August Again
One: August
The arms of the old windmill traced idle fingers over
the afternoon sky, creaking to itself as their laughter echoed across the
fields spread around it. The tall grass whispered a compliant protest as
they rushed after each other, laughing like children, his hand reaching
for hers as she ran away from him.
He caught her, breathless and triumphant, pulling her
down with him into the golden sea of wheat and barley. She laughed, the
sound of her voice intoxicating and sweet, as he brushed away the loose
tendrils of her hair, his fingertips light against her skin.
Their kisses were artless and abandoned, their breaths
lost as they drank in each other, fingers fluttering lightly over hair
and skin and fabric. Perhaps they held each other too tight, their urgency
pulsing through every fiver of their being. But they were giddy with one
another, their lips meeting again and again as their eager fingers stumbled
over lacing and buttons, stockings and shoes.
She smiled up at him softly, her fingers trailing down
his cheeks, as he lay her down. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking
in the sweet fragrance of her skin, of the crushed barley beneath them.
His lips trailed lightly up her skin, meeting her lips in a tender kiss,
her arms rising to encircle his back.
"I love you," he murmured into her hair, feeling her gentle,
even breathing beneath him. His fingers traced her lips. "I would marry
you," he breathed, his eyes darkening with the intoxicating need for love,
acceptance, and the soft silk of her fingertips.
"You silly boy," she whispered, laughing, her fingers
combing through his dishevelled hair. "I know you love me. I love you,
too."
Smiling, she drew him nearer, and he sighed as she kissed
him, his body rising at the taste of her lips. His hands rose towards her
cheeks, his fingers trailing down slowly.
They had run out into those golden fields of wheat and
barley to leave the prying, demanding eyes of their elders, of those talkative
old women and moralistic old men. There, they could loose themselves in
each other, their sighs unheard, their passion unobserved save for the
lazy clouds drifting above them and the windmill murmuring to itself.
There, they could bare their souls to one another, not
afraid anymore, their wondering fingers free of constrains. There, they
found one another, their hearts beating as one. Holding each other close,
dreaming of forever.
Two: November
He turned his face away, gazing out the rain slicked window
at the trunks and boxes lining the distant driveway. He wanted to shut
out the voice of that hateful woman they had sent to his room. But he could
not. He grit his teeth, the palm of his hand resting against the cold window
pane.
"You understand, don't you, honey? She has to leave. The
sooner, the better. Why, it's a miracle we could act so quickly. No one
knows anything yet, thank God, his Holy Name be blessed.
He sighed as the old woman crossed herself, her nervous
hands clasping together. He gazed in morbid fascination at the worn, wrinkled
skin spread tightly over her bony fingers. I will be that old someday,
he thought, raising his own hands before his eyes. He sighed softly as
he clenched his fingers in the coarse fabric of his pants.
Leaning his forehead against the windowpane, he looked
down again at the driveway. A porter was bringing down another bag, a lanky
aid holding up an umbrella to shield him from the rain. A woman rushed
out towards them, her handkerchief waving frantically at the trunks and
bags lying around, drenched and becoming more so by the minute.
He could not hear her, and her face looked strangely grotesque
and detached as her lips formed words he could not make out. The porter
and his aid waved their hands at her as she shook her umbrella at them.
A young girl rushed out into the rain, coming near the distraught woman.
She took her hands and tried to lead her away.
"Do you understand?"
Blinking, he turned his head towards the woman in the
room with him. He murmured that he did, his voice low and uninterested,
his face turning once again to gaze outside the window. He heard the woman
sigh impatiently.
"My boy, you do not seem to understand. She was
not one of us. Could you imagine the scandal if anyone would have known?
You might think that, because you are young, there would be no scandal,
but I assure you there would."
He humphed quietly to himself, turning to face her. "So
it's scandalous when a young member of your precious society falls in love,
but not if it's two old has-beens."
The woman thinned her lips, her eyes darkening. "How dare
you. You have no respect for anyone, do you?"
Smiling, playing the perfect rebel she wanted him to be,
he blew idly at his nails. Through hooded eyes, he gave her a mischievous
smile, licking slowly at his fingertips. "You wouldn't have minded if it
had been you, my dear," he murmured, the smile on his lips obscuring the
edge in his voice.
She threw her hands up into the air, her cheeks scarlet.
"You are impossible! Well, I give up on you, you selfish young man."
Turning sharply on her heel, she stormed from the room,
her shoes clicking hollowly on the marble floor. "Let your mother deal
with you. It matters little what you think. That... that woman will
be gone by tomorrow. You will shape up then, hopefully. I
very much doubt it."
