Author's Notes
DISCLAIMER:
Claymore, in its entirety, belongs to Norihiro Yagi
Everything I did with the characters of Claymore belongs to me
What is this going to be?
The Organization had fallen a very long time before. Ever since the remaining warriors had fought to keep the continent they lived on at peace. Now, more than eighty years after the Organization's downfall, only a few warriors are left. One of them, Tabitha, decided to write down her memoirs.
The clouds where hanging in the skies heavily, as if they were about to fall onto the earth in their entirety. It was a typical sight around that time of the year to the most people – it was fall, after all. Still, there were people who connected the sight to behold, the sky gave at that moment, to another event in the past. Two of them, to be precise.
One of them had just finished writing down a story of the time as she still was young. She put the feather she had used to write aside, waited for the words she had written to dry and then carefully put the paper they were written on into a leather wrapper that already contained countless stories like that one. She put the wrapper into the only lockable drawer of her desk. Besides a few old letters, maps, a few decorations and a photo album there was nothing else in it.
The latter was one of the greatest treasures she had. After photography was invented, photographing had become one of her greatest hobbies. She snapped nearly everything: flowers, sunsets, rainbows, animals (even though they rarely waited long enough to be properly exposed), landscapes and suchlike. What she enjoyed photographing the most, though, were her fellow warriors.
As she beheld the album that for a long time had gotten no additions, she gently let the fingers of her left hand fondle it. A whole lot of memories suddenly filled her mind. Some happy, some sad, some exciting, some frightening but still a faint smile appeared on her face. She took it out of the drawer, closed and locked the latter and sat down in a dark brown leather armchair that was placed in front of her room's chimney.
For a single person's study the room surely was spacy. The moment one entered it through its heavy, creaky door that was made out of a cherry trees wood, a three meters high, nearly squarish room of about thirty square meters unfolded before him. Finest parquet of a pattern so complex that one would think it was irregular formed the floor, all four walls were covered with big, planar wooden pieces out of pine wood up to two thirds of their height, having their upper third painted in a dark orange tone, the wall at the opposite of the door made the room bright at nearly every time of the day due to the two windows of lordly build, and the old chimney in the middle of the wall left to the entrance always gave the room a comfortable warmth – physically as well as emotionally.
All in all the room emitted a dark warmth due to all the earth-colored fitments inside of it, despite being bright nearly all day. A lot of portraits its inhabitant had made herself were seaming the right wall as well the wall the entrance was in. In front of the right window there stood the desk that its owner spent the most of her time at. Papers, ink bottles, feathers, pencils and rubbers lay all over it.
Right of the right window there was a glass cabinet, containing a broadsword of a good meter's length. A symbol was engraved in it, a symbol, that – long before – was the only thing that represented the name of the one bearing it. That sword's symbol consisted of three vertical lines, the one in the middle being about twice as long as the other two, who were crossed in the middle by a horizontal line.
In between the two windows there was an old grandfather clock, about the age of its owner – nearly 110 years. Four small and eight heavy gongs of said clock told the resident of the room that it was teatime. She arose out of her armchair and, giving it one last gentle stroke, put the album she had just taken out of its drawer back to not miss the tea with her oldest friend.
As she entered the room she and her old friend always drank their eight o'clock tea together, she found her friend already sitting at the small, round table in the middle of it. A dude of butler stood close to the tea-cart, resting his left hand on its handle and having a cloth rest on his right arm.
"Welcome, Lady Tabitha. General Miria is already awaiting you. Please take your seat," the butler formally welcomed Tabitha, slightly bowing down.
Miria, who sat next to where the butler, an old man of high grandeur was standing, gently put her left hand on the butlers right arm, and, directing her gaze towards him, softly said: "How often do I have to tell you, Jacob? I am no longer part of the military. Just 'Lady Miria' is fine."
Jacob bowed down again to apologize, but added: "I think a person should not only be honored or contemned for what she is doing but also for what she was doing, General Miria."
Miria had to smile at that. Letting out a faint but audible snicker she asked him: "There is no way to change you, is there?"
"I fear there is not, General Miria," he honestly replied.
