Disclaimer: I don't own it, so please don't sue. All characters and gundam related materials are strictly the property of Sunrise/Sotsu Agency and Bandai Entertainment.
Author's Note: Just something I need to say before the story gets underway. If at any point you make an assumption, please keep it to yourself! I plan to do a lot of mind twisting (if I'm able) and I don't want you to spoil possibilities in reviews and such. If you're just dying to ask/know, contact me personally. Thanks. ~Ami
Cri de Coeur:
Prologue
If I could turn back time
I never would have thought
That I could lose you
Boy but now I know
If I could have one wish
I'll be the first to tell you
This is never what I wanted, no
I should've never let you go
- "I Should Have Never Let You Go" Bardot
The soft glow reflected in the long etched features of the young man's face. He yawned, stretched, and returned to the tedious clicking of computer keys that had long since blurred together. Though the clock blinked three a.m., Trowa Barton sat positioned behind his desk in Preventer headquarters, just as he always did when the circus made its occasional stop on the colony.
The usual flurry of activity of the office habitually dimmed at this hour, allowing a moment's peace and a chance to do some research privately. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the company of his comrades; there were often times he wished he could visit more frequently, to build upon their new, peace-oriented lives.
But now was a time when quiet solitude was needed. He wanted a time to think and sort out the misgivings and confusion cascading down around him.
The shadows stirred, dancing and retreating along the corners of the small room. Trowa pulled his hands over his tired face, feeling the rough stubble he'd shaved that morning return. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting images masquerade through the darkness.
Wisps of hair fell around him in a blonde curtain of silk. Then the curtain parted and he could see her, just as clearly as if she had been standing in front of him. But there were times, in a fleeting realm between dream and consciousness, when he would see her, only to have her fade like smoke on a gentle breeze. How many times had her image plagued his mind during the war? Even during the period when he could remember nothing, still he could see her nameless face and the tears glistening upon her cheek.
Trowa pried his lids open and forced them to focus on the static screen of the computer. There must be something, he convinced himself. There must be some salvageable scrap of information regarding…
His mind usually trailed at that point. In reality, he wasn't sure what he was searching for, and even less certain of the answers he was hoping to find.
Yet still, his fingers ran across the keys as if driven by some imaginary force. Perhaps it was the false sense of security that was always harbored within the bowels of his mind. Possibly emotions resided within his newly awakened heart that he had ignored and denied until now. For years he had tried to find a reason, or excuse rather, to why she still managed to haunt his mind.
The hours ticked on, time crawling slowly through a haze of memories he'd rather forget; people that died who should have lived, words spoken that should never have been said.
People that left that should have stayed.
He could never honestly admit, to others or himself, the excuse he had found. Already he knew, and it was because of that knowledge that he continued, night after night, since the dawn of peace, to look for her.
More that anything, Trowa wanted her forgiveness.
He should never have left.
It was his fault.
She had people she needed to protect.
It had taken him years to realize his mistake. The fact that she would put herself in danger to protect those she cared about. She had been doing the same as he during the war, and in both instances people had died for it.
Maybe they were the same after all.
The computer blipped silently. Trowa reluctantly pulled himself from the memories surrounding him, and slid back into grave reality.
The file opened was condensed and short, nothing more than a brief newspaper article dated April 5th, AC 195. But there she was. Her picture was out dated by four years at least, yet Trowa could not resist the urge to trace the outlines of her features. Hair fell around her shoulders in a pale accent to her skin. She wasn't smiling, but her eyes shone brilliant and defiantly.
She hadn't changed at all; Trowa could still find the girl he had left behind so long ago. She was beautiful, with soft dove eyes hidden by a few strands of hair, escaped from their hold behind her ear.
He sighed a moment, a brief sense of belonging and possession washing over him. He needed to see her, needed to touch her, needed to speak with her and needed to know that she was real. He was tired of living in a reality where he could never tell what was real and what was only an illusion played by an exhausted mind. He needed her more than anything, and at that moment, he realized…
He loved her.
