Seeing Shot
by Kat
Three years gone by, since his fall -- three long, cruel years. I returned a year after the final battle, the great battle, the one that resurrected the Sank Kingdom, that placed my dear little sister at the head of the new world order, the end of the war that took my life, took his, and destroyed the lives of millions. All pawns *our* games. I turned on him, he turned on me, so many days spent in vicious scheming, him watching for every possible outcome, predicting what would happen, me simply doing what felt right, taking the stand that I thought was best -- the war was the Terran's fault, wasn't it? There was nothing wrong with trying to blow up earth, was there?
But my questions remain silent, kept to myself, as I stand watch over the most touching scene of daughter reading to father. Neither knowing who I am -- she simply doesn't recognise me, and he can't, not with one eye gone from his face, the other open and, piercing, but clouded, vision gained from it useless. Blind to the world that he had once seen, but now sighted to the things he had overlooked.
How very, very ironic. Too little, far too late.
I shift my footing a little, watching Mari turn the page of the paper, reading aloud to him. She's young yet, though old of mind, but still innocent of thought -- she doesn't realise that what she reads him, for it isn't in any tongue should understand. French, Latin, Spanish, Greek, Russian -- the child has mastered them all, so much like her father, but she cannot comprehend the meanings of the tongue she reads now.
"Man fühlt tief, hier ist nichts Willkürliches, alles ist langsam bewegndes, ewiges Gesetz."
Part of the letter must have been missing. 'Befriedige deine natülrlichen Begierden und geniesse so viel Vergnügen, als du kannst,' wasn't there, but I remember the letter by heart. [1]
Zutto.
Mari looks up at me uneasily, pretty cornflower blue eyes widening a fraction. I must have breathed that single word aloud, purely by accident. A pity she understands it.
"Forever?" She tilts her head to one side, looking at me querulously.
"Hai," I reply softly. 'Yes'. Too close, I don't wish to speak much. His hearing is very good, he'd recognise my voice if given enough words -- which he'll never hear. For what do you say to one you killed, to one who ordered you killed, to one who betrayed you, to one you betrayed, to one who should be dead, from another of like circumstances?
"Oh," Mari murmurs. She was obviously perturbed by the fact that I must have known what she was reading, while she hadn't. Once more, she reads to her father. Now the language switched again, and she realised that, pronunciation changing smoothly to fit the tone that she wasn't even aware of. Such a gift to have, I envy both of them for that. In the academy, he would have me write up pages of text, switching language after every two words -- then would sit on the edge of his bunk, flawlessly reciting every word of it back, easily switching from the guttural to the liquid. I can only write as they can read, write and think -- yes, I envy the blind man the skills he has.
~"Equals. We're equals."~
Hai. Equals. I smirk a little. The hierarchy turned upside down more than once between us. Never quiet equal -- always close, hovering at the edge, but what else can you expect? I'm too strong willed to allow myself to be equal to anyone, and he was to, much of a dreamer.
Gott verdammung, but this uniform bothers me -- so many years in that stiff ensemble of material and ceremony, down to this, a simple jacket and pants, well shined boots, ray gun -- nothing like before the war ended. The glory and grace fell when he did.
~"Aprés moi, le déluge."~ [2]
Always the flare for the dramatic, ever the martyr. Always well read -- from Metternich to Pushkin. But he was right, wasn't he? A year of terror, heralded by his own daughter, then, at last, the peace. Marimeia, dear Marimeia… Though he'd never spoken a word to her, she wanted to carry on his legacy, coaxed by her grandfather. Foolish, yes. To break the peace we died for, to try and cleanse his name… Foolish.
As foolish as coming back from the dead? Perhaps, perhaps not. The Phoenix and the Fallen. I rose from the ashes of the war, accepted back into society after a year spent dead, rebuilt my name, rejoined my family, found a very suitable job for myself -- as a War Preventer, no less. But the Fallen could simply watch, suffering in his own misery, shunned by all for circumstances he should not be shunned for…
Two and a half years. I'm amazed that more than his sight isn't gone from him. Such a long time.
"Aller á Rounen..." Mari continues to read to him. Road to ruin is right. But with all the warning phrases, pleading questions, his note to me was nothing more than the letter of Uriah.
The betrayer betrayed. We'd both forgive each other if he knew I was here, and if I could find the courage to speak. So much like the Swan Knight's situation… Ah, but now I do digress, because neither of us could be Parsifal -- I've diverged from my family name, and he's too much of a sophist.