"I'll die first, you old hag!" he shouted at her back,
the slam of the door blasting cold air at his face. The lock of the door
clicked once as she fastened it again as it had been before she'd come
in , trapping him inside. His lips drew back in silent rage, his hands
gripping the sedan covering of the window seat. He cursed, his voice echoing
back to him, offering him no comfort.
The silent room spread out before him, empty and accusing.
Its silence oppressed him, filling him with uncertainty. Voices drifted
up to him from downstairs. The old woman's voice, mingled with his mother's.
To his clouded mind, it seemed as if they referred to him as little more
than that annoying thing in the upstairs room.
Despairing, he turned towards the window, pulling at its
hinges, locked as well. He beat uselessly at the window panes, the monstrous
silence of the room swallowing his grunts, the sound of flesh against glass.
He sobbed, his fingers clawing at it, his head throbbing with the knowledge
of how worthless and childish his acts were.
He stared out helplessly at the rain soaked driveway.
The porter and his aid were securing the last of the luggage into the trunk
of the waiting limousine. The fretful woman and her companion stood by,
the older woman calling out to the porter occasionally, her mouth forming
silent words of reprimand.
He heard himself sob, the sound caught in his throat as
his fingers came to rest over the window latches. His eyes closed for a
moment, his breast heaving painfully. She had stepped out onto the
driveway, her black bonnet obscuring her face. A strand of pale hair hung
out, quickly damped into her bonnet, as she curtsied to the fretful woman
and her companion. She took their hands, and they threw their arms about
her, drawing her close in a last farewell. He saw her brush at her cheeks,
her smile tremulous, and his hands rose, coming against the window panes,
his heart aching.
He wanted to hold her again. He wanted a chance to say
goodbye, at least, if it was inevitable that they part. His hands beat
at the window panes, his voice a strangled sob. He did not want to say
goodbye. He wanted her here, beside him. He called her name, his voice
echoing in his ears, broken and despairing.
Her face snapped up, her eyes widening, a pale hand rising
towards her throat. She looked around her, hopeful. Seeing her reaction,
he kneeled up into the window seat, calling her name again, his heart racing.
But below him, the limousine's chauffeur was motioning for her to enter
the car. She drew away from him, still looking around her, her lips forming
his name. He cried out to her, beating at the windows, hoping that, somehow,
she would hear him.
But he was too far away, and the fretful woman was coaxing
her kindly into the back seat of the limousine, patting her hand to steady
her. She tried to draw her hand away, but the woman would not let her.
He watched, helpless, as she hung her head, giving up, and turned to enter
the limousine. He heard his voice crack, tears spilling down his cheeks.
He rushed to the room's doors, pulling at the latches,
beating at the wood, pleading. He heard voices outside, full of worry,
but they were soon gone. He remained a prisoner, his body spent with worthless
struggle.
Stepping back, he let his head fall into his hands, his
cry deafening in the silence. From outside, he heard the muffled roar of
the limousine as it pulled away from the driveway. Taking her.
Leaving him.
Three: December
The arms of the old windmill ran tired fingers over the
night sky, groaning to itself as he sighed, his voice a broken whisper
as he gazed out at the snow covered fields spread out before him. The tall
grass moaned to itself as the cold night air raked emotionless fingers
up the lengths of their bodies poking out foolishly from their blanket
of snow.
The door of the windmill's lower shed creaked quietly
under the cold creeping up its wooden bones. Inside, smoking and covered
with frost, lay the huge tractor that had cleared away the golden fields
of wheat and barley that fall. She had still been with him then. They had
come to the field, to lie among the sad remains of their golden sea, their
hearts heavy, but their fingers clasped.
Sighing, he turned away from the sight. The brilliant
white, kissed a shimmering silver by the moon's light, hurt his eyes. He
leaned against the door of the windmill's shed, his gaze resting upon an
old bucket, abandoned, its frozen water sinking slowly into the snow, laying
out careful fingers of ice. He closed his eyes, his hand rising to cover
them, and their shameful tears.
Taking a deep breath, he looked up into the impassive
sky. The snow clouds ambled slowly before his sight, swallowing up the
cold stars, casting long shadows over the silent fields. He wished the
darkness would take him; that he could somehow block everything out, so
that he would never have to hurt again.
He stared at his hands, gloved and useless, cowardly.
They would never take his life. He clenched his fingers, his eyes rising,
haunted and icy, towards the fields. He set his lips in a thin line, pushing
away from the shed's rusted door.
Standing, alone and cold, his hands clenched at his sides,
he turned his face, eyes closed, towards the sky. His lips parted slightly,
whispering her name, his breath caught in his throat. He sighed, lowering
his head.