Midii…
She had tried to tell him once, but he had been too enraged to understand and too deaf to hear. But now he knew and he prayed that she still felt the same.
Trowa looked back at the article, his gaze falling on the bold heading. For a moment, the room shifted. His voice caught, trapped within a swollen throat. His chest heaved, lungs burning. Trowa grasped the sides of the computer, knuckles and fingertips growing white. There had to be a mistake, this couldn't happen. Not now…not to her…
Trowa released his grip, unclenching his fingers before pulling them back into fists. He was trapped within the shackles of his own mind. His lids fell over tired eyes, allowing the darkness to penetrate through him. And just like all other times, he saw her fade in and out of focus. He wanted to reach out to her, but she vanished as if a ghost.
Trowa opened his eyes, pulling his Preventer jacket from the back of his chair. The familiar fabric felt like lead upon his shoulders. He reached down, running his fingers along the contours of her face, sitting there weakly, mind numb with shock. Finally, clenching his fist, he slammed it onto the desk. He stood quickly, not bothering to notice as the chair slid across the room and banged against the adjacent wall. His only bitter thought was that he would never have a chance to see her face again. He stalked out of the office, swinging the door closed so hard the walls shook.
In the dark room, the forgotten laptop glowed eerily, still showing the picture of a girl from the past, and a title that read:
Girl Found Dead, Investigators Suspect Suicide
The sound of gravel crunched beneath the wheels. He let the motor sputter to a stop, the heated metal of the motorcycle quickly beginning to cool. Dawn was creeping above the gray treetops, the pastels of morning blending into the French countryside. A brisk morning breeze whipped the deep green fabric of his jacket around the taunt muscles of his arms.
The small house, cradled within a set of gently rolling hills, stood silhouetted before him. Its front porch sagged a bit, shingles obviously loose and missing. A worn wooden swing swayed lightly in the breeze, the faint creak of un-oiled chains filtering upon the wind.
Trowa sighed, leaning back into the seat. Sleep nagged at his body, urging him desperately to drift into darkness. Already he had been deprived of a decent night's rest, but now, with the added 48 hours he had burdened himself with, his body was nearly void of any type of movement.
He let his lids fall over his eyes, parched with the lack of sleep and the restraint of emotions run wild. His mind was still in chaos, refusing to believe the undeniable truth his heart already knew. That's what had driven him here, to the only place he had left to go for answers. He had tried to conceive any way that the article could have been wrong. The entire journey from the colony to Earth had been filled with thoughts of falsified information and government conspiracies. Yet everything had passed inspection; there had even been a body discovered. As much as Trowa attempted to convince himself the opposite, he knew within him, that Midii Une was dead. But he never suspected he would travel to her own home.
The sun now fell on him, the light glinting off the metal of his bike. He could hear the bustle within the household, the clamor of a waking family.
He allowed himself to rub the dryness from his eyes before heading up the walkway. Flowers lined the sides, beautiful lilies bowing to the wind. The morning dewdrops clung to their white petals for a moment, before falling like tears to the ground.
The porch creaked lightly under his step, the well-worn wood grizzled with age. Trowa took a deep breath, ignoring the increasing pressure pounding against his chest.
He knocked on the paint-chipped, moss colored door, hearing the scuffle of footsteps and the frenzied rush to answer.
The door flew open, and Trowa stared down into the curious face of a young boy. His eyes were silver-gray, hidden behind strands of wild blond locks. The boy's shirt buttons were in disarray, and he wore only one shoe. Trowa forced a smile, genuflecting down to his level. "Excuse me, is this the Une residence?" he asked, ruffling his already tousled hair. The boy nodded, sucking on his fingers. Trowa couldn't help but be jealous of the boy's innocence. "Is your father home?" As if on cue, a tall man appeared behind the small boy.