Mari reaches the end of that letter, and sets it down, watching her father as he went through the rather pitiful act of trying to sketch out a design. She winces, and from what I can see, with good reason. His style is no longer like Albrecht Dürer's -- more like Picasso's. Horrible for a technical drawing like what he's trying, but with so little sight, I'm amazed he can keep the pen on the paper. Or the inkwell from falling off the small table that sits beside his chair. He's so deeply intrigued by the idea he's trying to put down on paper that he doesn't yet notice Mari has stopped reading to him.
"Father?" Mari's voice is tentative, and worried.
He startles a little, locks of short tawny hair spilling over his missing eye, giving him a strangely ininjuent appearance as he glances up and into her general direction. "Hmn?"
Once more assured of his attention, she picks up the next letter and begins to read to him. His brow furrows a moment, and he sighs, setting aside the pen, paper, and ink and reaching for the tea that had been getting cold for the last few hours. His hand moves a little too fast for his limited sight, and it bumps the cup, spilling some as he wraps his fingers around the handle. It is clear from the look on Mari's face that she wants to laugh at her father's plight, but she manages to not do so. He curses softly, and mutters something about 'at least I didn't spill all of it.'
Ah, English -- my favourite language of them all -- well, perhaps not, but you can get so creative with it!
"A pity that we were like the Angels of Mons," Mari read aloud, voice once again hitting all the right tones. The stack of letters is something that had been willed to me, my writings and his, and I 'conveniently' left it out where he literally stumbled over it. But his fingers recognised the seal I used, and he was likely aware that I was on the compound, since he *had* willed that stack to me. At the reading, everyone thought it was entertaining-- at least that's what I've been told, since I was dead at the time -- that, though we were on different sides by that point, I he had left me some of the few things that proved his humanity; and my sister, who held them in my absence, gladly dumped the 'relics' on me. I suppose she felt disgraced by me -- she'd probably read over them a few times. For Queen of the world, I still wonder if she has any soul at all.
We were never the Angels of Mons, so he was wrong, for once. The Old Contemptibles, perhaps, but no one ever looked out for our cause. No one but ourselves, at least.
"The baying of the Yell hounds will have years yet, before it reaches your ears."
Hmn. He was wrong there, too.
Mari puts down that letter, and picked up the next, casting a glance at her father as she takes a sip of water. He seems to be entranced, until she reads the first few lines of the next letter.
"Spiel ein spiel mit mir, und…" [3]
"Marimeia…" He drifts off as he realises he was speaking too softly for her to hear him. But I catch it.
" Kakoy vy vkusniy." I nearly laugh as Mari rolls those words off her tongue, brow furrowing as she translates in her mind. "Bozhe moy, kak ya tebya hochu." [4]
A faint blush creeps into his pale features, and I cannot help but smirk. "Mari, you can stop," he interrupts, taking a sip off his tea cup. "It's late, anyway, and--"
"Bez yebli... milaya zachakhnesh... I zhin ... te budet ... ne mila," My mouth strains to pronounce the words of the first non-universal phrase he taught me.
He must have heard and understood me, because he chokes on his tea, one blue eye widening a bit. "Who… who said that?" his voice is rusty, from lack of use, but I can still catch hints of his old smooth tenor. I smile slightly, and Mari turns to stare at me now. I forgot she'd understand that, too.
"That was crass!" the little girl exclaimed. "How dare you..." She trailed off, seeing her father begin to rise to his feet, setting aside his drafting pad arid teacup.
"Lyubovnik?" His voice softens a little, and I smile, almost nodding to him. [5]
"Kanyeshna, psikh," I reply, and he steps a little closer, reaching out a hand to see if the vague shape he can see is truly familiar. [6]
"Ah." Slim palm touches the side of my face, and I lean into it, catching his wrist. Marimeia stares, and blinks a few times. He draws back for a moment, and turns to say something to Marimeia. "Spokoynoy nochi, milok." That phrase addressed to the chair beside her, but neither I, nor her, make any effort to inform the Russian man of that -- his pride hurts often, enough, being so at the young age of twenty six. Then he blindly puts out a hand in my direction, and I take his arm, leading him out of the library. [7]
Life in the afterlife is good.
[1] from Geothe.
[2] And that was Metternich after the congress of Vienna -- "After me, the deluge"
[3] 'Play a game with me...'
[4] 'You are so delicious' and 'God, how I want you.'
[5] 'Lover'
[6] 'Of course, silly one'
[7] 'Good night, dear'