Hey everyone. This is the prologue to a fairly long fic about Lady Une's origins. If people really like it I may expand it to include the events of the TV series and EW, but we'll see. I apologize in advance for any spelling errors. I've checked this over several times, but my computer freezes whenever I try to run the spell checker.
Colony L2C248
AC 173
On New Year's day the sun rose in a burst of fiberoptic glory. The colony's habitation engineers had really outdone themselves, painstakingly setting the system's perameters so that at precisely six thirty-two A.M., the sky began to glow with a rich assortment of hues ranging from palest pink to flaming orange. Those citizens who were neither too sleepy nor too hung over to be oblivious to the phenomenon watched in delight as the artificial sun increased at their false horizon until it's surprisingly realistic glow bathed the entire colony.
Mathew Une watched the event from a small window in the upper story of his mother's somewhat rundown cottage. He was torn between disgust and appreciation as his eyes took in the spectacular display. It was certainly beautiful, but those who had worked late into the night to orchestrate such an unusually vivid sunrise ought to have been at home, savoring the start of another year with the ones they loved. A sour smile tugged at the corners of his mouth in response to his uncharacteristically conservative thoughts. Raising a hand to the glass he traced a lazy spiral pattern in the film of condensation his breath had left on the pane. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he considered the irony of his reaction. For he himself had spent the majority of the past ten years away from his family, moving from place to place on Earth and among the colonies in his attempt to aid the rapidly growing resistance movement. In fact, this was the first Christmas in a decade he had spent with his wife, and the holiday marked only the second time in twelve months that he had been able to spare time from his duties to visit her. The only other time had been in March, and that was when all the trouble had begun.
Turning resolutely from the window, Mathew confronted the inert form lying on the bed in the corner of the room. The ancient loking frame and a small wooden chair were the only pieces of furniture that could fit into the tiny apartment, save a narrow bookshelf mounted on the far wall. His mother, her graying hair falling limply about her tired face, sat hunched forward in the chair, hands clasped between her knees. A bowl of rapidly cooling water sat on the floor at her feet, a limp rag dangling out over one side. As he turned she looked up, her eyes meeting his in a mute apology.
"I did what I could," she said after a pause, gesturing halfheartedly toward the still form on the bed.
"I know."
"Matt..."
"Mother, it wasn't your fault. She was never very strong to begin with, and after such a long ordeal..." Suddenly, his fist shot out and connected with the white plaster wall, producing a sharp crack and eliciting a startled gasp from the tired old woman. "Why didn't she tell me! I could have come home, there was nothing so urgent to be done that it couldn't have been assigned elsewhere..." Feeling both emotionally and physically spent, he allowed his tired body to lean heavily against the window frame.
"You know why. You've always made it patently clear that your missions come first, no matter what. This is the price you pay." Her words stung like the lash of a whip, but he recognized the truth in them and bit back the equally spiteful rejoinder that was forming on his lips.
"Matt. I'm sorry." Her brown eyes began to fill with tears. "That was shameful of me..."
She was silenced by a peremptory wave of his hand. "You're right. Granted, you could have found a more appropriate time to catalog my sins, but the fact remains that I brought at least some measure of this problem upon myself."
Both were silent for several minutes-she gazing distractedly at her folded hands, he trying not to focus his gaze on the rapidly stiffening body of his dead wife.
The silence was finally broken by a tentative wail from beyond the partially open door. His mother rose instantly, prepared to respond as best she could to the hungry summons of the child who would never know true maternal care. With one hand on the doorknob she glanced back over her shoulder, pointedly seeking her son's averted gaze.
"Say your goodbyes now, Matt. They'll be here in less than half an hour."
He gave no indication of having heard her, and with a soft sigh she exited the room, softly closing the door. The child's cries grew only somewhat fainter with this added barrier and he raised his hands to his ears, desperately hoping to drown out the sound of his mistake.
"Annie, forgive me."
No answer. Of course he had not been expecting one, but the silence only served to heighten the emotional tension rapidly mounting within Mathew's tired body. Slowly raising his head he forced himself to regard her-pale and motionless in the growing light.
"Annie, did you even suspect it would end this way?"
