Before the Gates Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or any of it's characters. The execs in charge at Bandai, Sunrise, Sotsu, and TV Asahi do. Neither do I own Dante's Prayer, as that's a song written and performed by Loreena McKennit. And while we're on track with what I don't own here, I also don't own the poem quoted in this piece of fanfiction. She Walks in Beauty is the work of Lord Byron, not me.

Warnings: Clichéd sappy angst (I should be shot for it - really), gore (if you're faint of stomach, then you're probably not going to want to read this), language, and het pairings (implied 6x9 and 13x11).







IN THE ABSENCE OF LIGHT


"When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me..."

-Dante's Prayer, Loreena McKennit

There had been a time, as a child, when he had been just like everyone else and scared of the dark. The thought amused him now as he sat in the shadows of the darkened study, and noted the apparent irony of the situation. Such a radical turnaround in only a few short years… He bowed his head sadly as he thought of that pale-haired innocent that he been at one time. To see what he was now, what he had become… He sighed as the tender feeling of that soft and almost detached depression settled in his heart.

He didn't remember much of his childhood, or his fear of the dark for that matter; just a stray memory here and there of lying under the covers, absolutely terrified of falling asleep. The monsters could come and steal you away while your defenses were down, you know. Such a purely direct thought, so perfect for a child. Nonetheless, that was exactly how he had felt at that tender age of six.

Abruptly, he recalled the dim memory of crying out for his mother in the middle of the night as the wind scraped against the walls of the mansion, creating a noise that had terrified him to the bone. She had always come, wrapping him up in the warmth of her arms, telling him that there was nothing to be afraid of, as she had rocked him back and forth lightly. That embrace… It was the most heavenly thing that he could have ever encountered at such a young age. To be able to sit there with his tiny head upon her breast and just melt into that comforting warmth was just beyond words. Gods, how he missed her.

Sucking in a shaky breath, he allowed his mind to drudge up those watery images of the past that he had always kept buried, yet so close to his heart at the same time. He remembered the last night that he spent in those arms. His mother's cold, lifeless arms… He had found her among the rubble once the fighting had died down. She was already dead, but somehow he missed her scorched flesh and the pool of blood that lay under her, oozing from the fatal gunshot wound in her heart. He had been scared out of his mind, seeing his father executed by Federation soldiers before they had razed the very home that he had lived in. If ever there had been a moment in his life when he needed to feel the security of her embrace, it had been then. Crying, he had crawled among the bits of broken furniture and fallen hunks of plaster and into her arms.

He had spent his first night like that - the first night of the never-ending darkness that was now his life. By the time he had awoken, his pajamas had gone stiff with the dried blood from her wound. That in itself was what had first made him realize that she was dead. Most of all, he remembered the totally unearthly fear that sunk into his heart as he ran from the remains of his family, his home, and his life, knowing that he was all alone. To this day, it made him uncomfortable to think back on that particular memory.

As it was, he slowly extended his right hand past the boundaries of the shadows and into the moonlight, not exactly sure of why he committed to the action. Perhaps he needed to see visual confirmation of his own existence in order to prove to himself that this wasn't all just a dream and that he wasn't trapped in those memories. His eyes sought out and traced over the relaxed curve of his fingers, observing how they bent just so. He took in the pale glow of the flesh that was the hollow of his palm and the minute detail in the various lines that marked it. Slowly, his gaze traveled up the long and criss-crossing lifeline that wound around the mound of muscle at the base of his thumb. Yes, it had seemed like a long time indeed. Twenty years, three of which he had spent on the streets, trying desperately to cling to a dirt-stained existence. Memories flooded him once again as he looked up to the full silver disk set against the sky.

