered, her smile just a little overly-bright. "Just a little distracted."

Ran had already left his seat and was making his way towards her. She tried to stop him with a significant Look but her oniisan was ever dense about such matters.

"Daydreaming, eh?" winked Yohji, "Can't say I blame you. It's such a pretty day. Too bad we're all cooped up indoors." He sent a hopeful look at Omi, who was in charge of the store's schedules, and sighed in defeat as his hint was ignored.

"You look tired," announced Ran, placing his palm proprietarily on her forehead.

"I'm fine, Niichan. I just-"

"And your skin feels clammy," he continued. "You've enough for today. Go upstairs and take a nap."

"No!" That sounded more vehement tham she'd intended, and she tried to turn it into a joke. "Really, Niichan, I've slept enough for several lifetimes."

They were all upon her now, plus a few dozen concerned teens, both male and female, all expressing anxiety over her well-being. "I'm fine!" she tried to protest. "Really!" When Momoe-san and Ken came in and added their voices to the chorus, Aya found herself drowning, and she could only retreat to the apartment upstairs, grumbling all the way.

Her grumbles died away and her steps slowed as soon as she reached the second floor. They were worried about her, she knew that. But she hated being alone.

Stubbornly, she refused to go into her bedroom, the one farthest along the corridor, right beside Ran's room. Instead she headed for the living room, grabbing a book and climbing into the leather chair that Yohji had gotten at a garage sale. It was a huge stuffed chair, a sofa almost, that wasn't quite big enough for two but was ample big enough to curl up in when one wanted to read a book or watch TV comfortably. Today someone had placed it near the window, and the view outside beckoned Aya even more than the best-selling horror novel. Such a pretty day, she thought. No fair to be cooped in, away from the trees, away from sunlight. She watched people pass by beneath the window, in pairs and in groups. It wasn't the kind of day, really, one should spend alone. She curled up even more comfortably on the chair, sighing lightly, watching them.

Someday, she thought. Someday.

It seems to her that she has been in this room forever.

She does not know where she is, exactly, or how she came to be there. She vaguely remembers the beginning: a white and empty space, stretching out to forever. Herself screaming and calling and begging, hearing no answer. Wandering through that emptiness for an eternity, endlessly alone.

Then, certain it could get no worse, the emptiness gives way to darkness and explodes into a nightmare. She finds herself screaming again, this time in terror, running to escape unnamed fears and unspeakable horrors. Her world has become a dark forest, a fearsome swamp. She runs and runs and runs, until she comes to a path. This she follows automatically, unthinkingly, as they lead to steps carved into the side of a mountain, which in turn gives way to a huge aperture. Unthinkingly, wanting nothing more than escape, she flings herself through, only to have it close behind her.

She has been trapped in this room forever.

Time moves strangely in this world she finds herself in. Sometimes it flows sluggishly, like mud, like slime, and other times it flies, forward and reverse like a video run amuck. Still other times it simply is, no then or now or after, simply being. Strange, slow, still, swift, a moment or a thousand years - she stopped wondering long ago. The days are all alike. They are never the same.

The room itself reflects that, mercurial and constant, empty and cluttered. In the beginning it seemed almost familiar, but it keeps shifting, like a holographic photograph that changes depending on the light. She hardly notices. She is getting used to her small world. It no longer terrifies her that she does not know where she is, or how long she has been here.

The window is her salvation, her only lifeline. The window that is sometimes a wall, sometimes a mirror, sometimes a picture show. Beyond that - sometimes the forest, sometimes a mountain, sometimes a lake. These things she considers to be 'the outside world' although she is almost certain it should hold no little fairy things that dance in the wind, nor skies that turn to oceans that turn to snakes. Yet it does not matter, what matters is that she is inside, she is safe. And if there are no doors it simply means that none of the things outside can come inside.

Sometimes the wall that is a window that is a mirror that is a picture show flashes a series of images, photographs, scenes, of almost-familiar yet unrecognized people and places. She watches these movies with uninvolved curiosity, detached interest. She is untouched. The girl in the mirror is always gay and cheerful and laughing, always laughing. Nothing like her. She no longer feels this to be such a great loss. She has stopped wondering, forgetting that she knew anything else.

She is almost content.

She opened her eyes and saw again the familiar room around her. /I'm at the Koneko no Sume Ie,/ she told herself, trying to calm the panic that was building up inside her. Niichan and the others were downstairs, fending off admirers while trying to charm serious browsers to buy something, anything. She was sitting in Yohji's chair, reading Ken's book. Later she would eat Niichan's cooking and then she and Omi would study together for their qualifying exams.

She was in the Koneko, their name for both the store and their home. She was home. She was safe. She was not lost, not forgotten, not alone.

Fujimiya Aya shivered, feeling cold in spite of the warmth of the day.

Not alone.

She frowns at the sudden darkness outside, the frost suddenly painting the window, blurring her view.

/What?/

She raises a hand, wiping away the fog, and sees a brightness dancing in the distance. She squints, trying to catch a better view, when she realizes that the light is a mere reflection, that the light is coming from behind her, inside the room.

She turns around, and he is there.

She is not really surprised to find a fireplace there, smokeless flames cheerfully decimating what seems to be a dozen broken golf clubs. What surprises her is the figure lying on the floor in front of it, curled in a fetal position, eyes shut tightly, as if trying to shut out some horrible sight. She thinks she is imagining him, as she no doubt imagines everything in her little room, till he starts shuddering, whimpering.

Without a second thought, she runs to him, kneeling down on the now-carpeted floor, placing one hand on his shoulder, shaking him tentatively. "Ummm" she whispers. "Are you alright?"

His eyes-cat's eyes, green as glass-fly open in surprise, and she is thrown back by this horrified push combining flinch, shove and blow. She crashes to the floor, and for a moment it seems to open up and she knows she is going to fall.

He catches her as quickly as he'd pushed her, though it seems, for a moment, that his hand would not reach her.

But he does, and his hand is surprisingly warm, incredibly solid.

"Dammit, who are you?" he snarls. "What are you-" He cuts himself off, and lets go, and she falls, but this time the floor remains where it is supposed to be. Glancing around like a trapped animal, he scuttles away, and she notices, with vague interest, that the fireplace disappears to make way. "Shit!" The word rings sharply around the room. And then he is gone.

"Aya-chan!" Omi's voice rang up the stairs, startling her from her book. "We need you!"

She glanced at her watch, at the lengthening shadows outside and realized that it was nearly time for the

shop to close. No doubt the boys needed help shooing out the fan girls.

"Aya-chan!" Omi shouted again, sounding practically panicked. "We're under siege! Help!"

She grinned, wryly. Her brothers, her heroes, laid low by a bunch of junior high school girls. News at eleven.

She hurried to their rescue, knowing by experience that it took a tactful but firm directive to make the girls leave, something that not one of the four Koneko boys seemed to have mastered in the years they'd worked here. Omi and Ken were too kind-hearted, Yohji enjoyed the attention too much, and Ran... Well, asking politely simply wasn't her brother's style. Besides, closing up went faster with five. She realized she was starving.

At the dinner table, she again found herself cosseted and pampered, pandered to and fussed over.

It was enough to set her teeth on edge.

"Niichan, I've been fine for months!" she protested as he poured water into her glass, insisting that the pitcher was too heavy for her. "I'm never going to get my strength back if you-"

"Oh, just let him do it, Aya-chan," drawled Yohji. "It's a treat for us to see him like this. All subservient and domestic." He grinned cheerily in response to Ran's killer glare.

"And didn't I tell you to dress properly for dinner?" Ran growled.

"Eh?" Yohji glanced down at his typically-Yohji outfit - tight jeans, a cropped top that left his arms and midriff exposed, and bare feet. "What's wrong with what I've got on?"

"That was fine when it was just us," Ran answered, flatly. "But we have an impressionable young girl living with us now." She rolled her eyes expressively and Omi giggled. "I'd appreciate you not going around like a fugitive from an ecchi manga."

"Hey!" protested Yohji. "I resent that! Besides, Aya-chan likes the way I dress. Dontcha, sweetie?" he asked, throwing her a wink beneath ash-blonde bangs.

"I think you're adorable," she answered, dutifully, but sincerely, around a mouthful of udon.

*See anything you like, Princess?*

"See?" Yohji stuck his tongue out at Ran. "Adorable."

"Hey, Omi-kun," interrupted Ken, forestalling more discussion about Yohji's sense of fashion. "Any luck with the roses?"

"No," Omi shook his head glumly. "I can't understand it. I've called all of our regular suppliers."

"Hmmm." Ken's brow furrowed. "You think it's one of our competition?"

"Yeah, like our customers really come here for our flowers," drawled Yohji, preening.

"Well, some do!" said Omi. "And they're going to be disappointed that there aren't any white roses. It's one of our best sellers!"

"Look, if no one has any then no one has any," said Ran, the voice of impatient reason. "It's inconvenient, but hardly catastrophic. Our customers will just have to settle for some other kind of flower."

"But Aya-kun! Don't you think it's strange?"

Ran shrugged. "So some movie studio is making a float somewhere."

"No, they aren't" said Omi, a little smugly. "I checked."

Ken ruffled Omi's hair and was angrily swatted away. "Kid, you have entirely too much time on your hands."

"But guys!"

Yohji raised one eyebrow. "You're not seriously considering...?" He shook his head. "No way, Omittchi. Besides, we already have a mission tonight."