Silence.
"You-you prepared yourself for the news of my death...for capture and possible torture if our connection were to be discovered. But did you ever imagine that you'd end up dying on what should have been the happiest day of your life?"
Silence reigned again, and Mathew dragged a hand through his disorderly auburn locks. She had loved his hair-during the innocent days of their courtship she had liked to tease him by joking that she had merely fallen in love with his beautiful curls.
"Do you think she'll look like me, Annie?"
He could hear the sounds his mother was making downstairs-the clattering of metal pans as she prepared some milk for the child. The tearless howls had receded even more, and he supposed that she must have brought the baby into the kitchen with her.
"I'm not gonna keep it, Annie. I can't. Forgive me darling, but you were enough of a liability."
Again, silence. But for some bizarre reason Mathew felt that it's composition had changed. A slight drop in the air pressure perhaps, or maybe a degree or two decrease in temperature. But to his exhausted senses the air in the room felt-reproachful?
"Look Annie. We decided long ago that children weren't a possibility. It would be too dangerous. Don't look at me like that-ugh, am I going crazy, you can't be looking at me. Annie. Annie!"
A sudden crash echoed up from the kitchen, followed by several moments of complete silence. Then the crying began again, AND Mathew wondered how it could possibly seem even louder now than before. Shaking his head, he fought to dispel the sudden repressive feeling that had overcome him so suddenly, causing him to behave in such an irrational manner. Annie was dead, and no amount of talking or coaxing or shouting was going to elicit a response from her delicate lips.
And yet it was still there, somewhere at the back of his conscious mind. That feeling of silent reproach, made worse because there was no one there to express it but himself. Advancing a few steps he came to stand by the head of the bed, gazing down at Annie's serene face. His mind replayed the horrible memory of her pain-racked countenance as she expended the last of her strength in the effort to expel their daughter into the frigid air of the world. His hands ached to caress her forhead, but his mind refused to allow the fingers to move. She would be cold. His last memory of touching her should not be of touching a lifeless shell.
There it was again. The constricted, repressed feeling that he couldn't place.
"What do you want me to do!" he exploded, careful to keep his voice at a volume that would be inaudible from the kitchen. "I can't keep it, Annie."
As he waited for the response that would never come, Mathew heard the baby's wails cease as suddenly as they had begun. The stillness that ensued seemed to fill the whole house, seeping into every chink and cupboard, and into the depths of his soul. Then he heard it, the long-forgotten melody drifting up through the dusty vents to tug at his heart. The words were in a language he had nearly forgotten, but their sound invoked a host of fond memories.
His mother was singing.
For I would wander weary miles,
Would welcome ridicule my child,
To simply see the sunrise of your smile,
To see the light behind your eyes,
The happy thought that makes you fly,
Yes I would wander weary miles,,
To simply see the sunrise of your smile.
The song was in English, a tongue no longer used with much frequency following the earth sphere's acceptance of Basic, a combination of the five major world languages, in AC 30. Mathew's family was of German descent, but for some reason his mother had always been fascinated with English, and had studied it the way religious scholars often studied Hebrew. She had unearthed the lyrics to many of the lullabies she knew on the historical database the Alliance had set up. This had been his favorite, because of it's sweet melody. When as a child he had taken up the piano, this lullaby was the first full-length song he had learned to play.
Maybe the baby would learn to love it too.
Suddenly Mathew made a decision. Glancing down once more at the lifeless body of his beloved wife, he raised his hand in the gesture that members of the movement used as a discrete salute. For in the end, she had been the warrior, and he knew it.
"I promise," he said, then pivoted on his heel and strode purposefully from the room.
------------*END*------------
Well? This is merely the prologue, but what do you think? Yes, I will explain why she becomes Lady Une-but I wanted to reconcile the whole concept of Anne and Une. Sorry if this chapter was a bit too sentimental-I just wanted to infuse the dear Lady's life with a little more tragedy. Heh. If this sucked please tell me, so I won't waste my time writing more chapters.
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or any of it's characters. Come on, if you don't know that you have simply got to be too stupid to be a lawyer.