The moon… It had always been his friend, showing him along the path in the darkness. It was what had first helped him to come to terms with his fear of the shadows. Living on the streets had not been easy, and during the night hours, it had been downright dangerous. There had been no telling what sort of thug, vandal, or thief would emerge out of the dark next. He had been forced to learn how to defend himself, for his very survival. But to do so betrayed every principle that his parents had taught him. Every punch that he had thrown and every kick that he had lashed out with had only served to remind him of what he could not be, and it had hurt. It had stung like hell, crushing the very desire to live out of him - sucking the little bit of light that he possessed, out of his life. There had been times during that first year where he would just break down and cry, this little boy forced to live within the cracks and holes of society. Night after night, he had stared up at the moon, tears rolling down his cheeks, and had cried over all that he had lost, and all that he had become.

Looking back on it now, he mused that perhaps the moon had become a visual symbol for all that he desired but could not have. That would certainly stand to reason. After all, was he not staring up at that magical celestial body as he revisited the ghosts of the past - pondering how he had changed exactly from that poor boy into the despicable being that he now was? Of course, it would only be a matter of time before the self-loathing would set in and he would go on to elaborate why he did not deserve the things in life that would bring him happiness, this prince of a fallen kingdom. Yes, the moon did bring out the melancholy in him indeed, and for the first time that night, he reconsidered his earlier thought. Could it be that even after all this time, he had not changed so much from that little boy? Was he still mourning over that lost innocence?

Ashamed, he glanced down at his hand once more. One would think that after the experiences he had gone through, he would have learned to adapt. It may very well be that the external circumstances surrounding his life now were much different than those of twenty years ago, but deep down inside he was still that same shade of himself that he had worked so hard to forget. And he had almost done it too. Treize had helped him along of course, taking him in and under his wing. The young man would always be a father of sorts to him, having given him a home and a family, the things that he had craved for most of all. He had tried his hardest to live up to his surrogate parent's wishes, following along as he was groomed for the legacy that Treize Khushrenada would leave behind.

But… as always, there had been a catch. He had been so starved for stability and love that he had not even considered the twisted light that shone down on everything that he had been given. The worst part about it was that he had been clearly aware of his situation from day one, and yet he still allowed himself to fall headlong into the trap. It had seemed to him that if he didn't spend time thinking about the whole of everything, then it did not exist, and therefore, he was not prone to the danger of it all. Reality always had a funny way of crashing down on him though… He had been such a fool.

He did not deserve this title that had been bestowed upon him. He was not the right man for the job, being the complete failure that he was. Sadness settled around him like a cloak as he turned his attention from his thoughts. Shaking a bit of reality into himself, he knew that it would not do him any good to linger on any of this for much longer. He already hated himself for a number of reasons - there was no sense in opening this particular wound once again.

Sighing heavily and leaving the last of his thoughts behind him, he made as if to move from his spot on the wide windowsill, wrapping a hand around the edge of the open window's frame. Instantly, he froze as the fingers of his left hand came in contact with the moonlight and his eyes fell upon the familiar scar.

Obviously the gods were toying with him this night, and would not allow him to forget the imaginary blood stains that he always saw on his hands. A thick band of burned flesh circled around his left ring finger; a wound that he had willingly inflicted upon himself just over a year ago. It had been the day that he had sealed his fate, ascending his guardian and falling into the darkest pits of blackness. He had known that to follow Treize would mean shutting the door on the happiness that he had found since those years on the street. Even though he knew that it had been beyond his power to change things, above all he did not want to forget the fleeting glance that he had of the "good life." Thus, the brand was to serve as a reminder - a reminder of what was, and of what he could not have - just like the moon had been to him in his youth.

He loosened his grip and slowly sank back into his previous position while another on-slaught of memories bombarded him.

He closed his eyes and inhaled a shallow breath. A short spill of raven-black hair… Laughing sapphire eyes that sparkled in the sun… An innocence so pure that it practically glowed… With some effort, he swallowed. Before he had ventured on his trip down memory lane earlier in the evening, he had promised himself that he wouldn't think of that tonight, for this particular series of memories were the most painful of all. But then again, he thought as a bittersweet smile curved his lips, would the night not be complete without a visit from that particular ghost? Abruptly, he was prompted to quote a piece of famous poetry from the vast stores of his memory, something that he had always associated with this demon of all personal hells.