A mission. She sobered as she heard that, and Yohji winced as three sets of glares found him. He laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Errr... Nobody's told her yet?"

"Mou, Youhji-kun," scolded Omi, arms akimbo. "When have we had the chance?"

"Manx came while you were taking your nap," explained Ken. "We finally found the factory where they produced those hallucinogenic tattoos."

"The ones in those kiddie snacks?" she asked. In the last week, more than a dozen grade schoolers had gone berserk and attacked their classmates and friends. Their behavior had been traced to hallucinogenic temporary body tattoos that were being given away free with kiddie snack foods. Investigation revealed that the actual food company was innocent, and the product immediately recalled, but the 'supplier' of the stickers could not be found. Until now.

"Yeah," nodded Yohji. "Anyone who makes hallucinogenic tattoos shaped like smiley faces and teddy bears has to be _really_ sick."

"It's pretty straightforward," said Ran, calmly. "We destroy the factory before they find another way to distribute their poison. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. We'll be back before you know it."

"Hallo, Princess."

She turns from the window and finds him standing there, beside the fireplace, watching the fire.

He turns and stares at her, smirking, almost in challenge and she takes that challenge and stares back. Bright orange hair, loud and scandalous. If not for the emerald eyes and pale skin she might suspect a hacked dye job. A foreigner, she judges, a first impression. Tall. That is the sum of her observations, for like everything in her world he is not quite substantial, not quite in focus. But he is there, and she knows, somehow, that he is real as nothing else there is.

"You came back," she says, softly. "I'd thought I imagined you."

He laughs, the smirk on his lips giving way to a chuckle. "That's funny, Princess, I'd thought the same of you."

She flinches at the endearment, something inside her responding to the sense of wickedness. Danger, something within her whispers. Danger! But there is nowhere to run. This is her world, and so she can only stand her ground.

Eyes cruelly amused, smile sardonic. "What's wrong, Princess? You look like someone just walked over your grave."

"Are you real?" A mere whisper in the suddenly dark and empty room, her heart almost drowning it out.

Laughter, musical despite its mockery. "Are you?"

She has no answer for that, as he must've known. The question terrifies her.

"Am I?" she asks, at last.

He grins again, and does not answer. Instead he moves towards the window that is currently a window and peers out. "Nice place you got yourself here." Everything seems to amuse him for some reason. "Tell me, Princess, any wolves in that forest?"

She hesitates. "I've heard a few, yes, but I haven't actually seen any."

"Of course not," he agrees, with almost palpable self-satisfaction. "And tell me, Princess, has anyone else been through here? Some blonde, blue-eyed guy, lots of muscles, wearing a suit of armor? Or maybe carrying an axe?"

She is certain now of his mockery, although still isn't sure of his meaning. She is intrigued in spite of herself, and grateful to have someone to talk to, no matter how disagreeable. "Who are you?" she demands. "And why do you keep calling me Princess?"

"But Princess," he protests, his face falsely innocent and gesturing dramatically around him. "Dark forest, ivory tower, fair maiden..." This last is said with a mocking bow towards her. "What else am I supposed to think? I'm German, we know about these things."

She stares at him, totally bewildered, and the view in the window shifts, showing a neatly trimmed lawn in sunlight. Two figures lie in the grass, one a miniature of the other. "Read another one, Mama." the child demands. "No, not that one, the one about the girl who ate the apple."

"Why you prefer those strange tales to our own legends, I'll never know," the woman comments as the child impatiently flips the pages of a book, seeking. She smiles as the child finds the page, gives praise with a soft word and a touch to her cheek, then cuddles close and reads obediently. "Once upon a time..."

"You know," he murmurs, tapping a finger against his straight nose in pretend thoughtfulness, "if you're the Princess, that must make me-"

"Dopey," she furnishes, readily, the memory of the name accompanied by a visual of a short and comical dwarf.

The sudden bark of laughter is startled, genuine. "Ah, good one, Princess." He shakes his head in amusement. "Neatly put me in my place, eh? Really, you Royals can be so cold." He saunters to the middle of the room and sits down, a chair materializing just in time to catch him. He looks at her, speculatively. "So whose Royal Presence am I in? If I'm going to be insulted by royalty I should at least know by who, na?"

She blinks at the question. She remembers worrying about where she is and how she got there, but for some reason she has never wondered _who_ she is. She feels cold as her mind draws a blank.

"Come, Princess, you're not telling me you don't know your name?" She shakes her head, slowly, and she can see the disbelief in his eyes. A disdainful sniff and he is off the chair, reaching for her. She finds she cannot move despite the rising panic in her breast. "I hate to tell you this, Princess," he says, lowly, warningly, "but I can tell when someone is lying." With two hands he holds her face captive, and pins her with a piercing emerald gaze. "This is a little redundant," he murmurs cryptically, "but I suppose..."

She is engulfed by those eyes and she feels a wrenching inside of her, a feeling of trespass, of violation, though he has done nothing but touch her. She tries to break away but somehow she is caught. In that instant, she makes her first discovery about herself, about the person she used to be.

She has one hell of a temper.

She feels the anger flash, break, explode and the next thing she knows he is being flung halfway across the room. He staggers, stunned. He recovers quickly, a small smile hovering around his mouth. "Nice trick, Princess," he murmurs. "Your mind's stronger than I thought."

"Go away," she orders, willing him gone.

"Not that strong," he answers, smirking. "You can't keep me out, you don't have that kind of discipline." He cocks his head in contemplation. "So, no conscious memory, eh? The conscious hiding in the subconscious-I suppose this would be a natural consequence. Another neat trick, Princess, I'm quite impressed."

"What the hell are you talking about?" she demands. She glares at him, and he smiles at her, the first natural smile she has seen from him and is amazed at the transformation.

"The truth, Princess," he says, "is that you surprised me, back then. So I came here to see if you were a threat, but you're obviously not. I doubt you'll even remember this encounter once you... errr... wake up."

"Wake up?" She pounces on those words. "So I am dreaming, then?"

He shrugs, the smile still in place. "Close enough. Why? What did you think?"

She looks down at the not-quite-solid floor. "It feels like a dream," she agrees, softly. "But I thought, sometimes, that maybe..."

"You died and are a ghost?"

She looks at him in surprise, grateful for his understanding. "Or at the very least in Limbo."

He pursed his lips. "Appropriate analogy, I suppose," he agrees. "Between worlds... Especially considering how long you must've been here to get this kind of detail..." He shakes his head. "But no. The dead don't dream, Princess. Besides, I'm a telepath, not a medium."

"A telepath," she says, in wonder, then asks: "So, who are you? What's your name?" He blinks, too, as if confused by the question, and she makes a wild guess. "You don't know who you are either," she accuses softly, amused.

He scowls at her. "I know who I am!"

"You just don't remember your name, right?"

He smiles again, this time somewhat bemusedly. "It's been so long..." he says, almost to himself, then makes a dismissive gesture. "I don't use that name anymore."

She shrugs. "I guess I can always call you Dopey."

"What about 'Rumplestiltskin'?" he suggests.

"Rumpe..." Her tongue refuses to curve itself around the foreign syllables, and she catches the wicked twinkle in his eyes, the sudden smirk. "That can't be a proper name," she protests. "That's from another story, isn't it? An evil gnome?"

He looks affronted, then shrugs. "I've been called worse. I suppose it's a step up from being a dumb dwarf."

"Slightly," she agrees, then tries again. "There must be something else, a name I can call you," she insists.

She sees him thinking it over and he shrugs. "Alright then," he says. "Call me Schuldig."

She watched them leave, holding her breath as they melted into the shadows, disappeared into the darkness. In the months since her awakening, this had become one of their rituals. The lady of the castle sending off her knights into battle.

Though they had tried their best to keep the gory details to a minimum, she had learned long ago what a 'mission' entailed, the possibilities she had to be prepared for. Sakura had given her sketchy details upon her awakening and since then, even without anyone telling her anything, she probably would have guessed. That first time she had stumbled upon them broken and bleeding in the basement would have been a pretty good clue.

She recalled her terror that night: almost losing consciousness at the sight of Niichan's bleeding face, one hand quickly and efficiently bandaging the other. A quick survey had revealed that they were all hurt, one way or another. Yohji-kun standing awkwardly, placing all his weight on one foot. On the couch Omi-kun had been groaning as Ken patiently doctored an injury on the younger man's leg, even as blood was drying on his own temple. She must've had made a sound for their heads had snapped up in unison, Niichan's uninjured hand instinctively reaching for the katana at his side, freezing a split second later when recognition dawned.

Yohji had recovered first. "Anou, Aya-chan," he'd said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. "We didn't mean to wake you. We... Ah, we kind of got into a car accident. We're... heh heh... we're a little banged up. No biggie. Happens all the time."

Ran had simply stared at her in shock.

She'd swallowed, then said, surprisingly calm: "That's a bullet wound in Omi-kun's thigh."

Their responses differed, if not their response time. Yohji had cursed. Omi had turned red. Ken-kun had turned white. And Niichan had turned away. All within a heartbeat.

"Get out." The order had been low and angry, Ran's fists clenched tightly, blood flowing fresh from the injury.