Oh Yeah. The lullaby is actually a song by Michael Card. If you want the rest of the lyrics I'll send them to you, just E-mail me.
Domo Arigato,
Lady Akemi
Colony L2C248
AC 173
On New Year's day the sun rose in a burst of fiberoptic glory. The colony's habitation engineers had really outdone themselves, painstakingly setting the system's perameters so that at precisely six thirty-two A.M., the sky began to glow with a rich assortment of hues ranging from palest pink to flaming orange. Those citizens who were neither too sleepy nor too hung over to be oblivious to the phenomenon watched in delight as the artificial sun increased at their false horizon until it's surprisingly realistic glow bathed the entire colony.
Mathew Une watched the event from a small window in the upper story of his mother's somewhat rundown cottage. He was torn between disgust and appreciation as his eyes took in the spectacular display. It was certainly beautiful, but those who had worked late into the night to orchestrate such an unusually vivid sunrise ought to have been at home, savoring the start of another year with the ones they loved. A sour smile tugged at the corners of his mouth in response to his uncharacteristically conservative thoughts. Raising a hand to the glass he traced a lazy spiral pattern in the film of condensation his breath had left on the pane. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he considered the irony of his reaction. For he himself had spent the majority of the past ten years away from his family, moving from place to place on Earth and among the colonies in his attempt to aid the rapidly growing resistance movement. In fact, this was the first Christmas in a decade he had spent with his wife, and the holiday marked only the second time in twelve months that he had been able to spare time from his duties to visit her. The only other time had been in March, and that was when all the trouble had begun.
Turning resolutely from the window, Mathew confronted the inert form lying on the bed in the corner of the room. The ancient loking frame and a small wooden chair were the only pieces of furniture that could fit into the tiny apartment, save a narrow bookshelf mounted on the far wall. His mother, her graying hair falling limply about her tired face, sat hunched forward in the chair, hands clasped between her knees. A bowl of rapidly cooling water sat on the floor at her feet, a limp rag dangling out over one side. As he turned she looked up, her eyes meeting his in a mute apology.
"I did what I could," she said after a pause, gesturing halfheartedly toward the still form on the bed.
"I know."
"Matt..."
"Mother, it wasn't your fault. She was never very strong to begin with, and after such a long ordeal..." Suddenly, his fist shot out and connected with the white plaster wall, producing a sharp crack and eliciting a startled gasp from the tired old woman. "Why didn't she tell me! I could have come home, there was nothing so urgent to be done that it couldn't have been assigned elsewhere..." Feeling both emotionally and physically spent, he allowed his tired body to lean heavily against the window frame.
"You know why. You've always made it patently clear that your missions come first, no matter what. This is the price you pay." Her words stung like the lash of a whip, but he recognized the truth in them and bit back the equally spiteful rejoinder that was forming on his lips.
"Matt. I'm sorry." Her brown eyes began to fill with tears. "That was shameful of me..."
She was silenced by a peremptory wave of his hand. "You're right. Granted, you could have found a more appropriate time to catalog my sins, but the fact remains that I brought at least some measure of this problem upon myself."
Both were silent for several minutes-she gazing distractedly at her folded hands, he trying not to focus his gaze on the rapidly stiffening body of his dead wife.
The silence was finally broken by a tentative wail from beyond the partially open door. His mother rose instantly, prepared to respond as best she could to the hungry summons of the child who would never know true maternal care. With one hand on the doorknob she glanced back over her shoulder, pointedly seeking her son's averted gaze.
"Say your goodbyes now, Matt. They'll be here in less than half an hour."
He gave no indication of having heard her, and with a soft sigh she exited the room, softly closing the door. The child's cries grew only somewhat fainter with this added barrier and he raised his hands to his ears, desperately hoping to drown out the sound of his mistake.
"Annie, forgive me."
No answer. Of course he had not been expecting one, but the silence only served to heighten the emotional tension rapidly mounting within Mathew's tired body. Slowly raising his head he forced himself to regard her-pale and motionless in the growing light.
"Annie, did you even suspect it would end this way?"
Silence.
"You-you prepared yourself for the news of my death...for capture and possible torture if our connection were to be discovered. But did you ever imagine that you'd end up dying on what should have been the happiest day of your life?"
