Title: Dolls of
War
Fandom: Meine Liebe (anime)
Rating: PG
Summary: Set in
the span of ten years from the end of the anime through 1946 this
ficlet briefly touches on the lives of Camus, Ed and Naoji during
World War II.
Spoilers: This does involve fairly minor spoilers
for Naoji and Camus centric episodes and a key plot point for Ed. So
in other words, it spoils the anime to a certain extent or at the
very least the introductions of the characters.
--
Naoji
The Ghost that Existed Only in the Reflection of the Pool
Fall 1937:
"One day I will go back," Naoji said, the rain falling in a staccato against the covering he and Orphe stood under.
Orphe watched the quiet young Japanese man who had come to the Academy and joined the small elite circle of Strahl candidates. On most days Naoji was quiet, unassuming, a shadow that followed the others in their circle, while still conveying a sense of strength and loyalty. Naoji tended to undervalue himself, one of the few things Orphe and Lui agreed on, but when he raised his head he was a sight to see; proud and wet and dark and light under the canopy, his beautiful black eyes reflecting back every word he said.
Orphe believed him, though his first reaction was dismay that Naoji was leaving that day and his second resignation that Naoji was going to leave some day.
The Ghost that Could Only Follow With His Eyes
Summer 1945:
The news came across telegraph wires, in special documents, announced in the blared static of the radio to Ludwig's ear. He had known days before what would happen in Hiroshima and Nagasaki and he kept silent, his mouth grimmer, lines now etched into the corners from years of frowning.
Naoji found out an hour later.
In the eight years since the night he declared to rain and cloud that he would go home he had strived to improve himself, to make himself worthy, to purify under water until he was smooth and perfect and round with experience. Emotions did not flit unchecked across his face anymore.
When he heard his black depthless eyes folded into themselves, his hand shook slightly, knocking over his tea. He re-read the news in front of him and slowly tears fell, one after another as he sank to his knees.
The others came, clustering around the open doorway, unsure what to say, making sympathetic noises with throats and teeth and tongues that Naoji could not understand. Camus came last, tugging on Ludwig's sleeve as he had for decades, pulling him into the room.
There were few words mentioned that Naoji understood, few that he himself uttered.
"You knew," he whispered, "from before?"
"Yes," said Ludwig.
No other words mattered.
The Ghost that Walked with Feet of Rock and Ash
Spring 1946:
When the last name was signed and the last of the war was declared officially over Naoji packed his things. As he climbed down the stairs of the house he shared with Ludwig he paused at the library door, hesitating, unable to walk past without first going inside.
He let his image do the talking, hat, suitcase, hair still short with mourning.
Again, there were only a few words that mattered.
"I am leaving now," he said.
"Stay. Your place is to walk beside me," Ludwig answered, closing the book he was reading with a snap.
"Your side has too many shadows."
Then Naoji left, boating across to the mainland and making the journey back home. In many places he was reviled, yelled at, had food thrown at him, the painful reality of war evident in the destruction and starvation that ran across Europe and Asia.
Through this Naoji went and when he arrived in Japan he raised the sleeves of his shirt and worked, taking the skills he learned from his tenure in Kuchen to help his people.
Ed
The Search for a Girl Made of Ribbons and Sunshine
Spring 1937:
"One day I will find her," Ed said to himself, looking over the most recent documents the agency he was employing had sent. Each location searched had turned up blank, negative, the missing girl, now a young woman, had seemingly disappeared from the face of Kuchen.
Ed's fingers reflexively crushed the papers together as his head bowed, "Erika," one word, one of the only really important words in his vocabulary.
"Ed," Orphe said quietly from the doorway, "Still no word?"
Ed shook his head in the negative, placing the papers on the table next to the scattering of other torn and tired pieces.
"I'm going to have to widen the area I look in," Ed said, turning away from the paper.
The Search for the Young Lady with a Ribbon in Her Hand
Winter 1941:
There on the map in front of him Ed circled yet another portion of England, the fingers of his other hand gripping the crumpled paper of his latest report.
"Not here either," he mumbled the latest reports of the war sitting to his right waiting.
The Search for the Woman Who Vanished
Fall 1945:
More circles had flown across the map, punctuated with the x's of war, of occupation, of death. Ed sat, another report in hand, his head bowed.
"Ed," Orphe called softly, placing one hand on his shoulder, "the world is in pieces, people are scattered, you have to be patient."
"I've been patient for twenty years!" Ed shouted, pushing the small table over and grabbing Orphe, "How long do I have to be patient for?"
"We'll find her," Orphe whispered pulling his childhood friend into a hug, "we'll find her."
"My fault, I should have taken the documents she offered, should have asked for help sooner," Ed whispered.
Camus
The Story of the Rose
Fall 1937:
Camus tended to his garden, his fingers caressing the blooms of the flowers. The last stop was a small bed of roses, gentle and fragile. There another man worked, tending to the soil as Camus slipped beside him and tenderly cradled a bloom.
"They're small, but strong," the man beside him stated, patting the soil.
"Yes, but also young and fragile," Camus agreed, yet disagreed, aware of the man beside him.
"It's a young time for them," Elmunt replied, "They just need love and careful attention."
"Yes," Camus said his voice slightly shaky.
The Story of the Roses' Children
Spring 1940:
Camus watched as the new seeds sprouted between the existing blossoms. This year like the last he noted they looked stronger, the roses that cradled them shining.
"Give them room, don't crowd," he said, his fingers moving among the blooms.
Beside him Elmunt kneeled, his own hands working in the bed.
Camus smiled, though it was hard to work the muscles of his face. It had been getting increasingly hard to get out of bed in the mornings, to go to work before coming home to the garden.
The Story of the Seeds Left Behind
Winter 1943:
By Summer Camus had taken to his bed permanently, his health deteriorating. Elmunt shunned the arranged marriage his parents had offered to stay with him.
"You can pull through this," Elmunt whispered, holding Camus' hand, "the flowers miss you."
Camus pulled his lips into a facsimile of a smile, the closest he could come these days and let his fingers flutter under Elmunt's.
"I miss them too," he said.
Behind the closed door Orphe and Ludwig argued, Orphe's voice rising and falling while Ludwig shot through straight and narrow.
"He needs better care than this, we need to push through more peace talks," Orphe said.
"There is no better care currently and it is more vital that we keep our own borders safe," Ludwig responded.
"How can you say that with Camus in there like that?" Orphe shouted.
"I've always told him he needs to distance himself from his feelings," Ludwig said.
Inside Camus slipped into a dream, his body shuddering weakly as he visited a haunted world, a world of hungry flowers trampled under scared feet and torn by hard black boots.