"No." She'd been proud of how calm she sounded, how steadily she moved to the center of the room. She'd ducked past Yohji to get to Ran, snagging the free first-aid kit, and had reached up to touch his face, seeking the source of the blood. He flinched at her touch and tried to move away. "No," she'd said again, louder, more determined. "Let me see."

He'd faced her, head hanging low, slowly raising it to look her in the eye. She'd remembered their first argument, how adamant he had been about sending her away so soon after their reunion. He'd made some noises about a distant relative in the States, or boarding school. She had simply dug her heels in and ignored him, hurt and confused but confident he would relent. Not even his arguments about the illogic and impropriety (his words, not hers) of a young woman living with four men, even if one of them was her brother, had swayed her. She had been stubborn then, but she had not understood. That night she had. He had been protecting her, as he always had. And she'd seen the fear in those eyes, the worry that she would judge and find him lacking, unworthy, and it had taken all of her strength not break down then and there.

Instead she had concentrated on treating the wound on his face, shallow, not dangerous, it would probably have stopped bleeding already if he hadn't kept swiping at it, redid the bandages on his hand. Omi-kun had passed out from the pain and the painkillers. She had checked Ken's eyes, worried about his head wound, but they were clear and he seemed lucid enough. And she had calmly slapped Yohji's wrist when he tried to light up a cigarette.

That night had seemed so surreal, and at the same time so horrifyingly real. Like her dreams. But she'd known it was no dream.

It had been Omi who had come to her the next day, victim of a short straw. In spite of his injury. He had scratched at his head and shuffled his feet, looking completely lost, and guilty, while she had sat at the breakfast table, alone for once, in her hands a newspaper that had proclaimed: '21 Children Rescued From Prostitution House. 5 Men Dead, 3 Arrested.'

"Aya-chan, ummm-"

She had lifted her eyes to meet his troubled blue ones squarely. "Slaying dragons, right?"

"Eh?"

She felt as calm and as grave as any mother whose sons had just joined the military. "That's what you're doing," she'd said, calmly, gesturing t the open newspaper. "When you go out. Slaying dragons."

His worried look had turned to one of surprise, and then, to this odd expression, gentle and thankful and wry. "Aa," he'd answered, gently, with quiet self-assurance. "That's what we're doing."

"Why?"

He'd thought about it for a moment. "Because we have to," he'd finally responded. "Because it's the only thing we can do. Because it's who we are now."

She'd thought she could understand that. "Tell Niichan to come in here so I can shout at him, okay?" she had requested, softly, belying the worry that had nestled in her heart.

Omi had smiled, a little uncomfortably. "Yes," he'd agreed, "But... Aya-chan, uhhh..." He'd swallowed nervously, then straightened. "Please don't... I mean..." He'd grabbed her hand and looked at her imploringly. "He doesn't look it, he hasn't spoken a word all morning, but I think he's a little scared of what you think or what you might think about him."

The glance she'd given him was purposely only slightly annoyed. "Baka. I just wanna lecture him a little. Who knows when I'll get another chance?"

He'd grinned back. "Thank you, Aya-chan. It... it means the world to us that you understand."

Young, she'd thought again, so young. Before she'd even realized it she had reached out to touch his cheek tenderly. "Even if I didn't understand, Omi-kun," she'd told him softly, "you're my family. There isn't anything you could do that'd make me turn away. I hope _you_ understand that. I hope you all do."

He'd turned red with embarrassment, then nodded slowly. "Aa, Aya-chan," he'd said, with a small smile. "Thank you." He'd stood up. "I'll go call Aya-kun now."

"Omi-kun?" she'd called, just before he left the room.

"Hmm?"

She'd said, still softly, "The only thing that makes this bearable is that I know you're _together._ Take care of each other. Be safe."

He'd nodded, the bloom still on his cheeks but a steely determination had came into his eyes. "Yes," he'd promised. "We will."

He is not charming, anything but.

He is like a loathsome hated cousin, one she tries her best to but can't quite ignore. Like an irritating schoolmate she is forced to spend an eternity of detention hours with. He is rude and obnoxious, incessantly mocking, unfailingly irritating. He finds everything amusing, from the scenes that keep indiscriminately flashing on the window, to her nervousness and annoyance at his presence. He gloats at the fact that he seems to have more control over 'her world' than she does, carelessly picking up items from the growing collection of side tables and cabinets and dropping them, only to have them whisk back to their positions safely with a lift of his eyebrow. He teases her mercilessly; making cracks about her hair, her room, the way she finds everything he says scandalous. He delights in shocking her, in confusing her with unsubtle hints and lewd remarks. He annoys her with his irreverence, despite the fact that he always calls her 'Princess' and his mocking bows.

She hates the way he looks at her, the way he smiles, just so, as if he is privy to some amusing secret about her. She hates the way he always seems to know what she is thinking, the way he tosses his head, arrogantly, and the way he grins and leers at her whenever he catches her staring.

"See anything you like, Princess?"

And she is annoyed with herself because despite all this she welcomes his presence, anything better than the loneliness, the never-ending silence.

"Why are you always here, anyway?" she asks once, in a fit of peevishness. "Are you so bereft of amusement in... in wherever it is you come from? I didn't ask you to come here, you know."

"What're you saying, Princess?" he returns, a mournful expression on his face while his eyes glint mirthfully. "I'm hurt. Really. And here I thought I was brightening up your day."

"I wish you'd just go away, disappear and never come back."

He laughs. "Might as well wish for scarlet ribbons, Princess."

If only she isn't so lonely, she thinks. But she is.

She finds that she is a tolerant girl, by nature. Despite the aggravation and disturbance he brings she becomes accustomed to him. And she decides, after some time, that he is not quite that bad. Interspersed in between the mockery and the taunts are germs of actual conversations. He delights in being cryptic, and fancies himself a wit, but soon she learns to unearth the grains of truth and reality in his words. And they speak a lot of words; for truly there is not a lot else to do in the world they now share, except talk. Save perhaps watch the fire or watch the window/mirror/movie/wall, though they did that as well, on occasion. But not often. He has no patience and no interest in the mirror that is a window that is a wall, and constantly demands that she turn from it and talk to him.

He is without doubt a wonderful storyteller. He spins tales like a master, about strange and impossible things, the things he'd seen and done, the places he'd visited, the people he'd met. He'd told her once that he was a telepath, and she finds that that is the least of the marvels in his repertoire.

He tells her of people who can see the future, who can move objects with their mind. Of people who turn into beasts and girls with wings. He tells her of human chess games and magic. No wonder he is so comfortable with fairytales, she thinks, because that was the stuff of his stories.

They are horrible stories, dark and terrible, designed to frighten and repel. They seem so real, so graphic, so vividly gruesome. And yet she finds them to be strangely beautiful as well. Or perhaps it is merely the way he tells them, his voice low and hypnotic.

He talks of his childhood in Germany, orphaned and alone, fighting for his life on the streets. These tales, she thinks, are even more horrible than the dark fantasies, but he recounts them so casually, always with such dark humor, that she learns to dismiss them as he does.

She appreciates his candor. She feels, somehow, that outside of this room he is not so forthcoming, not so open. He told her, once, that she is no threat, and this is obviously true. After all, whom would she tell? Though the thought births a little resentment, she knows this frees him to speak his mind and tell the truth.

His stories of his past make her wonder about her own. Surely, she thinks, she must have family somewhere, and imagines that they miss her. But she feels no connection, not with her unremembered past, not with this unverified family.

The only connection she feels in this strange room is with this strange man.

Sometimes, not very often, there are silences. Times when he simply sits, watching the fire. His thoughts are unfathomable, though she feels she is beginning to learn how to read his moods. These quiet moments she finds restful, for some reason, the silence not as oppressive, though she wonders what could bring on such pensiveness, such shadows, in an otherwise utterly pompous personality.

But most of the time, he is loud and demanding, almost like a spoiled child. Lately, she finds this acceptable.

She thinks, perhaps, that they have become friends.

After some time, she finds the courage to ask again. "Am I real? Truly real?"

He sniffs at her, disdainfully. "Didn't you ever go to school, Princess? Cogito ergo sum, and all that? Only in this case, it would be 'I dream, therefore I am'."

"But what about you? Are you a dream, too?"

He winks. "So I've been told."

"Be serious. If I'm dreaming how do I know you're real and not something I dreamt up?"

"I never said I wasn't a dream, Princess," he grins. "I said you weren't dead, the dead can't dream."

She huffs, crossing her arms across her chest in annoyance. "I wish you'd just answer a question straight, for once."

He laughs. "Might as well ask for scarlet ribbons, Princess."

She glares. "You keep saying that!" she declares. "That thing about scarlet ribbons. What does that even mean, anyway?"

"It's something my... my mother used to say," he answers, still smiling. "Whenever I'd complain, or ask for something we didn't have, or generally ask for something impossible, she'd say 'might as well ask for scarlet ribbons.' It was her version of 'Might as well ask for the moon'."

"What do scarlet ribbons have to do with asking for the moon?" she questions, intrigued.

"It's from the folksong," he explains. "Ever heard of it?"

She shakes her head.

"It's about this little girl," he narrates, "who prayed for some scarlet ribbons for her hair. And her father overhears her, so he goes to town to look for some, but couldn't find any. He goes back to his house, depressed because his daughter is going to be disappointed. Then he looks in on her again, and her bed is covered with scarlet ribbons."

She wrinkles her brow in confusion. "I don't think your mother quite understood the story."