Silence reigned again, and Mathew dragged a hand through his disorderly auburn locks. She had loved his hair-during the innocent days of their courtship she had liked to tease him by joking that she had merely fallen in love with his beautiful curls.
"Do you think she'll look like me, Annie?"
He could hear the sounds his mother was making downstairs-the clattering of metal pans as she prepared some milk for the child. The tearless howls had receded even more, and he supposed that she must have brought the baby into the kitchen with her.
"I'm not gonna keep it, Annie. I can't. Forgive me darling, but you were enough of a liability."
Again, silence. But for some bizarre reason Mathew felt that it's composition had changed. A slight drop in the air pressure perhaps, or maybe a degree or two decrease in temperature. But to his exhausted senses the air in the room felt-reproachful?
"Look Annie. We decided long ago that children weren't a possibility. It would be too dangerous. Don't look at me like that-ugh, am I going crazy, you can't be looking at me. Annie. Annie!"
A sudden crash echoed up from the kitchen, followed by several moments of complete silence. Then the crying began again, AND Mathew wondered how it could possibly seem even louder now than before. Shaking his head, he fought to dispel the sudden repressive feeling that had overcome him so suddenly, causing him to behave in such an irrational manner. Annie was dead, and no amount of talking or coaxing or shouting was going to elicit a response from her delicate lips.
And yet it was still there, somewhere at the back of his conscious mind. That feeling of silent reproach, made worse because there was no one there to express it but himself. Advancing a few steps he came to stand by the head of the bed, gazing down at Annie's serene face. His mind replayed the horrible memory of her pain-racked countenance as she expended the last of her strength in the effort to expel their daughter into the frigid air of the world. His hands ached to caress her forhead, but his mind refused to allow the fingers to move. She would be cold. His last memory of touching her should not be of touching a lifeless shell.
There it was again. The constricted, repressed feeling that he couldn't place.
"What do you want me to do!" he exploded, careful to keep his voice at a volume that would be inaudible from the kitchen. "I can't keep it, Annie."
As he waited for the response that would never come, Mathew heard the baby's wails cease as suddenly as they had begun. The stillness that ensued seemed to fill the whole house, seeping into every chink and cupboard, and into the depths of his soul. Then he heard it, the long-forgotten melody drifting up through the dusty vents to tug at his heart. The words were in a language he had nearly forgotten, but their sound invoked a host of fond memories.
His mother was singing.
For I would wander weary miles,
Would welcome ridicule my child,
To simply see the sunrise of your smile,
To see the light behind your eyes,
The happy thought that makes you fly,
Yes I would wander weary miles,,
To simply see the sunrise of your smile.
The song was in English, a tongue no longer used with much frequency following the earth sphere's acceptance of Basic, a combination of the five major world languages, in AC 30. Mathew's family was of German descent, but for some reason his mother had always been fascinated with English, and had studied it the way religious scholars often studied Hebrew. She had unearthed the lyrics to many of the lullabies she knew on the historical database the Alliance had set up. This had been his favorite, because of it's sweet melody. When as a child he had taken up the piano, this lullaby was the first full-length song he had learned to play.
Maybe the baby would learn to love it too.
Suddenly Mathew made a decision. Glancing down once more at the lifeless body of his beloved wife, he raised his hand in the gesture that members of the movement used as a discrete salute. For in the end, she had been the warrior, and he knew it.
"I promise," he said, then pivoted on his heel and strode purposefully from the room.
------------*END*------------
Well? This is merely the prologue, but what do you think? Yes, I will explain why she becomes Lady Une-but I wanted to reconcile the whole concept of Anne and Une. Sorry if this chapter was a bit too sentimental-I just wanted to infuse the dear Lady's life with a little more tragedy. Heh. If this sucked please tell me, so I won't waste my time writing more chapters.
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or any of it's characters. Come on, if you don't know that you have simply got to be too stupid to be a lawyer.
Oh Yeah. The lullaby is actually a song by Michael Card. If you want the rest of the lyrics I'll send them to you, just E-mail me.
Domo Arigato,
Lady Akemi