"She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climbs and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies"

Again he saw the flash of dark hair and deep eyes. Would it please her to know that he had placed her within close association to the stars which she had held dear? He let the moment draw out, frozen on the windowsill like he was, with his eyes closed, allowing the deep pain to tear his heart asunder. Yes, this is all that you can hope to achieve, he told himself. The pain. It is the only thing that you will ever deserve.

"Stop torturing yourself."

His eyes shot open at the sound of the soft and feminine voice, rage rising inside at being interrupted during a time in which he sought to seclude himself from others. Dim light from the hall seeped into the room through the open door, spilling over the large oak desk in the center of the room. A silhouetted figure stood still in the entranceway, holding what appeared to be a tall glass in its right hand. He relaxed upon seeing the familiar form in the doorway, though the tendrils of his anger were hard-pressed to die so suddenly.

He let his gaze fall to his lap, not wanting to allow the young woman that he associated as his foster-mother to see his eyes, for surely she would be able to divine his thoughts by just one glance at the ice-blue disks. "What makes you say that, Anne?"

"I have known you too long, Milliard to not be able to recognize when you are beating the hell out of yourself." She took a few graceful steps into the room before turning around and shutting the door behind her. "I take it that you would prefer to stay in the shadows?"

He didn't so much as nod at her question, not wanting to chance betraying the roiling ball that was his thoughts and his emotions. Proceeding to swallow in an attempt to clear away the sudden and growing dryness in his throat, he fidgeted slightly in his place on the windowsill. Why was it that he always felt ashamed when she caught him like this?

Silently, she walked around the desk that stood in between the door and the windowsill and crossed the remaining distance. Dressed in fine, dark silk, she was the epitome of grace and refinement. Briefly, the moonlight flashed across her face, revealing soft chocolate-colored hair and concerned brown eyes. The expression on her face pained him, yet at the same time he steeled himself in expectation of the reprimand that he had come to associate with that determined gaze of hers. And a scolding he would receive, as she bore the air of maternal authority.

He loved her as if she was in fact his real mother, and for a time after Treize had taken him in, she had been. Well, to be fair, he had to admit that she had been the one who had actually taken him in all those years ago. After all, it had been she that he had "saved" one night when accidentally stumbling into an alley. Only later did he discover that the man who had looked to have been stalking her was actually her intended prey. But that didn't matter at the moment. He was too caught up in those first memories of her - of that sad, yet loving look that she had given him upon first catching sight of him. He had been all of nine years old at the time, and as pitiful as a ragamuffin from the streets could have been. He remembered being slightly surprised when he had felt her arms wrap around him and lift his feet off the ground after he had chased the attacker away. Nonetheless, he had not fought the movement and had placidly allowed her to carry him to Treize and his new life.

She had been the first person to show him even the tiniest bit of love and compassion after what had seemed like an eternity within a cracked and broken existence on the streets. It was for that reason why he did not like to see her worry so, and most of all, over him. All he wanted was to be able to show her that same love and respect that she had given to him over the years. Thus, he was slightly annoyed when he found himself to be angered by her presence in the study. Anne had always respected his privacy, leaving him be when he thought to perch himself in a room and stew for hours on end. He forcefully put his emotions down. She did not deserve his bitterness, especially when he knew why she was here. There was only one reason why she would have chosen to barge in on him at this particular moment, and a pang of sadness hit him as he reflected on his more recent actions and what they must be putting her through. He really could be an ass sometimes.

He knew that he should have gone out with the others… or have at least bribed Otto into covering for him. Then he would not be in this gods-forsaken situation. But, on second thought, when had his ever-loyal-and-faithful servant, ever listened to him in situations such as these in the first place? The former military officer viewed him as some kind of a king, and took lengths to treat him as such at every chance. Otto would never allow any sort of harm to befall him, even if it was self-inflicted. To be surrounded by people that cared about him… that was his curse, all right.