"Jean, what are you doing near the door?" he asked, a fatherly sternness in his voice. He looked at the boy from beneath a scorn, before grinning and bending to correctly button the child's shirt. "You know never to open the door to strangers. Ever."
Shirt straightened, he scooted the child back into the house before turning to the Preventer now standing in his doorway. "Is there someway I can help you sir?" he asked, attempting to mask the instability in his voice. Trowa's eyes hardened. The man was a few inches shorter then himself, though still near a good six feet. His aged gray eyes shone, framed by wisps of brown hair streaked with stripes of silver.
"Are you Mr. Une?" Trowa inquired, noting three young boys gathering behind the man. The youngest, Jean, latched himself onto his father's leg.
"I am." His voice quavered a bit, fluctuating between pitches. "What can I help you with?"
He was scared; every inch of the man showed it. His rigid jaw line, the way his pupils dilated, the way he clung desperately to the child fixed to his leg.
Trowa inhaled deeply, a bit of the pressure releasing from his chest. "Sir, my name is Trowa Barton. I work with Preventer. I'd…I'd like to talk to you about Midii."
A sharp breath escaped the man, his hands forming into fists. His eyes snapped shut, restraining the tears attempting to run down his paling cheeks. When he opened them again, fire was born in their depths.
"You…you're another one of those monsters aren't you?" he stammered, ushering the boys into the house and out of sight. "You're one of those men that killed my daughter!"
Trowa leaned back as the man took a few threatening steps toward him. "It's all your fault! All your fault!" he shouted, jabbing his index finger into Trowa's chest. Trowa winced inwardly. All your fault.
"Mr. Une please," Trowa stressed, gripping the infuriated father's shoulders tightly. "What men are you talking about? Who killed Midii?"
Mr. Une's eyes glazed over, tears collecting in the bottom of his eyes. His lips moved wordlessly, as he stared into space. Trowa shook him a bit. "Please sir…"
Mr. Une clasped his fingers around the canvas of Trowa's jacket, desperate for support. His body ricocheted with tears. "She shouldn't have had to die. She was too young, too pure to die…" Trowa eased him from his shoulder to look at him directly.
"Mr. Une, what happened?"
Mr. Une wiped his face with the back of his hand. He took a deep, trembling breath. "Won't you come inside? I was just about to take the boys to school, but I believe this is much more important." Trowa nodded, and followed him through the slumped doorframe.
The house was cluttered with bits of memorabilia. Trowa let his eyes fall gently on the cracked frames of schoolboy pictures and birthday parties. On the mantle above the fireplace hung a hunting rifle, looking as if it had never been used but placed specifically for display. There was a wingback chair situated directly in front of the fireplace, a tattered afghan draped across its back. Mr. Une slumped into the chair, massaging his forehead lightly. He sighed heavily and motioned for Trowa to take a seat on the worn, plaid couch.
"I'm sorry for my outburst," he began, staring at the Preventer through tear-muddled vision. "But you have to understand what it's like to see a strange, uniformed man at the door, asking about your daughter after all that has happened. It's been years since Midii's death. Why are your, or rather, why is Preventer, bothering to find information about her now?"
Trowa's eyes continued to scan the living area, desperately trying to find some hint of the life Midii had left behind. But though he found undusted corners, half eaten bowls of cereal and a missing shoe, he found no traces that she had even existed.
"You don't have any pictures of her," Trowa noted, finally stopping his search to gaze at her father.
Mr. Une sat a bit straighter, tilting his head at an angle so he could see the Preventer only out of the corner of his eye. "Of course not, but that doesn't mean they don't exist." He shuffled anxiously. "Would you like to have such innocent, smiling eyes bore into you everyday? The last thing our family needs right now is to be reminded of how much we had to sacrifice just to be left alone." He sighed, running his fingers erratically through his thinning hair. "Besides," he continued softly. "Nicolas has them all hidden somewhere in his room."
Trowa blinked slowly, trying to fend off the sleep that dragged on his body. "Nicolas, why would he have them?" His speech was drawled, letting the sleep weasel its way into his voice.