He grins again. "Probably not," he agrees. "I mean, if I was gonna wish for anything I'd sure as hell wish for a lot more than scarlet ribbons."

"You don't get it, either!"

He shrugs, smirking evilly. "Might as well-"

"Oh, shut up."

As soon as their shadows had disappeared, as soon as she could no longer hear the hum of their vehicles, she turned back into the house and headed for the kitchen. They had told her not to wait up, a useless command for she always did anyway.

But it was unfair, really, to blame them for her lack of sleep. She really doubted that she would get a decent night's rest ever again.

Actually, none of them did very well at night, except perhaps for Ken, but only because he was so totally physical in the day that his body simply surrendered at night. Still, he too fell victim to the occasional nightmare.

Nightmares. They all suffered from them, in one form or another. Sometimes she wished she could take theirs from them, ease their pain that way. And sometimes she almost envied them.

She never dreamt anymore.

And then there were the waking nightmares, and she was helpless to ease those as well. Sometimes she felt she would go mad, worrying about them. They were so damn proud, they never asked her, or even each other, for help, each fighting their battles alone.

Ran escaped by obsessing about her, by worrying about her safety and her future. Yohji avoided by staying out all night, in clubs or in other beds where he hoped they would not find him. Omi kept them at bay with the light of computer monitors and midnight oil. And Ken - Ken simply endured, waiting patiently for the light of the sun to save him.

Those nights out, the 'missions,' they were their nemesis, both their doom and their salvation, the cause and the escape. Slaying dragons for other people, while almost helpless against their own.

But they were strong, she was certain of that. And they would be fine. Even without directly asking, they found strength in each other. How many times had she gone downstairs in the middle of the night to find them seated at the kitchen table together, nursing beers or cups of tea or glasses of milk? Not talking, exactly, not even looking at each other. But simply being together. She was reluctant to join them, sometimes, loathe to disturb that fragile, precious togetherness. Like everything else about this life Ran had found during her absence, it both gave peace and pierced her with envy.

It was a frightening, disturbing thought, quite unfounded, really, but she thought of this as Ran's world. She was both glad and slightly resentful of his relationship with these men, his friends. She was grateful that he had not been alone all those years, that he had found people to care for and who cared for him. They had welcomed her into their fold upon her awakening, for Ran's sake, and they had been nothing but kind to her, but she sometimes felt that she stood outside an invisible circle, and that she would always be a guest, always be 'Aya-kun's sister.'

But she could never hold on to that resentment for very long. She loved her brother, and she loved these men. Had she never met them, never gotten to know them as she did, she still would have loved them for what they had done for Ran. And she knew that together, they could manage anything.

She only wished that didn't make her feel so alone.

"Why can't you be nicer?" she demands. "Would it kill you to be polite for once?" He smirks at her in response and she sighs in irritation. "Yeah, yeah, I know." She waves her hand around, mocking his airy gesture. "I might as well ask for scarlet ribbons." She throws him a wry glance. "Your mother was a real killjoy, did you know that?"

"She wasn't," he corrects. "Not really."

"Yes, she was," she pouts. "Where's the harm in a few wild wishes? She didn't have to slap every daydream down."

"No," he says, quietly. "I meant, she wasn't my mother, not really. She was one of those - how do you call it? Foster mothers. She took care of me for a while."

She looks at him, surprised. By now she knows he is an orphan who grew up on the streets, but she has always thought of this nameless faceless woman as his mother. He quotes her often enough.

"She had a dairy farm, not very prosperous, but enough to get by, I suppose. She had a husband, and a son, but one hard winter they caught pneumonia. She watched them die." He smiles, that humorless smile it actually hurts her to see and she swallows a lump in her throat. "I never met them, but she talked about them a lot. I stayed with her for about two years. On the second year there was an epidemic. All the cattle died." She wonders how he can relate this story so calmly. "I was too young to understand, I suppose, and every time I complained, every time I asked for more food, she'd tell me 'Might as well wish for scarlet ribbons, son.' Every damn time."

"What happened to her?" she asks, softly. "Why didn't you stay with her?"

He shrugs again, carelessly. "The state decided she couldn't afford to keep me. They took me back. They put me in one of those orphanages." He grins at her. "Not for long, though."

"Huh? Why not?"

"I ran away, found my way back to the farm."

"And?"

"She wasn't there," he grunts. "It had been a hard winter; without her cattle she couldn't keep up the payments. She had to give it up."

She tries to imagine that. A young boy finding his way home only to find it empty. "You looked for her," she deduces.

He shakes his head. "The neighbors told me she had family in Australia, and that was where she'd gone. It was too far away, too big - I had no idea where to start. So I went back to the orphanage. I thought it was better than nothing. And I suppose I was young enough to hope that someone else would come. That someone else would want me." She hates that smile, grim and self-mocking. She wonders if it is the only way he can show pain. "Just goes to show you, Princess..."

Sorrow blooms inside her. For him, and for herself, though she does not quite understand why. "_She_ wanted you," she reminds him. "Did you ever find her?" she questions, hope whispering. "Maybe she's still there. Maybe-"

He cuts in harshly, his eyes flashing-his first show of genuine emotion. "She never left, Princess. I found this out later-she'd listed me as her next of kin. She got a job in the next town; so she could still visit the farm, visit the cemetery where her husband and son were buried. But she was an old woman. She caught pneumonia, too, and nobody was there to take care of her. She died."

She closes her eyes, breath stolen by pain. "When was this?" she asks, hoarsely.

He looks out the distance, his face as gray and as still as stone. "When I was nine years old."

Nine years old. She wishes she could weep, but in this world, in this room, it is one of the things she is not capable of.

"I went back again, you know." He continues, casually, his voice devoid of any emotion. "To the farm, I mean. There was barbed wire and no trespassing signs all around, but the place was empty. It wasn't prime property so the bank never sold it." He laughs, harshly, humorlessly. "Funny, huh? Nobody wanted it, but they wouldn't let her stay on it, either." She wants to weep, wishes that this strange world would let her. "Fucking bureaucracy, huh?" She cannot think of anything to say. She moves towards him, but he continues to stare out the window. Then, barely audibly: "And nobody wanted me, but they wouldn't... Fucking scarlet ribbons."

"Oh, God," she whispers, finally understanding.

At her words he whirls to face her, his face livid. "God?" he snarls. "Fuck Him, too." She gasps at the blasphemy but he rages on. "They made a big deal about Him at the orphanage. Ask Him, they said. Ask God. He'll take care of you. He'll answer your prayers." He spits out each word, a challenge, a curse. "Tell me, Princess, what kind of God grants such a frivolous wish as scarlet ribbons but doesn't listen when a woman prays for the lives of her husband and her son? What kind of God lets a woman, a good woman lose everything and then die alone, in pain? What kind of God lets children-" "

She cannot take it anymore. She flings herself upon him, grabbing him around the neck and sobbing tearlessly, brokenly, against his chest. She has no answers for him, no answers for anything. She does not even understand why she's sobbing so hard she can't breathe.

He stands stiffly, his hands at his sides, resisting, but she ignores that and continues to hang on to him. Finally, after her sobs have subsided a bit, he raises his arms, closing them around her. "What are you crying for, Princess?" he murmurs, almost dryly. "She wasn't really my mother."

She holds him tighter, nuzzling her cheek against his chest. "But," she hiccups, softly, "you wanted her to be."

He remains silent, and after a long time he lowers his head and relaxes against her.

She hated being alone, especially at night. She hated the darkness and the silence, the emptiness and the uncertainty. It made her feel somewhat unreal. Sometimes she wondered if she wasn't really still asleep, and that her reunion with her brother, her new life with him and his friends, wasn't simply a dream. And she was afraid that she would wake up and she would be alone.

Or perhaps she had wandered into another dream, another tale. One wherein she was a shape shifter - bright and shining by day, shadowed and silent at night. With Ran and the others she could smile and laugh, she could pretend that she wasn't being eaten alive by fear and grief. With her brothers she didn't have to be alone with her thoughts.

Or be alone in her thoughts.

She has lost her contentment. His stories have shattered her complacency, her indifference to her lack of a past, of an identity.

She has begun to hate it when he goes, when she is left alone. The feeling of being not-quite-real is never as strong, never as frightening as when she is alone. She wishes he would stay, but she never asks, knowing his world is separate.

She wonders if she will ever find her way out.

He assures her that he is searching for her, for the dreamer that is her. But he tells her she could be anyone, anywhere, that the mind is not subject to the limitations of time, nor space. He does not promise, and he does not assure her that finding her will lead to her awakening. "The human mind is a complicated thing, Princess," he tells her.

The solemnity of his words frighten her. Somehow, it has become increasingly vital that she find herself.

"Tell me how you got here," she requests. "That first time. Maybe that will give us an idea."

"I doubt it, Princess," he smirks. "My brain works a little differently than yours."

She raises an eyebrow, impatiently. "Tell me anyway."

"Let's see," he says, pursing his lip, trying to remember. "I'm really not quite sure."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"I was kinda in a daze. Near as I can figure, I got hit in the head and blacked out for a while. I stumbled into your mind by accident."

"Hit on the head?" she demands. She remembers the way he'd looked then, shivering on the floor, almost like he had been broken. "The golf clubs," she breathes, feeling ill. "Someone hit you with a golf club?"