And right now, the leader of that faction was within a few feet of him. He could feel her gaze on his face as she approached him. He busied himself with looking out the window once again, trying in vain to avoid what he thought were her prying eyes. He did not want her to be able to see his thoughts and his pain, for that would cause her only more worry, and he did not want that on top of everything else. But, on the other hand, he also knew that she had never been one to question or pry into his personal feelings. So why was he being so paranoid?

Silence reigned as she reached his side and she made no move to break it. Moments passed, then, "Otto told me that you had refused to go out with the others tonight."

Her tone had been soft, yet that one comment held more foreboded warning than a sky full of black storm clouds. She was in her business-like mood tonight and that meant that she would brook no argument from him. He sighed, weariness creeping into both his mind and body. How many times had he heard her say this exact same phrase? How many times would he have to put up with the lecture that he knew was forthcoming? How many times would he have to waste his breath arguing over this inane situation? His annoyance flickered. He was a big boy, and it was his life to live as he saw fit. So why couldn't she just leave him to his own devices and have to butt in?

It was because she cared, he knew. The flame that was his irritation died out with a single whoosh of airy reflection. He supposed that he couldn't begrudge her the maternal-like concern that she held for him; that would just be cruel. And so, with that thought, he allowed his will to cave, chalking the action up to his overall tiredness of mind, body, and soul.

But that would not stop him from continuing his efforts against what he thought to be vile. He glanced at the glass in her hands and silently cursed. There it was… the object of his frustration. Its presence annoyed him. It was the very thing that he hated with all his soul… And yet he was fascinated by it. It was his addiction - this necessary evil - bringing him unimaginable pleasure and stripping his soul at the same time.

He eyed the foul thing that she held once more, and sighed. How was he going to get himself out of this one? Why couldn't he just simply walk away from it all, like he had done to that other part of his life? He knew all to well that it was because things were different; he was different. Nothing is ever simplistic, he thought to himself.

With that last musing, an apathetic-like feeling of tired numbness washed through him. Suddenly, he didn't care if she saw the pain in his eyes or the blood on his hands. It was, after all, just a part of the never-ending dance that was his pitiful existence. He cut his soul with his memories nightly, watching with detached interest as the wound bled various emotions. Sometimes, he would go so far as to perhaps pour salt in it by playing the devil's advocate, and condemning himself, raising his torment to a new level. It was sad, really. Most people would have broken under such self-inflicted mental stress, but he kept on going, growing stronger with each turn. But his efforts were only serving to tighten his sanity a just a little further around that last notch. He was the ironclad mind that was the ticking time bomb, just waiting to go off… Gods, he was sick…

Briefly, he closed his eyes; his mind ready to expand on just how screwed up he was, when the almost inaudible sound of sloshing liquid piqued his ears. His eyes opened and his gaze flickered to and rested on glass that Anne held, which she was moving ever so slightly. His fingers idly scratched at his cheek. Inside the red, plastic form of the cup lay that which was his heaven and his hell. He absently licked his lips as he caught the heavy metallic, almost copper-like aroma emanating from the drink. His mouth watered.

That was why she had disturbed him this evening. That was why he was different from the majority of society. That was why he was regarded as a king among the others. That was why he had had to walk away from the happier years of his life. That was why he hated himself.

He glanced up into her eyes only long enough to pose a question. "I suppose that that is for me?" he gestured to the glass in her hands.

"Of course." Two simple words… Part of him wanted to throttle her for the seeming understatement.

His gaze once again settled on the cup as he stared at the liquid inside almost longingly. Short tendrils of white steam rose from the dark and thick syrupy substance within. His pulse rang in his ears. Seconds ticked by. This was so unlike him, hesitating like this, so what was keeping him from pushing her and the glass away? What was keeping him from downing the contents of that glass and feeling that state of physical euphoria? He swallowed. What was he so afraid of?

"I don't understand Milliard. Why do you fight yourself so? You know that you need to feed off the blood of humans in order to survive and yet you refuse to go out with the others. Treize made you what you are for a reason. Would you betray his memory so easily by willfully allowing yourself to waste away?"