Mr. Une wrung his hands. "After, after Midii's death I think he was the one who was most affected. Our family was changed dramatically, as I'm sure you can imagine." Trowa nodded for him to continue, saying nothing as his lids slowly began to droop and his mind began to stray. "My wife, Madeline, left shortly after Jean was born. He was always sickly when he was young, and it was difficult for me to take proper care of him. Midii, Hans and Nicolas were still young, and I could barely make enough money to support three healthy children, let alone a sick one. But Midii," he paused, choking on his words. "Midii became the boys' mother. She took care of them, helped them with homework and made sure they got to school on time. If it hadn't been for her, this family would have fallen apart from the beginning."
Trowa closed his eyes completely. "But sir, why does Nicolas have all pictures of Midii hidden away?"
"Nicolas was only eleven when Midii died. Jean was too young to really remember anything, five I believe, and Hans was fourteen. Naturally Hans attempted to take up Midii's role as supporter of the family. He's been hurt, but he doesn't allow himself to show it. Jean has hardly spoken since her death. You saw how innocent he is, even though he's now already seven."
Mr. Une leaned back in the chair. Lines of pain began to carve their way into his already wrinkling face. His fingers trembled slightly, before he grasped the edges of the chair.
"Nicolas was always Midii's favorite. They were inseparable and did everything together. So obviously when those men murdered my daughter, Nicolas completely broke down. Every picture of Midii is stored in his room, because he refuses to believe that she's dead. He wouldn't go to her funeral and never goes with us when we pay our respects to her grave."
Trowa nodded with sympathetic understanding. He wished he could be like Nicolas and cling to the thought of Midii still alive, but that hope came and faded with a child's innocence, something he no longer possessed.
"You accused me of being one of the men that killed your daughter," he said, opening his eyes only a slit in order to see the man reaction.
"Indeed," he sighed. "Men were always coming to take my daughter away." He reached for a tissue and blew his nose. "She hated them; they always smelled like blood. She'd kick and scream; and yet, she could never betray them because we, her family, were their hostages. There were times when she would fight back so hard that they would beat her, abuse her. They'd throw her against walls, hit her with the butts of their rifles, and worst of all," he shuddered, digging his nails into the chair fabric. "When she got older, they would rape her. She would come home, bruised and sore, fall into bed and not move for days. Those were the times we thought they had finally broken her spirit." He sat straight again, blinking back tears. "But when they came back, she'd start to fend them off just as always, and the deadly cycle would begin again. Those men hated my daughter with every corrupted fiber their bodies possessed. She was the best, but that didn't stop them from loathing her."
"And yet all the reports state that Midii killed herself. How can so many reports be wrong?"
Mr. Une began to massage his shoulder. "There's no doubt in my mind that those men forced her to pull the trigger on herself. To her it must have been just another act of defiance against them." There was a large crash behind, and Trowa spun around as his hand flew to his holster in an automatic response. Mr. Une stood abruptly.
"Nicolas, what is the meaning of this?!"
Nicolas' eyes were wide, his cereal bowl lying shattered at his feet. Milk seeped into the wood, the morning marshmallows melting into the grain. His fingers shook for a minute before he lunged at the Preventer.
Trowa's hand left his gun just in time to block his face from the ravage blows of the distressed thirteen year old. "She's not dead you bastard!" he screamed, swinging wildly. "Midii would never kill herself! Midii would never let herself be killed!"
Swiftly Trowa grabbed the boy's arm, twisting it behind his back and pinning him to the floor with his knee. Nicolas began to thrash violently, his sobs and tears muffled by the carpeting. "Midii promised to come home; she always promised to come home!" Trowa eased off his back slightly, making it easier for him to breathe.