"Don't sound so disapproving, princess." He mocks her distress. "It's not like I had a choice." He looks away, then gives a self-depreciating shrug. "Anyway, they're usually a lot more careful than that. They never hit me in the head. I guess Takatori got carried away." The name sounds familiar, but she lets it slide, more concerned with his story. "The man does have a hell of a swing, gotta give him that."

"I hope he drops dead," she rasps out.

"You and the rest of decent society," he answers, flatly.

Horror and anger rage within her. "I hope you rammed that club down his throat," she snarls.

He blinks at that, surprised. "Really, Princess," he mutters, dryly. "Such violence." He shrugs again. "He's my employer, and a very powerful man."

"Bull," she spits out.

"Really, Princess," he says again, shaking a finger at her, mockingly. "Such language. I'm shocked."

"Why didn't you stop him?" she asks. "Why did you let him?"

He looks away and does not answer.

Aggravated, she starts pacing. "I... I know you," she whispers, haltingly. "You're a powerful man yourself. You think I don't know that? You think I don't know what you can do? You... I don't think... You wouldn't have..." She takes a deep breath, then plunges on, demanding: "Why did you let him hurt you?"

He closes his eyes, briefly, then looks at her directly, coldly. "Because, Princess," he tells her, flatly, "I killed his daughter."

She stares in horror. "What?"

He waves his hand airily, as if making idle chitchat, smirking, but she sees the hard glitter in his eyes. To someone else it may have looked like cold cruelty, evil amusement, but she recognizes it as a bright point of pain. "It was a pity, too," he laughs, harshly. "She was a pretty thing. Only a little younger than you, Princess."

"You killed her?" she repeats, in stunned disbelief. She knows him, knows he is capable of cruelty, even murder, but... She senses it, the wave of self-mockery, self-hatred. The flash of... regret?

"Well," he shrugs, as if making some huge concession. "It was an accident, I guess. I was having some fun-meddling, stirring up some trouble and she got caught in the crossfire." He smiles, scornfully. "Farfarello can be a little excitable."

She grabs at that, nearly dizzy with relief. "So it wasn't you," she says, softly, touching his shoulder.

He jerks away, his patience gone. "I was playing games, Princess!" he snaps, coldly, almost violently. "And a girl _died._ Not a target, not a threat, just a girl."

"So you let him beat you," she whispers, her heart constricting painfully. "Atonement?"

He laughs again, still roughly, then his laughter loses strength. "I don't know what I was thinking, Princess," he admits, softly. "Takatori started beating me with that club and all I could think was 'Holy shit, the bastard actually loved his daughter'. And I thought... But then..."

"Then?"

"Then he stopped. The son of a bitch stopped." He shakes his head. "I shoulda killed him then and there."

She closes her eyes, gathering strength. "For beating you?" she asks, softly. "Or for stopping?"

He freezes at the question. He stands unmoving but she sees the hands clenched tightly into fists, the gritted teeth. Suddenly, he turns away, staring into the fire unseeing. She embraces him from behind, holding on to his waist and resting her cheek against his shoulder blade. He flinches, again going still and rigid in her arms but she holds on. "That fuck," he whispers, finally, hoarsely, "he stopped. He stopped, and I could hear him thinking: 'No, I can't kill him. I can still use him. I can still use him.'" He runs ragged fingers through his hair. "His daughter was _dead._"

"The bastard," she whispers, holding on tighter.

"Such language, Princess," he says again, laughing hollowly. Then he struggles and pulls away. He stands apart and glares at her. "Don't you _dare_ pity me, Princess."

"I don't pity you," she denies, fiercely. "I'm angry. I wish you killed him. I wish I could."

He looks tired, and very young, all of a sudden. "Save your outrage for her, Princess. She was about your age. Pretty, brave. Just like you. And she'd just fallen in love." His tone is casual, almost mocking, but she can hear, underneath, the self-loathing in his voice. "I thought it'd be fun to... I was playing games," he whispers again.

"Oh, Schuldig..."

The name acts as a trigger somehow, and the mask falls back into place, obscuring what had been oddly vulnerable eyes and features. Mocking smirk and cruel gaze, he turns to her once more. "What now, Princess?" he asks coldly. "Now that you know what I am, what I do? Will you still trust me, present your unprotected back when you look out your window. Will you still smile when I come here, laugh at me, fight with me? Will you still-" He cuts himself off, suddenly, and she thinks she sees a flash of panic cross suddenly glassy eyes.

"No, wait!"

But he is already gone.

She decided to make crepes. It was something to do, and it was one more thing the boys all had in common: a fierce sweet tooth. Fair cooks, the lot of them, but not one of them could bake to save their lives. It was a weakness she exploited shamelessly. During her first few weeks at the Koneko she had baked constantly, determined to win Ran's friends through the seduction of their stomachs. Besides, they were always hungry after a successful mission and something sweet would definitely be welcomed. Crepes would be a nice change to her ever-present cakes and pastries.

She prepared the fruit first. Cherries for Niichan. Blueberries for Yohji. Peaches for Ken. And for Omi-kun, a slightly nauseating combination of all three, plus grapes, pineapple, kiwi and bananas. She washed the fruit then sliced them carefully, paying special attention to each flick of the knife. In the daytime she would have done this quickly, almost automatically, but now she did it slowly and deliberately, focusing all of her attention on the task. She would worry if she let herself, and she did her best to keep her mind and her hands occupied. She mixed and whipped the sugared cream next, preferring to do the job by hand instead of using her electric mixer. It was tedious and time-consuming and that was what she needed right now. But too soon she had to concede that it was done and she placed it in the refrigerator with the fruit to chill. She was disgusted with how easy it was to prepare the cream and chocolate sauce, and the fact that she had ground nuts left over from her last pie - it would have been a perfect way to work out some of her excess energy.

She mixed the batter for the wrappers and then stopped. It would taste better, she knew, if she made the crepes themselves fresh, right before serving. And besides, her hands were shaking and crepes required a delicate and steady touch. They would have to wait till later, when her men returned.

She misses him. She is mad as hell, but she still misses him.

Time moves strangely in this world she finds herself in. It is a minute, it is a hundred years. She realizes, in his absence, just how much she has grown used to him. And more.

She watches the shadows in her forest and marvels at how her once hazy and intangible environment has become clearer, sharper, more solid. He is a naked blade in her cotton-candy world, an invader forcing her to focus, to be aware.

And for some strange inexplicable reason, she is. Ironically, this strange and disturbing man has become her rock. She wonders at that, for a very long time.

On his return she feels like weeping in relief. He is as irreverent and as irrepressible as ever, but she forces herself not to turn around, not to acknowledge his presence.

Finally, he stops talking, and she holds her breath to see if he will go. He does not. On her window is a forest of sakura in bloom, a sight that is completely at odds with the turmoil of her heart.

Or perhaps not.

"You're angry with me," he says, finally.

"Yes," she answers, still without looking at him. She catches a wave of anger from him, more of a flash, really.

"That's it, then," he murmurs, and she is surprised, but also pleased, to hear the disappointment in his voice.

"No," she says, calmly, "it isn't." She turns around, finally, and she can see she has confused him. "We're not done," she informs him. "And we weren't done then, either. You asked me questions then didn't wait to hear the answers. And you didn't consider that perhaps I had questions of my own."

"That's what you're angry about?" he asks, sounding stunned. "What about -?"

"You come and go whenever you please," she interrupts, "and you decide when a conversation is over. I don't think that's fair."

"Fair?" He starts laughing. "My God, Princess, don't you understand? You should hate me. You should feel disgusted. You think I'm annoying and irritating? Well, newsflash, Princess, that's the least of what I am. I'm a murderer. I manipulate, I corrupt and I destroy. You should know better than to even talk to me."

"Then why are you here?" she returns. "If you really think that, why are you here? Why do you keep coming back?"

He freezes, then looks down, hiding his eyes. "I don't know. All I know is you're here.""

She feels a catch in her throat, but steels herself against softening. "And you feel sorry for me, is that it?" she asks, harshly. "The poor princess trapped in her tower? She must be so lonely, so desperate for company that she'll be grateful for any sort of contact?"

He shakes his head, crossing arms across his chest in defensiveness and confusion. "That's not it at all!"

She surprises him again by smiling. "Because if it is," she says, her voice gentling, "that doesn't sound so evil to me. Pity, even misplaced and unwelcome pity, is a virtue."

He laughs, humorlessly. "Good God, Princess, you are amazingly obtuse."

"Besides," she continues, ignoring the insult. "I am grateful. I like having you here, having someone to talk to. I simply thought we'd gone past-" This time she is the one who falters. "-being mutual entertainment."

He glares at her, then throws his hands up in the air in a frustrated gesture, then plops himself down upon the chair. "You have no idea what you're saying, Princess," he growls. He nods towards the window, to the scene outside. "You'd be safer in that forest, with those wolves, than here with me."

"I'm not afraid," she says. "I've never been afraid of you."

He smiles, reluctantly, wryly. "I know. Maybe that's why I keep coming back. I never can resist a challenge."

She wandered into the mission room and re-checked the first aid kits. She hated the idea of needing them, but recognized the necessity. She had used them often enough in the past.

She noticed that the monitor of one computer was showcasing a number of very colorful tropical fish. Someone had been using it and apparently hadn't had the time to shut it down properly. A flick of the mouse revealed the page he had been perusing, and out of idle curiosity she sat down to view the contents.