"Never again. I will never come back here, beloved.
Beginning today, we are dead to one another."
Four :August, Seven Years Later
The car's engine rumbled quietly to itself as he stepped
out, one hand resting over the window of the door he held open. There was
a smile on his lips, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he gazed out onto
the fields spread before him.
"Your excellency, should I turn off the car?" the young
officer who had volunteered as chauffeur asked, his hand on the ignition
key.
"No need," he answered, turning his head, hoping that
his smile was reassuring enough. The OZ's officers were very loyal, but
somewhat prone to worrying.
"I won't be long," he promised, closing the door behind
him firmly. He saw the officer salute stiffly to the dashboard from the
corner of his eye, and he chuckled, his boots crunching dully on the dusty
pavement. He gazed down at the black, shinny tar beneath his feet. This
road was new, the fields had been framed by little more than crude dirt
roads seven years ago.
The tall grass whispered placidly to itself as he made
his way into the abandoned fields, his hand parting the grass with a quiet
reverence. He came to the old windmill, long since silenced, its arms suspended,
tattered, and bony. It stood with a quiet dignity, framed against the clear
blue sky, lazy clouds drifting above it.
Smiling, he lay his fingers over the wood, feeling its
age even with gloves on. He removed the glove from his right hand, wishing
to feel the old wood against his own flesh. He pressed his palm against
it firmly, closing his eyes, feeling the breeze trail idle fingers through
his hair.
He could hear a wind chime tinkling softly in that breeze,
and he turned his head, wondering, his fingers drawing away from the wood.
He felt his lips part with silent disappointment, and
he snapped them shut, thinning his lips. Sighing, he pulled his glove back
on, turning to walk away from the quiet windmill.
Before him loomed a modest, wooden structure, reminiscent
of the prairie houses he had seen once in America. It stood in the middle
of the field, silent and at home, even as it was alien to his senses, who
clamoured for the empty expanses of wheat and barley from his youth. The
porch looked rickety, older than a mere seven years. A rocking chair was
placed outside, a worn, yellowish cushion resting over its seat. Several
baskets hung from the porch's rafters, filled with wild flowers, marigolds,
chrysanthemums, and tiny posies.
He touched the tip of his fingers to their petals as he
stepped silently unto the porch, feeling the wood shift under his alien
weight. The curtains at the windows were drawn, the inside of the house
obscured. But someone lived here. The flowers were too well tended, the
porch tidy and recently scrubbed. Chuckling under his breath, he bent to
pick up a dishevelled Barbie doll that had been abandoned at the porch,
its legs painted a bright pink with markers. He smiled as he straightened
her out, sitting her comfortably against the wall.
"Gaze, ye unbelievers, upon me! For I am the pleasure
you seek! I am the paradise you dread!"
He turned his head, perplexed, one finger patting idly
at Barbie's head, at the sound of that voice. It came from the tall grass
beyond the house, high and youthful, a clear clarion call throughout the
fields. He stood up, staring in mute wonder as the grass waved from side
to side, making way for the exalted speaker. The column nearest the house
parted in subito, a breathless figure emerging, triumphant and radiant,
finger pointed accusingly at the empty air.
"I am your queen!" it announced, eyes bright, flaming
red hair drifting in the wind. It was a little girl, her stripped shirt
and cut-off shorts dusty with pollen, her tiny feet muddy. He saw her eyes
narrow dangerously, her finger pointing impassively at the empty air, before
that same finger dropped slowly, her body stiffening as she turned her
face towards him, her lips hanging in a guilty gasp. Her expression was
so comical, he couldn't help but laugh.
But his laughter faded as he heard her thunder towards
him, her bare feet slapping at the wooden porch. She pouted up at him,
her red hair a wild flame around her round face. He felt his breath leave
him as he gazed down into those eyes. Bright blue and coldly impassive,
it was like looking down into a mirror. His lips thinned as she rushed
into the house, the screen door clanging behind her, her voice ringing
out in childish indignation.
"Mommy, there's a man on the porch! A big, ugly man! Make
him go away!"
As startled as he was, he couldn't help but laugh at her
words. One hand rose to rub at his chin. "Big, ugly man, huh?" he murmured
to himself.
His amused smile faded away as he caught a glimpse of
the child's mother coming towards the door, wiping her hands on an apron
tied around her waist. Seeing that figure, he felt himself smile. He could
see the child behind her, pulling at her apron, pointing at the door, at
the big, ugly man. He saw the woman smile, her hand gentle on her daughter's
forehead as she gazed out at the porch, her eyes bright.