Nicolas shoved his way out from underneath Trowa's weight. He wiped the back of his hand across his reddening eyes. A ruby flush had already spread across his face, small blotches now appearing beneath his skin. He didn't cry well, and the oncoming tears weren't helping. "It's all your fault she hasn't been able to come home yet. It's all your fault she had to leave home in the first place!" He made another lunge, but Hans caught him from behind just as he sprinted from the kitchen to observe the commotion.
Trowa leaned in closely to the enraged brother, his face wrought with sleep deprivation but his eyes flaring. "Whatever makes you think that I'm the one responsible for your sister's disappearance? I've been trying to find her, not kill her. And besides," he added standing to straighten the tightening muscles of his back. "I only met your sister once. I came to ask for her forgiveness. So far all I've gotten is her families reprimands.
Hans let Nicolas' hands free, and Nicolas let them fall limply to his sides. His gaze was distant and glassy. "Only once," he mumbled, the words slurring together slightly as the tears rolled past his chin.
Trowa nodded, swaying back toward the couch. "Only once," he repeated. "That was seven years ago, when we were ten. I found her in the woods and took her back to our rebel camp."
Nicolas snapped out of his daze, staring intently at the man sitting on his couch. "Then-then you were that boy-" Trowa looked up into the boy's face, stopping abruptly. "The boy that Midii told us about."
"Nicolas, what are you talking about?" Hans snapped, picking Jean up from the floor as he attempted to eat the disintegrating cereal Nicolas had dropped.
Nicolas spun, tears subsiding. "You remember! She said once that she'd met some boy and broke the rules to let him live. She said she'd probably have to pay for it later, but that she didn't care if he was still alive."
Hans made a disgusted face, plopping onto the couch with Jean in his lap. "I don't-"
"You have to remember!" Nicolas shouted, stomping his foot and stopping his brother mid-sentence. "It was the night before Midii left and, and never came back home. She said she didn't want to be a spy anymore because she didn't want to hurt anyone like that again!"
"Nicolas!" Mr. Une snapped, collapsing back into the chair. "Stop this idealistic drivel. I'm sure that Mr. Barton has enough to worry about, besides your impractical conclusions. Now not another word!" Nicolas' bottom lip began to quiver.
"I don't give a damn what you think! You're just a washed up, shriveled up old fogey who doesn't even care if his own daughter comes home or not!" he spat, sprinting toward the stairs and his room. "Midii isn't dead, and that man there was someone from one of her missions!" The walls shook as he slammed the door, a picture of the remaining family plummeting to the floor.
"You'll have to excuse his behavior," Mr. Une uttered, picking up the picture that had fallen from the wall and the shards of glass from the frame. "He gets so hysterical sometimes." His voice was monotonous, but his fingers shook erratically. His son's words had pierced him deeply. Mr. Une shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Nicolas will never understand," he whispered silently, though Trowa heard every word. "Moi petite ange…I never meant to let you go…"
Trowa nodded, forcing the muttered conversation to the back of his mind. He looked Mr. Une straight in the eye. "But you know, he's right," he began. "I was that boy."
The picture slid from his fingers, the glass scattering around his feat. "Nan…ashi?" he whispered, ignoring the cuts on his calloused fingers.
"Yes, but I've found a name since then. I was hoping to find Midii, and finally make amends, but-"
"But she's no longer here." Mr. Une grabbed the broom and dustpan from out of the closet, sweeping up the remains. He stood, shoving the garbage into the trashcan. "Yet I suppose you'll still want to see her grave all the same?"
"If it wouldn't be too much of a burden."
Mr. Une trudged slowly over toward the cabinet, wrapping the white, gauzy bandages around his bleeding fingers. Instantly the crimson liquid began to soak slowly into the fabric. He pulled his heavy overcoat from the closet, flinging it over his arthritic shoulders.
"Hans, watch over the house until I return." Hans nodded solemnly.
"But, Sir," he coughed quietly. "School?"
"Ah yes, I suppose that's impossible now. I'll be using the car to drive Mr. Barton to the cemetery. However-"
"Sir," Trowa interrupted. "We could always use my own bike if you prefer. Hans could then take the others to school."