A small frown furrowed her brow. She wondered who had been reading that page. It hardly seemed that type of material any one of them would be interested in. One frame revealed that the site contained mostly stories, a science fiction series based on what she guessed to be an old television show. What caught her attention was that the text that had been called up were not the stories themselves, but the author's notes - a journal of sorts, meanderings by some unfamiliar writer discussing the plot, characters and developments. A quick scan revealed that the page contained mostly mindless prattle. This person, whoever she was, obviously had too much time and considered cyberspace her own personal podium. She was ready to dismiss the entire thing and shut down the computer when she came to the paragraphs that had been highlighted.

'It's funny,' this woman had written. 'I've been planning to write Hudson into this series forever. And I thought I'd planned her character pretty well. I know what she looks like, who her parents are, when she was born, what she wants in life. I know she's Tim's sister and Morgan's best friend. I know she's a naval commander and half-Japanese. But it wasn't till she 'met' Aeryn that she became so clear to me. She was real enough before, but I always felt that she, or I, was still grasping for actuality. With Aeryn, it's as if suddenly, Hudson's come into her own. No longer a minor character, no longer in the sidelines. I _know_ who she is now, and so does she.'

'I wonder,' continued the writer, 'if people are like that, too. Defined, actualized, by other people. Each person is complete, unto himself. But no man is an island, right? And if you're in your room alone, and nobody knows you're there, do you really exist? But is it more than that? Is there actually one person out there that makes us, allows us to be, who we are and who we are meant to be? Does love, somehow, make us more? More than we used to be, more than we thought ourselves to be?'

'And if two people are that to each other, if they are more together than they are alone...'

'I suddenly have this urge to go to the planetarium and watch a film about binary stars.'

The rambling ended abruptly, but she found couldn't read any more anyway. She wondered who had been reading those paragraphs, who had been so fascinated with those concepts? Omi? She considered. Yohji? Ken? Or, even, Niichan? /Hmmm./

She left the computer on, and went back upstairs, heading for her room. She ignored the bed, and went straight for her French windows and climbed out onto the small balcony. Like that author of that page, she suddenly had the urge to look up at the stars.

She feels as if she won a battle, for something between them has changed. An awareness, fragile and tenuous, stretching between them. He is quieter, more pensive, and she wishes she had more stories to share, more jokes, if only to break the awkward moments. Her efforts so far have resulted in exaggerated rolls-of-eyes, eloquent in their opinion of her sense of humor. Ironically, she feels as if this is a triumph as well. But it is not enough, she wants him done with this moodiness and brooding, she wants his arrogance and irreverence returned. She wants his scowl, or his smile, not this shadowed thoughtfulness.

She feels strangely euphoric, and at the same time, curiously edgy. She wants to break something.

And something breaks. A realization, a recognition. She looks at him, and she knows.

And she wonders if he does.

"Tell me something," she requests, at last unable to stand his silence. "That girl who died-"

"Who I _killed_," he corrects.

"You said you were playing games. What did you mean?"

He does not look at her as he answers. "She had fallen in love with a young boy. This boy was, is my enemy, and I decided to wreak a little havoc with their happiness."

"How?"

"By telling them they were siblings."

She gasps. "Were they?"

He smiles wryly at her shock. "At the time, I believed so. There was a distinct possibility."

She nods, slowly, thinking out loud. "And your telling them, wouldn't they have found out sooner or later? Wasn't it better that they knew before it got a lot more complicated?"

She has surprised him again. "You're digging for an altruistic motive?" he asks, in disbelief. "Trust me, Princess, you couldn't be more wrong. I told you, I was playing games.""

"Why?"

"I was bored." His face becomes more intent as he explains. "For a telepath, people's emotions, especially ones that are that intense, are exciting. They're like honey, like fire in your blood. Each emotion is a different flavor, a different thrill. Like drugs." He shakes his head.

She makes a decision and moves before either of them is aware of it. Before he realizes it, she has placed both of his hands on the sides of her face, the way he did once, when they first met. "Tell me, then," she requests softly. "What does this taste like?"

He reacts instinctively, perhaps he cannot help himself. She feels him again - that wrenching, that invasion. Then he recoils, pushes her away.

"You're out of your mind," he gasps out, eyes huge as saucers. "You're freaking insane."

She smiles, gently. "I'd suspected," she says, softly, "but I think this clinches it."

"Your brain is addled," he says, gruffly. "That comes from not having enough sunlight."

If anything, her smile grows wider. "You felt it yourself," she reminds him. "Why not simply accept it? You can't change it."

"Is that a challenge?" he snaps. "Because, Princess, you have no idea-"

She interrupts with a question of her own. "Why are you so angry?"

His scowl intensifies, but he does not answer.

"It's not like I'm asking you to put me on your white horse and take me away from all of this. I'm not a child." She looks at him, challengingly. "If you don't want to be with me, you don't have to be here."

He does not answer, simply looks at her helplessly, then, characteristically, he plops himself down on his favorite chair. She smiles at him, smugly, and he glares at her in obvious annoyance.

"That is no triumph, Princess," he tells her, scathingly. "And I am no prize."

She goes to him, touches his cheek softly. "That's my choice to make."

"Choice?" he asks, harshly, but his returning touch is just as soft. "How can you speak of choice? Look around you, Princess. Tell me what choice?"

"You're right," she agrees. "I have no choice. If a hundred princes materialized here and now, I would still have no choice."

He flinches, dislodging her hand. "Don't, Princess. Don't say such things. I'm neither what you need or want."

"And you know this, in your infinite wisdom?"

He glances around them wryly. "I know your mind."

"Perhaps it's yours you don't know," she says, calmly. "Besides, you don't know anything if you think this is about minds."

He opens his mouth but no words come out.

And she is not at all surprised when a blink of an eye later he disappears.

"Aya-chan! We're back!"

She breathed a sigh of relief as they returned, counting off each dark shadow as they as passed underneath her balcony into the house. Four shadows, four voices. They were arguing, which was a good sign. It meant that the mission went well and that no one was seriously hurt.

Destroying a factory that targeted children. A simple mission, she thought. A simple black and white good versus evil mission. She didn't precisely approve of _any_ of their missions but at least this would not leave them silent and tortured, battling with their consciences and for their souls. No nightmares would be born from this night's work.

"I'm up here!" she called out. "I'll meet you guys in the kitchen!"

"Oi, my dear sister, is that chocolate I smell?"

"Didn't we have this conversation already?" she asks, mildly. "You can't keep doing this. You can't keep running away each time a conversation doesn't go your way." She knows he is there, even without turning.

"God save me from stubborn women," he mutters. "I knew I shouldn't have come back."

"So why did you?"

He does not answer.

She turns around and he is there, seated at his favorite chair, scowling, and her heart bubbles over at the sight. "I know," she says, softly. "I know why you come here, and I know why you came back. I want to know if you know."

He continues to glare at her.

"I'm the one who's trapped here," she reminds him. "If you don't want to be here then leave."

He doesn't answer.

"Aren't you leaving?" she asks.

He shakes his head, looking down on the floor.

"You've seen my mind and touched my heart," she whispers. "Why are you so afraid?"

"Why aren't you?" he growls, at last. "I know you're lonely, but Goddammit, Princess, don't delude yourself. Don't turn this into some fantasy and me into some -"

She waves her hand, interrupting him. "You're right," she snaps. "This is no fairy tale. You forget something; I've seen what's in you as well. And it isn't bright and shining and pure and good and noble." She softens again. "But it isn't all darkness either." She moves towards him, and his indrawn breath sounds almost like a hiss.

"Don't, Princess," he all but snarls. "Don't sanitize it, and don't make any pretty speeches about how it's okay to make mistakes and how the past doesn't matter."

"Of course the past matters," she snaps back. "My God, Schuldig, I don't even have one, remember? I know how much it matters."

"Then be smart about this," he demands, almost desperately. "Be reasonable!"

She smiles, gently. "You and I, we talk about choice. About you having all the choices, and I having none of them. But what you don't see is that the choices you have made make you who you are, for good or bad. I've made _no_ choices, none that I can remember, none that I can be proud of or regret. People can't make mistakes when they're trapped in an ivory tower, asleep. But that doesn't make them good, that only means they haven't lived." Kneeling before him, she takes his hands in hers and forces him to look at her. "The truth is I'm worse than you are. I've never been hurt or in need. I've never fought for anything. I've never been tested. You call me 'Princess' like it's a joke-"

"Princess-"

She stops him again before he can go further. "And the truth is, it is a joke. I'm nothing, Schuldig. I don't have a past. I don't even know my name. Everything I know about myself, you taught me. Every memory, every part of this world that makes any sense, you gave to me." She squeezes his hands tighter. "Don't you understand?" she asks. "You're not the undeserving one here. You're not the one who has nothing to offer."

"Don't say that, Princess..." He looks at her as if he is in pain, but he holds on to her hands just as tightly. "Don't even think it. You're so wrong it's not even funny." He glances around the room once more. "Someday you'll find your way out of this room, and you'll know how wrong you are."

She smiles, knowing she has won. "You told me I wouldn't even remember this if-when-I woke up," she reminds him. "So that's a pointless argument, isn't it?"

"You'll wake up," he assures her. "And you'll forget all of this. You'll forget me."

"Then what harm can it do to let me have this?" she presses. "Or for you to accept it?"

