I've Decided

"Alissa, would you like another helping?"

"No mom, I'm fine. Do you mind if I go to Vlan's house?"

The mother smiled at Alissa, running a hand through her long golden hair. She picked up her daughter's bowl and nodded. In a flash the girl slid from her seat and ran to the door, bolting outside. Her mother sighed, staring out the window after her daughter as she began to wash their dishes. A sudden, stifled sob caused her to turn. Across the table sat a young boy, tears streaming down his face.

"What are you still doing there? Haven't you finished your meal?" She continued washing the dishes, even as the boy's sobs increased. The woman's hands tightened around the bowl. As the sobs finally reached their peak, she slammed the wooden dish on the counter and stormed over to the boy, grabbing him by the hair.

"Why won't you stop?" she screamed.

The boy's tears were gone – even the wet streaks on his cheeks had vanished. "Because you aren't really my mother – this is just a dream."

Mullin Shetland bolted upright, gasping, his body covered with a sheen of sweat. In the bunk above him, Dunya shifted slightly, her sleep only slightly perturbed. Looking around, Mullin found himself in his familiar quarters, surrounded by bunk after bunk of sleeping musketeers. He swung his legs out of the bed, and slipped his feet into a pair of sandals. The barracks was unusually warm that night, the usually numbing blasts of cold air from the surrounding clouds conspicuously absent. He stood, turning to check on Dunya.

She was sound asleep, her breaths soft and low, strands of her shoulder-length hair fallen across her face. He brushed her hair aside, and smiled – she was beautiful. Her body was small, not much larger than a teenage boy's, but her face and eyes were so striking. More than that, it was the way she moved. Even after all the warfare, all that she had done, she still walked like a girl, talked like one, slept like one.

Mullin himself was not the strapping image of manhood. He was a bit on the thin side, his hair commonly disheveled, his uniform a tad too big. The main thing that set him apart was the string of survival medals pinned to his uniform. That had gained him far more respect than his physical appearance.

He made his way to the door, careful not to trip over the boots and uniform items scattered throughout the barracks. Had anyone entered the barracks at this moment, Mullin was sure they would have wondered how such men and women could have deluded themselves into thinking they could defeat the Guild. Finally he reached the door, and gently turned the handle, opening it out into the open night. A gentle breeze greeted him, sailing past his ears with a soft melody.

Glancing around, he took in the lines of quarters stretching up and down the line. Within this hollowed out section of the port, they had crafted so many of the long aluminum buildings that there seemed to be no end to them. The cavernous port structure also acted as a natural wind tunnel, making nights that much more unbearably cold. A sudden gust of wind whipped past Mullin, his plain white shirt and black athletic shorts flailing about. He closed his eyes and let the wind flow past him.

As the gust died down, he left the rows of quarters and walked towards a place the vanship pilots called "lookout point," if for no other reason than to add it to a growing list of clichéd locations. "Eagle's nest," "tower of hope," and "angel's wings," had already been taken by the time this specific spot had been discovered. This was unfortunate, as it boasted the best view, and the only guardrail, in the entire port. By the time Mullin reached it, the wind was gusting by so fast that he could only hear its roar. He took hold of the guardrail and looked out into the night, into the clouds and the darkness that awaited. And up he looked, into the Grand Stream. He stayed that way for a long time.

"Mullin, are you alright?"

Mullin jumped at the proximity, and familiarity of the voice. He turned to Dunya, approaching in just her own white shirt and shorts, a pair of issued sandals on her feet. Unlike him, she held her arms tight around her chest, rubbing vigorously to stave off the cold.

He smiled. "It was just a dream." He turned his gaze back to the sky, letting the outer rim of turbulent clouds fill his vision.

Dunya came to his side and pressed her head against his chest. Mullin's smile saddened, and he wrapped an arm around her. "It must have been quite a dream to wake you," her voice was almost a whisper.

Mullin did not respond. He caressed her shoulder absentmindedly, almost without thought. Dunya wrapped her arms in turn around Mullin, nestling her face into his chest.

"I always wondered, y'know," Mullin started, and then just as abruptly stopped. Dunya looked up into his eyes. "I always wondered…about my mother. About…" He let the word trail off, and shook his head.

"About what?" Dunya asked.

"It's nothing," he replied, pulling her tight against him.

"It's getting cold, we should go back now."

He was back on the deck of the Silvana. Tatiana sat next to him, her legs dangling off the armored plating. His voice was earnest, youthful, naïve. "Do you know what the survival rate for a musketeer is? A measly 30%! Most of us are dead after three battles." He took hold of his survival medals and held them out in front of her. "And what do we have to show for surviving battle after battle? Just these." He returned them to his pocket, his hand tightening around the broom he held. His voice shook with determination. "Will you leave the ship with me?"

"Why are you asking me?"

Mullin felt his face flush. "Because," he forced himself to look her in the eyes, " I love you."

She didn't say anything. Her expression, blank as always, remained the same. But then, just as Mullin was about to speak, suddenly her eyes turned dark, and her expression twisted, her brow furrowing, her lips tightening. And then she exploded, "who could love someone like you?"

Mullin's eyes snapped open. He wasn't on the Silvana. He was seated outside a guild pod, lined with fellow musketeers, Dunya seated next to him, her hand placed protectively on his arm. Her eyes betrayed their concern, "another dream?"

He nodded. The musketeers nearest them were still asleep, saving their strength for the coming operation. "I didn't wake any of them, did I?"

Dunya smiled, and shook her head. "I doubt anything could right now." She slipped her hand into his. "Unfortunately you're not the same."

"No, I'm not." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, before he drifted back to sleep.

It was his home again. His mother had him by the hair, her hand drawn back to strike. Yet she lingered there, her hand did not fall on his face. And suddenly he was aware of another presence, a hand restraining his mother – Dunya. She looked down at his child's form and a gentle smile stole over her face.

"Don't you think it's about time?" She asked. Without a word his mother vanished, and he found himself standing next to her, back in his adult form.

"Time for what?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Time for you to forgive yourself, Mullin." She gently tugged at him, pulled his face down to hers. Their lips met in a kiss.

He woke. She was still next to him, cradling her rifle in her arms, the same as he. He slung his arm around her shoulder. "I've decided," he began.

The End