Mr. Une blinked, nodded and headed for the door. "Whichever. But Hans, let your brother stay home." He pointed, finger shaking, toward the stairs. Nicolas' exasperated and furious sobs could be heard through the bedrooms floorboards. "I don't exactly want him to go out, worked up like that; there's no telling the amount of trouble he could, and undoubtedly would, get himself into."
Hans' face contorted, wrinkles forming along the bridge of his nose. "Honestly, Father. You mollycoddle him too much. He needs to learn how to grow up and face things like a man. Midii's been dead for nearly two, almost two and a half years now. You don't see Jean crying, and he's six years younger than Nick! If I were you-"
"That's enough!" Mr. Une shouted. Jean dashed from his brother's arms to cower behind the large chair. "When you have your own children, then you can decide to do what you will with them. As the present situation stands, I've told you to get ready for school! Now get!" His voice became more heated as he talked, his temples beginning to throb.
Hans scuffed the toe of his shoe against the wood, the tips of his ears flashing pink under the mop of disorderly brown tresses. "Yes, Sir." His last word was a bit acidic, but he made no other motion of disobedience.
As Trowa made his way down the walk, he heard a muffled protest from inside the house. "Honestly, Jean! Where has your other shoe gone to?!" Trowa smiled gently, despite the circumstances. He felt a pang of regret, of never having a true family while he grew up. He closed his eyes, lifting his face to let the sun brush against his features. For once, the warmth seemed to reach him.
"Check behind the curtain to the left of the fireplace," he shouted up the walkway. There was a muffled squeal as Mr. Une shut the door and made his way down the creaking steps.
"Well now," he said, dwelling on each syllable. "Shall we be off?"
A lazy haze mingled among the numerous stones dotting the countryside, and dark, unsettling mist circulated between the large oak trees. Trowa was forced to continually watch his step as he followed Mr. Une through the cemetery, cautious of the protruding, gnarled roots that over the years had managed to snake their wind-chapped fingers around the moss-blanketed headstones.
The cemetery itself had been somewhat forsaken in the years of peace. Though following the After Colony and Eve wars, it's perimeters had expanded greatly, time had worn away most of the grief and instead left in its place an unnatural yet unmistakable silence. Trowa strained his ears for hope of some mourning, a hint of some other scarred soul floating among the graves. But he was met with merely the wind sweeping through the trees, and the heavy footfalls of the man in front of him.
Trowa winced slightly, walking through the uniformed lines and imagining the soldiers lying buried beneath them. But not all of them were soldiers, he reminded himself avidly, letting his fingers graze the peeling, carved bark of an old tree. Midii, no, she was never a soldier. Not really anyway.
He came to an abrupt halt. Mr. Une stood before him, shaking slightly underneath his coat though the sun was shining in bright beams between the trees thick branches. He turned, the tears swelling and threatening to escape the corners of his wrinkled eyes. "This is the first time," he wheezed, gesturing to the stone behind him. "This is the first time that I've come without flowers." The tears were now following the channels carved into his skin over the years. Mr. Une strained an artificial smile. "I will be waiting near the entrance," he coughed, pulling a handkerchief from inside his sleeve. "I don't suspect that you need me any longer?" With that, he strode, rather unsteadily, toward the rusted, paint-chipped iron gates in the distance.
Trowa turned back toward the gravestone. Wilted flowers hung limply over it's crest, white lilies mixed with a single red rose. The colors, that would have once shone brightly against the graying, ageing stone, now merged perfectly with the disheartening atmosphere.
Trowa kneeled, feeling the moistness from the ground soak into the pant fabric. "Miss Midii Une," he read out loud, his eyes following the curve of each word. "Born May 17th, AC 180. Died April 5th, AC 195." He let his fingers clench lightly. "One day," he muttered to the wind. "One day before the start of Operation Meteor." Images flashed inside his mind, of how he had disguised himself as a shooting star in his escape from the colonies to Earth. He twisted, sitting on a large lump of grass and ignoring the dampness it caused. "But I guess that's all that anything truly is," he mumbled regretfully, leaning forward. "Things happen so quickly. In an instant everything can change. You and I both know that first hand…don't we Midii?" He let the question hang, as if expecting an answer.
