Disclaimer – I did not kill that Elmo. I repeat, I did not… *ahem* but I don't own Gundam Wing either. It belongs to all those big giant agencies that make as much money as Bill Gates and are scarier than any Negaverse monster. So here is my disclaimer… that is all. Also, this fan fiction is Anne Rice inspired. But it will not include her characters or references to her characters.

Content – Action, cursing, violence, plenty of blood, a little religion stuff, Relena is NOT Milliardo's sister in this fan fiction. Some fluff *warning* there's some shounen ai… There are no definite couplings at this time. Though the might kiss, there will be NO hentai. I refuse to mark my fan fiction with such a thing as highly-detailed sex scenes…

By These Hands

Prologue

He looked down at the substance clinging to his hands. It was deep red, like the rose, so much like the rose. It smelled sweet, like a rose. Was it the pooling form of the flower? Had the petals melted like so many candles against the heat of their skin and then been brought inside them? The rose symbolized love in their culture…

Then, if it was liquid roses, was blood a type of love also?

But it could not be. Love was eternal, and, did he not, leave once it was over? Blood was passion, a lust, and nothing more than that.

He dropped the young girl in the alley, as if she were of garbage and not fairness. She had amaryllis lips, eyes of deep ocean and hair woven of chocolate strands. But he had robbed her of her blushing cheeks and spirited movements. He grunted. Let Milliardo deal with this one, he thought. Milliardo deserved it. He actually kept love, held it, as if it were behind the thin glass of a snow globe. It was those two children of ancients. They both held eyes that were the color of topaz gems and hair of the forbidden sun. They were both beautiful. He narrowed his eyes. Why did Milliardo hold love in those hands? Why couldn't he? He held her, but she was not a mold of love. Then he turned, cape swirling around his ankles like the closing curtain of a theater. His act of the night was finished. He chuckled. The police had already discovered his hate, his murder, lying in streets similar to the one he walked this night. Had it been seven? Yes, it had been seven. A glorious seven. They had been the sweetest he had tasted in a long time.

Then he looked up sharply, sensing movements in the shadows. So the beautiful children come, he thought, let them come. Let them see what it is without the love they have always had. Unconsciously, he touched the sheath at his side, held there by his thick belt. They would soon have their time and he would taste beauty as he held them both.

.