He grimaced. No, Treize certainly would not have wanted things to turn out this way. After all, he had raised him to lead the people into a new era - to be the binding tie that connected two very different societies. 'Always do what is best for the common good,' he had been taught. Personal desires paled before the duty he had to the others, and therefore, should always take second place.

Oh, how he wanted to just to say, 'screw it all' and turn his back on everything. Rash emotion swirled inside his mind, and the muscles in his jaw flexed with sudden bitterness. Hadn't he already paid enough to society with the blood, sweat, and tears of his youth? Was it so selfish of him to simply not give a damn anymore, especially after the hardships that he had endured?

He stared at the glass, grinding his teeth as all the pain, anger, and grief of his past came tumbling down upon him in one colossal wave. The rage rose within him. That was what was to blame. That was what had broken him; doomed him. His fury demanded revenge.

His arm shot out and his hand wrapped around the edge of the glass. Anne yielded as he pulled the cup out of her grasp. He raised the plastic to his lips and paused. He sneered. This was what you wanted after all, Treize. With a flick of the wrist, he tipped the edge of the glass back against his lips. The warm, sticky blood flooded his mouth, instantaneously sending his body into a headlong rush of maddening bliss. He drank it down desperately, hungrily; like a man dying of thirst would consume a handful of water. He closed his eyes, trying to shield his mind and better yet his sanity, against the heat of the physical euphoria that threatened to incinerate him on the spot.

His hand fell away as he released his grip, and the plastic glass clattered to the wood floor below him. He tipped his head back, savoring the sensations that continued to run through him. His blood slammed through the network of his veins. The muscles in his entire body constricted and he sat rigidly, frozen, riding out the wave of sensation. He fought to suck in a clear breath. His head pounded with the beautifully searing feel of it all, burning him to a complete crisp. And his skin was hot - so very, very hot that it felt as if his whole world was on fire.

It was some time before he was finally able to calm himself down. He panted from the physical stress of it while wiping the beads of sweat that had formed on his brow, away. Anne stood beside him, brushing his long platinum hair back from his eyes and whispering a 'shush' here and there. He looked up at her, unable to help the accusing edge that his glare developed. He swallowed, regaining his grip on himself.

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to be alone now."

Gently, she drew her hand away from his head and a sad smile played over her features. "I understand. If you need anything…" she trailed off, the remainder of her statement not needing to be said.

He nodded. She let her gaze fall to the floor while she turned, preparing to make her exit. He watched her silently as she walked out of the study, and waited for her to close the door before he finally allowed himself to relax. With a heavy exhale, his body slouched, and his head rested against the edge of an old bookcase positioned next to the windowsill. His eyes slowly slid closed as he let his breathing even out. I gave in yet again. I don't understand. Why, after all this time, am I still so spineless?

Sighing, he opened his eyes in order to gaze up at the moon. Once again, his thoughts turned towards the memory of the ghost that he never ceased to torture himself with. Sadness clutched at his heart, twisting it, tearing it.

In the moonlight, he felt a single drop of wetness trail down his cheek.

Treize, I sincerely hope you burn in hell.



Bleh. Well, there it is. Lost Cause #2. When I had originally thought this one up, this was merely to be a prologue to a series. However, considering it's taken me a full year to get past the desire just to bury this fic and act like it never happened, the series itself has been dropped with no chance of ever being picked up again. *shrug*

My take on the series has changed considerably since I wrote this, but I thought I'd post it out of both closure's sake, and because it fits with Halloween coming up and all. ...and to make certain persistent friends happy. ^_~

And on that note, thanks to Kalen, Darwin, SC and Cleck (and co. You know who you are. ^_^). I'd have gone bald by now from tearing my hair out if it hadn't have been for them.

Anyway, if you read the disclaimer above, you'd know that the poem used in here is Byron's She Walks in Beauty - one of the few things that I remember from high school. -_-;;; I thought I'd restate that so that you can check out the rest of the poem out if you liked that little bit.

-Killraven 10/18/01