"Because, Princess," he answers, ruefully. "You'll forget. I won't."

The crepes were a huge success and the mystery of the missing roses solved. It seemed that the flowers involved heavily in the next plot of the drug pushers that Weiß Kreuz had routed that night.

"And when someone moved in to smell the flowers," revealed Yohji, "they'd get a lungful of the drug." He shook his head in disgust. "It amazes me how creative sick people can be."

"They'd mixed the drug with vegetable dye," explained Omi, "and then placed the roses' stems in the liquid so they'd absorb it. It's an old technique to dye flowers - that's why they needed white roses, they'd take the dye better. And this way the drug stays on the flowers longer."

"They were planning to hire high school kids to give away the flowers at the park," Ran continued. "A bunch of fresh-faced kids with flowers. Who would have suspected them?"

"Well, they'll think twice about attempting anything like that again," snorted Yohji. "Throwing them down those vats was a nice touch, Aya. It'll take a while for those hallucinogens to wear off. I wouldn't want their dreams tonight. Or their headaches tomorrow."

"Or their life sentences," grinned Ken.

She was proud that they had succeeded, proud that they had lived up to her ideal of them. And yet, for some reason, this particular report made her sad.

"Aya-chan," noted Ken-kun. "Why do you look so... disappointed?"

She smiled, wryly. "It's the roses," she explained. "When you told me about them, well, I suppose I was expecting something more... romantic. That we'd learn that the roses were part of some dramatic declaration of love, or something."

"I know," commiserated Yohji. "What a waste. You know how many women I could have sedu- Errr... _made happy_ with those flowers? We had to incinerate most of them, except those that are going to be used for evidence."

"Well, you'll just have to settle for being a hero instead of a lover tonight," teased Omi.

"Only if I get the girl," winked Yohji, as he reached for another helping.

"But our customers are going to be _so_ disappointed," Ken mourned again.

"Lesser evil, Ken," said Ran. "Better disappointed than drugged or dead."

"Besides," grinned Yohji. "I'll be there. They won't stay disappointed for long."

That statement started off a round of contradictions, insults and taunts.

She watched their commotion and thought again of how much she loved these men. Separately, together, these four young men embodied the best the species had to offer. They had become her world.

She loved the cadence of their speech, the rhythms of their movements. How perfectly they fit each other, like one of those interlocking photographs, individual objects that fit to create a larger whole. She delighted in the struggle and the conflict, the harmony and the balance. She loved to watch how they interacted, changed color, becoming contrast and complement, foil and accents of each other.

Tonight, she could describe them perfectly. Sometimes the relationships were far more complicated, denying description, but tonight the exchanges were crisp and patent.

Niichan and Yohji arguing: dry sarcasm and lazy wit.

Niichan and Ken's tentative small talk: stony stubbornness versus serene perseverance.

Niichan and Omi: staid solemnity and boundless exuberance.

Ken-kun and Yohji: cheerful wholesomeness and deadly charm.

Ken and Omi: determined responsibility and undeniable brilliance.

Omi and Yohji: unrelenting innocence and worldly wisdom.

It should have been chaos, but it wasn't. It was perfect. They were perfect. They were wonderful in themselves, as individuals. Together they were something else entirely. Something more.

It made her sad, sometimes. She recognized the bonds of their friendship, as real and as strong as any blood ties. Sometimes she felt as if she stood outside that circle, a guest, tolerated for Ran's sake. That, ultimately, she would always be alone.

But not tonight. Tonight she felt warm and loved, and very very lucky. Part of their magic. Part of their lives.

She frowns at the sky outside that has been dark for days.

She turns around and is alarmed when she sees his face- ashen, almost tortured.

She flashes back to that first time. Him lying on the ground, broken, in pain. "What happened?" she demands, worriedly. "Are you hurt?"

He shakes his head angrily. "I found out-" He cuts himself off in mid phrase. "You're Fujimiya Aya's sister," he says, harshly, almost accusingly.

She is confused, both by his anger and his words. She shakes her head. "No," she corrects him, the knowledge blooming suddenly inside her, clear and familiar. "_I'm_ Fujimiya Aya. And I don't have a sister."

He laughs, harshly. "Dammit, Princess."

"What's the matter?" she asks again. "What's wrong?" She moves closer to touch him.

"No! Stay away from me!" She has not seen him so anguished. "Fujimiya's sister..." the muttered words are almost an obscenity.

"Schuldig, I don't understand..."

He laughs again. "Of course not." He turns away, seeming to get control of himself. "I'm sorry, Princess."

She wrinkles her brow in confusion. "For what?"

"For..." He shakes his head and shifts the conversation. "I found out what happened to you."

"What?"

"You were in an accident.

She blinks. "That car," she breathes. She remembers it speeding towards her. "It hit me."

"Yes."

"But I'm not dead?" she clarifies.

"No. You've been in a coma for years. It's… it's quite amazing, really. The doctors say you don't show any sign of atrophy and your brain functions are normal.

The shock wears off quickly. "A car accident. I guess it's gonna take a lot more than a kiss to wake me up, then, huh?"

He laughs, harshly, and disappears.

Ken helped her wash the dishes. Ran thought it beneath him, Omi had an early class and Yohji never did any work he could charm his way out of. Not that she asked any of them. Despite the success of the mission she could see they were tired, and she'd done her best to shove them all off to bed. But Ken had insisted. "The least I can do," he'd grinned, patting his washboard-flat stomach. "I had three helpings."

They worked, in companionable silence, he washing and she drying - less broken plates that way. They were almost done when he coughed, suddenly, sounding sheepish. She recognized it as his way of starting a conversation on a touchy or potentially embarrassing subject. "Umm... Aya-chan…"

"Hmmm?"

"Are you alright?" he asked, sincerity evident in his voice. He sounded worried about her though she had no idea why. "I mean, really alright?"

She frowned slightly. "Of course, Ken-kun. I've never been better."

"Oh." He seemed at a loss to continue the conversation.

She gave him a curious look. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I'm... we.. we're all thrilled you're here. You're good for all of us, and Aya- Ran - he's never been happier. It means so much to him to have you back."

"But?" she prompted.

"But... errr... It seems, sometimes, that you're not quite as... happy to be here." He gave a helpless shrug. "Ay- Ran's worried about you."

She managed to hide a grin. "And you're worried about him."

"Well, yeah," he answered innocently, head bent to rinse the last of the dishes and blissfully unaware of her hidden smirk.

With her hands occupied by dishes, she couldn't touch him, so leaned on him, her temple on his shoulder. "I'm fine, Ken-kun," she said, softly. "I promise. I'm just... Just a little..."

"Sad?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Because of your parents?"

She smiled. "Partly."

"Aren't you having fun? With us, I mean?"

She looked at him in surprise. "Ken-kun," she protested. "I love being here. It's just..." She faltered, wondering how to explain. "It's just that there are things I haven't worked out yet. Things I'm still trying to deal with." She sighed. "But I'll be okay, I promise you."

He wrapped one wet hand around her waist and gave her a quick squeeze. "Well, just remember you have us, now. We're here if you need us."

She lifted her head to smile at him brilliantly. "I know."

It has been storming for days.

"You alright?" She turns from watching the lightning to see him standing there, arms crossed almost defensively over his chest.

She blinks, then looks pointedly at the room around them. "You might as well wonder that I'm still here," she says, a little sarcastically. "Of course, why shouldn't I be?"

An exaggerated shrug, an ill-tempered glower at the darkness outside. "I dunno, just thought I'd ask."

She laughs.

Another glower, this time directed at her. "You find everything amusing, don't you?"

"You're really worried, aren't you?" she grins. "That's so sweet."

For a moment the sun broke through the clouds, turning his hair to flames, then the darkness fell again, echoing his thunderous look. "You've been abducted," he tells her, bluntly.

"Huh?"

"Abducted, Aya," he repeats, with exaggerated patience. "Kidnapped, snatched, seized, absconded with -"

"What for?" she questions, sweetly, "Marriage to an evil sorcerer or virgin sacrifice?"

He does not smile. "Both," he answers, flatly.

"Ah," she nods, sagely. "The perils of being a princess. Have you come to rescue me then?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"I'm terribly disappointed," she replies, cheekily, turning to look back at the storm outside.

"Aya -"

Lightning whips outside, louder and more frenzied by the moment. A particularly near bolt hits the side of the window, throwing her backward.

"Aya!"

She finds herself in his arms, blinking. "My God, I felt that," she says, wonderingly.

His face is grim. "Listen, Princess, I'm not kidding."

"I see that."

"I'm sorry, Princess. This is my fault. I... I've put you in danger." His arms tighten around her. "But it's going to be alright, Princess. You're going to be alright." He carries her over to the chair. "Just sit tight, Princess. It'll be over soon."

"What do you mean?"

He looks at her, his eyes a curious mix of resignation and determination. "Listen, Princess. Trust me, alright? Don't worry, it'll be over soon." A steely look comes into his eyes. "Don't be afraid. You're going to be rescued." He brushes the hair out her eyes, his hand shaking. Then he turns, and starts walking away.

A chill steals into her heart and she springs after him. "No, Erik, wait!"

He stops and turns back to face her, stunned. "How -"

"I just do. I think I've always known. I know you better than you think."

"Princess..."

"Aya," she corrects, firmly. "You gave me back my name, remember?"