He ran his fingers through his bangs, brushing them from his eyes. "But I never would have thought that things could have happened so rapidly and shot in this direction." He gazed back at the stone, continuing his conversation as if someone were honestly listening. "If I would have known then…if I could have guessed the outcome of my…actions…I never…"
Again he let the sentence drop. There was an awkward pause as Trowa gazed into the sunlight beams dancing along the grass, mulling through the things he wanted to say. There were so many, he didn't know where to begin.
"You were one of the few people who saw me as human," he began again after a moment. "I never understood you, not back then. I never understood why someone like you would ever bother with someone like me. All I ever brought was trouble." He let a half-hearted grin brush across his face. "You remember that time the riot broke out? Sergeant Miles was convinced that I had been the reason his suit malfunctioned during the raid. Gave me a good beating until you stepped in, swearing that I hadn't been anywhere near his damned suit." His grin vanished. "You were always protecting me, even though I never knew or appreciated it. You were weaker than me…I was the one who was supposed to protect you…"
Clouds drifted over the sun, darkening the area under the trees shade. "But in reality," he whispered, his fingers once more entangled in his hair. "I could never protect you from yourself could I? You were just like me. You retreated to your silence and refused to let anyone in; tried to shut down your own heart and banish your feelings to a place where you could no longer be hurt…no longer feel pain." Trowa's fingers were shaking.
"You didn't deserve that kind of punishment. I should have seen it then. I had chosen the life of a soldier of my own free will, and yet you never had the chance. Oh, Midii…you never should have had to die…you never should have had to leave…" Trowa's arms were shaking now despite the warm, beginning-of-spring temperature.
Trowa took a deep breath. Emotions he himself had attempted to banish came flooding back into him. Envy, jealousy, love, hate sorrow…all came cascading down upon him in a chilling rush. But he wasn't finished. No, he had to get everything out now, or else all would be lost.
"Back then, on that day, I convinced myself that it would be the last time I ever saw you. But your face continued to haunt me. Every time I shut my eyes I could picture you there and I could count every tear on your face. I hated you, loathed you, despised you. I was disgusted at what you had made me become…because I wasn't a soldier anymore, not like I was before."
Trowa stood, his entire body quivering slightly in the shadows. "I was human after you came into my life. Yet I didn't know what was happening to me, I didn't know how to control what was going on inside me. It infuriated me, to know that it was you that had caused me to lose control over myself. When I said goodbye to you, it hurt me, but I just ignored the pain and indulged myself in the anger. After awhile the ache went away…but it never vanished. I began to shut down my heart again, and when I did that…I forgot all the things you had tried to teach me."
Trowa took a deep breath, calming the tempest raging within him. "I said goodbye to you once Midii," he sighed breathlessly. "But now I realize, that was never what I really meant to say at all." There was a silence, and Trowa could almost feel the emotions as if they were a tangible thing.
"Then what did you mean to say?" came and oddly choked voice. Trowa turned, staring at Nicolas for a moment before looking back in from of him.
"It's not polite to listen to other peoples conversations," he muttered, scowling at the dirt. He faced Nicolas again. "Even if they are carried on with only one person."
Nicolas blinked absently and sat down next to the Preventer's feet. "You're not at all like my father," he began in a distant tone. "Father would never understand what it's like to try and talk to her and not have her talk back to you at all." He looked up at Trowa, locking stares for a moment before shifting uneasily. "Father claims that I've never been here before, that I haven't ever come and…paid my respects. But that's nothing but a lie." His eyes became a bit moist, but they shone with the same defiance, Trowa remembered vividly, that were once in Midii's eyes as well. "I come here nearly every day, just hoping that it's all a dream, that one day I'll wake up and hear Midii's voice calling me down to breakfast."