Smiling, he turned away, looking out at the silent fields.
He heard the screen door open behind him, heard the woman step out quietly
and stand close to her house. She smelled faintly of cinnamon and flour.
She wiped her hands slowly on her apron, her presence reaching out to him
as he stood with his back to her. He smiled faintly, the sound of her breath
bringing back a thousand memories.
"Hello, Treize," she said, her voice sounding exactly
the same as it had all those years past. "You've grown taller."
He laughed quietly, one hand rising in a gesture of accepted
defeat. "All against my will, I assure you," he said, his laughter directed
at the silent fields.
"But you're still the same." She laughed, and her laughter
reached out silent fingers towards him. "No. Not the same. You seem more...
graceful, more easy with yourself, somehow. I'm glad."
"You're still the same," he murmured. "Even living here
among this fields, in this wooden house."
She shook her head. "No. I'm not the same, either. Did
you see--?"
He reached up to finger the petals of a lone chrysanthemum.
"Your daughter? Yes. I saw her. She's beautiful. She looks like her mother."
"And her father."
He closed his eyes, his smile faint. He clasped his hands
at his back, feeling a slight uneasiness come from her. The whisper of
a long held guilt, mingled with a silent pride, and unquestioning love.
"Do you blame me?"
She smiled, her hands coming to rest on the rocking chair
placed on the porch. "No. I love her. She has been my strength for this
past seven years. With her near, I felt that, even if they had driven us
apart, you were still with me..."
His eyes closed again, his breath caught in his throat.
He sighed as he heard her step forward, her hands clasping at her waist.
He could feel his body tense, and he strove to seem relaxed. He looked
out into the fields, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I had nothing save your memory. And I tried so hard to
erase that as well..."
He let out a torturous breath as he felt her hands come
around his shoulders, her head resting on his back. "It's all right, Treize.
You don't have to be afraid to tell me that you don't love me as you did
once anymore. We are both older now, and we both know what love can be."
Sighing, she stepped back and lay a gentle hand on his
cheek. "I don't hate you. I never could. What I feel for you is strong,
but I know that you would not want me to hold you down with a past you've
left behind you."
She turned his face slowly to look into her eyes, her
smile proud and gentle. Looking into her eyes, seeing her love, her acceptance
of him reflected in them, he smiled, his own hand rising to caress her
cheek.
"You will always be special to me," he murmured.
She laughed brightly and placed her fingers on his lips.
"I should hope so, you silly boy. You wanted to marry me, remember?"
He smiled softly, kissing her fingertips. "Yes."
Stepping back, she smiled up at him, taking his hands.
"You have grown tall." She laughed, her eyes bright. "I would invite
you in for tea, or lemonade, I just made some, but I'm afraid our daughter
doesn't like big, ugly men at the porch."
Standing on tip toe, she kissed his cheek lightly. She
looked up at him, her eyes smiling faintly. "Besides, I Think someone is
waiting for you."
He nodded, laughter in his eyes. Tilting her chin, he
kissed her cheek softly, drawing her near for a moment before he stepped
back, unable to say anything. She laughed and waved a hand at his face.
"Go on. You don't have to say anything, silly. This is
enough, more than enough, for me."
He smiled as he stepped down her porch, turning to see
her as she leaned against the railing's post, her hands crossed over her
bosom, her smile gentle and warm. He bowed once, formally, before turning
on his heel. He heard the screen door creak open and bare feet pad over
to their mother's side. "Is the ugly man leaving?" he heard the child murmur,
her mother's laughter clear as she drew her near.
As he approached the car, he saw the officer had obediently
left it on, and was leaning against the front door, looking up at the sky
thoughtfully. When he saw his superior approaching, he stepped away and
executed a sharp salute.
"Sir. Are you ready, sir? We depart at your order."
Treize smiled, patting the young officer on the shoulder,
enjoying the baffled expression on his face.
"Yes, we can leave now."
Looking back at the golden fields, he sighed softly, feeling
her presence wrap around him, soothing his soul after seven long years.
He smiled, whispering her name. He saw the officer perk up in interest
beside him, but remain still. Chuckling to himself, he turned to open his
own door, the officer slightly disconcerted.
"Let's go, officer. We have a long journey before us."
(c) April 29-30th, 1997 Team Bonet. Gundam Wing,
and all of its characters, namely Treize Khushrenada, remain (c)
1995 Sunrise Entertainment Inc. Making illegal copies of this story, although
it is beyond me why you would want to do such a thing, is still illegal
as far as I know, although I don't know why, either. Heck. Thank you for
reading, chap!
August Again
By: Team Bonet