"And you've given me mine." A small smile hovers on his mouth. "Thank you, Princess," he says, giving her a courtly bow, as he did in those early days. And then he starts to turn away.

"No!" she shouts at him. "Don't go!"

"Don't you understand, Princess?' he asks, still turned away. "I'm one of _them. I did this to you."

"I don't care," she says, stubbornly. "Don't leave."

He takes another step away from her.

She flings herself at him. "No, Erik!"

He catches her easily, holding her away. "Goodbye, Aya," he says, fiercely, harshly.

Goodbye.

She panics at that, terror seizing her heart. He has never told her goodbye before. She has ordered him gone repeatedly, always confident that he would not obey. And he has disappeared, countless times, and countless times she has wondered if he would return. But he has never told her goodbye.

"No," she answers, just as fiercely. "You can't. You belong to me. Bound to me. If you do not return then I must go and find you. Like that Minstrel Queen, like Rapunzel, like the True Bride-"

He kisses her, stopping her babbling, and it is not sweet or chaste or even gentle. No prince's kiss - it is hard and harsh, fierce and hot and demanding. He holds her face captive, titling her mouth to meet the savage thrust of his tongue. She opens her mouth readily, welcoming him in, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. He ends the kiss with a harsh sound then pushes her roughly away. She stares at him, letting her feelings shine in her eyes.

"See, Princess?" he whispers hoarsely. "No magic here."

Suddenly there is a door, the door that she remembers stepping through when she first came into this room. He seems startled by it as well, then pulls it open and walks through.

"No!" Lightning flashes. Without thinking she stumbles after him, pushing against the wind, blinking against the brilliant light-

-streaming through the window. She blinks again, and suddenly, a face, very much like her own, peers back at her.

"Aya?"

What weird twist of the dream was this, she wonders. Was it her conscience, her Self, speaking to her in a different voice?

Around her noise, and the girl's excited voice chases away the fog in her brain, the memories of the dream. /Erik?/ She tries to hold on, to focus, but like all dreams they lost strength even as one tried vainly to hold on. Mist dewdrops dissolving, evaporating in the sun.

In the distance, the sky explodes.

The dishes were done, the kitchen cleaned, the doors and security systems set and checked. She wiped her hands and set aside her apron determinedly. She had avoided long enough.

Sometimes she envied them their nightmares. She has not dreamt since she woke.

Awake, she discovers that she is stronger than she has ever imagined, and that in spite of this, her heart is helpless against the betrayal of her mind.

To her heartbreak and horror, she has begun to forget.

She finds herself wondering why her brother's scowl seems different, and why the crimson of his hair seems much too dark, and why the sight of Yohji's smile and the tilt of his head makes her heart pound. She thinks, sometimes, that she is almost in love with Yohji, and cannot understand why the thought makes her feel like weeping. She watches, unseen, as Omi sits upon the fire escape, hugging too-thin and too-long legs and she imagines another youth, with the same promise but facing an entirely different future. And she looks at Ken, sunlit and smiling, and is appalled at the envy and outrage his very presence invokes. Sometimes she has to curl her fingers into fists, forcibly stilling the impulse to strike him, shake him, scream at him to get a clue.

Sometimes, she forgets for days at a time, and the sudden slap of memory leaves her weak and trembling. The details-the sound of his voice, the color of his eyes, his touch, his kiss - they are battles to be fought between heart and mind, one releasing, inevitably, relentlessly, the other holding on, screaming in outrage, in denial.

In the beginning, she believed. In the dream he'd kissed her, one angry petulant kiss, and she had woken up. In the beginning, she thought that proved it. She thought it meant... everything.

Surely, she had thought then, he had to be real. Surely she could not have dreamt up someone so... She had focused, trying to think of an appropriate word. So... sinful. Surely, her imagination could not have conjured up such a smile, such caustic wit. And to think her teachers had always considered her to be uncomplicated, unimaginative. Surely, not in a hundred years could she have created such a complicated mass of contradictions.

If she was going to make up someone, she'd thought, why not strong and silent, like Niichan? Solicitous and caring, like Ken-kun? Sweet and delightful, like Omi-kun? Or gentle and charming, like Yohji-kun? If she was going to dream, why not someone who made sense? Someone who would have loved her back?

She has waited, and prayed, and hoped, and searched.

*Endings are endings, Princess.*

In the mirror, she sees herself as crumbling, as shattering. She believes, with quiet acceptance, that she is going insane. Only the thought of Niichan's distress, after all he has already suffered for her sake, gives her the impetus to struggle, the strength to care. Ran needs her smiling and happy. He has done so much for her, plunging himself in a nightmare of his own, sacrificing himself for her sake. She owes him so much. But someday, she thinks, Niichan will look around and realize he is no longer alone in his dark forest. Someday he will realize that he is loved, and that all he has to do is reach out and he would be rescued. But that is his story.

Perhaps it is fitting that she has not dreamt since. If she dreams now, that is all they would be. Dreams. And dreams are not what she wants.

*Might as well ask for scarlet ribbons.*

She is found, she is safe.

*You'll be rescued, Princess. And everything will be alright.*

She never knew she could be so ungrateful.

She has Niichan and Yohji-kun and Ken-kun and Omi-kun and Mamoe-san and Sakura-chan.

She never knew she could be so greedy.

*Are you real?*

She never weeps. She never will.

Sometimes, she lies awake until the early hours of the morning, alert, on edge, waiting for that whisper in her mind, wishing desperately for it. Sometimes, increasingly these days, she does not.

Some part of her has begun, despite herself, to believe he had been merely a dream, after all, for what else is the life one lives asleep but a dream?

And dreams, after all, are only dreams. Sooner or later, one wakes up.

And she has.

"Thank you for helping me clean up, Ken-kun," she said. "I know you must be tired." The others were asleep already.

"My pleasure, Aya-chan," he grinned. "I love your cooking."

"Good night, Ken-kun," she said, kissing him on the cheek and then flitting up the stairs. "Sleeping Beauty needs her rest. Sweet dreams."

"Na, Aya-chan," he said, halting her just as she'd reached he top of the stairs. "I've always wondered. About that story. I mean, what did she dream about? All those years asleep?"

The pain hit her again, and it took all her strength not to let anything show on her face.

/Maybe they didn't want to be young and beautiful forever, Erik,/ she thought. /Maybe they didn't want to be safe./

/Maybe they wanted to be _alive._/

/Maybe they just didn't figure on spending ever after alone./

"What else, Ken-kun?" she answered, giving him a soft, wistful smile. "She dreamt of her prince."

Epilogue

She shoots up in bed, shaken out of her uneasy rest by a sound she has never heard before. It is loud, incessant, annoying. Her eyes widen as the sound registers - the security alarm installed to protect the building encasing Weiß Kreuz. Outside her window is a babble of voices.

"Omi! Check the perimeter again!" Niichan's voice, urgent, bordering on the hysterical. "Don't tell me there's nothing, there _has_ to be something!"

She swallows down the alarm that has seized her throat and jumps out of bed, snagging her robe and putting it on haphazardly as she speeds down the stairs. "Niichan! Niichan, are you alright?"

"Aya!" he thunders, his tone brooking no argument. "Stay in your room!"

She follows his voice, pounding on the connecting entrance to the flower shop. "Niichan! Yohji-kun! Omi-kun! Ken-kun! Minna, are you alright?"

The chorus of male voices stills her hand as it reaches for the door knob. "Aya-chan! Stay in the house!" The urgency in their voices makes her pause - if there is a battle inside, the last thing they will need is for her to get in the way.

"Dammit! Somebody explain this to me!" Yohji-kun, she recognizes, his voice a low growl.

"Schwarz." Ken-kun. Flat and certain, with a healthy amount of disgust.

"Schwarz is dead!"

"The security cameras didn't get anything." Niichan, angry and frustrated. "Tell me who else!"

"You think so, Aya-kun?" Omi-kun, bewildered and confused. "That doesn't make any sense."

"I checked them out, Aya," reports Ken. "These are clean. I have no idea where they came from but they're not the ones from the factory."

"Schwarz," Niichan growls.

"This stunt smells of them," agrees Ken, adding with a small chuckle, "No pun intended."

"But why?" Yohji wails.

"Maybe they wanted to let us know they were back in town."

She breathes a sigh of relief. Each voice is accounted for and none of them sound hurt.

She pushes open the door.

She gasps and they turn toward her in unison

"I told you to stay in the house!" Niichan roars.

She hardly hears him. Her strength falters and she buckles to her knees.

Ken is closest and reaches her first. "Aya-chan!" he demands, roughly. "Are you alright?" She fights him as he tries to help her stand, continuing to stare unbelievingly at the inside of the shop.

Roses, white roses everywhere. Dozens of them. Hundreds.

And on each perfect blossom, around each perfect stem, tied in intricate bows...

Ribbons.

Scarlet ribbons.

She puts her face in her hands and cries.

They cluster around her, making concerned and soothing noises.

"Aya-chan, please say something!"

"Aya-chan, what's wrong?"

Somewhere, she hears bells ringing, the front door to the shop opening. Angry exclamations as her brothers, her heroes, take to their feet to defend her against the darkness of her tomorrows.

*Princes, you realize, are terribly inconvenient creatures.*

She laughs.

And turns around.

And he is there.

"Hallo, Princess."

The End
Copyright Jessi Albano 2001
04 May 2001, 3:58:35 PM