He stood and motioned toward the shriveled rose. Though the petal's edges were crisp and on the verge of falling, they clung together tightly, withstanding the gentle passing breezes. "Midii always said that she hated lilies, they were too white. So the day…the day father took Hans and Jean to the funeral, I waited until every was gone. They had put beautiful white flowers everywhere. I was disgusted at how little they really knew about my sister." He lifted the dying rose, thrust a thorn into his thumb and let the blood ooze down his wrist. "I was the only one to throw red roses. They represented her so much better. She was beautiful, everyone knew that, but everyone stayed away, afraid of her thorns. I say that they're all a pack of morons. I wasn't afraid of any damn thorns." He threw the flower aside, and pulling from his own jacket, placed a fresh rose among the other wilting plants.
He looked at Trowa with a deep satisfaction. "And I have a feeling that you weren't afraid of her thorns either, where you?" Trowa leaned against the tree, his face blank.
"No, I wasn't." Nicolas nodded and reached inside his pocket again. This time he pulled out something metal that glinted in the filtered rays of sunlight. He caressed it a minute between his index finger and un-bleeding thumb before spinning and thrusting it into Trowa's chest.
"Midii salvaged this the night you left," he said, dropping the mended crucifix and chain into Trowa's palm. Trowa looked at if for a moment, noting were the two broken shards had been welded back together.
"Why are you giving this to me?" he asked after a slight pause. Nicolas shrugged.
"That's the way Midii would have it. I don't know why, but I guess it would be her way of saying thanks." Trowa unfastened the clasp and hooked the necklace around his neck. He gazed at it for a brief moment.
"Thank me for what?" he asked, zipping his jacket to hide the cross beneath the fabric. Nicolas grinned and let out a genuine chuckle.
"For a Preventer and former gundam pilot you sure are dense. No one understood Midii better than me, but I can say that if you were crazy enough to come here hoping for answers, than you must have understood her pretty well yourself. I'm pretty sure that you'll be able to figure it out." He dug his toe into the dirt before spinning on his heel and heading off toward the gate at a brisk pace.
"Midii's still alive; I think you have that gut feeling too," he shouted over his shoulder. "Midii might have hated being a spy, but you have to admit that she was good at what she did. Nothing was ever half-assed and she always had an escape planned. You were the only one to ever get her cornered." He stopped for a moment, turned around and hollered just load enough so that Trowa could hear him clearly. "After the incident with you, she told me she had figured out an escape that would finally allow her to be free. I've never told anyone else about this, but I highly doubt Mr. Barton, that with the amount of excitement she had that night, that she was planning to kill herself. The gleam in her eyes told me that something was hatching inside of her head. I've tried for years to figure out what she was talking about…maybe you'll have better luck remembering the way she thinks!" With that, he ran off toward a rather disgruntled looking father.
Trowa stood for a minute, the gears turning inside his mind. The way she thought? Escape? He new from personal experience that many looked upon death as an escape and way to become free from the pain and cruelty of reality. Half of him remained resolute that Midii had died, and that these where merely the words of a despairing family member, desperate for some hope to cling to. Yet something stirred within him. The Midii he had known had still been young, but her skills where undeniable.
Trowa let his fingers feel the outline of the cross beneath his jacket. He cast one last look upon the grave. No, Nicolas had simply been spewing the false hope that he had harbored for so long. Midii was dead, betrayed by her own immeasurable skills.
Trowa took a deep breath, letting images of the past fade to the back of his mind. As he let the captured air out from his lungs, he forced the emotional torrent to quickly subside and pushed those too, into the depths of his soul.
Trowa's face was blank from any hint of feeling. He was foolish to believe he could have become…normal. He was a soldier, no matter if it where during war or peace. Emotions simply made you weak, he thought decisively. Weakness meant death. Midii had simply showed her emotions, and died for them.