Tabitha then, smiling, too, sat herself down on the archaic appearing chair, similar to the one Miria sat on, at the opposite of the table. For a long time it was that hour of the week that had brought her the most delighting moments. Together with her former Captain and General she always used to talk about the past and the rumors regarding their comrades who were still alive. In general, their talks never were very different from the topics older people have nowadays, despite the fact that the both of them had led a live filled with blood, forgo and pain.
After the both of them had smiled at each other for a few moments, Tabitha directed her gaze towards Jacob, who, ready to take any order, waited for one of "his Ladies" to speak up, and asked him: "What have you prepared for today, my dear Jacob?"
That was everything he had waited for: serving Lady Miria and Lady Tabitha had been everything he had lived for for nearly forty years. During that time he had learned very quickly all his Ladies preferences and dislikes, as well as traits and quirks. Since it was the third October, he, of course, had simply prepared a mere fruit tea as well as Donauwelle, a chocolate-covered cake with vanilla pudding and sour cherries.
After he had served both of the former warriors, he plainly asked if he could be of any further service. Miria then just told him that he might go to his room for then but that he had to be prepared for further wishes of her and Tabitha. He simply bowed and left the room, leaving the tea cart behind, knowing, that his Ladies would help themselves, if necessary.
Putting just a single sugar cube into her tea, like a friend of them always had done it, Tabitha, without stirring her tea, took the first, careful sip of it. So did Miria. Both of them didn't like the aroma of fruit tea that much but it was a special day, after all.
After enjoying a piece of her Donauwelle, Tabitha asked her former Major: "Why is it, that she never stirred her tea after putting sugar in it?"
Miria was about to taste her piece of cake, too, but had to put down the dessert fork it was on for a bit. She slightly smiled and, having a bit of a sad look, she asked, while looking onto the table: "You've been asking that question for more than seventy years now. And For more than seventy years I've constantly been answering you. Why is it, that you want to hear that answer every year anew?"
While gently squashing the second piece of Donauwelle with her tongue, Tabitha had to think about that question herself. After spreading the sour as well as sweet taste of the cake throughout her mouth, she came to the conclusion that she had forgotten the answer to that question a long time ago. So she just told Miria that she liked to hear the reason.
"Well then," the latter began her explanation, after taking another sip of her tea, "she never was a friend of tea. She always found that it was too bitter. She didn't like sweet things, either, so just pouring sugar into the tea also was no way to make her like it. Then, however, her foster-daughter made tea for her, knowing already, that her foster-mother didn't like tea because of its bitterness. She chose a fruit tea and even poured sugar into it. However, she forgot to stir it. And the rest is history."
Tabitha took another sip of her own tea. She remembered that evening as well as if she had been there herself. It was the twenty-eighth of September, the evening before Clarice went on a mission without Miata for the first time, 'and the last time,' she mused touched. She remembered that Miata also had tried to bake Clarice's favorite cake, Donauwelle. It didn't resemble it much, however.
She was torn out of her thoughts by Miria, who asked her: "Have you ever written about them?"
With that question Tabitha's smile vanished and her face's look turned honest. She rose her gaze to meet Miria's and, with a low voice, said: "Whenever it is the third of October, I think about it. But whenever I think about what exactly happened, I fret. I feel uneasy about writing that down."
Silence. The both of them ate, suddenly dully, their pieces of cake. They remembered very well what had happened more than seventy years ago. And even though that topic came up every third of October, none of them was really able to talk about it openly.
Still, it was part of their history – an important part at that. Taking the last sip of her tea, Tabitha suddenly declared: "It has been seventy-five years now. Maybe you are right. They must not be forgotten. Their story has to be told."
With that she arose, half an hour too early, and directed her steps towards the door. As she touched its knob, she paused, to ask Miria: "Are you free this evening?"
"Yes," her former Captain stated.
"Please come to my study afterwards. And please ask Jacob to bring us Gin. It is going to be a long night."
That being said Tabitha left the room, leaving Miria behind. 'It has been a long time,' she mused, 'since she invited me on a drink. It is going to be an interesting night, I assume.'
Taking the little bell from the tea chart she rung it to call for her loyal butler, Jacob.